A Land Apart: the Southwest and the Nation in the Twentieth Century Flannery Burke

Home , Isabella Greenway, Maria Chabot, Mary Colter, Traditional Arizona

A Land Apart The Modern American West

David M. Wrobel and Andrew G. Kirk editors

Carl Abbott, The Metropolitan Frontier: Cities in the Modern American West Richard W. Etulain, Re-imagining the Modern American West: A Century of Fiction, History, and Art Gerald D. Nash, The Federal Landscape: An Economic History of the Twentieth-Century West Ferenc Morton Szasz, Religion in the Modern American West Oscar J. Martínez, Mexican-Origin People in the United States: A Topical History Duane A. Smith, Rocky Mountain Heartland: Colorado, Montana, and Wyoming in the Twentieth Century William G. Robbins and Katrine Barber, Nature’s Northwest: The North Pacific Slope in the Twentieth Century R. Douglas Hurt, The Big Empty: The Great Plains in the Twentieth Century Robert L. Dorman, Hell of a Vision: Regionalism and the Modern American West Donald L. Fixico, Indian Resilience and Rebuilding: Indigenous Nations in the Modern American West Richard Aquila, The Sagebrush Trail: Western Movies and Twentieth-Century America Flannery Burke, A Land Apart: The Southwest and the Nation in the Twentieth Century Flannery Burke

A Land Apart

The Southwest and the Nation in the Twentieth Century

TUCSON The University of Arizona Press www.uapress.arizona.edu

Printed in the United States of America 22 21 20 19 18 17 6 5 4 3 2 1

ISBN-13: 978-0-8165-3561-3 (cloth) ISBN-13: 978-0-8165-2841-7 (paper)

Cover design by Leigh McDonald

Cover photograph: Step in Bitter Springs by Jetsonorama. Image and installation by Jetsonorama; 100% of permission fees for the use of this art will be used to fund art for the Navajo Nation.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Burke, Flannery, author. Title: A land apart : the Southwest and the Nation in the twentieth century / Flannery Burke Other titles: Southwest and the Nation in the twentieth century | Modern American West. Description: Tucson : The University of Arizona Press, 2017. | Series: The modern American West | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2016041553| ISBN 9780816535613 (cloth : alk. paper) | ISBN 9780816528417 (pbk. : alk. paper) Subjects: LCSH: New Mexico—History—20th century. | Arizona—History—20th century. | Indians of North America—New Mexico—History—20th century. | Indians of North America— Arizona—History—20th century. | Hispanic Americans—Arizona—History—20th century. | Hispanic Americans—New Mexico—History—20th century. Classification: LCC F801 .B94 2017 | DDC 978.9/053—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016041553

This paper meets the requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48–1992 (Permanence of Paper). For Martin

Contents

List of Illustrations ix

introduction: Out of Place, Out of Time 3

PART I. BORDERS 27 1. A Place by Itself, 1912–1929 31 2. the Story Attached to It, 1929–2000 57

PART II. INDIAN COUNTRY 91 3. nations, Tribes, Communities, and Towns, 1876–1935 97 4. the Story Still Being Told, 1940–2000 119

PART III. REDUCING TO POSSESSION 155 5. the Searchers: Race and Tourism in the Southwest 159 6. own It: Race, Place, and Belonging 194

PART IV. THE THEATER OF ALL POSSIBILITIES 221 7. Boom Towns: The Nuclear Southwest 225 8. Water Is the Earth’s Blood 264

Conclusion: Without Problems, We Wouldn’t Have Any Stories 294 viii contents

Acknowledgments 307 Appendix. Racial and Ethnic Categories: U.S. Census, 1900–2000 311 Notes 313 Selected Bibliography 373 Index 403 Illustrations

1. The modern Southwest 8 2. Ourselves and Taos Neighbors, ca. 1940 21 3. Step at Bitter Springs, 2011 24 4. Student reading in Ojo Sarco, New Mexico, ca. 1943 53 5. Yuma, Arizona, ca. 1880 76 6. Dawson, New Mexico, 1920 76 7. Phoenix mural on Sixteenth Street by Lalo Cota and Thomas “Breeze” Marcus, 2014 82 8. Southwest Indian Country, ca. 1930 93 9. Southwest Indian Country, ca. 2000 93 10. Navajo Mountain Community BIA School, ca. 1948 132 11. Harvey House map, ca. 1930s 169 12. “Get back in your box” silver bracelet, 2011 182 13. Tourists at Bright Angel Lodge, 1950–1960 185 14. Malpai Borderlands Group, 1994 212 15. Maria Martinez and Enrico Fermi, ca. 1945 237 16. Marion C. Martinez Virgin of Guadalupe, ca. 2016 262 17. Arcosanti Vaults, ca. 2016 282 18. Acequia del Medio de Chamisal, 2015 285 19. Storyteller Joe Hayes, 2001 305

A Land Apart

Introduction

Out of Place, Out of Time

Out of Place

“ here are we?” My husband and I are coasting down a two- lane highway in northeastern New Mexico. Night has fallen, and Wfew headlights besides our own break the darkness. The road has become hilly in the last half hour, and we rise and fall, approaching the mountains over which I see lightning occasionally break the sky. I smell rain, and my excitement grows. I am almost home, and maybe, maybe it will rain, an event I learned as a child in New Mexico to view with almost ecstatic anticipation. “Where are we?” my husband asks again. It’s a question we use to convey more than our location. He knows where we are. He has consulted the map throughout our trip from the Upper Midwest. He knows we should arrive in Santa Fe, my hometown, within two or three hours. But he has never been here before, and I realize that he’s nervous. I tear my eyes from the mountains and the beauty of the thunderstorm. He is not asking for our location but for a broader answer—what are we doing here on this dark road at night? How did we come to be in this place? And how did this place come to be like this? Will we be all right here? I have asked him the same question on busy interstates and while poring over subway maps and even at parties in skyscrapers. I realize that he feels out of place. He is not the first person to feel out of place in the Southwest. Visitors to the region have remarked for centuries on the area’s aridity, the difficulty of its 4 Introduction terrain. Indigenous peoples struggled to adapt to the dry climate and were not always successful. Medieval settlements in what is now southern Colorado were likely abandoned as water became less plentiful, food supplies decreased, and friction within the community grew fiery.1 Early Spanish settlers were startled and later raided by the nomadic peoples they encountered in the area. They were troubled too by the unfamiliar religious views of the sedentary Pueblo peoples.2 English and Anglo American visitors to the region found Spanish, and later Mexican, Catholicism distasteful and the economy stagnant.3 Following the conclusion of the Mexican-American War with the Treaty of Guadalupe Hi- dalgo in 1848, Anglo Americans either turned from the region as a wasteland or arrived to find an area that seemed alien. Newcomers to the area have had two general responses to the strangeness of the Southwest. They have tried to reverse the sensation of feeling out of place by implementing its opposite, by putting the seeming disarray and disorder of the area in place. Southwesterners have killed and enslaved to force one another into their vision of the area; they have rearranged the water and other natural resources to better serve their economies; and they have changed the laws and built environment to mimic regions or visions of places that they believed were more comfortable. They have sometimes chosen a different approach, one that might be termed an antonym of “out of place.” They have claimed to be “at home.” Indigenous people developed cosmologies that continue to unite them with the natural world and the landscape. Throughout the crises of conquest and war, Spanish, Mexican, and American representatives claimed the region as part of their national territory. By the late nineteenth century, some Anglo Americans began actively seeking out the Southwest because of its differences from the eastern part of the country. Longing for an antidote to the problems that they perceived elsewhere, they saw in the Southwest a location where they could feel at home and at peace with what the future might bring.

The Southwest: A Definition

Most observers have applied some combination of the two. That night on the highway, I felt at home, but had someone, somehow, thrown me twenty miles off the highway and taken the restaurant dinner out of my belly, I would have felt out of place too. I prided myself on my comfort with the rural road and Introduction 5 distant thunderstorm, but I was awfully happy to be in a car, on a highway, well hydrated and well fed. I felt at home because I grew up in New Mexico and know its landscape and weather, but I also felt in place because of a good number of creature comforts that actually came from elsewhere. As my reference to relatively recent technological developments—automobiles, highways, commercial food—indicates, the question “Where are we?” has a lot to do with the question “When?” The very name “Southwest” could not exist until Anglo Americans began to cast their eyes toward it from the East- ern Seaboard. Medieval Pueblo settlers did not see themselves as living in the Southwest, nor did Spanish colonists who arrived in the sixteenth century.4 The Southwest had not been invented yet. After its invention by Anglo Americans in the early nineteenth century, Spanish and Mexican settlers continued to take a different view of the place than did their American neighbors. As the geogra- pher D. W. Meinig has observed, the name “Southwest” is “of course an ethno- centric one: what is south and west to the Anglo-American was long the north of the Hispano-American.”5 Although the boundaries of the region for outsiders and residents alike would change over the years, the ethnocentrism of that designation would not disappear. By the twentieth century, when the South- west was the region in question, the mapmakers were usually Anglo American. In this book, a history of the twentieth-century Southwest, I cannot ignore the power of that twentieth-century Anglo American perspective. It is inscribed in the very topic of the book: the Southwest. Nonetheless, I strive to show how Native and Hispanic residents relate to the region on their own terms. Indeed, I argue that the region’s indigenous and Mexican heritages are key to understanding how the region took shape. And I work, too, to show the investment African Americans and other nonwhites from outside the region had in the word and the place: Southwest. Such relationships do not ignore or outweigh or overcome the ethnocentrism of the term; rather, they help to define the region itself. I define the Southwest as a place where independent, indigenous nations are plentiful. The largest reservation in the United States, the Navajo Nation, is in the Southwest. How the Na- vajo manage their relationship with Anglo visitors and neighbors distinguishes the region from others in the United States. The Southwest is also a place defined by long-standing communities of Spanish and Mexican descent. Some Hispanic southwesterners trace their lineage to the sixteenth century. Others are recent immigrants. And a great many people trace their ancestry in the region to dates in between. How they negotiate with Anglos who tend to perceive them 6 Introduction as either ancestral residents or newcomers shapes the region too. The Southwest, then, is that region defined by long-standing Native American and extensive Hispanic and Mexican settlement. It is tempting to define the region as that area acquired by the United States in the 1848 Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo and the 1853 Gadsden Purchase, which together settled the Mexican-American War and set the current southwestern boundary of the United States. Such a designation would stretch the Southwest across Texas and California and extend upward into parts of Nevada, Utah, and Colorado. But such a region is not coherent. California and Texas are distinct among western states in that they did not undergo a territorial period. (One could argue they are distinct in several other qualities as well.) In contrast, Ari- zona and New Mexico did not achieve statehood until 1912, the last two states of the contiguous continental United States to do so. Moreover, Native American territories are not as numerous in either California or Texas as they are in the region between them.6 To find an overlap of Native and Mexican communities and a long territorial history, we must use the edges of California and Texas as the rough western and eastern boundaries of the region. El Paso, Texas, will be a notable exception. What of the northern and southern boundaries? The international boundary is an obvious border. Indeed, it is the line most people would recognize as the border. Nonetheless, many scholars have looked at the border more closely and seen it for what it is: a line in the sand, a man-made boundary.7 Such scholars have asked us to transcend the border and look to how both the nation-states of Mexico and the United States have reached across it, as well as to the acts of everyday people that daily transcend it. Such transnational histories have shown the continuity that exists across the U.S.-Mexico border, from mining investments and labor activism to commercial activity to religious practice to political entities such as the Native American Tohono O’odham Nation, which includes land in both Mexico and the United States.8 The florescence of work in borderlands history suggests that we may someday need a synthetic history specifically of the borderlands, but the borderlands are not the entirety of the Southwest. The border is far more present as a factor in everyday Arizonan culture in Tucson than it is in Flagstaff; it plays a greater role in New Mexican history in Columbus than it does in Springer. Because the Southwest existed in relationship to the U.S. nation-state over the twentieth century, I will use the U.S.-Mexico border as the southern boundary line in this book. Nonetheless, I will make occasional forays into border communities, places like El Paso, Texas, and Juarez, Mexico, and the twin towns of Nogales in Sonora and Arizona. Such Introduction 7 border communities demonstrate how southwestern culture as a whole has both stretched across and formed in reaction to national and geopolitical boundaries. Similarly, the northern boundary varies from chapter to chapter in this book. Just as the boundaries of Mexico, California, and Texas are somewhat perme- able when one looks for southwestern culture, so also are those of Colorado, Nevada, and Utah. Each of these states experienced a territorial period, but none endured one as long as those of Arizona and New Mexico. None of those states have the same comprehensive overlap of indigenous and long-standing Latino populations as do Arizona and New Mexico. Moreover, as Meinig has also noted, the physical geography of the Mojave-Sonoran Desert, the Colo- rado River canyonlands, the Southern Rockies, and the Llano Estacado separate the two states from their neighbors. Nonetheless, those borders are hardly stuck fast. Long-standing Spanish-speaking communities occupy Colorado’s San Luis Valley. Shared resources, namely water, unite New Mexico and Ari- zona with their northern and southern neighbors. So also does a shared experience with modern nuclear development. As with areas to the south, east, and west, then, the region’s boundaries sometimes stretch to its north. As should be clear from the preceding discussion, I will define the twentieth- century Southwest in this book as the states of Arizona and New Mexico, with occasional exceptions made for those narratives and themes that show the influence of the region’s cultures outside those states’ boundaries. Or, as the writer and Albuquerque native Erna Fergusson put it in 1940: “There is no argument about the twin states of New Mexico and Arizona. They are Southwest.”9 The twentieth-century Southwest is that place marked by overlapping and powerful communities of indigenous and Latino peoples. It is a region that wrestles with aridity and has done so in relation to four principal waterways: the Colorado River, the Rio Grande, the Gila River, and the Salt River. The Southwest has played a prominent role in the development of modern nuclear weapons, a role that has permanently marked the region physically and culturally. None of these features of the Southwest make it unique. The Southwest shares such features with other parts of the American West, along with a dependence on the federal government and investment in mining and agriculture. Nonetheless, when assessing how other Americans and southwesterners characterize the region, the overlap of indigenous and Hispanic communities, aridity, and federal military investment, especially via nuclear technology, are key. To define the region in this fashion raises one more issue as well. While distinct, the region is not uniform. Nowhere is this more clear than in the differences between New Mexico and Arizona. The two states entered the union 8 Introduction

Figure 1. The modern Southwest. Erin Greb Cartography.

together in 1912, but at every other juncture seem to diverge from each other. New Mexico is officially an English-Spanish bilingual state; Arizona made En glish literacy a voting requirement at statehood. The most epic stories of water use told in the American West focus on the Colorado River, a waterway far more influential in Arizona history than in New Mexican history. The most famous of the indigenous groups that now make their homes primarily in Ari- zona—the Navajo and Apache—were traditionally nomadic, while the groups most associated with New Mexico—the Pueblo Indians—were traditionally sedentary. New Mexico’s involvement in the development of nuclear weaponry is one of the only elements of its twentieth-century history that consistently receives mention in history textbooks about the nation. The nuclear history of Arizona is virtually unknown. New Mexicans have consistently put their culture on display for tourists; Arizonans instead have sold their recreational landscape. A review of the historical scholarship on the region can suggest that the two states are from different times. Most histories of New Mexico end with the Introduction 9

New Deal programs that celebrated the region’s distinctive arts traditions. The region’s suburbanization, reliance on federally supported industry, and contributions to contemporary politics receive little notice. In contrast, Arizona, especially Phoenix, has consistently mirrored national trends since World War II. The region boomed following the war. Although the nuclear bomb had been created in New Mexico, the cooperation between military dollars and industrial development brought more growth to Arizona. Companies like Motorola, Lockheed, and Honeywell remade the Phoenix landscape into a suburban vision that mirrored Sunbelt cities elsewhere in the Southwest. By the beginning of the twenty-first century, for-profit prisons in Arizona served as bellwethers for the prison industry and its consequences nationally. While New Mexico continued to sell its past, Arizona gambled on the future. Why, then, study the states together? Juxtaposed, they reveal much about the different decisions everyday people have made when sharing a fragile environment with a diverse group of neighbors. Viewed together, they bring to the surface the paths not taken by communities in each state. Moreover, when they are studied together one can more readily recognize the state border as a political boundary only, one with influence to be sure, but not absolute power to shape the character of the region. Looking at the Southwest as a region, one finds neither a past frozen in amber nor a predetermined future.

The Twentieth-Century Southwest: Out of Time

Tourism, one of the Southwest’s defining features, takes us back to the necessity of a temporal, as well as geographic, limit for the region. Tourism also takes us back to the comparative power of Anglo American communities in defining the Southwest and controlling its future. I define tourism broadly in this book to encompass those passing through, those visiting the region, those who are so compelled by the area’s physical and cultural attractions that they settle permanently in the area, and also the promotion that locals use to share the region with others. I have chosen to begin with a discussion of tourism to draw attention to the region’s relationship with areas outside it and with outsiders who visit and also to highlight the differences in power and influence that so often accompany tourism.10 How tourism has been conducted in the Southwest has been instrumental to the region’s development and to southwesterners’ sense of 10 Introduction themselves. The Southwest as I define it has not always overlapped neatly with tourists’ and boosters’ perceptions of the region, but the capacity of tourism to expand and contract the region’s boundaries is a key reason for studying it here. As the nineteenth century gave way to the twentieth, tourism played a key role in setting new boundaries for the Southwest in the national imagination. Outsiders ceased presenting the region as an unfortunate, marginal territory and began to present it as the source of the nation’s authenticity. The pivot from the nineteenth century to the twentieth, from marginal backwater to authentic core, arguably began when a colorful and energetic man named Charles Lum- mis started walking from Ohio to Los Angeles in 1884.11 Lummis was a child of New England and struggled in young adulthood to find a path in life. He was born in Massachusetts in 1859, attended Harvard, but failed to graduate. Instead, he married Dorothea Rhodes, a medical student, and followed her to her hometown, Chillicothe, Ohio. He failed there, too, as a newspaper editor. Then, he contracted malaria. But he hit on what would be the Southwest’s first public relations plan. Indeed, his idea would contribute significantly to the creation of a twentieth-century Southwest. He would walk from Ohio to Los Angeles and send dispatches along the way to Harrison Gray Otis, editor of the Los Angeles Times. There, he would settle and begin work for the Times.12 Although Lummis was young and strong, his journey was not an easy one. The trip was over three thousand miles through rigorous terrain. He broke his arm and reset it himself with a canteen strap. His dog died. But he completed the journey and spent the next three years working for Otis. Part of his duties included coverage of General George Crook’s capture of the Apache leader Geronimo. Ill health, marital discord, financial difficulties, and chronic alcohol abuse, however, ultimately left Lummis paralyzed on his left side. To recover, he left Los Angeles in early 1888 for New Mexico, where, on his first “tramp” through the region, he had become close to a prominent and wealthy Nuevomexicano family, that of Amado Chavez and his father, Manuel Chavez. He recuperated with the Chavez family and then moved to Isleta Pueblo, where he got to know the local Pueblo Indians, befriending particularly the Abeita family. At Isleta, Lummis finally recovered his health and also met the woman who would become his second wife, Eva Douglas, a local schoolteacher. Lummis then traveled briefly in Peru with the archaeologist Adolph Bandelier, who had made Santa Fe, New Mexico, his home base in 1885. In 1893, Lummis returned to Los Angeles, where he reunited with his new wife and their new daughter. He Introduction 11 then began a prolific writing career that resulted in over a dozen books related to the history of what Lummis called “the Great Southwest.” Lummis was not the first to use the word “Southwest” or the first to try to sell the region to others, but he promoted four perspectives that allowed his presentations to become dominant in national, popular understandings of the area over the course of the twentieth century. First, Lummis actively boosted the region as a popular writer, rather than as an academic.13 This set him apart from an earlier generation of archaeologists and scholars. Second, Lummis promoted Indian and what he called “Spanish” communities as part of the same place. Only together did the two communities and their history create “the Great Southwest.” Third, Lummis included California in his Southwest, a placement that acted like a compass near a magnet, repeatedly pulling readers of his work toward California’s Mission architecture style, and away from the styles developing in Arizona and New Mexico. Finally, Lummis had no qualms about skewing his presentation of the Southwest to favor the places that he had actually visited. As a number of scholars have noted, Lummis’s Southwest consisted largely of a forty-mile band north and south of that portion of the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railway route in New Mexico and Arizona.14 Lummis’s Great South- west, despite its variable boundaries, would become a touchstone for the nation, the place Americans imagined and visited when they sought reconciliation with or freedom from the modern world. Lummis’s ambitions belonged more to the realm of celebrity than they did to academic study. In this regard, Lummis was different from three key figures who had preceded him to the Southwest: Frank Hamilton Cushing, Adolph Bandelier, and Edgar Lee Hewett. Cushing had lived for most of the 1880s at Zuni Pueblo and had pioneered the anthropological practice of “participant observation,” first as an employee of the Bureau of American Ethnology and later of the Boston-based Hemenway Expedition. Cushing’s academic work focused on language and practices among the Zuni, but he also contributed to key collections of Pueblo pottery. His work stimulated easterners’ fascination with Indian peoples.15 Indeed, Cushing was a hero of Lummis’s. He had seen a delegation of Zuni dance at Harvard’s Hem- enway Gymnasium in 1882. Cushing had been recalled to Washington by the time of Lummis’s tramp and died prematurely in 1900.16 Lummis mimicked his showmanship, but not his academic rigor. Adolph Bandelier had arrived in the area in 1880. Today, Bandelier Na- tional Monument, which marks the ancestral dwellings of neighboring Pueblo 12 Introduction peoples, carries his name. Bandelier, like Lummis, was captivated by the area’s history, and also attempted to share it with a popular audience through a novel, The Delight Makers, set in the twelfth-century Anasazi (ancient) Pueblo world. Bandelier met with little popular success, however, perhaps because it was his only foray into fiction. Unlike Bandelier, Lummis showed strong interest in the region’s Spanish, as well as its indigenous, past. Edgar Hewett was first a schoolteacher, then the director of New Mexico Normal School at Las Vegas, New Mexico, then an archaeologist, and by 1907 was the director of the School of American Archaeology (now the School for Advanced Research), as well as its companion institution, the Museum of New Mexico. Like Lummis, Hewett was a booster for the Southwest and nimbly manipulated political, academic, and commercial ties to present New Mexico to national audiences.17 Lummis, however, saw his Southwest as encompassing more than the state of New Mexico. Lummis befriended Bandelier and Hewett both, but he had his differences with each and ultimately conveyed his own take on the region. A key difference between Lummis and anthropologists in the region was that he expressed as much interest in the area’s Hispanic past as in its Native American one. He was one of the first Anglo promoters of the Southwest to see the region’s Native American and Hispanic populations in tandem. The overlap of the two peoples and their cultures would be key to his writing on the Southwest, his advocacy for its residents, and even the misperceptions he spread. When he updated his dispatches about his journey from Ohio to Los Angeles as a book-length account that he titled A Tramp Across the Continent, he presented Indian and Spanish populations together as a part of the forgotten heritage of the United States. “To-day the Indians are peaceful, well-to-do, happy farmers, with broad fields of corn and wheat, beans, watermelons, and squashes reach- ing along the river, and little fruit orchards about their quiet town; members of the church, and citizens of the United States by the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo—though that fact seems never to have penetrated the powers at Wash- ington. There is an equally dense popular ignorance as to the Spanish doings in the beginning of the New World, and particularly the beginning of the United States.”18 In passages such as these, Lummis encouraged white readers to dis- miss their prejudices against Indian and Mexican peoples. With him as their guide, white American readers would learn of a distinct and different heritage than that presented in history books, one that privileged the Indian and Span- ish pasts of the Southwest, each a part of a distinct place. Lummis, as he would Introduction 13 assure his readers, knew this unusual place and its people. He would be a trusty tour guide to America’s lost beginnings among Indians and their Spanish- speaking neighbors. Lummis’s intentions may have been generous. He likely hoped to counter the widespread notion that Indian peoples were backward. He hoped, too, to counter the “Black Legend,” which presented Spanish colonization as a relentlessly cruel suppression of indigenous peoples, one so cruel that it justified the presumably superior English colonization on North America’s Eastern Seaboard.19 In Lummis’s view, “the Anglo-Saxon played a very squeaky second fiddle in pioneering in the New World.”20 Lummis’s advocacy for the “White Legend” brought his writing in line with that of Helen Hunt Jackson, whose 1884 novel Ramona painted a glowing picture of California’s mission and rancho past in order to advocate for Native Americans, whom Jackson saw as the victims of a rapacious Anglo American conquest. Jackson and her allies campaigned for reservations and boarding schools for Indian peoples, believing such institutions superior to the removal or extermination campaigns favored by other Ameri- cans. Through publications like Ramona, Jackson encouraged readers to look to the Spanish, rather than the English or Anglo American past, for guidance in relationships with Indians. Lummis echoed Jackson and took her advocacy a step further. He presented the Indian and Spanish backgrounds of the Southwest as two layers of a permanent past that offered cultural instruction for modern, white Americans. Lum- mis worried about what he perceived as debilitating influences in the modern East. The Southwest’s Native and Hispanic people provided avenues toward a simpler, more satisfying past, one that Lummis believed Anglo Americans had experienced themselves in earlier eras. In the Southwest, that earlier time was preserved.21 “It is a perennial wonder to me that American travelers care so little to see the wonders of their own land,” marveled Lummis in Tramp Across the Continent. “They find abroad nothing more picturesque, nothing more marvelous, in scenery or in man, than they could see easier within the wonderland of the Southwest, with its strange landscapes, its noble ruins of a prehistoric past, and the astounding customs of its present aborigines.”22 For eastern readers seeking the thrill of contact with exotic difference, the Southwest was a different point of entry for a new history of the United States, a past that might suggest more appealing possibilities for the future. The name of his second book, The Land of Poco Tiempo, further conveyed Lummis’s view. As he explained, “Here is the land of poco tiempo—the home 14 Introduction of pretty soon. Why hurry with the hurrying world? The ‘Pretty Soon’ of New Spain is better than the ‘Now! Now!’ of the haggard States.”23 Through literature and tourism, other Anglo Americans like himself could learn to see the superior lifeways of the Southwest’s oldest residents, refresh themselves, and steady the nation with their newfound pace.24 Underlying Lummis’s overlay of indigenous and Spanish-speaking people was his own rigorous exploration of the landscape. Lummis hunted on his first walk across the region, and he saw the landscape with a hunter’s eye. “It is a beautiful area, that great forest of the Flagstaff region,” he wrote, “thousands of square miles of natural parks, unspoiled by underbrush, with giant sparlike pines standing sentinel about the smooth glades of knee deep grass, rent here and there by terrific canyons, bathed in the clear, exhilarant air of more than six thousand feet above the sea, and full of game.”25 Lummis regularly enjoined readers to go see the Southwest for themselves, but he always suggested that his own manly and hardy embrace of the region made it more satisfying.26 As the historian Lawrence Culver has observed, Lummis’s book came at just the right moment. The 1890s were a period of extreme economic turmoil in the United States that included a stock market crash, a nationwide strike, and vivid Populist Party rhetoric over what many today would consider a dry topic: currency reform. Into a climate of uncertainty came Lummis’s work, promising simplicity and peace if readers would adopt the cultural tempo of the Southwest over that of the East. Readers could remain robust and independent as they explored the rugged terrain, uncontaminated by modern ills. Lummis promised to take readers out of the present, out of time, into a past that offered refuge from modern life and all its uncertainties.27 Southern California was experiencing its first real estate bust just as Lummis returned and began his publications, a local reminder of national economic un- rest. It would not be the last time that California shaped Lummis’s presentation of the Southwest. When Lummis returned to Los Angeles following his trip to Peru, he had a new family and required a new way to make a living. He found one as the editor of the Los Angeles Chamber of Commerce magazine Land of Sunshine, whose title he changed in 1901 to Out West. From the beginning of his editorship, Lummis and his patrons considered it his responsibility to link Southern California with its cultural hinterland, the Great Southwest. Out West promoted real estate in Los Angeles, but also the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railroad.28 The Santa Fe Railway had reached Los Angeles in 1885, the same year as Lummis, and its arrival instantly set off a Introduction 15 fare war with the rival Southern Pacific, which had previously had a monopoly on rail travel to LA. The drop in travel prices led to a massive boom in Los Angeles. The population doubled in less than three years. Lummis provided a geographic platform and an invented history for new Angelenos in search of a cultural understanding of their region. He called the place he was inventing the Great Southwest. In his Out West editorial column “In the Lion’s Den” and through his selection of books for the book review, Lummis continued his campaign against the Black Legend, praising people of Spanish descent at every opportunity. In a highly unusual move for his times, he spoke favorably of the history of intermarriage between Spanish and Indian peoples. He threw considerable energy into organizing the Landmarks Club, a group of civic leaders dedicated to preserving California’s missions. And he maintained his commitment to Indian peoples, pushing for on-reservation schooling and the preservation of Indian culture, rather than boarding schools and assimilation, as Helen Hunt Jackson had done. For Lummis, Los Angeles was a part of the Great Southwest. Indeed, he considered the city to be the region’s capital. His presentation of the region pushed readers of his work to look more and more toward California and its history when considering the Great Southwest. He was not the first to take such a perspective. Jackson’s Ramona had idealized California’s mission past and populated it with satisfied Indians. Following the introduction of California’s Mission style at the 1893 Chicago World’s Fair, the Santa Fe Railway began building Mission-style buildings along its route. As the architectural historian Chris Wilson describes it: “White stucco or buff brick walls, red tile roofs, veranda-lined patios, curved and stepping gable para- pets, and towers adapted from the California missions became the hallmarks of the style.”29 The Santa Fe Railway brought its first Mission-style depot to New Mexico in 1897 when it built the Castañeda in Las Vegas, New Mexico. Con- struction on the Alvarado Hotel in Albuquerque began just four years later. New Mexico and Arizona both used the Mission style for their buildings at the St. Louis 1904 World’s Fair, and a variety of local buildings followed suit.30 By 1915, however, when San Diego hosted the Panama-California Exposition commemorating the completion of the Panama Canal, New Mexico had begun moving toward its own Pueblo-Spanish Revival style, a composite of a variety of architectural influences from across the state that have shaped its built environment into the present. Arizona did not have a building at the San Diego fair at all.31 It was the Pueblo-Spanish Revival style, far more than the California Mission style that would shape the twentieth-century American Southwest. 16 Introduction

Nonetheless, in the first two decades of the twentieth century the casual reader of Out West or a visitor to the Chicago, St. Louis, or even San Diego fair could easily have come away with the impression that indeed there was a Great Southwest, one dotted with red-tiled roofed missions ringed by cliff-dwelling Indians. These fairs had all included midway attractions of pseudo-Pueblo dwellings occupied by actual Pueblo people from Arizona and New Mexico. At the San Diego fair, Indians occupied a “Painted Desert” meant to evoke that of Ari- zona.32 Such fair attractions made a mythical Spanish past the stage and Indians the actors in a drama that reassured white viewers of their capacity to connect with a simpler past. Lummis punctuated his presentation of the Southwest as a hinterland for Los Angeles in 1907 with the formation of the Southwest Museum, an institution intended to preserve the ancient cultural heritage of the region. Lummis located the museum near his own home in Arroyo Seco canyon between Los Angeles and Pasadena. The museum formed one more part of Lummis’s ideal vision of the Southwest. His home, which he had built himself and dubbed El Alisal, was a combination of Arts and Crafts and Spanish Revival styles. It was decorated with his many southwestern artifacts—Pueblo pottery and Navajo blankets among them. There, he hosted raucous parties that he called “noises” and attracted much of the southwestern literati of the early twentieth century, including writer Mary Austin and painter Maynard Dixon. Lummis clearly wanted the museum to serve as an extension of the South- west vision that he had cultivated in his house and his writings, but his personal life interfered. His wife threatened divorce unless he ended his many infidelities; he worked compulsively; he was chronically short of funds as he never learned to control his spending; and he had been grief-stricken since the death of his son, Amado Bandelier Lummis, in 1900. Most crucially, the Southwest Museum was Lummis’s effort to freeze in time the region’s culture in a rapidly changing city relatively distant from the ancestral homes of the area’s Pueblo and Na- vajo peoples. The institution represented not Southwest culture so much as it did Lummis’s idiosyncratic vision of what he wanted southwestern culture to be. The museum still exists, but it persevered under different leadership. Within earshot of the Pasadena freeway and a short distance from downtown Los An- geles, the museum acts in part as an artifact from another time, not the South- west’s ancient past, but rather, a time when the cultures of LA and the Great Southwest were more consonant.33 Outside of LA, the rest of Lummis’s Great Southwest was composed of parts that stood for a larger whole.34 Although Lummis resisted the label of booster Introduction 17 fiercely, he was not above accepting free rooms at the Harvey Hotels that lined the Santa Fe Railway or taking payment from the railroad itself. Authors he inspired, like Mary Austin, would later do the same. Lummis even worked for Indian Detours, an automobile tour run by both the Santa Fe Railway and the Harvey Hotels that visited many of the places Lummis considered his own: Frijoles Canyon, where Bandelier had conducted much of his research, and Acoma and Laguna Pueblos. Indian Detours reinforced the map of the region that Lummis’s promotion had presented to visitors and newcomers.35 The Great Southwest actually consisted of those pueblos and Nuevomexicano villages within easy distance of the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railway and the Grand Canyon. Lummis even acknowledged the overlap: “It was an accident that the Santa Fe route, when it followed the line of least resistance across ‘the Great American Desert’ . . . skimmed the cream of the artist’s interest of the Southwest. There is no railroad in the world . . . which penetrates such a wonderland of the pictorial in geography and in humanity.”36 Of the Grand Canyon itself, the likely destination for most of Lummis’s readers who followed his ad- vice, Lummis said: “There is but one thing to say: ‘There it is: go see it for yourself.’ It is incomparably the greatest abyss on earth—greatest in length, greatest in depth, greatest in capacity, and infinitely the most sublime.”37 Though only a fraction of the Southwest, a visit to the Grand Canyon was an experience that few railroad passengers would have declined. For all of Lummis’s limitations—his tenuous connection to scholarly investigations of the region, his insistence on his own idiosyncratic interpretations of the place, his orientation toward Los Angeles, and his selection of a narrow strip of the Southwest to stand for the whole—his is the most comprehensive and coherent Southwest with which to start a twentieth-century history. Lummis’s was not the only Southwest offered observers between 1880 and 1930. Histori- ans have only recently begun to uncover another Southwest, one that stretched south and west from the city of St. Louis across Oklahoma and into Texas.38 St. Louis’s Southwest had its own architectural style and its own selection of amusements, particularly vaudeville circuits. But St. Louis’s Southwest would not persist through the twentieth century as Lummis’s did, nor did it occupy the same place in the national imagination. The Southwest was a place out of time, and, in the eyes of Lummis and many others across the twentieth century, it would be the nation’s salvation. If Lummis’s promotion marks the starting date of the twentieth-century Southwest, what marks its end? It is tempting to choose “Santa Fe style,” a fashion and design trend that reached its height in the late 1980s. Marked by pastel 18 Introduction hues of pink and turquoise and highly stylized renderings of coyotes, jackalopes, and the Pueblo fertility figure Kokopelli, Santa Fe style brought yet another wave of tourists to the eponymous town and found promotion in national magazines and television broadcasts. But there was little about Santa Fe style that set the region apart from the nation or the rest of the globe. Far from a place out of time, the Southwest of Santa Fe style was part of a homogenous national fashion trend, a place as easily visited on the screen as it was in person. A better ending point would be an event that required southwesterners and outsiders alike to recognize the region’s geographic and temporal limits, an event that forced residents and onlookers to see the Southwest as a place very much in the present. I have chosen as an end point for this book a discussion of aridity. My choice was occasioned by a series of devastating fires that scoured the Southwest at the beginning of the twentieth-first century. The Rodeo-Chediski fire swept across the Mogollon Rim in northeastern Arizona in 2002, ultimately burning almost 470,000 acres. Two years before, in 2000, the Cerro Grande fire forced the evacuation of eighteen thousand people from Los Alamos city and laboratory. The cost of damages from this latter fire was close to $1 billion. The fires were unprecedented. Human mistakes caused them, and dry kindling in an arid land fed them. Such conditions—human stupidity and aridity—were hardly new. But the virulence of the fires was. Not just aridity, but a whole new climate meant less snow pack, less rain, and more of the kinds of growth that burned quickly and easily.39 The fires urgently reminded southwesterners of a different meaning to the phrase “out of time,” for southwesterners need a coherent regional response to climate change sooner rather than later. Instead of a land apart from the nation as a whole, the Southwest that now burns annually must address the land’s limits. For the Southwest to persevere, it must shed its reputation as being outside, spatially and temporally, the nation’s folds.40

Essaying the Southwest

This book is intended as an example of inquiry and writing for students of Southwest history. In researching and writing this book, I became aware of how frequently I ask of my students a historical reasoning that I, and many of my colleagues, take for granted. My eagerness to get to the “real” content of my classes often has led me to rush past the habits of mind and practice that make for effective historical writing. While I often assert in class that a historical argument Introduction 19 is an answer to a question, I have rarely asked my students to state explicitly the questions that their research papers answer. I have taken for granted that students understood a portion of our discussions as setting the chronological limits of an era. I have only perfunctorily drawn my students’ attention to an author’s efforts to define her terms. I have assumed students understand that endnotes constitute a scholarly conversation. This book aims to rectify those errors. I have defined what I mean by the term “Southwest” above and outlined what I consider to be the starting and ending points for a history of the twentieth-century Southwest. Moreover, each chapter that follows is an argumentative essay written in response to an explicitly stated question. In each, I define my terms, state clearly the geographic and chronological scope of my investigation, organize my essay according to logic, provide and interpret evidence, explain how my evidence supports my argument, and show where I stand in historical debates, just as I have long asked my students to do.41 No terms require more definition than those related to race in the Southwest. I use the term “southwesterners” to refer to all people living in the Southwest, but among southwesterners are many groups of people who would likely choose other terms when describing themselves. A wide cast of people appear in this book; three groups in particular bear introduction. I use the term “Anglo,” as I have above, to refer to people of European descent in the twentieth century. Those who first dubbed English-speaking whites “Anglos” appear in these pages as Hispanos and Mexican Americans, but I also use more geographically specific terms like Nuevomexicano and Tucsonenses, especially when New Mexicans and Tucson residents used such terms to describe themselves. When discussing the period after World War II, I use the phrases “Mexican immigrant” and sometimes “Latino/a” to refer to immigrants from Mexico and those who identify themselves as of Latin American descent. The descendants of the region’s first inhabitants might be called Native Americans or Indians in a purely national history. Most appear in these pages usually by the name of their individual indigenous group: the Pueblo Indians or the Navajo or the Tohono O’odham or the White River Apache, for example. Within each essay, I further clarify my terms and how they have changed over time. The very diversity of terms and their constant mutation is an indication of the complexity and importance of race in the twentieth-century Southwest. The idea of race poses a particular challenge because this book addresses not just the Southwest, but the Southwest and the nation. Southwesterners experienced many of the same changes that affected other Americans over the 20 Introduction twentieth century—an expanding federal presence, an increasing reliance on wage labor, post–World War II prosperity, suburbanization, Americans’ spreading global reach, and, by century’s end, increasing inequality. That story is not unique to the Southwest. Southwesterners, however, experienced the national changes of the twentieth century through the prisms of the region’s indigenous, Mexican, and Spanish pasts. These were distinct. Yet, when addressing race, national histories of the twentieth century tend to emphasize the significance of the African American civil rights movement and give little, if any, attention to the histories of indigenous and Mexican communities. How, then, do we tell a twentieth-century history of the Southwest and the nation? One answer lies in a work of fiction. In Richard Bradford’s coming-of-age novel Red Sky at Morning, published in 1968 and set on the eve of World War II, a New Mexican local informs the book’s protagonist, Arnold, that, “We only recognize three kinds of people . . . Anglos, Indians, and Natives.” “What about the Negro?” asks Arnold. “I already explained that to you,” replies Steenie, “He’s an Anglo. That is, he’s an Anglo unless you’re differentiating between him and an Indian. Then he’s ‘white.’ . . . If there’s a minority group at all around here, it’s the Anglos.”42 Bradford offered a curious universe compared to what most Americans might have recognized in the middle of the twentieth century— one in which “Natives” were the descendants of colonists, blacks were white, Indians were not, and to be white meant you were in the minority. So much influence seemed to rest in the term “Anglo,” literally meaning “English” or “English-speaking,” but clearly also meaning newcomer. Arnold, as his ignorance revealed, was an Anglo. He was somewhere new and someone new. He was in a place that offered the possibility of new race relations but only if he was willing to see people like himself in new terms. What happened when Americans like Arnold encountered a Southwest like Steenie’s? Sometimes the worst elements of the Southwest’s system endured as the descendants of Spanish colonists desperately reminded indigenous peoples and Anglos alike of the region’s colonial past and the colonists’ once superior position. Sometimes the potential of the Southwest was fulfilled and visitors realized the promise of a new way of looking at race nationally, acknowledging and appreciating racial difference and racial mixing, an appreciation most often expressed in the term “mestizaje.” Sometimes the two systems merged, creating segregated landscapes that separated whites from Native Americans, Mexican Americans, and African Americans and patterns of discrimination not all that different from those of the American North and Southeast. The standard history of the twentieth-century United States—an expanding federal presence, Introduction 21

Figure 2. Ourselves and Taos Neighbors, by Ernest Leonard Blumenschein (1874–1960), ca. 1940, oil on canvas, 41 × 50 inches, Stark Museum of Art, Orange, TX, 31.30.12.A. The work of Ernest Blumenschein and other artists who were newcomers to the South- west at the outset of the twentieth century challenged national audiences to see the Southwest and its diverse residents as a part of the nation.

increasing reliance on wage labor, post–World War II prosperity, suburbanization, Americans’ spreading global reach, and increasing inequality—occurred in the Southwest’s unique racial context. The status of African Americans in the nation shaped the status of other groups in the Southwest. The region’s Mexi- can heritage and indigenous character simultaneously challenged the nation to consider new meanings of race. As a result, one can tell the history of the twentieth-century United States with examples from this book, but one can also say that race is what makes the Southwest distinct for southwesterners and non-southwesterners alike.43 This book does not follow a conventional chronology. I do not slot southwestern history into a national narrative without any regard for what makes the Southwest its own place. The prosperous and consumer-centered 1920s 22 Introduction manifested as heritage tourism in the Southwest, and that story is distinctive. Federal investments on the scale of the New Deal began in water reclamation projects and on Indian reservations in the Southwest long before the New Deal itself was born. The effort to build a nuclear bomb and invest in a nuclear arsenal was a national one, but the selection of the Southwest as the site of the first bomb’s test and the region’s extensive uranium deposits have affected the region profoundly and uniquely. Aridity has given southwesterners centuries of experience in water management, experience that they can share with the nation as a whole, and that knowledge is the Southwest’s own. This book emphasizes policy over politicians, communities over individuals, and stories over simple summaries. This book does not provide a conventional narrative timeline of the twentieth century in the Southwest. For readers who want an interpretation of what made the Southwest matter to the nation in the twentieth century, however, this book should satisfy. Rather than proceed chronologically, this book employs a variety of thematic essays to make four distinct arguments. The two essays in part I, “Borders,” compare and contrast how the people of the states of Arizona and New Mexico have portrayed and understood the region’s Mexican heritage. The two essays in part II, “Indian Country,” describe the Southwest as Indian Country and explain how Native reservations grew and operated over the twentieth century. The two essays in part III, “Reducing to Possession,” ask how visitors and residents have sought a connection to the Southwest through tourism, homemaking, stewardship, and the crafting of sacred space. The two essays in part IV, “The Theater of All Possibilities,” describe how southwesterners have managed the region’s two most prominent environmental challenges: the area’s legacy of nuclear development and the area’s aridity. In part I, I ask myself to compare and contrast New Mexico’s and Arizona’s responses to the Mexican heritage of their states. Compare-and-contrast questions can be deceiving. They appear to ask for two sides to a given story, but as any practiced historical essay writer will tell you, there are more than two sides to any story. It is not enough to argue stridently in favor of one position only. An essay writer might give an opposing position its due, thereby demonstrating to readers that she has considered another perspective. But it is not enough to make a few strategic concessions to a single viewpoint. A synthesis incorporating elements of two arguments is usually incomplete as well, as it often ignores troubling and incompatible elements. In contrast, historians try to capture the context of a given time by showing a great diversity of perspectives. They might Introduction 23 do so by presenting the perspectives of multiple historical actors or by presenting multiple interpretations of a past event. In comparing and contrasting New Mexico and Arizona in part I, I strive to show the diversity of views within each state as well as their surprising commonalities when considering the Mexican past, present, and future of the region. I argue that two-sided divisions such as United States versus Mexico or American versus Mexican or Anglo versus His- panic and especially Arizona versus New Mexico distort more than they reveal. An understanding of the region’s heritage must see past two-sided arguments to stories of diverse and multiple perspectives. Historians pride themselves on acknowledging multiple perspectives, but they have little patience for popular interpretations of the past that rely on ste reotypes or thin or invented evidence. They sometimes, then, write essays de bunking such popular stereotypes. In part II, I ask myself to counter the com mon stereotypes of southwestern Native Americans as exemplars of American antiquity. I do so by documenting the perseverance of the Southwest as Indian Country and detailing indigenous peoples’ many interactions with modern life, from technology to the federal government. Historians sometimes write essays about the meaning of history itself. Why do we study the past? To what purposes in contemporary society do we put the discipline of history and the conclusions its practitioners draw? How do we use history fairly and productively? Part III consists of two chapters that tackle such questions as they apply to the region’s heritage and its economy. Chapter 5, “The Searchers,” asks: What has drawn visitors to the region, why, and with what consequences? In it, I examine how southwesterners and visitors to the Southwest have used their own past and the region’s own history to sell the area to others. In chapter 6, “Own It,” I examine how southwesterners and Americans have defined belonging. To claim the Southwest, locals and newcomers have bought property, looked after the land, and cultivated a sense of place. Their efforts have changed the landscape and its meaning for later generations. Although historians balk at any invitation to predict the future, they do regularly encourage others to take a long view and use a wide lens. Such an approach allows other actors, some of them nonhuman, to play a role in the stories historians tell. Part IV addresses how southwesterners have approached, not their imagined past, but their imagined future. In chapter 7, I ask, “How did the Southwest become a nuclear place?” Thecritical role that the Southwest played in the development of nuclear weaponry made this region the setting for multiple explorations of how the United States and the world would negotiate its 24 Introduction

Figure 3. Step at Bitter Springs, 2011, by Jetsonorama. Physician Chip Thomas began photographing his neighbors on the Navajo reservation when he arrived there to practice medicine in 1987. In the late 2000s, under the street art name “Jetsonorama,” he began creating giant murals drawn from Navajo life for billboards and building walls along the roadside of the Navajo Nation. The images stimulate conversation between tourists and locals and foster what Thomas calls “an environment of wellness.” future. Chapter 7 addresses how the fictions and realities of nuclear development coexisted within the homes and families that southwesterners made. Chapter 8, “Water Is the Earth’s Blood,” tackles the issue of the Southwest’s aridity. Future generations might well ask how southwesterners could be so shortsighted as to use water in the quantities that they do. Future audiences might just ask: What were you thinking? This chapter asks and answers a more precise question: Given that the Southwest is an arid region, why do the region’s residents use unsustainable quantities of water? Such use has its reasons, even if future generations will argue that it had no excuses. As southwesterners attempted to provide for the nation and for themselves the place that their visions had promised, they ran up against the limits of the land. Together, the essays in the body of the book argue that the perception of the Southwest as a region outside of time has allowed, and even invited land use, social structures, and cultural patterns that threaten the region’s future. To see Introduction 25 people of Spanish, Mexican, and indigenous descent as somehow residents of a region from another time is to fail to incorporate such Americans fully into the structures of rights and social equality that have ensured the perseverance of the United States. To sell the region as a place where the twentieth century never happened, or where the limits of the present day do not apply, risks precious natural resources. To imagine the region as beyond hope, a nuclear wasteland or national dumping ground, throws away any opportunities to fully realize the potential of a beautiful, diverse, and promising place. In the conclusion, I tackle such troubling outcomes. I tell the story of the Santa Fe State Penitentiary riot of 1980. It’s not a story told very often. It’s disturbing, and it can be hard to come to any resolution about the horrific events that occurred there. I tell the story to invite another one: the story of a New Mexican imprisoned in Arizona who found himself through a discovery of the Southwest as his home. I unite the two stories to emphasize the argument of this book: the Southwest has suffered from its reputation as out of place and out side of time. In recent years, southwesterners have begun to perceive and present their region as a place both enchanting and real, both expansive and bounded. They have begun to tell stories about Arizona and New Mexico, as well as Mexico and the United States, together. They have started their stories with understanding of the racial complexity of the region, knowing that it cannot be denied and has material consequences for the many communities, tribes, and nations that call the Southwest home. If stories have helped to distort the region, they may also help to right it.44 In the conclusion I look at this promising, contingent moment at the dawn of the twenty-first century and argue in favor of new stories about the Southwest.

Part I

Borders

n 2010, the New York Times reported on the most restrictive immigration measure passed by a state legislature that year: IS.B. 1070 in Arizona, which granted Arizona police officers the authority to inspect the identification papers of anyone they suspected of illegal status in the United States. At the same moment, Arizona’s neighbor, New Mexico, was actively encouraging undocumented migrants to integrate into New Mexican life. While Ari- zona enhanced its capacity to police people of Mexican descent, New Mexico granted driver’s licenses to undocumented residents and provided in-state tuition to New Mexico-born children of immigrants. The Times drew a sharp distinction between the two southwestern states: “They may sit side by side on the border, they may share historical ties to Mexico; they may have once even been part of the same territory, but Arizona and New Mexico have grown up like distant siblings. . . . Why the difference?” The article’s author gave five reasons: The greater proportion of Hispanic residents in New Mexico’s small overall population (45 percent of 2 million in contrast to 30 percent of 6.5 million in Arizona); the lower overall number of immigrants in New Mexico, where jobs are more scarce; the larger representation of Hispanics in the New Mexico legislature (44 percent in contrast to Arizona’s 13 percent); 28 Borders a history of Hispanic governors (New Mexico has had five Hispanic governors; Arizona one); and state constitutional protections for Spanish speakers in New Mexico that exist in no other state. Christine Sierra, a political scientist quoted in the article, argued that together such demographic and constitutional measures ensure that “when the community at large feels threatened, folks close ranks and join in solidarity to protect the group.”1 A hasty view of New Mexican and Arizonan history might yield the same conclusion. Consider two iconic tales of the Southwest. New Mexican Rudolfo Anaya’s classic Bless Me, Ultima is a coming-of-age story in which each development hinges on the idea of New Mexico as a homeland. Ultima, the wise woman at the story’s center, has folk and medicinal knowledge that extends to the region’s seventeenth- and eighteenth-century roots, when Spanish settlers clashed with neighboring Comanches. The story is one of deep connection to place, tradition, and the past. In contrast, the quintessential story of Mexican American identity in Arizona is a story of movement. Teresa Urrea, a folk healer and child of the border, has had her biography told numerous times, most recently by her great-grandnephew who also writes movingly of the experience of present-day undocumented migrants and their efforts to cross the “Devil’s Highway” that is southern Arizona. New Mexico and Arizona diverge at the most fundamental level of human experience—stasis and movement.2 But before we take the juxtaposition too far, let’s remember that Mexican American identity and immigrant status are not the same; that demographics do not necessarily yield anthems of cultural belonging; and that speaking Span- ish and Mexican heritage do not always correspond. We need to examine the region’s history, not just the region’s starkest contemporary differences, to understand these distinctions. With history as our guide, we see how Mexican Ameri- can identity took shape, from celebrations of Spanish heritage in the 1920s and 1930s to the push for desegregated schools at midcentury to the reinvention of Mexican and Spanish traditions at century’s end. With history as our guide, we see how immigrant status sometimes intersected and sometimes did not with Mexican American identity. And with history as our guide, we see the texture of language and cultural practice that gives meaning to the demographics cited by the New York Times. This section compares and contrasts how New Mexicans and Arizonans have represented their Mexican and Spanish heritage and how those representations have shaped each state and its residents. The meaning of Mexican and Spanish heritage changed over time in both areas, shaping and reshaping people who Borders 29 were identified by or who identified with the Spanish and Mexican histories of the region. As a result, many names appear in this chapter for people with a connection to those histories. My sources and I use the terms “Mexican American,” “Spanish American,” “Nuevomexicana /o,” “Tucsonenses,” “Mexican,” “His- panic,” “Chicano,” “mestizo,” “Spanish-speaking,” “paisano,” “Latino,” and even more. The terms themselves and when and how they are used convey the complicated relationships that New Mexicans and Arizonans have had with their region’s Mexican and Spanish heritage. They also illustrate a fundamental assumption of this section: race is a social construction, but it is also a lived reality.3 Another way to put that assumption is that individuals are both identified by others and identify with certain qualities themselves. The historical circumstances that led someone to call themselves Mexican in 1912 were very different than those that encouraged people to adopt the designation in 1969. There is no inherent racial essence that can be defined as Mexican. In a biological sense, race does not exist. One might argue then for a “color-blind” chapter that did not distinguish between races, but I would be blind to far more than color in such a chapter. Throughout the twentieth century, southwesterners believed in race. They passed laws, wrote books, bought homes, went to work, and educated their children based on those beliefs. The effects of those laws, books, homes, and educations are still with us. So this section examines both how the fiction of race is constructed and how the reality of race is experienced. In comparing and contrasting New Mexico’s and Arizona’s responses to the Mexican heritage of their states, I offer an account that transcends two-sided versions of the region’s twentieth-century Mexican past. For if one map of the re gion emphasizes the area’s divisions, others show its connections. Those connec tions reveal a New Mexico with a history of Mexican mobility and transience, an Arizona with Mexican communities of stability and tradition, a Mexico that has had a significant influence on its powerful northern neighbor, and a United States with a history of extraordinary linguistic, religious, ethnic, and racial diversity.4 The Southwest is a place marked by both conquest and resistance, tra dition and novelty, unity and division, rootedness and mobility. The Southwest, comprising both Arizona and New Mexico, is a region with a shared past. Rec- ognizing that past might well ensure a better future.

1 A Place by Itself, 1912–1929

fter sixty-four years of territorial status, New Mexico and Arizona were two of the last states to enter the union, both join- Aing in 1912, as the forty-seventh and forty-eighth states, respectively. To give some perspective, sixteen other states had entered the union since the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo. What took so long? Part of the delay was owing to arguments over the national border between the United States and Mexico, and, later, arguments in Congress related to sectional divisions over slavery. The area comprising both states had become New Mexico Territory following the 1848 Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, which set the terms of set tlement for the Mexican-American War. Massachusetts senator Daniel Web- ster, a fierce opponent of the war and the acquisition of the new land, said of New Mexico Territory that it was “secluded, isolated, a place by itself” and its inhabitants ill prepared to participate in democratic government. This chapter opens with the moment that the divisions between New Mex- ico and Arizona became acute: statehood in 1912. And this chapter investigates when, how, and why those divisions emerged. In many respects, Webster was correct. The Southwest was a “place by itself ”—not because it was isolated but because the racial hierarchies and political systems that later shaped each state were in some ways mirror images of one another. This chapter also keeps in mind the subtle but important distinctions between national, ethnic, racial, and 32 Borders linguistic identity that make Arizona and New Mexico more similar than different. I focus on the states’ commonalities and complicate the hard and fast distinctions between rootedness and mobility that shape our understanding of each state. Only when we view the two states together can we understand the Southwest as a region.

Race and Statehood: 1848–1912

When Webster voiced his doubts over the future of New Mexico Territory, he quoted the British traveler George Ruxton’s condemnation of New Mexicans, whom Ruxton called “as deficient in energy of character and physical courage as they are in all the moral and intellectual qualities. In their social state but one degree removed from the veriest savages.”1 Ruxton’s and Webster’s words would stick to the Southwest in the years to come. The quest for statehood paralleled a national conversation about how a predominantly white nation could incorporate those perceived as racially nonwhite.2 As American openness to inclusion waxed and waned so also did openness to statehood for New Mexico and Arizona. As a result, the idea that New Mexico and Arizona were unfit for full inclusion in the union dogged both states for decades. Nonetheless, in 1854, the federal government bargained for more of Mexi- co’s territory and secured the Gadsden Purchase, a strip of land encompassing the Mesilla Valley in New Mexico and present-day Arizona south of the Gila River. Although some Mexican residents welcomed the change, hoping that U.S. territorial status would bring protection from Apache raids and access to markets for agricultural goods, the purchase did not follow logical political or natural boundaries. The boundary split the Sonoran Desert into two political entities, but governmental jurisdiction mattered little to the mineral deposits, flora, fauna, and water of the region. Tucson included many residents with networks of kin and business in Sonora, Mexico, but nonetheless became a part of the United States with the Gadsden Purchase. As a result of the purchase, residents of Mesilla, New Mexico, who had left the region acquired by the United States in the war and founded their town in Mexico specifically so as to remain Mexican citizens, found themselves once again in the United States.3 As residents acclimated themselves to their new status, they faced yet another political division in 1863, that between New Mexico and Arizona Terri- tories. It is easy in retrospect to see this division too as a natural one, but it A Place by Itself, 1912–1929 33 brought its own challenges. Most of the area that would become Arizona was unknown to Americans and only sparsely settled by Mexicans. The area was so dominated by the Apaches in these years that the region is probably best characterized as Apachería, rather than U.S. or Mexican territory.4 In contrast, trade routes linking St. Louis, Missouri, to Santa Fe, New Mexico, and Mexico City had long brought U.S. and Mexican traders into contact in the area that became New Mexico. Arizonans petitioned at one point to divide the territory horizontally, with Arizonans taking the southern half and New Mexicans the northern. It was a coherent division considering that large numbers of Texans were migrating to California along the southern portion of both regions, but Congress feared the southern influence of such an arrangement during the difficult years of sectional division over slavery. When Congress divided the region in 1863 into New Mexico and Arizona Territories, congressmen chose a vertical division. Congressional will had prevailed earlier as well when setting the neat, square boundaries of Colorado, which split the Spanish-speaking community surrounding Taos from that in the San Luis Valley and deprived New Mexicans of jurisdiction over the headwaters of their primary waterway, the Rio Grande.5 What appeared natural in retrospect was politically and ecologically arbitrary. Nonetheless, the arbitrary designation would shape what the Southwest became in the century and a half to follow. Moving from territorial status to statehood was also no easy political task. Territorial representatives in Washington, DC, occupied a secondary status in congressional halls, and congressmen perceived territorial representatives as interested only in the cause of statehood. Representatives were pursuing other aims as well—laws and regulations that strengthened their hand in local politics, pensions for veterans and their widows, tariffs on goods that competed with their state’s commodities, and public works money—but statehood often did lead in their demands. Statehood, however, had not always brought political success. When congressmen backed bids for statehood, they could find themselves having admitted new constituents who favored their political opponents. Nelson Aldrich of Rhode Island attributed the 1892 election of Democrat Grover Cleveland to the admission of six new western states several years before the election. Voters in the new states had overwhelmingly backed Cleveland, and Aldrich and a variety of eastern Republican senators feared that the Southwest would follow the same course and vote Democrat. They worried that statehood for New Mexico and Arizona would mean a shift in control away from their party. Aldrich recruited 34 Borders his ally Senator Albert J. Beveridge of Indiana who led the Senate Commit- tee on Territories to block New Mexico’s and Arizona’s statehood at every turn. They were successful for a full decade between 1901 and 1911.6 Beveridge’s opposition rested on colonialist and racist rhetoric. He had entered the Senate strongly supporting U.S. imperialist ventures in the Phil- ippines, which, like New Mexico and Arizona, was a former Spanish colonial outpost. His opposition to the vestiges of Spanish colonialism and his sympathy for the U.S. imperial model extended to New Mexico and Arizona.7 Beveridge, then, took his place in a long line of congressmen who found the Spanish colonial and racial character of the region distasteful. When the United States had first acquired Mexico’s northern territories, Senator John C. Calhoun of South Carolina lamented, “We have never dreamt of incorporating into our Union any but the Caucasian race—the free white race. To incorporate Mexico would be the first instance of the kind of incorporating an Indian race, for more than half the Mexicans are Indians, and the other is composed chiefly of mixed tribes.”8 The idea that New Mexico and Arizona Territories comprised a “mongrel” race, a degenerate mix of Spanish settlers and indigenous peoples, became entrenched in the late nineteenth-century United States when racial ideologies prized “pure” racial categories over mixed ones. In Arizona Territory, voting was restricted to “white male” citizens. By the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, Mexi- can Americans who were living in Arizona Territory at the time of the treaty were legally white, but daily practice did not always follow the law. In those Arizona communities where “Mexican” meant nonwhite to Anglos or where Mexicans were recent immigrants, Mexican Americans were effectively disen franchised.9 The attitude was shared at the federal level. When New Mexicans petitioned Congress in 1876 for statehood, following a failed 1874 bid, the House Committee on Territories declined again, citing the “peculiar character” of the people of the region. “Of the native population but few are pure-blood or Castil- ian, probably not more than fifty or one hundred families in all, the rest being a mixture of Spanish or Mexican and Indian in different degrees.”10 The Chicago Tribune echoed the committee in 1893 when it deplored New Mexicans who were “not American, but ‘Greaser,’ persons ignorant of our laws, manners, customs, language and institutions.”11 For some, not even “pure-blood” residents of the region satisfied. The 1900 cen sus counted 195,000 people in New Mexico, most as white. As whites, New Mexi- cans could vote, giving them significant influence, but their status did not necessarily qualify residents for statehood in the eyes of skeptics.12 As public school A Place by Itself, 1912–1929 35 construction and attendance lagged and as New Mexicans persisted in speaking Spanish, opponents insisted that the “territory had not yet become properly ‘Americanized.’ ”13 Beveridge built much of his case against statehood on the 1900 census data that had tallied a total of 53,931 non-English speakers in New Mexico.14 In the Senate debate over admission of New Mexico and Arizona, education, literacy, and the use of the English language became key criteria. In his report to the president, Beveridge made clear, at some length, that only the influx of a large number of English-speaking Americans would qualify New Mexico for statehood:

On the whole the committee feels that in the course of time, when education, now only practically beginning, shall have accomplished its work; when the mass of the people, or even a majority of them, shall, in the usages and employment of their daily life, have become identical in language and customs with the great body of the American people; when the immigration of English-speaking people who have been citizens of other states does its modifying work with the “Mexi- can element”—when all these things have come to pass, the committee hopes and believes that this mass of people, unlike us in race, language and social customs, will finally come to form a creditable portion of American citizenship.15

Justifications like Beveridge’s assigned a nonwhite status to Spanish speakers in New Mexico and Arizona Territories. The only counters to what Beveridge called the “Mexican element” would be education for assimilation and the steady immigration of English-speaking Americans from other states. For Bev- eridge, southwesterners’ language contributed to their racial identity. If En glish language use was a prerequisite of inclusion in the union, then assimilation would take a long time, which was exactly what Beveridge and his political allies wanted.16

Race, Labor, and Statehood

To address such concerns, some statehood advocates recommended joint entry of New Mexico and Arizona so as to dilute the political power of the Spanish- speaking population. At the start of the twentieth century Anglos greatly out- numbered Mexican Americans in Arizona. The idea of joint entry, called jointure, gained popularity in the beginning of the twentieth century. The Atchison, 36 Borders

Topeka and Santa Fe Railway had reached Las Vegas, New Mexico, in 1879, and boosters were eager to seize the opportunity to sell the region. Some from Arizona pushed so hard that Beveridge suspected that they only wanted statehood to further corporate investment in mining, a move that led him to call statehood advocates “the malefactors of great wealth.”17 Nonetheless, even Bev- eridge ultimately came around to the idea of jointure, believing that the admission of one western state was better than the admission of two.18 Many New Mexicans advocated for jointure too, so eager were New Mexican elites, both English- and Spanish-speaking, for the greater political power and settlement that they felt statehood would bring. Some even agreed to call the prospective state “Arizona.” But Arizonans were not satisfied. By 1905, President Theodore Roosevelt backed the jointure campaign, presumably to repay New Mexicans for their participation during the Spanish-American War.19 Referendums were held in both regions on the issue. New Mexicans strongly favored jointure, but Arizo- nans rejected it, 16,265 to 3,141. In Arizona, opposition to jointure and statehood was also opposition to regulation, particularly regulation of the powerful mining companies that would become what scholars call the region’s “copper collar.” Possessed of richer mining deposits than New Mexico, Arizona also experienced greater labor strife. Organized labor in Arizona favored statehood—labor organizers hoped regulation would bring shorter hours, higher taxes on the large mining companies, and mining inspectors to ensure safer working conditions. As Arizonans drafted a constitution, labor advocates cooperated with Demo- cratic small farm and business owners to achieve just such goals. The coalition foundered, however, over the issue of Mexican labor.20 In Arizona, such debates often linked Mexican heritage with a national Mexican origin. That is, labor organizers and company owners assumed that all people with Mexican heritage were not born in the United States and thus were not citizens. Mexican immigration had, indeed, increased in the early years of the twentieth century, and many people of Mexican heritage had not been born in the United States or did not bother to seek legal acknowledgement of their residency. American mining and railroad companies actively recruited workers in Mexico throughout the nineteenth century. Moreover, many mining companies owned mines on both sides of the border, and workers were accustomed to crossing readily from one side to the other as labor demands shifted. After 1910, the disruption of the Mexican Revolution also pushed Mexicans northward.21 Nonetheless, some Mexican laborers were native-born. Some could trace their A Place by Itself, 1912–1929 37 lineage back to the years when southern Arizona was Mexican and Spanish territory. Linking Mexican identity to immigrant status, however, became a tool that both mining companies and labor organizers employed, usually to the detriment of those with a Mexican national or ethnic identity. Mexican workers had a recent and strong history of labor organization on both sides of the U.S.-Mexico border, but many Anglo Arizona labor organizers believed that Mexican workers broke strikes and undercut wages. Ultimately, Arizona labor proponents were successful in excluding noncitizens from public projects, thereby preventing Mexican-born workers from doing construction work funded by the state government.22 Even more damaging to those of Mexi- can heritage, the Arizona constitution also restricted voting rights to those who could “read the Constitution of the United States in the English language in such a manner as to show he is neither prompted nor reciting from memory, and to write his name.” Women would receive full suffrage a year later, but the law had its desired effect, which was to disenfranchise ethnic Mexicans and southern and eastern Europeans of both genders. In the minds of many southwestern Anglos, language had once again united with ideas about national identity and immigration to limit the inclusion of Spanish speakers and those of Mexican national descent. In the border county of Cochise, 50 percent of the foreign- born population were considered Mexican. There, almost half of the precincts were unable to hold primary elections in 1912 because of voting restrictions.23

Race, Language, Status, and Statehood

The statehood situation was equally complicated in New Mexico, but for different reasons. Mining companies did not have the same foothold in New Mexico as they did in Arizona, nor did they dominate the region around the U.S.-Mexico border. A small minority of elite Spanish speakers, who increasingly called themselves Nuevomexicanos, maintained their land holdings in the long transition from Spanish to Mexican to American land-owning practices. Most Span- ish speakers, however, became permanent or part-time wage workers, and those in the north often migrated seasonally to Colorado for agricultural work.24 In short, there were fewer job opportunities in New Mexico. As a result, there were fewer recent immigrants from Mexico in New Mexico and a greater proportion of Spanish-speaking people who claimed an ancestry extending to the Mexican and Spanish eras.25 38 Borders

Moreover, the long haul for statehood overlapped with the Spanish- American War. The war raised concern among some white Americans that New Mexican men, who traced their colonial roots to Spain, would fail to support the United States. Many New Mexicans responded by embracing the racial, linguistic, and national connotations of the term Spanish American. In English and Spanish newspaper articles, poems, and speeches, elite New Mexicans claimed a white, Spanish heritage and their qualifications for inclusion in the white body politic of the United States. Speaking Spanish should not disqualify New Mexi- cans from inclusion in the United States, Nuevomexicanos argued.26 As José Maria Garcia, a justice of the peace, put it: “ ‘I like my own language better than any other, the same as I like the United States better than any other country in the world.’ ”27 Drawing on long-standing Latin American racial hierarchies, boosters also emphasized the Spanish roots of the area’s Spanish speakers and downplayed the region’s indigenous heritage. Following statehood, a Harper’s Weekly colum- nist took note: “These Spanish people of New Mexico . . . are not of the mixed breed one finds south of the Rio Grande, or even in Arizona. . . . Indeed, it is probable that there is no purer Spanish stock in Old Spain itself.”28 By the time statehood was finally conferred, many New Mexicans had invested their identities in the area’s Spanish colonial roots and American national future. They proudly called themselves Spanish American and also fought enthusiastically for the United States in the Spanish-American War. They insisted on identify- ing with the region’s history and with future statehood. They laid claim to an identity that was both historical and contemporary, both Spanish- and English- speaking, both Hispanic and American. Nuevomexicanos built their identity around Spain, whiteness, and particularly the Spanish language. Nuevomexicanos rejected any suggestion that they were the descendants of Spanish and indigenous unions. They emphasized their colonial past and spurned their Mexican one. In many cases, they used the term “nativos” to describe themselves, ignoring the actual indigenous history of the region and their own intermarriages with Native Americans.29 At the same time, they invested in the Spanish language. A 1910 enabling act required high office holders in New Mexico to be English-speaking and English to be the predominant language of instruction in public schools, but otherwise New Mexico followed a very different path from Arizona. The state constitution specified that no one could be disenfranchised or denied the opportunity to serve on a jury because of language. Offices not specifically restricted A Place by Itself, 1912–1929 39 to English speakers in the enabling act were open to Spanish speakers. Arti cle 12, section 10 of the state constitution stated that “children of Spanish descent” would never be denied admission to public schools nor be “classified in separate schools.” Further, the constitution called for funds to train teachers in Spanish and English.30 The Spanish language—but not racial mixing—had become a part of being New Mexican. From statehood on, Nuevomexicanos reflected their sense of themselves through the use of the Spanish language, a practice they often yoked to a presentation of themselves as Spanish Americans.31 In fact, over the twentieth century, Nuevomexicanos increasingly used the terms “Hispanic,” “Hispano,” and “Span- ish American” to describe themselves. As Spanish Americans, New Mexicans considered themselves white, but white did not mean English-speaking. Indi- viduals like Senator Beveridge may have tried to marginalize Spanish-speaking Mexican Americans by linking the Spanish language to nonwhite status, but such efforts were successful only in pockets of the region. Moreover, New Mex- ico, as a political entity, actively embraced the Spanish language when it became a bilingual state, complicating any easy associations between language, racial status, and political standing. The constitutional provisions that allowed Arizona to disenfranchise Spanish speakers were less feasible in New Mexico as a bilingual state. One could speak Spanish in New Mexico and still be American.

Race, Place, and Identity after Statehood

The historian Linda Noel has distinguished between the “pluralism” that marked New Mexico’s path to statehood and the “marginalization” that marked Arizo- na’s. New Mexico included Spanish Americans as a part of American diversity. Arizona included Mexican Americans, but only as disenfranchised cheap labor.32 This is an extremely useful distinction, but the differences between New Mexico and Arizona did not mean that they were without common features. Pockets of pluralism persisted in Arizona, and Mexican Americans struggled against marginalization in New Mexico. By looking at such communities, we can better understand how Mexican American communities persisted, adapted, and transformed over the twentieth century. Though without the political support of official bilingual status, some Mexi- can Americans in Arizona used language like New Mexico’s to buttress their social standing. No term emerged throughout Arizona to refer to people of 40 Borders

Spanish and Mexican descent, but Mexican Americans in Tucson, particularly those with deep roots, called themselves “Tucsonenses.”33 Among Tucsonenses and residents of Arizona’s San Pedro Valley, a similar nomenclature to that in New Mexico emerged among some Spanish-speaking residents. Residents used the terms “Mexican American,” “Spanish American,” and “Hispano American” interchangeably to refer to residents with ties to the Mexican or Spanish eras or to more recent immigrants from northern Mexico.34 With language, then, Mexican American Arizonans asserted their belonging to the region even when it was not reinforced by official policy. New Mexicans and Arizonans also used the Spanish language to under- score their connection and previous claim to the lands of the Southwest. Like Nuevomexicanos, Tucsonenses and Mexican Americans in the San Pedro Valley held demographic majorities or parity with Anglo populations at the turn of the century.35 Some scholars have attributed the relatively greater political power of Mexican Americans in these communities to their larger numbers.36 But numbers alone do not convey the deep sense of place and belonging that Nuevo- mexicanos and Tucsonenses evoked when they named themselves in Spanish. When Nuevomexicanos backed the campaign for statehood, they did so with frequent evocations of their attachment to their “native soil.” In 1893, Antonio Joseph, who had a Nuevomexicana mother and an Anglo father, fumed: “They [Congress] have denied us statehood because . . . some of those individuals cannot see beyond the ends of the noses, and they have been and remain against the hispano-americanos, the legitimate owners of this land.”37 Joseph argued on the basis of material land ownership, but Nuevomexicanos and Tucsonenses also named themselves because of their metaphorical connections to land extending geographically to Mexico and chronologically to the Mexican era. The oral historian Patricia Preciado Martin conveys such connection in her collections of interviews with Mexican American Arizonan ranchers and farmers. In one collection, Beloved Land, she reproduces a poem written in honor of Rafael Orozco Cruz, a ranch hand. In it, the land itself and Cruz’s work on it provide him a sense of belonging:

Because I was an orphan, Me crié entre las lomas y ceros I was raised among the ridges and hills Fuí víctima de orfandad But no one could rob me Pero de ser un vaquero Of my vaquero skills Nadie me lo pudo quitar...... A Place by Itself, 1912–1929 41

The years went passing by Los años fueron pasando But I didn’t really feel them. Pero yo no los sentía The ranch had become a haven Porque había hecho del rancho Of happiness for my family. Mi más alegre familia.38

For rural ranchers and farmers of the early twentieth century, the land that had been Mexican and Spanish was theirs by virtue of their ancestral connections and their labor on it. Mexican Americans in urban Arizona used architecture to connect their homes to contemporary Mexico and to the Mexican and Spanish eras of the region. Barrioization, de facto segregation of Mexican Americans into ethnic enclaves, increasingly isolated Tucsonenses into certain sections of Tucson. As one historian has argued, however, “Tucsonenses reacted to barrioization by transforming their assigned spaces, indeed by creating their own places. . . . To enhance their sense of belonging, Tucsonenses turned to familiar Mexican forms and structures, re-creating a cultural ambience based on memory and tradition. . . . Not only did they choose to live with others like themselves; they also created a landscape that looked and felt like their homes in Sonora or in Tucson before the arrival of Anglos.”39 Mexican Americans recognized such spaces as unique manifestations of their Spanish and Mexican heritage in the region. The town of Mesilla, New Mexico, provides an excellent example. Mexicans who wished to remain under Mexican rule founded the town in 1850. The settlers moved south of the borderline established by the 1848 Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, but then found themselves within U.S. territory yet again following the Gadsden Purchase in December 1853. In the meantime, settlers had established a town that followed the layout of the nearby New Mexican town of Doña Ana, founded in 1843. Mesilla had a gridiron layout, with a plaza and church at its center as proposed by the 1573 code for colonial settlements, the Spanish Laws of the Indies. The church included a distinctive clerestory window, a seventeenth-century colonial New Mexican innovation that drew from Pueblo people’s kiva architecture, while the town’s grids of fields and streets probably drew from the Mexican Republican enthusiasm for Enlightenment rationality. Here was a decidedly New Mexican place where Mesilla Mexican Americans belonged.40 The historian Anthony Mora has argued that the city of Las Cruces eclipsed Mesilla economically because Mesilla held fast to its historical connections to the nation-state of Mexico and rejected the Spanish American identity that 42 Borders

Anglo and elite Nuevomexicanos had forged in northern New Mexico.41 Mora has found that southern New Mexican Anglos saw Mexicans as belonging in the United States, but as second-class laborers, not as equal citizens. One Las Cruces rancher, writing in the late nineteenth century, specifically cited Mexi- can Americans’ subordinate status as an argument in favor of statehood. “For it must never be forgotten that this is New and not Old Mexico, and that whilst the Mexican predominates in the population, enjoying such influence as mere superiority of numbers can bestow, unsupported by intelligence, the American is the dominating element.”42 The rancher saw Mesilla in the same way that many white residents of Arizona described Mexican towns. Mesilla had similarities to communities in Arizona and in New Mexico. Labor needs, the embrace or rejection of a Mexican heritage, the use of Span- ish language, and state policy together shaped Mexican American identity in both states. The church could convey the town’s long-standing ties with the region’s Spanish and Mexican pasts, a source of pride for many New Mexicans. At the same time, labor practices and employers’ attitudes could reinforce the marginalization of Mexican workers, a commonplace in Arizona. We cannot easily sort the town of Mesilla and its residents into categories of belonging and transience, rootedness and mobility, white and nonwhite, or even New Mexican and Arizonan.43 Rather than having a fixed meaning, the Mesilla plaza shows just one Mexican culture in formation, influenced both by political policy and by individual cultural decisions. The policy and culture of statehood both mattered. Policy crystallized each state’s formal attitude towards the region’s Mexican and Spanish pasts. New Mexico protected the linguistic and, to a lesser extent, material heritage of those who traced their lineage to the area’s Mexican and Spanish eras, but it did so by accepting a racial hierarchy that placed whites at the top. To maintain their linguistic integrity, New Mexicans denied their intimate connections with the region’s indigenous peoples. Arizona’s constitution included no such protections. Rather, it made room for exclusion of Mexican Americans from citizenship on the basis of race by using Mexican Americans’ Spanish language against them. Spanish-speaking New Mexicans found themselves with some legal support for their identities; Spanish-speaking Arizonans did not. While the state constitutions divided the region, however, similar informal cultural practices united Mexicans Americans across state lines. In naming themselves, in working the land itself, in building and maintaining neighborhoods and homes representative of how they identified themselves, Nuevomexicanos, Tucsonenses, Mesilla’s A Place by Itself, 1912–1929 43 residents, and others crafted Mexican places within the new American states of New Mexico and Arizona. How they would choose to use those places would influence their standing for the century to come.

Revolution, Mestizaje, and the Border: 1891–1924

The turn of the nineteenth to the twentieth century brought more than the transformation of statehood to Arizona and New Mexico. The years also encompassed the massive upheaval of World War I. While scholars typically turn to Europe to chart the causes of the war, viewing it in the context of the American Southwest’s history can be equally illuminating. Just as Europeans rethought their national identities and political systems, so also did the people of the Southwest. Just like Europeans, southwesterners negotiated borders and their meanings. To see the important contributions southwesterners made to new ideas of nationalism and political ideology during the war years, however, one must look to a different war: the Mexican Revolution. The revolution, which began officially in 1910, led rapidly to the resignation of Porfirio Díaz, Mexico’s dictator of thirty-five years. At the heart of the struggle was land reform, and in Mexico land reform meant a reassessment of race and class standing. Indigenous people were those most likely to be landless and most likely to face resistance if they appealed for land rights. Moreover, many Mexicans were beginning to embrace their own mixed-race heritage. Rather than emphasizing their white, Spanish heritage, they increasingly took pride in both their indigenous and European roots, a mixture they celebrated in the term “mestizaje,” literally meaning mixture and, in an emerging Mexican vernacular, a positive combination of Mexico’s peoples and cultural practices. Land reform and mestizaje together indicate just how much was at stake in the revolution. What it meant to be Mexican and what kind of country Mexico would be hung in the balance. These were heady, abstract ideals, but the revolution itself was fought with real bullets. Estimates vary, but between 500,000 and over two million Mexi- can soldiers and civilians died during the war.44 It was a conflict, too, very much entangled in international political and economic currents. Following Díaz’s resignation, the new president, Francisco Madero, attempted to establish a new government, but he made hardly any progress, and had not even begun to address 44 Borders land reform when he was executed by one of his generals, Victoriano Huerta, in February 1913. In the south, the assassination brought an already impatient Emiliano Zapata back to the battlefield. In the north, one of Madero’s supporters, Francisco “Pancho” Villa, headed back to war as well. Like Zapata, he favored land reform. As a northerner, Villa also had little tolerance for foreigners, especially Americans, who dominated the land and had profited handsomely from holdings in Mexico during the Díaz regime. Villa fought in his home state of Chihuahua and by October 1914 had allied himself with the Sonoran governor, José Mayortena. The two withdrew their support from Venustiano Car- ranza, who had overthrown Huerta, Madero’s assassin. Given the complexity of the struggle, it is not surprising that scholars use both “revolution” and “civil war” to describe it. The war lasted into the 1920s, took a significant toll on civilian and military populations, and permanently changed the meaning of Mexican identity. From the war emerged a steady stream of migrating refugees, a hardened view of the U.S.-Mexico border among many Anglo Americans, and also new cultural currents that would affect Mexican American identity well into the present. Three events—the 1906 strike in Cananea, Sonora, the 1916 Pancho Villa raid on Columbus, New Mexico, and the 1917 Bisbee Deportation—illustrate these trends. In each, one sees the deep connections between the two sides of the international border. One also sees how the revolution changed the meaning of the border and, thus, the meaning of Mexican identity in the twentieth century. Significantly, such changes extended across Chihuahua and New Mexico as well as Sonora and Arizona. The revolution and the border had im- pacts in both states.

Three Revolution Snapshots at the Border: 1906, 1916, 1917

The length of the war in Mexico meant that refugees were more likely to settle permanently in the United States. Reflecting on this transformation, the historian George Sánchez has noted that the revolution was instrumental in immigrants “becoming Mexican American.”45 Whereas migrants had previously passed back and forth across the border, often for employment at American- owned companies on both sides of the line, the revolution discouraged returning to Mexico. Migrants not only stayed in the United States, but headed farther from the border than they had previously, settling even as far north as Chicago.46 A Place by Itself, 1912–1929 45

American companies, meanwhile, fretted over the violence and the political calls for equality that they feared would harm their productivity. Prior to the revolution, Anglos and Mexicans had “claimed transnational kinships as In- dian fighters and pioneers.”47 This attitude persisted through the 1906 Cananea strike against the Cananea Central Copper Company (CCCC), an American- owned copper mining operation, and effectively a company town, in Sonora. At the outset of the strike, Mexican workers asked for pay equal to that of their U.S. peers and an eight-hour day. When conflict between the company and the striking workers grew violent, a ragtag American group under the command of Ranger Captain Thomas Rynning crossed the border and was sworn into the Sonoran militia. Mexican workers saw the group as an affront to Mexican sovereignty.48 Just as tensions reached their peak, the American group was sent home by a long-standing American ally on the Sonoran side of the border, Emilio Kosterlitzky, thus ending the American “invasion” as well as the strike. Kosterlitzky had a colorful past. He was born in Moscow, deserted from naval training in Venezuela, and became a private of cavalry in the Mexican army. By the time of the strike, he was a lieutenant colonel and well respected by Anglo Americans on the northern side of the border for his service during the Apache wars of the late nineteenth century. The U.S. contingent willingly followed his orders to return north, and the CCCC subsequently employed Kosterlitzky as a patrón (a labor agent) who, presumably, would provide more docile employees. Following a 1907 economic downturn, they also retooled the mine so that it was more mechanized, another deterrent to strikes.49 The CCCC was reassured, but the strike had inspired already established anti-Díaz groups in Cananea and in the Arizonan town of Douglas, many of whom had ties to the Flores Magón brothers. The brothers had continually decried the Díaz regime, and many historians consider their activities to have been one of the seeds of the revolution. Two of the brothers, Ricardo and Jesús Flores Magón, were living in exile in the United States by the time of the strike, but continued to publish their newspaper La Regeneración from the United States. Magonistas would be one of the groups that worried U.S. officials and companies in the years to come. Those worries manifested themselves in March 1916, when Pancho Villa raided Columbus, New Mexico, just three miles north of the international border. Believing that the United States had cut a deal to make a portion of Mexico, or even the entire country, a U.S. protectorate, Villa made a show of force. Then, in keeping with the ad hoc nature of military warfare during the revolution, he fled southward into Mexico. The United States appointed John J. Pershing to 46 Borders pursue him in a “punitive expedition,” but Pershing was never successful. The entire venture reverberated internationally. Some historians have speculated that Germany perceived Villa’s success as American weakness and stepped up the submarine warfare that contributed to the United States entering into the war. Others have noted that the venture acted as a training ground for the mobilization of U.S. forces, experience that Pershing rapidly put into practice when U.S. entry into World War I drew him away.50 Villa was mistaken: the U.S. and Mexican governments had struck no deal. Nonetheless, the result of the raid and Villa’s success in eluding capture was to change the meaning of Columbus. Like Villa, the place became a symbol of the U.S.-Mexico borderlands. The place, like the mining border of 1906 Cananea, was not entirely American, nor entirely Mexican. Yet, Villa’s raid of this tiny community upset the far more powerful United States. Villa, especially when joined with Columbus, came to be an underdog symbol, a sign of what relatively powerless people in a place far off the grid could do. As a result, the place mattered in the memory of the Mexican Revolution, and it mattered to Mexican identity thereafter.51 American government officials and U.S. businesses were discomfited by places like Cananea and people like Villa, and their reaction is probably best illustrated in the Bisbee Deportation of 1917. Like Cananea, Bisbee, Arizona, was a border mining town. The community was dominated by the New York-based firm Phelps, Dodge, and Company (PD). PD had first invested in Bisbee mines in the 1880s, and its influence stretched across the Southwest from El Paso, Texas, near the New Mexico border, across its own rail line, the El Paso and Southwestern Railroad, and into the border towns of Arizona.52 In Bisbee, a dual wage labor system shaped race relations. Mexicans worked surface jobs building roads and cutting wood, while white miners worked underground and made a higher wage. Wages were even identified by race and nationality, with surface workers earning a “Mexican wage” and miners earning an “American” or “white” wage. The system stood to change in 1917, however, as Bisbee Anglo labor organizers finally began to see common cause with Mexican workers. In 1917, coming on the heels of statehood, in the last throes of the Mexican Revolution, and in the midst of World War I, when demand for copper was high, Bisbee was a volatile environment. Refugees regularly crossed the border, and revolutionary violence affected American-owned companies in both Mexico and the United States. Moreover, British intelligence intercepted the Zimmermann Telegram in 1917. In the telegram Germany proposed an alliance with Mexico in the event that the United States entered the war, and promised A Place by Itself, 1912–1929 47 those lands lost in the 1846–48 war should the United States be defeated. The Industrial Workers of the World (IWW, or Wobblies) chose this delicate moment for a strike: one that stood to overturn the dual wage system and treat white and Mexican workers as equals. But such a vision was not to be. The flashes of Mexican influence that marked the Cananea strike and Villa raid were suppressed at Bisbee. Vigilantes, acting under the sheriff of Cochise County, rounded up almost two thousand men believed to be associated with the strike, loaded over half into boxcars, and shipped them to New Mexico. Ninety percent were immigrants and half were Mexican or Slavic. An army camp at nearby Columbus, New Mexico, provided food and water for the deportees, some of whom stayed for almost three months. Vir- tually none returned to Bisbee. Outcry was almost immediate, and President Woodrow Wilson appointed a mediation commission to investigate labor conditions in the West. But the message to Mexican workers was clear: no revolutionary sentiment, whether linked with labor activism or not, would disturb the power of mining companies on the border. The inequality of Mexican workers would continue into the 1930s.53 The event rapidly earned the designation “the Bisbee Deportation,” but the workers had not been deported from the nation. Even those who were Mexican nationals were deported to Columbus, New Mexico, an American town. What made the Bisbee Deportation a deportation, then? Historians of immigration speak of a continuum of deportation: one that includes displacement of citizens and noncitizens both within and outside a nation’s borders.54 The deportation of the workers to the area surrounding Columbus, coming on the heels of Villa’s raid, evoked both meanings of the term. First, the event likely served to amplify New Mexico’s reputation as a place that was not quite American. While many Nuevomexicanos harkened back to the region’s Spanish roots, the Villa raid on Columbus laid the groundwork for Mexico, not Spain, serving as a touchstone of identity for future New Mexicans. That Columbus could retain such a meaning even as Bisbee insisted on its status as a 100 percent American town showed how the meaning of border communities pulsed, sometimes conveying Mexican, sometimes American, and sometimes something altogether different from both. Moreover, events near the U.S.-Mexico border demonstrated how the two nations constructed their businesses, their economies, their political systems, and even their cultural identities in dialogue with each other. In the years to come, Americans and Mexicans would continue to build their nations together even when at odds over the terms of their construction. Mexico as a cultural symbol would grow in importance for 48 Borders

Americans broadly and southwesterners specifically. Some Mexican Americans would look to Villa and to the Columbus raid as symbols of Mexico’s and Mexi- cans’ influence on their northern neighbor. Having a link to Villa could authen- ticate one’s Mexican identity, even for those who had lived in New Mexico and Arizona for decades. Together, the Cananea strike, the Villa raid, and the Bisbee Deportation showed the lost potential of the Southwest’s proximity to Mexico. Southwest- erners had an opportunity to embrace a multiculturalism far broader than that which prevailed in New Mexico at statehood. The cultural mixing of mestizaje and the celebration of diversity embedded in Mexican revolutionary ideals transcended national and state boundaries. Southwesterners, however, invested financially and culturally in an idea of white American business, one that shut down the strike, reviled the Villa raid, and used New Mexico’s status as borderline American to turn Columbus into a temporary holding pen. What the revolution and the idea of mestizaje more broadly offered the Southwest persisted only in select corners. It grew, but in dialogue with another more powerful identity: Spanish American.

Spanish America, 1890–1940

Middle-class and elite people of Mexican descent were more likely to embrace the term Spanish American to describe themselves in the first half of the twentieth century. They did so, according to some scholars, to cover over their connections to the area’s indigenous residents, but also to distance themselves from more recent Mexican immigrants, many of whom were fast becoming an agricultural and industrial proletariat illustrated in the image of the “Mexican peon.” To be Spanish was to be white, and to be white entitled New Mexicans to statehood and Arizonan miners to a higher “white wage.” To be white also meant to be “not black.” As Jim Crow segregation became entrenched in the Southeast and across large swaths of Texas, a variety of “off-white” groups, European eth- nics as well as Mexican Americans, worked to distance themselves from Afri- can Americans, who bore the brunt of racist segregation. Such bargains with whiteness often worked to the detriment of political and labor organization that sought a base of support through ethnic solidarity among Mexicans or broader solidarity among nonwhite groups.55 Scholars discussing the broader Mexican American community from south Texas to Southern California have sometimes A Place by Itself, 1912–1929 49 called the embrace of a Spanish American identity a Faustian pact. In exchange for whiteness, those who called themselves Spanish American lost their ability to organize with their fellow laborers. Some scholars have added further that people who called themselves Span- ish American were not the actual architects of their identities. Anglo Ameri- cans, particularly between 1890 and 1940, invented and celebrated the Spanish heritage that they perceived in the American Southwest. This Anglo Southwest was a step backward in time, but, in the eyes of its proponents, a beneficial one that countered the evils and excesses of modernity associated with the East Coast of the United States and with Europe. As we have seen, Charles Lum- mis’s “Greater Southwest” presented the region in just such terms. He and others imbued the Southwest with a “Spanish fantasy past” that encompassed the medieval courtliness of Spanish conquistadors and a celebration of the pastoral settlements of colonial Spain. In northern New Mexico, the Spanish fantasy intensified in the years between 1919 and 1940 as Anglos revived, expanded, or created traditions that they called Spanish or Spanish colonial. Such efforts emerged in a national context that looked to so-called traditional folk cultures as an antidote to the excesses and dangers of modern life. As Americans wrestled with the meaning of modern warfare, travel, and communication, they looked to what they perceived as simpler, more traditional means of living to quell their anxieties. Americans sometimes saw indigenous people as their counter to modern ills. In New Mex- ico, indigenous people either shared their awkward position in that spotlight with people of Spanish and Mexican descent, or ceded it to them.56 Indeed, the keystone of New Mexico’s Spanish fantasy, the Santa Fe Fiesta, grew alongside contemporary Anglo portrayals of Native Americans.

Spanish America and the Santa Fe Fiesta

The Santa Fe Fiesta celebrated the reconquest of New Mexico’s indigenous peoples in 1692 and the return of Catholicism to the region. Some celebration of the reconquest occurred in the eighteenth century, but the event was really a product of early twentieth-century regional promotion. Beginning informally in 1919 and formally in 1924, the director of the Museum of New Mexico, Edgar L. Hewett, organized the events of the Fiesta. Hewett used the Fiesta to further his favored causes: attracting tourists and celebrating the region’s Native 50 Borders

Americans. Hewett aimed for a larger and larger audience, one to rival the crowds that attended a similar pageant: La Fiesta de Los Angeles in California. His efforts drew the ire of recent Anglo arrivals to the state, many of whom made up the growing Anglo arts community. To quiet their discontent with the middlebrow, commercial nature of his Fiesta, he named one of their members, the poet Witter Bynner, to the Fiesta Council. After some scuffling between Hewett and the more recently arrived Anglo artists, by 1929 the Fiesta had become a celebration of local “Spanish” culture.57 Handbills printed in Spanish advertised the event in surrounding villages. Vendors sold enchiladas and biscochitos on the plaza. Nuevomexicanos predominated in the anchoring events of the Fiesta: a Catholic mass, a procession to the Catholic landmark the Cross of the Martyrs, and a reenactment of Span- ish conquistador Diego de Vargas’s entry during the reconquest of the territory. Anglos praised the event as one that showcased Santa Fe’s “solidarity of a mixed racial life.”58 Such mixing was genuine. Elite Nuevomexicanos, who were fast watching their political and economic power wane, played a critical role in the Fiesta as they negotiated between Anglo newcomers and rural Nuevomexica- nos, who had become the most vital element to the celebration.59 Such mixing was also key to what organizers felt the event contributed to the nation. Writers like Bynner and Anglo artists who participated in the Fi- esta presented the region, specifically the Southwest region, as a balm, a “basis for wholesale personal and cultural rejuvenation.”60 The Fiesta—whether in Hewett’s or Bynner’s view—was not just a local festival; it was an avenue for sharing with Americans of the 1920s another way of life, an alternative to what American critics of the 1920s considered the crass homogenizing force of national culture. Whether Americans engaged deeply with Native or Spanish colonial culture, Anglo festival organizers could be pleased that they had shared with national audiences something more than a mass trend or fad. The historian Robert Dorman has argued that the artists and writers of Taos and Santa Fe during the 1920s and 1930s “exerted a powerful shearing pull against the New York–Hollywood cultural axis.” When Anglo artists shared their southwestern vision at the Fiesta, they shared an alternative way to be American.61 For Nuevomexicanas, the Fiesta was an opportunity not just to celebrate local culture on a national stage, but to maintain those distinctive elements of Mexi- can and Spanish culture that some Anglos used to marginalize them. A key go- between figure in the Fiesta was Adelina (Nina) Otero-Warren, a figure who can serve as a wider example for her peers such as Fabiola Cabeza de Baca Gilbert A Place by Itself, 1912–1929 51 and Cleofas Jaramillo.62 Otero-Warren was the daughter of Manuel B. Otero, a prominent and wealthy landowner who lost his life in a shoot-out protecting land that was shortly thereafter opened to Anglo homesteaders. She grew up in a cosmopolitan household of elite Nuevomexicanos and Anglo traders and traveled East for education and work in New York’s settlement houses.63 She was married briefly to an Anglo, the source of her hyphenated name, but she made her career as a politician and advocate for New Mexican culture on her own. Otero- Warren resented what she perceived as the protections offered Native American landholdings in New Mexico and sought to build a justification for Nuevomexi- cano land ownership through a celebration of rural folk culture. Otero-Warren saw that Anglo audiences could be drawn to Nuevomexicano culture just as they thrilled to the exotic potential of Indian communities in the Southwest. To that end, she made it her goal to see that Spanish colonial culture held a central role in any regional celebrations. She was a regular figure at the Fiesta Conquistadores Ball, at which Anglos and Nuevomexicanos danced side by side; she was a prominent supporter of Spanish colonial arts in the 1930s; and she contributed to the regionalist writing that flowered in northern New Mexico in the 1930s with the publication of her book Old Spain in Our Southwest in 1936.64 The historian John Nieto-Phillips has argued that figures like Otero-Warren did not act as Anglo tools who crafted a tourist tradition for the benefit of figures like Lummis and those who followed in his wake. Rather, he sees Otero- Warren and other Nuevomexicanos fostering a sense of “hispanidad.” “In its broadest sense,” Nieto-Phillips writes, “hispanidad was a sentiment, a sensibility, and a self-perception among Spanish-speaking peoples that took shape in specific cultural and political contexts, and in contradistinction to ‘Anglo-Saxon’ culture.” Hispanidad allowed Nuevomexicanos “some degree of control over symbols of their identity.”65 For many Nuevomexicanos the Spanish language and the artifacts of the Spanish colonial “revival” celebrated in regionalist literature and the folk culture vogue were symbols of control. They showed that Nuevomexicanos had some authority over their own identities in the place that they called home.

Spanish America, Hispanidad, and Education

Seen with “hispanidad” in mind, a figure like Otero-Warren looks less like a tool of Anglo market manipulation and more like an independent actor. Her 52 Borders regular participation in the Santa Fe Fiesta appears as a part of a broader fabric of activities that supported Nuevomexicanos. Key among such activities was education, and Otero-Warren was an ardent supporter of bilingual instruction. Between 1917 and 1929 she served as superintendent of education for Santa Fe County. In that role, and later as the state supervisor for literacy classes, she supported teaching both English as a second language and proper Spanish grammar and writing to Spanish speakers. She developed her own method of bilingual instruction, which facilitated English-language learning while also teaching proper Spanish usage. She targeted her efforts at some Anglo school officials who supported a “do not speak Spanish” policy in schools. In contrast, Otero-Warren and her supporters believed that “Spanish speaking students should take pride in the ability to use correct Spanish as well as English, and they should be proud of their historical and cultural heritage.”66 Otero- Warren saw herself as a part of a broader community possessed of hispanidad. Although she, herself, was elite, she believed that Spanish language and bilingual instruction would ensure the economic future of all Nuevomexicanos. She was likely an enthusiastic participant in the Santa Fe Fiesta more because of her own enthusiasm for Nuevomexicano language and culture than because of the agenda of Anglo celebrants.67 Mexican American Arizonans constructed and protected their identities not only through language and architecture but through cultural festivals and school ing. Among Mexican Americans in the Cascabel area of Cochise County in Ar- izona, families continued to follow Catholic calendars by celebrating saints’ days, and they continued to consult local curanderas (healers) and parteras (midwives), who followed local Mexican American traditions when aiding the health and childbirth of community members. One descendant recalls that her father kept a statue of San Isidro, the patron saint of farmers, and to bless the crops “the farmers would carry the statue from field to field and ranch to ranch,” a practice common among rural Nuevomexicanos as well.68 Perhaps most significantly, the residents of Cascabel held tight to control over their local school. When Anglo residents proposed a redistricting that would have eliminated the school that served largely Mexican American families, an Anglo teacher at the Apodoca School, Minnie Bisby, responded vehemently, “I believe a person who under- takes to teach Mexican children should be in sympathy with them—neither fear or despise them, nor even patronize them.” Bisby further justified the Mexican American community’s right to education through reference to their long tenure on the land and their labor on it, the very terms that Nuevomexicanos had A Place by Itself, 1912–1929 53

Figure 4. Student reading in Ojo Sarco, New Mexico, ca. 1943, by John Collier Jr. for the Farm Security Administration. Catalogue No. 2006.117.134, John and Mary E. T. Collier Collection. Courtesy of the Maxwell Museum of Anthropology, University of New Mexico. The incorporation of New Mexico and Arizona into the folds of the United States proceeded fitfully after both states received statehood in 1912. The photog rapher John Collier Jr., the son of Commissioner of Indian Affairs John Collier and a mentee of the photographer Dorothea Lange, grew up in both northern California and Taos, New Mexico. His work documented and honored the differences of language, culture, labor, and land use that made New Mexico distinctive for locals and outsiders alike. used in the campaign for statehood. “The people here own the land along the river,” wrote Bisby. “I have thought many times that few ‘white people’ would work so hard to maintain their land and raise their corn, beans, and hay and grain. . . . These families who have been on this river for two generations . . . are entitled to keep their district intact.” The Apodoca District lasted until 1950, and men with Spanish surnames served as district clerk and school board president until 1936.69 In the more urban Benson, Mexican Americans participated in politics in greater numbers than they did elsewhere in Arizona, won prizes at 54 Borders the local school, and the newspaper reported on both Mexican American and Anglo social gatherings.70 The term “Spanish American” in some circles is synonymous with the term “sellout.” In such environments, the decision to call oneself Spanish Ameri- can left more recent Mexican immigrants behind, along with those people who traced their tenure on the land to the Mexican era of Southwest. From the perspective of miners in Bisbee, Arizona, or Mexican Americans in Las Cruces, New Mexico, people like Otero-Warren and the Spanish-surname elite of Ben- son or the San Pedro Valley had little to offer them. To be Spanish American was to be elite and to be white, identities to which working-class miners or immigrant ranch hands had little claim. From the perspective of Otero-Warren or the school board of the Apodoca District, however, Spanish American could have quite a different meaning. The key was in the word “Spanish.” Spanish Americans spoke Spanish. They did so with pride and with enthusiasm for cultural understanding of the practices and traditions that led to a deep engagement with the language. They dedicated themselves to Spanish-language and bilingual education to advance the communities that they called Spanish American. They were condescending and ob- tuse to racial politics even as they held fast to the sense of pride, identity, and belonging that speaking Spanish brought them. Figures like Otero-Warren and the Mexican Americans of Benson lost their footing in the complexities of culture in New Mexico and Arizona. Otero-Warren and her peers tended to see hispanidad as a fixed entity, a tangible and singular culture that could be preserved if only sufficient resources were devoted to language education, Catholic practice, and Hispanic arts and crafts. In their view, hispanidad had been inherited from Spanish colonial settlers and perseverance ensured its continued vitality. Similarly, Mexican Americans in Cascabel or Ben- son might justify their belonging in Arizona by pointing to their ancestors’ pioneer years in which they fought against hostile nomadic Indians and wrested a living out of an arid environment. Yet, language, religion, art, and expressions of belonging like “hispanidad” all changed with the times. The promise of mestizaje was probably more fully realized in the South- west among those most Americans would not have called Mexican or Spanish. The historian Eric Meeks has brought our attention to histories of the indigenous Yaqui, Tohono O’odham, and Pima, whom scholars long portrayed as distinct groups whose identity never changed and who had no part of Mexi- can or Anglo American identities.71 In contrast, Meeks has found that in early A Place by Itself, 1912–1929 55 twentieth-century Arizona and Sonora, some of those who identified as Yaqui, Tohono O’odham, and Pima also identified as Mexican and intermarried with national and ethnic Mexicans. Such unions created webs of kin and godparenting networks that transcended both the international boundary line and the ethnic lines most Anglos took for granted as fixed entities. Meeks draws our attention to the Feast of San Francisco in Magdalena, So- nora, about sixty miles south of the Arizona-Sonora border, whose celebrants challenged both ethnic and national definitions of Mexican identity. The feast emerged from the region’s Catholic past and is celebrated on October 4, the feast day of Saint Francis of Assisi, but celebrants usually made pilgrimages to a statue of Francis Xavier, the Jesuit, not the Franciscan, patron saint. Sonora’s Catholic past began with Jesuit missionaries who were expelled from the region in 1767 and were replaced by Franciscan missionaries. By the middle of the twentieth century, the continued popularity of the festival showed that Catho- lic practice was alive and well. A pilgrimage could have as its aim baptism, marriage, or a cure for a long illness. Pilgrims to the festival, however, also took part in music, dancing, and celebrations that represented what anthropologists call syncretism, a fusion of European colonial religious traditions and indigenous forms of worship. Arizonan Alberto Alvara Ríos recalled numerous pilgrims in the mid-twentieth century: “Starting late in September, for two weeks, I remember seeing hundreds and possibly thousands of native Indians, Mexicans, and Arizona residents as they walked, along the river and along the road, the sixty-five miles from Nogales to Magdalena.”72 The festival indicated that some indigenous peoples chose Mexican cultural traditions as their own, traditions that annually carried them into Mexico. Significantly, the journey required crossing the U.S.-Mexico border. By the early twentieth century, the Mexican Revolution and growing anti-immigrant sentiment led most Anglos to favor a tighter border. Anglos objected to the free movement back and forth across the border for the festival. Federal Indian agents, who exercised significant oversight over the daily life for the Tohono O’odham, threatened to bring to trial any Tohono O’odham who attended the festival in 1913. This was to no avail, as hundreds attended anyway. In 1950, most government officials simply gave up. Farmers who employed the Tohono O’odham even took to providing transportation themselves, as Tohono O’odham “made plain to growers . . . that the Magdalena pilgrimage took precedence over even national patriotism and personal gain.” Meeks notes that the festival and other ties between indigenous and Mexican people shows that the process of “mestizaje 56 Borders

(intercultural and biological mixing) continued despite both legal and social pro- hibitions.”73 Indeed, the Tohono O’odham’s insistence on attending the festival, despite the negative repercussions from government officials and employers, suggests that the choice in favor of mestizaje was a conscious one. Some southwesterners chose mestizaje and other Mexican cultural forms as their own even when it could mean disapproval and resistance.

Conclusion

The Tohono O’odham’s pilgrimage suggests that those regionalists who sought to change the nation via the culture of the Southwest were more successful than they might have first thought. Despite persistent efforts to do so, Arizona An- glos did not quash the Spanish and Mexican heritage in the state. Language and architecture shored up Spanish-speaking communities in Arizona and New Mexico as the region made the difficult transition to statehood. After 1912, communities continued to speak Spanish and to draw on their Mexican and Spanish roots when naming their children, building their homes, and celebrating their holidays. Moreover, Mexico’s proximity, immigration from Mexico, and attachment to Mexican revolutionary sentiments, religious practices, and changing national identity brought ideas of mestizaje to residents of both states. Through the years of the revolution and into the 1930s, New Mexicans and Arizonans looked to the Mexican and Spanish heritage of the region to organize their work, celebrate their heritage, and teach their young. As the next chapter shows, cultural practices carried such widely variable meanings in the years between statehood and the conclusion of World War II that they sometimes changed the meaning of race itself. 2 The Story Attached to It, 1929–2000

he Southwest entered the Great Depression no longer a place apart. Statehood, commerce, and national trends in art and literature Thad tied the Southwest to the United States. The stories attached to New Mexico and Arizona, however, increasingly presented a place divided. New Mexico was Spanish speaking and traditional. Arizona was Anglo and forward-looking. Neither story truly fit, but both stories worked to cover over the similarities in the region. Many of those similarities stemmed from the shared Mexican heritage of both states and how that heritage had been folded into the fabric of U.S. policy and culture. Detaching the stories that have adhered to the Southwest requires looking at other stories—ones that more often present New Mexico and Arizona together. Surprisingly, it is the watershed years of the Great Depression and World War II—years of extraordinary disjuncture—that best show the shared Mexican heritage of New Mexico and Arizona and its impact on the Southwest’s politics and culture.

The Great Quebrada, 1929–1945

The oral historian Don Usner has called the years between 1930 and 1945 “the great quebrada, the break with the past wrought by the one-two punch of the Great Depression and World War II.”1 That process began with a contraction of 58 Borders

Mexican American migration over the 1930s. Mexicans had long passed easily over the U.S.-Mexico border as they were wooed by American employers or pursued work independently, but within and across the states of New Mexico and Arizona migration was consistent as well. Many New Mexicans who lived in the northern villages of New Mexico so prized by Nuevomexicana Nina Otero-Warren and fellow boosters supplemented what meager income they could earn through handicrafts with labor in mines and beet fields in Colorado. Often rural Nuevomexicanos timed their journey so as to allow their continued ranching and farming on their ancestral lands. With the Great Depression, however, such seasonal migration ground to a halt. An early freeze cut the beet harvest in half in 1930. Thereafter, crops shrank and so did wages. As the historian Sarah Deutsch has found: “In the 1920s, the 14,000 Hispanic families in northern New Mexico’s Upper Rio Grande Valley sent seven to ten thousand individuals north for work each year. In the early 1930s, they sent only two thousand. Those sent earned only about one-third as much as they had before. . . . Before the Depression, village migrants had earned two million dollars a year. In 1935 they earned only about $350,000.”2 The situation was equally bleak in Ari- zona. Cotton prices plummeted, and copper mines in Ray and Ajo shut down entirely. As the historian Eric Meeks reports: “Only thirty-three hundred workers remained employed in the mines.”3 Across the Southwest, and even in Washington, DC, officials responded to the economic downturn with tighter immigration restrictions and nativist rhetoric. Prior to the New Deal, states oversaw relief efforts, and every state in the union was overwhelmed by the pressures of the Depression. The downturn coincided with the first and only year that the U.S. Census listed “Mexican” as a distinct racial category.4 In Colorado and Arizona, blame fell on those of Mexican descent, and few were willing to embrace distinctions among Spanish Ameri- cans, U.S.-born Mexican Americans, and Mexican immigrants. Many Anglos blamed Mexicans (all of whom, presumably, were immigrants) for undercutting wages and competing for jobs, and they blamed them too for not being suf- ficiently American. In March 1930, the Arizona Labor Journal enthusiastically printed an article that complained about the “further Mexicanization of the Southwest.”5 Reflecting such sentiment, in 1930 the United States stopped issuing visas altogether to “common laborers” from Mexico. Worse, under Secretary of Labor William Doak, immigration agents began carrying out raids and deporting people without proper documentation.6 As local communities buckled under the burden of relief, many Mexicans and Mexican Americans in Arizona The Story Attached to It, 1929–2000 59 were also “encouraged” to return to Mexico, regardless of whether it was their homeland or not. Maximo Alonzo recalled deportations from the mining town of Miami, Arizona: “There was no work, no nothing here. The government brought trains to haul people away—and they were leading them in boxcars and trains, putting them back out to El Paso to the frontier.”7 Meeks cites an estimate that 18,520 Mexicans were deported from Arizona during the Depression.8 At the same time, in an echo of the Bisbee Deportation, Colorado began deporting rural Nuevomexicanos across the state border. In the first years of the Great Depression, Nuevomexicanos distinguished between themselves as Spanish Americans and more recent migrants as Mexicans. Anglo communities in Colorado, however, did not. Spanish Americans and Mexicans alike participated in migration streams to the beet fields of Colorado; all spoke Spanish; and all were potential burdens on already struggling relief rolls. In March 1935, the Colorado governor ordered all aliens out of the state and had migrants turned back at the border with New Mexico. In April 1936, he called out the National Guard and declared martial law at the line separating New Mexico from Colorado. New Mexicans were arrested as far north of the Colorado–New Mexico border as Colorado Springs, and over five hundred workers were turned away at the border. A dozen New Mexicans from Abiquiu and Peñasco were taken from trains and dumped at the state line.9 New Mexico, once again, was the place that was not quite American, the place that the deported called home. Spanish Americans initially struggled to reconcile themselves to their new position in the regional racial hierarchy. Those who called themselves Span- ish Americans in Arizona, New Mexico, and Colorado had supported restrictions on “alien” labor in the past and even favored deportation of noncitizens. In Arizona, one businessman noted that he wanted others to call him Spanish American because “Mexican was appropriate only for ‘Mexican nationals or for the pure Indians from Mexico.’ ”10 Others in the Spanish-speaking community, however, found common cause with Mexican nationals. The Spanish-language El Tucsonense condemned limiting relief only to U.S.-born citizens and raised funds for “nuestra raza” to make up the deficit for Mexican workers in Tucson.11 Similarly, the Colorado blockade made many Nuevomexicanos and paisanos realize their common position with other laborers. Most significantly, the blockade violated New Mexicans’ civil liberties. The historian Sarah Deutsch reports that reactions at the New Mexico–Colorado border “ranged from tears to indignation.”12 Relatively conservative Nuevo- mexicanos even joined the Spanish Speaking Workers League, a radical labor 60 Borders organization, in protest. As they explained, they decried “ ‘citizens of this government turned back and refused entry to the state of Colorado merely because they were of Spanish descent.” As Deutsch elaborates, “They resented both this denial of Spanish American membership in the United States polity, and the arbitrary fragmentation of the region.”13 Ultimately, their pressure would influence the decision to lift the blockade. Spanish Americans had learned a hard lesson in identity. To call oneself Spanish American potentially mitigated the discrimination faced by those of Spanish and Mexican descent in the 1930s, but it did not change the fact that the region itself possessed a Spanish and Mexican past. Nuevomexicanos and Tucsonenes, whether Spanish American or Mexican in their self-designation, recognized their crumbling status and the changing character of the region in the Arizona deportations and the Colorado blockade of the 1930s. And what of New Mexico—that place Mexican enough to be the destination for the deported, all of its borders almost international in the eyes of other Americans? Perhaps no place better showed Anglos’ conflicting opinions of the Mexican heritage of the Southwest in the 1930s than did the villages of the northern region of the state. For at the very moment that neighboring states were ridding themselves of Mexicans, New Deal officials were simultaneously attempting to preserve what they called traditional New Mexican culture. Across the United States, artists and writers sought work through the New Deal Works Progress Administration (WPA) and other arts programs, some designed simply to provide job opportunities and others with the specific intention of fostering the arts in the United States. Pervading all of the programs were the lingering effects of 1920s artists and writers who had tried to foster an alternative American identity. In 1920s New Mexico, the village had been one of the sites of such visions with a new organization, the Spanish Colonial Arts Society, incorporated in 1929 by Anglo collectors and writers, serving as the principal agent of this primitivist outlook.14 The New Deal arts programs of the 1930s, particularly the WPA-funded Public Works of Art Project, later the Federal Arts Project, provided a federal imprimatur for the very image that Otero-Warren and her Anglo allies had nurtured. Nuevomexicanos painted murals, carved furniture, engaged in traditional embroidery and tinwork and straw appliqué, and wove blankets. Promoters argued that each art form represented the deep roots that Spanish-speaking New Mexicans had in the region. As the WPA-sponsored guide to the state of New The Story Attached to It, 1929–2000 61

Mexico put it when discussing traditional carvings: “It was an art of passionate extremes, sensual, yet morbidly ascetic and stoical. It was a folk art, adapted to its environment with simplicity of design.”15 Such an image did not always benefit Nuevomexicanos economically. At just the moment that their own farms were failing them and neighboring states denied them entry for work, Nuevomexicanos found themselves dependent on the fickle arts and crafts market. Some Nuevomexicanos found work in construction projects for sorely needed roads, sewer systems, and utility plants. In such work, laborers could earn $18.75 a week.16 But arts and crafts were less remunerative. The schools that Otero-Warren had so hoped would nurture a bilingual community of hispanidad were instead repurposed as vocational institutions that channeled boys and girls into domestic work and sometimes obsolete occupations valuable only for the charm they brought to tourists and Anglo newcomers. “The crafts were seen as offering life-long careers to Spanish Americans, although by the end of 1941 the crafts industries had yet to be self-supporting.”17 Although some communities, like the town of Cundiyo, owed their survival to crafts production, a 1935 study found that most Nuevomexicanos turned to crafts as a last resort. Wages were a meager fifteen cents an hour except for the most expert craftspeople, who could expect perhaps twenty-five cents an hour, a third to a half of what other WPA work earned. As the study concluded: “Too often a feeling of condescension or sentimentality was involved in movements to spon- sor the arts. . . . The artisans themselves were given a false idea of the value of their work.”18 Producing crafts was a job, and working for the WPA was superior to selling off land or water rights. Nonetheless, crafts themselves did not ensure the economic equality of those Nuevomexicanos who saw their opportunities contracting around them in the 1930s. Arts and crafts production was not an economically viable strategy for revitalizing the region. Indeed, when such production was combined with the deportations from surrounding states, the federal government appeared to be isolating Spanish speakers on a sort of Spanish “fantasy island” in northern New Mexico. Nonetheless, the art that Nuevomexicanos produced in the 1930s proved to be vital for Spanish speakers, Mexican Americans, and the artists themselves, as they sought to honor the Spanish and Mexican heritage of the region. Nuevo- mexicano artists adapted to the working conditions of the WPA, and their art evolved even in those instances when federal agents and Anglo patrons attempted to keep it static. The woodcarver José Dolores López left his work 62 Borders unpainted because of pressure from his patrons, but he painted those carvings he created for his family’s religious practice, including his own grave marker.19 The difference suggests that he maintained his artistic and religious independence in the face of pressures from the tourist market and government guidelines. Most significantly, the region with which Nuevomexicano artists identified was not the tiny strip of villages that trailed the Rio Grande across the Colo- rado–New Mexico border, but rather an international pan-American region stretching to the south and west. The artist Patrocinio Barela is perhaps the best example of this expansive, international regional identity. Barela was born in Bisbee, Arizona, and his mother died when he was young. His father moved to New Mexico, where he worked as a sheepherder and a curandero, a healer, in Taos Pueblo. Barela himself became a migrant laborer who split his time between fields in Wyoming and Colorado and New Mexico. Following his most famous years during the New Deal and the early 1940s, he returned to migrant work and frequently struggled to support himself and his family. When he first became a carver, Taos residents considered him a ne’er-do-well inclined to drink and violence. Patrons from the 1920s and their peers in New Deal agencies considered him an authentic representation of paisano folk culture, a “modern primitive.” Yet Barela’s work and its exhibition suggests that the artist and his art both illustrated and challenged the vision of Hispano art nurtured in New Deal programs. Barela and his art functioned as a part of a much larger “mestizo modernism” that connected Latin America with the villages of northern New Mexico in dis- tinctly modern ways.20 Like other santeros and santeras, carvers of religious imagery, Barela chose Christian subject matter in his carvings, such as depictions of the crucifixion or the death carts common to New Mexico’s moradas, sites of worship for the Catholic communities called Penitentes. But Barela’s sculptures were unique. He himself was not a Penitente or even a practicing Catholic. He often worked with a single piece of wood and left the grain, knots, and natural shape intact. As art historian Stephanie Lewthwaite has observed, most of his human figures are distinguished by an elongated, bold, and enlarged head. While other santeros worked entirely in three dimensions, Barela experimented with reliefs as well. When critics called him a “modern primitive,” they were noting the semi-abstract nature of his work, its suggestion of more than simple representation of a religious figure. The modernism of Barela’s work and the “primitivist” label patrons gave it earned him inclusion in the Museum of Modern Art’s American Primitives exhibition in 1930 and the American Sources of Mod ern Art exhibition in 1933.21 The Story Attached to It, 1929–2000 63

But it is as a modern artist, not a “modern primitive,” that Barela figures in a larger artistic exchange that marked the 1930s and the 1940s in the Americas. The New Deal art programs were implemented at the same time as the revival of Native American arts that marked the Mexican cultural revolution. Just as artists such as Diego Rivera worked to represent the balancing act of modernity between the agricultural and the industrial, the indigenous and the newcomer, the natural and the manufactured, so also did New Deal-sponsored artists. His- pano artists like Barela could bring the specific experience of New Mexico’s and Arizona’s rural Spanish speakers to bear in their expression of this “mestizo modernism.” The New Deal in northern New Mexico did not just parallel the revival of arts in Mexico; actual New Deal personnel learned from the Mexican experience as they incorporated Mexican and New Mexican ideas of mestizaje into national self-conceptions. Commissioner of Indian Affairs John Collier, who got his start in Indian affairs in northern New Mexico, arranged for an exhibition of Mexican art in Albuquerque and Santa Fe in 1931. Both cities celebrated their southern hemispheric connections, and the Albuquerque Morning Journal called the city “the historic contact point between America and Mexico.”22 The New Deal, largely overseen by Anglos, was one of the ways that the Southwest and southwesterners diversified the nation. The art promoted by New Deal programs represented a shift in Mexican American identities across the Southwest as Americans of multiple races increasingly saw ties between themselves and Latin Americans, including Mexi- cans. Perhaps the best example of the more expansive regional identity adopted in the years of the New Deal and World War II was the Tucson-based group La Alianza. The group was founded in Arizona in 1894 and initially provided insur- ance and health benefits for its members, but it expanded over the early years of the twentieth century and became a significant civil rights organization with over twelve thousand members by the 1930s. Hundreds of lodges in Texas, New Mexico, Colorado, Arizona, California, and in Mexico—in Chihuahua, Sonora, and Mexico City—supported connections between the United States and Mex- ico and the civil rights of Mexican Americans. The organization drew attention to the achievements and sacrifices of World War II Mexican American soldiers, even those “born beyond our borders”; provided history lessons in Mexican independence; celebrated both Mexican and American holidays on both sides of the U.S.-Mexico border; and sponsored an annual rodeo in Tucson, La Fiesta de Los Vaqueros, which drew business people and participants from across Sonora 64 Borders and the American Southwest. By 1953 La Alizana called itself the “ ‘greatest society for the Spanish-speaking people.’ ”23 La Alianza prospered in the wider context of Franklin Roosevelt’s Good Neighbor Policy. The policy, which Roosevelt first articulated in his inaugural address of 1933, was designed to unite the Americas against the influences of Fascism and Communism. It represented a shift from the interventions that had marked U.S. actions in Latin America in the past and especially a move away from the interventions that had characterized the U.S. response to the Mexi- can Revolution. Members of La Alianza and other individuals who made up the Sonoran and southern Arizonan business elite used the rhetoric of Good Neighbor Policy to encourage economic investment and exchange across the U.S.-Mexico border. Given New Mexico’s historic support for Spanish-English bilingualism and the expansive, hemispheric identity that figures like Patrocinio Barela embraced, one would expect the Good Neighbor Policy to have fostered bilingualism in New Mexico. But such was not the case. Rather, the Good Neighbor Policy showed its own limitations and the limitations of pluralism. The best illustration of the limits New Mexicans placed on bilingualism was the figure of politician Dennis Chávez, who was born in New Mexico Territory to Spanish-speaking, monolingual parents in 1888. He called the Spanish language a “priceless gift.” In the years of the Good Neighbor Policy, he advocated using New Mexico’s gift to negotiate better relations with other Spanish-speaking countries of the Ameri- cas. As he put it, Americans should make Spanish a “second official language in order to be good neighbors.”24 In 1941 he supported a local bill in New Mexico that made Spanish (albeit with many exceptions) compulsory in schools. The bill would make New Mexico a “leader in international goodwill,” argued Chavez and would allow New Mexico the opportunity “of doing for the United States what no other state can do.”25 But the “priceless gift” had a limit. The bill Chávez championed did more for elite Nuevomexicanos and Anglos than it did for poor, rural, and monolingual Spanish speakers. The idea that such Spanish speakers required instruction in their first language because it was the original language of the region did not take root. Rather, schools encouraged the elite to use Spanish in careers in diplo- macy and encouraged the rural poor to learn English to assimilate to American norms.26 Spanish became the most commonly taught “foreign” language in the 1940s in the United States, but New Mexicans became no more bilingual. In a moment when New Mexicans could have expanded the reach of bilingualism and challenged the limits of pluralism, they held back. In some respects, The Story Attached to It, 1929–2000 65 southern Arizona in these years, with its vigorous cross-border traffic, probably encouraged bilingualism more than did the “officially bilingual” state of New Mexico. That is not to say southern Arizona was a paradise of equality. Like the Nuevo mexicanos who aspired to diplomatic careers in the Western Hemisphere, most of those Mexicans and Mexican Americans who regularly crossed the border and took part in La Fiesta de los Vaqueros were elite. Sonoran and Arizonan businessmen temporarily donned chaps and cowboy hats to celebrate their region as an economically prosperous corner of the Sunbelt, but most Mexicans and Mexican Americans in the region struggled. Segregated housing persisted even after the legal defeat of race-based residential covenants, and La Alianza did not challenge segregated schooling until the 1950s. Together, such policies hampered the efforts of poor and working-class Mexican Americans to achieve upward social mobility. Although Mexicans and Mexican Americans had a deep history of ranching and vaquero work behind them, fewer than 5 percent of rodeo entrants at La Fiesta had Spanish surnames in the 1940s, probably because entrance required a fee. La Fiesta was a celebration of the Mexican heritage of the region, and the region prospered during the wartime and postwar boom, but not all Mexicans and Mexican Americans benefited equally from that prosperity and not all were equally represented at La Fiesta. The least visible were recent Mexican immigrants, including those workers participating in the Bracero Program, a binational effort between Mexico and the United States that brought Mexican guest laborers to the United States for agricultural work between 1942 and 1964. More than almost anyone else in the Sonora-Arizona borderland, the braceros who came to work in the United States were likely to miss the benefits and bear the costs of the region’s economic growth. Braceros faced two layers of discrimination. Many Sonorans objected to the program, arguing that the Sonoran economy benefited more when workers stayed in Mexico. Meanwhile, Sonoran officials exploited the workers’ desperation and demanded bribes to process necessary paperwork. Some Mex- icans never made it across the border, as they labored in Sonoran fields to raise the necessary funds. Most of those braceros who made it to the United States worked in California and, beginning in the 1950s, Texas, but some labored in Arizona and New Mexico. In Arizona, they faced resistance, as labor unions argued that braceros took the jobs of Arizonans. U.S. officials and employers also did not always follow the requirements of the program. Employers sometimes paid substandard wages and provided inadequate housing. Such practices unfortunately reinforced the argument of nativist unions, who contended that 66 Borders braceros’ willingness to work for less than a living wage undermined pay and conditions for American workers.27 Braceros themselves, however, saw their migration as a part of the complex pattern of the border region. They continued to pursue participation in the program even as they navigated its inequalities.28 The great quebrada had broken apart and rebuilt understandings of Mexi- can American identity in the Southwest. During the Great Depression, parts of the region had tried to rid themselves of their Mexican past, deporting or persecuting people of Spanish and Mexican descent, regardless of their citizenship. Yet the same years had seen efforts to preserve, as if in amber, the preindustrial economies of New Mexico’s villages. The war set people in motion. Goods and people crossed the international border between Mexico and the United States, while New Mexicans and Arizonans of all races took to the road to seek jobs. Artists introduced novel Mexican and southwestern expressions, and New Deal administrators eagerly embraced them. To speak Span- ish became a hallmark of both the cosmopolitan elite and the provincial poor. Neither the rising tides of Nuevomexicano traditionalism nor Arizona-Sonora borderland prosperity raised all boats. Rather, the Depression and the war created new roles for the federal government in both states and a new economic frame for Mexican American identity. In the postwar years, Mexican Americans struggled to unravel a tight braid of class and race. After vaulting into the most renowned of America’s modern museums, the artist Patrocino Barela spent the years after the war eking out a meager existence, sometimes migrating to Colorado and Wyoming to work in fields and ranches. Like other New Mexicans, he followed the growing network of highways and interstates away from his home for work. Even in those parts of the Southwest that boomed—like the Sonora-Arizona borderland—the prosperity of war did not mean rising fortunes for all Mexicans and Mexican Ameri- cans. Rather, the war set the stage for the civil rights battles that were to follow and for an economy that increasingly divided haves and have-nots, regardless of race, nationality, or language.

Citizenship and Belonging, 1945–1990

The war shifted three key parts of southwestern life that had particular salience for those concerned with the Mexican heritage of the region. First, the population and economic activity of southwestern cities boomed as they became a part The Story Attached to It, 1929–2000 67 of the postwar Sunbelt. City growth widened the gap between urban and rural residents and complicated the identities of Mexican Americans in both Arizona and New Mexico, where long-term residents were usually rural. Second, a war fought against Fascism raised expectations that race would no longer be a bar- rier to full citizenship. Although African Americans made up relatively small populations in New Mexico and Arizona, they faced segregation and discrimination in both states. As Mexican Americans challenged their own marginalization, they reconfigured their identities to include full American citizenship. In the process, some, but not all, Mexican Americans faced and rejected some of their own racist attitudes toward African Americans. Finally, the war brought prosperity and new expectations among the Southwest’s growing young population. Some Mexican Americans channeled those expectations into the Chicano movements of the 1960s and 1970s. Together, the changes wrought by the war unraveled and rewove race, class, labor, and language in the Southwest, allowing new forms and expressions of identity at the turn of the millennium. World War II made the Southwest an urban place and periodically shot prosperity through the region with government contracts and high-tech industrial investment. Phoenix vied with El Paso, Texas, to attract military contractors and new industry, a competition that encouraged both cities to pass antilabor laws and accept business-friendly tax policies.29 As cities grew—by 1950 over two- thirds of Arizona’s population lived in Tucson and Phoenix—the region’s business and political leaders rose in prominence as well. Nowhere was this more true than in Phoenix, which earned itself a place in a new region of the United States, the Sunbelt, distinguished from the industrial upper Midwest Rust Belt by its clear skies, warm temperatures, and especially its business-friendly policies orchestrated largely by Phoenix Republicans. Not only did the city’s population explode, so also did the boundaries of the city itself. Before the war, Phoenix was an urban oasis in an agricultural state. By 1960, manufacturing and tourism both outstripped agriculture, and the city had expanded from 9.6 square miles to 187.4 square miles.30 As the most influential of cities in the Sunbelt, Phoenix has received significant attention, but Tucson also grew significantly in these years and so also did Albuquerque, New Mexico. Many of the same pieces of state tax and labor legislation that spurred Phoenix’s stratospheric growth contributed to Tucson’s economy. Tucson’s population ballooned from 35,000 in 1940 to 213,000 in 1960, an increase of 495 percent. Hermosillo, Sonora, in Mexico, grew in the same years from 18,000 to 118,000.31 Both cities expanded in response to growing 68 Borders cross-border business exchange. In fact, the entire U.S.-Mexico border region was the fastest-growing area of both countries. To the northeast, Albuquerque swelled from a population of 35,449 to 262,199.32 Like its neighbors, Albuquer- que felt the influence of military bases, government research and contracts, and expanded copper and zinc mining operations. While not always included in the Sunbelt, Albuquerque, and its Mexican American residents, felt many of the same shifts as did the more populous and influential Arizona cities of Phoenix and Tucson. Unlike the Southeast during the postwar years, the Southwest did not see a steady defection of white Democrats for the Republican Party on the basis of civil rights questions. Arizona’s most prominent political figure, Senator Barry Goldwater, opposed the Civil Rights Act of 1964, but in relationships with Arizona’s Mexican American businessmen sought a more equitable relationship. Goldwater and many of his allies in Phoenix used “color-blind” language and found common cause with Mexican American businessmen throughout the state who also stood to benefit from antiunion and antiregulation policies popular with Goldwater and his Arizona supporters. Goldwater entered the Senate in 1952 and made a wildly unsuccessful bid for the presidency in 1964. With the exception of his presidential bid and his opposition to the Civil Rights Act, however, Goldwater built his relationship with Arizona’s Mexican Americans on an “inclusionary conservatism.” He was a member of Lodge 129 of Alianza Hispanic Americans and American Legion Post 41, which named him brother of the month in April 1953, shortly after his election to the Senate. In 1967, Sena- tor Paul Fannin, a conservative Republican of the Phoenix business community and Goldwater ally, supported a bilingual education bill. And in 1969 Goldwater argued in favor of a national Cabinet Committee on Opportunities for Spanish- Speaking Peoples. Such inclusionary conservatism did not extend to Mexican nationals, and Republicans, including Goldwater’s brother, sometimes found themselves caught in the hypocrisy of supporting free enterprise while employing illegal immigrants.33 It was a contradiction that would continue to bedevil the party, but business-friendly policies generally trumped discriminatory practices for Goldwater and his political peers. Inclusionary conservatism did not necessarily further integration, however, and with its rapidly booming cities the Southwest mirrored urban trends throughout the nation. Like African American populations, Mexicans Americans were stymied by the Federal Housing Administration Underwriting Manual, which encouraged segregation of nonwhite populations nationally into the 1960s. Phoe The Story Attached to It, 1929–2000 69 nix’s Real Estate Board reinforced the measure through a 1924 order that en couraged realtors to avoid “introducing into a neighborhood members of any race or nationality or any individuals detrimental to property values in that neigh borhood.”34 Even seven years after the Voting Rights Act, in 1972, Arizona’s literacy test remained in effect, which limited the participation of Spanish speakers and the poorly educated in the state’s political process. Some Arizonans also remember a group of young Republican lawyers, rumored to have included future Supreme Court Chief Justice William Rehnquist, who deviated from Goldwater’s inclusionary conservatism and may have even intimidated voters at the polls.35 Schools throughout Arizona were segregated, and administrators, white neighbors, and teachers often justified the separation by insisting that Spanish-speaking students required separate instruction. In New Mexico, state constitutional measures prevented the segregation of students of Spanish and Mexican descent, but African American students, particularly in eastern New Mexican towns, attended substandard schools separate from white and Mexi- can American neighbors. The institutional and cultural racism had its effects. By 1970, the laws segregating housing and schools had been abolished, but African American and Mexican American communities had had less than a generation to recover. In that year, between 20 and 30 percent of those communities lived below the poverty line in Arizona, and 30 to 35 percent in New Mexico.36 As it did for African American communities elsewhere, segregated schooling restricted economic opportunities for Mexican American communities. As early as 1925, Tempe resident Adolfo Romo Sr. challenged segregated schooling for his children, who were refused admittance to the Tenth Street School, reserved for white students, and directed instead to the Eighth Street School, reserved for Mexican American or Spanish American students. The district claimed the separation was justified because most of the Mexican American students spoke Spanish, but Romo challenged it when he noted that the Eighth Street School employed student teachers while the Tenth Street School employed certified teachers. The judge did not challenge the U.S. Supreme Court Plessy v. Ferguson ruling of “separate but equal,” but did find the school afoul of a 1913 Arizona civil code that mandated equal schooling for all students. The judge ordered the Tenth Street School to admit Mexican American students, but the school com- plied instead by employing certified teachers at the Eighth Street School. The schools remained segregated into the 1950s.37 By then, Mexican Americans had a strong legal basis with which to challenge the restrictions on their children’s educational opportunities. In 1948, a 70 Borders ruling in Southern California, Mendez v. Westminster, had concluded that segregating Mexican American students was unconstitutional because it instilled in students a sense of psychological inferiority—a reasoning that would anchor the 1954 Brown v. Board of Education ruling as well. And in 1951 La Alianza lawyer Ralph Estrada successfully challenged the segregation of Mexican American students in an elementary school in western Maricopa County. Estrada drew on Mendez v. Westminster and cases demanding equal accommodations. The schools were unquestionably unequal: the school reserved for white students had a modern gym and playground with benches and trees as well as a school cooling system, while the Mexican school had no gym, no play equipment, and no window shades. The judge used the same reasoning as that in Mendez v. Westminster and preempted the argument that language required separate schooling. He wrote that temporary segregation for pedagogical purposes was acceptable but that the language did not justify “general and continuous segregation in separate schools of children of Mexican ancestry from the rest of the elementary school population.”38 Neither the Spanish language nor Mexican or Spanish heritage could legally obstruct Mexican Americans’ pursuit of education thereafter. But the ruling was not a decisive stand against the idea that race was an unchanging biological essence. When the school district referenced two Phoenix statutes allowing the segregation of African Americans, La Alianza lawyers responded that Mexican Americans were, according to the U.S. Census, white. The school district then raised the Pass v. State case that had concluded that “Mexi- cans Americans are not necessarily of the same race as the Anglo-Americans insofar as it is common knowledge . . . that there exist varying degrees of Indian blood in the so-called Mexican-Americans of the Southwest.” La Alianza lawyers successfully convinced the court that while Mexican Americans may not be of the same race as “Anglo-Americans,” they were not of African descent. In sidestepping the issue of whether segregation by race was acceptable, the lawyers missed the opportunity to challenge broader ideas of race. Indeed, they implied that segregation of students of African descent was constitutional.39 Eventually, cases challenging African American segregation cleared the way for cooperation between African American and Mexican American civil rights activists. In 1954 La Alizana protested a segregated swimming pool in Wins low that barred blacks, Mexican Americans, and Indians. That same year, La Alianza inducted its first black member, jazz trumpeter Louis Armstrong, who was in Tucson on a national tour. Attitudes toward race had changed, at least somewhat and at least among some of La Alianza’s members. The Story Attached to It, 1929–2000 71

New Mexico’s state constitutional protections for Spanish speakers and those of Spanish descent prevented the kind of segregation that prevailed in Arizona. In fact, the 1940s saw a florescence of Spanish-language activity in New Mexico. In 1940 the renowned Mexican American education scholar George I. Sán- chez published his landmark Forgotten People, a study of Taos County. The book drew attention to the tendency so prevalent in the 1920s and 1930s to roman- ticize New Mexico’s impoverished conditions. Sánchez, who had grown up in New Mexico and Arizona, argued forcefully against segregation of Spanish- speaking students, noted the inequalities that existed for Spanish-speakers in standardized tests, and argued in favor of bilingual education.40 In 1941, Dennis Chávez pursued his efforts to make Spanish a required part of the curriculum in New Mexico’s schools. Spanish speakers had multiple avenues of support for speaking Spanish in New Mexico in the 1940s. Equal work opportunities, however, did not always follow. Dennis Chávez also introduced a bill to establish a Fair Employment Practice Commission in the U.S. Senate in an effort to extend wartime protections against discrimination. He echoed the feelings of many Mexican American veterans when he said: “If [Mexican Americans] go to war, they are called Americans. If they run for office, they are Spanish-Americans. But if they are looking for jobs they are referred to as damn Mexicans.”41 Southern senators blocked Chávez’s efforts, but a New Mexico state senator, Tibo J. Chavez, introduced a similar bill ban- ning discrimination in employment and promotion, which was signed into New Mexico state law in 1949. The politics of labor complicated civil rights struggles further and could sometimes blur the lines between political parties. The boom years following the war shifted employment from rural areas to urban ones. In Arizona and New Mex- ico both, rural communities declined in population. More than four thousand New Mexico farms and ranches closed in the 1950s as farmers and ranchers sought different opportunities in the region’s cities. Manufacturing and service industries expanded steadily at the expense of agriculture, and mechanization sometimes took away migrant laborers’ limited opportunities. The mechanization of the cotton industry, for example, contributed to the decision to end the controversial Bracero Program. In the mid-1950s, as many as eighty thousand people were employed in Arizona during the cotton harvest. By 1963, however, that number was cut to less than half. The declining labor demand along with long-standing opposition to the program from labor unions ultimately meant the end of the Bracero Program, which ceased in 1964. 72 Borders

Southwestern Republicans had long supported the program because they believed it reduced the number of agricultural strikes, which had been common during the 1930s. The program had also fed the region’s increasing dependence on Mexican nationals for labor, which helped meet the needs of both construction in Phoenix and seasonal agriculture in rural Arizona. After 1954, Mexican nationals accounted for one-third to one-half of the total seasonal workers in Arizona fields during peak months.42 Republican businessmen bid adieu to the program reluctantly, and many found that they could not shake their reliance on illegal immigrant labor. They also found that they had bolstered the career of a remarkably strong adversary: Raúl Castro, a conservative Democrat who won the 1974 gubernatorial election. Castro had lived in Cananea, Mexico, which was dominated by an American-owned copper mine, for the first ten years of his life and then moved to a suburb of Douglas, Arizona. Raised in poverty, he worked sugar beet fields and odd jobs until he managed to attend college and law school. He then par- layed his own “priceless gift” into an ambassadorship to El Salvador and Bolivia under President Johnson. He embraced the rhetoric of inclusive conservatism and had ties to conservative Democrats who did not favor unions, a combination that contributed to his election as the first, and only, Latino governor of Arizona. Goldwater had not intended a Democratic gubernatorial victory in Arizona when he championed inclusive conservatism, but that is what he helped to produce.43 Castro’s political career and the mixed reactions to the Bracero Program presaged later political divisions in the Southwest regarding the employment of Mexican nationals. Many middle-class and working-class Mexican Americans were generally happy to see the program go. They were eager to distance themselves from Mexican nationals and also believed that the program contributed to the stereotype of the “Mexican peon.”44 Many braceros, however, had begun to see themselves as “transnational subjects” of both the United States and of Mexico. They dwelled more on their creative navigation of the program and their rights as contracted laborers who served nation-states and private growers. As the United States began to contemplate expanded definitions of citizenship, the Bracero Program and braceros themselves offered a further challenge to the region to incorporate transnational workers and subjects.45 While cities boomed and farms dwindled, Cold War–era mining companies in the Southwest reluctantly embraced expanded definitions of citizenship. Mexican American miners found common cause in the Mine Mill union The Story Attached to It, 1929–2000 73

(International Union of Mine, Mill, and Smelter Workers). The union had used the labor shortages and high demand for copper and zinc during the war years to miners’ advantage.46 Moreover, veterans returning from the war brought with them a fuller awareness of their rights. As Ed Montoya, a miner in the Clifton- Morenci district, put it: “I would say to myself here after I came back, in 1946, ‘Hey! Somebody’s been lying to me all these years. How come I went in as a private and I came out as a leader? If that can happen in the army, why can’t it happen in the smelter?’ ”47 In 1946 workers of multiple races struck for not just higher wages, but for an end to the dual wage system that offered Mexican and Mexican American miners a lower wage than Anglos. They won—an extraordinary victory given the strength of mining companies in these years. Unfortunately, the victory was bittersweet. Mining companies and government officials used widespread anticommunist sentiment to pass a right-to- work law in the same year. The law allowed nonunionized workers in unionized mines and opened opportunities for competition from out-of-state unions as well. Mine Mill slowly declined in influence and in 1949 was expelled from the Congress of Industrialized Unions because of perceived Communist leanings. The story of Mine Mill’s brief, glowing success seems typically Arizonan. The union was able to bring Mexican Americans (albeit all U.S. citizens) together to challenge an entrenched racist wage system, but ultimately a more restrictive labor and political climate prevailed. Yet New Mexico was not all that different. It too had a dual wage labor system in some mining communities, and it too suffered from Cold War political prejudices. Perhaps the best illustration of the parallels in New Mexico is the famous “Salt of the Earth” strike at the Empire Zinc mine that began in October 1950. The strike is notable for three reasons: First, the miners were predominantly Mexican American and were actively objecting to the dual wage system. Second, women staffed the picket line in June 1951 when an injunction prevented striking men from doing so. And third, the strike was dramatized in the 1953 filmSalt of the Earth, which starred many of the workers themselves and was created by several Hollywood blacklisted filmmakers, themselves victims of Cold War anticommunism. The parallels with Arizona warrant as much comment as the differences. Like the 1946 strike in Arizona, the Empire strike was largely successful. The negotiations that ended the strike resulted in a significant enough wage increase that the dual wage system was largely rendered moot. Moreover, women’s participation in the strike literally brought home women’s contributions to the mining 74 Borders community: the strike settlement included the installation of indoor plumbing in miners’ homes. As with the 1946 strike, one can see the end of the story of the strike as a happy ending. Yet, in both strikes, Mexican Americans relied on their citizenship in their advocacy, distancing themselves from Mexican immigrants. Mexican Ameri- can veterans reminded Arizonans of their wartime service to the United States, and Salt of the Earth starts with the character of Esperanza Quintero, a strik ing miner’s wife, narrating the deep roots miners had in the region. She tells viewers that her great-grandfather raised cattle on the land of the mine “before the Anglos ever came” and that “Our roots go deep in this place, deeper than the pines, deeper than the mine shafts.”48 Ironically, the actress playing Quintero, Mexican national Rosaura Revueltas, was deported back to Mexico because of an anticommunist backlash against the film. The logic that gave her movie character a sense of belonging in the region did not extend to Mexicans working in the United States like herself. Anticommunism had profound effects on miners in both regions. In Ari- zona, the right-to-work law significantly reduced union strength. New Mexico never passed a right-to-work law. Some historians have argued that the Catho- lic Church’s support for New Mexican laborers prevented it. The archbishop of Santa Fe denounced a right-to-work proposal in 1948, and the idea never gained traction in New Mexico again.49 Nonetheless, the divisions drawn during the Empire strike and even in the Salt of the Earth film continued to influence mining families. The saddest evidence of such divisions was the family of Chana Montoya. Montoya and her husband were both active in the union and both were Communist Party members. Fleeing domestic abuse, Montoya left her husband a year after the movie premiered and moved to Los Angeles with their seven children. Sadly, her husband followed her to California and, despite a restraining order, shot her to death. In an unusual defense, he claimed he was trying to protect his children from his wife’s Communism. While obviously not typical, Montoya’s story indicates that Cold War sentiments and their extreme manifestations transcended state borders.50 During the postwar years, Mexican Americans in New Mexico and Arizona shared several challenges. Both negotiated the rapid urbanization, industrialization, and urban decline that marked the postwar economy of the Southwest. Both saw new meanings of citizenship that had particular salience because of the proximity of the U.S.-Mexico border and the long tenure of Mexicans and Mexican Americans on the land in the region. Both felt the growing international influence of the United States and the politics that stemmed from the The Story Attached to It, 1929–2000 75

Cold War. Perhaps the best example of the states’ shared experiences is the 1983 copper miners’ strike against Phelps Dodge in southern Arizona. Strikes had marked copper mining in southern Arizona from the close of World War II. The 1983 strike was especially brutal and ended with the National Guard attacking strikers, the decertification of the unions, and the loss of almost all the striking workers’ jobs. As in the Empire Zinc mine strike, women played a critical role in “holding the line” in Arizona. Although Phelps Dodge triumphed in the strike, they soon curtailed their operations in southern Arizona, invest- ing instead in a large mine outside Arizona—in Bayard, New Mexico.51 In 2006 they sold the Bayard mine to Freeport-McMoRan, which succeeded in break- ing Local 9424–3, the successor to the union that had led the Salt of the Earth strike.52 Phelps Dodge and antiunionism were hardly restricted to Arizona. While different in their scale and their politics, the transformations wrought by the war and postwar prosperity brought many of the same transformations to Mexican American communities in Arizona and New Mexico both. Perhaps the two most famous southwestern activists of these years are not generally known for their beginnings in the Southwest because contemporary perceptions of Arizona and New Mexico present the states as a study in contrasts. César Chávez, born in Yuma, Arizona, left the state when his family lost their ancestral lands during the Great Depression and became migrant farmworkers. Dolores Huerta, born in the mining town of Dawson, New Mexico, left as a child with her mother for Stockton, California, where her mother ran a restaurant and boarding home that served many farmworkers. Both went on to found the National Farm Workers Association, later known as the United Farm Workers, the best-known organization advocating on behalf of migrant workers in the United States. With a coherent Southwest as a starting point, it is easy to see the similar circumstances that brought them together: a shared Mexican American heritage, an increasingly connected national infrastructure, a Sun- belt economy that linked international and national migrants with corporate agriculture in California, and a national revision of civil rights in the 1950s and 1960s. Yet, we often miss their connections because of our assumptions about their origins. It was Huerta, the New Mexican, who had a family background in industrial mining. It was Chávez, the Arizonan, who had deep family roots in the land. Because their differences challenge expectations, contemporary Amer- icans and southwesterners sometimes miss their similarities. Of course, some transformations were also too sweeping and sudden for participants or observers to notice their shared roots. And while many identity- based movements of the 1960s and 1970s sought to awaken Mexican Americans Figure 5. Yuma, Arizona [Yuma from the Fort], by Carleton Watkins (American, 1829– 1916), 1880, albumen silver print, 19.9 × 31.7 cm (7 13/16 × 12 1/2 in.). Gift in memory of Leona Naef Merrill and in honor of her sister, Gladys Porterfield. Image courtesy of the Getty Open Content Program. César Chávez was born in Yuma, Arizona, which is shown here about the time Chávez’s family homesteaded in the area.

Figure 6. Dawson, New Mexico, coke ovens, boilers, and power house, December 1920. Image #03150083, New Mexico Photographs, Carol and Dwight Myers Collec- tion, NMSU Library Archives Photograph Collection. Dawson, New Mexico, was the birthplace of Dolores Huerta. Like Chávez, Huerta is best known for her activism on behalf of migrant farmworkers in California. Popular audiences commonly think of New Mexico as a “Hispano homeland” and Arizona as a transient stop for migrant laborers, but it was Chávez whose family had deep roots in the land in Arizona and Huerta whose family had a background in industrialized mining in New Mexico. The Story Attached to It, 1929–2000 77 of the Southwest to their shared past, a shared past did not always translate into a shared cause. A Sunbelt economy, a vibrant national civil rights movement, and a national climate of anticommunism did not always yield the same reactions among Mexican Americans, even among activists. Arizona and New Mexico, particularly on college campuses, reflected movements with roots in the Mexican American communities of Texas, California, and Colorado. In both states, such movements took on a distinctive local flavor even as they mirrored the broader concerns of the movements’ participants. In Arizona and New Mexico alike, activist groups contributed to and experimented with a new vocabulary. Many Arizonans and New Mexicans began using the terms “Chicana” and “Chicano” to describe themselves so as to convey their indigenous heritage as well as their commitment to political activism. Mestizaje became a more popular idea as well, as many young people began to investigate their ancestral or more recent roots in Mexico and to interrogate the Spanish colonial dispossession of Native people in the region. Sometimes activists referred to themselves as La Raza, “the race” or “the people,” to indicate the unity of all people of indigenous and Spanish descent. The idea of Aztlán, defined as a Chicano homeland, prompted reflection in many sectors of the Southwest. The term was most fully articulated in the Plan Espiritual de Azt- lán (Spiritual Plan of Aztlán), which was presented at the National Liberation Youth Conference organized by Chicano activist Corky Gonzales in Denver in 1969. The plan stated: “We declare the Independence of our mestizo Na- tion. We are a Bronze people with a Bronze Culture. . . . We are a nation. We are a union of free pueblos, we are Aztlán.” For some, Aztlán was a metaphor that conveyed the sense of belonging that people of Spanish and Mexican descent felt in the Southwest either because of their own ancestral roots or the Spanish and Mexican history of the region. For a small number, Aztlán was a goal, a concrete piece of land (though rarely one with clearly articulated bound aries) that activists would seize from the United States. How and when people engaged the terms in the 1960s and 1970s could signal their level of political involvement in issues affecting people of Spanish and Mexican descent, their comfort with the Spanish language, their understanding of the region’s history, or their goals for the region’s future.53 At the University of Arizona in Tucson, students engaged in the age’s new vocabulary with the establishment of a new student organization in 1967, two years after La Alianza folded due to internal conflict and financial difficulties. In 1969, the group became a branch of MEChA, El Movimiento Estudiantil 78 Borders

Chicano de Aztlán, an organization first established that same year in Santa Barbara, California. University of Arizona MEChA members attended the 1969 conference in Denver, a 1970 Chicano student protest of the Vietnam War, and 1972 rallies in Phoenix in support of striking farmworkers led by César Chávez. The historian Geraldo Cadava has found, however, that students focused on university concerns like the underrepresentation of minority students, segregation of students in Tucson high schools, community centers for youths, and representation of Mexican American history at the university.54 Theirs was not a fringe voice. In 1969 the U.S. Department of Housing, Edu- cation, and Welfare charged the university with institutional racism evidenced in a failure to recruit students and faculty of color and a failure to develop a curriculum addressing people of color. “The University of Arizona, located 67 miles from the Mexican border, has always operated in a bi-cultural environment,” concluded the report, and “large numbers of Mexican Americans who reside in this area and throughout the State of Arizona have contributed much to the development of every facet of life in Arizona.”55 Steady pressure from MEChA, other student organizations, and concerned faculty ultimately resulted in the founding of the Mexican American Studies Research Center in 1981 as well as the Arizona Historical Society’s Mexican American Heritage Project, which shared researchers with the university faculty. Yet the gains were hard won. The university halved funding for the center just a year after its founding and then substantially increased funding when negative publicity and community pressure brought the slight to public attention. That same year, the university student senate cut MEChA’s budget just as the fruits of its efforts were beginning to be realized.56 Throughout MEChA’s struggle, Mexican and Mexican American students took a variety of stances toward the organization and their concerns. Older, established Mexican Americans like Alex Jácome, whose department store had been a center of Mexican and Mexican American life in 1950s Tucson and whose family endowed a fellowship at University of Arizona, considered organizations like MEChA an affront to the business conservatism that had marked cross-border relations in the late 1940s and 1950s. Some students participated in regional labor organizations that represented majority Mexican American workers, such as the International Union of Mine, Mill, and Smelter Workers, but considered their work “beyond MEChA.” Others saw a divide between wealthy assimilationist Mexican American students and their more activist peers. Stu- dents from Mexico usually kept their distance from American students, both The Story Attached to It, 1929–2000 79

Anglo and Mexican American, and they segregated among themselves by class. There was no single Mexican American activist voice in the 1960s and 1970s at the University of Arizona.57 A similar situation prevailed in New Mexico, but, once again, it can be hard to spot in what was in many respects a more supportive climate for Chicano activists and students. Universities in New Mexico responded more quickly than did the University of Arizona to demands from their students and faculty. Stu- dents at Highlands University occupied the university administration building in 1970 to protest the hiring of a new Anglo president. Just a year later, Frank Ángel was hired as president, becoming the first native-born Hispanic to serve as a university president in the United States. The University of New Mexico also proceeded faster than did the University of Arizona in responding to the desire for research programs and classes devoted to Mexican American life and culture. A Chicano Studies program began at UNM in 1971, and the university hired a number of prominent Mexican American faculty members. Today, UNM remains a center for the study of Mexican American life. New Mexico’s people of Spanish and Mexican descent, however, had mixed feelings about the tactics activists sometimes used to gain such changes. The most controversial activist figure in New Mexico was probably Reies López Ti- jerina, a Texan itinerant preacher who had led a commune in Arizona before moving to New Mexico. In Arizona, Tijerina repeatedly clashed with authorities over schooling for the commune’s children and allied himself with neighboring African American and Native American communities. He became interested in the history of New Mexico land grants from the Spanish and Mexican eras and chose advocacy for Hispano landholdings as his cause. In 1963, on the anniversary of the signing of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, he formed La Alianza Federal de Mercedes (The Federated Alliance of Land Grants) to raise awareness of the dispossession of New Mexicans of their land. The group claimed as many as thirty thousand members and was successful in receiving positive media attention and audiences with New Mexican and national politicians. In 1966, however, the group engaged in more violent tactics. In a confronta- tion with Carson National Forest rangers, Tijerina and La Alianza “arrested” two of the rangers, created a court, and found the rangers guilty of trespassing. In 1967, in an attempt to stage a citizen’s arrest of Rio Arriba County’s district attorney, Alfonso Sánchez, Tijerina’s Alianza raided the courthouse and shot and wounded two law officers. As Tijerina’s tactics and rhetoric grew more violent, he and his followers lost support among many Hispanos. Even many who 80 Borders supported his aims say today that they hold “mixed feelings” about the courthouse raid.58 And, as in Arizona, many Hispanos rejected any affiliation with a radical organization. New Mexico’s Senator Joseph Montoya even called Tije- rina’s Alianza a communist-inspired plot.59 Tijerina faded, but the conditions fueling the raid did not. Northern New Mexicans with ties to land grants in what had become the Carson National For- est continued to resent their loss of land as well as the circumscribed economic opportunities in the area. As they paid for permits to cut wood and raise animals on land that they considered theirs, frustration festered. Many such issues appeared in the Española-based paper El Grito del Norte. Headed by Enriqueta Vasquez, El Grito enjoined readers to take pride in their heritage, encouraged bilingual education, and criticized the unquestioned privileges of white tourists and white residents in New Mexico. The paper mocked Smokey the Bear, a national symbol for fire protection but, for local Chicanos, a symbol of land dispossession. The paper did not restrict its criticism to the national forest, however. In a 1970 article, “Railroads and Land,” Vasquez drew attention to a new tourist attraction—a narrow gauge railroad running between New Mexico and Colorado. Vasquez reported on a conversation she had with one of the project’s promoters. “According to him, in order to have the ‘true atmosphere’ of the Southwest for this tourist trap railroad, it will be ‘quaint’ to have Raza working on this railroad project. . . . Sounds nice, huh? But let’s look at this a little closer. As I asked the man, first, where did you get the 76 acres of land in Chama? That’s land grant land, disputed territory so to speak. Secondly, who is going to own these businesses of which you speak, the ones that will have a Raza atmosphere? Thirdly, how much of the profits will go to Raza?”60 El Grito ceased publication in 1972, but the issues, the frustration, and the resentment remained. As late as 2000, some still called the Forest Service’s mascot, Smokey the Bear, a “white racist pig.”61 Tijerina’s raid and El Grito’s frustration warrant further attention, and not just because they echo into the present. The raid well illustrates how much social and cultural cross-fertilization occurred among people of Spanish and Mexi- can descent after World War II, a cross-fertilization as apparent in New Mex- ico as it was in Arizona. Given that Tijerina was endeavoring to reclaim land grants centuries old, the conflict seemed far from the concerns of more recent immigrants or laborers elsewhere in the region. Yet, Tijerina himself was not from New Mexico, but from Texas originally, and most recently from what he The Story Attached to It, 1929–2000 81 reported as a diverse and disadvantaged community in Arizona. The idea of Aztlán resonated so strongly with Tijerina’s efforts to reclaim Nuevomexicano landholdings that activists sometimes called northern New Mexico “el Corazon del Aztlán,” but the term had risen in prominence because of political activism in California and Colorado, not New Mexico. Most histories chart a decline of support for Tijerina following the raid. While such a decline did, in fact, occur, the inequality, poverty, and history of dispossession that the raid had tried to bring to national attention continued to preoccupy area residents and their allies elsewhere. Such concerns were probably best articulated in El Grito. Enriqueta Vasquez, however, was originally from Colorado and was the child of Mexican immigrants. The concerns of northern New Mexican Hispanos resonated with her, not because of her own family’s experience in the region, but because of her personal history with discrimination in Colorado and because of the U.S. conquest of Mexico in the U.S.-Mexican War of 1846–48. As Vasquez put it in a Spanish-language article marking the sixteenth of September, Mexico’s independence day, “We can ask, why do we wish to celebrate the 16th of Septem- ber? Does the Raza, the Mexican-American, the Chicano still pay allegiance to Mexico? To celebrate September 16 is to see Mexico’s people as blood brothers, for we know we are culturally the same people. It is to respect part of our cultural inheritance. It is to recognize what is ours, the history that belongs to us like the very blood that runs in our veins.”62 The Tijerina raid, while seemingly of only local concern, actually connected to broader national and international identifi- cations and alignments. There are many reasons we might miss the broader significance of the Tije- rina raid in the present day. Even after decades of scholarship that remind us of the significance of community and group action in the civil rights and identity- based movements of the postwar era, we still tend to look to single leaders as fig- ureheads. The Native American and African American neighbors who may have inspired Tijerina in Arizona and the communities of young people who spread the word “Aztlán” can get lost in our fascination with a single, charismatic figure. As we look for such figures, our gaze more often falls on men than women. Although Vasquez’s newspaper kept the northern New Mexico Hispano community informed long after the raid occurred, Tijerina’s name is far more widely known. Finally, we miss some of the significance of the Tijerina raid because it does not fit with the image of New Mexico as an ancient and unchanging His- pano homeland. Such an image was alive and well during the raid, but it was in 82 Borders

Figure 7. Phoenix mural on Sixteenth Street by Lalo Cota and Thomas “Breeze” Marcus, photo by Candace Porth (2014). Lowriders, Day of the Dead figures, and spaceships could appear in southwestern art anywhere from Roswell, New Mexico, to Tucson, Arizona.

dialogue with other ideas, with roots in other parts of the nation and the world. Moreover, those who employed it did so strategically and as much to advocate for New Mexicans as to advocate for others, some far from the state.

New Spaces of Belonging, 1964–2000

The Chicano movement and actions like Tijerina’s laid the groundwork for international activism in the Southwest from the 1970s through the end of the twentieth century, especially activism related to the status of the U.S.-Mexico border. Two significant changes promoted the late twentieth-century fixation on the border: First, a series of economic policies that included the end of the Bra- cero Program, the establishment of the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA), and the proliferation of maquiladoras increased immigration to the U.S.-Mexico border region. Second, the United States responded to Marxist The Story Attached to It, 1929–2000 83 movements in eleven Latin American nations between 1975 and 1979 through Operation Condor, an alliance of right-wing leaders against the Left in Latin America. U.S. involvement in Latin America strained U.S.-Mexican relations and sent refugees fleeing Latin American conflicts across Mexico’s borders to sanctuary in the United States and Canada. Those who took part in this sanctuary movement were some of the first to welcome significant numbers of immigrants, who changed the landscape of identity and heritage in the Southwest yet again. “Latino” joined the rich and ever changing vocabulary used to describe the Southwest as Salvadorans and Guatemalans brought new stories to the region. Almost immediately after the Bracero Program ended, Mexico enacted the Border Industrialization Program (BIP) to alleviate the problems caused by a decline in agricultural industries and increasing unemployment. Hundreds of thousands of migrant guest workers had returned to Mexico following the end of the Bracero Program. Unemployment was as high as 50 percent in some Mexican border communities. To employ workers in manufacturing, the program fostered the creation of maquiladoras, factories on the U.S.-Mexico border where workers assembled finished products from imported goods. Companies that used maquiladoras were exempt from taxes on supplies, machinery, and equipment. As a result, the program drew U.S. companies to the system and Mexican workers to the border region, where many maquiladoras were established. Sonora’s first two, which opened in 1967 and 1968, employed 550 workers in Nogales, Agua Prieta, and San Luis Río Colorado. By 1969, 147 companies employed seventeen thousand workers in maquiladoras, and by 1990 Sonora’s maquiladoras employed approximately thirty-seven thousand.63 In 1994, the ready commercial exchange across the border prompted by BIP and the first maquiladoras was strengthened in the North American Free Trade Agreement. By 2010, the city of Juárez, Mexico, the twin city to El Paso, Texas, and just twenty-five miles from the New Mexico border, hosted over 330 maquiladoras.64 Ultimately, maquiladoras created an “industrial corridor” that succeeded in freeing Mexico from dependence on agriculture, but not from economic dependence on the United States. Maquiladoras paid higher wages than factories elsewhere in Mexico and attracted not just laborers but professionals.65 Nonetheless, increasing population and the proximity of American consumer goods drove up the cost of living.66 Maquiladoras favored female laborers, whom companies believed to be more tractable and less subject to unionization. By 1990, 80–90 percent of maquiladora workers were women, many of whom worked long hours without breaks. Women were also subject to sexual harassment and violence. 84 Borders

Border cities frequently lacked adequate sewer, water, and electrical systems. Most challenging for Mexican policy makers was that workers tended to spend their money in the United States. Sonorans spent up to half of their earnings in Arizona, and profits from U.S.-owned companies tended to make their way back to the United States as well.67 Although American business people applauded the free flow of goods over the border occasioned by BIP and NAFTA, Americans did not always respond as positively to the free flow of people. Maquiladoras brought increasing numbers of people to the border. Because working conditions were poor, turnover in maquiladoras was high. A series of economic crises in the 1970s and 1980s disrupted the Mexican economy, spurred illegal drug running, and heightened American financial insecurity. Some Americans feared that immigrants would take jobs from American citizens. Immigrant advocates countered that undocumented migrants worked jobs that U.S. citizens scorned. American citizens of Mexican descent faced increasing harassment from Border Patrol agents, who targeted their neighborhoods and arrived unannounced at their churches.68 Individuals began patrolling the border and, in some cases, attacking undocumented border crossers, a harbinger of armed vigilante groups like the Minute- men, who started patrolling the border in the 1990s.69 Many undocumented immigrants benefited the U.S. economy. Some contributed to programs like Social Security, but never received benefits themselves. Others crossed the border regularly for both work and shopping and contributed to economic growth through their purchases. Nonetheless, a perception grew among some Americans north of the border that immigrants only fueled the drug trade, theft, and violence in border cities. The benefits and disadvan- tages of migration over the U.S.-Mexico border became a fraught point of political contention. Even the 1986 Immigration Reform and Control Act (IRCA), championed by President Ronald Reagan and the result of fifteen years of debate, failed to satisfy. Its measures—amnesty for immigrants who had resided in the United States a certain number of years, increased border enforcement, and employer sanctions—remained points of national political contestation. Repub- licans generally found the act’s measures too generous to immigrants and insufficient in their commitment to border security. Democrats, including Arizona’s governor in 1986, Bruce Babbitt, feared that the act would worsen U.S.-Mexico relations and would prejudice employers against anyone with a Spanish surname or of Latin American descent.70 Such political battles strained relations in the Southwest into the twenty-first century, particularly as border fencing, walls, The Story Attached to It, 1929–2000 85 roads, and custom stations transformed the landscape and border residents’ daily lives.71 Within this ongoing political debate and a tense climate, then, arrived refugees fleeing the civil wars and oppressive regimes in Guatemala, Nicaragua, and El Salvador. Between 1974 and 1996 more than a quarter million Central Americans were killed. More than one million left their homes seeking refuge. Between 1979 and 1981, Central American migration to Sonora and Arizona quintupled. Because Ronald Reagan’s administration supported antileftist governments in Central America, the federal government refused to recognize fleeing migrants as refugees under the 1980 Refugee Act. The United States granted asylum to 3 percent of Salvadorans and Guatemalans who applied. In contrast, Canada granted asylum to 80 percent. In response to U.S. foreign policy, many border residents, religious congregations across the country, and immigrant advocates became active members of a nationwide sanctuary movement.72 The movement began first in Tucson, partly in reaction to the deaths of thirteen Salvadorans of a group of twenty-six who had attempted to cross the So- noran Desert in 1980. Salvadoran refugees generally were not poor and their numbers included doctors and factory workers. Those who died in 1980 had paid $20,000 to the smugglers who abandoned them. Their families in El Salvador so feared local reprisals that they insisted the bodies be cremated before they were returned so that they could not be identified. The remaining thirteen of the group awaited deportation in Tucson. By the early 1980s, the United States had apprehended seventeen thousand Salvadorans and ten thousand Guatemalans. Mexico apprehended around three hundred Central Americans a month. Some refugees successfully settled in the American Southwest, including fifty members of a single Guatemalan family. The Salvadoran group’s harrowing experience, the increase in refugees seeking asylum, and the successful incorporation of some Central Americans into local communities inspired an already active network of immigrant activists in Tucson as well as area churches.73 Key in the network were John Fife of the Southwest Presbyterian Church in Tucson and especially the Manzo Area Council, which had been represent- ing Mexican immigrants for several years when it turned its attention to Central American refugees. Members of the Manzo Area Council traveled to Guate- mala so that they could witness circumstances firsthand. They also visited detention centers in California. They began fund-raisers to bail refugees out of jail. Churches followed their lead, and sixty-five churches, including both Catholic and Protestants, formed the Tucson Ecumenical Council Task Force on Central 86 Borders

America (TECTF). TECTF published newsletters explaining how to offer refugees food, homes, transportation, and work. Some sanctuary advocates led refugees all the way from Guatemala to Tucson. Others walked with them through the Sonoran Desert. Eventually a network extended across Mexico, the United States, and Canada. By 1987 the United States had over a hundred declared sanctuaries, among them 430 religious groups, twenty-eight cities, and an entire state: Arizona’s neighbor, the state of New Mexico.74 Although New Mexico did not figure as prominently as Arizona in discussions of migration across the U.S.-Mexico border, the state played a significant role in the sanctuary movement of the 1980s. The New Mexico Council of Churches organized volunteers and aid for migrants in much the same way that the TECTF had, and some activists shuttled refugees who crossed the border at Juárez and El Paso through New Mexico. Although fewer congregations declared themselves sanctuaries than in Arizona, the state’s Catholic archbishop, Robert Sanchez, was an enthusiastic supporter of the sanctuary movement, and the Quakers were instrumental in convincing the Santa Fe City Council to de clare the city a sanctuary city for Guatemalans in 1985. Most significantly, the sanctuary movement had the support of the governor, Toney Anaya, who declared New Mexico a sanctuary state on Good Friday in 1986. Anaya’s declaration came in the middle of the trial of several sanctuary workers in Arizona. Their trial ended in light sentences, but conviction. In contrast, Anaya’s declaration resulted in a very different outcome. Anaya followed the declaration with moral and legal justifications for his stance. He presented the declaration as an outgrowth of his, and New Mexico’s, commitment to the moral and specifically Christian underpinnings of sanctuary. He underscored that he had been urged to the declaration by the Archdiocese of Santa Fe and the New Mexico Council of Churches.75 He criticized the federal government’s refusal to grant refugee status to Central American migrants and saw that refusal as a violation of international law.76 Anaya promised further clarification of state policy to accompany the declaration, but that clarification had not yet been released when two sanctuary workers were arrested. The workers had assisted two Salvadoran women who had become pregnant after being raped by Salvadoran soldiers. Sanctuary workers had arranged for adoption of their children by Americans through Rainbow International House in Belén, New Mexico. The workers had provided plane tickets for the women from El Salvador to Mexico and arranged their passage over the border at Juárez to El Paso, Texas. One, Glen Thamert, met them in El Paso and took them by car to Albuquerque to await the birth of their babies. The Story Attached to It, 1929–2000 87

Another, Demetria Martínez, a journalist who wrote frequently for the Catholic press, followed the two women with the intention of publishing an article about their journey and the birth of their children, who were due in late December. She later wrote a poem instead, “Nativity: For Two Salvadoran Women.”77 Al- though Thamert and Martínez were tried together, the two had independent ra- tionales for their defense. Martínez’s rested on her First Amendment rights as a journalist. Thamert’s rested on the idea that he believed that he had acted legally under Anaya’s sanctuary declaration, despite the fact that Anaya had repeatedly called the declaration symbolic. Both defenses were successful. Martínez went on to become a central figure in New Mexico’s sanctuary movement. Moreover, the declaration, which the Anaya administration had further clarified with specific policy guidelines by the time of the trial, had been upheld in court.78 The story of the sanctuary declaration seems consistent with New Mexico’s reputation as a state deeply attached to its Hispanic traditions, but the state’s modernity underlay Anaya’s decision making. In 1982, Anaya, while still a candidate for governor, visited Mexico City to discuss trade and tourism with a Mexican presidential candidate, Miguel de la Madrid. While there, he sharply criticized President Reagan, calling him “the most anti-Hispanic president in my memory.” Anaya believed that the statement led a Reagan appointee, U.S. attorney William Lutz, to target him and his family unfairly throughout his administration. Their paths crossed once again during the trial, when Lutz served as the prosecuting attorney. By then, Anaya’s office had issued guidelines for the declaration. Intriguingly, the guidelines did not describe the declaration as purely symbolic. Moreover, they did not single out Central American refugees as deserving of sanctuary. Although Anaya’s successor, Garrey Carruthers, rescinded the declaration, it contributed to ongoing New Mexican support and organization for all migrants in need of assistance. In fact, in 1999, the city of Santa Fe passed an ordinance preventing the use of city funds for the enforcement of immigration law.79 Such support placed New Mexicans at the forefront of political debates about immigration and in transnational dialogue with Latin Americans about political and religious practice in the Southwest. New Mexico was hardly frozen in a permanent past. Neither is Arizona frozen in a permanent present. We miss too much when we see through a present-day lens. We miss the dual wage system, as alive in pockets of New Mexico as it was in pockets of Arizona. We miss those Mexi can Americans who distanced themselves from Mexican laborers—regardless of the ties of culture and blood that activists felt they shared. We miss the steady pressure of activists whose work bore fruit in new programs of study at each 88 Borders state’s universities and protected the lives of refugees. We miss the changing meaning of the forested lands in the mountains of New Mexico—its transformation from a land grant to a national forest to the mythical homeland Aztlán. We miss those stories so prominent in national histories of the postwar period: stories of urbanization, industrialization, expanded infrastructure, Cold War fears and antagonisms, booms, and busts. We even miss the charged political climate surrounding immigration issues that grew from both deeply rooted and recently arrived Latino communities. We miss the history because we are trying to make the past look like the present.

Conclusion

At the close of Rudolfo Anaya’s Bless Me, Ultima, the narrator, Antonio, reflects on how he can unite those parts of his life that have pulled him in seemingly opposing directions. His father comes from a family of vaqueros who long for the open range, the llano. His mother comes from a family of farmers who jeal- ously guard their valley, the valley of the Lunas. Antonio’s village seems far from the rest of the world, but World War II has transformed its young men. His parents expect his brothers, returning soldiers, to complete the family, but they leave for California, working on the highway to pay their way. “It seems I am so much a part of the past,” Antonio laments. “Ay, every generation, every man is a part of his past,” responds his father. “He cannot escape it, but he may reform the old materials, make something new.”80 Bless Me, Ultima is a story of deep connection to the past and tradition. It is also a story of modern life and innovation. Reflecting on the many experiences of the immigrants he has known and researched, Teresa Urrea’s great-grandnephew muses: “I think a piece of land, I think a borderline. They’re just places. What affects those places is the story attached to it.”81 The stories we have attached to New Mexico and Arizona have led us to see only parts of their histories. We have seen only the museum exhibitions of artists like Patrocinio Barela and not his wage labor in the beet fields or the everyday forms of creative expression that gave artists and their communities faith in themselves. We have seen only the Spanish fantasy of New Mexico and not the allegiance that bound New Mexicans and Arizonans to Spanish-speakers in other parts of the nation and the world. We have seen only Arizona’s resistance to equal citizenship for Spanish-speakers, Mexican immigrants, and Mexican The Story Attached to It, 1929–2000 89

Americans and not the political machinations and corridors of exchange that linked Central American nations, Mexico, Arizona, and New Mexico. Borders still mattered. At the start of the twenty-first century, Mexico fought to control organized drug cartels so powerful that they sometimes functioned as dictatorial local governments. The United States engaged in yet another debate about the value of immigrant labor to the national economy as it staggered under the burdens of the most severe recession since the Great Depression. Joe Arpaio, sheriff of Maricopa County in Arizona, built a reputation as the “toughest sheriff in America” by vigorously pursuing illegal immigrants and ardently supporting S.B. 1070.82 In 2010, the same year that Arizona passed S.B. 1070, the state also banned a curriculum in Mexican American studies common in Tucson public schools. Meanwhile, in 2014 New Mexico’s legislature approved a bilingual seal for the diplomas of bilingual high school graduates. The seal applied to any bilingual student, but was a nod to the enthusiasm in the state for dual language programs in which English and Spanish speakers learned side by side. In short, state and national policy continued to shape the labor, migration, and education of those engaged with the Mexican heritage of the Southwest. State policies and politicians could make Arizona and New Mexico look like distant siblings. At first glance, simple patterns seemed to apply: Arizona vigorously limited any suggestion of the region’s Mexican past and present, while New Mexico engaged in small, precious acts honoring the region’s Spanish-speaking heritage. More complex patterns, however, show that the future of the region was contingent on far more than the border between the states. In fact, in 2013, just a year before the legislature’s approval of a bilingual seal, the governor of New Mexico had pocket vetoed it. Her support for Spanish-language instruction and Mexican American culture was tepid and certainly not guaranteed. Republican Susana Martinez was the first female governor of the state and the first female Hispanic governor in the nation. Nonetheless, she supported repealing the law that gave undocumented migrants New Mexico driver’s licenses, the very law that had led the New York Times to declare New Mexico and Arizona distant siblings. Borders still matter, but they do not predict the future. To chart that future, New Mexicans and Arizonans will need to craft new stories. Their stories will need to be more than studies in contrast. The Southwest’s similarities matter as much as its differences. Its stories cannot escape the past, but they have the potential to reform the old and make a new, and perhaps better, Southwest.

Part II

Indian Country

t the beginning of the twenty-first century, the Bureau of Indian Affairs listed within its Southwest region: the AJicarilla Apache Nation, the Pueblo of Laguna, the Mes calero Apache Tribe, the Pueblo of Nambe, the Pueblo of Picuris, the Pueblo of Pojoaque, the Pueblo of San Ildefonso, the Pueblo of San Juan (now Ohkay Owingeh) , the Pueblo of Santa Clara, the Pueblo of Taos, the Pueblo of Tesuque, the Ramah Navajo Agency, the Pueblo of Acoma, the Pueblo of Cochiti, the Pueblo of Isleta, the Pueblo of Jemez, the Pueblo of San Felipe, the Pueblo of Sandia, the Pueblo of Santa Ana, the Pueblo of Santo Domingo (now Kewa), the Pueblo of Zia, Ysleta del Sur Pueblo, the South- ern Ute Tribe, the Ute Mountain Tribe, and the Pueblo of Zuni. With the exception of the lands of the Southern Ute Tribe and Ute Mountain Tribe, the entirety of the BBIA’s Southwest region fell in New Mexico. The BIA’s Western region served the following groups with land in Arizona: the Colorado River Indian Tribes, the Kaibab Band of Paiutes, the Havasupai Tribe, the Hualapai Tribe, the Hopi Tribe, the Yavapai-Apache Nation, the Cocopah Tribe, the San Carlos Apache Tribe, the Ak-Chin Indian Commu- nity, the Gila River Indian Community, the Salt River Pima Mar icopa Indian Community, the Tonto Apache Tribe, the Quechan Tribe, the Fort McDowell Yavapai Tribe, the Tohono O’odham 92 Indian Country

Nation, the Pascua Yaqui Tribe, the San Carlos Apache Tribe, and the White Mountain Apache Tribe. Of the BIA’s twelve regions, only one is named for the Native people it serves. The Navajo region serves only the Navajo, who call themselves Diné, meaning “the people.”1 Such lists can be bewildering even to a native of one of the regions and even to a member of one of the groups listed. Why are so many names and vari- ants of names repeated? Why must each group be listed separately? And yet, as complicated as they are, the lists are gross simplifications. No glossary indicates the decisions that led some groups to call themselves nations, others tribes, and still others communities. A careful reader might guess, but only further research would confirm, that the Colorado River Indian Tribes Reservation is home to more than one group. An accompanying map of the BIA’s regional divisions, tribal offices, and recognized reservations does not always clarify. While reservations that cross state lines—like those of the Navajo and the Zuni—are clearly marked, a reservation that crosses the U.S.-Mexico border, such as the Tohono O’odham’s, is not. No reservation is listed by its date of origin. Names of places and peoples that have changed over time are rarely indicated. Perhaps most significantly, as products of federal Indian policy, which has frequently played a paternalistic and colonialist role in its relationship with Native people, using the lists and map uncritically risks reproducing the government’s blind spots, mistakes, and offenses.2 Put the BIA’s map next to an American Geographical Society map published in 1932 and depicting Indian lands in 1900, however, and one consistent trend is apparent. There was more Indian land at the end of the twentieth century than at the beginning.3 The Southwest’s Indian Country got bigger. How? The question is all the more difficult to answer if one notes the blind spots, mistakes, and offenses likely to be found in the 1932 map. Like the 2014 map, the 1932 map does not show lands outside the United States. Like the 2014 map, the 1932 map reflects the view of the U.S. government. Indeed, it reflects the view of white Americans generally. For if there was one thing white mapmakers expected of Native Americans at the onset of the twentieth century, it was to vanish. One could, of course, set aside both maps, given their troubling origins. But then we would have no questions to ask at all! Rather than set the maps aside, it is useful to view them both as primary sources. Indeed, if one views the BIA lists too as a set of primary sources—as clues to forming and answering a question—one can begin to form a plan of action. Only with both maps can we ask our question: How did the Southwest’s Indian Country grow? And only with Figure 8. Southwest Indian Country, ca. 1930. Charles O. Paullin, Atlas of the Histor ical Geography of the United States, ed. John K. Wright (Washington, DC: Carnegie Institution, 1932). Digital edition edited by Robert K. Nelson et al., 2013, http://dsl .richmond.edu/historicalatlas/. Published in 1932, this map represents Indian reservations of the Southwest in 1900.

Figure 9. Southwest Indian Country, ca. 2000. U.S. Department of the Interior, Indian Affairs, Regions, inset, http://www.indianaffairs.gov/cs/groups/webteam /documents/document/idc1-028635.pdf. Published in 2014, this map represents Indian reservations recognized by the Bureau of Indian Affairs in 2000; when compared with figure 8, it indicates how the Southwest’s Native communities not only persevered but actually expanded over the twentieth century. 94 Indian Country both maps and the BIA’s troubled lists can we hone in on some specific examples to answer that question. Why do so many of the groups listed have similar names? Why is there one region named for a Native group? Why do some Na- tive groups share a reservation? Where and what was Indian Country? Indian Country, more often than not, meant, in the language of the late twentieth century, “on the rez.” Over the twentieth century the reservation became a tool by which Native people negotiated new political identities for themselves, as members of tribal nations and as citizens. Such a definition of Indian Country readily applied to many places, most notably Oklahoma, but also to large swaths of the Upper Midwest and the Pacific Northwest. Indian Country was also a set of American cultural expectations of a place: expectations about nature, authenticity, the past and the future. Those expectations adhered to all Native Americans and all reservations over the twentieth century, but southwesterners felt those expectations of their region especially acutely. This section addresses the role of the reservation in the reconfiguring of political identities in the twentieth-century Southwest and the cultural imagery that made the Southwest “Indian Country.” This section is not a comprehensive history of Native people in the Southwest. Neither is it the “Indian section” of this book, as Native people and people of Native descent appear in all sections.4 Rather, this section asks: How was the Southwest, politically and culturally, an Indian place in the twentieth century? At the same time, as a study of the twentieth century, this section asks: “How are the Southwest’s Native Americans modern?” The questions raise two prominent challenges that preoccupied the Southwest’s Native people over the twentieth century: What did it mean to be part of an indigenous nation? What did it mean to be modern? This section answers that the negotiation of both was itself a modern act, the strongest evidence that Native Americans lived in the twentieth century alongside other modern nations and other modern Americans. For many of the Southwest’s Native Americans, the challenge of the nation was the challenge of sovereignty, self-governance. Nation formation and nationalism convulsed the entire world over the twentieth century. The limits and opportunities of U.S. citizenship shook the U.S. nation in the same years. Na- tive Americans across the United States negotiated new political identities for themselves as members of tribal nations and as citizens of the United States in the same years. The Navajo Nation might well be the best illustration of the importance of nationalism to indigenous people of the United States in the twentieth century. Although the Navajo reservation does not incorporate the entirety Ind ian Country 95 of the region that the Navajo roamed prior to colonization, it is the largest reservation in the United States. It is also a Native community that regularly uses the term “nation” to describe itself in its relations with others. As a sovereign body, the Navajo Nation protects and endeavors to expand its members’ rights to water, land, and political and religious expressions through the power of the Navajo Nation itself rather than through citizens’ appeals to the U.S. government. The Navajo Nation figures prominently in this section, but not all indigenous people of the Southwest followed the Navajos’ path. For those Native people who secured reservations on their ancestral lands, like the Pueblo Indians and Tohono O’odham, some of the hurdles of political sovereignty were lower. In the early twentieth century, the federal government granted land and water rights to some southwestern tribes with a history of settled farming. Some hurdles, however, were higher, as those same tribes became most entangled in relationships with the federal government and struggled the most to secure the political power to make independent decisions about their holdings. As Native groups expanded their control over sovereign land, they came increasingly under the control of federal guardianship.5 Most vulnerable were members of those tribes, like the Yaqui, who had no reservations at all as the twentieth century dawned. The Yaqui were not a sovereign nation, but they were modern. Their negotiations with the Southwest’s indigenous nations and the nations of Mexico and the United States made them nimble navigators of the twentieth century. Their tools were different, but they too sought rights to water, land, and free expression. Although the Yaqui often heard from non-Yaqui that they were not Indian at all, in some ways their struggles better illustrate modern Indian identity than those of any other Native group of the twentieth-century Southwest. Overlaying every struggle for land, water, and sovereign autonomy was a persistent white American expectation that the Southwest was Indian land suspended in time. Except when they were on vacation, most white Americans at the start of the twentieth century expected Native Americans to vanish. When they were on vacation in the Southwest, white Americans expected Native Americans to be on display. Well into the twenty-first century, white visitors to the Southwest brought with them expectations, not only about Native Ameri- can people, but also about Native American places. In such expectations Indian people and Indian places renewed, refreshed, and rinsed from white visitors the grime and difficulties of urban, civilized life. American expectations of Indian places played out in photographs, in the rodeo arena of shows like Buffalo Bill’s 96 Indian Country

Wild West Show, on television and, most of all, in film. The Navajo Nation’s Monument Valley became the defining landscape of Indian Country even as many Native people—including many southwestern Native people—made their homes in places different and distant from what was shown on twentieth- century screens. Increasingly, Native people in the Southwest used the reservation as both a canvas and a platform for their own cultural and political expressions. Sometimes, such expressions had nothing to do with the expectations of white visitors whatsoever. Indian Country never vanished in the twentieth century. In fact, it grew. Just where it was and what it meant, however, was an unending topic of debate with material consequences for all southwesterners. 3 Nations, Tribes, Communities, and Towns, 1876–1935

n 1913 an elite group of Chicago and New York men journeyed through Arizona to visit the region’s Indians. Their host, a Chicago doctor, Ipromised the most exciting of excursions. The adventure began at the Fort McDowell Agency, “where we will see the Mohave Apaches—the real primitive Indians of the West. They will entertain us where we shall have a chance to fish, swim, and live out of doors.”1 Such diversions were typical of the early twentieth century. As American cities, like Chicago, grew and bustled, their more elite residents pined for the relaxation of less urban environs. A chance to fish, swim, and live out of doors was just the vacation much of the middle class and elite pursued in 1913. The promise of Indian entertainment probably made such attractions all the more alluring. Many Americans spent the first decades of the twentieth century marveling at indigenous cultures and communities. They sought in Native people exoticism, but also a connection to a simpler time. To live for a few days out of doors and also witness Indian culture could, perhaps, alleviate their modern anxiety. Most Americans could not afford such a vacation in 1913, but the Chi- cago group was typical of urban dwellers of their class in their desire to escape the city and visit, not just another place, but another time in the Arizona desert. Indians would take them there. The group’s leader and host knew well his visitors’ expectations. As a doctor he tended to the ills of Chicagoans. As a member of the Masons, he socialized 98 Indian Country regularly with the city’s bourgeoisie. He had regularly traveled in southern Ari- zona since 1900. Indeed, the Yavapai (whom he then called the Mohave Apaches) had written him in advance of his visit, asking that he might intercede with the federal Indian Service, which had forbidden their traditional dances. He received permission from the commissioner of Indian Affairs himself, and the Yavapai danced for him and his guests. “Every step of the way we will be guided by the Indians,” he promised. “All of them related to me.”2 Carlos Montezuma knew well his guests’ expectations of Indians, not least because he was Indian himself. Montezuma’s biography encapsulates well the arc of Southwest Indian Country over the turn of the century. At age five, the Yavapai boy named Was- saja had been kidnapped in a Pima raid. An Italian photographer purchased, adopted, and renamed him. As Carlos Montezuma, the boy assisted in photography of other Native people, appeared briefly in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West show, and settled in Chicago with his adoptive father. He proved bright, studied medicine, and served reservations across the American West before going to work for the assimilationist Richard Henry Pratt and Pratt’s Carlisle In- dian Industrial School. In his early adulthood, Montezuma believed reservations should be slowly dismantled and that Native people should integrate into American society, like he had done. He appeared to be the perfect advertisement for assimilation, and he readily presented himself as such until he returned to Arizona. In 1900 he accompanied the Carlisle Indian School football team to Arizona as team doctor. The following year he visited Arizona again to search for friends and family from his early childhood. His return to his homeland led him to revise his opinion of reservations, and he supported the creation of the Fort McDowell Reservation in 1903. Along with members of several other tribes, he helped to establish the Society for American Indians in 1911. Believ- ing that tribes should handle their own affairs, he began a monthly magazine in 1916 that advocated for the abolishment of the federal Indian Service. He called the magazine Wassaja, his original name. By the time of his burial on the reservation that he had helped to establish, his life had come full circle. Carlos Montezuma had become Wassaja, a Yavapai Indian.3 By the onset of World War II, many Native people had followed a path not entirely unlike Montezuma’s. Having persevered through the assimilation era of the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, a variety of Indian people found themselves with new political identities tied to new political boundaries. Wide swaths of the Southwest had become Indian Country. This chapter charts three of those transformations. First, Pueblo Indians built on a critical shift in their legal identity to support their landholdings. Second, the Navajo expanded their Nt a ions, Tribes, Communities, and Towns, 1876–1935 99 landholdings, strengthened their political authority, and elevated their cultural status among white Americans within and outside the Southwest. Third, groups like the Pima and Maricopa gained reservations, but ones with limited resources shared among multiple groups. The transformation in indigenous political authority was not smooth, foreordained, or even. Indeed, those indigenous people who did not secure reservation lands in the first half of the twentieth century suffered the loss of property and wages, freedom of movement, and freedom of religious practice when they did not fit easily into the new places called Indian Country. Nonetheless, by the beginning of World War II, Indian Country had already begun to grow.

The Pueblo and Indian Country in the Courts

The Pueblo Indians entered the twentieth century threatened by a federal In- dian policy premised on the idea that Native people would vanish. New Mex- ico’s territorial government and the U.S. Supreme Court often treated Pueblo landholders as individuals with the ability to sell individual parcels of land. The U.S. Supreme Court had ruled in the 1876 Joseph decision that the commissioner of Indian Affairs did not have authority over the Pueblo peoples. TheJoseph decision cleared the way for subsequent decisions that opened Pueblo lands for individual speculation and, in 1904, taxation.4 Coming just over a decade before the 1887 Dawes Allotment Act, which authorized the sale of Indian lands by individual owners as individual parcels, the Joseph decision had the power to take Pueblo land from Pueblo peoples. It is worth revisiting the language of Joseph not just to understand the status of Pueblo land at the outset of the twentieth century, but also to understand why New Mexicans so vigorously denied their connections to Native people in the push for statehood. Recall that Nuevomexicanos distanced themselves from Indian peoples to curry favor with those Anglos who believed that the “racial character” of the region was distasteful and disqualified the region for statehood. Their racist attitude toward their Native American neighbors developed in dialogue with the legal standing of indigenous people in the Southwest over the twentieth century. As New Mexicans and Arizonans pressed for statehood, to be white in the Southwest came to mean being a landholding American citizen. But what did it mean to be white? Language once again proved unclear. Per- haps the most significant element of the language in Joseph (1876) is the word 100 Indian Country

“pueblo.” A Spanish word meaning “town,” “pueblos” first appeared to describe settlements of indigenous people in the Southwest during Spanish colonization. Of course, since the word meant “town,” the Spanish also used the word to describe their own communities as well as those settlements in which Span- ish and Indian people willingly and unwillingly intermarried. In the Joseph decision, the court explicitly noted that in a survey general report of the 1850s, the surveyor referred to “ ‘the Pueblo of Taos, in the county of Taos,’ not the pueblo Indians of Taos, but the Pueblo of Taos.”5 The town of Taos was not the same as the town Indians of Taos, but in the eyes of the court the fact that language obscured the difference between the two groups indicated that they were practically the same. The court’s majority opinion argued further that unlike the “nomadic Apaches, Comanches, Navajoes and other tribes . . . [the] pueblo Indians, if, indeed, they can be called Indians,” had attained a “degree of civilization . . . centuries before” that “forbid the idea that they should be classed with the Indian tribes for whom the intercourse acts were made.”6 In short, the Pueblo Indians could sell individual parcels of land as individuals. They could do so because they were, in the court’s words, “civilized” and had attained their level of “civilization” centuries before, a “civilization” apparent in their decision to live in settled towns, unlike nomadic groups who lived nearby. The Joseph decision left open the possibility that the Pueblo Indians were citizens. Indeed, the decision noted: “We have been urged by counsel . . . to declare that they are citizens of the United States and of New Mexico.”7 The court did not determine if the Pueblo Indians were citizens, however. It determined that they could sell individual parcels of land. The court’s decision to use the phrase “if indeed they can be called Indians” suggested that the justices might have shared the widespread opinion that Native people would either die out or, in the case of the Pueblo Indians, assimilate. Either way, the court assumed that Pueblo Indians would effectively disappear. If so, it is possible that the court also assumed that distinct citizenship rights for Pueblo Indians would not emerge as an issue. That is, in Joseph the court did not confer the privileges of whiteness on the Pueblo Indians. They held just enough citizenship to alienate their land, but not enough to be fully American. Pueblo Indians felt the brunt of American attitudes about race, citizenship, and land in schools. Pueblo schoolchildren, whether in day schools at pueblos themselves or in boarding schools in Albuquerque and Santa Fe, felt the full force of assimilation efforts. Parents from Isleta Pueblo sometimes used the term cautivos, meaning “captives,” to refer to their children kept as boarders at Nt a ions, Tribes, Communities, and Towns, 1876–1935 101 the Albuquerque Indian School.8 White teachers, often well-meaning women, oversaw how students stood, moved, and played. Uniforms and a rigid schedule emphasizing wage labor and white American norms of hygiene regimented student days. Anglo gender norms dictated that boys cut their hair short, a horrific request for many Native people. Polingaysi Qoyawayma recalled in her mem- oirs “grown Hopi men crying because white men had cut their hair.”9 Board- ing school teachers sometimes even monitored the menstrual cycle of young female students. Day schools discouraged students from participating in traditional religious dances, and boarding schools prevented students from returning to pueblos for religious observations, many of which were seasonal and tied to the land of the Pueblo peoples. Pueblo Indians, however, found multiple ways to use the schools to their advantage and to resist the school’s most restrictive practices. Catholic schools, many of which had been established in the region in the second half of the nineteenth century, competed for students with first Protestant missionary schools and then government schools. Pueblo Indian parents attended to their own religious and educational beliefs as they exercised some choice in which schools their children attended. Parents saw the schools as resources, not as an abandonment of their own culture, and encouraged their children to acquire the skills there that they would need back home.10 When the schools themselves failed to satisfy, Pueblo Indian children simply did not attend or came sporadically, and Pueblo peoples persisted in performing traditional dances and holding their own religious ceremonies.11 As the historian John R. Gram has concluded, “In regard to their mission of total assimilation, the Albuquerque and Santa Fe In- dian Schools failed.” As Pueblo Indians navigated the path to national inclusion, they avoided becoming “mirror images of the dominant Anglo culture.”12 Such practices led elite Nuevomexicanos to guard their own bodily comportment all the more carefully in the assimilation years. Nuevomexicanos with short hair and “American” clothes pushed for statehood in part by presenting themselves as not Indian. Clear lines indicating just who was Indian were beneficial to such figures.13 Meanwhile, Anglos involved in Pueblo Indian communities witnessed the perseverance of Pueblo traditions and concluded that Pueblo Indians had not assimilated. Neither had they died out. Anglos believed that Pueblo peoples would not assimilate quickly and required government supervi- sion in the meantime. The result was a watershed moment in Pueblo peoples’ relationship to the U.S. federal government in the twentieth century: the United States v. Sandoval 102 Indian Country

Supreme Court decision of 1913. United States v. Sandoval placed political authority over the Pueblo Indians and their land in the hands of the Interior De- partment. The court’s tone changed dramatically in the 1913 Sandoval decision, which determined that the Pueblo peoples were Indians and were subject to the laws governing trade with Indians, specifically the prohibition against selling alcohol to Indians. The federal government, not each pueblo, not each Pueblo Indian, and not the state of New Mexico, had jurisdiction over the Pueblo Indi- ans from the Sandoval decision forward. In short, the court reversed Joseph. A growing government presence among Indian communities nationally accounted for some of the shift. White schoolteachers, field matrons, and superintendents were increasingly present in Indian lives at the turn of the century and often negotiated on behalf of groups of Indian people. Throughout the Sandoval decision, the court cited examples provided by clergymen and superintendents who testified to the primitive conditions and way of life at the pueblos. Because Sandoval sought to resolve whether alcohol sales to the Pueblo Indians were legal, many whites testified that Pueblo people required protection from the deleterious effects of alcohol. The justices concluded: “The people of the pueblos, although sedentary rather than nomadic in their inclinations, and disposed to peace and industry, are nevertheless Indians in race, customs, and domestic government. Always living in separate and isolated communities, adhering to primitive modes of life, largely influenced by superstition and fetichism, and chiefly governed according to the crude customs inherited from their ancestors, they are essentially a simple, uninformed and inferior people.”14 The language was in striking contrast to that in Joseph, when the court ruled that the Pueblo Indians differed from Anglo and Hispano New Mexicans in hardly any respect except for common landholdings: “If the pueblo Indians differ from the other inhabitants of New Mexico in holding lands in common, and in a certain pa- triarchal form of domestic life, they only resemble in this regard the Shakers and other communistic societies in this country,” wrote the court in Joseph, “and cannot for that reason be classed with the Indian tribes.”15 White government employees and clergymen supported Sandoval because they wanted more services for Pueblo people and also because they believed white American culture, particularly white Christian American culture, to be superior to Pueblo cultural and religious practices. They intended the shift in policy that Sandoval implied to benefit Pueblo Indians. What had changed between Joseph and Sandoval ? First, New Mexico had become a state, meaning its status and the status of its lands was no longer uncertain. Nt a ions, Tribes, Communities, and Towns, 1876–1935 103

Second, the enabling act that cleared the way for statehood had specifically designated Pueblo lands as “Indian Country,” suggesting that the Pueblo people should be classed with other Native people as “domestic, dependent nations.”16 Third, a steady influx of white religious organizations, schoolteachers, and federal officials had invested themselves in a presentation of Pueblo people and Pueblo places as primitive. The result was a new federal Indian policy for the Pueblo In- dians, one that presented them as deserving, but uncivilized and childlike. Yet, Sandoval lay the groundwork for Pueblo peoples to assert proudly their own cultural practices. The enabling act that had cleared the way for statehood had also recognized the Pueblo people as “Indians” with the same status as other Indian tribes in the United States. The act was consistent with Congress’s decisions to confirm many of the communal land grants that the Spanish Crown had conferred on Pueblo people during Spanish colonization and that the Mex- ican government had largely honored. Although the Pueblo Indians consid ered far greater stretches of land theirs, they acknowledged the land grants as legal confirmation of their communal holdings. President Lincoln famously issued canes to those Pueblo peoples whose land had been confirmed, and many Pueblo Indians used the canes in official ceremonies. They continue to do so today. 17 At the same time, Pueblo people began entering the Indian Service themselves. Although they frequently met resistance, their work as teachers, police officers, and other government administrators gave them the skills to advocate for their own children, neighbors, and religious practices. The Pueblo Indians turned the enabling act, the Sandoval decision, and federal Indian policy, all designed to bring them under the wing of white American government, into tools that allowed them to remain independent. Such independence was hard won and incomplete. Sandoval said that Pueblo land belonged to the Pueblo Indians, but it also said that the federal government was a guardian of the Pueblo people. The Pueblo people did not always have control over what happened to their land. Instead, that power lay with the federal government. Moreover, because Sandoval reversed Joseph, that Pueblo land that had been sold in individual parcels following Joseph was of uncertain title. The federal government, not the Pueblo people, had legal control and responsibility for those lands. The federal government, not the Pueblo people, would determine whether the unclear titles would be given to the Pueblo people or to non-Indians claiming ownership. Joseph and Sandoval set the stage for Pueblo peoples’ relationship to non- Pueblo people for the rest of the century. The reversal of Joseph threw the 104 Indian Country ownership of some Pueblo lands into doubt. New Mexicans asked almost immediately: “Who owns the land?” The enabling act, moreover, classed the Pueblo peoples with other indigenous people who had reservation lands. The Pueblo people never faced the allotment of their lands into individual portions as did some of the Navajo and many other reservation Indians, but the Pueblo people struggled with the extent of federal government authority over their decision making. Finally, the court’s decision to call the Pueblo Indians “primitive” influenced decades of debate among the Pueblo Indians, other southwesterners, and newcomers to the region over the modernity of Pueblo culture, a debate that has lasted into the twenty-first century. Following Sandoval, the Pueblo people would not be shadowy, second-class American citizens. Neither would they be white. Pueblo Indians would be Indians, and Pueblo land would be Pueblo. Indeed, Nuevomexicanos, the state government, the federal government, and white reformers all worked to separate Pueblo people from whiteness and Pueblo land from American land in the years to follow.18 Although the Pueblo Indians were excluded from the circles of whiteness and American citizenship in the early twentieth century, they fared better than any other group in the Southwest. In fact, their experience is arguably unique in the history of indigenous groups of the Southwest. No other indigenous group in the Southwest has continuously occupied ancestral and communal lands. That outcome was never guaranteed. Because the Pueblo peoples were sedentary farmers rather than migratory pastoralists or hunter-gatherers; because they occupied distinct villages separated from one another; because New Mexico held fewer commercial economic opportunities than did Arizona and other neighboring states; because the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo protected the Pueblo people from allotment; and because the reversal of Joseph in the Sandoval decision provided further protection, albeit in paternalistic guise, Pueblo people of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries lived considerably more consistent lives than most other American indigenous peoples of the same time. As we will see throughout this section, it is impossible to underestimate the importance of the actual lands of the Southwest for its indigenous people. That the Pueblo Indians could still look to the natural features that formed their moral universe proved immeasurably helpful as they negotiated twentieth-century modern life. That each pueblo could do so as a community and not as a group of individual landowners ensured a cohesiveness to Pueblo sovereignty that other Native people felt only sporadically. The sovereign protection of Pueblo land Nt a ions, Tribes, Communities, and Towns, 1876–1935 105 required constant vigilance and each pueblo faced challenges to be sure, but the complete loss or fragmentation of their respective homelands was not among them. Their challenges, however, began almost immediately. Following statehood and Sandoval, the first order of business for the federal government was deter- mining the status of those lands that had been sold between Joseph and Sando- val. Although the lands in question—owned in 1913 by about three thousand non-Pueblo people—constituted only about 10 percent of the total of Pueblo lands, it was irrigated and therefore extremely valuable in the arid Southwest. In July 1922, New Mexico senator Holm Bursum introduced a bill to settle the title to the lands and to open as much of the land as possible to incoming white settlers. Much of the bill had been drafted by Secretary of the Interior Albert Fall, who sought to use his own position and to influence lawmaking to open as much land as possible in the Southwest to white settlement, mining, and ranching. One of the most concerning elements of the legislation for the Pueblo people was that it transferred authority over Pueblo water rights to the state courts, who strongly favored their Anglo and Nuevomexicano neighbors. The bill stood to take almost everything of worth to Pueblo people.19 Even before the bill was fully drafted, members of Laguna Pueblo objected to it, but the commissioner of Indian Affairs ignored their protests. The decade between statehood and the proposed legislation made a significant difference. When Bursum introduced his bill, the paternalism that the federal government and missionaries exerted over Pueblo people was at its peak. Education in English and adhering to Christian—Catholic or Protestant— practices placed Pueblo people in good standing with government officials, missionaries, and teachers charged with overseeing Pueblo communities. To be progressive and forward-looking, such officials conveyed to Pueblo people, was to assimilate to white American norms. Most Pueblo Indians negotiated difficult terrain. Some sought the health and educational benefits that they saw as necessary for their children’s success while continuing to speak their own languages and practice their traditional dances, a necessary component of community life for most.20 Others maintained the network of kin vital to Pueblo family and decision making by working for the Indian Service itself as its bureaucracy expanded.21 In 1921, their challenges had grown when Commissioner of Indian Affairs Charles Burke issued a circular to reservation agents that asked agents to discourage and even punish Native people who took part in “degraded” dances. 106 Indian Country

Burke wrote the circular in response to missionary complaints about Pueblo dances performed in secret and the Snake Dance of the Hopi Indians of Ari- zona, which included dancers holding live snakes in their mouths.22 Together, the dance circular issued in 1921 and the Bursum Bill, introduced in 1922, proved pivotal in changing the shape of federal Indian policy, because it was these two events that brought John Collier, a former teacher and community organizer, into Indian affairs. Collier had connections with two key communities in the 1920s: the General Federation of Women’s Clubs and bohemian writers and artists who had begun to settle in the arts communities of Taos and Santa Fe. Members of the federation were attentive to public policy and eager to show their new electoral influence. Bohemian artists and writers were mourning the effects of World War I in Europe, frustrated with what they considered ho- mogeneous, middlebrow culture, and itching to clash with figures like the missionaries who appeared to be suppressing indigenous expression. Both groups participated in the increasing railroad and automobile tourism that brought ever larger numbers of visitors to the Southwest in the 1920s. Indeed, tourist attention, as much as complaints from white Protestant or Mexican American Cath- olic neighbors, was probably the motivation for Burke’s circular. If the Hopi dances drew visitors, reservation agents and missionaries could hardly claim that they had successfully assimilated Pueblo and Hopi people. Collier was drawn first into the conflict over the Bursum Bill. He had already visited the home of salon hostess and patron Mabel Dodge and her new Taos Pueblo Indian lover, Tony Lujan, and was preparing to return. Since childhood, Collier had nurtured a love of the outdoors, and his first visit to Taos, at Christ- mastime, had allowed him to experience the northern New Mexico mountains along with traditional Taos Pueblo Indian dances.23 He would later write of the dances that they were “the community itself consciously living in beauty.”24 The visit contributed to his later activism defending the place and the people in tandem. Following his visit, he planned a return to New Mexico to investigate housing and health conditions among the Pueblo Indians as an employee of the General Federation of Women’s Clubs. In the middle of his preparations, Stella Atwood, the chair and cofounder of the Indian Welfare Committee of the General Federation of Women’s Clubs contacted him about the Bursum Bill. Atwood had educated herself in the bill’s implications and wanted Collier to campaign against it.25 He did so, and he did more. With Lujan providing introductions, Collier visited numerous pueblos. The Pueblo Indians themselves mobilized their All Nt a ions, Tribes, Communities, and Towns, 1876–1935 107

Indian Pueblo Council and worked cooperatively against the legislation. With Dodge’s network of bohemian artists and writers and Atwood’s connections with the General Federation of Women’s Clubs, Collier rallied political allies. He helped form the New Mexico Association on Indian Affairs with headquarters in Santa Fe and Taos, the Eastern Association of Indian Affairs with headquarters in Boston and New York City, and later the American Indian Defense Association, with a national membership. By the time compromise legislation ended the fight occasioned by the Bursum Bill, Collier had committed himself to Indian affairs, particularly the issue of protecting Indian landholdings and autonomy. He was primed, then, to bring his attention to the dance controversy. When subsequent conflicts occurred at Zuni Pueblo and Taos Pueblo because Pueblo adults brought home schoolchildren to participate in traditional dances, Collier spoke up. Atwood, too, defended Pueblo Indian dancing against assimilationists within the General Federation of Women’s Clubs. Although not immediately successful, Collier’s and Atwood’s views were ascendant: the dance circular was recalled several years later. Other failures of assimilationist federal Indian policy received widespread attention in the 1928 Meriam Report, commissioned by the Brookings Institution, which exposed the poverty, educational failings, and health crisis that existed on most reservations and among most Native people across the United States.26 By the time John Collier became commissioner of Indian Affairs in 1933 under Franklin Roosevelt, he was prepared to offer an Indian New Deal to the entire nation’s indigenous peoples.27 At the heart of that Indian New Deal was the philosophy of Indian affairs that Collier had formed in his decade of activism sparked by the Bursum Bill. Like his friends among Mabel Dodge’s circle, he feared for the future of modern life in light of the destruction occasioned by industrialization and World War I. Like his colleagues among the Eastern Association of Indian Affairs and the American Indian Defense Association, he thought Indians might have somehow preserved a purer, more authentic culture that could prove the antidote to modern ills. Like those in the New Mexico Association on Indian Affairs, he saw the pottery, weavings, and other creative expressions of the Pueblo Indians as the possible repositories of the cultural cure he sought. Col- lier grafted his ideas about modernity and Pueblo Indians onto the concrete demands of the All Indian Pueblo Council: land, political autonomy, and religious freedom. As commissioner of Indian Affairs, he applied his philosophy to all Native Americans. It was a sea change from the assimilationist federal 108 Indian Country

Indian policies that had been the norm since the late nineteenth century. It was a revolutionary philosophy, but Collier’s tools were the same as those of the figures who had preceded him: federal Indian policy made in Washington and a paternalistic network of administrators across the United States. Across the nation and even within the Southwest, it was not always a good fit.

The Navajo and the Government of Indian Country

The Navajo today possess some of their ancestral lands, but the near loss of their homeland was a fresh trauma as the twentieth century began. When the United States began its war with Mexico in 1846, the Navajo were a semino- madic pastoral group that supported itself through raising sheep and raiding the livestock of its Pueblo, Anglo, and Mexican neighbors. The U.S. government attempted to curb Navajo raiding through a series of treaties between 1846 and 1849, but none were successful. In 1863 Colonel Kit Carson and his soldiers executed a series of attacks in the heart of Navajo country. They burned orchards, killed livestock, and forced widespread surrender. Approximately eight thousand Navajo men, women, and children were then marched on the Long Walk between Fort Defiance, Arizona, and Fort Sumner at Bosque Re- dondo on the Pecos River in New Mexico. The brutality of the Long Walk and the imprisonment at Bosque Redondo were seared into the cultural memory of the Navajo. Navajo stories tell of pregnant women shot because they could not maintain the pace.28 At Bosque Redondo the Navajo ate rancid meat and drank alkaline water. Scurvy ran rampant, and Comanches raided constantly. Most brutal was the separation of Navajo from Dinétah, the place that Navajos considered their homeland and in which they found religious teachings and guidance. Finally, an 1868 treaty allowed a homecoming. According to scholars Marilyn Help and Ellen McCullough-Brabson, the Navajo song “Shí Naashá” may date from this period.

I am going in freedom. Ahala ahlágó naashá ghą. I am going in beauty all around me. Shí naashá ghą, Shí naashá ghą. I am going, I am going, in beauty; Shí naashá lágo, hózhóó la. I am going in beauty all around me. Shí naashá ghą, Shí naashá ghą. It is around me.29 Shí naashá, ladéé hózhóó lá. Nt a ions, Tribes, Communities, and Towns, 1876–1935 109

The Navajo had not returned to the whole of Dinétah, located between the mountains of Dook’o’oosłííd (San Francisco Peaks), Dibé Ntsaa (Hesperus Mountain), Sisnaajiní (Blanca Peak), and Tsoodził (Mount Taylor). Nonetheless, the reservation included in the 1868 treaty consisted of a portion of those lands. Moreover, many Navajo settled in those areas that they had occupied prior to their imprisonment, separate from what would come to be called the “big reservation.” Some joined Navajos who had hidden during Carson’s persecution. Their perseverance allowed returning Navajos to feel an unbroken connection with the land. During the final decades of the nineteenth century and the first decades of the twentieth century a series of executive orders and negotiated settlements expanded the Navajo Reservation to its northwest, west, and south. The bulk of the reservation was protected from the Dawes Allotment Act, the federal Indian policy of 1887 that required reservations to be divided into individual parcels of saleable land. Allotment did apply in the eastern portion of Navajo land, however, and combined with a series of railroad land sales created a checkerboard pattern of land ownership and control in the eastern section of the reservation. The checkerboard pattern fractured the Navajos’ eastern community and made conforming to federal and non-Native expectations of land use all the more difficult.30 Navajos worried about their lost lands and whether to raise more or fewer livestock as federal officials encouraged them to pursue money-making ventures but deterred them from producing flocks so large that they contributed to erosion. The inconsistency only exacerbated the Navajos’ worry, which hardened and directed the political will of emerging Navajo leaders. Many such leaders served on the first Navajo Tribal Council, which met in 1923. The occasion was to determine oil lease rights, but the 1923 council was not the first time the assembled men led. Rather, fellow Diné had repeatedly called on some of the leaders gathered to negotiate with authoritarian federal superintendents or to facilitate disputes with Anglo traders of Navajo weavings or to intercede for children who repeatedly ran away from distant schools to return to the familiarity of home. Like the Pueblo Indians, the Navajo encountered an increasingly paternalist network of Anglo superintendents, schoolteachers, and religious figures during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Navajo leaders emerged when the federal paternalist network squeezed Navajo community members too tightly. Sometimes superintendents even called on some of the same men to calm tensions when federal Indian policy dictated that superintendents discourage Navajos from increasing their flocks of sheep or following 110 Indian Country religious guidelines. It did not take long for those gathered at the council to see its potential as a political tool in just such confrontations and negotiations.31 The council was a political tool, but it was not the only source of power on the Navajo reservation in the first two decades of the twentieth century. Follow- ing their return from confinement, the Navajo increased their population and that of their sheep and goats. The Navajo have a matrilineal society, and herds of sheep are usually the responsibility of women and girls. As their herds grew, so also did the Navajos’ power to continue practicing their own religion, follow their own gender norms, and set the terms of their relationship with traders and employers. Power resided in households when Navajos felt confident in their own stock.32 A limited power, but power nonetheless, also flowed to Navajo silversmiths and weavers who produced jewelry and rugs for a tourist market. The market for such goods grew substantially when the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railway (AT&SF) endeavored to expand its markets beyond shipping. The railroad partnered with businessman Fred Harvey and his Harvey Hotels to create a series of destinations along the railroad route that would draw tourists. The railroad’s campaign was extraordinarily successful. Few non-Native people are familiar with the story of Kit Carson and the Long Walk, but most can envision noble Navajo horsemen like those depicted in the 1909 railroad promotional painting Navajo Indians at Desert Water Hole. A caption explained: “Then, too, in much of our western landscape we need the Indian in the same way that a finely wrought piece of gold needs a jewel to set off its beauty in a piece of jewelry.”33 Gone was the mid-nineteenth-century campaign to rid the landscape of the Navajo. Now, via the market, the Navajo had the dubious distinction of serving as colorful ac- cents along tourist journeys. While the Navajo hardly enjoyed their status as local color, they found com- pensating wage labor by making silver jewelry and woolen rugs for the expanding market of customers that ran back along the railroad lines all the way to New York City galleries and Boston drawing rooms.34 Such work allowed the Navajo to stay close to home, rather than travel to mining communities or to seek work on the railroad itself. Rugs, moreover, were made of wool, so that some Navajo families could employ vertical integration and control all aspects of the production of their goods. Craftspeople who worked in the Harvey Hotels or negotiated with tradesmen at trading posts also negotiated Navajo family encounters with the modern market. By 1940, Navajos in the area around Gallup and Two Wells derived 32 percent of their household income from silversmithing and Nt a ions, Tribes, Communities, and Towns, 1876–1935 111

19 percent from rug production.35 In maintaining some control over their work, Navajos enjoyed some artistic freedom as well, so that Navajo silversmiths and weavers could imbue their work with the balance and harmony that the Navajo call hózhó˛ and consider necessary in any creation. Given John Collier’s philosophy of cultural pluralism, the Navajo silversmiths, weavers, pastoralists, and laborers who made the Navajo Nation their home should have prospered during the 1930s. Indeed, the Navajo Nation was better poised than most indigenous people to take advantage of Collier’s Indian New Deal, his proposal for greater political and cultural autonomy for Native groups. Passed by Congress as the Indian Reorganization Act (IRA; also called the Wheeler-Howard Act), Collier’s proposal offered indigenous people the opportunity to form their own governments, practice their own religions, provide a greater range of educational opportunities, and explore economic options via their own artistic and crafts traditions. Each tribe voted whether to accept the IRA, and Collier brought the proposal to the Navajo for a vote in June 1935. It failed. Collier was too late and the victim of his own actions. Two years before the Navajo voted on the IRA, Collier had brought a different proposal to the Navajo Nation. When he entered office in 1933, the one message that he heard most clearly from his predecessors was that the Navajo needed to reduce their stock. The reservation was severely eroded, contended the Interior Depart- ment, and the silt buildup from Navajo lands threatened the new Hoover Dam on the Colorado River. The Interior Department and the Department of Indian Affairs blamed the erosion on Navajo stock. The Navajo, said Collier, echoing his colleagues and predecessors, needed to kill their sheep. There was no statement more anathema to the Navajo. Collier coerced the Navajo Council into approving stock reduction, and oversaw a group of largely culturally insensitive federal officials who took stock from Navajo families to kill them. The trauma of Depression-era stock reduction ultimately rivaled that of the Long Walk. Often livestock were slaughtered before their owners. “They did it right before my eyes,” recalled Sarah Begay. “Some of the women were really crying. That is why we don’t sleep well sometimes. All we think about is that.”36 Although sheep are not an indigenous species in the Americas, the Navajo see them as central to their cosmology. Navajo spirituality presents horses and sheep as gifts from the spirits who appear on earth as rain, sun, wind, and thunder. ˛ For many Navajos, stock reduction threatened the hózhó of the environment. Navajos feared drought from the resulting imbalance. Sheep raising was central to Navajo identity and, in the 1930s, also Navajo survival.37 Sheep were the root 112 Indian Country of the trade in Navajo rugs, prized by tourists and museums alike by the 1930s. Sheep and goats (also slaughtered during stock reduction) provided meat and milk for families who relied on erratic wage labor on and off the reservation. Sheep structured matrilineal families, with grandmothers, mothers, daughters, wives, and sisters controlling the size of herds and their distribution among family members and through trade. Sheep were instrumental for reciprocity, insur- ance against starvation, and a legacy for children.38 Stock reduction probably was necessary to reduce erosion in the 1930s, but Collier chose an approach inconsistent with his high ideals. Rather than follow the meanderings of “the slower processes of democracy,” Collier chose instead “benevolent despotism.”39 Collier gave long speeches at meetings with the Na- vajo, but rarely listened for an equal period of time. Officials charged with stock reduction disregarded the central role women played in stock raising and looked instead to men as the “head of household.” Collier himself later reflected on where he had erred. Had he chosen a slower approach that fully incorporated local leaders among the Navajo as well as Navajo cultural norms, he surmised, the Indian Service on the Navajo reservation “might have remade itself into an anthropologically realistic, democratic, and grass-rooted co-partnership with the Navajos.”40 Such was the promise of Collier’s first efforts at crafting a philosophy of U.S. federal Indian policy. But by the time of the Navajo vote on the constitution suggested by the IRA, the decision had become a referendum on the state of the Navajo Nation and on Collier himself. Not surprisingly, the Na- vajo rejected the constitution. The repercussions extended to far more than Collier’s legacy. The Navajo lost the opportunity for a more independent government and proceeded instead under a combination of rules and regulations that had no overarching structure. Po- litical disagreements among the Navajo created defensive, jealous factions. Some schools loosened their rigid hold on students’ behavior and some even began using Navajo traditions and songs as a basis of instruction, but Collier had hoped to usher in a new era in which Navajo cultural norms formed the core of education. Navajos were so skeptical of Collier, however, that they did not embrace many new educational measures. Limited economic opportunities and transportation also continued to discourage school attendance until World War II. Since the struggle over the dance circular, Collier had been an avid supporter of religious freedom and opened the Navajo reservation to a greater variety of Chris- tian faiths, including Mormonism and Pentecostalism. Collier sought too to allow Navajos to join the Native American Church, which allowed its members Nt a ions, Tribes, Communities, and Towns, 1876–1935 113 to use peyote, but the Navajo Tribal Council banned the church in 1940. Ironi- cally, Navajo peyote use increased in the 1930s, possibly, some scholars have speculated, because of the trauma of stock reduction.41 Collier’s experience with the Pueblo and the Navajo well illustrates the diversity of twentieth-century indigenous experience in the Southwest. Both groups ended the 1930s with an ambivalent relationship to whiteness and American citizenship. But their similarities ended there. When the Pueblo Indians mobilized themselves in opposition to the Bursum Bill, they sent Pablo Abeita of Isleta Pueblo to speak against the bill in Congress. Abeita parried with Senator Bursum himself, boldly stating that “way down in New Mexico civilization was in full bloom when Christopher Columbus’s great-grandparents were murder- ing and massacring each other.” He repeatedly returned to the issue of Pueblo ownership of Pueblo lands and their possible loss in the event of the Bursum Bill’s passage. Bursum countered that the government had provided education and had only provided support for Pueblo people. Exasperated, Abeita finally concluded the debate: “It is a fine thing that the Government is doing, and we are not complaining about what it has done. We are complaining about what it is trying to do.”42 With Collier at his side that day and his own faith in his land and his people, Abeita had reasonable cause to believe that he could negotiate Pueblo power with the U.S. Congress. When Collier’s ally Tony Lujan campaigned in favor of the IRA, he told Pueblo audiences that “we have got a real friend in John Collier. He really likes Indians. . . . Now, he looks far ahead and it is like he is putting a wall all around us to protect us—and this Wheeler- Howard Bill is this wall. And no white man or grafter can come inside and take away our land or our religion which are connected together.”43 When Pueblo people approved governments organized under the act, they showed their faith in having some say in what the U.S. government was trying to do. Stock reduction ruined the possibility of such faith for the Navajo. To the present, the Navajo complain about what the government has done and remain deeply skeptical of what it is trying to do. They did not believe that they had a friend in John Collier or that he liked Indians. And whether Collier saw Navajo land and religion as linked was moot so long as he and the government officials who oversaw stock reduction were blind to the importance of sheep, goats, and horses to Navajo identity. For the rest of the twentieth century, the Navajo would resist U.S. government control. One more irony marks the Navajo experience during the 1930s. The almost universal scorn and resentment of Collier and the federal government led the 114 Indian Country

Navajo to invest more fully in their own leaders and their own sense of Navajo identity. Navajo nationalism intensified, a shift that affected both wartime and the postwar period for Navajos on and off the reservation. The Pueblo peoples ended the 1930s with their lands intact. The Navajo ended the decade with a nation.

Pima, Maricopa, Akimel O’odham, and Indian Communities

For Pimas and Maricopas in south-central Arizona, words like “tribe,” “reservation,” and “nation” proved to be poor descriptions of the people and places that made up their homes. Constant efforts to limit Pima and Maricopa traditional farming, push Pima and Maricopa into wage labor, and curtail Pima and Maricopa lands made a consistent identity, land base, and national conception almost impossible. Yet, Pima and Maricopa identity persisted, as much through adaptation as through resistance. When the Pima and Maricopa named their reservations, they chose the names Gila River Indian Community and Salt River Indian Community. Their struggles during the early twentieth century led them to see strength in community connections more than in politically determined boundaries or governments. That both communities chose to use the word “River” in their names was no accident either. In many respects the experiences of the Pima and Maricopa represent what might have been the Pueblo peoples’ experience had the Joseph decision remained in effect. Although only 3 percent of Arizona Native American lands were allotted, allotment did apply to Pimas and Maricopas, and at the outset of the twentieth century Anglo Arizonans began an intense campaign to limit Pima and Maricopa land that lasted for over three decades. Three factors fed the fervor. First, as Anglo settlement in Arizona grew, Anglo demands to expand landholdings and water rights grew too, particularly through the Salt River Project, a massive hydrological construction project that began with the incorporation of a group of Anglo landowners in 1903. Second, the federal In- dian Service encouraged indigenous people throughout Arizona to attend government schools that stressed vocational training. Third, the Salt River Project created a cotton boom that increased cotton growers’ labor needs. Govern- ment schools increasingly used an “outing” system that sent students to Ari- zona homes as domestic laborers and to Arizona cotton fields as cotton pickers. Nt a ions, Tribes, Communities, and Towns, 1876–1935 115

Combined, the three factors meant that Pimas and Maricopas felt an intense pressure to yield their lands and disappear among the miners, cotton pickers, railroad workers, and domestic employees that made up the growing working class in Arizona. They did not follow the script. The Gila River reservation, created in 1859, was the first established in Ari- zona. The reservation became home for many Pimas and Maricopas. The Pima, or Akimel O’odham (River People), were successful irrigators in Arizona’s desert for centuries. The Akimel O’odham are kin to the Tohono O’odham (Desert People), who made their home farther south. With a more regular source of water in the Gila River, the River People were more sedentary. In addition to the classic corn, bean, and squash crops, the Pima (as the Spanish called them) also grew cotton and tobacco. The Maricopa (Pee Posh People) lived west of the Pima, also along the Gila River. They were Yuman, but sought refuge among the Pima from raiding by other Yuman peoples prior to the formation of the reservation. In the 1840s, villages of both communities became refuges for gold seekers and settlers heading west through Arizona. The Pima and Maricopa provided wheat, water, and grazing lands for livestock. By 1859, the U.S. government was well disposed toward both peoples and created a single reservation for both groups.44 The U.S. government, however, was not well disposed enough to provide water rights along with the land. In the three decades following the creation of the reservation, upriver diversions, overgrazing, and mining caused severe erosion and deprived the Pima and Maricopa of water. The decline of the Gila River ate away at the subsistence and commercial farming available on the reservation. To address Pima and Maricopa concerns, the federal government added additional pieces of land to the reservation between 1859 and 1882.45 But more land did not mean more water. By 1895, Pima farmer Wee Paps decried his and his neighbors’ shrinking water supply and growing dependence on the federal government: “Until the past few years we have always had plenty of water to irrigate our farms, and we never knew what want was. . . . The Government refuses to give us food and we do not ask for it; we only ask for our water for we prefer to earn our own living if we can.”46 Their cultivated acreage decreased from 9,000 acres per year between 1880 and 1889 to 3,600 per year in 1899. By 1905, Pima sold cattle and gathered firewood to eke by.47 The United States had an opportunity to solve much of the problem in 1902 when Congress passed the Newlands Reclamation Act, an effort to conserve and distribute water in the arid west to aid farming. Reservoirs were key to the 116 Indian Country act, and the U.S. Geological Survey investigated possible dam sites in Arizona while land speculators launched a vigorous campaign to have a dam built on the Salt River. Meanwhile, surveyors rejected a dam on the Gila because it would have sacrificed more Anglo-held land in order to water Indian-held land. Spec- ulators won out, and construction on the Roosevelt Dam, a keystone of the Salt River Project, was completed in 1911. The dam came at an ideal moment for cotton growers. Just a year before the dam was completed, agricultural engineers working on the Gila reservation created a new hybrid long-staple cotton. The dam helped provide a regular supply of the new crop, and World War I created a ready market. Eventually, farmers diversified their offerings. Until the middle of the twentieth century, though, cotton was a mainstay of the Arizona agricultural industry, one that benefited Anglos with water rights far more than the Pimas who gave the new cotton hybrid—Pima cotton—its name. In the same years that the Roosevelt Dam was being constructed, the Pima and Maricopa fended off multiple efforts to limit their landholdings through allotment. The government looked favorably on a plan proposed in 1902 by a local Anglo rancher to divide the Gila reservation into five-acre plots and sell off surplus land to pay for groundwater pumps. Antonito Azul, a Pima, led the resistance to the plan, arguing that the pumps would cause alkali buildup and ruin the river’s natural fertilization of Pima crops. A later variation on the plan gave larger segments of land to the Pima, but still too little to be of use without sufficient water. Finally, the Pima and Maricopa sued upriver diverters under the 1908 “Winters Doctrine,” which granted water to indigenous people if they had used it historically. Shortly thereafter, the plan for allotment was finally shelved. As we shall see, the suits bore fruit decades later. In the meantime, plans for yet another dam and series of irrigation works on the Gila River, dubbed the San Carlos Project, began in earnest but stalled in the 1920s. The Pima had held onto their land and begun to lay the groundwork to secure more water, but progress was uneven at best. It was sufficient, however, for the Pima and Maricopa to avoid the pressure to move into wage labor. Indian Service officials and neighboring Anglo farmers and urban Anglos in Phoenix regularly returned to the idea that Pimas and Maricopas should become wageworkers in cotton fields and domestic service. In addition to emphasizing Anglo norms of bodily comportment, the Phoenix Indian School also regularly pushed students into such occupations.48 None- theless, the Pima and Maricopa managed to find other jobs in which they had Nt a ions, Tribes, Communities, and Towns, 1876–1935 117 more liberty. Some found employment in the new irrigation works nearby, like the San Carlos Project, when construction commenced in the late 1920s. Others worked on the railroad and in mines. Many subsisted on farming into the 1930s. An agricultural tradition sustained them, as did savvy adaptation and a fortunate spell of increased rainfall. Pimas and Maricopas cultivated an average of sixteen thousand acres between 1910 and 1914 and thirty-two thousand acres between 1915 and 1919. Pimas too grew Pima cotton.49 With a relatively independent population, some lands intact, and the possibility of greater water rights, the members of the Gila River and Salt River reservations seemed well positioned to take advantage of the Indian New Deal, but as with the Pueblo Indians, they found themselves in constant negotiation with the federal Indian Service. And like the Navajo, they also found federal In- dian administrators selective in their curiosity about Indian land management. The San Carlos Dam brought increasing numbers of reservation members into wage work for the federal government in the 1920s. Into the 1930s the federal government encouraged work crews to remove indigenous flora, level lands for irrigation, and completely enclose those lands that had been allotted. The dam’s results, however, were lower than expected because of silt buildup. By the 1930s, more and more members of the reservation were working for wages, many of them earned from the government. As cotton prices fell, those reservation residents who still farmed experienced increased pressure to grow more alfalfa and less corn, native cotton, and wheat. The end result of federal involvement on reservations in the 1930s was a transformation of the agricultural landscape and an increased dependency on the federal government for wages. When the reservations voted to form their own governments according to the Indian Reorganization Act, then, residents had mixed feelings. The structure of the IRA gave the impression that Gila River and Salt River reservation members were a coherent and single “tribe,” but, in fact, they were a diverse community of Pima, Maricopa, and some Tohono O’odham (with whom the Pima actually had more cultural similarity than they did with the Maricopa.) Moreover, the IRA did not include the rights that had become most vital for each reservation: access to and advocacy for water. Congress had not granted the Pima and Maricopa councils the right to attend hearings on water rights or to defend water rights in the courts. The councils lost respect from their people even as they chose a name under the IRA that reflected their composition and priorities: the Gila River Pima–Maricopa Indian Community. As we shall see, 118 Indian Country the councils observed shrewdly what mattered to members of the reservation. In the years to come they would augment their authority by paying attention to that most precious commodity of their reservations: water. Historians of the American West identify reservations as inherently contradictory. Created as temporary, reservations became permanent sites of sovereignty. Intended as assimilationist, reservations segregated indigenous people from their nonindigenous neighbors. For the indigenous people of the South- west, the contradictions did not stop there. The Pueblo peoples almost lost their lands because the U.S. Supreme Court perceived them as civilized, and they then secured them because the Supreme Court changed its view and decided that they were not so civilized after all. The Indian New Deal was intended to foster greater independent decision-making, but Navajos rejected it, a sign of their increasingly independent decision-making. The Gila River and Salt River Indian Communities began the twentieth century as self-sufficient farmers, possessed of unique irrigation techniques, and ended largely as wage laborers, often as builders of a vast hydrological system that literally let water pass them by. Even within the relatively small space of the Southwest, reservations were not one thing. Even when recognized as contradictory, the Southwest’s reservations held more contradictions still. And yet it would be the reservation—this unwieldy mass of ironic illogic—that would be the cultural touchstone for indigenous people in the second half of the twentieth century. 4 The Story Still Being Told, 1940–2000

es lie Marmon Silko’s classic work of American literature, Cer- Lemony, begins with Thought-Woman creating the Universe: Thought-Woman, the spider named things and as she named them they appeared.

She is sitting in her room thinking of a story now

I’m telling you the story she is thinking.

Like Thought-Woman, Tayo, the character at the novel’s center, thinks of stories. A veteran of World War II, Tayo suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder. War stories, family stories, and stories of drought and community suffering haunt his nightmares and drunken days. Tayo mourns the loss of his cousin, Rocky, who died in the Bataan Death March in the Philippines as Tayo watched. Stories of his mother, a Laguna woman who dallied with white men and abandoned Tayo to her Laguna family, eat at Tayo and especially at his 120 Indian Country aunt, who constantly reminds him of his inauspicious beginnings. Worst is that Tayo has returned to a drought at Laguna Pueblo after cursing the unending rain during his wartime service in Asia. He recalls traditional tales that caution listeners never to take water for granted and berates himself for bringing the drought and further suffering to the pueblo. Stories haunt Tayo, and stories bring him back to himself. In one of many reveries that make up the ceremony that carries Tayo to health, he recalls observing a pool after a rainstorm, before the drought, before he left for the war:

Dragonflies came and hovered over the pool. They were all colors of blue—pow- dery sky blue, dark night blue, shimmering with almost black iridescent light, and mountain blue. There were stories about the dragonflies too. He turned. Every- where he looked, he saw a world made of stories, the long ago, time immemorial stories, as old Grandma called them. It was a world alive, always changing and moving; and if you knew where to look, you could see it, sometimes almost im- perceptible, like the motion of the stars across the sky.

In Tayo’s ceremony, he knits the stories of the past with those of the present and the future. The novel dwells in the contemporary as Tayo reconciles the Laguna’s history of white colonial oppression with his family’s history of assimilation, the region’s history of nuclear development, the nation’s history of World War II, and the world’s history in a postnuclear age. As Tayo draws connections across time and space, “he cried the relief he felt at finally seeing the pattern, the way all the stories fit together—the old stories, the war stories, their stories—to become the story that was still being told.” Tayo’s story does not end there, nor does it end smoothly. The story does not even end when the novel does. As Tayo recovers from the strains of his ceremony, he observes the stars: “Accordingly, the story goes on with these stars of the old war shield; they go on, lasting until the fifth world ends, then maybe beyond. The only thing is: it has never been easy.”1 Native American history has never sat easily alongside celebratory narratives of American history. One of the brilliant elements of Ceremony is how Silko asks readers to consider the past alongside the present and future. Rather than push Laguna history into a permanent past of tradition or into a vanish- ing future, she keeps the story alongside Tayo and the fifth world, which, in La- guna belief, is today’s world. The result is a story of perseverance and resilience. The world Silko reveals is made of stories, and it has never been easy. T he Story Still Being Told, 1940–2000 121

In the second half of the twentieth century, indigenous people of the South- west struggled to reconcile their histories of colonialism, dispossession, and assimilation with the realities of an interconnected world. The legacies of land loss, battles for federal recognition, assimilationist schooling, an uneven incorporation into southwestern wage labor, and primitivist portrayals of indigenous people sat alongside the new challenges of a booming urban southwestern economy, rapidly growing cities, a worldwide reconsideration of colonialism, and an expansion of belittling stereotypes of Native Americans on film and television screens. As the nation made its way through World War II and into a nuclear age, Native people of the Southwest continued to persevere and thrive in the material and metaphorical place of Indian Country.2 Never was it easy. Scholars commonly recognize World War II as a watershed moment in world history, U.S. history, Native American history, and southwestern history. The war made the United States a world power, carried Native people to far-flung parts of the globe, directed new people to Native communities, and brought federal dollars, military equipment, and defense research facilities to New Mexico and Arizona. Close to twenty-five thousand Native people joined the armed forces nationally during World War II, and more than forty thousand Native people on reservations left each year of the war for jobs in ordnance depots and other war industries. Native people invested more than $17 million in war bonds.3 Encounters with Americans unfamiliar with Native people and with non-Americans in distant parts of the world led many southwestern indigenous people to reflect on their own identities and their status as colonized people. At the same time, economic and ecological pressures on southwestern landscapes forced Native people to reflect on the future that they wanted for their ancestral and future homelands. The war was double-edged—carrying southwesterners to new places and transforming the place of the Southwest itself. The result was a sharper definition of the places that Native people called home. The first four decades of the twentieth century had brought indigenous people of the Southwest into frequent contact with the federal government as military troops, federal judges, missionaries, and teachers sought to control Native lives and force them into the visions of white government officials. The Great Depression, the New Deal, and the war were, for most Americans, their first significant encounters with federal policy as a force in daily life, but long before the war began Native people were familiar with federal influence. The war itself led many indigenous people to pivot from what they had learned from decades of federal efforts to control Native life toward a new politics of 122 Indian Country sovereignty and treaty rights. Although their voting rights were not guaranteed as the war ended, Native people did not reject government. Rather, they recon- ceived government with themselves—and Indian Country—at the center.4 Wartime service itself emerged from the new political economy of the early twentieth century. English-language education had long been touted by indigenous communities as the ticket to perseverance and perhaps even prosperity. As English-speaking men and women from these communities served the United States in wartime, their successes prompted efforts to improve educational opportunities on reservations and within Native communities. Rotating between labor for themselves within Native communities and labor for wages in urban and corporate agricultural settings had also become commonplace for many Pueblo, Pima, Maricopa, Tohono O’odham, Navajo, and Yaqui peoples by the war’s onset. Such rotation allowed southwestern Native Americans to work wages into reservation economies that often included religious obligations and reciprocity among kin. Working for wages, either in seasonal agriculture or in cities, increased for all groups during wartime. Military service, either close to home or abroad, insinuated itself into the annual rhythms of Native peoples’ lives. As Native people positioned themselves in an international context, wrestled with new livelihoods, and reinvented traditional cultural practices, they asserted more and more control over their place and the place of Indian Country in national and global affairs. Along with a more forceful call for self-governance emerged new political, educational, labor, and cultural systems in which Native people had a significantly larger say than had their parents and grandparents as the twentieth century began.

The Pueblo: 100 Percent Within the Nation

Not all Pueblo people followed Tayo’s path to wartime service abroad. Among the Hopi a forceful antiwar movement took hold. In 1941 James Pongonyuma and Dan Katchgonva argued on behalf of a group of young men who refused to register for the draft. They were unsuccessful and the men were sentenced to a year and a day in prison, although the term was later reduced. Thomas Banya- cya went to prison three times during the war because he refused to register for the draft. He emerged after the war as a leader of the traditionalist movement at the Hopi reservation. Most Hopi and most Pueblo Indians, however, seem T he Story Still Being Told, 1940–2000 123 to have agreed with Hopi tribal council chairman Byron Adams, who told the Arizona governor that the Hopis were “100 percent within the nation.”5 Just what that meant and just which nation the Hopi were considering, however, was subject to reinterpretation during and after the war. Whether Pueblo people served, resisted service, or sought new opportunities opened by wartime economic production, all saw a new configuration of Pueblo lands relative to the U.S. nation during and following wartime. The experience of Taos Pueblo can serve as an introduction to the efforts of southwestern indigenous people and Native people nationally to expand sovereign territory and authority, participate in the national civil rights movement, manipulate government programs to their advantage, and assert Native pride through the Red Power movement. All through the war, the return of Native veterans, the federal government’s termination program, the War on Poverty, the formation of a national dialogue about Native religious freedom, and the formation of radical Native groups like the American Indian Movement, Taos Pueblo pushed for the return of sacred land called Blue Lake. Their success was the product of a sustained campaign that lasted almost seventy years and showed the Pueblo peoples’ skillful navigation of indigenous, national, and global trends. Blue Lake sits at eleven thousand feet above sea level in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Members of Taos Pueblo see it as their spiritual center—the place of emergence for Taos Pueblo people. Shrines lie throughout the lake’s watershed, and young men prepare to enter religious practice through worship in the area. The lake is also the source of the Rio Pueblo, which provides Taos Pueblo with drinking water and irrigation. Of Taos Pueblo’s landholdings, then, it is the most significant. In 1906, however, the Pueblo people almost lost Blue Lake entirely when the U.S. Forest Service appropriated the lake’s watershed as part of Taos Na- tional Forest. Two years later, the forest was merged with adjoining lands to create Carson National Forest. As we have seen, the creation of Carson Na- tional Forest and the policing of the area by Forest Service rangers had also offended Nuevomexicanos, who relied on the forest for firewood and grazing. For Taos Pueblo, the appropriation of Blue Lake was particularly egregious because spiritual practice required secrecy and exclusive access to the lake.6 Taos Pueblo objected to the appropriation even as the U.S. government was first considering it, and return of Blue Lake was high on the pueblo’s agenda when John Collier 124 Indian Country first came to Taos. Ultimately, with support from Collier, Taos Pueblo was able to secure a use-permit for access to Blue Lake.7 The people of Taos Pueblo did not want to use Blue Lake, however; they wanted title to Blue Lake. Moreover, the use permit in the booming postwar years seemed to create more conflict than it resolved. Improved highways brought ever greater numbers of tourists to the Jemez and Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Fishermen and campers vied with loggers and residents for use of the lands. Ceremonies at the area’s shrines were regularly interrupted. Conflict between Forest Service rangers and the pueblo became commonplace. Increas- ingly, Taos Pueblo officials complained of garbage and other damage to the land while forest rangers contended that the pueblo did no better at conservation of the area’s resources. Every day, the religious leader Juan de Jesús Romero prayed at the river for the lake’s return, but outsiders did not always understand the significance of his efforts. As one neighboring rancher would put it later: “Okay, so they worship at Blue Lake. But 48,000 acres? That’s one hell of a big church.’ ”8 The anthropologist John Bodine explained: “The problem was truly one of translation. . . . To argue simply that Blue Lake is ‘our church’ or that ‘we worship all of nature’ meant little to those not knowledgeable about Indian cultures.”9 Misunderstanding did not discourage Taos Pueblo officials from persisting. The Pueblo was emboldened by the return of army servicemen who could pursue education via the GI Bill and, beginning in 1949, a Bureau of Indian Affairs grant program for aspiring college students. Among the first Pueblo Indian college graduates was Taos Pueblo member John C. Rainer of Taos, an influential figure in the Blue Lake struggle.10 Taos was also aided by a new organization, the National Congress of American Indians (NCAI), which formed in 1944 and included many Native people with connections to John Collier and the inter-American conferences he had held throughout the war.11 Veterans with college education and experience abroad were well positioned to expand the power of their homelands and assert their civil rights within a global movement against the legacies of colonialism. Taos Pueblo continued to use the kinds of alliances that it had formed during the Bursum Bill struggle too. In 1942, the writer Frank Waters published The Man Who Killed the Deer, a thinly fictionalized account of the pueblo’s connection to Blue Lake. Waters worked closely with Oliver La Farge, who in 1929 had won the Pulitzer Prize for his book Laughing Boy, a coming-of-age story T he Story Still Being Told, 1940–2000 125 set among the Navajo and an indictment of assimilationist boarding schools. La Farge moved permanently to Santa Fe and became a leader of the coalitions that Collier had built in the 1930s. By the late 1940s, La Farge was advising Taos Pueblo on the campaign for Blue Lake, an echo of the voice of Anglo artists and writers who had rallied to the pueblo’s side in the 1910s and 1920s. Within the Pueblo Indian community, the state of New Mexico, the halls of national policy makers, and on the international stage, Taos Pueblo steadily insisted on the return of Blue Lake.12 Taos Pueblo activism persisted through the difficult years of termination, a move to end the U.S. government’s trust responsibilities over Indian land. Ter- mination emerged as a reaction to Collier’s Indian Reorganization Act (IRA) and from the steady push for the granting of claims under treaty rights. Collier actively opposed termination, but his power in office had been waning since 1942, when wartime exigencies justified moving most of the Bureau of Indian Affairs to Chicago. The move and his declining status limited his efforts to improve reservation roads, provide school buses for day schools, and expand health services. His successors embraced termination, and Native people’s advocacy groups like the NCAI fought against government efforts to eliminate entirely some reservations in the Upper Midwest, California, and the Pacific Northwest. Although termination proved to be a difficult obstacle, Taos Pueblo also had new communities of local and national support. Among them were New Mexico churches and national organizations advocating religious freedom, a new attorney, and a new secretary of the interior, Stewart Udall, a former congressman from Arizona who became secretary in 1961 with the Kennedy administration. Udall was instrumental in framing the federal conversation about Blue Lake around religion. Indeed, the framing of the issue as one of religious freedom was central to the pueblo’s new approach.13 Throughout the campaign, some federal officials and congressmen expressed concern that the return of Blue Lake would set a precedent for the return of large swaths of land to other Native groups. Udall insisted that any other group would bear the same burden of evidence and would need to show that land was religiously important, just as Taos Pueblo had done. With significant support from the New Mexico Council of Churches and the national distribution of a pamphlet prepared by the pueblo about Blue Lake’s religious significance, the conversation in Wash- ington slowly changed. 126 Indian Country

Taos Pueblo continued its steady campaign, allying itself as it had through out the twentieth century with sympathetic New Mexicans and national figures with a public profile, but a precipitating event bears mention as it shows how more radical Red Power activists began to push policy making. In 1969, the NCAI held its annual meeting in Albuquerque, New Mexico. The time and place were auspicious. In 1968, John Rainer, the first Taos Pueblo Indian to graduate from college, had become vice president of the NCAI and chairman of the All Indian Pueblo Council. By 1969, the new Nixon administration was also warming to the idea of a distinctive, new Indian policy called “self- determination,” which would end termination and return self-governance to In- dian communities.14 Although Nixon’s new secretary of the interior spoke positively about increasing political power for Native communities at the 1969 NCAI meeting, audience members were not impressed and booed. As one attending member put it: “It’s time that we realize that white people can’t do a damn thing for us.” A New York Times reporter combined coverage of the meeting with that of a speech by Taos Pueblo member Paul Bernal, a longtime advocate for the return of Blue Lake. “ ‘Look at the blacks,” enjoined Bernal. ‘They have become a power. They have a voice. But nobody listens to us. We have no power.’ ”15 The spark of militancy may have come at just the right moment. Just a month after the NCAI meeting, members of the radical American Indian Movement (AIM) began an occupation of Alcatraz Island.16 And just two months after the occupation, NCAI made the return of Blue Lake a top priority. The Nixon administration committed to the return of Blue Lake, too, seeking to validate the idea of self-determination, to link the president positively with the status of a nonwhite minority, and to show favor to a more moderate movement in the face of AIM’s militancy. The decision did not come without costs. Nixon risked losing support for the Anti-Ballistic Missile Treaty before Congress at the same time. As one aide lamented: “I’ve never heard of any nonsense like this, losing the ABM treaty over some damn lake in New Mexico.”17 But having committed to self-determination and Taos Pueblo and with the additional pressure from NCAI, Nixon held firm. In July 1970, he voiced his support for the lake’s return at a press conference and displayed a silver-topped cane, in the style of the Lincoln canes, which was later presented to the Taos Pueblo gover- nor Querino Romero.18 Taos Pueblo finally received title to Blue Lake after a tense and emotional debate in Congress, one that rested on the idea of religious freedom, a topic T he Story Still Being Told, 1940–2000 127 motivating Native activists nationally. In the final Senate debate, Barry Gold- water, who would later be far less supportive of the efforts of Tohono O’odham, Pima, and Maricopa to secure water rights, spoke in favor of the pueblo.19 Gold- water insisted that the pueblo had the right to the lands “just as we have the right to go to the church of our choice. They should have the same rights, even though their religions, I must say, are completely different to ours.” The Senate voted to return the Blue Lake watershed to Taos Pueblo. Upon the completion of the vote, Juan de Jesús Romero, the cacique who had prayed daily for the lake’s return, rose from the gallery and raised three silver-topped canes: one from the king of Spain, one from President Abraham Lincoln, and the most recent from President Nixon. Bobbie Greene, a Nixon advisor, remembered: “The place was in tears, there were Indians coming out all over. I mean it was really strange in the sense that nobody had ever seen anything like it before.”20 Like the return of fishing rights to Pacific Northwest Native peoples, the story of Blue Lake’s return is triumphant, an outcome often missing in stories of twentieth-century Native American political life. Over sixty years after its loss, Taos Pueblo had Blue Lake again. The return of fishing rights and the lake’s return strengthened the hand of the Pueblo peoples and other Native groups in subsequent negotiations with federal administrators. Taos Pueblo later received additional grants. Picuris, Santo Domingo, and San Ildefonso Pueblos secured lands following Blue Lake’s return. Hundreds of thousands of acres have been returned to U.S. indigenous groups since the successes of the late twentieth century. For Taos Pueblo, the return of Blue Lake and its watershed was never easy. Taos Pueblo pursued more control over its territory while indigenous people all over the world pursued similar aims, a complicated context. Termination threatened the very idea of Native land. Shifting political alliances required constant renegotiation. As we will see, Native people began exploring how to work with agencies outside the BIA in the same years that Taos Pueblo appealed to it for the return of Blue Lake. Likely white allies such as John Collier and Stewart Udall could be found alongside unlikely ones like Barry Goldwa- ter. Red Power and the American Indian Movement made some advocates for Blue Lake’s return question whether the pueblo had taken a radical enough stance. In sum, Taos Pueblo’s success rested on its capacity to respond to the shifting challenges of the modern age. The same would hold true for other indigenous groups of the Southwest. 128 Indian Country

BIHD - A-HOL-NEHI: The Navajo and Those in Charge

‘Dibeh (Sheep), no-dah-ih (Ute), gah (Rabbit), tkin (Ice), shush (Bear), wol- lachee (Ant), moasi (Cat), lin (Horse), yeh-hes (Itch): S-U-R-I-B-A-C-H-I. The transmission and the transmitters are legendary: In February 1945, Na- vajo code talkers relayed the name of Mount Suribachi as their fellow Marines raised the American flag atop it.21 The image became one of the most iconic of World War II and served as the inspiration for the Museum of the Marine Corps monument in Virginia. Over thirty-six hundred Navajo served in the military during the war and around four hundred ultimately served in the Ma- rine’s Code Talkers unit. Although the Japanese determined that the language in the code was Navajo, they never broke it. Across the Pacific Theater, code talkers went behind enemy lines and relayed back information. Following the war, one major commented: “Without the Code Talkers the Marines would never have taken Iwo Jima.”22 Using their native language, Navajo Marines developed a code within a code that proved pivotal in Pacific conflicts. Their work was creative. In some cases, code talkers used Navajo words for military terms, the names of countries, and other phrases. The Marine Corps’ Navajo Code Talkers’ Dictionary, although missing key diacritical marks, gives some sense of the code’s complexity. A mine sweeper was “cha,” meaning beaver. Britain was “Toh-ta”: between waters. A parenthesis was “atsanh,” a rib. Words could stand for letters too, producing the famous message from Mount Suriba- chi. Some of the unit’s choices for the code were telling: A concussion condition was “ah-ho-tai,” or “how it is.” A garrison was “yah-a-da-hal-yon-ih,” meaning “to take care of.” Executive officers were “bih-da-hol-nehi,” those in charge.23 The Navajo code talkers returned to no special fanfare for their unique contributions, but like other Americans, they recognized that the war stood to change those in charge of the United States, the Navajo Nation, the surrounding states, and their daily lives. Although the code remained classified until 1968, the Navajo recognized their members’ heroism and how the war had changed the possibilities for the Navajo Nation. By war’s end, in addition to the thirty- six hundred Navajo who had served in the military, ninety-five hundred had worked in war industries.24 In the following years, the Navajo sought greater control over their education, their health care, their livestock, and particularly their public image as a people. Few Navajos saw any contradiction between T he Story Still Being Told, 1940–2000 129 their dedicated wartime service during the twentieth century and their increasing faith in their own independent sovereignty. The increasing presence of Navajos among those in charge followed a shift in their political status. First, through the efforts of other indigenous groups in the Southwest, they finally acquired the right to vote. In Arizona, New Mexico, Utah, and other states, indigenous groups had not had guaranteed voting rights because they were considered wards of the federal government and because many did not pay taxes to state governments. Their subordinate citizen status rankled returning veterans and their families and communities, and under standably frustrated Navajos and other indigenous people living off the reserva tion. As Private Ralph Anderson wrote in 1943: “We all know Congress granted the Indians citizenship in 1924 but we still have no privileges to vote. We do not understand what kind of citizenship you would call that?”25 At war’s end, Navajos voted by absentee ballot, but were repeatedly denied the right to vote at the polls. Finally, in 1948, a new Arizona Supreme Court justice, Levi Udall, the father of Stewart Udall, wrote the majority opinion in a favorable decision prompted by the efforts of two Yavapai, Frank Harrison and Harry Austin, to vote. New Mexico followed with a similar decision in 1948 and Utah in 1953.26 Voting rights allowed Native people, whether living on or off the reservation, to influence their regional communities and acknowledged the service Native veterans had provided during wartime. Surprisingly, voting rights also contributed to the move toward a Navajo Nation. The Navajo had bucked federal guardianship since stock reduction, and arguably the move toward a Navajo Nation identity began then. Voting rights and the war accelerated the transformation. Because the tax status of Native people remained the same, voting rights had the effect of making reservations akin to state governments, through which tribal leaders negotiated with the federal government and managed tax funds and other resources to make decisions for their region. Following the war, more than any other group in the Southwest, the Navajo pursued a line of self-determination. The Indian Claims Commission (ICC) allowed the appointment of a tribal attorney, and by 1956 the Navajo effectively secured control over their own grazing regulations. Any decision for livestock reduction thereafter would be the Navajo’s. Diné also repeatedly insisted on advising the federal government on the selection of a superintendent of Indian Affairs for the region. In 1968, as nationalist movements of colonized peoples crested worldwide, the Navajo commemorated the treaty of 1868, which marked their return to 130 Indian Country their homeland and laid the groundwork for their official status as a nation. In 1969, the Navajo Tribal Council embraced the term “nation” to describe themselves: “The Diné—the Navajo People—existed as a distinct political, cultural, and ethnic group long before the establishment of the States of Arizona, Colo- rado, New Mexico, and Utah . . . and down through the years both the Con- gress of the United States and the Supreme Court of the United States have recognized the inherent right of the Navajo People to govern themselves.”27 Few Navajos saw any contradiction between such nationalist sentiment and continued military service for the United States, and Navajo leaders continued in subsequent decades to negotiate treaty rights with the federal government and claims to resources with neighboring state governments. A national identity proved more critical for the Navajo as fewer and fewer lived on the reservation and made their livelihoods there. “It is becoming increasingly difficult for the Navajo people to retain their identity and independence,” read the council resolution. “It appears essential to the best interests of the Navajo People that a clear statement be made to remind Navajos and non-Navajos alike that both the Navajo People and Navajo lands are, in fact, separate and distinct.”28 A key transformation for the Navajo contributing to the tribal resolution was road construction. As with Pueblo peoples, the war put Navajos in motion, and a critical goal after the war was road service on the reservation. At war’s end, there were three paved roads in the entirety of the nation’s largest reservation: the highway that ran north from Gallup to Shiprock, Route 66 to the south, and the highway north from Flagstaff along the western edge of the reservation. In 1950 Congress passed the Navajo-Hopi Long Range Rehabilita- tion Act, which gave $88 million in all to multiple projects on Navajo and Hopi lands, including almost $40 million for road construction. By the end of the 1961 fiscal year, almost three hundred miles of highways had been completed on the reservation.29 Roads meant more tribal government work, but they also meant more flex- ibility in the rotating employment that had become standard for many southwestern indigenous people. Independent coal mining had become a source of income as stock reduction reduced Navajo families’ opportunities. In some cases, such coal mining allowed families to continue their balance of subsistence and wage labor through the 1940s and 1950s. A Navajo independent miners’ association, the Hogback Coal Miners’ Association, persisted into the 1950s.30 Roads allowed miners to carry their own goods to market, and, later, as the Phoenix metropolitan area and Southern California boomed, roads carried coal T he Story Still Being Told, 1940–2000 131 to power plants and miners to corporate mines on the reservation, although not necessarily to places of employment where Navajos were in charge of their own work. Roads altered the role of women workers in Navajo families as well. White traders had long dominated the exchange of Navajo jewelry and rugs between Navajo craftspeople and buyers. Roads, along with a forceful Navajo Nation committee on trading, spelled the end of the trading post era. Like independent miners, craftspeople could increasingly use roads to carry them to roadside and urban markets, where they could represent their own work.31 Although women usually did not make enough money from weaving to support their households entirely or to avoid wage work of their own, weaving did allow them to continue traditional work, which secured some of them status within their families and communities. As off-reservation and reservation wage labor altered men’s income, women’s independent earnings from weaving also ensured them some financial stability. The control of their own trade and labor, along with the roads that connected them to other workers, allowed some Navajos to move closer to taking charge of their own workspaces. Nowhere did roads make a bigger difference than in education. Parts of the Navajo reservation were particularly remote from urban centers, and the Na- vajo, more than most other indigenous people in the Southwest, had limited access to English-speaking communities. Many veterans and defense industry workers returned from the war insistent that Navajo youth seek off-reservation educations that would ensure competency in English. A visiting anthropologist reported on the changing expectations of veterans and the impact that the war had had on reservation families. “The People were beginning, at last, to see what the whites worked for and what could be had,” she concluded. According to her report, one veteran wrote home: “Send my little brother to school. I’ve just found out what I could do if I was educated.”32 Almost $25 million of the Navajo-Hopi Long Range Rehabilitation Act funds went to school construction, and the new classrooms soon began serving day students. For older students, the government created the Special Navajo Program, which sent over fifty thousand Navajo students, aged twelve to eighteen, to off-reservation boarding schools. By 1956 only five thousand of the twenty-nine thousand Navajo children remained out of school, and the tribe had also established a fund for college and university scholarships. As tribal chairman Sam Ahkeah reflected in 1953: “We would like doctors. We would like nurses. We would like conservationists who would see our land is given proper care. . . . 132 Indian Country

Figure 10. Navajo Mountain Community BIA School, ca. 1948, photo by John Col- lier Jr. Catalogue No. 2006.117.305, John and Mary E. T. Collier Collection. Courtesy of the Maxwell Museum of Anthropology, University of New Mexico. Following World War II, indigenous people around the world saw commonalities in their experiences. Native Americans in the Southwest put their new knowledge to work as they advocated for greater sovereignty and greater control over their own education.

We have to get to the point some time to take the lead in our own way and seek these higher educations so that we would not have to depend on white people all the time.”33 Much of the education that resulted from Ahkeah’s pleas, like the Special Navajo Program, emphasized assimilation to white norms and usually vocational training. By the time Blue Lake was returned to Taos Pueblo in 1970, however, the Navajo had begun seeking a different educational system, one that kept children on the reservation closer to home, one that began the kinds of college and university courses Navajo needed to do the kind of work Ahkeah had described, and one that celebrated traditional Navajo culture. Throughout the twentieth century, the Navajo educational system was piecemeal, a reflection of the competing desires on the part of many Navajos to maintain their nation and also T he Story Still Being Told, 1940–2000 133 to participate in the wider political and economic systems of the United States. Ahkeah’s leadership represented the two goals of Navajo education. Part of Ahkeah’s enthusiasm for vocational training came from his own experience as a child educated in Fort Lewis, Colorado, and as a former miner himself. But his entry into politics (he served as the tribe’s chairman from 1947 to 1955) had been occasioned by the loss of his and his sister’s sheep herd during the years of stock reduction.34 The desire to speak in a Navajo voice and to have doctors, lawyers, nurses, and other educated experts on the reservation itself motivated Ahkeah and his support for school construction. It certainly motivated subsequent generations of Navajo activists. As Na- vajos became more active on Bureau of Indian Affairs school boards and on school boards off the reservation, they began to influence curricula and facilities. An ongoing point of contention was the Intermountain Indian School in Utah, which had opened in 1950 and served many students until the day schools funded in the same year were built. Intermountain was the flagship institution for vocational and assimilationist training and operated as a symbol of the midcentury boarding experience for many Navajos. Navajos who attended the school felt severely homesick and chafed against the regimented schedule. One attendee, George Dennison, remembered running away seven times.35 Critics charged that the school handcuffed and shaved the heads of disobedient students and even administered tranquilizers to some.36 By the mid-1960s, the charges against Intermountain combined with Navajos’ growing independence changed the thrust of education on the reservation. Instrumental in the shift was the federal government’s War on Poverty pro gram and the persistent activism by an Anglo, Robert Roessel, who began working as an educator among the Navajos in the early 1950s and married Ruth Wheeler, a Navajo woman from an influential family, while he was working for the BIA. Roessel left the BIA as his frustration with field agents and superintendents grew. He said that he was “much more at home fighting them than I am being in their own family.”37 In 1959 Roessel joined the faculty of Arizona State University and helped found there the Indian Education Research Center. By the mid-1960s, Roessel had been instrumental in the creation of the Indian Community Action Program, which operated under the auspices of the War on Poverty, but was led by individual tribes, not the BIA. Native people participated in Head Start, Legal Services, and Neighborhood Youth Corps. Ari- zona State University, like the University of South Dakota and the University of Utah, offered leadership training through the Indian Community Action 134 Indian Country

Program. By 1969, Roessel had also helped open the Rough Rock Demonstra- tion School and the Navajo Community College.38 Like the Demonstration in Navajo Education (DINE), which contracted with the BIA to create a school on the reservation in 1965, Navajo Commu- nity College kept Navajos on the reservation. Although both schools struggled with funding and attracting long-term, highly trained faculty, they represented a new approach to education. By operating on the reservation and under Na- vajo leadership, the schools suggested that the reservation itself had a future. The school system on the reservation remained a patchwork of BIA-operated schools, contract schools, and students who attended boarding schools, but the idea that education could not occur on the reservation ended in the middle of the twentieth century. The Navajo had rebuilt their educational system to advance the lives of their own people.39 The lesson spread to areas off the reservation. Owing in large part to creative and ambitious college recruiting by former tribal chairman Peterson Zah, Native American enrollment at Arizona State University doubled from around five hundred to about one thousand between 1995 and 2000. Annually, the university honors Navajo and other Indian graduates each year in a special ceremony. Seventy percent of Indian graduates are Navajo.40 The University of New Mexico (UNM) started offering courses in Navajo in 1970. UNM, the Uni- versity of Utah, Northern Arizona University, and other schools continue to offer courses in the Navajo language. And, in an unexpected full circle, at the twentieth century’s end, a boarding school for seventh through twelfth grad- ers opened in Winslow, Arizona, to train students specifically in Navajo language and culture. Day schools in urban areas began offering Navajo in the early twenty-first century. At Painted Sky in Albuquerque, New Mexico, the principal credited improvement in Navajo students’ English reading scores to the introduction of a Navajo language program. “I wouldn’t say the class is the only reason,” explained the principal, “but I do think it’s played a big part.”41 Schools on the reservation showed the possibility of education in new places; courses in Navajo language and culture off the reservation showed the possibility of education in new places too. Along with new schools sprouted new hospitals and medical clinics following the war. A series of severe winters following the war and increased attention to veterans made the Navajos’ significant health problems a national concern. At the war’s end, the Navajo rate of tuberculosis was four times the national average. Over half of the deaths on the reservation were among children under T he Story Still Being Told, 1940–2000 135 five years of age. The Navajo-Hopi Long Range Rehabilitation Act had allo- cated $4,750,000 to health facilities, and new hospitals along with an increasing number of doctors and nurses soon dotted the reservation and its nearby cities like Gallup and Shiprock. A key figure in the transformation of the public health landscape in the Southwest was Annie Wauneka. The daughter of former tribal chairman Chee Dodge, Wauneka ran for Tribal Council in 1951 and became the chair of the Health and Welfare section of the Community Services Committee. Hard- earned victories followed. Between 1952 and 1960 tuberculosis rates dropped by 60 percent, and the infant mortality rate was cut in half between 1955 and 1959. Wauneka’s successes came from significant effort. Her task required managing the large funds of the Rehabilitation Act. She had long commutes to meet with her constituents. She was raising young children whom she placed in a boarding school to allow time for work. Wauneka herself visited several sanatoriums and spent several months studying the causes of tuberculosis. Her efforts paid off. She successfully persuaded her fellow Navajos that traditional Navajo medicine could exist alongside Western medicine, and disease rates declined.42 Road construction, schools, and medical care all stemmed in part from the funds the Navajo Nation earned as it began reaping the benefits of oil exploration leases. Between 1955 and 1962 oil and gas companies paid $76.5 million to the tribe for resource exploration and development. Rather than make per capita payments, which would have amounted to only $425 per tribal member, the Tribal Council chose instead to channel funds back into road construction, social services, and school scholarships. Money also went to a growing tribal government bureaucracy. By 1958, 23 percent of the wages earned on the reservation came from tribal government work.43 The money raised from mining and exploration led to an ongoing debate among the Navajo and other indigenous peoples in the late twentieth century: Did the social benefits to the community outweigh the social and environmental harm that resulted from exploitation of natural resources by non-Indian companies?44 Navajos began pondering the question just as the federal termination policy began, but termination and the later War on Poverty proved to be a boon for the Navajo in some respects. Termination led the federal government to transfer health care from the Bureau of Indian Affairs to the Public Health Service and the new unit of the Indian Health Service. The new unit had access to additional funds as well as the rehabilitation funds. Wauneka oversaw the creation of a new cross-cultural health system in which non-Navajo health care 136 Indian Country providers recognized cultural difference and treated Navajo more respectfully.45 Navajo usage of hospitals and other health facilities increased, and Wauneka began to see the improvements in reservation health that she had sought. When funds became available for programs like Head Start, Wauneka took advantage of those as well.46 Termination and distance from the Bureau of Indian Affairs had actually increased the level of personalized and culturally sensitive care offered among Navajo people.47 Navajo leaders such as Wauneka seized on the possibilities of termination to improve conditions for Navajo on and off the reservation and moved the Diné closer to its 1969 resolution of national status. Termination did not get the federal government “out of the Indian business,” but it did help get the Navajo into the business of self-governance. Between 1950 and 1969, in fact, because the tribal government increasingly controlled government policy, land, ranching, farming, corporate mining, energy production, education, health care, and other aspects of daily life, Navajos began using the term “Navajo Nation” to describe who was in charge.48

Right Where I Am: Relocation and Cities

Termination may have moved the Navajo closer to self-determination, but it also brought the Navajo Nation into more regular negotiation and conflict with neighboring state and local governments. Wauneka readily admitted that the Navajo medical center would be built in Gallup, New Mexico, not because it was convenient, but because it was the home of Commissioner of Indian Af- fairs Glenn Emmons. When the Senate passed the formal resolution authoriz- ing termination in 1953, Emmons, a Gallup banker and advocate for private property, supported it. Perhaps it was Emmons’s Gallup that Leslie Marmon Silko imagined in Ceremony:

Twice, or maybe three times a year, the police and the welfare people made a sweep along the river, arresting the men and women for vagrancy and being drunk in public, and taking the children away to the Home. They were on the north side of town anyway, Little Africa, where blacks, Mexicans, and Indians lived; and the only white people over there were Slav storekeepers. They came at Gallup Ceremonial time to clean up before the tourists came to town. They talked about sanitation and safety as they dragged the people to the paddy wagons; in T he Story Still Being Told, 1940–2000 137

July and August sudden cloudbursts could fill the arroyos with flood water and wash the shelters away.49

In the late 1920s, the time of Tayo’s childhood, the sanitation and welfare people would likely have directed Indians back to the reservation or to the Indian Bureau and directed blacks and Mexicans to city authorities. In the 1950s and 1960s, the time of Silko’s childhood and of termination, “police and welfare people” would have represented municipal and state agencies and directed In- dians as well as blacks and Mexicans to jails and homes for children. Whether the sweep of the river occurred in the childhood imagined for her character, Tayo, or during her own, Silko reminds the attentive reader of an important fact: southwestern Indians lived in cities. Since the beginning of the twentieth century, Native people had lived in Gallup and Albuquerque and Santa Fe and Phoenix and Tucson and Flag- staff.50 They had worked in the mines of Madrid, New Mexico, and crossed the border at Nogales, Arizona. They had rotated between railroad jobs and crop harvesting from El Paso to Denver. They had sold their own crafts in Santa Fe and Phoenix. Native people had always been in the towns and cities of the Southwest, but the same wartime boom that made Los Angeles and Phoenix and Albuquerque beacons for new settlement from outside the region attracted local Native people as well.51 Relocation, an official federal policy executed along with termination, took advantage of the postwar boom and faith in urban and suburban living to take Native people off of reservations and establish them in cities across the nation. Policy makers may also have looked forward to the opening of reservation lands for economic development.52 Although the South west’s Native people went to live in cities as far away as Portland, Oregon, Chicago, St. Louis, and Los Angeles, the particular circumstances of Sunbelt boom- towns and the density of Indian settlements in the Southwest meant that many of the Southwest’s Native people settled in cities close to home. The result was an urban Indian Country, arguably unmatched anywhere else in the nation except for the Pacific Northwest and Oklahoma.53 The relocation program was a twin to the termination policy. Federal officials envisioned vocational programs in cities far from the reservation depopulating Native lands and then dissolving reservations entirely. Relocation began in the late 1940s, in part in response to the devastating winters of 1947 and 1948 on the Navajo reservation when the military (including a young Barry Goldwater) had air-dropped supplies to keep sheep and horses alive. The 1950 Navajo-Hopi 138 Indian Country rehabilitation funds began the program and employed Navajos and Hopis both on and off the reservation, mostly in the cities of Denver, Salt Lake City, and Los Angeles.54 In 1952 it provided a total of twenty-two thousand jobs on and off the reservation. The program took off, however, when Dillon S. Myer became the commissioner of Indian Affairs in 1950. Myer had overseen the War Relocation Authority (WRA), the agency responsible for Japanese internment camps, two of which had been located on southwestern Indian land.55 Not only did Myer bring his own background to the relocation program, but he transferred many of his former WRA employees to the BIA. When one future relocation supervisor first accepted a position with the BIA, he noted that WRA people were “running everything.”56 Myer’s track record indicated an investment in moving people to jobs and discounting the demands of cultural difference and cross- cultural communication. Phillio Nash, commissioner of Indian Affairs during the Kennedy and Johnson administrations, was highly critical of the program and its connections to termination when he reflected on it later: “This then gave a push to those forces in American life which think that the solution to the Indian problem is to wipe out the reservations and scatter the Indians and then there won’t be Indian tribes, Indian cultures, or Indian individuals. This is not the right solution; this is not a good solution; it is not one that is acceptable to a thinking person, but this is an area where we often reason by analogy, and if we think the melting pot was a good idea, then we think it would be good to melt off the Indians in the reservations.”57 The two men’s positions represented the federal government’s seesaw approach to Indian affairs in the twentieth century. As government programs alternated between encouraging and discouraging residence on reservations, Native people laid out their own paths. Initially, “melting” Indians off the reservations meant sending them anywhere that they could find employment. A small group of Navajos and Hopis were even briefly relocated on the Colorado River Indian Tribes Reservation, expanding the number of tribes represented from two, the Mohave and Cheme huevi, to four. Myer may have had the reservation in mind because of his WRA work. The Colorado River Indian Tribes Reservation and the Gila River Indian Community Reservation had both been the sites of Japanese relocation camps during the war. The Japanese relocation briefly made the Colorado River Indian Tribes community the third largest “city” in the state of Arizona.58 John Col- lier had supported both camps: he believed that the infrastructure would benefit the Gila River and Colorado River Indian Communities after the war. The reservation did benefit from an expansion of its irrigation and road system.59 T he Story Still Being Told, 1940–2000 139

Unfortunately, as Collier’s power and BIA influence waned in the later years of the war, few benefits flowed to Native people, and most of the shoddy construction was torn down.60 Despite this early effort, Myer followed the enthusiasm for modern life typical of midcentury American culture and directed most Native people enrolled in the program to urban areas. Often, as Nash later reflected, the Southwest’s Native people had inadequate support from the government as they sought housing, employment, education, and health care in unfamiliar environments. Perhaps the most tragic story is that of Pima Ira Hayes, a celebrated veteran, winner of the Congressional Medal of Honor, and one of the marines who raised the flag at Iwo Jima, me- morialized in the famous photograph and statue. Seeking an advertising strategy for the Voluntary Relocation Program in 1952, the BIA featured Hayes in his new job as a tool grinder at Chicago’s International Harvester. The pressure of his fame, cultural difference, and probably recovery from his wartime service contributed to a severe alcohol problem, however, and Hayes left Chicago for Los Angeles. Repeated run-ins with police drove Hayes back to Phoenix in 1954, where he brokered a deal with the BIA in which he agreed to stay out of the city if the BIA would guarantee regular work for him on the reservation. His deal was understandable. The series of agreements limiting water for the Gila River Indian Community Reservation and introduction of mechanized pickers made farming and even migrant harvesting work scarce. Sadly, Hayes died in 1955, shortly after a radio interview in which he excoriated the treatment of Native people in Arizona: “They might ask me what I think of the way they treat Indians out here, compared to how we are treated in Chicago. I’d tell them the truth and Arizona would not like it.”61 Reservations did not have the job opportunities that many indigenous people wanted, but neither did cities offer the success that they expected from the relocation program. Hayes clearly had more weighing on him than the transition to urban life, but the lack of adequate support for relocated indigenous people along with the federal, state, and local discriminatory policies that made home ownership and employment difficult in cities like Phoenix no doubt contributed to his tragic circumstances. As the historian Douglas Miller has argued, however, not all experiences with relocation were negative. Pima Marlene Strouse recalled that after a rough period of adjustment, her family grew to appreciate Chicago; her father even became the community barber for other Indian men in the city. Often, distance from the places that southwestern indigenous people called home bred fondness. David Redhorse, a Navajo sophomore at Amherst College, reflected 140 Indian Country in 1968 that “the farther you go away from the reservation, you strive harder to preserve it.”62 In the same year, Navajo tribal councilman Howard Gorman came to a similar conclusion when reflecting on the experience of young people like Redhorse. “There is probably a certain amount of custom and tradition that they hang on to which causes them to come back. Every now and then when vacations roll around instead of going down to Mexico or down to Florida or someplace back east, they come right straight home.” Two years later, he continued to feel the same way. During a 1970 interview he repeated: “They always come back, they always come back, they always come back.”63 Of course, for those southwestern Native people who settled in southwestern cities, coming back was easier. One relocated man from Santo Domingo Pueblo (now Kewa), after an unsatisfactory experience working in Los Ange- les, returned to work in New Mexico. He felt that his children could not play in his Los Angeles neighborhood as freely as they could at home. When asked if he was happy, he replied: “Yes, right where I am again going back and forth into city of Albuquerque N. Mex., and back to . . . Santo Domingo Pueblo.”64 By the time of the 2000 census, those areas with the largest Native American populations in the country were Los Angeles, Chicago, and Phoenix. Unlike Los Angeles and Chicago, however, Phoenix has four reservations within forty miles of the city center: the Salt River Pima–Maricopa Indian Community, the Gila River Indian Community, the Ak-Chin Indian Community, and the Fort McDowell Yavapai Nation Reservation. Phoenix became an increasingly Indian place over the second half of the twentieth century. The city’s Native American population increased by 60 percent between 1950 and 1960.65 Many Native people found themselves drawn to the community that surrounded the Central Presbyterian Church. The church was organized in 1915 and included many Native members, some in leadership roles. As one congregant recalled, Central Presbyterian was the “one place [where Indians] mix with white men but still control things.”66 Following the influx of Native people to Phoenix, several social service organizations grew from the church, including a Head Start program and a cooperative daycare called the Kee N’Bah Child Development Center. The Phoenix Indian Center, founded in 1947, took advantage of grants from the federal government to provide social services for the Indian community in Phoenix and was instrumental in prompting a 1969 city study of the needs of Indians in Phoenix. The South- west Indian Development (SID) started first on the Navajo reservation in 1969 but moved its focus to Phoenix, where it nurtured indigenous leadership, T he Story Still Being Told, 1940–2000 141 especially among youth at Arizona State University and other schools. By the 1970s, an established network of Native social workers and activists, many of them women, supported the city’s Native communities.67 Similarly, Albuquerque and Santa Fe nurtured urban Native communities. Both cities had reservations in close proximity and, over the second half of the twentieth century, an improving interstate highway system. The intersection of Interstate 25 and Interstate 40 in Albuquerque (often called “the Big I”) was completed by the late 1960s. Ohkay Owingeh (previously San Juan Pueblo), which is approximately thirty miles from Santa Fe, increased in population from 720 in 1964 to 1,200 in 1980 as a result of returning members. Although not bordering an interstate, the pueblo’s population no doubt benefited from interstate construction nearby.68 Albuquerque is less than sixty-five miles from nine Pueblo Indian communities and one Navajo community, and in the 1990 census 75 percent of the Indian population represented in Albuquerque—approximately fourteen thousand—was Pueblo Indian and Navajo. Today, between five thousand and ten thousand of Albuquerque’s Native American residents commute to work or attend universities or vocational schools in the city before returning to reservations. Such demographics create what the scholar Myla Vicenti Carpio has called “dual landscapes.”69 In dual landscapes cities frequently serve as extensions of Indian communities. An excellent example is the experience of the Tohono O’odham in southern Arizona. A 1968 study concluded that 38 percent of the tribe had moved away from the reservation, but most had moved to surrounding towns and cities like Ajo and Tucson, which allowed frequent visits back. O’odham also created communities for themselves off of the reservation. They had their own church at Ajo Indian Village, and one O’odham man living in Ajo continued to organize a yearly feast on the reservation. In Tucson, an O’odham middle class clustered in the suburbs and provided active volunteers who worked on behalf of poor O’odham through churches and schools.70 Dual landscapes also fostered political activism on the part of southwestern indigenous people. The Kiva Club formed at the University of New Mexico in Albuquerque in 1952 to support Native students attending the university. In 1955, it partnered with the New Mexico Association on Indian Affairs (NMAIA), which had coalesced during Collier’s first stint of activism in the state, to create an organization to promote higher education and train future tribal leaders. The Regional Indian Youth Council, as their organization came to be known, hosted discussions in regional cities. The first youth council met 142 Indian Country in Santa Fe, but the organization rapidly expanded to include several cities, including Norman, Oklahoma, and Salt Lake City. Although NMAIA leaders could be paternalistic and condescending to the members of the youth councils, significant leaders emerged nonetheless. In 1961, several participants in the youth councils gathered in Gallup, New Mexico, to incorporate the National Indian Youth Council (NIYC), the first group to use the slogan “Red Power.” They chose the date of their gathering to correspond with the Gallup Annual Inter-Tribal Indian Ceremonial, a symbolic reclaiming of the ceremonial that Silko describes as under the control of area Anglos. NIYC’s early leaders came from rural areas and reservations, but their activism extended to all landscapes, urban and rural, wherever Native people were present.71 Proximity of southwestern cities and reservations did not always empower Native people. Indian health services are usually unavailable to Native people off their reservations, and even those close to home have struggled to receive care when in cities. Such inequities caused frustration. In 1973, members of the American Indian Movement threatened doctors and nurses at the Pub- lic Health Service Indian Hospital in Gallup to protest what some perceived as inadequate care. The proximity of reservations to cities has also sometimes rendered Native people invisible. Native Americans are usually undercounted in the U.S. Census because of their mobility and because Native people rarely cluster in particular areas of town. Services that acknowledge the unique nature of southwestern indigenous life have been slow to take root too. The Albuquer- que Urban Indian Center did not open until 1974 and closed for over a decade because of lack of funding. The Phoenix Indian Center and Southwest Indian Development also struggled to pay their bills.72 Today, however, a reopened Albuquerque Indian Center provides educational services such as GED classes, addiction prevention, language instruction, and traditional spiritual training. The Southwest Regional Office for the Bureau of Indian Affairs is located in Albuquerque, and the All Indian Pueblo Council headquarters has been located in Albuquerque since 1964. Both have allowed access to channels of political power for area indigenous communities.73 In 1968, the NIYC made Albuquerque its headquarters, where it remains today. In 1969 it protested discrimination at the Albuquerque’s BIA office and went on to found in Gallup the American Indian Movement for Equal Rights in Indian-Native Development (AMERIND). AMERIND represented Na- tive BIA employees legally and argued for an all-Indian BIA independent of the Department of the Interior.74 The NIYC is a national organization, but its T he Story Still Being Told, 1940–2000 143 location in Albuquerque, a key part of dual landscapes for many indigenous people, has made aiding Native people in their adjustment to urban life central to its mission.75 As the NIYC location indicates, the Southwest’s dual landscape of reservation and urban indigenous life persisted long after the formal BIA relocation program ended in 1972. The BIA estimated that 40 percent of those who relocated had returned to the reservation. As Miller notes, however, the program had never been central for Native people. Relocation was one among many avenues of mobility for indigenous people, especially in the highly itinerant postwar years. For the Southwest’s indigenous people, the program had served as just one of many of the pieces that knit urban landscapes to those of the region’s reservations. In most cases, Native people made the pieces and wove them together themselves.

Nations and Nationalism

A surge of nationalist sentiment marked the Southwest’s indigenous people in the last third of the twentieth century. Some of the wave could be attributed to the new federal self-determination policy, made formal in the 1975 Indian Self- Determination and Education Assistance Act. Native people, however, saw the act as a beginning, not an end goal. For those Native groups who transcended the U.S.-Mexico border, the act was an invitation to strengthen tribal connections across the international boundary. Ironically, some of the nationalist surge could also be attributed to termination. Termination, off-reservation schooling, and the skillful employment of War on Poverty programs like Head Start had created exactly what the programs’ founders and tribal leaders had wanted: a well- educated indigenous workforce. What the programs’ founders had not always anticipated was that young people would take the independent thinking and thorough schooling in law and history that they received off the reservation and bring them home to address the new political economy of the late twentieth- century Southwest. Discord on reservations and among Native groups sometimes followed as young people challenged their elders and many southwestern indigenous people challenged the boundaries of their Native nations. While there is no story of federal Indian policy without irony, the Tohono O’odham experience is one of the best examples. The Pueblo peoples and Nava- jos each reaped the benefits of the unintended consequences of federal Indian 144 Indian Country policy—either through using federal bureaucratic channels to their own ends or by developing bureaucracies of their own. In a way, the Tohono O’odham as a tribe was created by the federal government. The Tohono O’odham favored kin-based communities as their political organization into the 1930s. Collier’s Indian Reorganization Act, however, accompanied a series of government land purchases that reunited the southern and northern portions of the reservation and created the present-day boundaries of the Tohono O’odham’s recognized lands. The result was the second largest reservation in the country.76 The land purchases built enough support that the O’odham approved the IRA, but with a minority of tribal members voting. Nonetheless, the pressures toward wage labor in the middle of the twentieth century along with the creation of the Indian Claims Commission (ICC), which had played a pivotal role for Taos Pueblo as well, pushed the Tohono O’odham further toward a presentation of themselves as the Tohono O’odham tribe.77 As occurred with other Native groups, relocation and termination contributed to an increasing awareness of tribal identity. Like the Navajo and Pueblo peoples, the Tohono O’odham rotated between jobs on and off the reservation. During Collier’s Indian New Deal program, 60 percent of Tohono O’odham job incomes came from the Civilian Conservation Corp program.78 During World War II, two-thirds of the tribe left the reservation for military service, war industries work, or work in mining or agriculture. Those few left behind took care of the livestock and gardens of those families who had no one to tend them.79 As the Tohono O’odham developed an increasing sense of themselves as a tribe with a reservation, their investment in work opportunities on the reservation grew, particularly as termination and relocation threatened to eat away at the boundaries of the reservation itself. As Archie Hendricks reported after an NCAI meeting, “If work could be found on the reservations, young people wouldn’t have to go off the reservation to work.”80 Like the Navajo and Pueblo peoples, the Tohono O’odham also saw more opportunity in tribal services and bureaucracy on the reservation, which employed an increasing number of people. By the late 1960s, approximately 67 percent of average annual income among the O’odham came from federal and tribal sources.81 Tribal officials also had more influence in local decision-making and with the BIA. A series of federal decisions contributed to the transformation of the relatively new Tohono O’odham tribe into the Tohono O’odham nation. First, in 1970 the ICC awarded $26 million for the loss of six million acres. Like the Pueblo peoples, the Tohono O’odham used the compensation to expand their control T he Story Still Being Told, 1940–2000 145 over their own affairs and ultimately used it as justification to request larger landholdings. Second, in 1975 Congress passed the Indian Self-Determination Act, repudiating termination. Third, in 1978, Congress passed the Ak-Chin Act, which granted water rights to the mixed Pima and Tohono O’odham community on the Ak-Chin reservation, a decision that as we will see later, had profound consequences for southwestern water management. Fourth, in 1982, the Southern Arizona Water Rights Settlement Act granted reservations in southern Arizona more water rights as well. The Tohono O’odham debated both what to do with the water and how to decide what to do with the water, a move consistent with the O’odham tradition of consensus decision-making. The four decisions, along with increasing scholarly attention to the tribe as a tribe, led the Tohono O’odham to flex their national power by the end of the century.82 They chose to do so with international implications. Mexican and American O’odham had maintained connections long after the Mexican-American War split the community into Sonoran and Arizonan contingents. Together, Mexican and American O’odham participated in a harvest ceremony called the wi:gita, “a religious dance drama . . . a prayer for abun- dant rain, good crops, lush desert growth, health, and long life for the members of each family.” Mexican Tohono O’odham carried lard, tortillas, chimichan- gas, produce, crafts, cheese, and tequila (illegal on the U.S. reservation) to the border, where trade sometimes turned into lively parties. Like other Mexicans, Mexican O’odham also came to the United States for shopping, health care, and educational and job opportunities. And like many other indigenous southwesterners, some Mexican O’odham rotated between work and home seasonally, a rotation that crossed the U.S.-Mexico border.83 In the 1970s, Mexican Tohono O’odham faced encroachment on their lands and limited assistance from the Mexican government. They turned to northern O’odham for help and held up the American system as an example to criti- cize the Mexican government, which, they argued, had failed to protect their granted land. Both Mexican and American Tohono O’odham were frustrated with increasing border restrictions that limited tribal contact. In 1979, American Tohono O’odham responded through what was then called the Papago Tribal Council. The council issued three resolutions. The first criticized the split of the Tohono O’odham lands in the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo and the Gadsden Purchase and asked that Sonoran O’odham lands be transferred to the United States for the O’odham and that free access across the border be allowed for ceremonies and religious festivals. The second asked for an investigation of 146 Indian Country encroachments on Sonoran O’odham lands. The third asked that Sonoran O’odham be included in the American O’odham nation as full citizens entitled to payments from the federal government that had been granted the tribe for lost land. The campaign to unite Mexican and American O’odham has continued into the twenty-first century. As the historian Eric Meeks has concluded: “O’odham see themselves first and foremost as citizens of their own nation, transcending the boundaries of either Mexico or the United States.”84 Stories of a transnational reservation are still being told. What their implications are for the Tohono O’odham, Mexico, and the United States remain to be seen.

Reservation Power and Energy

Tohono O’odham nationalism grew in dialogue with the nations of both the United States and Mexico.85 Navajo nationalism grew in dialogue with the nations of both the United States and the Hopi and with increasingly powerful private power companies.86 As Phoenix, Los Angeles, and other western cities boomed following World War II, their energy demand boomed too. Some of that demand was initially met through hydroelectric power, but urban areas ate up the power generated by dams. In fact, by 1942, wartime manufacturing demanded the entirety of Boulder (later Hoover) Dam’s production, twenty years earlier than its constructors had estimated full consumption would occur. Environmental concern about the ecology of the Colorado River and other riv- erine systems in the Southwest sent urban communities looking elsewhere to meet their energy needs. Much of the greater Southwest, encompassing Phoe- nix, Albuquerque, Salt Lake City, and Los Angeles, settled on coal. Much of that coal came from the Navajo and the Hopi. Much of the Navajo and Hopi concern over coal mining emerged from the environmental consequences of production at Black Mesa: at the edge of the Hopi Reservation, a reservation bordered on all sides by the Navajo Nation.87 Conflict over coal exacerbated an already intensely fraught relationship between the Hopi and Navajo that stretched back to the late nineteenth century when a federal case ruled that the two tribes should share disputed land. Many Navajo leaders had initially greeted coal mining and power production on their own reservation with enthusiasm. In the 1940s and 1950s, when federal officials attempted to move out of Indian affairs, private companies seized on the moment and favorable state policies to lease oil and gas rights T he Story Still Being Told, 1940–2000 147 and to begin strip-mining coal. Power plants followed. Later, when the federal government encouraged Navajos and other Native people to lease their lands, Navajo leaders did so with the intention of increasing Navajo control over the operations. They sought income from leases, job opportunities at mines and power plants, and electrification from power lines. They envisioned “a light in every hogan” and “a modern way of living” for Navajos on the reservation.88 The Four Corners Power Plant opened in 1963, and Peabody Coal leased 64,000 acres on Navajo and Hopi land, at Black Mesa, in 1964. By then, the Navajos and Hopis sat in the center of a vast network of mines, pumps, and power stations that transferred coal by rail, slurry, and wire throughout the Southwest. Those Navajos and Hopis who settled in Los Angeles, Phoenix, Albuquerque, and even in swaths of the Pacific Northwest walked electrified streets, ran their air conditioners, and did their homework under lamps powered by coal from back home. The two reservations were, in a way, at the center of the electrified southwestern city.89 But they were not at the center of the Southwest’s political power structure, a source of increasing frustration. Peter MacDonald, who took office as tribal chairman in 1971, spoke in the language of nationalism to express his sentiments. A veteran, a graduate of the University of Oklahoma, and a former aerospace engineer, MacDonald frequently appeared in traditional Navajo dress and demanded that Navajos receive a greater share of the private energy investment on the reservation.90 “Economically, our reservations are in a colonial relationship with the United States,” MacDonald proclaimed in a speech to the Phoenix Community Council.91 MacDonald reached out first to the Na- tive American Natural Resources Development Federation, which twenty-six Northern Plains tribes had formed in 1974, and then in 1975 he helped to form the Council of Energy Resource Tribes (CERT), a coalition of twenty-five tribes with significant natural resources.92 Spurred in part by Navajo workers, MacDonald saw the solution in more energy development on the reservation, development under Navajo leadership and built by Navajo workers.93 In contrast, young Navajo and Hopi activists called into question energy development itself. Young Navajos took their elders to task for accepting what they called a colonial system that benefited southwestern metropolitan areas at the expense of economic development and ecological protection on the Na- vajo and Hopi reservations. Navajo tribal leaders argued that they had increasingly sold coal as a means of national development, but Navajo and Hopi critics charged that they had sold out the reservation, causing water contamination 148 Indian Country and air pollution, and depleting grazing land and aquifer water in a region where both were scarce. “This is an irresponsible form of government,” wrote Hopi Caleb Johnson to the Navajo Times. “Because a moral government is re sponsible to the land as well as to its people. The trend in these two tribal governments is for more and more profits at the expense of the land and of all the people. But, I have yet to see in what way the Hopis and Navajo have been helped.”94 Johnson did not speak abstractly. Black Mesa motivated the nationalism of both MacDonald and young activists. Speaking to lawyers attending the Rocky Mountain Mineral Law Foundation meeting in 1973 in Tucson, MacDonald queried rhetorically: “Think for a minute about how it feels to be a Navajo shivering through a cold winter on Black Mesa in a hogan without electricity or gas or water, while at the same time you watch well-paid Anglo workers assemble a ten or fifteen million dollar drag line only a few hundred yards from your front door.”95 Future development, with Navajos at the helm and on the assembly line, MacDonald and many Navajo workers believed, would ensure such inequalities did not persist.96 In contrast, young, college-educated activists contended that the framing of development itself drove inequality. Navajo critics called the Black Mesa mine a “pseudo-capitalist exploitation of a spiritual shrine” and the BIA “neocolonialists.” Their voice was strongest in Diné Baa-Hani, a newspaper founded by Navajo members of the NIYC as an alternative to the tribally owned Navajo Times. Querying the mines and plants as progress, Diné Baa-Hani demanded: “What will be left of our way of life? No resources! No pastures for our sheep! No jobs when the Mesa is gone! They say the Indians must join the market economy, but they force us into a colonial economy.”97 Others chafed against the slow pace of electrification on Navajo and Hopi reservations, a frustrating process that required constant negotiation among power companies and the Navajo, Hopi, New Mexico, Arizona, and U.S. governments. As one young Hopi put it: “Don’t tell me about an energy crisis. I don’t even have electricity in my village.”98 Exiting a colonial economy proved far more difficult than MacDonald, other tribal officials, or activists realized, however. In October 1974, members of the national American Indian Movement occupied a portion of Black Mesa Mine No. 1. The occupation lasted a week and ended with some concessions from Peabody, including the creation of a board of locals and tribal officials who would meet regularly with Peabody officials. Emboldened, AIM proceeded to occupy the Fairchild Semiconductor plant, which had recently laid T he Story Still Being Told, 1940–2000 149 off 140 workers, and demanded that the workers be reinstated. Ultimately, Fair- child simply closed the plant because, said company officials, doing business on the Navajo Nation was too difficult. The two occupations put MacDonald in a difficult position. At Black Mesa, AIM rebuffed MacDonald’s offers to serve as a mediator, scoffing: “We have little time for tribal governments that don’t protect their people.” At the second occupation, it was Fairchild executives who refused to negotiate, forcing MacDonald to act on their behalf.99 At the same time as both occupations, MacDonald was pursuing a coal gasification plant at Burnham that he believed would bring economic development to the reservation. New environmental laws and his political stumbles during the Black Mesa and Fairchild occupations made the new plant a political impossibility. His efforts to build the Burnham plant also revealed the limits of his support for the “traditional” Navajos whom he had courted. He threw himself behind the Burnham plant, an affront to Navajo tradition, according to activists, just as he was ardently defending traditional Navajos living on disputed land with the Hopi.100 Since the 1882 executive order that had created a reservation for the Hopi, the Navajos had argued that the lands were Navajo. Further grazing rights over subsequent years allowed the Navajo Nation to encircle the Hopi Reservation entirely. In 1951, the BIA appointed John Boyden as a claims attorney for the Hopi in part to handle the disputed territory with the Navajo. The contested area was rich in coal, and state governments, the Navajos, and the Hopis were all eager to determine ownership of the resources. Nonetheless, the Hopis took an inactive role in CERT, believing that rival tribes used the organization to curry federal favor for themselves.101 Although Boyden’s charge was to represent the Hopi, he pursued his work largely to open the region to mineral development, an objective all parties recognized. What all parties did not know (until after Boyden’s death) was that he was working for Peabody Coal at the same time as he served as general counsel for the Hopi, a gross conflict of interest that he had explicitly denied.102 The upshot of Boyden’s duplicity was that the Hopi ultimately “won” the majority of the disputed territory, but in a compromise that required the relocation of several thousand Navajos and a few hundred Hopis.103 The compromise was reached all through an attorney who ultimately sold Hopi land and, more significantly, Hopi water, cheap to Pea- body Coal. The Black Mesa Navajos facing relocation remained through the closure of the Black Mesa coal mine in 2005 when pressure from Native and non-Native environmental groups shut the plant down. 150 Indian Country

The Hopis and Navajos at Black Mesa illustrate well the almost impossible balancing act required of Native people managing extractive economies. Hopi and Navajo reservation residents suffered and benefited unequally from their leaders’ investment in coal production. Nonetheless, the environmental groups who successfully shut down the Black Mesa mines have built on the work of previous generations. The groups, who organized themselves into the Just Transition Coalition, also started a new conversation about alternative energy sources for the Navajo Nation and the Hopi Tribe. They built their argument around the self-determination that the Hopi and Navajo had pursued throughout the coal boom on the Navajo and Hopi reservations. Although such efforts had yielded uneven results—28.6 percent of Hopis and 36.8 percent of Nava- jos were without electricity at the end of the twentieth century—they allow twenty-first-century Navajos and Hopis to pursue jobs, negotiate the cultural ramifications of electrification, and pursue treaty rights with greater sovereign power.104 Most inspiring, their work helped to build the Native American Rights Fund, which laid the foundation for other Native groups to pursue control over their energy development. The push for sovereignty among the Hopi and Navajo had developed through intertribal dialogue (and discord) and in relationship to both tribes’ desire to have control over their own lands. Their sovereignty ultimately helped to inspire the sovereignty of others.

Reservation Limits

As the experience of the Tohono O’odham, Navajo, and Hopi showed, a reservation—particularly one imbued with national sovereignty—was a flexible tool for Native people. But a reservation also had the power to fix what had been fluid. Yaqui identity probably best illustrates the potential and limits of the Southwest Indian reservation. Not until 1965 did Congress grant the New Pascua Yaqui land in trust near the San Xavier Tohono O’odham Reservation, and not until 1978 were the Yaqui themselves acknowledged as American Indi- ans. How the Yaqui became Indian in the eyes of the federal government shows that reservations could both empower and limit the Southwest’s indigenous people. Most Yaquis in Arizona had arrived in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, fleeing the Mexican military, who sought to seize their lands for development. They settled near Tucson, and a community also took root south T he Story Still Being Told, 1940–2000 151 of Phoenix, near present-day Tempe. Because most of these Yaquis spoke Span- ish, practiced Catholicism, and had ties of kin and godparenting networks with neighboring Mexicans and Mexican Americans, many non-Yaquis assumed that they were Mexican. Many Yaquis themselves embraced a Mexican identity in the first decades of the twentieth century when the campaign for assimilation and allotment and the fear of Mexican persecution made indigenous identities a liability for employment, land ownership, and political participation.105 Some Anglos, however, saw the Yaqui as indigenous. They used the word “chief ” to describe their leaders, a word not present in Mexican Yaqui political practice, but one that American Yaquis began to adopt over the course of the twentieth century. Other Anglos became entranced with the unique form of Yaqui Catholic celebration and presented it as traditional Indian culture. “Like all children of nature these people worship God in the great open spaces,” en- thused the Tucson Chamber of Commerce.106 By the 1930s a group of Anglo allies petitioned John Collier to have the Yaqui recognized as a tribe and organized under the IRA, two steps that would have protected Yaquis from deportation as Mexicans. Collier, however, too beleaguered by resistance to the IRA elsewhere, demurred. The Yaqui waited until the 1960s for a sustained campaign for recognition.107 In 1965, when the Yaqui were granted land in trust, and in 1978, when they were recognized as Indians, they faced resistance on the basis of their identity. The city of Tucson and the anthropologist Edward Spicer had steadily presented the Yaqui as Indians, but not everyone agreed, not even some Yaquis.108 As one in the Yaqui settlement of Guadalupe near Tempe put it: “I’m not an American, I’m a Mexican. I’m from Mexico . . . I speak Spanish, and I like Mexican music, so how can I be Native American?”109 Mexican Americans themselves, however, did not always see Yaquis as Mexican, and some scorned neighboring Yaquis, even as they, themselves, endured second-class standing in the United States.110 Even southwestern Indian groups questioned the Yaquis’ quest for federal recognition. Members of the White Mountain and San Carlos Apaches opposed the bill granting recognition, and the chair of the Colorado River Indian Tribes said federal funds were insufficient and that the Yaquis were “outcasts from Mexico.”111 Though rare, the strongest opposition came from those who saw the Yaqui as without any nationality at all.112 As one rancher wrote in opposition to the 1965 bill granting the New Pascua Yaqui land: “These so-called Indians are not Indians in the proper sense of the word. They are a mixture of several breeds—they have no nationality—no home and 152 Indian Country are not citizens of any country.”113 Despite such sentiments, the 1965 bill, shep- herded by Congressman Mo Udall, Stewart Udall’s brother, passed with relatively little opposition and no debate.114 The 1978 bill proved more contentious, and the New Pascua Yaqui countered with the history of the Southwest itself. As they campaigned first for land and then for recognition, they presented themselves as indigenous and as tied to the place of the Southwest. Anselmo Valencia, who led the struggle for recognition, spoke before Congress. “The Yaquis are Indian in every sense of the word,” he contended. “Yaqui Indians are, and have been, from the southwest since before the establishment of international boundaries which divide this continent.”115 Using the impermanence of national boundaries themselves as his evidence, Valencia argued for the viability of a distinct Yaqui people and a distinct Yaqui place if not quite a distinct Yaqui nation. Federal recognition came with benefits, especially for the New Pascua Ya- qui. The Yaquis qualified for economic benefits from the BIA and for religious freedom protections granted all indigenous people. The Pascua Yaqui Associa- tion became the Pascua Yaqui Tribe, and New Pascua became an Indian reservation. As women joined the new political structure, their influence in Yaqui affairs expanded as well. The Pascua Yaqui have been especially successful at maintaining trilingual and tricultural instruction for their children. The reservation brought benefits, but it also fixed Yaqui identity in ways that did not always match reality. Membership in the Yaqui tribe was now based on “blood quantum.” To be Yaqui required one-quarter “Yaqui blood.” Such fixed identities stood in contrast to the multicultural coalition in Phoenix that made up the Guadalupe Yaqui, where Spanish was the dominant language by the end of the twentieth century.116 In 1965, a group called the Guadalupe Organization, composed of Mexican Americans, Yaquis, and intermarried Yaquis and Mexi- can Americans, received a significant Office of Economic Opportunity grant. The Guadalupe Organization began Head Start and other youth programs, instituted a GED class, offered vocational programs, and created a credit union. In response to a major setback from the Ninth Circuit Court in 1978 that ruled against multicultural and multilingual education, the Guadalupe Organization established an independent school that taught English, Spanish, and Yaqui and then successfully convinced the people of Guadalupe to become an independent municipality. The municipality committed itself to Yaqui culture, taught Yaqui history in schools, and began compiling a Yaqui vocabulary list. The mu nicipality protected Yaqui Holy Week celebrations from photography and re T he Story Still Being Told, 1940–2000 153 cording, a contrast with the New Pascua Yaqui, who had advertised Easter ceremonies in the popular tourist magazine Arizona Highways. Not surprisingly, it has been the Guadalupe Yaqui who have objected the most to the one- quarter “blood quantum” requirement for tribal membership. Intermarriage and intercultural collaboration have empowered the Guadalupe Yaqui, a power they do not want to sacrifice, not even for the promise of a nation.117

C onclusion

As the experience of the Guadalupe and New Pascua Yaqui shows, the persistence of southwestern Native people and Indian Country has proceeded alongside significant challenges. Stories of the past and the present influence how we might imagine the stories of the future. The waxing and waning of federal In- dian policy, from assimilation and allotment to Collier’s Indian Reorganization Act to termination and relocation to self-determination has made for a bumpy road. So also has a booming, capitalist southwestern economy, particularly in the postwar era. Native people have struggled to maintain their landholdings, their water and other resources, their spiritual traditions, to educate themselves, and to make a living in a demanding economic system that taxed the capacities of almost all Americans over the twentieth century. The problems that Native people faced were modern problems. They were problems of governance, law, resource distribution, and identity. They met their problems in the same years and using many of the same legal, political, and material tools as did other Americans. It has never been easy. And yet their persistence has expanded the boundaries of the Southwest’s Indian Country. The Pueblo peoples, particularly Taos Pueblo, reclaimed their land by working the levers of government to their advantage. The Navajo formed a nation from their landholdings, one on par with the nations of the world that vie to meet the nation’s energy needs. The Tohono O’odham formed a reservation that transcended the boundaries of the United States into Mex- ico. The Yaqui formed a recognized tribe that confounded understandings of who Indians were and are. Dual landscapes made Indian Country a part of the Southwest’s cities. Each year, Hopis return from cities on interstates and other highways for their critically important Home Dance. Laguna Pueblo has a formal colony in the city of Albuquerque that maintains cultural traditions and provides language training for Laguna in the city. The National Indian Youth 154 Indian Country

Council serves as a southwestern beacon for urban Indians across the country. Each spring in Tempe, Arizona State University celebrates the graduation of Native students. Every day, Pimas and Maricopas commute to work in Phoe- nix. In many respects, the modern Southwest is Indian Country. But the Southwest’s Indian Country is not a finale. The tendency to see Native Americans as actors from the past sometimes blinds observers to their present. Southwestern Indians, like all Native people, continue to struggle with the most insidious legacy of colonialism: poverty. And virtually all Native people negotiate their existence in part with the U.S. government, an institution with a history steeped in paternalism for the indigenous. Many southwestern Native people struggle with ill health because they worked or lived near uranium mines that fed the region’s nuclear and military economy. And all Native people continue to debate among themselves and with non-Natives what it means to be Indian. Mingling in cities and schools and workplaces has produced a growing number of Native people who identify as multiracial or multi- tribal. Like the multiracial character at the center of Ceremony, Tayo, they seek their place in Indian Country. In the early twenty-first century, one’s place in Indian Country requires deft negotiation of cultural representations. The Guadalupe and New Pascua Yaqui manage the expectations of visitors by controlling their image and its reproduction in photography, film, and the pages of tourism magazines. The Navajo struggle to maintain the ecology of a reservation now thoroughly outfitted for energy production. They must also negotiate expectations of their iconic landscape, one familiar to almost all Americans through film and advertisements. The Tohono O’odham negotiate not just with the government of the United States but the government of Mexico as they make their home on a transnational reservation, one that must engage representations of the U.S-Mexico border. Even Taos Pueblo, which had so benefited from how well it met white expectations of Indian people, has had to respond to the politics of representation in new ways. When Taos Pueblo acquired additional lands surrounding Blue Lake in 1995, it did so through purchase, not congressional action, and it did so because of encroaching residences, not fishermen and hunters, and it did so with money earned from a new source: casinos.118 Every step Taos Pueblo took was a product of shifting expectations and representations of Indian Country. Every step was a part of the story that is still being told. Part III

Reducing to Possession

n 1946, lamenting erosion in the Apache National For- est along the Arizona–New Mexico border, the forester Aldo ILeopold concluded: “Now we are spending half-a-million to build a road around this place of desolation which we have created. . . . This, fellow citizens, is Nordic genius for reducing to possession the wilderness.”1 What did it mean to reduce wilderness to possession? Leopold’s idea of wilderness had emerged in the Southwest. Leopold had grown up in Iowa, attended Yale University’s School of Forestry, and arrived in the Southwest in 1909 as an employee of the U.S. Forest Service. He worked first in the Apache National Forest in Arizona and later in the Carson National Forest in New Mexico. Observing the effects of more and more recreational visitors on the Grand Canyon and in na tional forests, he began advocating for the designation of wilderness territories. The first, New Mexico’s Gila National Forest, was designated a wilderness area in 1924. Leopold’s frustration was with cars and roads, more than it was with industries like timber and ranching. He wanted “at least one place in the Southwest where pack trips shall be the ‘dominant play.’ ”2 In Leopold’s view, transforming wilderness into possession did not necessarily result from giving land over to industry. Rather, 156 Reducing to Possession wilderness became possession when the kind of camping, hunting, and fishing that Leopold had learned to value could no longer exist. Leopold had done much of his early working and playing in the Southwest, particularly in the Gila, a place that had an “immeasurable impact” on him.3 Leopold had been drawn to the Gila in part through family connections. While supervising the Carson National Forest in New Mexico, he had married Estella Bergere, the daughter of an Anglo immigrant to the region, Alfred Maurice Bergere, and Eloise Luna Otero, the widow of Manuel Otero. Es- tella, then, was a half sister to politician and bilingual education advocate Nina Otero-Warren, as well as the descendant of two of New Mexico’s most prominent Nuevomexicano families: the Lunas and the Oteros. Estella’s mother inherited the N-Bar sheep ranch, located within the Gila National Forest, in 1912, and Estella’s half brother, Eduardo Otero, who was also president of the New Mexico Wool Growers Association, managed it. The Leopolds were avid archers, and in 1923, soon after Leopold proposed administering the Gila as wilderness, he and his wife engaged in their own two-week pack trip in the central Gila to bowhunt deer. Leopold’s conception of wilderness, therefore, emerged from the context of the early twentieth-century Gila: a landscape of recreational value to local and visiting campers and of economic value to ranchers like his wife’s family. Just three years after Leopold decried the reduction of wilderness to possession, his landmark book, Sand County Almanac, was posthumously published. Sand County Almanac is a foundational text in the modern environmental move ment, advancing what Leopold called a “land ethic.” Leopold enthusiasts most often summarize his land ethic with this quotation from the book: “A thing is right when it tends to preserve the integrity, stability, and beauty of the biotic community. It is wrong when it tends otherwise.”4 Leopold understood the land’s economic utility, but he wrote in an effort to convince others of its whole value, enjoining readers to “examine each question in terms of what is ethically and esthetically right, as well as what is economically expedient.”5 Although Leopold’s land ethic emerged years after his hunting trip with Estella, we can see the seeds of his ideas in that adventure in the Gila, near the Luna N-Bar Ranch, a site of both work and play. We can see the seeds of Sand County Al- manac too. Leopold’s son, Luna Bergere Leopold, carried his father’s tradition forward in his own career as a hydrologist, bore the names of his mother’s family, and was responsible for shepherding Sand County Almanac to publication after his father’s death. Reducing to Possession 157

It is useful to see Leopold’s land ethic and definition of wilderness as emerging at a particular moment in American and southwestern history, a moment when Americans had the prosperity and leisure time to travel more as well as a moment when the idea of possession had taken hold of many of those travelers. Leopold saw roads and cars as a threat to wilderness, but he also understood that roads and cars carried visitors to lands that Americans valued. Leopold dedicated his work to land management, but enjoyed the recreation of camping, hunting, and fishing too. He was a newcomer to the Southwest, but he became a part of one of the region’s most deeply rooted families. He supported public lands, but the first New Mexican wilderness area was inspired by his wife’s family’s private property. He criticized the idea of possession, but he formed his idea of wilderness in a place where he felt a sense of belonging. In his efforts to balance and understand such competing demands, he was representative of his time. This section addresses travel to, within, and from the Southwest as well as the quest to make the Southwest the belonging of the nation and its treasures the belongings of Americans. The first chapter asks: How have residents sold their region to visitors and what unintended consequences and dependencies have resulted from welcoming tourism as an industry? Visitors came looking for authenticity in the Southwest, but their very presence changed what it meant to be authentic and traditional and created the Southwest’s tourist industry. South- westerners met visitors’ expectations, sometimes by manufacturing histories that tourists wanted to hear. Sometimes, however, as newcomers and visitors reshaped their expectations of the region and the nation, they offered new possibilities, particularly new understandings of race. Their travel gave southwesterners and Americans alike opportunities to rethink what it means to belong. The second chapter of this section asks: What did belonging mean to twentieth-century southwesterners? Americans have sought to claim parts of the Southwest—most notably the Grand Canyon—for the nation as a whole. Individual southwesterners have also sought to own, care for, and belong to the place that has generated so many of their stories. Their efforts have sometimes provoked clashes among them and sometimes generated new communities. Their most successful efforts evoked Leopold’s land ethic as they struggled to express the value of the Southwest in ethical and aesthetic as well as economic terms. Like Leopold, they had to satisfy their desires to possess what they found to be the region’s most alluring qualities without reducing the place to mere possession.

5 The Searchers

Race and Tourism in the Southwest

n John Ford’s classic film The Searchers, Comanches capture two daughters of white settlers. The eldest dies soon after her capture. The Ifilm centers on her sister Debbie’s rescue by her uncle, Ethan Edwards, and her adopted brother, Martin Pawley. Ethan and Martin pursue the Coman- ches for years, rescuing Debbie only after she has grown to adolescence and become one of the wives of her abductor. The tension in the film derives from Ethan’s deep racism. A Confederate veteran of the Civil War, Ethan bristles when he first meets Martin, who is part Cherokee. He torments Martin incessantly on their journey for his immaturity and, implicitly, his mixed-race background. Ethan broods with rage following the discovery of Debbie’s sister’s rape and murder by the Comanche. Martin agonizes that Ethan intends to kill Debbie when he finds her rather than have her endure a “fate worse than death.” In fact, Ethan does try to shoot Debbie when she runs from the Comanche encampment to warn him of an impending ambush. The two men escape and return home, but later attack the Comanche with several other settlers, killing Debbie’s captor. Ethan relents and returns Debbie to her American community. He smiles fondly as she and Martin re- unite with their neighbors, including Martin’s white fiancé. He leaves them at the threshold to their home as he walks, alone, back into the desert.1 Although set in Texas, The Searchers was filmed in Monument Valley on the Utah-Arizona border, as were several other classic collaborations between 160 Reducing to Possession director John Ford and the actor John Wayne, who played Ethan. The Searchers was released in 1956. By then, Ford was famous as the consummate creator of Western films; Wayne was famous as Ford’s most consistent hero; and Monu- ment Valley was famous as the West itself. In brilliant Technicolor, the sweeping and dramatic backdrop practically acted as a character in Ford’s work. The landscape has drawn visitors for years—some of whom appear in a very different movie: the 2008 documentary The Return of Navajo Boy. The Return of Navajo Boy begins in 1997 with the quest of a white man, Bill Kennedy. Ken- nedy’s father made a silent movie on the Navajo reservation in Monument Val- ley in the 1950s. Among the Navajos featured in Kennedy’s film was Elsie May Begay. Begay, framed by the captivating rock formations of Monument Valley, frequently appeared in postcards, photographs, and other tourist memorabilia of the mid-twentieth century. A local trader, Harry Goulding, created many of the images and even invited the director John Ford to the valley. Nonetheless, Begay and other Navajos—even those engaged in arts and crafts production— received relatively little from the tourist trade and endured poorer conditions than other Americans of the 1950s. As she watched herself and her family in the film, Begay recognized her brother—named John Wayne Cly—who was taken by white missionaries in the 1950s to live in better conditions. Begay believed that they would someday return him, but they did not; nor did they maintain contact with her family. The documentary describes how Cly learned of Kennedy’s film and only then was reunited with his Navajo family. In charting the circumstances of their separation and reunion, the film describes the Navajos’ limited economic opportunities, the reliance of the reservation on tourism and arts and crafts production, as well as the turn of many Navajos— Begay’s family and John Wayne Cly among them—to uranium mining. The modern-day tourists who appear near the documentary’s beginning appear to be naïve but well-meaning outsiders, unaware of the realities of Navajo daily life. But the film is no indictment of tourism per se. After all, the figure at the center of the documentary is named for John Wayne, one of the sources of the region’s tourist trade. And the Navajo themselves know what it means to travel. As Begay’s son Lorenzo puts it: “I travel all over different countries. I want to know what their lives are like.”2 The two John Waynes and their paths through Monument Valley allow us a new view of southwestern tourism by encouraging us to wonder just what makes a tourist. Was John Ford a tourist? John Wayne himself? Was Kennedy? T ahe Se rchers 161

Was Kennedy’s father? Was John Wayne Cly? Viewing the movies side by side, we must also revise any assumptions we have that all tourists are Anglos and that all southwestern locals are Native American and Mexican American. We might reexamine any preconceptions that tourists invariably bring ill to a region and never learn to understand it. We often reserve the word “tourists” to describe just those who visit a place, but if we cast our net more widely, as many historians of the American West have done, we get a better picture of just what tourists seek and what tourism does.3 We see who, in many western communities, are the mirror images of tourists: boosters. We see southwesterners like Lorenzo Begay who embark on tourist adventures of their own. We see what tourists come seeking and what they bring home. We see how those with the strongest local credentials created a sense of themselves and a regional image in dialogue with those who were searching. We see the complicated overlay of racial relationships dramatized in the nineteenth-century story told in The Searchers and occasioned by a very different kind of searcher, the tourist who followed in the film’s wake. Historians of twentieth-century southwestern tourism have described those expectations thoroughly. Flux characterizes travel, but travelers to the South- west often sought fixity and permanence in a rapidly modernizing world. Be- cause travelers frequently came to the Southwest seeking a particular place and a representation of a particular time, southwesterners became adept at curating the Southwest’s past so that history and authenticity were available as visitors desired. Such work prompted frequent reflection among locals as to what the past of the region meant to themselves as well as to the outsiders they wooed and, sometimes, resented. The boosterism that formed an image of the Southwest in the minds of other Americans and international audiences also regularly took southwesterners away from home. Spring-break travel took Arizonans to Mexico. New York galleries beckoned to New Mexico artists. Southwesterners regularly journeyed across the region on their own vacations. Such travel not only exposed southwesterners to new places and conceptions of the region, the nation, and the world, it also allowed them to cast new images of themselves and their place. Travel to, from, and within the Southwest contributed to the ever-changing structure of the region’s culture. Whether welcoming travelers or traveling themselves, southwesterners sometimes missed the most of what tourism could offer. The most significant missed 162 Reducing to Possession opportunities occurred when tourism cemented, rather than loosened, racial identities. Too often, tourism restricted racial equality at just the moments when racial justice could have expanded. Sometimes it was newcomers, tourists themselves, who gestured toward such avenues of possibility. What has drawn visitors to the Southwest, why, and with what effects? How have residents sold their region to visitors and what unintended consequences and dependencies have resulted from welcoming tourism as an industry? This chapter pays particular attention to the search for authenticity in the South- west, but also emphasizes how southwesterners shaped their views of modernity and authenticity through their own labor and travel. Tourism had the potential to disrupt the Southwest’s racial categories and inequalities. That potential might still be realized. To that end, we begin with a figure rarely included among southwestern boosters: an African American woman.

The Land of Esperanza

Between 1923 and 1926 the Harlem-based African American cultural and political magazine the Messenger published a series of articles titled These “Colored” United States. The poet and writer Anita Scott Coleman submitted an essay titled “Arizona and New Mexico—The Land of Esperanza.” Coleman was a South- west local. Born in Guaymas, Mexico, Coleman had migrated with her family to Silver City, New Mexico, when she was a toddler.4 The essay introduced readers to the broad outlines of the Southwest, including its landscape, its major industries, and its principal settlers. What set the essay and the larger series apart was its focus on the opportunities and constraints for African Americans in New Mexico and Arizona. Noting the vast deposits of copper in the Arizona borderlands and the region’s long history of miners, she concluded: “Later the white man came and conquered and so it is the Mexican miner rather than the Negro or the foreigner of the East who goes down and up the shaft, in and out of the tunnel, down and down into endless pits in quest of minerals.”5 Throughout the essay, Coleman emphasized the sparseness of African American settlement. For Coleman, however, that may well have been the point. Limited settlement also meant that the rigid lines of Jim Crow were less deeply carved than in other sections of the United States in the early twentieth century. The Southwest was possibly still up for grabs for potential black settlers, a land of esperanza (hope). While mining may have been largely closed to African T ahe Se rchers 163

Americans, Coleman drew attention to New Mexico’s and Arizona’s opportunities in farming and ranching. She celebrated the “brains and brawn of the Negro population . . . gathered in Albuquerque,” and drew attention to the all- black towns of Blackdom and Vado, New Mexico. Employment may have been sparse, Coleman told readers. “Withal, the Negroes in these States are an isolated lot, yet in nearly all instances they are home owners.”6 Coleman was hardly naïve. She called attention to the laws that restricted African Americans to separate schools in Arizona and in Doña Ana County and Chaves County in New Mexico. The only mention of Phoenix in the essay was the flat statement: “Cotton, a wonderful yield and experiment becomes an established fact. With it all there are many Negroes in Phoenix and some scattered throughout the state.”7 She observed that both states boosted their climate to those seeking the healthful effects of light and clear air. “The different chambers of commerce vie one with the other in advertisements of climate,” she observed. “ ‘Sunshine 365 days in the year,’ boasts New Mexico. ‘Arizona— land of golden sunshine,’ acclaims Arizona,” but she also noted that aside from the Veterans Bureau hospitals, African Americans had no access to sanatoriums, a common source of tourist traffic in the dry, sunny Southwest. “Such an institution is needed and certainly a humane project for an American Negro,” she concluded.8 What gave African Americans a stake in the Southwest was their long history in the area. “It is potent to recall,” declared Coleman, “that in 1538, Estevan, the Negro slave in the role of interpreter and guide,” was the first to see the Pueblo settlements of New Mexico.9 As eagerly as the descendant of any white pioneer, Coleman recalled African Americans’ participation in regional conflicts as “Indian war fighters.” She observed with pride the service of Ameri- can black soldiers who pursued Pancho Villa following his Columbus raid, the black prospector who became a wealthy mine owner, and Roswell’s “old pioneer, recently deceased, [who] planted the trees which grace the City’s streets.” His accomplishment was “among the lowly and humble tasks, which likewise make history.”10 With such examples, Coleman established the credentials of African Americans as locals, among those who could enter the “trade of enter- taining a traveling public.”11 Coleman shared with other regional boosters not just an eye for the tourist industry but the confidence that the place itself imbued its residents and visitors with something special. Coleman called that special quality “the freedom of the West”: 164 Reducing to Possession

And criss-crossing in and out through the medley of adventure stalk the few in number black folks. Often it is only the happy-go-lucky, black gambler; again it is but the lone and weary black prospector—but ever and ever the intrepid, stal- wart Negro homeseeker forms a small yet valiant army in the land of esperanza.

And over it all the joyous freedom of the West.12

Aware of the limits and restrictions that curbed African American opportunities in the Southwest, Coleman still put her faith in the region’s history of African American accomplishments and drive. As the literary scholar Emily Lutenski has concluded: “When Coleman conjoins the mythologies of the American frontiersman . . . with the ‘race question,’ she is able to insert black subjects into the larger American imagination.”13 While Coleman inserted African Americans into standard narratives of the American Southwest, African Americans found themselves increasingly restricted in the actual region. As a result, their presence was limited in tourist narratives describing the Southwest. Even most historical accounts of southwestern tourism fail to consider African Americans as tourists, boosters, or laborers within the tourism industry. Coleman might have allowed herself some optimism, but she herself left New Mexico to move to Los Angeles in the year her essay appeared. The land of esperanza could be a land of hope, but it could also be a land of waiting.

Relic of Ancient America

Coleman’s essay and the Messenger had sought to counter and complement “These United States,” a series of essays that ran in the Nation. Appearing in the 1920s, the essays reflected the interwar-era enthusiasm of American artists and writers for regional expression. “These United States” was almost devoid of African Americans altogether, particularly in its discussion of the Southwest. Race and racial difference, however, were key in Elizabeth Shepley Sergeant’s essay “New Mexico: A Relic of Ancient America,” published in November 1923. Sergeant was originally from Massachusetts, graduated from Bryn Mawr College, and arrived in New Mexico to convalesce after she was wounded in World War I while covering the war for the New Republic. Sergeant honed in on artists and writers like herself who saw their appreciation of the Southwest’s T ahe Se rchers 165 landscape as uniquely valuable to the nation as a whole. “The real reason why the ‘artist’ who now figures as a definite element in the social grouping is so resented by a certain type of average citizen is that he is an iconoclast . . . who likes, actually likes as human beings these Indians and Spanish people, and wants them to continue in their benighted ways; and gazes upon the purple land and breathes the crystalline air with no feeling but of sensuous enjoyment and spiritual liberation.”14 It was this interwar vision—absorbing the region’s unique natural features and cultures without diminishing them—that Sergeant imagined that artists could realize in New Mexico. Sergeant did not eschew natural beauty or even tourism. Rather, she wanted her particular kind of travel and regional promotion to be the Southwest’s regional image and reality. Understand culture as she and her fellow artists did, she argued, and visitors and new settlers would see the region’s full beauty. For Sergeant, the region’s Native American and Mexican American inhabi tants were the key.15 Racial difference meant cultural distinctiveness, although Sergeant never considered the racial difference of African Americans. Rather, Sergeant fretted, “if the picturesque features, like Indian villages and Spanish missions, become as in California merely tourist attractions played up by ho- telkeepers and chambers of commerce, the last fate of the Indian will be worse than his first and the rare distinction of the State will vanish away.”16 Sergeant erroneously lay responsibility for indigenous perseverance on the shoulders of the region’s Anglo newcomer artists. Native and Mexican American cultures did not vanish. Nonetheless, Sergeant held fast to the notion that, should An- glo artists hold strongly to their vision, artists would be the region’s ambassa- dors. Preserve local cultures and tourism would serve as an entrée to spiritual liberation. It was this vision that occupied the minds of the region’s Anglo writers, artists, boosters, and patrons who made their headquarters in Santa Fe and Taos in the 1920s. Like the “Lost Generation” of expatriates who settled in Europe in the same years, the Southwest artist colonies pursued an aesthetic rejoin- der to the difficulties of modern life and the memory of World War I. Anglo women figured prominently among their numbers.17 In addition to Sergeant, Anglo women writers in Santa Fe and Taos included Mary Austin, who wrote the essay on Arizona for the “These United States” series; Alice Corbin Hen- derson, the coeditor of Poetry magazine, who had moved to the region from Chicago in 1916 to recover from tuberculosis at Santa Fe’s Sunmount Sana- torium; and Willa Cather, who visited in 1912 and made the area the setting 166 Reducing to Possession for Death Comes for the Archbishop, published in 1927.18 Patrons included three other Bryn Mawr College graduates: the sisters Amelia Elizabeth and Martha White and Margretta Stewart Dietrich, the widow of Charles Dietrich, a former U.S. senator and governor of Nebraska.19 In Taos, Mabel Dodge Luhan, an independently wealthy woman who married a Taos Pueblo Indian, Tony Lujan, provided support for a number of women artists. Among them were Rebecca James, a painter, and Georgia O’Keeffe, who first painted in the state in the summer of 1929 when she and James were guests at Luhan’s home.20 Given her stature, O’Keeffe occupies a particularly important position in the making of the region’s national reputation. As the art historian Frederick W. Turner has marveled about O’Keeffe: “There must be very few artists who did what she did up here: come in cold and make it your own.”21 In addition to creating a national aesthetic for the viewers of the New Mexico desert, O’Keeffe frequently painted her own home at Ghost Ranch, New Mexico, and referred to Cerro Pedernal as “her mountain.”22 In fact, the prominence of single women, women couples, and financially independent women put a decided emphasis on houses and the idea of home for those who populated the artist colony, even among the colony’s men.23 Art- ist and architect William Penhallow Henderson, the husband of Alice Corbin Henderson, designed the White sisters’ house. The poet and writer Witter Bynner and his partner Robert Hunt held parties famously known as “Bynner’s bashes” at their home into the 1940s. Many artists, writers, and other “internal expatriates” clustered their houses along Canyon Road and Telephone Road, which they renamed with more aesthetic flair Camino del Monte Sol. As Ed- gar Lee Hewett, the head of the Museum of New Mexico, put it: “We feel our people here in the Southwest do have a life in keeping with the soil, the skies, winds, clouds, spaces—that they have ordered their lives in honest, simple, harmonious ways.”24 The homes that the artists built for themselves followed the model set by the joint Museum of New Mexico–School of American Archaeology, headed by Hewett. Hewett had served as the president of New Mexico Normal School (now Highlands University) in Las Vegas, New Mexico, from 1898 to 1903. He then turned his amateur interest in anthropology into a more professional endeavor through a doctorate at the University of Geneva, where he wrote on the Southwest’s indigenous peoples. In 1909 he was named the head of the Santa Fe-based School of American Archaeology, and the Museum of New Mexico grew under his guidance as an offshoot of the school. Under Hewett’s T ahe Se rchers 167 leadership, the region’s ancient history played a central role in Santa Fe’s and New Mexico’s national presentation to tourists. In 1915 museum staff created exhibitions for the California, Indian Arts, and Southwest Ethnography Build- ings at the Panama-California Exposition in San Diego. They also made the exposition’s leading commercial attraction, the Santa Fe Railway’s Painted Des- ert exhibit, which included a reproduction of a southwestern adobe pueblo and featured Pueblo Indians creating traditional crafts.25 Hewett used anthropology to feed the museum’s presentations and endeavors, and not until after his death in 1946 did the School of American Archaeology develop into a distinct institution focused on scholarly anthropological research, the School for Ad- vanced Research. In the 1970s, the school moved to the former home of the White sisters, adding yet another architectural layer to the fusion of anthropological inquiry and tourism industry in the Southwest. The museum was largely responsible for maintaining and creating the Pueblo-Spanish Revival style, which distinguished Santa Fe’s architecture. The city’s winding streets were not straightened. Its buildings stretched long and low, rather than up. Its details were wooden beam vigas and the artful rain gut- ters, canales. The style took root around the city’s central plaza, grounded by the Museum of Fine Arts, specifically constructed in Pueblo-Spanish Revival style, and the Palace of the Governors, home to the Museum of New Mexico and “restored” just as the style found its footing between 1909 and 1912.26 On one side of the Santa Fe plaza stood the Palace of the Governors, on one corner the Museum of Fine Arts, and diagonally across from the museum stood a jewel in the Harvey Hotel chain, La Fonda. The hotel opened in 1919 and used designs drawn from Pueblo and Spanish forms. The three structures together made concrete the visions of Austin, Sergeant, the White sisters, Hewett, and others who had come to Santa Fe seeking to build what later generations called “a city different.” The Palace of the Governors connected the city to the region’s ancient antecedents. The Museum of Fine Arts (now the New Mexico Museum of Art) displayed works by those artists who sought to represent the region according to their vision for its future. La Fonda connected the region’s past and artistic representation to audiences outside the city. It made the scholarly and artistic efforts of the two museums it faced into tourist commodities. The commodity La Fonda sold was the version of history displayed on the Santa Fe plaza. That version was especially apparent in the hotel’s expansion, designed by the architect John Gaw Meem in 1927. Meem himself was a newcomer to New Mexico. Raised by Episcopalian missionaries in Brazil, Meem 168 Reducing to Possession came to Sunmount Sanatorium in Santa Fe after he received a diagnosis of tuberculosis. There, via the sanatorium’s director and a local artist and architect, he joined the community of scholars, artists, and writers who forged the Pueblo-Spanish Revival style. Meem’s addition to La Fonda included a six- story tower based on the towers at the Acoma Pueblo mission, which Meem had been restoring for the Society for the Restoration and Preservation of New Mexico Missions. The society restored several churches between 1922 and 1932 at Acoma, Laguna, Santa Ana, and Zia Pueblos, and also at the Nuevomexi- cano village Las Trampas. While the pueblos were eager to receive the aid in restoration, they chafed against the society’s insistence on disguising modern building materials. As the architectural historian Chris Wilson surmises: “How were the Acomas to know that in the preservation society they had encountered a new breed of Anglo—not the progressive modernizing kind, but the ro mantic antiquarian variety?”27 The romantic antiquarian variety left little room for African Americans, especially in Harvey Hotels like La Fonda. African Americans worked as porters through the time of Coleman’s essay, and railroad hotels in New Mexico employed black waiters until 1883. But in that year, a brawl broke out in Raton, New Mexico, between white cowboys and black waiters at the town’s Harvey House, one of the restaurant chain run by British immigrant Fred Harvey. Black waiters, who staffed most of Harvey’s railroad eateries, endured widespread racist sentiment, and some were reported to carry guns to protect themselves. The 1883 fight proved to be a significant business headache for Harvey. A rumor circulated that a Mohave had been killed in the melee. A subsequent rumor told that when the Mohaves asked for the life of one of the waiters in return and learned that the shooting had been an accident, they replied that they “would be satisfied to shoot one of the Harvey waiters by accident.” Harvey did not sacrifice his waiter’s life, but he did fire the entire wait staff. In their place, he hired white, single women from back east.28 Through advertising, films, and guidebooks, those “Harvey Girls” became emblems of the Southwest’s tourism industry. For African Americans, excision from the story of the railroad, the Harvey Houses, and the Harvey Girls practically meant omission from the story of twentieth-century Southwestern tourism altogether. The Harvey Houses were practically synonymous with southwestern tourism at the beginning of the twentieth century. When Charles Fletcher Lummis had made his tramp across the continent, he had roughly followed the path of the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railway. The AT&SF had reached Las T ahe Se rchers 169

Figure 11. Harvey House map, Harvey House postcard, ca. 1930s, author’s collection. Many visitors to the Southwest learned to see it as a coherent region from the promotional materials of the Harvey Houses. On this postcard, visitors were instructed to mark with an “x” where they were staying.

Vegas, New Mexico, in 1879, and then Lamy, New Mexico, outside of Santa Fe, in 1880, then joined with the Southern Pacific to create the nation’s second transcontinental route in 1881. Fred Harvey had begun providing restaurants for railroad workers and customers through an agreement with the AT&SF beginning in 1876. In 1882, he began operating a health resort hotel at Montezuma, New Mexico, near hot springs renowned for their salubrious properties and, conveniently, the Las Vegas, New Mexico, AT&SF depot.29 Harvey had first choice for restaurant and hotel sites along the AT&SF, and he made a name for himself and his houses by insisting on exacting service and high-quality food (conveniently shipped free by the AT&SF). Diners could enjoy fresh steak in the thirty minutes between a train’s arrival and departure. By 1930, twelve restaurants and hotels lined the railroad from the trackside hotel in Las Vegas, the Castañeda, all the way to Los Angeles.30 The tourism commercialized in the Harvey Houses not only pushed African Americans to the margins of the Southwest’s tourist industry, it also disguised as a matter of course a technologically sophisticated tourist industry. Harvey 170 Reducing to Possession

Hotels employed Pueblo and Navajo craftspeople to make the goods on display in the hotel lobbies. Hewett used the railroad to bring Pueblo people to the extensive and complicated exhibition in San Diego. Members of the Taos Society of Artists used Pueblo people as models and sold their work for use in calendars and postcards printed in mass quantities for the Harvey Company in Kansas City.31 The pattern persisted even as tourists began journeying to the region in cars. In 1916, the etiquette writer Emily Post reported on her cross-country auto trip and the unusual experience of viewing the Southwest’s railroad tourist industry from the perspective of her car. It was “very like being behind the scenes at a theater. The hotel people, curio-sellers, and Indians are the actors, the travelers on the incoming trains are the audience.” Later, she observed in Albuquerque that just as the train arrived “[out] of nowhere appear dozens of vividly cos- tumed Navajos and Hopis . . . their headbands and beads and silver ornaments fill the platform with color like a flower display.”32 In 1921, New Mexico local Erna Fergusson began offering auto tours of the pueblos surrounding Albu- querque through a business she called Koshare Tours.33 Four years later, interstate highways were established, including the famous Route 66, which followed much of the Santa Fe Railway route through the Southwest. In that same year, the Harvey Company purchased Fergusson’s company, renamed it Indian Detours, and ran the service out of La Fonda. Although Fergusson assured prospective customers that “motorists crossing the southwestern states are nearer to the primitive than anywhere else on the continent,” it bears remembering that motorists were in cars. Tourists and boosters were decrying modernity even as they journeyed in symbols of modernity.34 Whether in the lobby of the hotel, in a distant exhibition, or along the region’s nascent highway system, beneath the trappings of primitive life presented by southwestern boosters lay an increasingly complicated tourist industry.35

See Indians at Work

As an industry, tourism employs workers. Those who design, build, and staff a museum or an exposition are workers. The paintings, murals, drawings, litho- graphs, woodcuts, and photographs that artists create are often called “works,” and when artists create them, they are working. Jewelry, pottery, and rugs, T ahe Se rchers 171 whether made for museum podiums or a tourist’s keepsake drawer, require— like other forms of work—innovation, concentration, and physical effort. Those who model for artists (whether willingly or under duress) require grace and endurance, and when they model, they are working.36 Pueblo and Navajo people regularly worked for the artists and writers who envisioned the Southwest as a superior alternative to modern industrial society. Yet, their very efforts were producing and reflecting modern industrial society.37 Consider the story of a Navajo family: Adjiba, her husband Miguelito, and her mother Maria Antonia. In 1905, at fifteen years old, Adjiba was working as a weaver at one of the Harvey Company’s premier destination hotels, the Alvarado in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Miguelito, a silversmith, and Maria Antonia, also a weaver, worked beside her. Although Miguelito asked repeatedly to return to the Navajo reservation with Adjiba for the birth of their child, the hotel delayed until they could find another family to take their place. Pos- sibly, the hotel manager hoped for Adjiba to have the child at the hotel, which may have attracted more tourists. Whatever the manager’s rationale, Miguelito and Adjiba were still working at the hotel when she went into labor. Adjiba and the baby became seriously ill following the birth, and the hotel manager, fearing that Navajo taboos regarding death would discourage other Navajos from working at the hotel, arranged for Adjiba and the baby to be admitted to the hospital in Albuquerque. Then, however, the hotel manager became concerned that the Navajos would blame Western medicine, and, by extension, the hotel, should Adjiba and the baby fail to recover. Miguelito, perhaps acting on his own or perhaps in accordance with the manager’s fears, had Adjiba dis- charged from the hospital and took her to a grove of cottonwood trees on the Rio Grande. There, she died.38 Together, Adjiba, Miguelito, and Maria Antonia had worked as part of an extensive southwestern display in the hotel’s lobby. John Frederick Huckle, the co-owner of the Harvey Company, endeavored to provide to “the hundreds of thousands of tourists a year who never thought of visiting reservations” an opportunity to “see Indians at work.”39 Huckle and other Harvey Hotel owners believed that artful displays of Native American crafts and on-site craftspeople like Adjiba and her family drew tourists to their hotels and boosted the sale of indigenous crafts to tourists. As the historian Erika Bsumek has observed, such displays and such a work environment separated individuals like Adjiba from the idea of modern, industrial life in the eyes of tourists. The rugs, the native 172 Reducing to Possession vegetation, and the architecture of the Alvarado Hotel could never have been arranged without wage work, corporate investment, and the railroad, but the interior design of the hotel suggested a connection to nature and the past that disguised the modern realities of the hotel work environment.40 Adjiba, Miguelito, and Maria Antonia were a part of a large Navajo workforce that wove rugs and crafted silver for a tourist market and a “craze” for Native crafts that peaked in the early twentieth century.41 Many Navajo craftspeople made a living or supplemented their income by selling goods to reservation-based non-Indian traders. The Harvey Company purchased silverwork and rugs from reservation-based traders for display and sale in their hotels. Harvey Company officials saw the potential business in “displaying” craftspeople themselves and cooperated with area traders to bring Navajos from the reservation to work in the company’s hotels.42 Like many workers of the early twentieth century, the family did not have control over their work environment. Like many Native Americans of the tourist trade, however, they were not without the ability to structure their own lives. Working at the Alvarado allowed Adjiba, Maria Antonia, and Miguelito to negotiate directly with tourist customers rather than through the intercession of a reservation-based trader. Miguelito continued to work for the Harvey Hotels through the 1920s and created Navajo sand paintings for the interior walls of the El Navajo Hotel in Gallup, New Mexico. Miguelito’s assistant for the sand paintings told others on the reservation that Miguelito had revealed private, sacred ceremonies in their construction. According to sources sympathetic to the Harvey Company, company officials intervened to protect Miguelito’s reputation. How Miguelito actually felt about sharing the sand paintings or working for the Harvey Com- pany or witnessing the tragic death of his wife remains unknown. Nonethe- less, his continued artistic work for the Harvey Company suggested that, to some degree, he exercised choice as he negotiated between the pressures of the tourist industry and the pressures of his own culture.43 Such negotiations were, themselves, part of the modern work of being a Native artist. Similar demands pressed on Pueblo peoples who took part in expositions organized to depict the history of the Great Southwest. In 1904, the potters Maria and Julian Martinez of San Ildefonso Pueblo found themselves on display at the Louisiana Purchase Exposition in St. Louis. Although the Marti- nezes had attended Catholic and Bureau of Indian Affairs schools and spoke English, they were “displayed” on that side of the building illustrating traditional indigenous crafts.44 On the one hand, such displays presented the South- T ahe Se rchers 173 west’s indigenous people as occupying a permanent past. According to the logic of their presentation, such people could never be modern. They were permanently primitive. On the other hand, the expositions gave Pueblo people an opportunity to travel themselves and explore the modern world.45 As the scholar Martin Padget concludes in his discussion of Isleta Pueblo people who performed in Los Angeles tableaus organized by Charles Lummis: “Regardless of the precise reasons why each individual made his or her way to Los Angeles, their movement back and forth between the pueblo and the metropolis was indicative of the larger dilemma for Isletans over how to engage with Anglo society and their incorporation into the United States.”46 Similarly, Maria Martinez, who would go on to become the most famous of Pueblo Indian potters, created a “selling room” as a part of her own home following hers and Julian’s participation in the San Diego fair. The selling room was her own way of balancing the demands of home and the market for her famous “black-on-black” pottery. The shop sold other potters’ goods as well as her own and allowed her to remain close to family and the pueblo she had missed when working in St. Louis, Santa Fe, and San Diego.47 Anglo artists worried far less about the dilemmas of Native American people working for the tourist trade and far more about how tourists might de- value their particular vision for the region. At the heart of their concern was a contradiction in their own work. The artists and writers who made up the communities surrounding women such as Mabel Dodge Luhan generally had to make a living. While some lived on patronage from Luhan and the White sisters, others sold their work to the Santa Fe Railway and the Harvey Hotels. The members of the Taos Society of Artists settled in Taos years before Mabel Dodge Luhan and regularly created promotional materials for the railroad.48 Whether produced specifically for a tourist audience or with the support of a patron for “art’s sake,” the images created a new vision of Native Americans for tourist audiences. Their vision was sympathetic toward indigenous people and reflective of a wider vision for an American life based on aesthetic appreciation and spiritual union with nature. Too often, however, the postcard image trumped the colonies’ larger ambition. As the poet Alice Corbin Henderson noted sardonically: “So we’ve saved the Pueblos for Fred Harvey.”49 Henderson gave herself and her Anglo peers too much credit. Pueblo people had advocated on their own behalf as craftspeople and workers and in the political realm. In short, the political activism and aesthetic vision of Henderson 174 Reducing to Possession and other women of the Santa Fe and Taos arts colonies had not “saved” the Pueblo peoples. It had, however, saved a particular vision of them, a vision easily commercialized. It was a vision that the Harvey Company managed to market with extraordinary success even into the years of the Great Depression. Derailing the Harvey Company’s appropriation of their vision became the crusade of women at the center of Santa Fe’s arts colony during the 1930s. Their goal was to create a hierarchy of aesthetic appreciation of indigenous goods. Their tool of choice was the Indian Fair. Indian fairs, at which Pueblo Indians sold their art, had been a part of the fiesta that Hewett began in 1919, but the Indian Market that has persisted into the present was largely the outgrowth of Pueblo artisans and the New Mexico Association on Indian Affairs (NMAIA), which had formed during the Pueblos’ Bursum Bill struggle. In 1936 the head of the NMAIA, Margretta Dietrich, and her assistant Maria Chabot, revived the Indian Fair. Between 1936 and 1939 Saturday fairs were held for eight weeks in a row under the Palace of the Governors portal, in imitation of Mexican outdoor markets. NMAIA also held fairs at individual pueblos. Through juried prizes the NMAIA distinguished their favored Pueblo arts from those favored by everyday tourists. Dietrich deplored the “enthusiasm of the tourist over the poorest articles,” and suggested that it was only a failure of Anglo American culture that imposed on Pueblo art “garish” and “restless” colors.”50 The fairs and writings like Dietrich’s were intended to “educate” tourists to be “better” consum ers of Pueblo art. The fairs were lucrative for Pueblo and Navajo artisans. In 1930, 16 percent of total income for the upper Rio Grande Pueblo Indians came from arts and crafts sales; 12–25 percent of Navajo income came from arts and crafts sales during the Great Depression; and at San Ildefonso Pueblo, home to Maria Martinez, 50 percent of total income in 1933 came from pottery sales.51 Maria Martinez told Chabot that San Ildefonso’s fairs had “made enough money to put in eight houses with running water and bathrooms.”52 With its roots in political advocacy, NMAIA promoted Indian arts for the economic benefit of Pueblo people as much as for aesthetic appreciation.53 Nonetheless, Dietrich and Chabot cultivated the idea that their own aesthetic preferences would produce the best and most economically viable art among Pueblo artisans. Although Dietrich, Chabot, and other women of Santa Fe’s arts colony sometimes drew on their gender to convey their aesthetic hierarchy, they were not always successful in convincing other women of their superior taste.54 Women were the primary customers of the rugs and silverwork and pottery T ahe Se rchers 175 that the Santa Fe Railway and Harvey Company purchased to resell to tourist visitors, and many tourists cared little for the kind of aesthetic judgments that preoccupied the patrons of Indian arts in Santa Fe. And it was a woman who designed many of the railway stations, restaurants, shops, and hotels that tourists visited: Mary Colter. Colter had designed the interior of the Indian Building of the Alvarado Hotel, the curio shop where Adjiba and her family likely displayed their craftsmanship, as well as many of the other interi- ors of the Harvey Houses. She is probably best known for having designed Hopi House, a building adjacent to the hotel El Tovar, a critical structure in the Santa Fe Railway’s and Harvey Company’s tourist landscape on the rim of the Grand Canyon.55 Hopi House and other tourist venues showed that other parts of the South- west paralleled the tourist promotion originating in Santa Fe and New Mexico. Indeed, just as the Museum of New Mexico combined anthropological investigation with regional promotion, so also did the Heard Museum, located in Phoenix. Dwight and Maie Heard founded the museum in 1929 on the site of their estate, Casa Blanca. Like many of the arts patrons in New Mexico, the Heards were wealthy and had arrived in the Southwest to improve their health. Maie Heard had helped to organize Phoenix’s Little Theater and ran a book mobile from a buggy that distributed reading material to area ranches.56 She was also an enthusiastic traveler and had an extensive collection of arts and crafts. The Heards were primed, then, to collect and display the arts of their adopted home. The two had made their wealth through land and water speculation in the Salt River Valley, the same speculation that had led to the creation of the Roo- sevelt and San Carlos Dams and limited agricultural opportunities for Pima and Maricopa peoples. Nonetheless, the Heards worked to maintain Native craftsmanship as living art. They became avid collectors of Native American crafts and bought baskets, pottery, textiles, beadwork, and jewelry from traders and the Fred Harvey Company. Dwight Heard nurtured an amateur interest in local archeology, lectured on the topic to local Rotary clubs, and funded investigation of a large Hohokam settlement in the region that had been inhabited from 1000 to 1400 AD, and whose irrigation works regularly drew the interest of twentieth-century scholars. His and Maie Heard’s collection formed the basis of the museum, which included approximately seventy-five thousand ob- jects by the time of Maie Heard’s death in 1951. The museum expanded steadily and hosted three hundred thousand visitors a year by the 1980s.57 Like the 176 Reducing to Possession museums in Santa Fe, it continued to serve as a source of both anthropological and artistic interest.58

A Thing of the Past

In their enthusiasm for the Southwest, the architects, artists, and writers who worked for the Harvey Company had acknowledged the region’s Spanish history in name only. The Alvarado, La Fonda, El Tovar, and El Navajo alluded to the region’s Spanish past without exploring it. As the members of the Anglo artist colonies realized their error and as the region’s Spanish-speaking residents participated in the tourist trade themselves, the public presentation of the region shifted. In 1925 Mary Austin and Frank Applegate founded the Spanish Colonial Arts Society to preserve a local chapel, the Santuario de Chimayó. Along with support for Spanish colonial arts from New Deal programs, the organization developed over succeeding decades into an annual market that resulted in multiple exhibitions of Spanish colonial art in area museums.59 In general, Spanish colonial arts promotion stressed the Spanish over the Mexi- can history of the region and sought to “preserve” the artistic traditions of the region’s imagined past.60 The effect of the region’s Spanish past on tourist promotion was widespread. One of Mary Colter’s last works, created in 1949, was a cocktail lounge at La Fonda designed as a Spanish courtyard, a Hispanic flour- ish at the heart of the Pueblo Revival style of Santa Fe’s Plaza. Like the Pueblo Indians and Navajo, Hispanic New Mexicans and Arizo nans worked as railroad porters, drivers, carpenters, masons, waiters, hotel maids, and day laborers as the infrastructure of the Southwest’s tourist industry took shape. In Santa Fe, however, elite Spanish speakers, who stressed the Spanish over the indigenous nature of their heritage, began to see economic and political potential in shaping the region’s public image. This was particularly true in the revival of the Santa Fe Fiesta. Although current celebrants date the event to the eighteenth century, the Fiesta that present-day audiences enjoy emerged in the late 1910s. A reenactment of the 1692 “entrada” of Don Diego de Vargas, who led the Spanish return to the region following the Pueblo expulsion of the Spanish in the 1680 Pueblo Revolt, became a fixture of the event in the 1920s. In 1920 itself, the celebration began with a reading of a 1712 proclamation of a Catholic mass and procession commemorating de Vargas’s “peaceful” arrival. The proclamation added to the T ahe Se rchers 177 historical “credentials” of the event, and by the 1930s, Catholic religious elements had become central to Nuevomexicano understanding and celebration of the Fiesta as a traditional and historical commemoration.61 The Fiesta was rife with political significance, as it regularly required Santa Feans to consider the region’s racial history. Scholars debate the meaning of the Fiesta to elite Nuevomexicanos. Did celebrants of the Fiesta perform on behalf of their Anglo patrons, reenact the region’s reconquest to elevate their status above that of the region’s Native Americans and more recent Mexican immigrants, or participate to nurture their own sense of “hispanidad”? Likely, Nuevomexicanos engaged in some combination of all three, with the event’s dominant meaning varying over time among its participants.62 Native people shaped the Fiesta too. During the 1920s, Hewett added Native American dances to the Fiesta events. Pueblo people generally refused to participate in the reenactments of the region’s reconquest, but did perform excerpts of their ritual dances, in part because the Bureau of Indian Affairs limited dance as expressions of religious freedom but allowed it at the Fiesta as a part of “an educational and historical entertainment.”63 The conflicting elements of the Fiesta’s celebration contributed to a split between members of the Anglo arts communities, with one group advocating for the region’s Nuevomexicanos and another advocating for the region’s indigenous peoples. The division played itself out in politics through struggles over land and water rights and in continued aesthetic debates over tourism and regional promotion.64 Some Anglo artists resolved the conflict by making the Fiesta an event about themselves. As interest in Hewett’s pageants declined, he had begun charg ing admission. The colony’s members disliked the commercial tone of Hewett’s Fiesta and the way it mimicked the displays of the Harvey Houses and the displays at the exhibition in San Diego. Instead, they favored a group of playful, bohemian elements that did not require admission. The writer Witter Bynner dubbed these events “Pasatiempo,” meaning pastime or amusement. The most famous of these was the 1926 creation of artists Will Shuster and Gustave Bau- mann, an annual burning of an enormous marionette dubbed Zozobra. Shuster credited the Santa Fe New Mexican editor E. Dana Johnson for suggesting the name, which means “worry” or “anguish” in Spanish. Shuster was from Phila- delphia, not New Mexico. Years later he remembered Philadelphia’s Mummers parades as the inspiration for Zozobra, but he also recalled the Yaqui outside Tucson, who burn a scarecrow stuffed with fireworks said to represent the figure of Judas.65 For Anglo Santa Feans sympathetic to Native peoples, the 178 Reducing to Possession second inspiration, with its roots in the Mexican and indigenous communities of the region, held greater sway and became the popular telling of the figure’s origins. Whether inspired by Shuster’s origins or the Southwest’s, the burning of Zozobra and the Pasatiempo events led the Fiesta to become a celebration of the arts colony’s bonhomie as much as it was a celebration of the region’s history of Spanish conquest. Although Zozobra was not their creation, many Nuevomexicanos maintained their connection to the celebration even as economic pressures and opportunities took them away from the state. Those involved in the tourist market saw that the nation’s expanding infrastructure over the 1930s and 1940s could carry them away as easily as it could bring customers. Some artists and craftspeople, like Patrocino Barela, supplemented or alternated between migrant work in Colorado and arts and crafts production. Tourism was a fickle employer and did not make up for the dearth of industrial work opportunities in northern New Mexico. Large numbers responded by moving to California and other booming areas of the wartime and Cold War economy. As one member of the Fiesta Council recalled: “The war came, and the city pretty much emp- tied out of just about every able-bodied man. They went to serve in the war, or they went to seek a better living by working for the shipyards.” The anthropologist Sarah Bronwen Horton describes “whole communities” of New Mexican transplants in the Los Angeles regions of Inglewood, Hawthorne, and the San Fernando Valley. Of this diaspora, some regularly returned to Santa Fe for the Fiesta. In fact, the Fiesta was regularly held over Labor Day weekend so that Nuevomexicanos could return to Santa Fe from other cities.66 Experience elsewhere transformed diasporic New Mexicans’ sense of the event. For some, the city’s transformation over time and the tourists who came to watch the burning of Zozobra drained the meaning from the celebration. The Fiesta, although a celebration of a largely invented past, fed their desire to return to an unchanged Santa Fe. Others embraced their regional origins as they adjusted to new locales. A late twentieth-century New Mexican who played the role of Don Diego de Vargas recalled his college years in New En gland: “People in Massachusetts, they didn’t understand what the Fiesta was about. ‘What are people doing wearing those funny helmets?’ they’d say. No- body knew about the conquistadors, New Mexico’s history. You try to tell them you want to go home for a reenactment of the reconquest, and they look at you funny.”67 Distance, the dearth of high-wage opportunities in New Mexico, and the importance of the Fiesta as a symbol of “home” led many diasporic New T ahe Se rchers 179

Mexicans to support the event even further. “We left behind a culture, a whole way of living,” recalled one New Mexican. “You go anyplace outside of New Mexico, and everything is so foreign. I want to make sure that way of living goes on.”68 That way of living had, however, changed over time. Even diasporic New Mexicans continued to shape the event as participants and observers. Their efforts to keep the Fiesta just as they remembered it actually meant that they fostered change, shifting even the date of the celebration. Change similarly marked the Santa Fe Indian Market. In the original in- carnation of the Fiesta, Hewett had included a fair presenting Pueblo arts and crafts. Between 1939 and 1962, a Fiesta Indian Market continued the Satur- day Indian markets that Chabot and Dietrich had begun in 1936. In 1962 the market’s date shifted so that the Fiesta no longer interfered with it. Although some Native people continued to sell informally at the Fiesta, no Native person expressed an objection to the change in date. That the Fiesta celebrated Native conquest had never endeared the event to Native artists and craftspeople. The emphasis of the market’s governing organization, the New Mexico Association on Indian Affairs, gradually changed as well, emphasizing the arts over political advocacy. In 1959 NMAIA changed its name to the Southwestern Association of Indian Affairs, and in 1993 the organization changed name again, becoming the Southwestern Association for Indian Arts. In 1970 there was $1,835 in prize money. By 2002, the prize money exceeded $65,500, and the total income of the organization was over a million dollars.69 In 2012, SWAIA estimated that customers spent $18 million at the market and another $122 million on hotels, restaurants, and other tourist businesses over Indian Market weekend.70 Indian Market and SWAIA had become independent entities in their own right and major influences on Native arts nationally and internationally. The shared roots of the Fiesta and Indian Market, however, meant that In- dian Market acted to “preserve” indigenous culture through artistic production much as the Fiesta “preserved” the region’s imagined Spanish past. Like the cultural expressions at the Fiesta, the work on display at Indian Market changed over time but under cover of presumably timeless tradition. Consider the working conditions under the portal of the Palace of the Governors, one of the areas used in Indian Market as well as a site for the daily sale of Native crafts. Although Hewett had placed Native people at the center of the region’s public image, many Native people felt unwelcome in Santa Fe, and into the 1930s those vendors who sold their goods under the portal were not allowed access to the museum’s restroom facilities.71 By the 1940s, however, the weekly markets 180 Reducing to Possession that had predated the Fiesta, along with the local and federal support for Native crafts production in the Southwest, had created a substantial audience for pottery, rugs, and jewelry. As jewelers increased their presence under the portal, it became more crowded, and vendors cooperated to create a system for regulating the space. In 1976, the numbers had grown such that the Palace of the Governors sought formal oversight over the market. As early as the 1960s, however, promotional material in New Mexico Magazine suggested that Native people had been selling goods under the portal since the Palace of the Gover- nors was constructed in the eighteenth century. Although working conditions under the portal and at the market had changed continually, the market and the portal sales area appeared in promotional materials as a part of timeless tradition. A similar expectation of timelessness pressed on Native artists themselves. From the beginning of the twentieth century, Native artists from the South- west had traveled to Oklahoma, New York City, Chicago, Los Angeles, Mexico City, Phoenix, and Tucson to study and to exhibit and sell their work. Such ventures often came under the aegis of patrons who wanted to present Native art as preserved primitive tradition. Even the 1931 Exposition of Indian Tribal Arts and a 1941 Museum of Modern Art exhibition, which specifically aimed to present Indian art as “art not ethnology,” contributed to portrayals of Na- tive people and their art as artifacts of timeless primitivism. Similarly, the An- glo Dorothy Dunn, who trained Native artists at the Santa Fe Indian School through the 1930s, restricted her students’ artistic expression to a particular style. As the acclaimed painter and sculptor Allan Houser put it:

You had to pretty much focus in on what she had in mind. . . . She should have given me the chance to study anatomy for instance. But she said; “No, Indians have a natural feeling for action and rhythm.” Now, it’s a good idea, this belief that being Indian is something that you’re born into. But it didn’t help me learn anything about anatomy.

My only objection to Dorothy Dunn was this: she trained us all the same way. “You either paint like this, Mr. Houser, or it’s not Indian art.”72

Houser became part of a movement that by the 1970s allowed Native artists to define Indian art themselves. Some built on the truncated opportunities afforded by instructors like Dunn and travel to exhibitions like those in T ahe Se rchers 181

San Francisco and New York. Others returned from relocation programs or wartime service or job opportunities elsewhere and sought to make a living as artists at home. Dialogue with the Native rights movements of the 1960s and 1970s inspired many. By the 1970s, indigenous artists had begun to forge an indigenous school, market, and aesthetic. The Institute for American Indian Arts (IAIA) opened in 1962 in Santa Fe, with Native artists Houser, Fritz Scholder, and Lloyd New among the faculty. Teachers encouraged young Native artists to explore their identities via their art. New observed that students “knew that they were neither enfranchised as members of American society nor were they living the historic reality of their ancestors.”73 Art in Santa Fe venues began to reflect the IAIA’s new approach. The Phoenix area, although dominated by Anglo-owned American Indian art galleries, showed similar changes, with permanent exhibitions at the Heard Museum on the boarding school experiences of Native people and contemporary Native art. In Santa Fe, IAIA meant that Native presence and Native aesthetic voice in SWAIA steadily increased too. Camping facilities for those who visited Santa Fe to exhibit their work were added in 1958. By the 1950s, the SWAIA board included Indians; a greater number of tribes participated in the market; and beginning in the 1970s Native artists became substantially more involved as judges and organizers. IAIA faculty changed judging categories at the market so that sculpture was divided into prizes for works in wood, stone, and metal rather than prizes for clay figurines and katsina dolls.74 Native people often expressed preference for selling to buyers directly rather than working with traders or dealers as intermediaries who sold their work. Over the 1960s and 1970s, SWAIA banned dealers from the market, and a 1977 court case ruled that An- glos could not hold booths at the market. By the 1990s Native people predominated among the judges for prizes. The present-day market includes a week of events, including lectures, a fashion show, and a film festival, and recent prizes have rewarded work that questions Anglo expectations of Native people.75 Nonetheless, the market’s origins in preservation have dogged the event.76 Judges argued vociferously in the 1980s and 1990s over how to categorize and judge “traditional” and “modern” styles. In 2014, SWAIA’s former operating officer left the organization and formed the Indigenous Fine Arts Market, which was held just a few blocks from Indian Market in part to give artists a wider range of expression. The market also steadily combated vendors who set up booths on the fringes of the official market. Some included Native people who had not qualified for the market. Others were nonindigenous, and still Figure 12. “Get back in your box” silver bracelet, 2011, by David Gaussoin, Picuris Pueblo/Navajo. Photo by Mark Herndon. Like the midcentury artists of the Institute for American Indian Arts, contemporary southwestern Native artists invite viewers to reconsider their expectation of Native identity and Native art. This “traditional” silver bracelet, entitled “Get back in your box,” has turquoise inlaid on the cuff and is capped by a plastic box and toy Indian. T ahe Se rchers 183 others were indigenous peoples from Latin America. Who could and could not participate in the market as an Indian was an ongoing topic of debate. What was and was not Indian art was not resolved. One critic of a recent market lamented that SWAIA shared “only a slice” of the broader reach of contemporary indigenous art when art had the power to do so much more. “SWAIA has an opportunity to be a thought leader—to demonstrate that Native American art is much more than a thing of the past,” she concluded.77 The Santa Fe In- dian Market and Fiesta, however, had emerged as events about the past. Trans- forming the events to demonstrate the dynamism of Native American art and Nuevomexicano culture required hard and honest appraisals of the region’s past and present.

Today, Yesterday, Tomorrow

Nowhere has this appraisal been more necessary than in the realm of racial mixing. The region’s long history of Spanish colonialism resulted in large populations of mixed-race people, sometimes called “coyotes” in local nomenclature. In Mexico, such mixing became a part of the national identity, encapsulated in the word “mestizaje.” In New Mexico and Arizona, however, locals regularly denied mestizaje and its implications for regional boosterism. The region’s so- called racial character had delayed statehood for both states. To embrace mestizaje could suggest acceptance of recent immigration from Mexico or Mexico’s revolutionary tenets. To be a coyote could sometimes mean exclusion from religious and traditional ceremonies in Native communities as well as exclusion from upward mobility and social circles among Spanish-speaking communities. Race mixing was at the heart of the region’s past, but rarely has it been at the heart of the region’s presentation of its past to tourists. Not surprisingly, a particularly intense local examination of race resulted from the Santa Fe Fiesta in the tumultuous years of the 1960s and 1970s, when Americans nationally reexamined the significance of race and Native people increasingly asserted their own standing in national affairs. The Fiesta features a “court” led by a figure playing Don Diego de Vargas and a Fiesta Queen. The court regularly includes Native American “princesses” who are played by members of the region’s pueblos. In 1977 the Eight Northern Pueblos boycotted the Fiesta altogether and asked those coyote members of the Fiesta Council, which plans the event, to resign. They refused, in part because of their investment in 184 Reducing to Possession the event’s Catholic expressions.78 Nonetheless, one still exulted in the pueblos’ challenge: “I wasn’t going to resign. But I felt very proud when that happened. Because the Indians told Santa Fe where to go.” The council modified the celebration of events in 1992 to emphasize peaceful coexistence rather than conquest of Native peoples. The changes mollified only some. A fracas ensued in 1999 when a coyote candidate for Fiesta Queen publicly celebrated her indigenous heritage in her candidate’s speech, lost, and was then asked to serve as one of the Indian “princesses” rather than as a member of the queen’s court, as tradition normally dictated. The candidate publicly criticized the entire event, leading the woman selected as queen to note the irony that she, herself, was a coyote, though she had not chosen to mention her indigenous heritage in her speech. The council’s troubles showed the region’s continued denial of racial mixing. Although the council regularly referred to itself as a family and was com posed of people who display their family crests on the plaza during the Fiesta, the realities of family rarely appeared in the celebration. As one coyote put it: “Being Indian was probably somebody you didn’t want to have in your family. I think we took the place of the blacks in Santa Fe.”79 What about the place of actual blacks in Santa Fe? That the speaker could so easily forget them points to their erasure in histories of tourism of the region. Returning African Americans to our narrative of tourism suggests a different approach to the region’s racial history and remembered past. Some African Americans held a very different view of the region’s history of racial mixing. Although she had celebrated African Americans as Indian fighters and border enforcers, Anita Scott Coleman spoke matter-of-factly about racial mixing in “The Land of Esperanza.” She wrote impressionistically of the region: “The Spanish-American or Mexican native, the first conquerors of Indians, plente- ous whites, and essentially, it is the home of the half-breed, the inevitable outcome, where two or more races meet and mingle in an unaccustomed freedom.” In her view, coyotes did not slink on the margins of the region’s culture. They were instead at the center of its reality. The writer Jean Toomer, whose book Cane occupies a central place in literary analyses of the Harlem Renaissance, not only acknowledged but wrote favorably of the region’s racial mixing. Although his writing on New Mexico remained unpublished, he devoted considerable effort to understanding the region as a place of racial possibility from his first visit to the Taos home of Mabel Dodge Luhan in 1925 to his last in 1947. Toomer, himself from a mixed-race T ahe Se rchers 185

Figure 13. African American tourists pose in front of the Bright Angel Lodge, South Rim of the Grand Canyon, photo by Emery Kolb, 1950–1960, Northern Ari- zona University, Cline Library, NAU.PH.568.7691. Like many American tourists at the Grand Canyon, this group sought out a photograph of their visit by Emery Kolb. African American tourists who drove to the canyon may have taken advantage of the Green Book, which listed hotels that would host black customers. The 1956Green Book listed friendly hotels in Douglas, Kingman, Phoenix, Tucson, and Yuma in Ari zona, and in Albuquerque, Carlsbad, Deming, Lordsburg, Las Cruces, Roswell, Tu cumcari, and Vado in New Mexico, but not in the popular destinations of Santa Fe and Taos.

background, saw in the Southwest’s version of mestizaje the opportunity to envision a new “American race.” He wrote that he felt his heart was at “home” in the Southwest; that the place was “a penetration deep under the skin”; and he fantasized about making his own home there with his white wife, his children, and grandchildren. He wrote, “I tell myself that this geography must in the future as it has in the past produce a great race.”80 Such an identification, one that could move “under the skin,” and “produce a great race,” was available to the tourist as well as the prospective homemaker like himself: 186 Reducing to Possession

Oh traveler, oh modern tourist rolling rubber, as you shuttle to and from auto court in Santa Fe to cabin camp in Taos, from auto motor court in Taos to motel in Santa Fe, stop your car just once where the highway passes the side of the Chama gap, get off the paved road and touch the earth and take into yourself the dust of your people. Those ancient people had red skins, and some dark skins, and a few white. What matter the skin color of them or yourself. They are your people. My people are the people of the earth. Today, yesterday, tomorrow.81

Toomer’s vision of tourism for the region—which he expressed only in his private, unpublished writing—overturned that of the Anglo artist colonies of the region and that of the region’s elite Nuevomexicanos. His too sought transcendence. His too sought attention to the region’s ancient and unique past. While those visions relied on a preserved version of the past, however, his mixed today, yesterday, and tomorrow in chronological disorder. The racial hierarchy that proceeded from colonial visions dissolved, and Toomer replaced them with a vision in which all people were his people, one in which racial mixing was in the soil of the place itself.82

A Party, Not a Revolution

Toomer’s writing on race in the Southwest remained unpublished, but a more public model of mestizaje lay close at hand for southwesterners of all races: Mexico. Mexicans had complicated class and racial hierarchies just as southwesterners did. Indigenous people and their advocates often observed correctly that mestizaje stemmed from Spanish colonialism. Nonetheless, the idea of mestizaje received more regular attention in Mexico in the twentieth century, and Mexicans wrestled more overtly with the racial implications of a colonialist past. With the border so close at hand, and with tourism an increasingly important element of the Southwest economy, southwesterners undoubtedly encountered Mexican reflections on race mixing. In the early twentieth century, tourists at the U.S.-Mexico border, however, more often sought vice districts than they did deep cultural exchange. At the end of 1914, statewide prohibition in Arizona pushed saloons into Sonora, prompting Arizonan reformers to fret over American men whose drunken bouts left their families “in need” as well as “boys and girls of High School age” who “go over and are some times ruined by those trips.”83 In such views, T ahe Se rchers 187 tourism served more to reinforce stereotypes of Mexico as a site of lawlessness and depravity than it did to educate people in cultural and racial difference. In the 1910s and much later in the 1960s, Mexicans sometimes lay the blame for vice on the quality of the tourists rather than the vice districts of the places that they visited. In 1965, spring-break travelers from the University of Arizona in Guaymas, Sonora, burned a beach house, broke several windows, and set off cherry bombs in the hotel bar. The local paper ran the headline: “Unpleasant Presence of Foreign Tourists in Our City: They Behave Like Savages, Abusing the Hospitality Which They Are Given Here.” The episode hurt the reputa tion of University of Arizona students, but the students themselves seemed un repentant. The student paper ran a cartoon of a college student facing a Mexi- can firing squad and a commander with a thick moustache and sombrero. The caption read: “FOR THE LAST TIME, IT WAS A PARTY, NOT A REVOLUTION.”84 The response no doubt solidified the students’ poor reputation as self-centered, rude, and insensitive to real Mexican people and the Mexican past. Other students who traveled in Mexico proved more open-minded and self-aware. In 1966 the Guadalajara Summer Program brought students from forty-one states and 173 different universities first to the University of Arizona for coursework with American and Mexican university professors and then to stays with host families in Mexico. Although students generally encountered only middle- and upper-class Mexican homes, the experience led hosts and visitors alike to question their expectations of each other. American students were often surprised to learn that Mexicans considered American families un- stable and subject to divorce. As they described American culture more accu- rately, Americans also reformed their own views of Mexico. Renato Rosaldo, a professor in the Spanish department at University of Arizona who helped organize the program, said that such exchanges were the point. They promoted “mutual understanding between citizens of Mexico and the United States.”85 Perhaps the best example of how travel could successfully foster new cultural views is the experience of Patricia Preciado (now Patricia Preciado Mar- tin). A native of Tucson, Preciado received a Carnegie Fellowship that allowed her to study in Mexico as a part of her time at the University of Arizona from 1957 to 1960. Few Mexican Americans had the resources to fund study-abroad experiences for their children. Preciado made the most of her rare opportunity and went to Guadalajara the summer after she graduated. Until her fellowship, she had never visited Mexico. Although her father had encouraged her 188 Reducing to Possession to assimilate to white American norms, she found a mentor in Rosaldo and an identity during her study in Mexico. She recalled that after her arrival she thought: “This is my heritage . . . this is who I am.”86 Preciado brought back a critical perspective, one that informed her acclaimed oral history work and fictional writing, including her writing on race. In her short stories set in Tuc- son and elsewhere in the Southwest, her characters move seamlessly between Spanish and English. The stories sometimes mock those in Arizona and New Mexico, like Great-Aunt Doña Petra del Alba Cárdenas Ortiz López del Cas- tillo de la Torre, who pretends to possess a “pure” Spanish heritage and insists “it’s blood that counts.”87 Her writing revealed that even in Tucson, quite close to the Mexican border, the idea of Spanish heritage could overwhelm that of Mexican heritage for regional boosters. Perhaps the best known “Spanish” building was the Arizona Inn. The hotel was built in 1930, one of the last structures in the city reflecting the Spanish colonial revival that had swept California and other parts of the West in the 1920s. The Inn had begun as the Arizona Hut, a furniture shop that employed disabled World War I veterans. The shop was the brainchild of Isabella Greenway, a lifelong friend of Eleanor Roosevelt. Greenway, like so many other Anglo regional promoters, had moved to the area in 1911 for the dry climate. Her husband suffered from tuberculosis. Greenway went on to become an ardent supporter of the New Deal and the first woman from Arizona to serve in Congress. Although she was likely unaware of the impact, Greenway’s politics and cultural expressions contributed to segregation. The New Deal attempted to spur home ownership by federally guaranteeing mortgages, but the Federal Hous- ing Authority believed integration destabilized property values. The FHA refused to guarantee loans in nonwhite neighborhoods. It also led banks to deny loans to people of color seeking homes in largely white subdivisions. As a result, Greenway’s Arizona Inn and its Spanish colonial architecture covered over Tucson’s inequities. By providing a graceful and attractive representation of the region’s Spanish past, it allowed most visitors to the hotel and most Anglo residents of Tucson to look away from the policies that had restricted Mexican Americans to only certain segments of the city, segments often targeted for “urban renewal” that displaced Mexican Americans further.88 Although Green- way had supported veterans, the working class, and the poor, the cultural work performed by her hotel and its architecture allowed city residents to ignore the region’s inequalities. T ahe Se rchers 189

A similar combination of policy and culture restricted opportunities for new migrants of color in Phoenix too. Prior to the New Deal, Phoenix had flaunted its segregation for Anglo tourists and newcomers. The 1920 city direc- tory boasted that Phoenix was “a modern town of forty thousand people and the best kind of people too. A very small percentage of Mexicans, negroes, or foreigners.”89 Over the 1930s, the miserable conditions in predominantly Afri- can American southwestern Phoenix contributed to Arizona experiencing the highest infant death rate in the nation. African Americans and Mexican Amer- icans withstood segregated schooling, movie theaters, and swimming pools in the city.90 African Americans and Mexican Americans were restricted from buying homes in the city’s more posh districts and pushed into slums. They were, according to one observer, “the rejects of a lusty, sprawling, boasting cow-and-cotton town trying hard to become a city” by “veneering itself with the gloss of a symphony orchestra, a Little Theater, and a necklace of resort hotels.”91 World War II required the city’s Anglo leaders to regroup. The war not only increased federal spending and the population of the city, it also forced a new political structure. Corruption led to “fines” on gambling and prostitution that effectively funded city government services. In 1942, however, in what was termed the “Thanksgiving Night Riot,” MPs fired on African American servicemen after one soldier was caught leaving a brothel, a conflict that opened the city’s corrupt financing to scrutiny. City businessmen rallied to end bribes and clear the vice districts. They ultimately formed the Charter Government Committee (CGC) in 1949, which put forward its own slate of candidates for the city council. Republican downtown businessmen predominated in the group, which ultimately included the banker Walter Bimson, the lawyer Frank Snell, future senator and presidential contender Barry Goldwater, and future Supreme Court justice Sandra Day O’Connor.92 The downtown business elite represented in the CGC helped establish a new image for Phoenix, one that attracted tourists and new residents alike.93 Between 1939 and 1940, 35,000 tourists visited the city, but the population remained low: only 65,414.94 By 1960 the population was 440,000. The boom resulted from the growth in high-tech manufacturers who thrived in the Cold War economy, the expansion of air-conditioning, and a steady promotional campaign orchestrated in large part by those represented in the CGC. Industry and air-conditioning went hand in hand. Senator Carl Hayden promoted the region’s clear skies to attract aircraft and later electronics production. 190 Reducing to Possession

Both ensured that newcomers who streamed into the city during the war kept coming when it concluded.95 Business owners and real estate developers like Bimson sought to cool machinery and people alike. Phoenix sold itself as the “Air Conditioned Capital of the World” as early as 1939 when most Phoenicians using electric cooling employed swamp coolers. By 1951 five different Phoenix companies produced swamp coolers, but businesses increasingly preferred re- frigeration cooling or air-conditioning, which proved effective for machinery and people even on Phoenix’s rare humid days.96 Newcomers knew that they would appreciate the air-conditioning because of the city’s new slogan, “Valley of the Sun,” which was coined in 1934. “Valley of the Sun” replaced the far less appealing “Salt River Valley” just as a new advertising wizard, Raymond Carlson, joined the staff of the state’s promotional magazine, Arizona Highways. Carlson fell in among downtown businessmen and connected with Goldwater over the two men’s shared enthusiasm for photography and Arizona history. Carlson introduced lush, colorful photography that appears to have attracted new readers. The magazine’s circulation grew from less than 8,000 in the early 1930s to 250,000 in 1951. Of those subscrib- ers, 150,000 were “vicarious Arizonans” who lived out of state, a regular pool of tourist traffic.97 Arizona Highways made “outdoor living” and the region’s indigenous inhabitants star attractions. Between 1946 and 1955, 85 percent of the magazine’s covers featured the landscapes of northern Arizona or Indian people. The magazine’s promotion grew in dialogue with the political careers of the downtown business elite. Figures like Bimson and Snell made their fortunes building the banks that provided the loans to new, white suburbanites drawn by the growing economy and the magazine’s glossy presentations. Goldwater not only regularly visited with Carlson, he lectured at the Heard Museum, which continues to hold some of his photographs in its Barry M. Goldwater Collection. Over the course of his life, Goldwater also collected over four hundred Hopi katsina dolls, which he donated to the museum in 1969. “Vicarious Arizonans” con- templating a move to the Southwest or reading Arizona Highways or following Goldwater’s political career could imagine themselves living like Phoenicians: thriving in a recently constructed suburban subdivision outfitted with all the latest amenities, commuting to high-paid work in a privately owned car, relax- ing on weekends in their pools, or collecting local arts and crafts on visits to Monument Valley. T ahe Se rchers 191

The editors of Arizona Highways did not imagine their audience as anything other than white. Rarely were jobs in high-tech industries open to African Americans, Mexican Americans, or Native Americans. Air-conditioning was one of the amenities available only in suburban subdivisions, places closed to many nonwhites seeking to own their own homes. Lending practices isolated communities of color and restricted them to housing without modern conveniences. The cycle reproduced itself as rental properties predominated in nonwhite communities, which limited the tax base, which limited public education, which limited the opportunities of those who called those neighborhoods home. Some readers could imagine themselves in the pages of Arizona High- ways, and some likely could not. For a publication that sold the region with timeless pictures of the region’s Native past, however, such pressing present-day concerns likely seemed remote. Phoenix had continued to grow. By 1990 it had a population of 1 million, and Maricopa County had a population of 2.1 million, making it one of the ten largest cities in the country and the largest urban center between Los Ange- les and Dallas. Every boom, however, had its bust. The years following World War II began a cycle in which Phoenicians nurtured housing bubbles, watched them burst, turned back to industry to spur growth, and then fed real estate markets yet again. The result was that Arizona was increasingly a temporary home. The historian Thomas Sheridan has found that for “every ten people who settled in Arizona each year during the early 1980s, seven moved away.”98 The Great Recession of the early twenty-first century pulled the rug out from under Phoenix homeowners yet again, leading thousands of families to scramble for a place to live.99 Such instability allowed even overt racial exclusion in the region to thrive. The rapid turnover meant that local voters were sometimes unaware of corruption in politics and lacked investment in the region. Conveying to city leaders and planners just what kind of living environments they wanted proved difficult for homeowners just trying to hold onto their houses and left little time for building the kinds of public spaces that might have expanded racial understanding. Boosters were shocked in 1993 when the National Football League informed the city that it could no longer be the host of the Super Bowl because the state had failed to ratify a state holiday in honor of Martin Luther King Jr.100 The NFL’s announcement followed a boycott and a sustained campaign to ratify the holiday led by local African American pastor Warren H. Stewart, but 192 Reducing to Possession most Arizonans had not seemed to concern themselves much with their national reputation. Some asked: With African Americans making up only 3 percent of the state’s population, what difference did the holiday make? Where even locals had difficulty setting down roots, envisioning the future could prove difficult.

Conclusion

The definitive interpretation of The Searchers is Richard Slotkin’s in Gunfighter Nation. Slotkin argues that Ford engaged in a subtle bait-and-switch. Ethan ultimately spares Debbie’s life and grants Martin his approval, inviting audiences to reconsider their own racial views as they imagine the story through Ethan’s eyes. But Debbie’s rescue is accompanied by a brutal attack on a Co- manche village. “Once the captive is rescued,” observes Slotkin, “it appears that we no longer need to worry about the morality of attacking villages and are li- censed to treat this one as a free-fire zone.”101 Debbie’s life is spared, but Ethan’s mission has still transformed from “search and rescue” to “search and destroy.” So long as Native people vanish—either through generations of intermarriage and assimilation like Martin’s or through warfare—the United States remains morally and racially pure. The subtle shift in Ford’s narrative obscures another. When Ethan appears in the film we learn that he is an unrepentant Confederate who attacked a Yan- kee stagecoach. His past raises the central racial drama of U.S. history—slavery and its consequence: the U.S. Civil War. Ford rapidly shifts our attention, however, to a different conflict: that between white settlers and Native people. The interracial future that Ford invited audiences to consider was not one that allowed white and black communities to mix, but white and Native ones. At no point do we see Ethan as both a Confederate and frontier soldier, although plenty of actual soldiers were both. At no point do we see the West as it actually was: a multiracial place, rather than a bifurcated one. Does tourism have the power to tell a different story? It’s a tall order. The Southwest is a multiracial place, and it sells itself by selling its history. Much of the history that it peddles is invented or obscured. Although tourists came to see Indians at work, they often missed the work behind the art that they purchased. Fiestas celebrate a cultural harmony in the region that has never existed. Air-conditioning disguises the heat that goes with the light of the Val- T ahe Se rchers 193 ley of the Sun. The sanatoriums from which so many of the region’s boosters launched their visions for the region accepted no African Americans. Tourism is a product of real work, but it often disguises real life. Yet, the curiosity and history that underlie tourism and tradition give them potency to change. Tourists can be curious. Whether they visit Monument Val- ley or Los Angeles, tourists want to know how different people live. Tradition can be enduring. It reminds people of their connections to one another and the past that they share. Art, so often what tourists seek to take home, can channel imagination into new visions for the future. Tourism, tradition, and art have been interwoven in the Southwest for over a century. The power of each directed toward the reality of the region’s history just might be what southwesterners have been searching for. 6 Own It

Race, Place, and Belonging

n Barbara Kingsolver’s novel The Bean Trees, Taylor Greer arrives in Tucson, Arizona, seeking a home for herself and her recently adopted Idaughter, Turtle. She finds the region amusingly beautiful: “We crossed the Arizona state line at sunup. The clouds were pink and fat and hilarious- looking, like the hippo ballerinas in a Disney movie.” Originally from an impoverished town in Kentucky, Taylor knows little of the area and has few resources. As she explains to Turtle: “This is a foreign country . . . Arizona. You know as much about it as I do.” When she casts about for a roommate, she is baffled by the classified ads: “Mature responsible artist or grad student wanted for cooperative household; responsibilities shared, sensitivity a must.” “Female vegetarian nonsmoker to share harmonious space with insightful Virgo and cat.” After a disastrous visit with a New Age household, Taylor finally secures a place to live with a fellow Kentuckian and single mom. She finds work too, at a tire shop with a mechanic named Mattie who provides sanctuary for Central American refugees. By book’s end, Taylor has found, and made, a home for herself and her daughter in Tucson. As she begins to understand the desert city, she and her friends dance in anticipation of a coming rainstorm:

Mattie was counting out loud between the lightning and thunderclaps: six, seven, boom!. . . . four, five, six, boom! Estevan danced with Esperanza, then with me, Own It 195

holding his handkerchief under his arm and then twirling it high in the air—it was a flirtatious, marvelous dance with thunder for music. . . . I couldn’t stop laughing. I had never felt so happy.1

In its arc, The Bean Trees follows the pattern of many of the stories that elite visitors and newcomers to the Southwest tell of their arrival. Seeking a new home or an alternative to what they left behind or a connection with a place and with others, they set out for the Southwest. Delighted and startled by the landscape and its people, they explore further. Some resolve to stay and make their own home. They find common cause with others like themselves and set down roots. By the end of such narratives, they have found a place and a people that they love, a home where they are happy. Kingsolver’s story suggests that such narratives do not apply only to the elite. In Kingsolver’s Tucson, single mothers, the working class, and refugees seek to make a place for themselves alongside sensitive artists, harmonious New Age communities, and the wealthy patrons who frequently made such aspirations possible.2 On the one hand, such newcomers are tourists, but on the other, they seek something deeper. If we broaden our view of such figures we can begin to get a sense of what belonging meant in the twentieth-century Southwest. We can see the moment a place shifts from being an absurd cartoon to a place full of life and connection. The American West contains dozens of places that outsiders have visited seeking a connection and, sometimes, a home. The California Dream has drawn hundreds of millions of settlers and visitors to the Golden State. Even a casual student of the history of the American West is familiar with homesteaders who sought to make a place for themselves on the plains. One is as likely to find a self-described “insightful Virgo” seeking a “harmonious space” in Portland as in Tucson. The Southwest is not unique in this regard. Nonetheless, belonging in the Southwest took distinctive forms as newcomers adjusted to the landscape, the aridity, the ecology, the political geography, and the layers of belonging forged by communities that had settled in the area previously. This chapter asks: What did belonging mean to twentieth-century southwesterners? I use three common categories to address how southwesterners have expressed and experienced belonging in the Southwest: property, stewardship, and sense of place. Like Americans of other regions, people in the Southwest sought to make this region belong to them by buying it. Most often, they bought land, but even transient visitors sometimes bought a souvenir or 196 Reducing to Possession an experience. Others in the Southwest sought to make the place their own by caring for it. At the beginning of the twentieth century, most southwesterners were likely to characterize their care as “development,” but with the rise of the environmentalist movement in the second half of the century, southwesterners increasingly sought to protect or conserve the places that they had begun to call home. Whether they called their work development or stewardship, southwesterners championed their form of care over that of others to justify or claim ownership of the region. Still others turned belonging on its head. Rather than speak of the Southwest belonging to them, they spoke of how they belonged in the Southwest. Those Native communities whose language, spiritual practices, and storytelling regularly traced their origins to the Southwest best ex- emplify the sense of place that bred belonging, but even more recent arrivals have claimed an attachment to the place that originates in the place itself. Of course, ideas of belonging could exclude as well as nurture a sense of home for southwesterners. Property lines could mean a parcel of land belonged to someone and not to someone else. Stewardship could place resources out of bounds for locals to preserve the space for other species or so that a wider audience of humans could experience a place. The storytelling and traditions that made some people feel at home could make others feel out of place. Belonging is as much about exclusion as it is inclusion. It requires as much understanding of distant places as it does places close at hand. It is, ultimately, about negotiating one’s place with others. For people like Kingsolver’s character Taylor, belonging came, not when she successfully rented an apartment, but when she worked and built a home alongside others seeking the same goal.

The Soil Is the Foundation of Everything

Finding a piece of land to call one’s own could be more difficult for some than others in the early twentieth-century Southwest. Race added an extra layer to disputes among southwesterners as to who belonged and who could own land and water rights. For the tiny number of Asian immigrants and Asian Americans in the Southwest, the road to belonging could be especially difficult. Asian immigrants to the Southwest felt the sting of exclusion acutely as southwesterners joined in the national trend to place Asians outside the circle of American belonging. Seizing or restricting land and water rights proved to be a Own It 197 potent tool for preventing Asian Americans from joining the ranks of citizens and landowners. American opposition to Asian immigration intensified throughout the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The 1875 Page Act, intended to prevent prostitutes from immigrating to the United States, was interpreted such that it effectively prevented Chinese women from entry. The Chinese Exclu- sion Act of 1882 was the first immigration act to bar a specific nationality from entry to the United States. In 1907, an executive order prevented Asian migration from Hawaii to the mainland United States, the same year the “Gentle- man’s Agreement” cut off Japanese laborers from immigration.3 In 1917, the United States designated an Asiatic-Barred Zone, across which Asians could not immigrate. Even before the creation of an “illegal alien” category in the 1924 Immigration Act, Asians were effectively illegal aliens in the United States.4 Facing increasing discrimination in California and other Pacific Coast states, Chinese migrated to Arizona and New Mexico or immigrated to Mexico from China and then crossed the U.S.-Mexico border. In fact, the roots of the U.S. Border Patrol lie in late nineteenth-century Anglo American efforts to police Chinese immigrants.5 Exclusion and prejudice kept the number of Chinese Americans small in Phoenix. Boycotts, the threat of violence, and cruel stereotypes made life difficult for those few Chinese who managed to carve out a living as shopkeepers, launderers, railroad laborers, and restaurant workers. A Chinatown emerged. Local press and law enforcement associated the area with crime, vice, and opium use, but for those Chinese seeking to observe their traditional holidays and speak with a countryman, the place could be, if not home, a salve for home- sickness. By 1940, the Chinese population in Phoenix numbered 431, up from 110 in 1910, but still less than 1 percent of the population.6 Not until the repeal of Chinese immigration exclusion laws in 1943 and the expansion of immigration quotas in 1965 did the community have a chance to grow. In 1946, Phoenix attorney Wing F. Ong became the first Chinese American to be elected to a U.S. state legislature, and in 1956 Walter Ong, a successful grocer, was named Phoe- nix Man of the Year. Walter Ong had taught English and citizenship classes so that area Chinese immigrants could become naturalized citizens. Even he had encountered prejudice, though. When his family sought to build a home in the city’s prosperous Camelback Foothills, residents objected. The Ongs might not have been able to build a home in the area at all if protests hadn’t been silenced 198 Reducing to Possession by one of their new neighbors. Barry Goldwater proposed that it was not they who should decide if the Ongs were welcome, but Walter Ong who should “see if he wants us for neighbors.”7 In Tucson, Chinese immigrants met discrimination but also flexible understanding among Mexican Americans at the start of the century. Nineteenth- century Spanish-language newspapers in Tucson criticized the state of Sonora for recruiting Chinese workers and indicated that there was local opposition to intermarriage between Mexicans and Chinese. Arizona antimiscegenation laws classified Chinese as nonwhite and Mexicans as white. Although few took the chance, some couples went to New Mexico to marry.8 A small number even left the country, at a time when many Chinese were trying to enter the United States from Mexico. They made lives for themselves as Mexican, embracing a Mexican identity even when Mexico expelled Chinese communities in the 1930s.9 Still others cooperated with Mexican American neighbors, leasing prop erty when state and national laws made such transactions difficult, and building truck farms, groceries, and restaurants together. Such collaboration facilitated Chinese friendship and kinship, or guan-xi, with Mexican American neighbors. Community ties were more likely to produce the long-term employment and residence necessary for Chinese immigrants to comply with the 1893 Geary Act, which demanded that they obtain a residence permit and register with tax officials.10 Those with residence permits were more likely to be able to stay in places like Tucson and achieve a sense of belonging. No Chinatown developed in Tucson. Rather, Chinese and Mexican American neighbors and allies built communities together.11 Although New Mexico generally fostered fluid racial relationships, the state did not always welcome Japanese immigrants and their descendants. The Gentleman’s Agreement culled laborers from immigrants to the United States, encouraging those Japanese who did immigrate to pursue farming. A series of alien land laws forced California Issei (first-generation Japanese Americans) to leave the state or to buy land in the name of their children (Nisei), who had citizenship rights by virtue of their birth in the United States. Relatively few Japanese made their way to New Mexico, but when Issei pursued land ownership in the Mesilla Valley, they encountered resistance from Anglo and Nuevo- mexicano neighbors. Farming in the arid region had always been difficult, but when the U.S. Reclamation Service dammed the Rio Grande River in 1916, creating the Elephant Butte Irrigation District, farmers felt squeezed by increasing taxes to pay for the irrigation works and the upward pressure on land prices Own It 199 from speculators and more commercial farmers. Resentment and frustration landed on the Japanese residents of the region. Residents of Doña Ana County led a campaign for New Mexico to pass an alien land law of its own. The campaign intensified in the years following World War I, when a nationalist fervor for white homogeneity swept the country and exclusion sentiments peaked. Critics of the Japanese contended that they undersold goods, that they were not Christian, and that they would im- pose their own family structures and gender norms onto local communities. In particular, critics insisted that land ownership be limited to citizens. “The soil is the foundation of everything,” wrote one, “race, family, citizenship, thrift, prosperity, patriotism, success in peace and security in war.”12 Exclusionists were so convinced of the inability of Issei and Nisei to assimilate that some even advocated that the Fourteenth Amendment be altered to prevent the native-born children of aliens from owning land as well. The Rio Grande Republic insisted that the Japanese immigrant “can never become Americanized in a thousand years. . . . He can never become white, he can never be a fit companion for American children in the school. He is not immoral, he is unmoral.”13 Such statements indicated that Mesilla Valley residents believed that whiteness was a precondition for citizenship and that the Japanese could never attain it.14 In 1921, the campaign was successful, and New Mexico amended its constitution so that aliens could not own land in the state. Reactions among Nuevo- mexicano communities were mixed. While some felt secure in their own status as white, others did not. The long campaign for statehood, debates over the relationship between race and language, variable wage structures that meant those designated white were paid more, the uncertain political status of Na- tive people, and the experiences of more recent immigrants from Mexico were all factors of 1920s southwestern life that could give Nuevomexicanos pause when tying land ownership to whiteness. Nonetheless, the measure passed.15 The majority of Nuevomexicanos and Anglos alike had been convinced that the Japanese could not become American. The 1921 Alien Land Act laid the groundwork for later discrimination against the state’s tiny Japanese American population, particularly during the U.S. conflict with Japan in World War II. The case of a group of Japanese American railroad workers in Clovis, New Mexico, well illustrates their secondary status. These Japanese Americans were employed by the Santa Fe Railway, who provided them and their families lodging. As in the Mesilla Valley, the group’s accomplishments became points of criticism in the local community. 200 Reducing to Possession

The railway rewarded the Japanese employees’ hard work with high seniority status, a source of resentment in the small town. In 1922, it was rumored that the Japanese were company scabs during a tumultuous strike. When a detach- ment of Clovis young men began battling the Japanese in the Philippines in 1942, Clovis residents, already suspicious of their Japanese neighbors, turned against them. The railway granted the employees leave, and the U.S. Depart- ment of Justice arranged for their removal to a camp west of Roswell. There, the group languished in legal limbo for over a year. The families attempted to send their children to school in the nearby village of Capitan, but the local postmas- ter and his wife led a campaign against their inclusion. Eventually, members of the group were transferred to different internment camps, including those in Arizona. Some repatriated to Japan. None ever returned to Clovis. There was nothing for them there.16 Local discrimination threatened Japanese Americans again in Santa Fe, New Mexico, where Japanese men deemed “high-risk” by the War Relocation Authority were interned during the war. Twenty-one hundred men were interned at the peak of the camp’s population in June 1945, 10 percent of Santa Fe’s population in the same year. Although the camp opened without significant comment from neighbors, by the spring of 1942 sentiment against Japan and Japanese Americans had intensified in the area. Approximately eighteen hundred New Mexicans were stationed in the Philippines, and many were among those American soldiers who had been captured in a U.S. surrender to the Japanese on the Bataan Peninsula.17 The surrender occurred after a sustained war of attrition, and the Japanese were unprepared for the number of American and Filipino prisoners of war. As prisoners marched from the peninsula to a POW camp, they suffered extreme hunger, disease, and horrific abuse from their captors. The U.S. government estimated that five thousand of the twelve thousand Americans on the Bataan Death March died.18 As word of the losses in the Philippines spread, New Mexicans grew worried and anxious. A mob bearing shotguns and hatchets arrived at the camp in Santa Fe, but the camp commander convinced its members that any action on their part would result in retribution against prisoners in the Philippines and Japan. The group departed, and internees later requested that guards raise the height of the camp’s perimeter fence.19 Like internees at other camps, including those in Arizona at the Gila River War Relocation Center and the Poston War Relocation Center, the Santa Fe prisoners sought to make their experience bearable by changing the camp envi- Own It 201 ronment.20 Most of the internees were older, successful Issei, many of whom had sons fighting in Europe. The average age of the prisoners was fifty-two, and most had worked intensely to succeed in their new country. Suddenly without occupation, they chafed against the boredom.21 One said that establishing the camp was like “fencing a thousand free-spirited mustangs.”22 Roughly a quarter of the prisoners worked jobs. Others played baseball, read books from a limited library, watched movies, made pets of wild birds, and, especially, gardened. A camp administrator joked that “every other week or so we had to dig another root cellar to store the vegetables and one thing and another that they were able to grow.”23 The garden was so successful that excess produce was traded to a hospital, the state penitentiary, and a local supermarket.24 Some internees underscored their American identity when they referred to the truck farm as a “Victory Garden.”25 The Santa Fe camp was hardly home, and no internee claimed it as such, but through endeavors like the camp’s truck farm, internees could demonstrate their belonging to the nation. Historian Thomas Chávez played a prominent role in creating a memorial of the camp, which was finally erected in 2002. Some veterans of the war objected to any remembrance of the camp, but Chávez insisted that the memorial gave the place and its history meaning. “We shouldn’t bury it or ignore it or try to change it, especially in a free country,” Chávez said. “It’s part of our history, part of what makes us us.”26

The Upbuilding of the Nation

Anglo American prejudice against the Japanese frequently took the form of viewing immigrant success as insidious threat. The legal scholar Natsu Tay- lor Saito has described how in such racist logic, “hardworking and industrious becomes unfairly competitive; family-oriented becomes clannish; mysterious becomes inscrutable.”27 The Japanese Americans who could successfully grow a prolific garden may have been especially threatening to those who held such views. Americans had long considered fruitful land the reward for individual industry. In such formulations, property followed land development. Effort con ferred ownership. Homesteading, which allowed American men and women to claim vast swaths of federal land beginning in 1862, perhaps best exemplifies how Ameri- cans sought belonging through agricultural labor. Those who homesteaded, however, did not always pursue land with popular notions of belonging in 202 Reducing to Possession mind. The experiences of women homesteaders in Cochise County, Arizona, reveal the diverse range of belonging secured through homestead claims in the Southwest. Anglo women homesteaded in the county to secure a home of their own or to build on family landholdings. Mexican American women, who, along with their fathers and brothers, faced an influx of Anglo settlers, prejudice, and, beginning in 1909, voting restrictions, homesteaded to buttress their communities’ waning economic and political power. Mormon women, who were legally white but whose religion placed them on the social margins of Ari- zona, sought belonging within and for their communities. Some came to Ari- zona from Mexican Mormon colonies formed when Mormons fled persecution in the United States. They moved to the United States during the Mexican Revolution and sometimes homesteaded to maintain polygamous marriages. For each group, a distinctive form of empowerment and belonging led them to homestead.28 Cochise County women homesteaded for a variety of reasons and formed diverse attachments to the Southwest via their labor, but national presentations of homesteading celebrated the image of the white, Protestant, pioneer woman. Such representations made homesteading and homemaking twin endeavors, not just in remote areas like Cochise County, but in the nation as a whole. Na- tional Irrigation magazine indicated the close ties between homemaking and homesteading when it changed its name to The National Homemaker in 1901. A quotation from Theodore Roosevelt ran in every issue: “Throughout our history, the success of the homemaker has been but another name for the upbuilding of the nation.”29 A reader of The National Homemaker in Cochise County might have imagined her Mormon neighbor homesteading to maintain her distinctive religious community, but a reader in Philadelphia might have imagined the nation as a whole becoming increasingly American under the stewardship of a homesteader’s hand.

Uncle Sam’s Southwest

At the same time and through a somewhat similar national campaign, national audiences claimed the Grand Canyon as American. In fact, there may be no place in the Southwest that Americans have more consistently seen as their own.30 In 1903, at about the same time as women homesteaded in Cochise County and Japanese farmers grew cantaloupes in the Mesilla Valley, President Own It 203

Theodore Roosevelt rode the spur line to the rim and announced that the canyon was one of the “great sights every American should see.”31 In 1905 the Fred Harvey Company’s El Tovar hotel opened steps from the edge of the canyon. Customers could enjoy from their bedrooms a view regularly called “sublime.”32 What El Tovar and other features of the canyon’s tourist landscape sold was the natural history written on the walls of the canyon. The AT&SF, which ran a spur line to the rim and the hotel, advertised: “See how the world was made . . . deep down in the earth a mile and more you go, past strata of every known geologic age. And all glorified by a rainbow beauty of color.”33 El Tovar meant the consistency that tourists had come to expect from the Harvey Houses alongside a place that had attained a mythic status in national presentations. The effects of such an image reverberated across time and space in southwestern tourism. The National Park Service mimicked the hotel’s harmonious blending with the canyon’s environs in other settings, creating an architectural style: National Park Service rustic, sometimes called “parkitecture.” The Harvey Company had continued influence in more immediately material ways as well. When the Grand Canyon passed from the jurisdiction of the U.S. Forest Service to the National Park Service in 1919, the Fred Harvey Company became the official concessioner. For visitors, national park status and the amenities offered by the Harvey Company offered a perfect combination, but locals did not always appreciate the railroad’s and the Harvey Company’s dominance. Residents of Flagstaff, Arizona, engaged in a sustained campaign against the railroad to secure municipal ownership and management of the area’s water supply. Conflict began in the late nineteenth century when the railroad received land containing the area’s springs. Statehood brought the city the bargaining power it needed to build a new reservoir, but the railroad undermined the city’s gains by draining much of the water through its own direct pipeline. Flagstaff had to monitor the railroad closely, especially when tourist traffic to the Grand Canyon picked up in 1919. Finally, drought conditions drove the AT&SF to the bargaining table. The railroad sold the deed to the springs to the town in 1924, and Flagstaff was able to build a second reservoir.34 The AT&SF’s monopoly over the water supply rankled the residents of Flagstaff; the Harvey Company’s dominance did not sit well with rivals either. Prior to the branch line and El Tovar, smaller, locally owned business had begun to vie for tourist traffic. Between 1890 and 1891 a group led by Ralph Henry Cameron, a newcomer to Arizona from Maine, widened the Bright Angel Trail 204 Reducing to Possession to the tourist camp at Indian Gardens below the rim. Cameron’s initial interest in the canyon was mining, but the canyon’s increasing significance to the nation’s self-image led him to the business of tourism and put him at odds with the expanding AT&SF and the Harvey Company. He filed a series of false mining claims in an effort to outmaneuver the railroad. He used his political positions to advocate for his own economic stake in the canyon. The railroad responded and laid its tracks closer to one of Cameron’s competitors. An offshoot of the railroad created another trail—the Santa Maria Trail, which drew visitors away from Cameron’s route. By 1919, Cameron had effectively lost his battle as the National Park Service sided with the railroad and the Harvey Company. He left the state in 1926 when the Los Angeles Times revealed his shady mining deals and one of Arizona’s most enduring political figures, Carl Hayden, defeated him soundly in an election for the U.S. Senate.35 While Cameron kept up a clamor, other local entrepreneurs chafed against the Harvey Company’s dominance even while capitalizing on the tourists whom the company and the railroad brought to the canyon. Of these, the savviest were likely the brothers Emery and Ellsworth Kolb. The brothers first made a living photographing mule trains that made their way from the rim to Indian Gardens. Their greatest insight into the tourist trade, however, was apparent in how they sold their own experience with the canyon. Between 1911 and 1913, over separate journeys, they traversed the entirety of the Colorado River to the Sea of Cor- tez. They filmed and photographed the adventure. Selling reproductions of their journey proved lucrative. As the historian Stephen Pyne has summarized: “Here was Everyman as explorer, describing for a nation of Everymans how they did it and telling the story through popular mediums—a motion picture book, the first really of the modern era. More than anyone else, even more than the Santa Fe Railway, which after all brought in professional writers and painters, the Kolbs transformed the genres of high culture into the medium of popular culture.”36 The Kolbs took the difficulty of outdoor exploration and river running and made it into a commodity that tourists could purchase even if their effort consisted entirely of riding a mule to the bottom of the canyon. To capitalize on the sale of play disguised as work, those independent entrepreneurs who did not have the success of the Kolb brothers sometimes found their way to dude ranches elsewhere in Arizona.37 Although the Dude Ranchers Association founded in 1924 required working ranches for membership, many such ranches focused more on attracting tourists than on raising cattle. Dude ranches boomed in the 1920s around Wickenburg and Phoenix. The businesses Own It 205 took root around Tucson too, feeding on the popularity of the annual Fiesta de los Vaqueros. The Albuquerque writer Erna Fergusson observed in 1940 that “only desert Arizona and California have raised dude wrangling to a high, almost esoteric art. The tourist trade provided a fallback source of income when the ranches’ traditional activities failed to bring in adequate resources. Still called a ranch—a guest ranch—places named from old cattle brands, Flying V, Forked Lightning, Cross Anchor, and Circle Z, offer not only all the comforts, but all the luxuries of both city and country club.”38 The ventures were so successful that dude ranches actually boomed in the 1930s, as most customers were so wealthy that they were shielded from the worst effects of the Depression.39 Southwestern locals without the resources to attend a “guest ranch” could still take advantage of the growing recreational opportunities in the area, many of which came from New Deal efforts. By 1941, the Civilian Conservation Corps had built twenty-seven camps in Arizona. In the country overall, national forest visitors increased tenfold from 1917 to 1937.40 For Arizona and New Mexico, where public lands were common, many of those visitors were local. In 1941, Fergusson praised U.S. Forest Service and National Park Service employees and their stewardship of “Uncle Sam’s Southwest.” She delighted in the national forests, which “give the camper and the hunter forest and game,” as well as the national parks, which, she said, were for “people who can appreciate them.”41 The Kolb brothers, Cameron, El Tovar, the railroad, dude ranches, and the growing role of the U.S. Forest Service and National Park Service showed a significant shift in how Americans understood the Grand Canyon. The nineteenth century had seen the canyon interpreted for the first time through the lens of the Romantic sublime. Explorers like Clarence Edward Dutton and John Wesley Powell not only “discovered” the canyon for nineteenth-century American audiences, they interpreted it as a magnificent and awe-inspiring landscape. Artists like Thomas Moran shared the glory that he, Powell, and Dutton saw in the canyon, especially as viewed from the rim, such that Ameri- cans increasingly viewed the canyon as representative of the nation. The railroad, El Tovar, entrepreneurs like the Kolb brothers, and dude ranches, however, transformed that sublime vision into one far more easily acquired. By 1923, the canyon hosted more than 100,000 visitors a year.42 By 1926, auto traffic exceeded rail traffic to the canyon, and commercial tourism surpassed the individual and far more physically arduous explorations that had marked the nineteenth century. As Pyne observes: “Buffalo Bill tried to flog off the North 206 Reducing to Possession

Rim as a hunting preserve to British nobility; Buffalo Jones became a national celebrity for roping mountain lions out of Kaibab pines; Uncle Jim Owens, government hunter, became a character study for literary hacks like Zane Grey; stuntmen landed biplanes on the Tonto Shelf; Tom Mix rode up Canyon trains for Hollywood’s silver screen. Cultural artifacts scattered like pebbles under the tracks of the Model T’s that swarmed to the rim. The Canyon was less a national oracle than a promotional backdrop.”43 The canyon’s commercial success among tourists did not mean that its popular image would be its only image in the decades to come. As we will see, the canyon transformed yet again, as Americans changed how they valued wilderness and those national parks that they felt contained it. The ascendance of the canyon’s popular image among commercial tourists, however, did transform the message conveyed by regional boosters and enthusiasts. For those like the Kolb brothers, the canyon occupied the center of the Southwest, and its commercialization meant the commercialization of the Southwest as a whole. By visiting the canyon, Americans could own a piece of it. The canyon’s tourist industry was vast, however, and, just as in other places in the Southwest, labor in the Grand Canyon could also confer a sense of ownership. Perhaps the most intriguing overlay of property, labor, and sense of belonging occurred in those parts of the Grand Canyon where Native people worked in the tourist trade. Hopi House, which was adjacent to El Tovar, made tourists feel that they had encountered both a natural wonder and America’s own most authentic people. Designed by Mary Colter, who worked regularly for the Harvey Company, and constructed by Hopis, “the building resembled the Hopi village of Old Oraibi and displayed such accurate details as stair-step buttresses, projecting roof beams, stone roof drains, and chimneys made of old pottery.”44 The structure made the Hopi look like an integral part of the landscape, but no Hopi had lived in the area for years when construction began on El Tovar and Hopi House. Although Hopi origin stories place their emergence from the Earth at the Grand Canyon, the Hopis, like other tourist industry work ers, were drawn to the canyon for the labor opportunities. Like New Mexican Pueblo and Navajo workers of the tourist industry, Hopi House altered Hopis’ relationships with one another and their understanding of their culture. The famous Hopi potter Nampeyo worked in front of El Tovar, showcasing her Sikyatki Revival work to tourists rather than fellow potters. Hopis who performed dances and produced other crafts often gathered in the second-floor apartment of Jane Nichols, a Hopi woman from the only Hopi Own It 207 family of traders on Second Mesa. There, they created new foodways that sub- stituted mutton stew and white flour bread for baked cornmeal gruel, a Hopi staple. As tourist and industrial workers everywhere in the early twentieth century had, the Hopis who worked at Hopi House balanced the demands of their industry with their desires to maintain connections to home, religious practices, and language.45 The Hopis may have felt a sense of belonging at Hopi House, not just because they traced their origins to the canyon, but also because they had made it their modern home and workplace. An even more complicated overlay of belonging, ownership, and labor marked the Havasupai experience in the modern Grand Canyon. Unlike the Hopi, the Havasupai had a long continuous history in the region. They had traditionally split their year between homes on the rim and agricultural fields on the floor. In 1893 the federal government appropriated the lands on the rim, and the Havasupai were forced into a side canyon southwest of the Grand Can- yon called Cataract (Havasu) Canyon, the smallest reservation in the United States.46 Although the Havasupai continued to return to the rim for hunting, the National Park Service increasingly restricted them, at one point effectively forbidding them from leaving their reservation altogether.47 Nonetheless, through the 1920s, the Havasupai supplemented their agriculture with hunting, ranching, and wage work on the rim. Havasupai also worked in road and trail construction and built the Kaibab Bridge in 1928. Although their original homes were closer than those of the Hopi, they too negotiated the pressures of modern wage labor and their commitments to maintaining their spiritual, agricultural, and hunting practices in a place where they felt that they belonged.48 Because their labor for the park was not picturesque, however, the Havasu- pai received little attention as indigenous people. What attention they received was generally negative, as Havasupai hunting practices were at odds with the U.S. Forest Service conservation policy on the rim. As the historian Karl Jacoby has observed, “Conservation at the Grand Canyon more closely resembled the colonial conservation regimes that the British and other European powers were imposing in Africa and Asia at this time—a unilateral assertion of state authority over a politically disempowered indigenous population.”49 As tourism grew on the rim, the Havasupai became less and less visible. In fact, so peripheral were the Havasupai to the image of the Grand Canyon marketed by the Har- vey Company and the National Park Service that they did not receive housing in Grand Canyon Village until 1939, long after the Park Service had built housing for other personnel. As the historian Hal Rothman has concluded, “The 208 Reducing to Possession

Hopi were central to the public scheme of the Grand Canyon, but the Havasu- pai remained on its intellectual and cultural periphery.”50 Conflicts at the canyon in the early twenty-first century showed the ongoing effects of Americans claiming a scenic wonder on Native lands as their own. In 2012 the Hopi issued a formal statement objecting to a massive development scheme, the “Grand Canyon Escalade,” to build a 430-acre tourist site with a gondola connecting the canyon’s rim and floor. Hopi chairman LeRoy Shin- goitewa cited the sacred significance of many of the canyon’s sites to the Hopi and other Native people and quoted from Theodore Roosevelt’s statement about the canyon in 1903 to express his objections: “In the Grand Canyon, Arizona has a natural wonder absolutely unparalleled throughout the rest of the world. I want to ask you to keep this great wonder of nature as it is now.”51 Native people were not unanimous in their opposition to commercial development at the canyon, however, with some seeing the project as a source of more tourist dollars. A similar debate preoccupied the Hualapai, who had partnered with a developer to build a glass bridge extending from their reservation seventy feet over the canyon. The Skywalk was completed in 2007. Proponents called it an engineering marvel that brought the tribe needed revenue. Opponents called it the “equivalent of an upscale carnival ride” and said that it contributed to the crass commercialization of the canyon at the expense of quiet contemplation of its natural wonder.52 Both sides were drawn into a protracted court battle between the Hualapai and their developer partner when the Hualapai exercised eminent domain to take over the bridge and their partner sued.53 Just who owned the bridge and the tourist dollars that came with it was subject to debate. The arguments over the Escalade project and the Skywalk show how Amer- icans had increasingly come to regard the canyon as wilderness. As we will see in greater detail later, environmentalist concern over the health of rivers drove southwesterners away from dam construction and toward coal-powered plants on the Navajo reservation. The concern reflected a new value ascribed to the canyon. Before 1963, fewer than a hundred people had rafted through the canyon. By 1972, 16,400 were on the river, and the National Park Service began issuing permits. As outdoor enthusiasts and environmentalists rallied to protect the Colorado River, the river and the canyon became one in the public imagination. The photographer Philip Hyde summed it up this way: “You cannot grasp the scope of the Grand Canyon from the rim, however you try. It is at the meeting of the river and the rock that those little things happen that make the landscape have meaning and sympathetic scale.”54 Visitors marveled at the Own It 209 breathtaking labor that the river had exerted in carving the rock away. While earlier generations had championed their own labor in developing the land, late twentieth-century environmentalists praised the work of nature itself and sought its protection. The canyon had become wilderness, and wilderness, many environmentalists insisted, could not protect itself.55 Environmentalist concern shifted conversations about ownership and stewardship in other parts of the Southwest as well. Frequently, the topic of wilderness caused friction between environmentalists and ranchers. At their worst, such conflicts degenerated into polarized debates that pitted protection of public lands against economic use. In some cases, however, an elaborate overlay of government agencies and private interests managed public lands in the South- west with the input of all parties. In fact, as we have seen in the story of Aldo Leopold’s work in the Gila National Forest, the very idea of a wilderness area had emerged from the complicated context of southwestern land use. That context and the idea of wilderness shifted rapidly in the years between World War I and the passage of landmark national legislation, the Wilder- ness Act of 1964. In 1918, Leopold left the U.S. Forest Service to work on land conservation measures through the Albuquerque Chamber of Commerce, but he returned in 1919 to develop more recreational opportunities in national forests. He was spurred in part by an ongoing rivalry between the National Park Service, which had formed in 1916, and the U.S. Forest Service, which had lost some of its lands to the Park Service as park holdings soared in popularity. His proposal for a Gila wilderness area in 1921 and his bowhunting trip with his wife in 1923 overlapped with a shift to cattle ranching from sheep ranching in northern New Mexico, where he had supervised the Carson National Forest. Disputes over cattle and sheep grazing permits festered throughout the lean years of the Great Depression and following World War II. With the publication of Sand County Almanac in 1949, Leopold’s ideas of wilderness and a land ethic were ascendant and took off among wilderness advocates in the postwar period. In the same years, the Forest Service found itself the target of preser- vationists and wildlife groups because increased demand had led the agency to increase timber production on forest lands. Their criticism, Leopold’s notion of a land ethic, and the rising attachment of Americans to the idea of wilderness culminated in the Wilderness Act of 1964, which established wilderness areas to be protected from resource development.56 The worst clashes to emerge from the multiple uses of public lands and shifting ideas of wilderness occurred in the Carson and Santa Fe National Forests 210 Reducing to Possession following World War II. Leopold himself had increased the number of permits required for hunting and fishing in the Carson National Forest. Such rules were fine for families like his wife’s, who could afford them, but they could be a significant burden on the poor and rural working class. Residents of Truchas and Quemado, New Mexico, found themselves increasingly beholden to Frank Bond, a wealthy sheep dealer who either bought out residents’ permits or took a portion of their wool as payment for grazing rights.57 Disputes over grazing and timber permits fed Hispano frustration from the 1930s through the 1960s and contributed to Reies López Tijerina’s 1967 Tierra Amarilla County Courthouse raid, which prompted reforms in the Forest Service permit system. Meanwhile, wilderness enthusiasts, most of them locals from the cities of Albuquerque and Santa Fe, began arriving in the Carson and Santa Fe Na- tional Forests for recreation. By 1960 backpackers had surpassed horsemen in the high country, and local ranchers watched them “with amusement and sometimes with resentment.”58 As the Forest Service became more sensitive to the desires of local Hispanos and more politically adept, that resentment passed from the Forest Service to an environmentalist group called Forest Guardians. Forest Guardians used a variety of legislative and legal tactics common to other environmental groups, but it was best known for its advocacy of zero-cut and zero-grazing policies. In 1995 a group of Hispano protesters in Santa Fe hung Forest Guardian leaders in effigy while chanting “¡Que Viva el Norte!” Much had changed since the beginning of the century, but Hispanos and environmentalists alike clung to narrow definitions of tradition, wilderness, and belonging that made compromise virtually impossible.59 Resentment extended to recreational activities like skiing. Southwestern ski towns particularly reveal the hazards of ignoring human communities when developing or conserving natural ones. Like most ski resorts, the Taos Ski Valley in New Mexico has long catered to predominantly white customers. Founded in 1954, the resort catered exclusively to downhill skiers until 2008, when it opened the mountain to snowboarders. In the 1950s, it employed only one Na tive American as a ski instructor, an Aleut from Alaska. He encountered resistance as he sought his own place on the mountain. “[The ski instructor ex- aminers] couldn’t see an Indian skiing better than they did,” he remembered. “I always had to beat them in a race to prove myself, and they didn’t like that either.”60 Other Native people and Nuevomexicanos worked behind the scenes constructing lifts and moving equipment, and members of both groups cer- Own It 211 tainly skied there, but the valley presented itself as most ski areas in the United States did: as a playground for white Americans.61 The disjuncture between the potential diversity of skiers and the presentation of the valley prevented the kind of local investment in the ski area that occurred nearby in some of Colo- rado’s ski resorts.62 The erasure of people of color from the valley extended even to those who lived near the resort. In 1981 Forest Service officials issued two environmental impact statements (EISs) assessing the effects of expanding the ski resort, most of which lies within national forest land located approximately twelve miles from Taos, New Mexico. Although local communities had complained about sewage contamination of the Rio Hondo River from the expanding resort, neither statement surveyed downstream villages. No plan emerged that did not accommodate the continued expansion of the resort.63 That the majority of the village residents were Nuevomexicanos only furthered local sentiments that outside Anglo developers cared little for their new neighbors and that government favored development over collaborative conservation. By the mid-1990s New Mexican cars sported bumper stickers reading “Free Taos,” a supportive reference to snowboarders who wanted access to the mountain, and “Why Call It Tourist Season If We Can’t Shoot ’Em?” a reference that likely needed no explanation for locals. Such bitterness and stalemate were not inevitable. Across the Southwest multiple parties often found common cause. Scientists used public lands to test new crops. Ranchers used public lands for grazing. Tourists used public lands for recreation. Many of the users—from Bureau of Land Management officials to the U.S. Forest Service to Sierra Club members to local ranchers—sought the long-term care of the land. Though often at odds, they were more often than not united by a common desire for stewardship. By the end of the twentieth century, diverse coalitions had begun to form to manage remote public lands. Called community-based collaborative conservation groups (CBCCs), the organizations had their roots in a 1991 fire near War- ner and Wendy Glenn’s Malpai Ranch on the border of southeastern Arizona and southwestern New Mexico. The fire posed no threat to the ranch, so the Glenns asked the Forest Service to let it burn, but the agency put it out anyway. Seeking a more communicative and collaborative relationship with the Forest Service, the Glenns invited ecologists and political activists to join them. The group embraced the idea of a “working wilderness” in which humans cooperated 212 Reducing to Possession

Figure 14. Malpai Borderlands Group, 1994. Photo by Jay Dusard. Public land management has required collaborative work among ranchers, farmers, hunters, fishermen, hikers, campers, and firefighters throughout the twentieth century. In the 1990s, the Malpai Borderlands Group formed to collaboratively manage the “working wilderness” of the area with all affected parties, including private ranchers, government agencies, environmental organizations, and even plants and untamed animals. with “untamed communities of plants and animals.” They saw a “conversational common ground that unites all of us who love the land.” They invited federal and state land management agency representatives to join them at meetings where they discussed “a coordinated, comprehensive ecosystem management approach” to fire and erosion. In 1994, the Malpai Borderlands Group formally organized itself as a nonprofit and began implementing the conservation strategy that it had coordinated with others. The group has even been successful in convincing ranchers to cohabit with wolves, perhaps the most reviled of predators for ranchers. (Leopold himself promoted wolf hunting during his time in New Mexico, believing it to be wise conservation. He later revised his view. His elegy for a mother wolf and her cubs is one of the most oft-quoted passages of Sand County Almanac.)64 CBCCs have since spread across the American West. Whether they will be successful in nurturing what they call the “radical center” Own It 213 remains to be seen, but they have a distinct advantage over earlier generations in that they see the land and its human communities as of a piece.65

Sensing Place

If collaborative conservation, environmental impact statements, and other cooperative efforts to manage lands in the Southwest are to be successful, they will need to assess how southwesterners have built a sense of belonging in the past. Those Southwest individuals and communities that draw from their sense of place show a physical connection to the land and water, distinctive languages and traditions that unite them with specific locales, and a faith that connection to place fosters wisdom and integrity. Popular culture frequently portrays Na- tive people as one with the natural world, but the cosmologies that unite indigenous people with the places that they call home take sustained and difficult effort. Other southwestern communities have engaged in the same endeavor and have forged a sense of place, not just from years of living and working in one locale, but also in response to events and transformations of the modern age. Their example suggests that belonging requires more than property and more than stewardship. It requires connection to human and natural communities alike. And it might require stories. The stories of the Western Apache offer clues to understanding the difficult process of sensing place. The Western Apache give distinctive names to the places that make up their home in Arizona, names that evoke stories about the place and the Apache who have lived there. Places like She Became Old Sit- ting, Trail Extends Across a Red Ridge with Alder Trees, and Trail to Life Goes Up can impart lessons that temper impatience, curb adolescent risk-taking, or encourage perseverance.66 As the anthropologist and rancher Keith Basso has shown, the Western Apache language itself conveys the importance of places and the stories that they contain. In Western Apache the adage “wisdom sits in places” contains the classificatory stem that applies to watertight containers or a ball filled with air. The Western Apache speak of “drinking” from the places to acquire wisdom. The process is not so simple as merely sitting and listening to stories. It requires resolution, learning the names of places in Apache, repeating the stories attached to each place, and continual return to places to reflect on their narratives’ meaning.67 One does not so much acquire a sense of place as actively work for it by regularly sensing one’s place in the landscape. As Basso 214 Reducing to Possession has concluded: “The landscape in which people dwell can be said to dwell in them.”68 The Kiowa writer N. Scott Momaday has described the process similarly: “The native American ethic with respect to the physical world is a matter of reciprocal appropriation: appropriations in which man invests himself in the landscape, and at the same time incorporates the landscape into his own most fundamental experience.”69 Reciprocal appropriation with the landscape is not an easy task, and not all Western Apache or all Native people have managed it. Nonetheless, other southwesterners have undertaken the difficult task of sensing place too. Nuevomexicanos have adopted an outlook similar to that of the Western Apache in their understanding of spiritual pilgrimage sites. The most surprising of such sites is the Santuario de Chimayó in northern New Mexico, which continues to have deep spiritual significance for New Mexicans despite its national popularization as the American Lourdes.70 Each year thousands walk to the shrine during Holy Week. Some cover over a hundred miles, and a small number make the last leg of the journey on their knees. Some come to fulfill a promesa, a promise of a demonstration of devotion for an answered prayer. In 1946, all but two of the two hundred surviving New Mexican members of the artillery battalion that had been captured by the Japanese and forced on the Bataan Death March made the pilgrimage to Chimayó. Many said their promise to make the pilgrimage kept them alive as POWs.71 The New Mexico Tourism Bureau advertises the site widely, and as many as three hundred thousand visit annually.72 Nonetheless, those New Mexicans who undertake a pilgrimage usually point to faith, and not the tourist industry, as their motivation. The history of the site indicates how pilgrims may have formed their sense of place. The shrine is located about twenty miles north of Santa Fe on a hill sacred to Tewa Pueblo people and possessing three key features: a cave at the top, a spring at the base, and a view of the four Tewa cardinal direction mountains.73 According to his granddaughter, around 1810 Bernardo Abeyta was drawn to a light emitting from a hole in the ground near the hill in which he found a crucifix of Our Lord of Esquípulas. Abeyta attempted to place the crucifix in a niche of the church at Santa Cruz, but it repeatedly disappeared only to be found again in the hole. In 1813, Abeyta build the santuario over the hole itself. Esquípulas was a well-known pilgrimage site in Guatemala where the Catholic Church had built a basilica on a Mayan trade and pilgrimage route. The site was known for containing healing dirt, which pilgrims ate or mixed with water. The Chimayó shrine soon lost the name Esquípulas and became associated with Santo Niño de Atocha, a patron saint of travelers. Nonetheless, pilgrims continued to collect Own It 215 dirt from the hole at the sanctuary if they sought healing, and many pilgrims believe still that the hole replenishes itself, despite the fact that church officials publicly explain that they refill it. Nuevomexicanos made pilgrimages to the site at least as early as the 1890s, well before it drew the interest of Anglo boosters and artists with ties to the tourist industry. In fact, the labor of the pilgrimages and the maintenance of the Santuario in local culture suggests a repudiation of Anglo dominance of land and other resources. As the scholar Steve Fox has argued, the story of the returning crucifix falls within the “refuse to leave” genre of legends and allows Nuevomexicanos to insist: “We belong here!”74 Perhaps the most eager and most maligned of those who have sought a sense of place in the Southwest are hippies. Hippies flocked to the region in the late 1960 and 1970s to join communes and seek out alternative ways of living. Although drawn by popular depictions of Native Americans and Native relationships to nature, they sought more than a passing brush with cultural difference. In many cases, they did want their own property, but land was a means to the ends of stewardship and belonging. Hippies who joined communes rejected conformity. They often sought to build different economies more “in tune” with nature. The members of southwestern back-to-the-land communes sometimes tried to sustain themselves entirely through their own farming. Others focused on pragmatic tinkering to build technology appropriate to the landscape and its conservation. All appear to have sought that reciprocal appropriation with the land described by Momaday, a sense of place. Significant contingents were inspired by Stewart Brand, a veteran and photographer who later created the long-running magazine Whole Earth Catalog. Brand had worked as a photographer for the Department of the Interior under Stewart Udall and nurtured a lifelong interest in Native Americans. Between 1962 and 1966, he began experimenting with LSD, traveled extensively in the American West, organized a series of “happenings,” and formed what historian Andrew Kirk has called his “eclectic worldview, with a hidden logic.” Toward the end of his travels (which are described in part in Tom Wolfe’s The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test), he met an Ojibwe woman who would become his wife. His travels and interests culminated in 1965 in a multimedia event that combined Indian dancers and multiple soundtracks and movie projectors playing simultaneously. Brand called the event: “America Needs Indians.”75 Brand had hit on a deep longing in the white American psyche of the mid- twentieth century. Like visitors to the greater Southwest who sought out Na- tive American arts and crafts, hippies felt that they needed American Indians 216 Reducing to Possession to complete their lives. Some hippies were directly inspired by Brand. Jack Loeffler had encountered “America Needs Indians” before he chose to live for a while in a Navajo hogan. Later, he became an ethnomusicologist specializing in indigenous music of the Southwest and advocated for Hopi and Navajo people displaced by the Peabody Coal Company lease on Hopi and Navajo lands. Others, like Peter Coyote, a member of the San Francisco-based anarchist im- prov group the Diggers, sought out the Hopi for spiritual guidance. Artist Bill Gersh moved to New Mexico from Berkeley, California, where he had grown frustrated with the local counterculture scene. Gersh felt life should consist of more than taking psychedelics and, while supportive of Black Power, felt there was no place for him among the Black Panthers in Oakland. He hoped that “coming to a place like Taos would give more of a spiritual backbone. . . . You meet an Indian on the street and you start talking to him and you know something ancient was here.”76 Figures like Loeffler, Coyote, and Gersh brought others to the Southwest who began forming their own places. Gersh lived first in a racially diverse community, the Reality Construction Company in Arroyo Hondo. Gersh called it “a quasi-radical inter-racial nuthouse [that thought it was] going to save the world with anarchistic philosophy.”77 In 1971 he moved to the Magic Tortoise Foundation, which he helped found in Questa, north of Taos. Loeffler held a peyote party that attracted Brand as well as New Yorkers Steve and Bar- bara Durkee and Max Feinstein. Two long-lasting communes near Taos, New Mexico, emerged from the party: the Durkees founded the Lama commune, and Feinstein was instrumental in the founding of New Buffalo, which the scholar Lois Rudnick has called the “archetypal hippie commune.” New Buf- falo appeared in the 1960s classic filmEasy Rider and was profiled in the magazine Playboy, where the article’s author called American Indians “the original hippies.” Many of those who sought out communes in New Mexico in the 1960s and 1970s wanted to forge new ways of building shelters and using the land. Like many other Americans, they had great faith in the capacity of technology. Un- like many Americans, they wanted to integrate technology into a distinctive environmental ethic. In March 1969, hundreds gathered in La Luz, New Mex- ico, for an event they called Alloy, “the first programmatic gathering” of “outlaw designers,” where they discussed alternative housing and energy, performed magic shows, and oversaw art projects for children.78 The location was not an accident. Many communes had formed in the state. As Brand put it: “More Own It 217 of the interesting intentional communities are there so more of the interesting outlaw designers are too.”79 Participants at Alloy included Steve Baer, who founded the design company Zomeworks in Albuquerque, New Mexico, which designed geodesic domes. Baer also worked in solar energy design and became a long-term collaborator with Stewart Brand on the Whole Earth Catalog, a magazine targeted at the “baling wire hippies” drawn to New Mexican communes as well as at a larger swath of Americans seeking to make “the home a more ecologically sustainable place.”80 New Mexican locals had mixed reactions to communes. Although some Native people supported peyote use as a part of the Native American Church, they found its use distasteful among hippies. Some rejected all drug use, and worried that hippies on communes would introduce their children, not just to peyote, but also to LSD and marijuana. Other locals observed commune dwellers’ difficulty living sustainably in the high desert and complained about their reliance on food stamps and the health conditions of their eclectic housing. Publications catering to the counterculture warned prospective newcomers that the local Nuevomexicanos had conservative social views and looked askance at nudity and free love. Sometimes, communication simply went awry, a not surprising outcome among hippies who prided themselves on their unorthodoxy. In 1969 Santa Clara Pueblo evicted one group by gunpoint after initially agreeing to lease the hippies land. Far from a promised land, communes in northern New Mexico challenged their residents to negotiate regularly with locals who considered them unwelcome and burdensome. As the underground paper Astral Projection warned prospective newcomers, New Mexico was “NOT a Mecca on the Mesa—it’s the Ghetto of Mecca.”81 The discrepancy between what commune dwellers wanted and the realities of southwestern life also interfered with political coalition-building between hippies and locals. Hippies brought genuinely successful alternative housing options to the region and favorable national attention to American Indians and struggles like the campaign for Blue Lake and Black Mesa. Nonetheless, like those in the artist colonies that had preceded them, they often were ignorant of the history and diversity that made for bitter competition over land and water in the Southwest. El Grito, a northern New Mexican Chicano advocacy paper, cautioned hippie newcomers: “It cannot be said too often: there is a long, hard political and economic struggle in these beautiful mountains, a struggle for land and justice. That struggle calls for fighters and supporters, not refugees with their own set of problems. You may see the scenery and relief from an 218 Reducing to Possession oppressive America. We see a battleground against oppression.”82 Many possible points of connection existed in the Southwest for hippies and locals, but strong ties required significant investment. The problems of modern life—from traffic to waste disposal to energy consumption to the challenges of forming communities among racially diverse groups—persisted no matter where hippies settled. Those who recognized that with the promises of the region also came responsibilities thrived. The historian Sherry Smith observes that by 1971 “Taos fever” had passed, but that many of the contributions hippies had made to local and indigenous communities endured. Ecological design and alternative energy development in the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries built on the foundations established during Alloy and in the pages of the Whole Earth Catalog. Lama still functions as an ecumenical spiritual retreat. New Buffalo continued into the 1980s, when it became the headquarters of the sustainable Native Agricul- tural Center, a nonprofit that saves indigenous seeds. Later, it functioned as a bed-and-breakfast that operated until the close of the century. Lama and New Buffalo persisted, perhaps because they recognized that the stories and land management that create a sense of place are not fixed in a permanent past. They accrete. Even recent history can be a part of what gives places meaning and the people who live there a sense of belonging.

Cuoncl sion

Consider the example of the Fukuda family, who settled in northern New Mexico in the early 1970s. Hiro and Shohko met at the Tama Fine Arts In- stitute in Tokyo. Hiro first visited the United States in 1966 to photograph hippie love-ins in San Francisco. He “fell in love with all the social ferment he witnessed,” and Shohko and their daughter Ayame moved to the United States in 1967.83 The Fukudas traveled across the western United States, living in their van, collecting edible plants, and fishing in the rivers. They visited Monument Valley, the Grand Canyon, Death Valley, the Petrified Forest, and the Painted Desert. “My parents were hippies,” wrote Ayame, “and this is the kind of life they wanted then.”84 In 1971, drawn like so many other artists to the light, the Fukudas settled in northern New Mexico. In the small village of La Madera, they received free rent in exchange for tending their landlady’s sheep and chickens. The Fukudas had studied macrobiotics, and with support from Own It 219

Sensei Masahilo Nakazono, the founder of Santa Fe’s Kototama Institute and an aikido instructor and acupuncturist, the Fukudas established a natural foods store. The store didn’t thrive, but a successful food cart at Fiesta weekend in 1976 did. The Fukudas started Santa Fe’s first Japanese restaurant, Shohko Café, in the same year, and it has remained in business ever since. As Ayame marveled: “Tourists come to Santa Fe for its famous green chile dishes, its sopaipil- las with honey and butter, its posole and chile con carne. Who comes to Santa Fe for its sukiyaki? The survival of a restaurant in any environment like this is a success story entirely dependent on local clientele.”85 Ayame could have pointed to other qualities that led to the restaurant’s lon- gevity. Her parents’ financial investment first in their store and later in their restaurant helped the family to put down roots. Their understanding of the wider region’s plants and landscape helped them to open the store in the first place, and their significant labor contributed to the restaurant’s success. As artists, Hiro and Shohko both appreciated the landscape with aesthetic sophistica- tion and originality that created long-lasting memories for their daughters. The Fukudas had invested in property, learned some of the ways to care for and appreciate the landscape, and begun to form a sense of home in their adopted city. But other local qualities added to Ayame Fukuda’s sense of belonging too. The easy bilingual mix of Spanish and English (“O.K. people, why don’t you catch up on your socializing otra vez? Ayame, ¡cállate y sinetete!”) made her own family’s mix of languages seem typical.86 Ayame mastered Spanish slang that she learned on the playground and found her way around according to landmarks “like the riverbed behind the old 7–11 where Hickox meets Agua Fria” that featured in her teachers’ stories.87 Her teachers told of “a very old Santa Fe, a place where the ancestors of my classmates became mythical figures, where ghosts inhabited the arroyos and the inner adobe walls of houses I walked past every day.”88 Such stories gave Ayame’s hometown meaning and allowed her to begin telling stories of her own. Ayame’s upbringing was not without racist encounters. Customers naively inquired why the restaurant did not serve fortune cookies, a Chinese Amer- ican, not Japanese American, restaurant dessert, and she attributes the little pronounced racism that her family experienced to the small numbers of Asian Americans in the region and the fact that for years they were “very poor . . . and therefore not much of an economic threat.”89 Ayame knew that she was different, but knew that difference did not preclude belonging. Once, a Native American stranger in a tall black cowboy hat shouted down to her from the 220 Reducing to Possession balcony of the Ore House, “Hey! Hey you! What’s your name? What tribe you from?” Only eight years old, Ayame scurried away, but smiled. “I felt that for once, I belonged, even if by mistake, I had a tribe.”90 Shohko Café still serves tempura green chile, a dish Shohko first began preparing when the family lived in La Madera. The restaurant also serves sushi. The local and the global comin- gle on the restaurant’s table. Ayame ended one of her reminiscences about her upbringing with a memory of her father. Hiro had found a perfectly preserved fossilized fish in a black rock, a remnant of the ancient oceans that had once covered the New Mexican landscape. Recalling its beauty and the millennia that it had rested in the rocky ground, Ayame concluded: “A fish out of water in the high desert of New Mexico is always at home.”91 Part IV

The Theater of All Possibilities

n Oracle, Arizona, sits a curious structure. Composed of arched corridors, domes, and towers with rounded tops, the Ibuilding, called Biosphere 2, stretches over the length of three football fields. Some describe it as a space-age castle. Inside are models of the biomes of Earth—a savannah, a tropical rain for est, and even an ocean. The University of Arizona owns the structure, and there scientists study climate change and its effects on the terrestrial water cycle. The project is supported by funds from Texas financier Ed Bass’s Philecology Foundation, a nonprofit whose name means “love of nature,” a play on philanthropy, liter ally, “love of humans.” Anyone encountering the peculiar building in its stunning setting at the foot of the Santa Catalina Moun- tains outside Tucson, Arizona, would be tempted to ask: how did it get here? It has passed through many hands. Before the University of Arizona acquired it in 2007, a real estate development firm briefly considered tearing down the structure and building a posh subdivision and hotel. Prior to the property being offered for sale, Co- lumbia University oversaw the space between 1995 and 2003. Like the scientists who work there today, a team of investigators charted 222 The Theater of All Possibilities the effects of climate change and the effectiveness of strategies such as carbon sequestration. Prior to Columbia’s management, Biosphere 2 had been a closed system in which the plants, animals, and humans inside the structure created their own atmosphere and environment. Massive shades, pumps, and electrical systems allowed those at the site’s “Mission Control” to shape the tides of the ocean, the heat of the savannah, and the showers over the rain forest. In a way, they had the world in their hands. The closed system, however, had not always functioned ecologically or economically as well as its designers had hoped. The first mission in Biosphere 2, composed of eight people, had intended to test the possibility of a life- sustaining environment in space and to develop strategies to counter the destruction of Earth’s own biomes. They called their creation Biosphere 2 because its designers considered Earth to be the first biosphere. The mission lasted two years, from 1991 to 1993, but residents had difficulty growing enough food and maintaining adequate oxygen levels. The team split bitterly during the mission, and resentments lingered for decades. Meanwhile, the project required continual injections of funds. When the first mission’s group emerged from Bio- sphere 2, the project had cost $150 million, $120 million over the original budget, and operating costs had run between $50 and $75 million. Ed Bass’s Space Bio- sphere Ventures, which had financed the building, had planned on the structure someday making a profit. How exactly was never clear, though, even in presentations to other investors. By the time a second mission was under way, Bass had grown frustrated. He secured a restraining order against Biosphere 2’s managers and partial owners, many of whom were his longtime friends and collaborators. When they continued to occupy the structure, he allowed armed federal marshals to enter the facility and remove them. The second mission ended prematurely, and the structure began its passage from the hands of the Biospherians to Columbia University and then to the University of Arizona. By 1999 Time magazine called the mission one of the “50 Worst Ideas of the Twentieth Century.”1 Although Biosphere 2’s story is unique, the Southwest is littered with structures that show similarly grandiose expectations of the area’s ecology and people as well as the consequences when those expectations outstripped reality. Ura nium tailing waste, drums filled with used radioactive gloves and clothing, and discarded missile shells invite questions about the region’s nuclear past. Mas- sive irrigation works, dams, and power plants stand as testaments to the faith of humans in their own ingenuity and to the limits of an arid land. The creation The Theater of All Possibilities 223 of nuclear weapons, the mining of uranium for weapons and nuclear power, and the engineering of the region’s limited water have tested the Southwest’s economic and ecological limits. Like the members of Biosphere 2’s first mission, southwesterners call the place that they have engineered home. Like the members of that first mission, they worry about their home’s future and their capacity to secure it. This section addresses the two most prominent environmental challenges in the Southwest during the twentieth century: its nuclear legacy and its abiding aridity. The Southwest was the birthplace of the nuclear bomb and the center of U.S. uranium mining for weapons and power production. Whatever beings inhabit the Southwest thousands of years in the future will continue to grapple with its nuclear past. That reality has tempted Americans and southwesterners of diverse backgrounds to imagine what that future will look like. As they have imagined, they have transformed the region’s history. The Southwest is also one of the nation’s most arid regions. For centuries, diverse communities have endeavored to conquer the limits of the area’s water supply with complicated irrigation networks. Not even at the height of American engineering ingenuity have they been successful. Now, contemporary southwesterners face, not just aridity, but the unintended consequences of the ongoing efforts to manage it. Like Biosphere 2, nuclear development and water management appear to be problems solely of science. According to such logic, southwesterners need only manage chain reactions and the area’s rivers successfully to make an ideal home for themselves. But, as with Biosphere 2, the crafting of nuclear weapons and power plants and the management of the Southwest’s waters has been the work of human communities. Science alone could not guarantee that the members of Biosphere 2 would cooperate and innovate as they needed. Later efforts to enforce a more “objective” science were even less successful than Biosphere 2 in encouraging a deep connection to the nature assembled inside the structure’s walls. Similarly, science has not guaranteed the protection of the Southwest’s people, animals, and plants from the effects of radiation. Neither has science ensured a regular and fairly distributed water supply for the Southwest’s agriculture and cities. As the scholar Rebecca Reid has concluded: “Ecological systems are more complex than our rational understanding of them; we cannot completely control even our own creations. . . . Science, as practiced in current experimentalist ‘objective’ control-based modes, is on its own inadequate as a vehicle for bringing humans into a stewardship role on Planet Earth. But perhaps a middle path is still possible.”2 224 The Theater of All Possibilities

Finding a middle path will require a deeper look at human culture as well as a deeper look at human history in the region. The deeper history of Biosphere 2 might prove useful too. The building at Oracle began, not with construction, but in the fanciful ideas of a group who sought to better understand and live in the world. Led by charismatic figures John Allen and Margret Augustine, and with funding from Bass, the group built their own ship, the Heraclitus; performed a play in Antarctica; managed grasslands in Australia; and hosted architect and engineer Buckminster Fuller and jazz musician Ornette Coleman in conferences at their retreat in southern France. In 1969, the group formed an intentional community in the desert outside Santa Fe, New Mexico, that they called Synergia Ranch and which functioned into the twenty-first century as a working farm. It was here that one of their members began working with adobe. In 1982, he constructed a tiny adobe sphere, the model for Biosphere 2 and the next step in their efforts to explore new frontiers and build new gardens in the desert. Their plans were outrageous, built on an unexpected prosperity and a supreme confidence in the capacity of technology to better human life on Earth. Their plans were also built on the group’s shared experiences in their theater troupe, which had toured the world. Future southwesterners will require humility in the face of the many unintended consequences of the actions of previous generations, but they will also need to retain the imagination and hope at the heart of the troupe’s name: The Theater of All Possibilities. 7 Boom Towns

The Nuclear Southwest

he advertisement is legendary. A little girl sits among the flow ers of a field as birds chirp above. She is counting the petals of a daisy Tas she pulls them. She stumbles over the numbers. Her counting fades, replaced by a louder, firmer, male voice. He is counting too. Backward. A countdown. The image freezes. The camera zooms into the pupil of the girl’s eye, and we see there, reflected, an explosion and, then, a mushroom cloud. The advertisement ends with the injunction to vote for Lyndon Johnson in the upcoming election. “The stakes are too high,” warns the ad, “for you to stay home.” Widely credited with contributing to Johnson’s 1964 landslide victory over Republican candidate Barry Goldwater, the advertisement did something else as well. It certified that the Southwest had gone nuclear in the national imagination. Perhaps no other politician was more firmly associated with the Southwest than Barry Goldwater. Only two individuals possibly rivaled him: Democrats, brothers, Mormons, and fellow Arizonans: Stewart Udall, who served in Con gress and then as secretary of the interior, and Morris Udall, who served in Congress and almost secured the Democratic nomination for the presidency in 1976. But neither of the Udall brothers ever ran as their party’s candidate for the presidency, and neither were the target of what is perhaps the most famous political advertisement in American history. Goldwater was. The ad vertisement relied on viewers’ knowledge of his support for a more aggressive 226 The Theater of All Possibilities military stance, particularly in Vietnam, and his willingness to use there or in other conflicts the nuclear weapons that had first been developed in his native Southwest. Goldwater had boosted his home state for his entire adult life. Born in 1909, he was the grandson of Jewish immigrants who had moved to Los Angeles and then Gila City, in what would become Arizona, in the 1860s. By the 1870s, they ran a dry goods store in Phoenix. By the time Goldwater was born, the fam ily business had become a successful women’s department store. Goldwater’s mother, an Episcopalian, was an outdoors enthusiast, and Goldwater learned from her to hunt, fish, and camp and pursued a lifelong interest in photography with her encouragement. Goldwater regularly sent photography contributions to Arizona Highways, included a line of southwestern themed goods and cloth ing at his store, joined the Phoenix Chamber of Commerce, and served on the board of the Heard Museum, founded in 1929 and dedicated to the preserva tion and presentation of Native American art and culture. Even after his failed presidential run, he continued to associate himself with Phoenix, Arizona, and the broader Southwest. His successful bid to return to the Senate included an advertisement showing Monument Valley and proclaiming: “There is a great message in this beautiful land. Barry Goldwater is, above all else, a product of the land he loves. He has unrolled his bed on Arizona’s wind-chilled mesas. Roamed her forests and valleys. And explored the yawning depths of her sheer canyons.”1 What Goldwater missed in 1964 and even in his subsequent successful cam paign to return to the Senate was that the land he loved carried new mean ings in a postnuclear age. The bomb had been created on wind-chilled mesas. Radiation settled in the region’s forests and valleys. Uranium miners toiled in the sheer canyons. Just one year before the 1964 election, the United States had ended aboveground nuclear testing. Just three years after the election, New Mexico senators proposed transferring the Trinity grounds, where scientists had tested the first plutonium nuclear weapon, from the Department of De fense to the National Park Service, to commemorate the location of the world’s first nuclear test. Interest in the site had been intense since the use of nuclear weapons in Hiroshima and Nagasaki in August 1945, and reporters had broad cast imagery from the area since September of the same year. Trinity—and the larger space of the Southwest—captivated popular culture makers as well. In 1954, the science fiction classic Them! premiered, the same year as Godzilla. Depicting New Mexican radioactive ants grown to monstrous B oom Towns 227 size, the film directly addressed atomic anxieties in its final statement: “When Man entered the Atomic Age, he opened the door to a new world. What we may eventually find in that new world, nobody can predict.”2 A similar ambiva lence marked other explorations of the atomic age.3 In 1963, Marvel Comics debuted The Amazing Spider-Man, about a teenager whose talents sprang from a radioactive spider bite, and just a year before appeared the Hulk, a product of gamma radiation. Godzilla was firmly associated with Japan and the Pacific in popular depictions. Spider-Man would be incomplete without the skyscrapers of New York City. Although the $2 billion military effort to build an atomic weapon was dubbed the “Manhattan Project” for its original headquarters in New York City, skyscrapers do not mark it in popular memory. Rather, it is the Hulk, and his human form, Bruce Banner—together an embodiment of atomic anxiety and a product of the desert Southwest—that have allowed Americans to return to the place of the bomb’s creation. Throughout his existence, the Hulk has returned to the site of his origin, New Mexico, seeking absolution and healing. What the Hulk desires was erased from his story at its very origins. Goldwater failed to notice as well. Scholarly treatments have begun to bring to light the Hulk’s desire and a criti cal feature of the atomic Southwest: the nuclear family.4 The character Bruce Banner was the child of a brilliant nuclear power engineer and a loving mother. Believing he had contaminated his child because of his own experiments, Ban ner’s father was abusive. Banner’s mother died defending him. Banner himself pursued a career in atomic weaponry and became the Hulk when he rescued a teenager who had wandered onto a testing range in New Mexico after the countdown had begun. Protecting children from technology was key to many of the comic’s plots. Family, in fact, was key to the nuclear enterprise. The families of the scien tists who created the first nuclear weapon in New Mexico experienced a baby boom. Like Goldwater’s mother, the young women who helped shepherd in the nuclear age appreciated the outdoors and encouraged their children to hike, ski, and horseback ride. Like their husbands, they brooded over the weapon their husbands’ work had helped produce, divided over their pride in winning the war and their guilt in irreparably altering the world. Like their husbands’ labor, theirs had a legacy too—in the booming military towns that dotted the Southwest, in the ranch-style single-family home architecture so celebrated by Goldwater and other late twentieth-century boosters, in the uneven enjoy ment of postwar suburban prosperity, and in the celebration of cities ringed 228 The Theater of All Possibilities by desert recreational opportunities that were the stuff of Goldwater’s own advertisements. The creation of the first atomic bomb and the subsequent testing and propagation of yet more weapons has understandably preoccupied scholarly and popular audiences. This chapter reviews that history, but it also includes a critical companion to the development of the Southwest as nuclear place: the nuclear family and its mobilization in national culture and politics during the Cold War. This chapter asks: “How did the Southwest become a nuclear place?” Women and their work are crucial to the answer.

“You keep out of this Betty! This is MAN TALK!” Incredible Hulk (1962) #1

The story of northern New Mexico’s Anglo arts communities and that of the making of the nuclear bomb converged at the home of Edith Warner, the proprietor of a tearoom at the foot of “the Hill,” the plateau atop which the Manhattan Project progressed. Warner, who had moved from Pennsylvania to New Mexico in 1922, occupied a house near a train depot used by the narrow- gauge Denver and Rio Grande line. The depot had previously served as a stop ping point for tourists and local travelers and had been of particular use for the Los Alamos Ranch School, an elite boarding school for boys that assigned every student his own horse and provided an education in both outdoorsman ship and traditional academics. A truck carried supplies from the depot to the school atop the hill, and Warner safeguarded the school’s freight in between deliveries. She augmented her income through the tearoom and by offering a room for visitors in her house. The spectacular setting of pine-dotted mesas and mountains alongside the communities of San Ildefonso, Santa Clara, and Jemez Pueblos made for an attractive locale for Anglo visitors. Members of San Ildefonso Pueblo called the spot “the place the river makes a noise.” Like Mary Austin, Alice Corbin Henderson, and Mabel Dodge Luhan, Warner en visioned her home as a place for “women like herself who needed a few weeks of solitude to restore bodies and spirits frayed by the confusion of city living.”5 Unlike the doyennes of New Mexico’s Anglo arts communities, however, Warner emphasized solitude, rather than forming an expressive, creative com munity. In a thinly fictionalized version of her life, The Woman at Otowi Cross- ing, the author Frank Waters described her distaste with the colony of “artists B oom Towns 229 and pseudo-artists, escapists, and screw-pots that secretly offended her fastidi ous shyness.”6 Private and solitary exploration of the land, which Warner loved, provided her with the sense of satisfaction that salon hostesses gained from sharing the landscape in creative presentations. An appreciation of the stunning landscape along with a carefully cultivated privacy fit perfectly with the aims of the civilian scientist heading the Man hattan Project on the Hill. Robert Oppenheimer knew the area from previous camping trips in New Mexico, which he and one of his teachers had first visited as a guest of Francis Fergusson, the son of Harvey Fergusson, a U.S. represen tative from New Mexico, and brother to the writer and regional booster Erna Fergusson. Francis Fergusson had attended the Ethical Culture School in New York City and later attended Harvard with Oppenheimer and another New Mexican, Paul Horgan. Fergusson was a lifelong friend of Oppenheimer’s and helped host him on his first camping trip to the plateau that would become Los Alamos.7 Oppenheimer returned regularly in subsequent years, becoming a close friend of the Don Amado Chaves family at Los Pinos guest ranch, and he rented his own cabin in the area beginning in the late 1920s. He first visited Warner’s tearoom in 1937. “My two great loves are physics and New Mexico,” Oppenheimer wrote to a friend in 1929. “It’s a pity that they can’t be com bined.”8 In 1943, they were. Of many isolated New Mexican locations consid ered for the Manhattan Project, the Los Alamos Ranch School and surround ing lands totaling about nine thousand acres were acquired because they were remote, already had housing available, and, according to some, because of the region’s natural beauty. Oppenheimer extended his love for the place to the men and women who made up its ever-growing community. He even convinced the military authori ties to allow small groups of men and women to visit Warner’s tearoom. Her house became a fondly remembered retreat from the project. As one observer speculated, “[Oppenheimer] sensed that uprooted people had a particular need that these hours at Edith’s house could fill. Perhaps from his own experi ence he knew that those whose daily thoughts were involved with techniques of destruction would find healing for their divided spirits at the place-where- the-river-makes-a-noise.”9 Perhaps too he saw Warner as no threat to secrecy. The military head of the Manhattan Project, Leslie Groves, selected Oppenheimer as the civilian head of the special weapons laboratory that would put together the bomb it self.10 Groves coordinated the massive industrial production of the necessary 230 The Theater of All Possibilities fissionable uranium and plutonium at Oak Ridge, Tennessee, and Hanford, Washington, along with the creation of the bomb at Los Alamos. The geo graphic scale of production was a challenge to the military imperative that no enemy know of the herculean American effort. Over 870 square miles in New Mexico, Tennessee, and Washington State were dedicated to the bomb’s pro duction, sites that included some of the largest buildings on the planet and ap proximately six hundred thousand workers.11 The inherently collaborative na ture of scientific work was a challenge as well. Groves had named the University of California as the official operator of the laboratory, and scientists expected the shared experience of university work. The idiosyncratic nature of the great minds engaged in the project compounded Oppenheimer’s difficulties. One scientist refused to pay the fine for leaving a top secret file on his desk. Because the report was wrong, he asserted, he had aided the war effort by giving the enemy an opportunity to see it.12 Oppenheimer himself had to ask scientists to speak only English when visiting Santa Fe, rather than German or Italian. The inherent tension in the project between open exchange and concealment meant constant reminders from military authorities of the need for secrecy. The injunctions worked. In contemporary and remembered accounts of the Manhattan Project, secrecy trumps every other story. Intelligence forbade the use of the name “Los Alamos,” so many called it “the Hill.”13 Peggy Pond Church, whose father founded the Los Alamos Ranch School, recalled that her husband, a science teacher, recognized Oppenheimer and correctly speculated on the Manhattan Project’s aim, but “we were too impressed with the emphasis upon secrecy to mention the names of these men to anyone.”14 Waters begins his fictional account of Warner’s experience at the foot of the Hill with her character’s “Secret Journal.”15 Ruth Marshak, whose husband, Robert Mar shak, was deputy head of a theoretical physics group, titled her reflection on living in Los Alamos “Secret City.”16 The R. E. McKee and M. M. Sundt com panies, which built most of the town around the campus of the Los Alamos School, did not know the purpose of their work, even as the town ballooned to a city of sixty-five hundred people. While “virtually every American physicist of importance was involved in the project” by 1944, not everyone involved in the work knew of the collaborative conversations and efforts that occurred in what was called the “Tech Area.” Groves had told scientists not to inform their spouses of the true nature of their work. While many certainly knew, Marshak, Bernice Brode, and Laura Fermi, wives of scientists central to the endeavor, confessed that they did not fully understand their husbands’ efforts until after B oom Towns 231 the dropping of the bomb on Hiroshima. Although the lab did house Soviet spies, their identities were not known until years after the war, and the Ger mans never discovered the lab’s work. According to some, the project became the “best kept secret of the war.”17 Domesticity couched within secrecy and appreciation for the area’s natural beauty became the hallmark family experience of those involved in the Man hattan Project. Edith Warner’s house at Otowi Bridge played an important symbolic role in the memories of the scientists and their families as they crafted narratives about the work that they had accomplished. Significantly, Warner’s innate shyness and privacy appears to have prevented her from widely shar ing her story with others. Rather, it is best known through the work of Peggy Pond Church, who told Warner’s story in The House at Otowi Bridge, and from Frank Water’s fictional account, The Woman at Otowi Crossing.18 Both draw par allels between the work accomplished in the Manhattan Project and Warner’s own, individual endeavor to make a home for herself and other women seeking solitary communion with nature in the desert Southwest. Warner’s domestic labor is central to their accounts. Her chocolate cake is practically a character in The House at Otowi Bridge, and Church even reproduced the recipe along with adjustments for altitude. The book ends, not with the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, but after the war had ended, with a new home for Warner, when a larger road serving a still-expanding Los Alamos forced her to move to new quarters. Together, the scientists of Los Alamos and their families helped the people of San Ildefonso to build her house. Homemaking had become the counterpart to the making of the bomb. As Eleanor Jette, whose husband worked as a metallurgist at the lab, put it: “We were all part of it whether we served in the laboratories or in the homes.”19 The narratives of Warner’s life are just one of many examples of how domestic activity was central to the Manhattan Project. The centrality was more than metaphorical. Women who accompanied their husbands to Los Alamos often wound up working in the laboratory. “The force of social pressure and the obvi ous need for all hands, trained or untrained, brought most of them rapidly onto the payroll,” remembered Charlotte Serber, who served as scientific librarian in the Tech Area. “They came mostly as secretaries, typists, or clerks. Some came as technicians, librarians, or draftsmen, and a very few as scientists.”20 Serber, who titled her essay about women’s work on the Manhattan Project “Labor Pains,” did not ignore women’s labor at home either. “For the potential work ing wife, there was one chief worry,” she recalled. “Could she manage her home 232 The Theater of All Possibilities here on the mesa and work too? Would her home life suffer? Would her hus band be neglected? Would her children become delinquents? Would it be any more difficult than working a forty-eight-hour week in a city?”21 Women’s worries played out in concrete, material fashion. The people who made up the weapons laboratory of wartime Los Alamos were young—the av erage age was twenty-seven, and, as they would in the postwar period as well, families boomed. Almost one thousand babies were born between 1943 and 1949 at Los Alamos.22 Women bore children, and women staffing the hospital nursed the young growing families.23 Women started the nursery school, and women taught in the elementary and high schools. At home, women engaged in an unending battle against dust atop the dry plateau. They argued over the milk supply and the cost of vegetables with the single commissary that served the entire community. They jockeyed to catch the rare bus to Santa Fe to aug ment their shopping. They managed growing households during frequent wa ter shortages.24 Few accounts, from men or women, fail to comment on the ugliness of the hastily erected houses in Los Alamos. Few also neglect to mention the central importance of the housing office. The housing office determined which fami lies had houses with bathtubs and which with furnaces—maintained by con stantly criticized furnace men—that heated homes to an uncomfortable ninety degrees Fahrenheit. The housing office distributed furniture, whether families required it or not. The housing office issued reviled large stoves (dubbed “Black Beauties” by their detractors) on which women sometimes cooked for as many as thirty-five.25 The housing office rapidly became the symbol of the difficulty of making a home in the middle of the military laboratory creating the most deadly weapon in world history. Like Warner and Oppenheimer, the women who headed households at Los Alamos turned to the beauty of the surrounding countryside as solace. Kath leen Mark, whose husband later worked on the hydrogen bomb, noted that, “After the first shock” of arrival in the barren, ad hoc town, “we got used to it, and when we went outdoors we were conscious instead of the exuberant perva sive sunshine, the clean air, and the serene mountains in the distance.”26 Mar shak observed: “The citizens of our community seemed to draw vigor from the air. They not only worked inhuman hours to perfect the bomb; they also had energy to dissipate on skiing and horseback riding, mountain climbing and folk dancing. . . .”27 Women often organized outings, and regularly facilitated their children’s skiing, skating, hiking, and horseback riding, even when beginners’ B oom Towns 233 mounts were rattled by “the big bangs resulting from experiments with explo sives.”28 Laura Fermi led Niels Bohr on a hike in Frijoles Canyon so that “his mind could focus on the marvels of nature that surrounded us. . . . There is a sense of reverence in the perception of some landscapes,” Fermi recalled in her memoir, titled, appropriately, Atoms in the Family.29 The sublime surroundings did not blind women to their unusual circum stances. Their parents, siblings, and extended families did not know where they were.30 The birth certificates for the 209 children born during wartime listed the place of birth as Box 1663, Sandoval County, Rural.31 Local political rivalry and the centrality of secrecy for the project prevented the people of Los Alamos from voting.32 There were no telephones in their homes. Although many noted that they were fortunate not to be separated from their spouses during wartime, they also knew that they were not quite like other civilian women. Jane Wilson, whose husband Robert headed the Experimental Nuclear Physics Division, re called that, “We shared unique difficulties of living with our husbands without sharing the recompensing thrill or sometimes even the knowledge of the great scientific experiment which was in progress. . . . We were a secret project, prob ably the most secret project which has ever existed in the United States. That one fact dominated our existence.”33 Most at Los Alamos, men and women, remembered the imperative of their labor justifying their difficult circumstances as well as the consequences of their work. One physicist would later recall: “It was one of the few times in my life when I felt truly alive.”34 Dorothy McKibbin, who staffed the office in Santa Fe at 109 East Palace and welcomed all civilian and military personnel to New Mexico, recalled in the war’s final year: “When we were employed we were told to ask no questions, and we didn’t—much. We worked with pride. We sensed the excitement and suspense of the Project, for the intensity of the people com ing through the office was contagious. . . . Our office served as the entrance to one of the most significant undertakings of the war or, indeed, of the twenti eth century.”35 Wilson remembered: “Our hardships were pretty petty. We were animated by a drive to finish a vast and awful task.”36 Women also shared the view that the race was on to beat the Germans to creation of the bomb. So many of the scientists involved in the project were themselves European refugees fleeing fascism that the impetus for the work was ever present. Among a brief list of the most famous at Los Alamos were Danes Niels Bohr and his son Aage, Italians Enrico Fermi and Emilio Segrè, Ger man Hans A. Bethe, Hungarian John von Neumann, and the Hungarian-born 234 The Theater of All Possibilities

Edward Teller, who fled Germany in 1934 with the aid of the Jewish Rescue Committee. A cooperative agreement between the United Kingdom and the United States brought top British scientists to the labs as well. “Indeed, if any American on the Project had been unaware of the tragedy and horror that fas cism brings to the individual, he would certainly have learned a lesson from the life histories of the European scientists. Exile, poverty, persecution, the concen tration camp, and vicious death for their dear ones—our European friends had seen them all,” recalled Wilson. “The war would come very close to an Ameri can even if he were on top of a mesa in New Mexico when his host, listening to a radio broadcast on fighting in Hungary, said simply, “My family is there.”37

“Human? Why would I want to be human?” Incredible Hulk (1962) #1

No one appears to have foreseen that the weapon to which they were devoting all their energies would be used in Asia rather than Europe. By late 1944, doubt crept into the Manhattan Project as it became clear that Germany would not win the war and certainly had not produced an atomic weapon. Joseph Rot blat, who would go on to win the Nobel Peace Prize for efforts toward nuclear disarmament, quit the project. He was the only physicist to do so on grounds of conscience. Robert Wilson, Jane Wilson’s husband, organized a forum titled “The Impact of the Gadget on Civilization.” Of 150 atomic scientists polled in July 1945, 72 percent favored a demonstration of the weapon rather than mili tary use in Japan. Several scientists at Los Alamos produced petitions opposing further development because they feared it would prompt an arms race with the Soviet Union. The momentum of the project, however, carried it to its horrifying comple tion. Oppenheimer countered that those at Los Alamos were scientists, not politicians. He raised the difficulties of a demonstration: finding a location that would satisfy parties at war, the possibility of failure. Following the thesis fa vored by Niels Bohr, he argued that a successful use of the bomb would dis courage all future use of nuclear weaponry because it would show all wars to be unwinnable. Indeed, Bohr argued for the free sharing of atomic secrets with the Soviets, believing international cooperation to be the only way to escape an arms race. Clinging to the vision of the bomb as a humanitarian force, those working at Los Alamos prepared to test one of the “gadgets” in development. B oom Towns 235

Scientists were confident that one of the two bombs ultimately used in Hi roshima and Nagasaki would work as designed. Dubbed “Little Boy,” the bomb relied on a relatively simple design but required significant labor to enrich its uranium. It was the other bomb, called “Fat Man,” which concerned the staff at Los Alamos. It relied instead on the more easily processed plutonium 239, but had a far more complicated design that scientists agreed required testing. It was Fat Man, then, that was tested south of Los Alamos in a corner of the Alamogordo Bombing Range, one of the driest stretches of New Mexico. The military had had its eye on the region even before the scientists at Los Alamos went looking for an appropriate test site. Like Los Alamos, the region was remote and sparsely settled. Drought and excessive cattle grazing had all but eliminated the tall grasses that had covered the area in the middle of the nineteenth century. Moreover, most of the land— 75 percent—was federally owned. In a pattern that would continue after the war, the federal government determined that a lower population meant a lower risk.38 In 1942, Franklin Roosevelt signed an executive order that withdrew public lands for the gunnery range. In 1945, the federal government appropriated lands from the range and nearby Fort Bliss to form the White Sands Proving Ground.39 The region and the site of the test itself would come to be known by many names. White Sands was in an area that Spanish colonists had called Jornada del Muerto. Jornada is typically and correctly translated as “journey” or “walk” or “route,” thus Jornada del Muerto means “journey of death.” At the time of the test, the site earned the designation “Trinity,” but historians still do not know the exact origin of the Trinity name. Most Americans would likely have thought of the Christian Holy Trinity, but Oppenheimer, who had taught him self Sanskrit, may have considered the Hindu trinity of Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva. Together the three figures ensure an unending cycle of destruction, res toration, and sustenance.40 Whatever the place-name or its origin, Oppenheimer remembered a pas sage of the Bhagavad Gita when he saw the results of his work: “I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.” Other observers and scholars have used the words “sublime,” terrifying,” and “awe” in describing the blast that followed the first countdown in history.41 Several women at Los Alamos knew of the test and observed the glow of light early the morning of July 16, 1945. Doro thy McKibbin drove to the top of the Sandia Mountains outside Albuquerque and upon seeing the sky glow felt that the world had changed irrevocably. Jean Hinton, a physics graduate student who had worked on the nuclear reactor at 236 The Theater of All Possibilities

Los Alamos and observed the test from a hilltop twenty-five miles distant, said that “it was like being at the bottom of an ocean of light. We were bathed in it from all directions. The light withdrew into the bomb as if the bomb sucked it up. Then it turned purple and blue and went up and up and up.”42 Scientists and their families had their doubts about the purpose of their work even before the test. Those doubts only intensified when it was success ful. The physicist Leon Fisher, along with some of his colleagues, feared the explosion would ignite the atmosphere. Rather than attend the test, he took his family camping as far from Trinity as he could.43 Enrico Fermi took bets as to whether the atmosphere would ignite and, if so, whether the world or just New Mexico would be destroyed.44 Al Graves and his wife Elizabeth “Diz” Graves observed from a distance of thirty miles with monitoring equipment. Graves was seven months pregnant and did not want to be too close to the blast. General Groves ordered the one journalist allowed to observe the test, William Laurence of the New York Times, to prepare an article reporting an explosives accident and the deaths of several scientists, military personnel, and a single newspaperman. Although virtually everyone who witnessed the test re ported feeling relieved, most also experienced a crisis of conscience. The chem ist George Kistiakowsky observed “that at the end of the world—in the last millisecond of the earth’s existence—the last men will see what we saw.” The physicist Victor Weisskopf listed the sequence of emotions that troubled the people of Los Alamos: “Our first feeling was one of elation, then we realized we were tired, and then we were worried.”45 A similar emotional crash marked the reception of the news at Los Ala mos when the bombs were used on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Harry Truman, anxious to end the war and to present a position of strength at his negotiations with Winston Churchill and Joseph Stalin in Potsdam, let the momentum of the $2 billion effort reach its climax. Little Boy was released over Hiroshima on August 6, 1945; Fat Man fell on Nagasaki three days later. The reaction at Los Alamos was initially elation. Children paraded through the streets banging pots and pans. San Ildefonso Pueblo invited people from the laboratory for a celebratory dance. Traditional Pueblo drumming merged with the Hill’s square dancing club. At the peak of the celebration, the Pueblo governor leapt to a tabletop and shouted: “This is the Atomic Age. . . . This is the Atomic Age!”46 But even in the middle of the celebrations, there were qualms. Phyllis Fisher recalled “we all were simultaneously laughing and crying.” Frank Oppenheimer remembered: “One suddenly got this horror of all the people that had been B oom Towns 237

Figure 15. Maria Martinez and Enrico Fermi, ca. 1945, courtesy Los Alamos Histori cal Society Photo Archive. The famous San Ildefonso potter Maria Martinez and the famous nuclear physicist Enrico Fermi. Southwesterners’ investments in Native arts and nuclear technology created global connections almost impossible to conceive prior to World War II.

killed.” Robert Wilson was physically ill and said he felt “betrayed.” Even Ed ward Teller, who would go on to invent the hydrogen bomb, was discomfited by the celebrations. “If this goes on,” he said, “I want to leave.”47 The misgivings continued long after the bomb ended the war. So did the homes that had birthed it. Some of those at Los Alamos took solace in their homes, believing them to be a distinct invention too. Scientists particularly re membered the home of Edith Warner and her house at Otowi Bridge. Phys icist Philip Morrison wrote Peggy Pond Church years after Warner’s death: “Miss Warner, her home by the river, and her spirit of grace remain a part of everyone at Los Alamos lucky enough to have known her. . . . Edith Warner stands in the history of those desperate times as a kind of rainbow . . . a sign that war and bombs are not all that men and women are capable of building.”48 A similar parallel between the bomb and the home emerged in Los Ala mos’s farewell address to Oppenheimer. When the people of Los Alamos 238 The Theater of All Possibilities gathered to bid good-bye to Oppenheimer, they connected him to the Pajarito Plateau and the place that they had made of it. “He selected this place,” read the testimonial. “Let us thank him for the fishing, hiking, skiing, and for the New Mexico weather. Let us thank him for the company we had, for the parties, and for the intellectual atmosphere. . . . It was his spirit of scientific dignity that made us feel we would be in the right place here. We drew much more satisfac tion from our work than our consciences ought to have allowed us.”49 No one shared those doubts of conscience more than Oppenheimer himself. “If atomic bombs are to be added as new weapons to the arsenals of a warring world . . . then the time will come when mankind will curse the name of Los Alamos and Hiroshima,” he announced in his farewell address to the Hill. With his depar ture, those who remained were left with the question of what future lay ahead for the homes that they had built.

“No, Igor! We’re too close to success . . . too close to giving our country a weapon so wonderful it can assure world peace forever!” Incredible Hulk (1968) #102

While historians argue over whether the world’s Cold War began with the use of the atomic bombs in Japan, there is no question that the Southwest’s Cold War began with the bomb’s production. The outline of atomic suburbia was sketched at Los Alamos, with white nuclear families reaping the benefits of federal largesse and more remote and less powerful western communities of color feeling the brunt of weapons testing and waste. Los Alamos was not alone. Military bases grew across the Southwest, and the economies of cities like Albuquerque and Alamogordo grew inextricably linked to that of military weapons spending. As in the laboratory’s early days, however, discussion about the purpose and aims of the military buildup was muted. A premium on se crecy continued to prevail. From Los Alamos unstated questions radiated out ward: What were the long-term consequences of exposure to radiation? How could the government keep nuclear secrets in a democracy? Should weapons manufacture decline, what next? Party to unpublished reports on the effects of radiation in Hiroshima, the scientists of Los Alamos and their families understood, if they had not be fore, the gravity of what they had done. Jean Bacher, the wife of physicist Rob ert Bacher, remembered that the reports of Philip Morrison were particularly B oom Towns 239 unnerving. After hearing his “wizard tongue and descriptive power,” she was “absolutely undone. I went home and couldn’t go to sleep; I just shook all night, it was such a shock.”50 In response, several scientists and their spouses formed the Association of Los Alamos Scientists (ALAS) and a women’s auxiliary at the end of August 1945. The group held town meetings in northern New Mex ico to explain atomic energy, clipped articles, and wrote letters to the editor to correct misperceptions. Like most of the people of Los Alamos, they wanted civilian, rather than military, leadership over the laboratory. The auxiliary sent pieces of trinitite, the fused, glasslike rock formed by the bomb’s test explosion at the Trinity site to the mayors of large cities. An accompanying message read: “Do you want this to happen to your city?”51 Los Alamos initially stumbled in the years following the war, as the govern ment debated whether and how the community would continue. A number of scientists had questioned the production of atomic weapons. Even those who had advocated for finishing the project pushed after the war for the creation of a single world government to oversee nuclear arms. Their vision would come to be called the One World Movement. They considered such a system the only way to avert an arms race with other nations, particularly the Soviet Union. The federal government responded, not with a single world authority over nuclear power, but with the creation of the Atomic Energy Commission (AEC) in June 1946 and a General Advisory Committee, consisting of nine atomic scientists, to advise the commission.52 The government also increased its com mitment to continued weapons production and testing. The AEC took over administration of nuclear weapons and energy as well as responsibility for fall out and toxic nuclear by-products. The AEC consisted of civilian leadership and two military advising committees, an arrangement that reflected the AEC’s contradictory missions: to further nuclear weapons development and to pro tect civilians from nuclear weapons testing and waste. By design, the first goal always led decision making. The Atomic Energy Act made the commission’s “paramount objective to be assuring the common defense and security.”53 The contradictory aims frustrated some scientists, who chose to leave the lab. For those who wanted to stay, the AEC was enough of an improvement. Those who did stay began work on new weapons to be tested in the Bikini Atoll in the Marshall Islands of the South Pacific, a project dubbed Operation Crossroads. Operation Crossroads ended an exodus that had begun from the lab almost as soon as the bombs were exploded in Japan. The staff who remained or who were drawn to the lab were less likely to share the political sensibilities of those 240 The Theater of All Possibilities who formed ALAS and who had advocated for shared nuclear knowledge. The sociologist Susan Tiano, who grew up in Los Alamos, hypothesized: “The only people that would be happy there were the people that shared those belief sys tems. . . . The selection factor kept increasing the trend toward the conserva tives.”54 Operation Crossroads contributed to the growing homogeneity of the community by ensuring continued weapons work. Those who stayed or joined the lab may also have been attracted by the gov ernment’s massive investment in the town itself. Following the end of the war, New Mexico changed its political jurisdictions to allow Los Alamos residents to vote. The government assured scientists at the lab top salaries. In 1948, the average annual income on the Hill was $3,371, over twice the national aver age of $1,500. Top scientists earned up to $10,000 and top government officials up to $12,000. There were also new places to spend such income. To relieve the chronic housing shortage, the government began extensive construction. By 1949, the government had spent $800 million in Los Alamos, and Congress prepared to spend $100 million more for the modernization of the city, even before the Soviet Union detonated its own nuclear bomb later that year.55 The Soviets’ successful detonation in 1949 prompted Truman to approve National Security Council Report 68 (NSC-68), and the arms race began. With it came the militarized suburban family. When he considered recruit ing new (presumably male) staff, Norris Bradbury, Oppenheimer’s successor at the laboratory, reflected: “My big worry is that his wife will be unhappy—be cause she is too far from the supermarkets or the movies, or because her home isn’t nice enough, or because she doesn’t think that the school-teachers are any good.”56 By the middle of the twentieth century, Los Alamos emerged as a “model” Cold War community with a stellar school and planned suburbs of “Cold War Moderne” houses. The first suburb and the first shopping mall in New Mexico were built in Los Alamos, markers of a lifestyle that middle-class men believed women wanted. Such a model town did not come cheap. While national security disguised what money went to town construction, what to laboratory expenses, and what to town operations, a 1950 AEC report to Con gress stated that the government spent $160 million annually to operate Los Alamos. Scholars have since noted the irony of a socialist city acting as the armament keystone of the American Cold War.57 Few noted the irony as the military suburban landscape proliferated across the Southwest. As the historian Jon Hunner has observed, “Derived partly from Levittown and partly from military bases, Cold War Moderne changed B oom Towns 241 the housing market in the postwar building boom, especially in defense- related communities and provided comfortable quarters at affordable prices.”58 The number of those defense-related communities boomed in the Cold War years. In 1948 Motorola opened a plant in Phoenix specializing in defense elec tronics to take advantage of Arizona’s location between Los Alamos and the aircraft companies in California. Sperry Rand, General Electric, Air Research, and Kaiser Aircraft and Electronics followed Motorola’s example.59 In 1947 the AEC transferred atomic weapons assembly to the Sandia base in Albuquerque so that Los Alamos could focus on research and development. In the same year, the air force became an independent branch of the military. Albuquer que, adjacent to Kirtland Air Force Base (itself dedicated to nuclear missions), grew from a population of 35,449 in 1940 to more than double that by 1950 and then doubled again to 201,189 by 1960.60 The population of Las Cruces grew by 42 percent between 1940 and 1950 and by 138 percent between 1950 and 1960. Alamogordo, near the Trinity site, the White Sands Missile Range, and Hol loman Air Force Base, grew by 220 percent over the 1950s.61 Tucson, near the Davis-Monthan Air Force Base, grew by over 400 percent, from 45,454 in 1950 to 262,933 in 1970.62 The new militarized landscape changed rural communities as well. The gov ernment had leased tracts of ranch land and used executive orders over public lands to form what became the White Sands Missile Range and the Holloman Air Force Base during the war. After the war, the federal government contin ued to rely on leases and executive orders over public lands to expand the num ber of testing ranges, flight training sites, storage depots, and other military es tablishments. In the year 1942 alone, six of the seventy-three public land orders and executive orders related to public lands withdrawal were for lands in New Mexico.63 Led by Arizona senator Carl Hayden, Arizonans sang the praises of their excellent flying weather.64 The state added five military bases during World War II and two during the Cold War, including the Barry M. Goldwa ter Air Force Range, the site of the world’s largest gunnery range.65 The Southwest’s “gun belt” sometimes even extended across its southern border to Mexico. Not all of the military bases of the Southwest engaged in nuclear weapons research and testing even though all were “a part of the same massive military-scientific garrison of North America.”66 Despite the origi nal Trinity test, most of the research at White Sands was not nuclear. “The three largest nonnuclear high explosive tests carried out by the United States happened at White Sands alongside thousands of other lesser ordnance and 242 The Theater of All Possibilities missile tests.”67 Missiles originated in or were directed to White Sands, but they occasionally went awry. In 1967 and 1970 missiles originating in the United States crashed in northern Mexico. While the first crash did not bring much attention, the second did, largely because it carried cobalt-57, a radioisotope with a half-life of 270 days. The United States apologized to the Mexican state, dispatched a cleanup crew, and trucked several loads of contaminated soil back to the United States. Nonetheless, the White Sands Missile Range Public Af fairs Office feared that the Mexican press “could use this incident to accuse the U.S. of imperialism by indiscriminately permitting radio-active elements to impact on Mexican soil without regard for the sovereignty of the Mexican gov ernment.”68 Most of all, White Sands officials feared a reduction of operations. Such fears were common as southwestern communities became dependent on military spending. Southwestern politicians generally welcomed the fed eral military investment in their region. Like other western politicians, Barry Goldwater actively campaigned for a larger military presence in his home state. Clinton Anderson, a Democrat from New Mexico, served in the House from 1941 to 1945 and in the Senate from 1949 until 1972 and was a member of the Joint Committee on Atomic Energy and supported nuclear testing.69 In 1954, the mayor of Las Cruces, Mike Apodaca, wrote New Mexico senator Dennis Chávez of his concern that White Sands would reduce its operations. “You know that the rapid development of our community in recent years has been directly related to the activities of the Proving Ground,” he wrote, “and the extent of planning for future expansion is dependent upon its continued opera tions.”70 The range’s own report showed substantial contributions to the region from the base. In the 1960–61 year, the range contributed $200 million to the greater Alamogordo–Las Cruces–El Paso economy and $100 million in salary alone for the seventeen thousand employees of the range and air force base. By the 1980s, Kirtland Air Force Base in Albuquerque employed over twenty thousand people and had a yearly payroll of $175 million.71 Federal military in vestment meant jobs, growth, and maybe the kind of prosperity that marked Los Alamos in the postwar years. It also meant dependency on federal dollars. As early as the 1950s, lab directors fretted over what would happen should the bomb “cease to have a dominant role in international relations.”72 The experiment in federal investment extended to far more than the city on the Hill. The AEC removed the security gates for the city of Los Alamos in 1957, but the lab continued to work on nuclear research and development under the auspices of the University of California system until 2006, when the lab B oom Towns 243 moved under the jurisdiction of a private company contracted with the De partment of Energy and the National Nuclear Security Administration. Los Alamos worked in concert with other nuclear research facilities, including the Naval Air Weapons Station, which had created and produced high explosives for the first atomic weapons and remained a testing site; the Lawrence Liver more Laboratory, which was established at UC-Berkeley in 1952; the Nevada Test Site, which was approved in 1951; the Rocky Flats Plant outside Denver; the White Sands range; and the Hanford and Oak Ridge sites, where scientists had cooperated with those at Los Alamos on the Manhattan Project. As the Cold War drew to a close in the early 1990s, the government commissioned the U.S. Nuclear Weapons Cost Study Project to estimate the expense of produc ing nuclear weapons. The commission concluded that the United States had spent approximately $5.5 trillion on nuclear weapons between 1945 and 1995, between a quarter and a third of the entire military budget of that period.73 More had been spent on nuclear weapons than on “the combined total federal spending for education, training, employment, and social services; agriculture; natural resources and the environment; general science, space, and technology; community and regional development (including disaster relief); law enforce ment; and energy production and regulation.”74 The bomb had not come cheap.

“Machines always hurt Hulk, but if Betty says this one is different . . .” Incredible Hulk (1981) #261

The tab was actually higher still. Economists call those costs not reflected in the price of goods and services “externalities.” The externalities of nuclear pro duction and following the urban model set by Los Alamos were extensive and widespread. Cities established on a foundation of secrecy and committed in mission to an arms race contributed to family discord, pressures that only in creased following the successful U.S. test of a hydrogen bomb in 1952 and a suc cessful Soviet test in 1955. In 1951 Truman authorized the AEC to begin test ing nuclear weapons in Nevada, seventy miles northeast of Las Vegas. Along with the arms race, the domestic testing site and a growing enthusiasm for nuclear power contributed to a uranium mining boom that was itself centered in the Southwest. Across the nation, but especially in the greater Southwest, American human and animal bodies felt the impact of radioactive waste from 244 The Theater of All Possibilities weapons and energy production and radioactive contamination from weap ons testing. Finally, while urban inequalities characterized all American cities in the second half of the twentieth century, nuclear development and federal military investment gave a patina of patriotism to the inequities that marked southwestern military towns and their hinterlands. Women bore the brunt of some externalities. In the context of the postwar period, the family as a symbol assumed key significance as a bulwark against the Soviet threat. Nationally, public media and the Federal Civil Defense Ad ministration gave women responsibility for families and neighborhoods in the event of a nuclear attack. One FCDA publication chastised: “Unless you, as a responsible American woman, take action you are gambling with the safety of your family, your friends, your community, and your country.”75 Such messages likely had acute sting in Los Alamos where the government first performed AEC-funded civil defense evacuations and drills.76 As the historian Laura McEnaney has concluded: “Collectively, such admonitions replicated the worst of the postwar period’s carping prescriptive literature aimed at housewives. . . . Ultimately, their reproaches amplified the cacophony of voices preaching do mesticity, by which all postwar women, whether involved in civil defense or not, were judged.”77 Increasingly, such messages probably also smacked of hy pocrisy. As scientists developed hydrogen bombs, drills and evacuations be came irrelevant. The weapons were so powerful and so numerous, a nuclear war would have killed everyone on the planet several times over, regardless of how prepared and clean housewives were. Women at Los Alamos especially understood the futility of the drills. Al though they were among the scientists and engineering teams of the Manhat tan Project and the lab, many women in Los Alamos felt constricted. Several people who grew up in Los Alamos remember their mothers frustrated by gendered expectations. “What you had basically were nonparticipatory fami lies where one member, usually the male, was totally absorbed. The isolation for some people was pretty complete. They could not visit where their hus band worked. The husband appeared at the house at the end of a very long day and left again the next morning,” recalled one. Another noted: “I think life was extremely difficult for the women, because they were bright and bored to death. It caused a lot of frustration and as a result, there was a lot of alcoholism, and I understand that there was a lot of infidelity.”78 Questioning the norms of a community like Los Alamos, which was regularly touted as a model town, B oom Towns 245 would have been difficult. As other American midcentury suburban commu nities followed the Los Alamos model, women chafed against their circum scribed world, one accentuated by the atomic age’s climate of fear and secrecy.79 That secrecy had even more material impact in those regions near the Ne vada nuclear test site. The Federation of American Scientists has counted 2,046 worldwide nuclear weapons tests between 1945 and 2002. One hundred of those were detonated in the atmosphere by the United States. Others were tested un dersea, and following the end of atmospheric testing in 1962, the United States tested another nine hundred weapons underground.80 The Nevada site was a boon for Los Alamos researchers, who no longer had to transport materials and personnel to the distant Pacific, where testing had commenced following the war. Near the edge of the Colorado Plateau, the site was also convenient to nearby uranium mines.81 Many Americans perceived the region as a wasteland, empty of life.82 Fermi, who had worked on the original bomb’s construction, actually calculated the “size of the risk” to area populations—“a 1 percent prob ability that four hundred persons in a four-hundred-square-mile area at the center of the Great Basin would be negatively affected by radioactive fallout”— if the site were used for nuclear testing.83 As calculated, the risk was even lower than that at White Sands. Scientists in cooperation with federal government officials concluded that the risk was low enough to justify testing. But measuring risk proved challenging. Radiation correlates with higher incidences of cancer and other illnesses, but proving causation frustrated and confused nuclear scientists and victims of nuclear testing alike. At the time of the Trinity test, some scientists conjectured that health risks existed only at the time of the explosion and if a body received a radiation dose from the radioac tive cloud itself. In the early 1950s, as downwind residents began to question testing, scientists struggled with the dual and contradictory role of the AEC as well as the complicated overlay of public lands use in the Great Basin.84 As the AEC prioritized secrecy and development over risk management, messages of nuclear testing’s benign effects became the norm. Prior to nuclear weapons, humans were exposed to natural radiation, the AEC explained, and humans and animals alike had shown recovery from some of the effects of radiation. The chairman of the AEC outlined the commission’s official view in 1955: “The Commission’s medical and biological advisers do not believe that this small amount of additional exposure [from testing] is any basis for serious concern. . . . There [is not] reason to believe that weapons testing programs of the United 246 The Theater of All Possibilities

States have resulted in any serious public hazard.”85 Into the 1980s, the Depart ment of Defense insisted that “the conclusive scientific evidence is not there” for proving a connection between radiation exposure and cancer.86 In the Cold War climate of secrecy, the AEC wrestled with studies of ra diation’s risks and critics of nuclear production and study. Although ranchers in Nevada and Utah downwind of test sites brought several complaints and suits for damages to the AEC during the 1950s, the government suppressed studies confirming that sheep, cattle, and horses were suffering from the ef fects of radiation.87 Government officials and scientists aware of the possible health effects knowingly exposed soldiers to fallout during Operation Plumb bob of 1957, whose aim was to assess how soldiers might mentally and physi cally respond during nuclear war.88 Ranchers and other residents of the Great Basin who criticized testing or expressed concern for their children’s health received chastisements from the AEC and others in government who assured them that “we have the choice of running a very small risk from testing or a risk of catastrophe from a surrender of our leadership in nuclear armament.”89 Anyone who questioned nuclear production or testing—scientists, politicians, veterans, or civilians—risked repercussions. Robert Oppenheimer himself had his security clearance revoked in 1954, ostensibly because of his connections to Communists in the 1930s, but actually because of his criticism of the hydrogen bomb.90 As one of the scientists at Oak Ridge put it: “It became unpatriotic and perhaps unscientific to suggest that atomic weapons testing might cause deaths throughout the world from fallout.”91 Even at the Trinity site, study of the health effects of the test blast was diffident. A systematic study of the ef fects of the test did not occur until 1947, and while the AEC promised yearly studies, investigation of fallout in the region ceased in 1955. The results of the studies conducted were classified until the 1960s.92 And by then testing had moved underground. Concern over fallout contributed to the U.S.-Soviet decision to ban above ground testing in 1963. More studies followed. Studies in 1963, 1965, and 1967 all indicated that military personnel and civilians showed signs of dangerous exposure to radiation. Radiation was in milk from cows that had grazed down wind of the Nevada Test Site; the incidences of leukemia, thyroiditis, and thy roid cancer were unusually high in sections of Utah and Arizona. Moreover, venting of underground testing continued to release radiation into the atmo sphere. Political pressure built until 1976, when Paul Cooper, a well-decorated veteran of the Korean and Vietnam Wars brought suit over his exposure while B oom Towns 247 a member of the 82nd Airborne Division, which had taken part in one of the 1957 tests involving troops in Nevada.93 Cooper’s case coincided with increasing media and state government attention to the issue in Utah, where the governor supported investigations into possible government malfeasance. Cooper’s case and the attention in Utah prompted a chain of events that led to a presidential task force and congressional hearings on the effects of radioactive fallout on military personnel and civilian and animal populations.94 The target of the investigations, however, no longer existed. The AEC had been dissolved into the Energy Research and Development Administration and the Nuclear Regulatory Commission in 1974. Both were folded into the Department of Energy in 1977. By the late 1970s, Watergate and the Vietnam War had inured the American public to government apologists, but the AEC, as such, no longer existed to apologize. Congressmen treated Department of Energy officials less gingerly than they had AEC witnesses at the height of the Red Scare, but “powerful officials facing little direct accountability in a secrecy- shrouded program found it easy to deny, dissemble, or mislead as a matter of course.”95 Not all critics faulted the government for pursuing weapons production. Rather, as historian Leisl Carr Childers has noted, they faulted the government for failing to inform military personnel and civilians of the extent of the risk.96 As the governor of Utah put it to the Salt Lake Tribune: “I am convinced that the sacrificial lamb in the years of government inquiries has been the truth.”97 The secrecy that had marked the Manhattan Project permanently shaped nu clear weapons production throughout the Cold War. National security always trumped the free exchange of information. As the historian Paul Boyer has ar gued, “The compulsions of atomic secrecy . . . would eventually undermine the very structure of democratic government.”98

“There’s not a piece of ground anywhere that can hold the Hulk!” —Avengers (1963) #1

In 1978, the experience of the downwinders, those who lived downwind of nu clear tests, came to the attention of Stewart Udall, former congressman and former secretary of the interior. Udall was a native Arizonan, enlisted in the air force in World War II, and had helped his brother, Mo, to integrate the University of Arizona cafeteria. By 1978 he had served on the Tucson school 248 The Theater of All Possibilities board, where he helped integrate the district, served three terms in the House of Representatives, and served as secretary of the interior from 1961 to 1969. Many of the downwinders were Mormon, like Udall, but many were also Na tive Americans from the Four Corners region. Udall was drawn to their case by his experience with Native American populations while in the House and as interior secretary, when his tenure overlapped with the beginning of sov ereignty campaigns. Between 1978 and 1990, Udall brought a series of cases against the government and uranium mining companies, contending that the government knowingly exposed miners and civilians to radioactive carcinogens. While Udall initially met with some success, each case against the government was overturned by a higher court. Cold comfort came in 1990 when the government passed the Radiation Ex posure Compensation Act (RECA), which offered compassionate payment for military veterans intentionally exposed to radioactivity during testing; uranium miners and their widows; and civilians who had been exposed to downwind radiation. On the eve of the act’s passage, Udall reflected: “It would be a good ending. Not the best ending. The best ending would have been that this would never have happened in the first place. And the second best would be that our system of justice would work. And the third ending, which at least will take a little of the bad taste away, would be to have a ‘compassionate payment.’ ”99 The bad taste lingered as those who sought compassionate payments struggled with the bureaucracy and the standards of proof for compensation. In 2000 the RECA was revised, and as of 2013, over $2 billion had been paid to thirty-two thousand successful claimants.100 Coincidentally, the Manhattan Project had cost the same amount. Udall’s suits and the RECA offered a view of the larger community of activ ists that had formed in opposition to the Southwest’s nuclear makeover. Vet erans exposed to radiation and downwinders had joined cause with two other populations involved in nuclear power and nuclear weapons production: ura nium miners, many of whom were also working in the Southwest on the Colo rado Plateau, and communities who lived near nuclear waste. As it had done with the downwinders, the AEC hid or downplayed the health effects of ura nium mining and nuclear waste storage. And, like the downwinders, communi ties affected by uranium mining and nuclear waste disposal had been observing the effects of their living and working conditions for years before those effects came to widespread public light in the 1970s and 1980s. Peace activists, envi ronmental activists, and those frustrated by the Cold War’s climate of secrecy B oom Towns 249 rounded out the many antinuclear organizations that formed at the end of the twentieth century. Of this coalition, Native Americans occupied a unique position as a result of the unusual standing of Native lands during the twentieth century. Western Shoshone, who had never ceded their territory in Nevada, claimed the land of the Nevada Test Site, but the AEC and other federal officials consistently ig nored their claim.101 Mining complicated the picture further. Most of the ura nium used in the Manhattan Project had come from Canada and the Belgian Congo. The Cold War and growing energy demand increased the premium on a domestic source. The AEC, which oversaw uranium prospecting as well as pro duction, found it under the Colorado Plateau, in the Four Corners region. That put uranium mining near the communities of the Zuni, Acoma, Laguna, and Hopi Pueblos and on the reservation of the Navajo Nation itself. Between 1946 and the late 1970s over a thousand mines extracted approximately forty million tons of uranium from the earth under the Navajo Nation. For every 4 pounds of uranium extracted, 996 pounds of radioactive waste was left behind.102 The result was that the Navajo Nation and neighboring Pueblo commu nities bore the brunt of uranium mining’s externalities. As the government encouraged uranium prospecting in the mid-1940s, those Navajo and Pueblo Indians with intimate knowledge of the land found their services in high de mand, as they could lead mining companies to areas where the “yellowcake” could be found, places that they sometimes had not visited for years. Mining companies, as they had with coal, typically did not contract with the Nation, but, rather, with the Bureau of Indian Affairs. As Acoma scholar and activist Manny Pino put it: “You’ll have three entities sitting at the table. You’ll have the mining company, the tribe, and the federal government as our trustee. . . . In many of these cases you’d think that the federal government is trustee of the mining company rather than [of ] the Indians. . . . Indians at the time didn’t understand the capacity of this type of development, the dangers of radioactive exposure. They took the government’s word for it that this was going to be eco nomic development, that this was going to be jobs, this was going to improve the peoples’ quality of life.”103 Uranium mines did mean jobs. The town of Grants, New Mexico, which called itself the “uranium capital of the world,” had a population of eight thousand in 1950 and twenty thousand by the early 1970s.104 The Navajo Na tion, eager to create jobs on the reservation and to show patriotic support for the United States, passed a resolution in 1949 supporting the development of 250 The Theater of All Possibilities uranium resources.105 Approximately twelve hundred mines operated in the Four Corners region. In 2007 the Navajo Tribal Council reversed their deci sion, passing a resolution that created a way to legally block the resumption of uranium mining on Navajo lands.106 Many Diné considered the resolution nec essary because even after the close of the Cold War, nuclear power continued to tempt uranium mining companies. In 2006 and 2007 the United States even encouraged the passage of European Union legislation that approved nuclear power as a method of reducing greenhouse gasses.107 In a particularly cruel and multilayered irony, the Navajo Nation had ap proved Peabody Coal’s Black Mesa mining operation hurriedly in the early 1960s, believing that nuclear power would soon surpass fossil fuel’s economic potential.108 The Nation wanted to make what it could while income from fos sil fuels was still an option. As we have seen, the result was a deep investment in coal power, including not just Black Mesa strip mines, but also the Navajo Generating Station. Both were part of an interconnected power system that environmental activists, especially the Sierra Club, sold as an alternative source of power to dams on the Colorado River. A key backer of both the intercon nected power system and the construction of Navajo Generating Station and a figure widely acknowledged for his environmentalist views was Secretary of the Interior Stewart Udall.109 When Udall represented miners, he acted in good faith. Nonetheless, many Navajo doubted his commitment and remain skepti cal of present-day environmentalists who champion nuclear power as an alter native to fossil fuels. Adding insult to injury have been the particular challenges Navajos faced during mining operations and when seeking compensation. Some were down winders. Others were uranium miners and their families. Others were in homes near toxic sites. Some were all three. Many miners’ families traveled with them when they were working and used the area’s water. “Children played on the tailings and mine wastes from the work sites, even using the mines as their play areas.”110 Navajo families were more likely to live near mines and mills than families of other miners; Navajo children were more likely to have played on contaminated sites; Navajo workers were more likely to have brought home uranium materials; Navajo miners were more likely to have been assigned to areas that did not use approved safety measures; and Navajo women married to miners and mill workers were less likely to have marriage licenses, which were necessary for compensation. The Navajo language did not have terms that could adequately describe radiation and its health effects. Some miners believed B oom Towns 251 their health problems were due to their violations of traditional rules governing their relationship with the natural world, “for example, standing next to where lightning had struck. . . . In addition, for traditional Navajo people, it is taboo to talk about deceased people.”111 According to some estimates, only one in four Navajo miners and their survivors received compensation under the RECA.112 Navajo and Pueblo women have been at the forefront of activism on behalf of indigenous peoples involved in uranium mining. Even before formal studies were conducted on their lands, Native women observed the effects of uranium contamination, as miscarriages, stillbirths, and birth defects rose in areas near mines and waste sites.113 Widows who had lost their husbands to radiation- related illnesses organized before Udall began bringing his cases.114 In some cases, they did not speak English and did not have vehicles or telephones. Nonethe less, they were able to lobby successfully for state-level legislation in 1973. In 1978, through local tribal leader Harry Tome, they contacted Udall. Activists subsequently created a series of support groups, one of which became the Na vajo Office of Uranium Workers, which registered workers and their families. Funding from the National Institute of Environmental Health Sciences led to the establishment of the Uranium Education Program at the Navajo Nation’s Diné College, which included creating a Navajo lexicon for necessary technical terms.115 Navajo women also noted a disturbing correlation between domestic violence and the boom-and-bust cycle that marked border mining towns like Farmington and Shiprock, New Mexico. Women organized to create the As dzani Doo Alchini Dabaghan (Women and Children’s House) Association in 1978 to raise awareness about alcoholism, domestic violence, and women’s de clining status in Navajo communities.116 In 1992 Diné traveled to Salzburg, Aus tria, to represent their communities at the World Uranium Forum.117 Along with other indigenous peoples of the Southwest, Navajo activists have also brought attention to radioactive waste. Mines, mills, power plants, and re search centers all left behind waste. Of particular concern has been the United Nuclear Corporation’s mill tailings dam near Church Rock, New Mexico, which broke in 1979, poisoning the local water supply. About seventeen hun dred Navajo were immediately affected. “Outside of the nuclear weapons test ing program, the Church Rock disaster is the largest release of radioactive ma terials in the continental United States.”118 The site still has not been cleaned. In Tuba City, Arizona, mill tailings have contaminated the groundwater and may have contaminated the Moenkopi Wash, the only source of irrigation for the Hopi.119 252 The Theater of All Possibilities

Pueblo communities near nuclear weapons production sites in northern New Mexico have brought attention to waste as well. Some of that waste has existed since the original decision to create Los Alamos. Oral tradition at San Ildefonso Pueblo states that the Pueblo people lent a piece of land to the lab at Los Alamos, which has never been returned. Troubling many at San Ildefonso is Area G, a testing region located on a slender mesa called Mesita del Buey. Area G has stored waste since 1957 when the lab bulldozed five Pueblo ruins to make room for waste storage canisters. Area G has also cut off the Pueblo people from some of their sites of worship. Piñon trees, local grasses, and honey bees in the area show high levels of plutonium in their circulatory systems. Of particular concern is that trace levels of tritium have been found in San Ilde fonso Pueblo water, suggesting that the deep aquifer, which feeds the water system of the Rio Grande Valley, has been contaminated as well.120 Area G would not have come to light had not Pueblo leaders insisted on transparency from Los Alamos as the Cold War came to a close. Aiding their efforts was a sustained campaign by Western Shoshone and indigenous peoples of the South Pacific who had been protesting the effects of testing since the 1950s.121 The pueblos also benefited from a series of decisions granting indig enous peoples greater control over their cultural resources. The Native American Graves and Repatriation Act of 1990 and the American Indian Religious Free dom Act, passed in 1978 and amended in 1996, and new environmental laws that empowered individual indigenous nations to set environmental standards for their own lands enabled northern New Mexican Pueblo peoples to advocate for more information about the environmental impact of the lab’s activities. In 1993 the University of California, which oversaw the lab, met with Pueblo leadership for the first time. In 1994, the lab signed “government-to-government” coopera tive agreements with Santa Clara, San Ildefonso, Cochiti, and Jemez Pueblos. As the twentieth century drew to a close, the lab’s neighboring Pueblo people could finally make informed decisions about the lab’s impact on the region.122 Transparency has meant a long series of public meetings in which Pueblo peoples have aired their grievances but not always received the promise of a re sponse. As one frustrated San Ildefonso official put it when reviewing a statisti cal health report at a public hearing: “ ‘I don’t agree with what you’ve said here tonight. For you one cancer out of 100,000 is justifiable, for me one cancer out of 700 (tribal members) is not acceptable. Your statistics do not take into ac count the proximity of the Pueblos to the land—we are the most impacted.”123 Access to knowledge about the production of nuclear material and the location B oom Towns 253 of nuclear waste has meant more discussion and more public concern, but it has not always meant more solutions. Economic dependence complicates discussions of nuclear research and waste on the Pajarito Plateau and elsewhere in the Southwest. Since the Man hattan Project, Los Alamos has provided jobs to area Pueblo Indians. Women from San Ildefonso and Santa Clara Pueblos played a key role by acting as domestics and providing childcare during the Manhattan Project. It was not just white women’s labor that built the city on “the Hill.” So desperate were women living in Los Alamos for more maid service that at one point they threatened a strike, “an unheard of procedure at Los Alamos.”124 Personnel met their demands and the project’s “town council” also drew up rules for employ ers, including the expectation that women from the pueblos (called “girls” in the guidelines) would be free of work on their religious feast days. The exemp tions showed the forward-looking sentiments of the council but were also an indication that not all employers had honored local customs among the women in their employ. While it would have been impossible for anyone to foresee the lab’s vexed future relationship with locals, the negotiations between the women of the pueblos, the women of the project, and the personnel office and town council could have aided members of the Los Alamos community in their ef forts to cooperate with neighbors. No one at the lab, however, appears to have looked to white or Pueblo women’s labor for such guidance. Domestic workers were clearly not the only Pueblo employees at the labs. Quite dangerous jobs drew Pueblo workers as well. Between 1944 and 1962, for example, scientists worked to improve the implosion design of nuclear weap ons, which were tested in Bayo Canyon, east of Los Alamos. In 1963 Pueblo firefighting teams from Zia and Jemez Pueblos were hired to clean it up with gloves and burlap sacks. The ninety truckloads of refuse were taken to Area G, an indication that the waste was not harmless. Despite work like that con ducted at Bayo Canyon, Pueblo people recognize the value of the jobs.125 As the governor of Santa Clara put it in 1993: “The flip side of the environmental concerns is the economy. . . . There is no question in my mind that steps must be taken to correct the adverse environmental conditions, a legacy of activities at Los Alamos and Sandia over 50 years. But, we must also be perceptive of the economic changes that will occur and see a plan of mitigation that does not compromise our quality of life.”126 At the close of the twentieth century, the Pueblo Indians of Pojoaque considered storing nuclear waste to take advantage of the large short-term 254 The Theater of All Possibilities economic benefits and to flex its political muscle. Pojoaque Pueblo had a popu lation of less than two hundred, was repeatedly buffeted by epidemics in the nineteenth century, and did not reconstitute itself until the 1930s. In 1991 the DOE approached all indigenous nations about receiving waste. Just inquiring about what is called “monitored retrievable storage,” or MRS, brings a nation $100,000. A formal site analysis brings $3 million more. Pojoaque Pueblo had applied for a gambling license, which was stalled at the time of the federal an nouncement. Pojoaque officials noted that the same sovereignty laws governing gaming would govern the decision to accept nuclear waste. Not surprisingly, the gaming license was then approved, and Pojoaque now hosts a lucrative ca sino called City of Gold.127 The Mescalero Apache reservation, which is near the White Sands Missile Range, was similarly tempted by MRS dollars. If approved, the storage site would have held waste from nuclear power plants, not from White Sands. The governor of thirty years, Wendell Chino, pushed hard for the project, which stood to bring up to $1 billion in revenue and between three hundred and five hundred jobs.128 Chino is widely quoted as saying: “The Navajos make rugs, the Pueblos make pottery, and the Mescaleros make money.”129 The reservation is home to a ski resort and a posh hotel, the Inn of the Mountain Gods, but poverty and unemployment rates, as at other reservations, remained high. A sustained campaign led by Rufina Laws, who had opposed Chino in a previ ous election, led to a negative vote on the proposal in 1995. But tribal leader ship pushed for a second referendum that succeeded. Nonetheless, the tribe never went through with the project, perhaps because of opposition from New Mexico’s congressmen and other state leaders who oversee interstate highways. Although Nuevomexicanos cannot engage in sovereign decision-making for the region, many have felt similarly torn between the environmental con sequences of waste and the economic benefits of employment. As with San Ildefonso Pueblo, land that had belonged to Nuevomexicanos wound up in the hands of the Forest Service and then the lab when Oppenheimer chose the site. Like members of neighboring pueblos, they were among the first workers at Los Alamos. Most of the much reviled furnace men hailed from surrounding Nuevomexicano villages. Later, Nuevomexicanos found work as janitors, land scapers, and lab assistants. With the exception of those few Nuevomexicano scientists at the lab, most workers did not know of the health effects of their workplace until the early 1990s. The result was uncertainty and anxiety. As one Nuevomexicano put it: “Now we wonder about the air we breathe, the water, B oom Towns 255 the soil—we wonder what has happened to us. Today, every time a crop fails, every time a cow fails to give birth, or an animal’s skin looks funny—we blame [he points up toward LANL]. When the lab came here, our people worked in the shit up there. We were the janitors, the plumbers, the laborers. But they made enough money to send their kids to school for an education, now we’re doing better. But we don’t know how much was done to us.”130 Like people of the pueblos, many Nuevomexicanos saw the difficulty of weighing economic opportunity against the risks of work in nuclear production. Many Nuevomexicanos also nurtured a resentment of the federal govern ment and Anglo outsiders, fed by the obviously unequal distribution of wealth and resources in and around the “model” town of Los Alamos. Los Alamos was 89 percent Anglo in 1960 and 90 percent in 1970. The median income for fami lies was four times that of neighboring Sandoval County. Los Alamos residents in 1970 who were twenty-five or older had completed 13.9 years of school com pared to 10.3 years for those in Sandoval County.131 At the start of the twenty- first century, Los Alamos was the wealthiest county in New Mexico and had a per capita income three times that of the neighboring Española Valley.132 As early as 1949, Los Alamos residents insisted on paying their school superin tendent almost twice the average for New Mexico and providing more clerical staff than existed in neighboring districts. The AEC ultimately subsidized the town’s request, providing funds equivalent to those available to the nation’s pri vate schools. Senator Dennis Chávez objected, saying that neighboring school districts that served commuting employees were not being subsidized but were educating children of Los Alamos employees. The AEC explained that the dis parate funding was in the “best interest” of the country.133 The discrepancy between the lab’s and the region’s best interests mirror sub urban communities across the Southwest. In the 1950s, Los Alamos residents were so concerned about losing their town’s model qualities that they resisted having security gates and guards removed, citing “privacy” and “safety” as top concerns. When the gates were removed in 1957, there was a run on the local gun shop. As the historian Carl Abbott has concluded: “What the 1950s called model towns, in short, we can now see as prototypical ‘suburban’ environments erected in physical isolation but deeply embedded in middle-class American culture.”134 Like other American suburban communities, the model town of Los Alamos thrived as—and maybe because—neighboring communities struggled. The inequalities of the nuclear landscape have sometimes made for fraught relationships between communities of color and Anglo antinuclear activists. 256 The Theater of All Possibilities

Anglo activists have been largely motivated by environmental concerns, many of which came to light in 1988 following the Chernobyl accident and when the Hanford, Washington, and Rocky Flats, Colorado, sites were found to be severely contaminated. Some have also been motivated by government secrecy. In 1993, the journalist Eileen Welsome began publishing in the Albuquerque Tribune a series of articles describing government medical experiments con ducted between 1945 and 1947 in which scientists injected human subjects with plutonium.135 The series won a Pulitzer and understandably alarmed many New Mexicans about possible experiments in the region. Shortly after the publica tion of Welsome’s work, Energy Secretary Hazel O’Leary announced that the government would declassify materials related to nuclear testing and human experimentation.136 In this context, three key antinuclear organizations emerged during the 1980s and 1990s: Concerned Citizens for Nuclear Safety (CCNS), the Los Ala mos Study Group (LASG) based in Santa Fe, and the All Peoples Coalition, based in Albuquerque. Members of all three groups stress environmental safety and peace activism. All also employ technical knowledge and regularly monitor DOE publications and websites as a part of their activism. Nonetheless, many of their members are motivated by environmentalist ide als, ideals that sometimes assume indigenous peoples to be one with nature. As one activist explained: “My uncle used to graze his cattle up in the Valles Caldera, which is the largest caldera in the world. I always felt special up there, like I was back in the womb. It has a feeling of center place. I look at Los Ala mos as a cancer eating away at that beauty. It is Sacred Ground. I think the land really belongs to San Ildefonso and should be returned to them.”137 The characterizing of the land as a womb, Los Alamos as a cancer, and a uniting of San Ildefonso with Sacred Ground are indications of respect for the Pueblos peoples’ sacred spaces, but the statement also discounts the economic role that the labs have played for the Pueblo peoples and Nuevomexicanos in the mod ern era. As one Nuevomexicano put it: “I like CCNS and LASG but shutting down the lab . . . that would be totally catastrophic for the valley. . . . If the lab were to close down tomorrow most of us would end up in some concrete jungle somewhere, or we would have to go to war here. Right now I would have to say that I think environmentalists and the government are the same—they’re both the enemy.”138 Resolving the goals of such disparate groups has, understandably, proven difficult. B oom Towns 257

Waste also must go somewhere, and the DOE has managed to outlast the efforts of New Mexico’s antinuclear activists. CCNS formed in 1979 when the federal government announced that it would create a permanent nuclear waste storage site in southern New Mexico, near Carlsbad. The site, called the Waste Isolation Pilot Plant (WIPP), stores transuranic waste—materials like gloves and tools that have come into contact with plutonium and uranium. Although transuranic waste is low-level waste, it does remain radioactive for thousands of years. The site brought some opposition, but not nearly as much as the pro posed Yucca Mountain site in Nevada, which was to store high-level waste. In 1999, after many years of protest, safety review, and insistence on government oversight, WIPP began accepting waste. In 2014, a container from Los Ala mos laboratory leaked and contaminated twenty-two workers. Because waste was transferred from Los Alamos and Sandia labs, and higher-level waste may someday be stored at the site as well, CCNS and other groups have focused much of their efforts on the dangers of transporting radioactive materials through the Southwest, along major highways, to the depository. As a result, mapping proved to be a critical component of New Mexico’s antinuclear activists’ work. A typical map is that of the All Peoples Coalition. It includes the New Mexico corner of the Four Corners region, the Los Alamos lab, Sandia labs, Kirtland Air Force Base, Pueblo resources contaminated by waste, the uranium deposits in western New Mexico, the water contamination from mines and mills, the White Sands site, the proposed storage site on the Mescalero Reservation, the WIPP storage site, and major interstates and high ways, including Route 285, specially constructed to transport nuclear waste. The map, however, stops at New Mexico’s boundaries. Arizona, however, has been just as much of a “nuclear sacrifice zone” as New Mexico, Nevada, and Utah. Arizona is rarely indexed in treatments of the region’s nuclear history, yet if one overlays maps showing the trajectory of radioactive clouds, the locations of uranium deposits, and the proximity of communities to waste disposal areas, a large swath of both Arizona and New Mexico are covered. RECA compensation applies to the entirety of that part of the Navajo Nation in Arizona as well as to residents of Apache, Navajo, Co conino, Gila, Yavapai, and Gila Counties and that part of Arizona north of the Grand Canyon. An overlay of activist maps and RECA compensation maps reveals what film, television, and comics audiences have known for decades: the Southwest is a nuclear place. 258 The Theater of All Possibilities

“Somewhere in the great Southwest . . .” Incredible Hulk (1963) #6

Of course, many in those film, television, and comics audiences did not know that much about the Southwest. Southwestern landscapes of The Incredible Hulk comics include urban stoops and six-story brick buildings. Saguaro cacti, which exist in Arizona, but not New Mexico, are a staple. In early issues, the Hulk’s secret hideout, presumably near the New Mexican lab where Banner originally constructed nuclear weapons, is also somehow near the sea. In the 1990s, one of the Hulk’s manifestations went by the name of Joe Fix-It and worked as muscle for hire in Las Vegas. The Hulk’s Southwest constitutes a mélange of the Las Vegas strip, the Nevada Test Site, Los Alamos, White Sands, Monument Val ley, California, and sometimes Spider-Man’s New York City. Nuevomexicanos and Native people virtually never appear in The Incredible Hulk. One Native exception, the unfortunately named Passing Cloud, appears to live not in the desert Southwest, but in the Pacific Northwest. The “last of his tribe,” Passing Cloud dies within a single issue. The Southwest was not so much a place in the Incredible Hulk as it was a parallel universe. Most popular culture placed the Southwest in a permanent past. The Hulk presented the region perpetually wrestling with the future. For all its errors, Marvel got one thing right when it depicted the South west: it was populated. Rick Jones, the teenager whom Banner saved from that fateful radioactive blast, gathers together a “Teen Brigade” who use ham radios to communicate with one another and coordinate the efforts of their super hero companions. Villains and the Hulk himself regularly find themselves in the laboratory’s neighboring towns. Inevitably dusty and full of stock charac ters, they are, nonetheless, populated. Any act of unfairness, arrogance, or de ception in these gritty hamlets could bring forth the Hulk. His anger sprang from imbalance and injustice. The comic books acknowledged what the AEC ignored for so many years: southwesterners lived with the effects of nuclear weapons development and testing, and it would take some creativity to figure out what should come next. Southwesterners themselves have their own science fiction and cultural rep resentations that have allowed them to wrestle with the future implications of the region’s nuclear investments. Martin Cruz Smith, of Native American ancestry and best known for his novel Gorky Park, a Moscow murder mystery, B oom Towns 259 envisioned the end of the world in his novel Nightwing. In the book the source of the world’s destruction is not nuclear weapons, but a Hopi shaman, who tires of the excesses of modernity.139 In September 2002, Albuquerque residents chose by an overwhelming vote the name “Isotopes” over “66ers” and “Atoms” for their minor league baseball team, an homage to a Simpsons episode in which the fictionalized Isotopes team, named for the local nuclear power plant, con sider a move to the Southwest. Urban legends nurture another type of science fiction. Some of those who live near Los Alamos attribute periodic unexplained livestock mutilations, sometimes conducted with eerie precision, to the work of Los Alamos laboratory scientists.140 Unverified sightings of the chupacabra, described as a blood-sucking cross between a coyote and a reptile, may suggest anxiety about the effects of mutating radioactivity.141 Perhaps the best-known manifestation of southwestern nuclear anxieties is the ongoing fascination with the rumored UFO crash outside Roswell, New Mexico, in 1947, commonly called the “Roswell Incident.” The press release about the crash came from the Roswell Army Air Field. Roswell is located ap proximately 120 miles west of Alamogordo, the town that most serves the White Sands Missile Range. The day after, however, the army announced that the de bris discovered was merely a downed weather balloon. Interest in the crash did not grow until 1980 when Charles Berlitz and William L. Moore, with support from nuclear researcher Stanton Friedman, published The Roswell Incident. The book was a best seller and prompted a series of counterclaims among UFO enthusiasts. By the time of the fiftieth anniversary of the incident, the popular science-fiction television series The X-Files, in which FBI agents investigate extraterrestrial and paranormal activity, had made Roswell a household word. The X-Files premiered in 1993, the same year that Welsome began publish ing her series on radioactive human medical experiments and the DOE re leased many of the government’s classified records on nuclear production. Two years later, the air force released The Roswell Report, stating that the debris was not from a weather balloon, but part of “a sophisticated device” code-named Project Mogul designed to detect Soviet nuclear tests. The air force’s earlier lie merely fed the fire of UFO believers, and in 1997 Time ran a cover story on Roswell.142 Roswell’s saucer-shaped McDonald’s, UFO museum, and civic investment in the “incident” have generated a steady stream of visitors—between 150,000 and 200,000 a year. Nonetheless, the reported crash would likely not have 260 The Theater of All Possibilities received much interest were it not for the climate of secrecy that marks nuclear research and weapons production. Friedman’s background in nuclear research tends to get higher billing than his expertise in UFOs, and the air force’s later clarification of the debris’s relationship to nuclear testing merely confirmed the suspicions of conspiracy theorists that the government was hiding something. The fears and suspicions surrounding the Roswell Incident mirror those sur rounding Area 51 in Nevada. Nuclear landscapes have given rise to their own folklore. A UFO crash kept secret by the government for fifty years seems highly improbable. But, skeptics question, in a “mutant ecology” of radioactive honeybees and human radioactive medical experiments, why wouldn’t the gov ernment also hide aliens?143 Science fiction does not just reflect. Comic book creators, novelists, televi sion script writers, UFO museum curators, sensationalist newspaper headlines, and artists ask us to imagine different realities, consider counterfactuals, and contemplate the future. For southwesterners wrestling with the knot of nuclear industry jobs, radioactive contamination, and a history of government secrecy, such fictions suggest, not necessarily solutions, but alternatives. They take the “just-so” qualities of so many stories related to nuclear production, testing, and waste and ask us to imagine a different ending.144 In that respect, art, even comic book art, shapes the future. Consider the story “Altered Political Control: The Free State of Chihuahua.” The story begins in 2583 in what “used to be known as the American South west.” The United States and Mexico have both fractured into multiple nations. People of the Free State of Chihuahua, unaware of its radioactivity, mine the WIPP site near Carlsbad for finished goods. The story suggests the contingent nature of nation-states, the centuries of trade connection between what is now Mexico and the United States, and the long half-life of radioactive material— all factors for southwesterners as they consider the nuclear future. The story is not traditional science fiction. The narrative, composed by Harry Otway, is part of a Sandia National Laboratory study in which scientists were asked to imag ine how, over the next ten thousand years, the WIPP site could be breached. Members of Otway’s team concluded that some kind of breach was inevitable and began challenging themselves to think of appropriate symbols and mes sages that could communicate to generations thousands of years in the future the hazards of the material at the site.145 What languages, symbols, and stan dards of justice the creatures of Earth might understand thousands of years from now is left to the imagination. B oom Towns 261

Conclusion

If visions of the future are to be useful, it would be wise to include families and women, if only because they participated in the Southwest’s nuclear past. White women worked on the Manhattan Project and tended to their newborns while Pueblo women cleaned their homes. Women’s perceived and genuine de sires for convenience, strong schools, and safety shaped the postwar suburbs of the Southwest. Suburban women enjoined their families to practice civil de fense drills even when such exercises seemed futile. Navajo women brought na tional attention to the consequences of uranium mining. An African American woman, Hazel O’Leary, announced the DOE’s release of records pertaining to radioactive research on human subjects. A Mescalero Apache woman led the campaign against the storage of nuclear waste on her reservation. Women’s bodies pass radiation to future generations. These are not ancillary or secondary aspects of the atomic age. They are a critical piece of its substance. Artists have begun to recoup southwestern women’s nuclear past. Judy Chi cago, renowned for her work The Dinner Party, which honors the history of women in Western civilization, has also produced work addressing the South west’s nuclear past. Together with her husband, Donald Woodman, she created The Banality of Evil: Then and Now in 1989. The work, a diptych that combines painted figures and photographed landscapes, shows scenes from the Holo caust and the Cold War. In one panel a Nazi returns from the crematorium to greet his wife, children, and bouncing dog. In the other, a family barbeques out side their Cold War Moderne home, beneath the Manzano Mountains and an arc of nuclear warheads. Together, the two panels show the excesses of the Cold War, its consequences, and the critical role women and families played as sym bols and as actors in the making of nuclear arsenals and nuclear communities.146 And artists have begun to anticipate southwestern women’s nuclear future. Marion C. Martinez produces bultos from discarded computer parts, many of which she gathered from the Black Hole, a resale shop that sold Los Alamos laboratory castoffs such as Geiger counters and oscilloscopes. Martinez repur poses circuit boards and wiring to make two- and three-dimensional images of New Mexican Catholic figures like Santo Niño de Atocha and the Virgin of Guadalupe. Her work recalls the santos and bultos of seventeenth-century New Mexico, but with materials that are undeniably a part of the modern age. Plucked from the detritus of Los Alamos’s nuclear research, her santos and Figure 16. Virgin of Guadalupe circuit board art by Marion C. Martinez, ca. 2016. The artist Marion Martinez makes art from the castoffs of the Los Alamos National Laboratory. Her work calls attention to the overlap of indigenous communities, Hispana Catholic traditions, and the promise and consequences of modern nuclear technology in the Southwest. B oom Towns 263 bultos require reflection on waste and contamination. As concrete examples of the technological modern age, they make visible what is perhaps most fright ening about radiation: it cannot be seen. Martinez, her sister, her mother, and her father all worked at one time or another at Los Alamos National Laboratories, and she grew up in a small town, Los Luceros, forty-five miles from the lab. Before turning to art full time, she worked as a family system’s therapist. A devout Catholic, her connection to her home place and its modern form appear in Blessings from the Little Flower, a wall hanging that depicts Thérèse of Lisieux. The figure’s womb is composed of a label that reads “700 PCB MOTHER BOARD,” a suggestion of how wom en’s bodies unite the past and the future. The sculptures, then, evoke not just New Mexico’s traditional Nuevomexicano past, but also its uncertain Nuevo mexicana future. Martinez does not insist that the future is bleak. “Technology and its remnants can be the vehicle for ‘holding on to who we are,’ she told an interviewing scholar. “Change will happen. Change is constant, but we don’t have to lose everything.”147 As the Southwest comes to terms with its nuclear identity, imagine what it might retain. 8 Water Is the Earth’s Blood

n The Boy Who Made Dragonfly, a Zuni tale retold by popular mys tery writer Tony Hillerman in 1972, the A’shiwi people grow arrogant after Ia plentiful harvest. Rather than share or save their grain, they choose in stead to invite their neighbors to play with their food “in a great battle, such as the children play.” The Bow Priest pitches the plan to his fellow leaders and exclaims: “Think of how these strangers will marvel at the wealth of the A’shiwi, when they see us treating the food for which others labor so hard as the children treat the mud by the riverside and the stones of the mesas.”1 The A’shiwi suffer for their pride and waste. When the Corn Maidens visit during the staged battle, no one feeds them. The Corn Maidens send a severe drought, and almost the entire village seeks refuge among the neighbors they had sought to impress. Only an elderly, impoverished woman and a young brother and sister remain. Together, they heal the relationship with the Corn Maidens. The A’shiwi return, chastened, and the young boy who had been left behind assumes leadership. The rains return, and the land is once again bountiful. The Boy Who Made Dragonfly was a story for children. Its publishers adver tised it in the New York Times alongside an E. B. White box set and Is This a Baby Dinosaur?2 Nonetheless, the timing of the small book’s publication, at the onset of the modern environmentalist movement, along with the story’s Water Is the Earth’s Blood 265 obvious moral to conserve resources, suggests that Hillerman perhaps meant to educate his fellow southwestern adults as much as he intended to entertain and instruct young children. A bird’s-eye view of the Southwest at the close of the twentieth century would indeed have revealed a scene not unlike the A’shiwi and their food fight. Southwesterners guzzled water to feed crops that had no more connection to the desert than they did to outer space. They shot fountains into the air to impress their eastern visitors and turned a blind eye to those who suffered from the waste and inequitable distribution of a resource so precious as water. The century hadn’t started that way for everyone. At the century’s beginning, many of the Anglo Americans who visited the Southwest and tried to describe it to others were not looking for water; they were looking for the desert. Ameri can writers and artists sought in the American Southwest the nation’s own an cient roots, ones that would rival the classical origins claimed by Western Eu ropeans. They also sought a blank slate. The desert appeared peopleless in their view and in much of the work that they shared with others. Even those who did not want to maintain the Southwest’s desert environment tended to overlook the competing populations who sought to use the region’s water. Such visions of desert redemption were a harder sell after World War II in creased the Southwest’s population and southwesterners’ expectations for ma terial comfort. Environmentalist writing inspired by the desert flowered in the late twentieth century. In such texts, humans were often the villains, and the villains were winning. The desert Southwest had people in it, and, after World War II, more and more of them. Newcomers to the region invested in major water engineering projects from the beginning of the twentieth century. The number of those projects increased in the 1930s and peaked in the 1960s, mak ing possible both agricultural and suburban expansion. Along with new rows of cotton and suburban homes came swimming pools, artificial lakes, green lawns, and elaborate fountains. The very projects that channeled more river water to southwestern cities, spurring population growth, also created new recreational opportunities on the lakes, increasing the number of tourist visitors. By the 1970s, southwesterners had invested much of their time, money, and political capital in an image of their region that denied its aridity. Writers may have con tinued to celebrate the desert, but few southwesterners wanted to contemplate a vision of their region that did not include themselves and their own material well-being. In fact, to this day, those southwestern traditions and practices that 266 the Theater of All Possibilities do acknowledge water’s scarcity have remained local and virtually invisible to the nation and the broader region. Nonetheless, such practices are possible and can spread. The tourists who are lured by the sense of expansive space in deserts sometimes encounter and adopt water-use practices that acknowledge aridity. Since the peak of damming efforts in the 1960s, critics have championed different types of urban life, recre ation, and food production that would reduce the human impact on the fragile desert environment. The Southwest even has its own traditions that suggest a true reverence for water. Stories like that of The Boy Who Made Dragonfly are common among the Pueblo peoples of New Mexico and Arizona, and new comers to the Southwest like Tony Hillerman have popularized southwestern ways of knowing the land and its resources. The Milagro Beanfield War, a fic tional account of a New Mexico Taos Valley water conflict, authored by John Nichols and adapted for the big screen by Robert Redford, even reached a na tional audience.3 Yet, such messages can suffer in translation. Few southwestern cities make water conservation a consistent element of their boosterism directed at new settlers and tourists. Experiments in alternative living and production are more often the province of obscure critics than they are mainstream audiences. An glo expectations about Native Americans and Mexican Americans sometimes overwhelm the ecological possibilities embedded in these peoples’ narratives of sensible water use. Native American governments have fought as fiercely as any other state and municipality to acquire shares to river water, but one rarely hears of such battles as popular audiences prefer instead to imagine Indians as living as one with nature. Anglo newcomers to the region also tend to discount the Southwest’s Mexican American heritage. In the nineteenth century, An glos presented their efforts to make the desert bloom as a positive reclamation of the region from its Mexican past. In short, to look hard at southwestern water use requires looking hard at southwestern race relations. If southwesterners are to recognize the area’s ecology, then, they must rec ognize the area’s racial history too. To see the region in place, with all its eco logical constraints and inspirations, one must also see the region in time, as a place marked by human change and continuity. This chapter asks: Given that the Southwest is arid, why do the region’s residents use unsustainable quanti ties of water? Four different answers are given to show how southwesterners have grappled with aridity and what opportunities exist for sustainable water consumption. Water Is the Earth’s Blood 267

Aesthetically Complete

If a recognition of human presence and human difference is necessary to sus tain southwestern deserts, it is unfortunate that the twentieth-century explo ration of the southwestern landscape kicked off with a publication by a mis anthrope. John Van Dyke, a Rutgers University art historian, sought out the desert in 1898, in part to seek relief from chronic asthma, a common motivation for early twentieth-century easterners moving west.4 The Desert: Further Stud- ies in Natural Appearances was published in 1901 after he traveled through the Mojave and Sonoran Deserts. Van Dyke saw deserts as aesthetically complete. Human interference, in his view, could only ruin them. “The deserts should never be reclaimed,” wrote Van Dyke. To do so would be to cross nature, and Van Dyke considered that foolhardy. Nature would always restore what hu mans had undone, and Van Dyke, a pessimist, did not think that humans were going to last very long.5 He considered deserts tools for the refinement of aes thetic sensibility. Open spaces and clear lines were examples of “simplicity,” and thus attractive. Horizontal lines were “restful.” “Things that lie flat are at peace and the mind grows peaceful with them,” wrote Van Dyke.6 Such aesthetic celebration was uncommon in Van Dyke’s opinion. Indeed, Van Dyke’s view of the Southwest deserts was not a popular one. “The aesthetic sense,” he wrote, “the power to enjoy through the eye, the ear, and the imagina tion—is just as important a factor in the scheme of human happiness as the corporeal sense of eating and drinking; but there has never been a time when the world would admit it.”7 Van Dyke did not find many people who shared his views, and he did not want to do so. He was fascinated by the desert’s chal lenges to life of all kinds, but especially human life, and he saw nothing wrong with the conclusion that deserts were not the best places for people to settle. He called deserts the “breathing spaces of the west,” and said that they should be “preserved forever,” ideally by prohibiting people who lacked aesthetic ap preciation from coming near them.8 Not even locals possessed such appreciation according to Van Dyke. For him, the aesthetic joy he found in the landscape was unreachable for the farm ers and indigenous peoples who had first called the desert home. “A sensitive feeling for sound, or form, or color, an impressionable nervous organization, do not belong to the man with the hoe, much less to the man with the bow,” he wrote disdainfully.9 Unlike contemporaries who celebrated indigenous people 268 the Theater of All Possibilities as one with the land, Van Dyke believed that it required a particular eye to ap preciate the region’s beauty. He considered himself to be one of the few people who possessed the appropriate vision. A possible descendant of Van Dyke is the artist Georgia O’Keeffe, who also delighted in the clean lines and open space of the American desert, who also showed a preoccupation with mortality in desert climates, and who also was loathe to share the space with other people. The nation’s foremost early mod ernist artist, O’Keeffe is best known for her early twentieth-century paintings of New York’s skyscrapers and the southwestern desert, eastern and western bookends of her vision of modern America. At her death in 1986, when she owned half of her own work, her estate was valued at $70 million.10 To say that hers was a vision many embraced and endorsed would be an understatement. O’Keeffe traveled through New Mexico in 1917, and she lived and taught art in Texas between 1912 and 1918, but the first time that she painted the New Mexico desert was in 1929 when visiting the home of salon hostess Mabel Dodge Luhan. O’Keeffe spent a portion of every year from 1929 on in New Mexico, and in 1949 she became a permanent resident in Abiquiu, New Mex ico. Like Van Dyke, she felt most herself when in the desert landscape that she had chosen as her own. “I never feel at home in the East like I do out here,” she wrote in a letter to a friend. “I feel like myself—and I like it.”11 O’Keeffe’s aesthetic was a modern one deeply engaged with the idea of root edness. O’Keeffe appreciated abstraction and clean lines, but she drew her in spiration from actual places, places that were, for her and her audience, obvi ously American. Following her years in Texas, she joined the circle of artists associated with patron and photographer Alfred Stieglitz, and she married him in 1924. Many art historians credit her with realizing Stieglitz’s vision of an American art equal in quality to that of Europe. Stieglitz encouraged the artists around him to abstract the natural and urban spaces of the American land scape, a modernist invocation, but he also encouraged artists to express their sense of places after sustained and deep experience in particular locales. The artists of his circle did not attempt to capture the picturesque. Rather, they tried to convey the essence of a place itself. In New York City, O’Keeffe had met the challenges of Stieglitz’s circle with pure abstractions and with paintings of sky scrapers. When she moved to New Mexico, she began painting bone still lifes, her signature southwestern work. As the art historian Wanda Corn has argued, “O’Keeffe’s bone paintings brilliantly convey, without the obvious romantic or Water Is the Earth’s Blood 269 illustrative character of so much southwestern art of that time, what she and other Anglo artists believed to be New Mexico’s peculiar ‘sense of place.’ ”12 O’Keeffe’s bone paintings, many of which show a deer, elk, cow, or horse skull suspended above the mountain desert landscape of her home in Abiquiu, New Mexico, return repeatedly to the idea of the desert as a transcendent space.13 Her approach was unique. In older European art traditions, bones, and especially skulls, connoted death. In other local art from New Mexico, animal skulls and bones appeared in literal and illustrative paintings to evoke local color. But for O’Keeffe, from the outset of her work with bones, the paintings conveyed “what I feel about the desert.”14 When she first carried bones home to New York in 1930, she did so as “symbols of the desert.”15 The art historian Alessandra Ponte has argued that O’Keeffe responded to the desert landscape as Van Dyke did. Ponte sees Van Dyke’s appreciation of deserts as a “total triumph of the visible.” Van Dyke did not “see” but inhab ited ‘light and color” in the desert.16 According to Ponte, O’Keeffe similarly claimed the desert as her space. Describing Taos, New Mexico, located in the high mountain desert, in the 1920s, O’Keeffe wrote: “I am West again and it is as fine as I remembered it—maybe finer. There is nothing to say about it except the fact that for me it is the only place.” In a much later interview, she con trasted Lake George, New York, with New Mexico and concluded: “Out here, half your work is done for you.”17 Part of O’Keeffe’s enthusiasm for the desert may have stemmed from her gender. Many scholars have noted the sense of liberty and passion that women writers and artists of the early twentieth century felt in the desert Southwest.18 The musician Natalie Curtis, the patron Mabel Dodge Luhan, the writers Al ice Corbin Henderson, Mary Austin, and Willa Cather, and O’Keeffe’s friend and fellow artist Rebecca Strand all spoke in glowing terms of the high New Mexican desert, and all linked their own creative production to the place itself. Such women often saw the desert as an extension of their own houses, places they credited with creative inspiration. O’Keeffe herself frequently painted her houses at Ghost Ranch and Abiquiu, and the houses themselves are popular tourist destinations today. For Anglo women writers and artists, claiming the desert as home appears to have provided a sense of confidence and freedom that women in particular found conducive to their creative work.19 Unlike several of her female peers, however, O’Keeffe’s relationship with the desert was not a communal one. Like Van Dyke, she preferred to appreciate 270 the Theater of All Possibilities the desert by herself. As she said famously in a 1977 documentary about her life and her art, she did not want to speak too positively about New Mexico for fear that her enthusiasm would bring others to the region.20 For many women, O’Keeffe’s example is inspirational. Her life and her art offer the promise of a creative space of one’s own, one as expansive as the desert landscapes she painted. As perhaps the foremost American artist of the twentieth century, O’Keeffe set the bar high. Like Van Dyke, part of what O’Keeffe gathered from the des ert, she believed entered through the aesthetic eye. There is an obvious contra diction in such thinking, especially for one who engages in aesthetic presenta tions of the desert. If the desert is to be appreciated, and if people are both agents of appreciation and agents of destruction, the desert is not going to last very long. As the historian Patricia Nelson Limerick has dryly observed in her study of Van Dyke, “one could only hope that the acquisition of taste kept a narrow margin ahead of the destruction of nature.”21

C onstructing Illusions of Abundance

According to most historians of water in the arid West, the acquisition of taste lost the race. Historians recount, instead, the emergence of a hydraulic society whereby a tiny group of elites via technological expertise gained control of the water supply through irrigation, while a peasant class engaged and continues to engage in the actual work of turning water into either food or power for profit. The author of this interpretation, historian Donald Worster, begins with the model offered by Karl Wittfogel, a member of the Frankfurt School and the originator of the term “hydraulic society.” Wittfogel developed his idea of a hydraulic society to apply to the history of Asia, particularly to China, and was best remembered, until Worster’s book, as a former Marxist turned fierce Cold War anti-Stalinist. Wittfogel’s Cold War past was not of primary interest to Worster. Instead, he pursued the questions that Wittfogel raised about nature and water. Following Wittfogel’s lead, he asked: “How, in the remaking of na ture, do we remake ourselves?”22 Worster concluded that westerners have remade themselves in the mode they have remade the great rivers of the American West, particularly the Colo rado River. Worster observed that we see the “true West . . . reflected in the wa ters of the modern irrigation ditch. It is, first and most basically, a culture and Water Is the Earth’s Blood 271 society built on, and absolutely dependent on, a sharply alienating, intensely managerial relationship with nature. . . . Quite simply,” Worster continued, “the modern canal, unlike a river, is not an ecosystem. It is simplified, abstracted Water, rigidly separated from the earth and firmly directed to raise food, fill pipes, and make money. . . . People here have been organized and induced to run, as the water in the canal does, in a straight line toward maximum yield, maximum profit.”23 The writer Wallace Stegner put it in only slightly less total izing terms: “The modern West,” he wrote, “is as surely Lake Mead and Lake Powell and the Fort Peck reservoir, the irrigated greenery of the Salt River Val ley and the smog blanket over Phoenix, as it is the high Wind River Range or the Wasatch or the Grand Canyon. We have acted upon the western landscape with the force of a geological agent.”24 Most locals from and newcomers to the Southwest clearly had not adopted the eye of Van Dyke or O’Keeffe by the end of twentieth century when Wor ster and Stegner surveyed the landscape. They were not inhabiting pure color and light in the desert. Neither were they celebrating their solitude. They were, instead, building their hydraulic society on the profits of irrigated agriculture, the largesse of the federal government, and the appeal of urban southwestern living. And they were doing so in massive numbers. Between 1930 and 2000, Arizona’s population increased almost twelvefold from 435,573 to over 5 million. New Mexico’s growth, while far less dramatic, was also rapid, increasing from 423,317 in 1930 to a little over 1.8 million by the end of the century. Most growth was in cities, but most of the water in the region went to agri culture—a situation that persists to the present.25 Seventy-five percent of Ari zona’s water use in 2006 was for agriculture. Another 5 percent went to mining, and 20 percent went to cities.26 Water use in New Mexico was similar. In 2008, 78 percent of water in New Mexico went to irrigated agriculture. Only 3 per cent to mining and other industrial uses, and 9 percent to residential use.27 The water was hard-won. Beginning with the establishment of the federal Bureau of Reclamation in 1902, Americans generally and westerners specifi cally engaged in a systematic rationalization of the region’s limited water sup ply via an extensive architecture of dams, irrigation, and groundwater drilling.28 In Arizona, Anglo farmers leapt at the opportunity to build a dam on the Salt River so as to accumulate water during rainy periods to be used for irrigation during the many dry months. The river, however, served both rural farmers and urban residents. Speculators cooperated with the farmers to form the Salt River Valley Water Users Association in 1903 and successfully received funds for the 272 the Theater of All Possibilities

Roosevelt Dam in 1905.29 As we have seen, the Roosevelt Dam and, later, the San Carlos Dam, allowed Pima (Akimel O’odham ) and Maricopa peoples to continue farming, but they farmed at a disadvantage because they had less ac cess to water than did their Anglo neighbors.30 As we will see, Akimel O’odham and Maricopa communities did not sit comfortably with the distribution of water. In the meantime, however, the two dams allowed Phoenix as a munici pality greater access to water. In 1906 Congress changed the Reclamation Act so that urban municipalities could contract with reclamation projects like the Roosevelt Dam. By 1919 the Phoenix city council worked with the Salt River Valley Water Users Association to manage the water that went to both farmers in the Salt River Valley and urban residents of Phoenix.31 A particularly avaricious grab for control of the southern Rio Grande’s wa ter ultimately allowed government distribution of its waters too. At the close of the nineteenth century, water management infrastructure was expensive, and the federal government favored private over public ownership of western water resources. In 1895 the secretary of the interior approved the right-of-way ap plication of Dr. Nathan E. Boyd for a dam on the Rio Grande at Elephant Butte in southern New Mexico.32 Boyd sold the project to English investors by sharing his plan to sell the water at extraordinarily high rates. His plan stip ulated that should farmers be unable to make payments or afford irrigation water rights, they would be required to cede half their lands to him. The plan stood to give Boyd dominion over the Rio Grande from southern New Mex ico into Texas and Mexico.33 When his investment scheme was leaked to New Mexicans, the plan, not surprisingly, began to unravel. Federal opinion rapidly shifted, and Secretary of the Interior David R. Francis insisted that the govern ment would never condone “a monopoly of the entire flow of the waters of the Rio Grande, and power to reduce to servitude landowners, citizens of New Mexico, Texas, and Mexico, living on the river below the reservoir proposed.”34 Mexico objected to the plan as well, fearing that the city of Juárez would be cut off from irrigation water altogether. Ultimately, the 1902 Reclamation Act allowed the New Mexico territorial government to wrangle the right to the dam from Boyd’s hands. It was a close miss for the people of the southern Rio Grande Valley. New Mexicans did eventually construct a dam at Elephant Butte beginning in June 1913. When complete it measured 306 feet high at its spillway, higher than any other dam yet completed, including the 280-foot Roosevelt Dam on the Salt River. Southern New Mexican farmers in the Mesilla Valley greeted the Water Is the Earth’s Blood 273 dam enthusiastically, but it ultimately proved the undoing of many. So excited were farmers to have a regular supply of irrigation water that they overwatered their lands, and 70 percent of the farmland was waterlogged by 1917. The dam and its attendant irrigation engineering was also costly, and farmers struggled to keep up with the taxes imposed to pay for the irrigation improvements. As land values rose, subsistence farmers found themselves edged out. Those who took their place tended to grow cotton exclusively. By 1928, 90 percent of ir rigators in the Mesilla Valley grew cotton. Cotton required more equipment and different knowledge. Newcomer Anglos replaced many Spanish-speaking families as the number of farmers grew, and the diversity of crops shrank.35 New Mexicans and Arizonans alike only slowly recognized the changes that dams and irrigation technology had wrought in their landscapes because they were focused on securing as much water as they could from neighbor ing states. Arizonans in particular struggled over water with the most thirsty of western states, California.36 Quenching that thirst is one of the great sto ries of the twentieth-century West. Developers eager to take advantage of the sunny climate and relatively rich soil of California’s Imperial Valley had be gun to irrigate with Colorado River water at the start of the century. Repeated flooding led developers to push for a dam that would control floods and store water during droughts. California had a greater population than those states with tributary rivers to the Colorado, but it had no tributary rivers of its own. Those, along with the headwaters of the Colorado itself, belonged to the states of Colorado, Wyoming, and Utah, with Arizona and New Mexico trailing as minor contributors. Nevada, like California, contributed nothing. If California were to get its water, however, it would need to negotiate with each of those six states, particularly its neighbor Arizona.37 In 1922 at Bishop’s Lodge near Santa Fe, New Mexico, Commerce Secretary Herbert Hoover officiated the negotiation of the Colorado River Compact, the proposed solution to Southern California’s thirst. After wrangling over the com pact, Congress finally insisted that if six of the seven states involved would sign the compact the government would fund both the building of Hoover Dam and an exclusively American U.S. territory canal called the All-American Ca nal. The compact left very little of the river’s water for Arizona, and the state refused to ratify the agreement. Moreover, the compact favored preexisting use of water, a system called prior appropriation. Even though Arizona was offi cially entitled to a particular share, if other states, California, for example, were to take a portion of Arizona’s share, California would have a legal basis in the 274 the Theater of All Possibilities future for maintaining that portion as part of California’s supply. Not surpris ingly, when Hoover Dam was dedicated in 1935, no official from Arizona was in attendance.38 Arizona senator Carl Hayden had pushed for water engineering projects throughout his political career. As an Arizona native, Hayden watched his mother defend his family’s water portion with a shotgun in the Salt River Val ley in the 1890s. Determined to escape the uncertainty of floods and droughts, he left farming to attend college at Stanford University, but cut his education short when his father died in 1900. He was elected to the U.S. House of Repre sentatives in 1912 and then was repeatedly reelected, first to the House and then the Senate into the 1960s. His political career was a long education in the power of the federal government to change the land of the Southwest. Hayden’s name sat behind federal highway bills and defense contracts, but more than any other issue, he backed reclamation.39 An avid supporter of the Roosevelt Dam and of the San Carlos Project, Hayden initially backed the Colorado River Compact, but changed his view as California’s collusion with the federal government for the water became clear. Once the compact had been approved, he steadfastly resisted the dam at Boulder Canyon for the better part of the 1920s. Boosters of Southern Califor nia trumpeted the arrival of Hoover Dam as the jewel in the crown of a new Southwest, with Los Angeles rising as the region’s metropolitan center, but for Arizonans the dam meant regional loss.40 As Hayden lamented in 1926, “The West is an entity.” Hayden saw Arizona as a critical piece in the large picture of the American West. “If the West is to maintain its identity and become a destined factor in the increased wealth, population, and strength of the nation, it will be because the larger communities and states of the West continue to rec ognize the necessity for mutual consideration of the problems peculiar to the West,” he concluded.41 Aridity was a problem peculiar to the West, but Cali fornia had not embraced a regional vision that included Arizona. As Arizo nans recognized, with the water of the Colorado River went population, federal funds, and investment. New Mexicans engaged in their own battle with Texas and Colorado over the waters of the Rio Grande. A series of complicated negotiations and court cases began in 1928 in an effort to guarantee each state rights to a share of the river water and obligations to its maintenance. An indication of the complex ity of the agreement was the service of Edwin L. Mechem, who later served three terms as New Mexico’s governor, represented the state in the Senate, and Water Is the Earth’s Blood 275 was a fierce defender of New Mexican water rights. In the cases leading to the agreement, however, he worked for New Mexico’s arch rival, Texas. The process concluded with significant input from specialists in law and engineering called “enginoirs.” They drafted the 1938 Rio Grande Compact, which assured each state claiming river water a share.42 Rather than end New Mexico’s water management negotiations, the com pact ushered in an era of intense engineering projects and legal maneuvers. New Mexico rapidly fell into water debt to Texas, which posed a mystery in the rela tively wet conditions of the 1940s. In 1955, the new state engineer, Steve Reyn olds, set out to solve the puzzle. Reynolds concluded that wells near the river were pulling water from the Rio Grande. Groundwater and surface water were connected. He developed a system by which those who pumped water could gradually shift to surface water. Then he turned his attention to the river itself. He rebuilt levees around Albuquerque, built more dams, and updated the reser voir at Elephant Butte. Finally, Reynolds pushed for a dam at Cochiti Pueblo to address silt buildup and provide flood protection for Albuquerque. In 1970, after sustained debate, the pueblo reluctantly agreed.43 Later, Senator Pete Domenici pushed to transform the dam from one that provided temporary storage for no more than seventy-two hours to one with a permanent reservoir. Reynolds spent some of his last days as state engineer sailing on Cochiti Lake.44 A similar trajectory from intense interstate legal wrangling to massive wa terworks marked Arizona. Arizonans grew increasingly frustrated as they con tinued to butt heads with California and refused to give up their plan to secure Colorado River water. The two states clashed again in 1934 over a proposed dam on the Gila River when the Arizona governor called out the National Guard to prevent the building of the dam. Eventually, however, the state succumbed to California and the federal government when it agreed to the Colorado River Compact, signing in 1944 and acceding to buy water in an agreement with the secretary of the interior in 1948.45 By then, however, Arizonans had begun to nurture another plan. They set their sights on their own irrigation system. In 1947 Hayden and his fellow senator Ernest McFarland introduced the first of a long series of bills to fund the Central Arizona Project (CAP), a massive ir rigation works intended to carry more Colorado River water to Arizona farms. Arizona’s legal rights to the water destined for the CAP were not approved until 1963, and Congress did not approve appropriations for the project’s con struction until 1968. By then, however, city dwellers wanted the river’s water just as much as farmers did.46 276 the Theater of All Possibilities

In 1940 Phoenix had a population of 65,000. By 1960, it had a population of 439,000.47 The hundreds of thousands of people who had moved to the state often brought their visions of appropriate landscapes with them. As much as newcomers appreciated Arizona’s warm, dry air, they created a more humid geography dotted with green lawns and swimming pools. Arizonans filled their swimming pools and watered their lawns with groundwater. By the 1950s, parts of Maricopa County, which includes Phoenix, had begun to subside, as the water below it went to pools, lawns, and golf courses.48 By 2006, 60 percent of the water in Tucson and Phoenix went to outdoor use—swimming pools, gardens, and lawns, while another 15 percent went to the maintenance of large outdoor projects like lake-themed communities and golf courses.49 There are 300,000 swimming pools in Phoenix, with 20,000 new pools built every year. Maricopa County, which contains Phoenix, has 189 golf courses, more than any other U.S. county.50 Water use came to be a symbol of regional and individual success in the Southwest, and in aggregate, the swimming pools and fountains created an “il lusion of abundance.”51 Although the fountains, the swimming pools, the lawns, and the lake-themed housing communities don’t use most of the water in the Southwest, they give the impression that with the right technology and per sistence, any amount of water can be made available. By the time construc tion on the CAP began, lawns, swimming pools, and golf courses had become ubiquitous parts of the urban landscape of both Phoenix and Tucson and were prominent selling points of many southwestern communities. More than the floods and droughts of the nineteenth century, it would be such symbols of material success that led Arizonans to celebrate their state’s long-sought share of Colorado River water.

A New Order of Human Living

The writer Edward Abbey called the planned communities and fountains and lawns and swimming pools that reached ever outward from Arizona’s cities “the BLOB.” He tried to counter southwestern growth at every turn. He feared the meeting of Tucson and Phoenix in “one United Blob,” when, he envisioned, “the Colorado River will be drained dry, the water table fall to bedrock bottom, the sand dunes block all traffic on Speedway Boulevard, and the fungoid dust storms fill the air. Then, if not before, we Arizonans may finally begin to make Water Is the Earth’s Blood 277 some sort of accommodation to the nature of this splendid and beautiful and not very friendly desert we are living in.”52 Abbey grew up in Pennsylvania but fell in love with the Four Corners region when he traveled there as a teenager. He began his writing career with the appropriately titled Desert Solitaire in 1968, which described his experiences over three summers at Utah’s Arches Na tional Monument, where he was a park ranger.53 His book The Monkey Wrench Gang, which imagined the destruction of Glen Canyon Dam on the Colorado River, captured the imagination of a wide swath of activists and self-identified members of the counterculture.54 The Monkey Wrench Gang was the howl of frustration of environmental ac tivists who had faced the peak of damming efforts in the 1960s.55 In 1956, a combination of powerful western senators and congressmen pushed through Congress the Colorado River Storage Project. The project included the build ing of several dams, including Glen Canyon Dam, which was completed in 1963 and created Lake Powell. The dam and the larger project were meant to provide irrigation waters to western states for agriculture, especially those states that felt that California had already secured more than its share of water and fed eral monies. Senators and congressmen from Arizona and New Mexico were major proponents of the plan. Ultimately, however, the plan ran far over budget and the marginal gains in agricultural productivity were won at the cost of ex traordinary riparian ecological loss. Below Glen Canyon Dam, the river con tains virtually no life, and the river expires before it reaches the sea. It was the Colorado River Storage Project that ultimately made the river into the pure, abstracted water that Worster describes.56 Among environmental activists and members of the counterculture, Glen Canyon Dam was and is a structure so profoundly detested that the founding members of Earth First! chose as their first public event in 1981 the unfurling of a black tapered banner at the dam’s edge. Unlike the pools and lawns of their neighbors, their favored symbol was a crack in the dam.57 Abbey spoke at the event: “Surely no man-made structure in modern Amer ican history has been hated so much, by so many, for so long, with such good reason.”58 For Abbey and his many, many readers and devotees, the loss of Glen Canyon was profound. Glen Canyon, home to a series of side canyons, “glens” of multicolored rock, waterfalls, and birdsong, became a symbol of a lost wil derness ideal. For its admirers, Glen Canyon possessed a natural, nonhuman beauty. To this day, Glen Canyon Dam has the power to rally wilderness ad vocates. Its history as a symbol is significant, not just for understanding the 278 the Theater of All Possibilities counterculture in the Southwest, but for understanding wilderness advocacy more broadly in the late twentieth century.59 Although Glen Canyon Dam and its reservoir, Lake Powell, still exist, op position to it and the wider Colorado River Storage Project created a series of products that made the austerity of the desert not only a desirable experience, but a keystone of national identity. In 1955, David Brower, then president of the Sierra Club, believed the dam at Glen Canyon to be a done deal. Hoping to preserve other locales from flooding, he helped to publish This Is Dinosaur: Echo Park Country and Its Magic Rivers to rally opposition to a dam that would have flooded Dinosaur National Monument. The publication lay the groundwork for the Sierra Club-published Exhibit Format Series, which included Ansel Adams’s This Is the American Earth and Eliot Porter’s In Wildness Is the Pres- ervation of the World, a text that the historian Jared Farmer calls “something of a missionary tract for the Sixties generation of wilderness activists.”60 In part due to such publicity, a coalition of conservationists, which included the Sierra Club, ultimately argued successfully for a compromise that preserved Rainbow Bridge National Monument and Dinosaur National Monument. But the coalition’s success came at great cost: Glen Canyon. Brower blamed himself for initially agreeing to the compromise but turned his frustration into yet another book: The Place No One Knew: Glen Canyon on the Colorado, with photos by Eliot Porter. Ultimately, when dam proponents overplayed their hand with the Pacific Southwest Water Plan, which would have placed dams within the Grand Canyon itself, Brower’s coalition rallied with a full-page ad in the New York Times asking: “Should we also flood the Sistine Chapel so tourists can get nearer the ceiling?” While many southwesterners and many Americans saw no problems with dams, national parks were too vital an aspect of national identity to sacrifice, particularly with the surge in southwestern tourism that had followed World War II. Moreover, Brower’s campaign had brought par ticularly beautiful images before a wide swath of the public, most of whom had never seen Glen Canyon. By 1968, the Interior Department, Congress, and a variety of Arizona and Native American representatives had finally compro mised on the Central Arizona Project, and Congress, responding to the pres sure from the Sierra Club, forbid dams between Lake Powell and Lake Mead. The Place No One Knew, as an elegy, has kept Glen Canyon in the minds of wilderness advocates who seek to preserve the sense of solitude and expansive space offered in the arid Southwest. As a text, it, and the books that followed it, are cornerstones of wilderness advocacy.61 Water Is the Earth’s Blood 279

But in selling the solitude of the desert, wilderness advocates risked endan gering it, a contradiction with which many nature writers of the mid-twentieth century struggled.62 How to protect from humans a region that made the hu man spirit feel free? The writer Wallace Stegner, a friend of Brower’s, was one who wrestled with the contradiction. Stegner considered aridity the defining feature of not just southwestern life, but all western life. In “Striking the Rock,” he deplored a desert architect’s home as a “luxurious, ingenious, beautiful, ster ile incongruity.” A dazzling white house entirely distinct from its environment, the home included a pool, of course, and a patio cooled and heated with un derground pipes, all fed by the architect’s own private pipeline. Stegner called the desert house “immoral,” and concluded: “We have tried to make the arid West into what it was never meant to be and cannot remain, the Garden of the World and the home of multiple millions.”63 How to balance people and place was something Stegner never really resolved, though not for want of trying. One might see in wilderness advocates, especially Abbey, a return to the aes thetic elitism of Van Dyke and O’Keeffe. Like Van Dyke, Abbey thought Glen Canyon and other desert places were best appreciated alone; solitude enhanced the best of human reflection, while crowds and the technology they brought with them prevented any reflection at all. Abbey squared off against the ab straction of water and the symbols of material success in southwestern suburbs. For him, the counterculture “countered” the excesses of human and consumer culture. Van Dyke had wanted to keep the desert only for those who could ap preciate it aesthetically; Abbey wanted it reserved for those who were not, in his word, repressed. Repressed people sought out packaged tours without hardship. Unrepressed people wanted “liberty, spontaneity, nakedness, mystery, wildness, and wilderness.”64 Repressed people, in Abbey’s view, wanted to be unrepressed people—they just didn’t know it yet. In the meantime, Abbey felt that “the idea of wilderness needs no defense. It only needs more defenders.”65 But just what was Abbey defending? If entering the desert wilderness re quired permits and exams, it was hardly free, naked, and spontaneous. The western historians Patricia Nelson Limerick and Elliott West have both noted Abbey’s contradictory sentiments: Limerick when she observes that “the prin cipal charm of the desert was the scarcity of humans; recruiting supporters to preserve that charm, Abbey had to risk destroying it with a rush of invited guests”; and West when he calls Abbey the “modern master of the adolescent male escape fantasy.”66 Abbey’s view represented that of a wider segment of Americans who saw in the Southwest a landscape that needed human restraint. 280 the Theater of All Possibilities

Yet, when wilderness advocates, including those of the counterculture, advo cated restraint, it seemed more like a selfish ploy to keep the desert to them selves. Defending the desert seemed to lead inevitably to contradictions that desert advocates found difficult to resolve.67 The most salient of such contradictions was the way in which the literary and photographic publications advocating wilderness protection, even Abbey’s, prompted more and more visitors to fragile desert environments. After World War II, tourists, almost always in cars, arrived in increasing numbers to U.S. des erts and the reservoirs that dot the Colorado River and the Rio Grande so that they could enjoy the wild landscapes that Abbey’s writing and Sierra Club pub lications celebrated. Even after—in fact, especially after—the creation of Lake Powell, Elephant Butte Reservoir, Cochiti Lake, and other artificial lakes on western rivers, tourists arrived seeking recreational opportunities. Tourists took photos, snagged striped bass, mountain biked, water-skied, jet-skied, boated, hiked, and spent their vacations on houseboats, complete with beds, hot water, showers, toilets, stoves, refrigerators, and even air conditioners. These were yet more symbols of material comfort and success. Bureau of Reclamation commis sioner and avid dam proponent Floyd Dominy, a villain in the stories most en vironmental activists tell about Glen Canyon Dam, predicted, hyperbolically, in 1963 that Lake Powell would attract over two million visitors a year. As the his torian Jared Farmer has reported, “it took only fifteen years to prove him right.”68 By the end of the twentieth century, counterculture wilderness advocates argued more and more for different types of consumption rather than against consumption in the first place. Recreation enthusiasts find themselves reen acting a 1969 trip by an unlikely combination: Sierra Club president David Brower and departing Bureau of Reclamation commissioner Floyd Dominy. Recorded by New Yorker reporter John McPhee, the trip included visits to both Lake Powell and down the Grand Canyon. In McPhee’s account, Dominy kept trumpeting the beauty and accessibility of Lake Powell; Brower kept lamenting the loss of the beauty and transcendence of Glen Canyon.69 Dominy praised the lake’s accessibility to all; Brower reflected on the transcendence available to the canyon hiker. In the present, outdoor enthusiasts continue the argument. Bet ter to be in the dirt than on the water. Better to view rock formations from the lake than the canyon floor. Better to backpack than to water-ski. Better to linger than to speed. Better to mountain bike than to motorbike. Better to be thrilled than to be awed. Outdoor supply companies are happy to exploit such preferences when marketing their tents and water skis and packs and helmets Water Is the Earth’s Blood 281 and rock climbing shoes and energy bars.70 Some argue that the very consumer culture that Abbey deplored has practically swallowed whole counterculture wilderness advocacy.71 As the more moderate activism of Brower and others show, however, Ab bey was hardly the entirety of wilderness advocacy. Others who called them selves environmentalists or who might have included themselves within the counterculture chose instead to put their efforts behind new forms of urban living. These members of the counterculture, too, countered what they saw as the excesses of modern consumption. When they viewed the Southwest, they observed that most southwesterners chose to live in horizontal landscapes. Un like cities back East, southwestern cities sprawled, their silhouette mirroring the expanse of the land itself. Choosing as their antidote to mainstream culture more sustainable urban living, some embraced modern architecture. Perhaps the most fully realized southwestern urban structure embraced by the counter culture has been the city of Arcosanti, the brain child of architect Paolo Soleri. Soleri was an Italian architect who trained in 1948 and 1949 with the famous Frank Lloyd Wright at Wright’s western outpost, Taliesin West. Wright him self presented his western center as an example of appropriate living in the des ert, but as the architecture critic Reyner Banham has noted, Wright was loath to share the space with others and deplored the power lines and other signs of other humans that marred his view from Taliesin West.72 In contrast, Soleri set as his goal the formation of an urban architecture that was appropriate to the desert environment. Soleri was not averse to humans. Indeed, in his philosophy it is human artifice that will create the technology necessary to live sustainably. Rather than sprawl, his urban design, Arcosanti, realized approximately sixty miles north of Phoenix, reaches upward instead of outward. Although never completed, Soleri’s goal was to create an urban form that had minimal impact on the surrounding environment and left a maximum of space for agricultural development. As an early review put it: “Stripped to its essentials, his mes sage would read: the expansion of a totally industrialized urban order across the earth’s surface has reached a critical point; in its wasteful advance, it has polluted the environment and corrupted society itself; therefore, mankind must not only halt this suicidal warfare against its planet but it must also pull back to create a new order of human living, one based upon the principles of ecology and architecture—that is, arcology.”73 For that part of the counterculture with faith in humankind, Soleri’s vision was inspirational. In technology and human investment, rather than retreat from 282 the Theater of All Possibilities

Figure 17. The Arcosanti Vaults. Photo by Arcosanti alumnus architect Jens Kauder, May 2016—Cosanti Foundation. The Arcosanti Vaults, the midpoint of the Arcosanti site, with the lights of Phoenix in the distance. Architect Paolo Soleri designed Arco santi as an alternative urban form for the southwestern desert. The community offers a contrast to the sprawl of other southwestern cities.

humanity, Americans would find redemption. The desert, if properly managed and appreciated, could be the site for sustainable living. Since the late 1960s, many of those who have shared Soleri’s vision have trickled through Arcosanti, contributing to its landscaping crew or its bell foundry works, the principal source of the community’s income. Proponents speak of a sense of satisfaction with less, an acknowledgement that they need not pursue material success to feel fully realized. Only about sixty people, however, live full-time in the community. If Soleri’s ideas spread, it will not be because they have been appropriated, but because they have taken root among communities willing to remain small.74

Water Is Life

In his meditations on the desert, the architecture critic Reyner Banham faulted Soleri and Wright both because they brought “an inherently alien vision with them and imposed it on the desert scene, and the results are, in their way, as Water Is the Earth’s Blood 283 foreign as the mad townscape of Las Vegas.”75 Banham actually delighted in human presence in the desert: he praised highways and automobile access; took pleasure in characters who lived in the social cracks of desert communities; even saw aesthetic merit in how power lines echo the horizontal landscape.76 He considered the desert as possibly the ideal environment for modern man because there humans must confront the limits and detritus of their own ac tions. But when it came to urban architecture, Banham favored practical sus tainability. He dismissed the self-conscious efforts of architects like Soleri to make modern humans at home in the desert and embraced instead the adobe architecture of the Southwest’s Pueblo Indians and Mexican Americans. Such architecture has been practiced for centuries by the descendants of early Span ish settlers and, in slightly different form, for thousands of years by the region’s Pueblo Indians. Banham noted that the thick walls provide excellent insula tion, making homes warmer in winter and cooler in summer. Mud is readily available in the Southwest, and local knowledge is at a premium when new comers choose to build in what is usually called “traditional adobe.”77 In the Southwest, however, traditional adobe has become architectural short hand for collective forgetting. To build in such a style runs the risk of reinforcing the notion that Pueblo and Mexican American peoples are, by nature, tradi tional, a risk against which the architecture scholar Chris Wilson has argued in The Myth of Santa Fe. By the end of the twentieth century, Anglo newcomers to the Southwest used adobe, when they could afford it, as a sign of socio economic success. Adobe, and its attendant high labor costs, became a status symbol as newcomers to southwestern cities drove up property costs and taxes. Mexican Americans, many of modest means, retreated from tourist centers. If their new homes looked like their old ones, it was usually because builders had used cheaper and less labor-intensive stucco to plaster over wood frames to create a more “southwestern” look. In short, adobe covered over a host of racial and class inequalities even as it erased the passage of time. Those liv ing with modern conveniences in adobe homes could pretend that they in habited a perfectly preserved past. Meanwhile, the physical evidence of late twentieth-century southwestern life—deracinated city centers, increasing auto dependence, and fickle tourism economies, were covered over in southwestern cities.78 Adobe also has little to do with sustainable water use. One has only to look at the lush landscaped grounds of celebrities’ second homes in northern New Mexico to see that adobe bricks do not necessarily translate into moderate water consumption.79 284 the Theater of All Possibilities

Far more likely to reduce excessive water use is another Mexican American institution: the acequia. Acequias are communally owned ditches by which New Mexicans and southern Coloradans distribute water for agriculture. Acequias are a remnant of Spanish water use and water law, and they are not commonly used. Most acequias in Albuquerque, New Mexico’s largest city, were squeezed out by a major irrigation works spearheaded by Albuquerque businessmen who wanted to protect their property from flooding on the Rio Grande. The Middle Rio Grande Conservancy District (MRGCD), which was approved in 1928, successfully channeled the river, but the works themselves and the increase in property values proved too costly for most Nuevomexicanos relying on ace quias. Much like the Elephant Butte Dam, the MRGCD was “an octopus that slowly squeezed them out of their livelihood.”80 Although some objected to the push away from their farms, other Nuevomexicano families were eager to leave a “way of life that was as harsh as it was admirable.”81 Waterlogged farms and floods along with the increasing opportunities for wage labor in cit ies drew them away from agricultural livelihoods. By the late twentieth cen tury, only a few acequias persevered in northern New Mexico and southern Colorado. Though few in number, acequias are almost unparalleled in terms of teach ing reverence for water.82 The anthropologist Sylvia Rodríguez has found that acequias and the structures of Nuevomexicano folk Catholic practice have a similar symbolic and literal place. Churches, moradas (structures built for a se cret society of Catholic men who practice self-flagellation), cemeteries, and ace quias overlap. The interweaving of spiritual practice with communal water use extends even further. Nine of the fifteen active Catholic churches in the Taos basin are dedicated to saints associated with water. Processions of saints, a common practice in northern New Mexico, and one that unites the liturgical calendar with seasonal demands, often follow acequia paths. Nuevomexicano communities carry saint figures into the fields to solicit rain, but also in honor of saints’ days. Processions in honor of San Isidro (Saint Isidore), the patron saint of farmers and field hands and a commonly honored saint in northern New Mexico and southern Colorado, are frequent. Novenas, nine evenings of collective prayer, often honor saints associated with water like San Isidro and Santa Inez (Saint Agnes), the patron saint of farmers and herders. Expres sions popular among Spanish speakers who trace their lineage multiple gen erations in New Mexico similarly link water and sanctity. “Agua es la sangre de la tierra” (water is the earth’s blood) and even the term “sangria” (blood) are Water Is the Earth’s Blood 285

Figure 18. Acequia del Medio de Chamisal, 2015. Photo by Juliet Garcia-Gonzales/ New Mexico Acequia Association. Acequias, communal water ditches collectively managed in northern New Mexico and southern Colorado, provide an example of how to cultivate an attitude of reverence for the region’s scarcest resource.

used in reference to the acequias themselves. The very name of the mountain range that contains most of the maintained acequias in New Mexico, Sangre de Cristo (Blood of Christ), was used, according to Rodríguez, to refer to a body of water.83 By fusing religious and water distribution practices, Nuevomexicanos have forged a culture that treats water with reverence. The New Mexico Acequia Association, founded in 2006 by many communities that had been engaged in acequia practice for centuries, issued a declaration that year titled “La Agua es la Vida” (Water Is Life). Its first four points state:

1. We recognize, honor, and respect that water is sacred and sustains all life. 2. We reaffirm the connection between land, water, and our communities as the material and spiritual basis for our existence. 286 the Theater of All Possibilities

3. We practice the principle that water is life in our customs and traditions of water sharing also known as the repartimiento. 4. We recognize that we live in a desert and water scarcity is part of our existence. Because it is scarce and precious, the utmost care must be taken in using our water.84

Water is sacred in such formulations. Conservation of a precious resource in an arid environment has become a part of everyday practice for a limited few. But do acequias work? Do they manage water efficiently and ecologically? Evidence from hydrologists at New Mexico State University suggests that they do. Seepage from acequias boosts the water table, and the acequias themselves sustain riparian ecosystems of greater diversity than do flood or pipe irriga tion.85 The landscape and planning scholar José Rivera has concluded: “As bio logical systems, the acequias have served other important objectives: soil and water conservation, aquifer recharge, wildlife and plant habitat preservation, and energy conservation. . . . Moreover, the fact that acequia communities con tinue to support human and other habitats, without depleting the resource base is testimony to the existence and practice of a conservation ethic long ago ingrained in the local value systems.”86 Because the ditches are communally managed and used, they require input from everyone who uses the water. Ace quias are neither the pure, lifeless water in the irrigation ditch nor symbols of material prosperity like swimming pools and golf courses. They are, perhaps, symbols of water sustainability. Most significantly, acequias promise to wed food consumption with water use. The Acequia Institute, based in southern Colorado, has successfully part nered with other environmental social justice groups, including a seed saver organization dedicated to ensuring plant diversity in modern agriculture and South Central Farmers Feeding Families, an urban farm in south-central Los Angeles. In a similar move, the Arizona writer and botanist Gary Nabhan has painstakingly gathered seeds of diverse, indigenous southwestern plants, many of which are more drought tolerant and, when included in the diets of some indigenous peoples in the American Southwest and northern Mexico, have had a genuine health benefit. In addition to heading the Center for Sustainable En vironments at Northern Arizona University, Nabhan went a year eating foods grown and produced entirely within a 250-mile radius of his home. He chroni cled the story, not to trumpet his own virtue as a “locavore,” but rather to show the social, ecological, and public health benefits of a diet rich in foods produced Water Is the Earth’s Blood 287 close to home. Nabhan’s public and private examples offer yet another alterna tive to mainstream consumer culture, suggesting the powerful symbolic role of food itself.87 To look at food raises another question regarding acequias: Do they work as symbols? Can the humble irrigation ditch take the place of the Las Vegas Bellagio pool or the Phoenix lawn or the Albuquerque golf course? Here the evidence is more mixed. An acequia organization composed of neighbors care fully weighing the value of every drop or a seed saver group ensuring plant diversity and healthy eating do send a message that water is precious. Nonethe less, acequias as symbols of water sanctity are hardly widespread. Outside of northern New Mexico and southern Colorado, few know about acequias, and throughout the Southwest the symbols of material success, swimming pools and afternoons of golf, are far more likely to garner attention and dollars. Moreover, efforts to bring the heritage of acequia culture to a national audi ence have run aground on stereotypes about Mexican Americans themselves. The Milagro Beanfield War, written by John Nichols and released as a film directed by Robert Redford, is probably the best example of the challenges in translating a local understanding of water’s scarcity to a wider audience. The novel and movie both tell the story of Joe Mondragon, who, frustrated with the lack of job oppor tunities and poverty of his tiny hometown in northern New Mexico, uses water from the town’s acequia to water his beanfield. Mondragon’s action is illegal. The water does not belong to him but to a local land developer named Ladd Devine. Devine hopes to use the water rights to build a high-end development, Miracle Valley, complete with golf courses and fountains. Mondragon owns the land, however, and his father refused to sell out when Devine’s grandfather became the local land baron. Devine can’t boot him from the land, and the town, full of local characters, rallies around Mondragon to resist the development. Devine, nervous about the media and political implications of riling the locals, calls in a state cop, Montana, to pin some crime on Mondragon. But the town foils Montana at every turn, and the film and book both end with a triumphant cel ebration at the Mondragon bean harvest. Chris Wilson has called attention to the anachronistic elements of the film—the soundtrack uses Italian music, and characters from New Mexico’s distant past appear in Mexican, rather than New Mexican, garb. Moreover, the cast of oddball characters—an old woman who pelts passersby with pebbles, a one-armed man who claims a host of butterflies carried his limb away, a pig that makes a mess of everyone’s garden—could as easily populate rural Greece, Tibet, or Guatemala in a feel-good arthouse film.88 288 the Theater of All Possibilities

The film’s inaccuracies and stereotypes do not just cover over the reality of New Mexican life, however; they cover over the importance of water to the story itself. In this respect, Nichols’s book, in which Nichols has greater room to narrate his story, better conveys how water acted as a contradictory symbol of both traditional culture and late twentieth-century prosperity for rural Nuevo mexicanos. In the movie, Montana is called the “bogeyman,” the steel-willed detective who will deal the final blow in the town’s demise. Montana isn’t all that dissimilar in the book, but he returns each night to Santa Fe and his beau tiful and perfectly happy family who frolic in their swimming pool. In contrast, the families in Milagro are a mess, literally and figuratively. They’re dirty from killing animals, fixing outmoded machines, and shoveling privies. Domestic discord and infidelity are a commonplace. Santos, the carved and wooden saint figures so popular in Anglo depictions of New Mexico, appear in both medi ums too. But in the film we learn more about San Ignacio, the patron saint of Catholic soldiers and spiritual retreats, than we do Santa Inez or San Isidro, the patron saints of farmers. The book is ribald and obviously allegorical, but the reader is left wondering if the people of Milagro can get by on the products of a beanfield and their local pride or if they’ll someday want a swimming pool like Montana’s. By covering over the reality of the people, the film covers over the reality of water use. Nothing about Nuevomexicanos or Mexican Americans elsewhere in the Southwest necessarily predisposes them to act differently from other southwesterners. A limited number of people see promise in acequias, but most southwesterners want lawns and swimming pools too.89 In short, inserting acequias into national or international culture will likely be a challenge. Not just because people are tied to their illusions of abundance, but because the people who have, for generations, for centuries, nurtured the link between sacred space and water are Mexican American. The interweaving of Spanish and English is as much a part of acequia culture as is the mixture of water management and spiritual practice. Historically, Anglo Americans have not only been loath to recognize Spanish and Mexican waterways, they have been loath to recognize people of Spanish and Mexican descent as equal deci sion makers in managing natural resources. At best, Nuevomexicanos appear in many representations as an idealized pastoral folk, just as they do in The Milagro Beanfield War film. Recognizing Mexican Americans as modern ac tors is as necessary as recognizing the potentially symbolic power of acequias if southwesterners are to change how they see and use water. Water Is the Earth’s Blood 289

C onclusion

Even Native American communities, in which stories and traditional practice have reinforced the value of water to everyday life, have struggled to resist the pressures of consumer culture and several decades of faith in engineering tech nology. The public health of many tribes has been severely threatened by dia betes and other diet-related illnesses. The Tohono O’odham, for example, suffer from a 60 percent diabetes rate, a product, in part, of the tribe’s abandonment of traditional desert foods. Only 10 percent of the reservation was cultivated for farming at the start of the twentieth century when a new organization, Tohono O’odham Community Action, began the incremental process of educating tribal members in traditional food consumption. A Tohono O’odham trained in land surveying and carpentry returned to the reservation, collected stories from el ders about how they had farmed as youths, and started a traditional farm. Aid from the U.S. Department of Agriculture kept the farm afloat, allowing it to persist without profiting.90 As on other reservations, the farm required time, consistency, and an appreciation of benefits outside of profit. Such a combina tion can be extraordinarily difficult to maintain. Most indigenous communities, understandably, have focused their political and material energies on expanding their water rights. Cochiti Pueblo, which was reluctantly drawn into approving the dam on its lands, felt itself split in the 1970s and 1980s between members who wanted to pursue economic develop ment and those who saw such development as a threat to political indepen dence and spiritual practice. The pueblo agreed to lease a substantial piece of land to a California developer and pursued electrical power development at the dam. A contingent of the pueblo successfully campaigned against both the real estate and the power developments. “Imagine,” said one, “a municipality forty times the size of the pueblo competing for control over half of the pueblo’s re maining land base. Cochiti Lake would have swamped us.”91 The power devel opment would also have prevented Cochiti religious practice. In the mid-1980s, opponents of the development were able to repurchase the land by putting the “pueblo itself . . . in the water-for-real-estate-game.”92 Cochiti Pueblo has man aged to adapt and sustain its traditions, but it has been an ongoing struggle “to strike the correct balances between the fundamental tensions at the heart of Rio Grande history.”93 290 the Theater of All Possibilities

Tribes in Arizona struggle with the balance too. When they have been suc cessful in securing water rights, most tribes have then planned on selling the water to others or using it for commercial agriculture, especially cash crops like citrus trees. Such measures stand to increase tribal prosperity. In the Gila River Indian Community comprising Akimel O’odham (Pima) and Maricopa In dians in Arizona, per capita income was, at the beginning of the twenty-first century a mere $6,000 a year. The Akimel O’odham and Maricopa greeted with enthusiasm the 2004 Gila River Indian Community settlement, which granted them, along with the Tohono O’odham community on the Arizona-Mexico border, a whopping 653,500 acre-feet of water a year.94 (An acre-foot is one year’s worth of water for a family of four.) Selling water is obviously a profitable enterprise; conserving water isn’t. Indian peoples, just like other southwestern ers, have been pushed to pursue profit more often than they have to conserve water.95 Three elements of water law and infrastructure have been especially helpful in Arizona tribal endeavors to secure water rights. The first is the Winters deci sion, a 1908 Supreme Court decision that ties tribal water rights to the date a reservation was formed.96 The second has been a 1963 Supreme Court decision in Arizona v. California in which the court ruled that tribes were entitled to as much water as necessary for “practicably irrigable acreage” on their reserva tions.97 The third is the Central Arizona Project, the last of Floyd Dominy’s major projects and Carl Hayden’s signature accomplishment, which Congress finally approved in 1968. The CAP was Arizona’s consolation prize after de cades of wrangling with California and the other states in the Colorado River Compact. Together, the Winters decision, Arizona v. California, and the CAP have transferred significant water rights to Indian peoples. The CAP bears further attention because it is emblematic of the contra dictory impulses that have bedeviled Native and non-Native southwesterners holding water rights. The CAP is a 336-mile series of canals and pumps that lifts Colorado River water three thousand vertical feet on its way to Phoenix and Tucson. It was not complete until 1993, cost $4.7 billion to build, and no entity had fully paid for it by the end of the twentieth century.98 The farmers it was intended to serve cannot afford the taxes necessary to pay for it. Hayden continued to support it long after hydrologists and engineers concurred that the river did not consistently provide enough water for increased use.99 Ar dent conservative and antistatist Barry Goldwater backed the project, despite its heavy federal investment and regulation.100 Although intent on pragmatic Water Is the Earth’s Blood 291 resource management, Secretary of the Interior Stewart Udall secured the CAP’s passage with a promise to California of Columbia River water in the Pa cific Southwest Water Plan, a project that, had it been completed, would have surpassed the CAP in engineering and technological hubris.101 The contradictions did not stop there. At the same time, the Navajo rejected a dam on the river itself in exchange for Peabody Coal Company mines and power plants. The decision initially delighted environmental organizations like the Sierra Club because of the deleterious effects of dams on riparian ecol ogy and club memories of the loss of Glen Canyon. Coal production, however, has devastated the Four Corners environment and produced air pollution that sometimes obscures the Grand Canyon, the very place that the Sierra Club was protecting by objecting to a dam.102 Meanwhile, New Mexico supported the CAP on the condition that it could secure rights to more Colorado River water too.103 When Arizona congressmen accused the New Mexico state engineer Steve Reynolds of blackmail over the deal, Reynolds coolly replied: “Well, go ahead and use the term if you want, if it helps you to understand New Mexico’s position.”104 In sum, the CAP is a massive symbol of technological achievement and negotiation as well as denial and cut-throat politics. If one knows its his tory, it is also an unfortunate symbol of what humans can do when faced with scarcity. It is from the CAP that the Gila River Indian Community will get its water. The community will then, likely, sell it back to Phoenix and Tucson for consid erably more than those cities currently pay. The Ak-Chin Indian Community, for example, leases water to Anthem, a prosperous suburb north of Phoenix, for $1,200 an acre-foot, almost $1,100 more per acre-foot than CAP water.105 The water rights and their values represent a long overdue acknowledgement of compensation due Native people in the Southwest from the U.S. govern ment. The Ak-Chin Indian Community has full rights to the water and to the prices they choose to charge for it. In naming their sum, the community acts completely in accordance with their sovereignty as well as with the logic of twentieth-century southwestern water policy. Journalists are quick to point out the ironies of the current water situation in the tribal Southwest. First, as non-Indian farmers lose CAP water and return to using groundwater, they will exacerbate subsidence, a problem that CAP was intended to solve. Second, agreements like the Gila River Indian Com munity settlement deprive other Indian peoples in the Southwest, particularly the Navajo Nation, of badly needed water. Many Navajos have to travel dozens 292 the Theater of All Possibilities of miles to coin-operated pumps for their drinking water. The Navajo Nation is in the middle of its own claim to Colorado River water, which, if secured, would provide a badly needed source of income. Over half of the people in the Navajo Nation are unemployed; more than 70 percent of those employed work for federal agencies. Many of the remainder work for the coal mines and power stations that provide power for, among other uses, lifting the water in the CAP. Per capita income on the Navajo Nation is only slightly more than $8,000 a year, and many Navajos would be delighted to sell water at rates far beyond what southwestern metropolitan communities pay now.106 Third, Native peo ples who, for years, encountered hostile Anglos who criticized nomadism, have now embraced farming with gusto, particularly commercial farming, which is far more profitable, and water intensive, than producing indigenous crops. The greatest irony of all, however, is that Indian peoples, who have struggled for years with the essentialist assumption that they are inherent conservation ists, are now faced with the dilemma of whether to preserve or use for profit the Southwest’s most precious natural resource. The decisions granting water to southwestern indigenous people right the century-old wrongs that deprived indigenous agriculturalists of their livelihoods. They do not, however, neces sarily revive more traditional and more hydrologically sustainable agricultural practices.107 Just like other southwesterners, Indian peoples are experiment ing with a seed bank that preserves drought-resistant corn, squash, and tepary beans, all part of a more “traditional” diet among southwestern indigenous peo ples. Just like other southwesterners, indigenous peoples are reeducating them selves in agriculture through community gardens and public exercise and nutri tion programs.108 These are useful programs for preserving local ecologies and improving public health and they offer the promise of reviving traditional ag ricultural practices, but they take time and sustained effort and a resistance to mainstream American values that prize immediate gratification over the more subtle contentment that rewards conservation. Not surprisingly, southwestern Native people are also doing all in their power to get their hands on water. Unlike other southwesterners, Indian people must also combat the essen tialist assumption that they are inherent ecologists. The deep-rooted assump tion that Indians have not changed over time and just naturally know how to use water wisely can work against efforts to develop sustainable water-use prac tices. It risks foisting responsibility for sustainability onto a stereotype. It can deprive Native people of their own decision-making processes to determine the Water Is the Earth’s Blood 293 uses of their own water. It can hinder the education and community building vital to striking a balance between the heavily engineered hydrological land scape of the Southwest and the meaning of the place and its waters to Native peoples. Southwesterners may indeed learn to manage their water more wisely. If so, The Boy Who Made Dragonfly will be just the introduction to that story. Conclusion

Without Problems, We Wouldn’t Have Any Stories

oe Hayes is a storyteller, and he is telling a story. Maybe he is telling a story in Spanish. Maybe he is telling a story in English. Maybe Jboth. Maybe he is telling a story at an elementary school. Maybe he is telling a story at a university. Maybe he is telling a story in Benson, Arizona, where he grew up and learned to speak Spanish. Maybe he is telling a story at the Wheelwright Museum in Santa Fe, New Mexico, the city where he lives now. Maybe he is telling a Pueblo story. Maybe he is telling a Mexican folk story. Maybe he is telling one of his own stories. Maybe he is telling the story of the Prince’s Servant, in which a prince travels a great distance and wins the hand of the princess with the aid of four fellow travelers: Corrin-Corron, Cargin-Cargon, Tirin-Toron, and Escuchin- Escuchon. They are strangers in the princess’s land, but they each possess a special talent that allows the prince to succeed. Maybe he is telling the story of a Heart Made of Turquoise, in which a giant with an evil heart comes from the mountains and terrorizes the village below, threatening to eat its children. The villagers build a greater, kinder giant to defend themselves. When the evil giant falls, they fill his heart with turquoise and pink quartz. Healed and cleansed of his destructive spirit, he returns to the mountains and remains there, no longer a threat to the people. Maybe he is telling the story of the Frog and the Locust, who sing together during a drought to ask the Rain God for rain. Together, they bring all the lo- Con clusion 295 custs and all the frogs into the song. Their music reaches the mountain, and the Rain God sends rain. This is why the Hopi “dance with one heart” when they pray for rain today. Maybe he is telling the story of Coyote and the Butterflies. Coyote runs again and again to the salt lake to bring his wife a bag of salt, but each time, when he sleeps after filling the bag, the butterflies carry him home leaving the bag behind. Eventually the butterflies relent. After he falls asleep, they carry Coyote and his bag of salt home together to his wife. She makes a great feast. All seems well. “But,” Hayes tells us, “Coyote still has problems sometimes.” He smiles and spreads his arms. “Without problems, we wouldn’t have any stories.”1 The Southwest has many problems. It has always been arid, but the need for water has only grown along with the population, expanding energy needs, and the pressures of climate change. Yet southwesterners continue to use more water than the region’s supply can sustain. By accident and intention, the South- west has been at the center of the nuclear age. As the site of the atomic bomb’s origin, the primary source of the nation’s uranium, and a Cold War landscape of test sites, military towns, and suburban conformity, the Southwest has been buffeted by clashes between environmental and national security. Since their entry into the union, Arizona and New Mexico have been exploited destinations for health seekers, commercial prospectors, real estate speculators, and spiritual wanderers. Visitors have regularly ignored the environmental limits and cultural complexity of the area as they seek an escape from the pressures of modern life. Comprising significant Native American populations, the South- west has been, to other Americans, temporally invisible, a place that somehow exists in another time. Bordering another nation, the Southwest has been spatially invisible as well, a place less American than its neighbors. The South- west’s problems have not always counted among the nation’s problems. Because they do not know its problems, many Americans do not know the Southwest’s stories. Consider the story of the Penitentiary of New Mexico (PNM) riot of 1980. The riot began when a group of prisoners drunk on homemade alcohol escaped from their unlocked dorm. From there, prisoners gained control of the prison’s control center and took guards hostage. Then they raided the pharmacy. Fights broke out. Cellblock 4 of the penitentiary was the protective custody cellblock intended to protect young or weak inmates, prisoners with child murder or molestation convictions, and informants. Small bands of prisoners set out to 296 Conclusion kill the men who lived in Cellblock 4. Altogether, thirty-four inmates died. Two hundred inmates and seven of the twelve hostages suffered serious inju- ries. One inmate was drenched in glue and set on fire. Another had a steel rod shoved through his skull. Inmates were thrown from the upper-tier catwalks into the basement. Multiple victims were raped. As one inmate put it: “Once they started killing then it got worse and worse and worse.”2 Only when two negotiating prisoners secured their own transfer to prisons out of state were hostages released. In the course of the negotiations, a prison administrator promised, “You have my word that no one will be beaten up or shot up.” It was a disturbing reassurance when rights to safety and life were ostensibly guaranteed in the United States.3 When negotiations concluded, police, National Guardsmen, and officers at the prison rushed inside and met no resistance from the remaining prisoners.4 Like many U.S. prisoners of the late twentieth century, those at PNM suffered from overcrowding and poor food. Some prisoners were housed in dor- mitories with inadequate bunk space. Some slept on the floor. Guards were poorly trained and poorly compensated. Because they feared the task, they would sometimes avoid visiting the dorm to count the prisoners and check the door locks. A long period of mismanagement preceded and contributed to the riot too. As the riot negotiations indicated, violence was used routinely to discipline prisoners.5 The sociologist Mark Colvin has attributed the riot to a shift from an administration that allowed inmates rehabilitative experiences to one that relied on coercion. A peaceful inmate strike in which prisoners refused to eat or leave their cells had been called in 1976 to protest a shift in administration and policy that had been instituted six months before. After suppressing the strike, the warden instated still more coercive measures. Those labeled in- stigators or troublemakers were transferred out of state. Violence became even more common, distressing some of the guards, who refused to participate in beating prisoners. The warden also reopened sensory deprivation cells. In the “hole,” prisoners were near naked, had no light or fresh air, slept on the floor with only a blanket, and were fed only two sandwiches a day. Although the new regime was meant to provide more control, paradoxically it set in motion a total loss of order as prisoners became increasingly desperate.6 Perhaps most significantly, the prison created a climate of violence. As one corrections official put it when describing recent arrivals to the prison: “They start acting a little crazy, to make other inmates leave them alone. . . . So inmates are actually placed in a position, because of the type of prison that you Con clusion 297 have there, that they become violent.”7 At the same time, through a coercive “snitch” system administrators bribed and threatened prisoners to encourage them to inform on one another. Sometimes guards threatened to “hang a snitch jacket” on a prisoner by labeling him an informant.8 The consistent victimiza- tion of snitches and other prisoners perceived as weak contributed to the virulence of the violence in the riot. Twelve of the murders occurred in Cellblock 4, the so-called snitch cell. Unlike the fights that killed inmates elsewhere in the riot, the murders in Cellblock 4 were organized and cold-blooded.9 Subject to constant abuse, and without any incentive to participate in their institution, some prisoners turned to vicious violence. But not all. Some inmates protected guards taken hostage, and others even helped guards escape the riot. Other inmates protected each other. The residents of one dormitory successfully barricaded their door to protect them from prisoners who threatened to attack them. With the aid of another prisoner, the members of the dorm were able to open a window and run to the authorities and safety. A group of black inmates went to Cellblock 4 to rescue one of their leaders, a Muslim minister. He insisted that they rescue others in Cellblock 4 too. The group eventually fought their way to the dormitory window opened earlier and escaped.10 Were it not for such sacrifices and courage, even more would have died. In recent years, historians have given significant attention to prisons, particularly the 1971 riot in Attica, New York. Their curiosity is understandable. The United States leads the world in the number of incarcerated people. Recent attention to prisons has focused on overcrowding, the move to private prisons, which began in the mid-1980s, the exploitation of prison labor, and the incarceration of undocumented immigrants. Concern over private prison conditions and the human rights of incarcerated undocumented men, women, and children has drawn intense scholarly and press attention.11 The PNM riot is only rarely addressed in history classes, however. It is as if the Southwest is out of place in a conversation about the nation’s prisons. Of course, the prisons of the 1970s and those of today are different. Signifi- cant differences exist across the region too. In 2014, New Mexico incarcerated over seven thousand inmates; Arizona imprisoned seven times that number.12 (New Mexico had a population of over two million; Arizona a population of almost seven million.) PNM was not a private prison like those that have become more common in the United States.13 Today, Arizona has six private prisons and New Mexico has four.14 PNM did not house families, women, or children, 298 Conclusion as a detention center that operated briefly in Artesia, New Mexico, did.15 The PNM riot was not a product of laws like Arizona’s Senate Bill 1070, passed in 2010, which was written with the input of for-profit private prisons, approved incarceration for undocumented immigrants on a previously unseen scale, and fed the illegal harassment of Latinos in Arizona by police working under Sheriff Joe Arpaio in Maricopa County.16 Monitoring human rights abuses in private prisons has proven extremely difficult.17 Labor conditions have, if anything, grown more exploitative than they were in the 1970s. Perhaps scholars and policy makers have not turned their attention to the PNM riot because there are no lessons to be learned there. Or perhaps we have not yet found a way to tell its story. I began this book by arguing that the Southwest is out of place and out of time. Americans have frequently considered the Southwest marginal to the nation. They have assumed that the Southwest is bound in a permanent past or destined for a particular future. To truly see the Southwest in place and time requires viewing the states of Arizona and New Mexico together. It requires recognizing the diverse racial identities of the region and how people have forged, understood, and acted on those identities to create nations, cities, governments, farms, ranches, families, and livelihoods. It requires sustained attention to the Southwest’s problems and the Southwest’s stories. What, then, can we learn about the Southwest from the story of the 1980 riot? We can begin with the tools offered in this book. National and regional factors both contributed to the conflict. Conditions like crowding and limited rehabilitation occur nationally. Other factors, particularly understandings of race, are specific to the region. Most attention to American prisons has rightly addressed the inequalities that have disempowered African Americans in the criminal justice system. PNM had a small African American population, but the prison was not without racial hierarchies and systems. The small cliques that did exist tended to be racially homogenous. Chicanos had more power than they had elsewhere in the nation and clashed with the prison’s small number of black prisoners. Association with Chicano communities in New Mexico and familiarity with the region’s racial hierarchies could help inmates navigate the minefield that was a poorly administered and increasingly violent prison. As one inmate put it:

The Blacks were a clique unto themselves and they were a weak clique. . . . Among the whites, not too much influence but say power. They run protection rackets Con clusion 299

and gambling games. . . . The Chicanos are the strongest. Within the Chicanos [there are several] cliques. You have [Chicano cliques from the cities of ] Albu- querque, Las Cruces, Espanola, Santa Fe, Gallup and so on. To break those down you have [cliques from various barrios] within Albuquerque.18

However guards and prisoners understood the cliques, race clearly contributed to the structure of the prison society and culture. Although their numbers were small compared to prisons elsewhere in the United States, African Americans were disproportionately represented at PNM relative to their population in the state and the region. At the same time, connections to local Chicano communities could be a source of power for New Mexican Chicanos in a way that they could not for inmates from elsewhere. Chicano communities in cities like Albuquerque had experienced disruption in the second half of the twentieth century. Colvin notes how urbanization, curtailed grazing and land rights, and declining job opportunities contributed to the rise in Chicano prison populations during the 1960s and 1970s. Chicanos were likely to cling tightly to what power they had in the prison. Whites, especially those transferred to the prison from out of the state, may have found the hierarchy confusing and frightening because it did not grant them the status to which they were accustomed. Blacks may have been surprised to see nonwhite prisoners with such influence. The context of the riot, then, included both national and local understandings of race that did not overlap neatly. That rough edge may have contributed to the increasingly violent environment that prevailed in the years preceding the riot. By 1977, some particularly violent cliques had emerged among white prisoners. One included two inmates, Jack Stephens and Michael Colby, who had beaten a fellow prisoner to death with baseball bats. Correctional officers associated the clique with transfers from other prisons: “You have inmates coming from other institutions [in Cali- fornia and the state of Washington] that are related to Aryan Brotherhood.” An inmate in the clique, however, said that “there is no Aryan Brotherhood. They call us white supremacists. That’s the administration. They are down on us white men.”19 That many of the guards were themselves Chicano may have rankled white prisoners accustomed to different racial hierarchies. The disjuncture between national and local racial power appears to have at least disconcerted some of the white prisoners at the penitentiary. Race appears to have been at play during the riot itself too. Stephens and Colby and a third of their clique, Michael Powers, were the last negotiators to 300 Conclusion meet with state administrators before the riot ended. It was then that Stephens and Colby secured a promise that they would be transferred elsewhere. The three were also among those cliques that raided Cellblock 4, seeking victims among the weakest inmates of the prison. Of these, one, a mentally ill African American man named Paulina Paul, was decapitated. His head was placed on a pole and paraded through the prison and shown to some of the guards who had been taken hostage.20 Although he was the only black inmate to die in the riot, and although Anglo, Chicano, and black inmates all were among those four or five cliques that raided Cellblock 4, it is hard to conclude that race meant nothing in the violence that ensued. A deep investigation of the relationship between the meaning of southwestern race and the PNM riot remains to be written, but we can better understand how something so brutal could occur if we begin with the knowledge that national and regional understandings of race contributed. With this knowledge, we see that the riot’s story is more complicated than it might appear at first glance. Prisoners were not evil. Guards were not uni- versally brutal. Prison work could be liberating or oppressive. Race could protect the newcomer or segregate him or corrupt him or leave him vulnerable to violence and death. The prison in New Mexico was a world apart in a world apart, a prison no one wanted to contemplate in a region rarely considered a top priority by lawmakers. Attending to those complicated patterns can help reveal how the Southwest fits into the nation as a whole. Studying the riot reveals how region and nation alike shape the lives of the people who call that nation, and that region, home. But why dwell on a story that is not easy to hear or tell? To see the South- west, is it possible to tell such a story in another way? The poet Jimmy Santiago Baca offers an alternative. Born in the small town of Estancia, New Mexico, in 1952, Baca suffered from the economic disruptions of the latter half of the twentieth century that were driving some of his peers to the New Mexico prison. Baca’s father became an alcoholic and shuttled his children between Santa Fe and Estancia. His mother abandoned the family in frustration over his father’s alcoholism and shame over her Hispanic heritage. She married an Anglo who would not accept Baca or his brother and sister. Raised by his grandparents until he was thirteen, Baca then lived in an orphan- age. He repeatedly ran away and lived on the streets of Albuquerque until his late teens. By twenty-one he was living in Yuma, Arizona, running drugs across Con clusion 301 the U.S.-Mexico border. He was convicted of possession and sentenced to his term in the maximum-security prison in Florence.21 Baca was witness to a riot similar to PNM’s in Florence, Arizona, in the mid-1970s. Prisoners had the opportunity to work and go to school, but such “privileges” were limited, arbitrarily assigned, and barely compensated. The warden, in Baca’s view, “ruled through intimidation, beatings, and lockdowns, and by taking away time served and imposing his own sentences.”22 Baca himself served time in the hole after he assaulted other prisoners. He writes that he found himself constantly drawn into violent confrontations because the prison environment demanded that inmates prove their strength by victimizing weaker prisoners. Many inmates found protection in gangs organized according to race, such as the Aryan Brotherhood and the Mexican Mafia. Drug abuse was rampant. During the riot, one of Baca’s friends handed him an ax made from a piece of toilet porcelain tied to a cell broom with a torn sheet. He saw prisoners attacking those known as snitches and convicted for child molestation. Others grouped together to defend themselves. When the National Guard rushed the prison, they lined the prisoners up naked against the wall and warned them not to move. The inmate standing next to Baca was shot and killed when he reached for a framed photograph of his family.23 But that is not the whole story of Baca’s life. In his memoir, Baca recalls that his time in sensory deprivation turned his thoughts to reflection. Compared to his life on the streets, he observed: “Remembering was a novelty.”24 First out of boredom and then out of habit, he concentrated on his past. He began to have deep visions of his childhood, images and stories. Indeed, it was almost as if he was recalling his childhood for the first time in his life. “I’d never gone into my memories so vividly before. I felt more outside my cell than in it.”25 Baca saw his home with a bird’s-eye view: “In the cottonwoods, owls, blackbirds, and hawks perched, scanning the prairie at sunrise, glinting off the galvanized tin roof of my grandparents’ house, its blackened chimney smok- ing as Grandma prepared coffee, eggs, tortilla, and green chile for Grandpa and my Uncle Refugio.” Baca joins his grandfather on the walk to work. “The land sparkles with dew. Roosters crow. Crows bellow. He looks at the clear sky and land and houses all around and slaps his chest lightly to indicate how he loves the dawn. I do the same. When I’m with him like this, life is beautiful.”26 Baca and his friend, Mosco, plot together to look for the “moon’s home” that they believe exists in the foothills near town.27 At the fiesta of Our Lady of 302 Conclusion

Mount Carmel, pickups gather; there are cookies and cakes for the children; at a bonfire, a neighbor exhorts the community to see La Virgin de Guadalupe as a symbol of mestizo pride. When a wind scatters the gathering, Baca feels “the many lives that have come before.”28 Baca’s memories rejuvenated him. He was able to survive his confinement and returned to the prison routine resolved to work and earn the opportunity to pursue an education. Baca’s memories did not provide a quick and happy ending. He worked hard, but was denied the chance to pursue his GED. In frustration, he stopped working and cleaning his cell. His infractions once more sent him to the hole. This time, his memories pained him more terribly. He recalled his grandfather, who, every morning would scent the air when he sprinkled cedar wood shavings on the stove and who told of driving to the salt flats to load his wagon for trade with Indians. “The simple times had changed,” he told Baca shortly before he died. Baca remembers: “And I knew what he meant. . . . One by one, families were disappearing, and life as Grandpa had known it was changing, and he died of a broken heart.”29 Baca’s mind dwelled on the loss, his removal to an orphan- age, his desperate hope that his mother would return for him, and the many betrayals of his life as his twenty-third birthday passed in sensory deprivation. When Baca left the hole, he was transferred to the highest level of security detention. He finished his time there. He was never allowed to attend school. When a Christian missionary wrote him a letter, he seized on the opportunity to learn to improve his writing. He began memorializing in poetry his experience and that of his fellow prisoners. From his memories—both joyful and sad—he found the language that he needed to cultivate a sense of self. He learned the history of the Aztec and Maya. He embraced his mestizo heritage. With the written word he transformed himself into a poet. Ultimately, he was able to write the story of his life, a memoir, so that others could read his memories to understand his past and that of other prisoners. For those unfamiliar with such stories, his remembrance is a novelty. The narrative of Baca’s life is not a fall from grace, but a return to it. The past in its full complexity gave him the strength to withstand prison and face his present on the outside. He published his first book of poems and secured his GED. His memories and his mastery over language gave him power, but not unlimited happiness. After he left prison, he endured more tragedies.30 Nonetheless, he has published multiple books of poetry, novels, and written a screenplay that was produced as a feature film. He has won multiple prizes for his work. He is still writing poetry. He is still writing stories.31 For all the Con clusion 303 difficulties in his life, his story is easier to tell and easier to hear than that of the nation’s “bloodiest” prison riot. A simple explanation would call Baca an exception to the pattern of poverty and crime that marks the Southwest. A more complex story, like that he tells in his memoir, shows how the place both imprisoned and freed him. Baca’s attention to his own “Indio-Mexican” heritage brings the Mexican roots of the Southwest and Native people back into our own story. His native Spanish made it easier for him to negotiate settings in New Mexico and Ari- zona both. More importantly, it served as a path to embracing himself and his identity. Becoming a writer, for him, also meant embracing his racially mixed ancestry. Baca regularly celebrates the mixture of indigenous and Spanish peoples who created Mexico, including that swath of what is now New Mexico that stretched to the prairies of Estancia and that sliver of what is now Ari- zona that reaches over the border to Yuma. He takes pride in the mestizaje that crosses the international border and extends across the Southwest and, perhaps someday, across the nation. In Baca’s story, mestizaje is at heart of the South- west’s past, present, and future and it holds promise for new national concepts of race. As Baca is quick to remind readers of his work, Native people exist not just in the region’s heritage but in its present. Native people are a part of the history and the present of the Southwest’s prisons too. While only one prisoner killed in the PNM riot was Native American, twenty-four were alternately listed as His panic, Chicano, and Spanish.32 Native people were present in understandings of the riot and the region’s response even as locals tripped over the language they had devised to disguise and describe the Southwest’s indigenous past. The legal boundaries of reservations cause stumbles as well. Just as in many other matters, Native Americans occupy a unique position vis-à-vis the federal government in issues of crime and punishment. Because reservations fall under federal jurisdiction, punishments for Native offenders are often harsher than they would be under state law.33 Arizona and New Mexico have the second and fourth highest numbers of Native people convicted of federal offenses.34 Native people are also more than twice as likely to be the victims of violent crimes, are disproportionately represented in the nation’s prisons, and are more likely to be killed by police than any other racial group.35 Those are major problems. Nonetheless, southwesterners, like Baca, have at the ready stories that show their history has not moved steadily toward misery. As the Southwest’s In- dian Country grew over the twentieth century, so also did Native sovereignty. 304 Conclusion

Pueblo peoples have maintained control over their homelands. Pima and Mari- copa peoples have regained water rights. The Navajo have expanded the reach of their language. The Tohono O’odham have campaigned for U.S. citizenship rights for their Sonoran members. Native and non-Native people work in court and in nonprofit organizations to expand Native authority over crimes committed against indigenous peoples. Their efforts stand to benefit Native women and children who suffer from domestic violence and sexual assault, Native homeless who are subject to attacks, and tribal peoples whose pride rests in the capacity of their governing leaders to negotiate with the United States as equal nations.36 Their work is not easy, but their stories show that they might not fail. Newcomers and locals of diverse races have contributed to making the South west a place that celebrates its Mexican heritage, acknowledges its status as indigenous space, and manages its resources more and more thoughtfully. Figures as varied as Erna Fergusson, Anita Scott Coleman, Aldo Leopold, Georgia O’Keeffe, Stewart Udall, Mary Colter, Paolo Soleri, and Ayame Fukuda have worked on behalf of the region and broadcast its appeal because they loved it and believed it offered modern Americans alternative ways of living in the world. Institutions like the Palace of the Governors and the Heard Museum have shared the unique and beautiful art of the Southwest with ever larger audiences, reshaping national and international understandings of the world. Ranchers and foresters, some of whom can trace their roots back to before Charles Lummis made his first tramp through the region, have united their families with the indigenous peoples of the Southwest, nurtured its lands and its animals, and advocated for a fair distribution of the Southwest’s resources. Their stories are southwestern stories too. Stories are not solutions in and of themselves, but they contain resolutions that can guide careful listeners. They can provide a path. They offer clues to how to tell stories of your own. Stories like “Frog and Locust” remind us of the value of the region’s most limited resource and the necessity of cooperation for its management. Such stories are only a beginning, but still serve as a foundation for the efforts of all southwesterners who build their homes, cultivate their gardens, raise their children, produce their energy, and manage their economy with the scarcity of water in mind. They remind listeners of those many other times in history that southwesterners have managed water in community with one another. Stories like “Heart Made of Turquoise” remind us how much families will work to quiet giant threats to our children. The Southwest and the bodies of its Con clusion 305

Figure 19. The storyteller Joe Hayes strikes a dramatic pose in Santa Fe in 2001. Hayes grew up in Arizona, worked in Mexico, and now lives in New Mexico. Many of the stories he tells in Spanish and English come from those collected by Anglo ethnologists of the early twentieth century. Photo by Scott Caraway.

residents have been marked forever by the nuclear age. If we look more closely at who birthed atomic weapons, however, we find a fuller and more diverse cast of not just men but also women, who may devise how to manage the South- west’s nuclear landscape in the future. Like the traveling companions in “The Prince’s Servant,” the many seekers who have visited the Southwest have brought their own diversity. Some see tourists as a plague and tourist destinations as pathetic false fronts. Newcomers to the region, however, have suggested new ways of understanding the region’s past and present that embrace the Southwest’s connections to Mexican mestizaje and extend celebrations of difference to the nation as a whole. Newcom- ers, in fact, provided the stories of Joe Hayes. Hayes gathered Spanish-language and Pueblo folktales from archives assembled by scholars who arrived in the region in the early twentieth century, fell in love with it, and endeavored to share 306 Conclusion it with national audiences.37 The stories Hayes tells are stories from the very core of the Southwest, but they are new stories too. Hayes tells southwestern folktales, tales from Mexico, Arizona, and New Mexico. We could use more stories like his. He will not tell stories that make “the world seem like a threatening place.” He will not tell didactic stories. He lets his listeners imagine just what the land and the people look like in his stories. He lets the listeners come to their own conclusions about what might come after.38 We could be nearing the end of a story now. It could be a story about Coyote and Coyote’s problems. We can imagine the story coming to a close. We can imagine as the storyteller pauses, takes a breath, and begins again. Acknowledgments

hen I started this project, I talked about it with the late historian David Weber at his home in Ramah, New Mexico. “That’s Wa big book,” he told me. I tried back-pedaling immediately. “It’s only the twentieth century,” I said, well aware that he had taken on far more in his own work. “That’s still a big book,” he said. “I think I’m going to focus on Arizona and New Mexico,” I said, once again considering the far broader scale of his books. “That’s still a big book,” he said. Then, feeling a twinge of guilt over selling short my subfield and with more than a shadow of doubt in my own argument, I said, “I’m a cultural historian. It will likely be mostly a cultural history.” “That’s still a big book,” he said. I was disturbed by this assessment and David’s subtle implication that I did not entirely know what I had gotten myself into. Now, I find that it is very satisfying to have written a big book, and I wish that I could share it with him. My attitude did not improve substantially as I began work, and I owe gratitude and probably an apology to the many people who read my work in progress and tried to help me find my way toward a whole that was greater than the sum of its parts. Colleagues at Saint Louis University—Lorri Glover, Silvana Siddali, Jen Popiel, and Hal Parker—shared work of their own as examples and read early drafts. Michal Rozbicki and Phil Gavitt provided encouragement when my doubts got the best of me. Stefan Bradley and Katrina Thompson 308 Acknowledgments provided a steady example of what it means to take race seriously in academic work. Torrie Hester listened to me rail against the craft of writing from one end of Forest Park to another. I am grateful for our walks together and for her gentle and powerful presence in our department. Cindy Ott and Tom Finan helped me to refine my thinking on water. Luke Ritter kicked off the project with a comprehensive bibliography. Brian Forbes helped me clean up my notes. Bryan Winston reviewed the extensive literature that forms the foundation of the first half of this book. Chris Schnell showed me what excellent editing looks like. Undergraduates in my Latino History class reminded me that teaching is learning. A Saint Louis University College of Arts and Sciences Mellon Fellowship allowed me to assemble many of the sources early in the project. Anything insightful and groundbreaking in this book is likely due to the scholarship, inspiration, and attitude of Emily Lutenski. I had at least as many supporters outside of SLU. The Washington Univer- sity City Seminar allowed me to share early work. Marshall Klimasewiski and Saher Alam helped me to understand what an essay is and deepened my ability to tell a story. Laura Westhoff, Andrea Friedman, and Deborah Cohen reminded me that writing is thinking when I struggled to find a structure for the book as a whole. They especially deserve thanks for their patience. Katie Benton- Cohen and Thomas Andrews read drafts of several chapters and improved them enormously, not least through their own scholarship. A roundtable at the Autry Museum of the American West with Gingy Scharff, Anne Hyde, and Steve Aron helped me decide what a synthesis is. Sherry Smith provided an ongoing example of conscientious scholarship on the Southwest and taught me just what Southwest studies can be. If I succeeded in writing a big book, it is because of her. Alexis McCrossen reminded me of what it means to take a work like this one seriously. Seedz Café, Kakawa Chocolate, and regular lunches with Sharon Reed nourished much of my editing. The Modern American West series editors, David Wrobel, Andy Kirk, and Dick Etulain, went above and beyond in giving me patient feedback. Kristen Buckles steadily waited and encouraged and waited and encouraged again. Leigh McDonald, John Mulvihill, Chip Thomas, and Stephanie Jackson ensured a fine-looking book and a fine- looking cover. I am very fortunate to have had the opportunity to work with the University of Arizona Press and to be included in the Modern American West series, and David Wrobel deserves special gratitude for his faith in me and in this project. Acknowledgments 309

Any book of this kind is indebted to preceding scholars, and I see the endnotes as a second set of acknowledgments. Of the many institutions of historical scholarship represented in the notes, from the Western Historical Quarterly to the Pacific Historical Review to the Journal of American History, three have stood out to me for their deep commitment to the study of the Southwest. They are the Journal of the Southwest, the Clements Center for Southwest Studies, and the New Mexico Department of Cultural Affairs. Everyone who encounters the history of the Southwest owes some kind of debt to these three. They show the vibrancy and necessity of scholarship, not just to the academy but to everyone. Despite my debts to the body of scholarship that produced this book, the decision to combine sources as I have here was all my own, and therefore the errors of this book are too. Many of the books represented here kept me company when I was on the road. Whether I was on Flytoget rail in Norway or a train in western Kansas or above the city of Budapest or on the beach in Oregon or en route to visit friends in California or family in Pittsburgh or colleagues in Washington, DC, inevitably there was a book (albeit sometimes an electronic one) in front of me about some part of the Southwest, and I’m grateful to each author for taking me home when I needed it close and to the Fulbright Foundation and Saint Louis University International Studies, who gave me the opportunity to have far-flung adventures. This book opens with a trip I took from Madison, Wisconsin, to Santa Fe, New Mexico, in 1998. Pat Burke was with me then, and he’s been with me ever since, and I couldn’t be happier with anyone else by my side. He has named my waffle weave, my writing sweater, and my thinking mittens and kept me sane through his good humor and his dedication to our family. Family was all around us on that trip. We were traveling through land not too far from that of my great-granduncles, men who served, without acrimony, on opposite sides of the aisle in the New Mexico state legislature. By the time the thunderstorm that so rattled Pat on that trip had cleared, we were near Watrous, my landmark for finding Shoemaker, New Mexico, the birthplace of my grandfather. My son Kevin Burke has patiently listened to me point it out each time we pass it and has patiently endured my preoccupation with this book. Thank you, kiddo. We were on our way to see my family and friends in Santa Fe and Albu- querque—Haugs, Gaussoins, Woodses, Reeds, Archuletas, Hassins, and Laxes. Their continued support and inspiration every time I head home is invaluable. 310 Acknowledgments

With every eager walk, elbow bump, cactus charge, and skunk encounter, my dog, Rusty, has reminded me that writing requires going outside. That evening, watching the thunderstorm, I’m sure that I was thinking of my brother, Martin Haug, with whom I learned the rhythms of traveling the Southwest. He un derstands when the distance from start to finish is longer than it looks. Appendix Racial and Ethnic Categories

U.S. Census, 1900–2000

Race Categories

1900: White, Negro, Indian, Mongolian (Chinese and Japanese) 1910: White, Negro, Indian, Chinese, Japanese, Other 1920: White, Negro, Indian, Chinese, Japanese, All Other 1930: White, Negro, Mexican, Indian, Chinese, Japanese, Filipino, All Other 1940: White, Negro, Indian, Chinese, Japanese, All Other 1950: White, Negro, Indian, Japanese, Chinese, All Other 1960: White, Negro, Indian, Japanese, Chinese, Filipino, All Other 1970: White, Negro or Black, Indian, Japanese, Chinese, Filipino, Hawaiian, Korean, Other 1980: White; Black; Indian, Eskimo, Aleut; Asian and Pacific Islander: Japa- nese, Chinese, Filipino, Korean, Asian Indian, Vietnamese, Hawaiian, Gua- manian, Samoan; Race not easily classified Spanish Origin: Mexican, Puerto Rican, Cuban, Other Spanish* 1990: White; Black; Indian, Eskimo, Aleut; Asian or Pacific Islander: Asian- Chinese, Filipino, Japanese, Asian Indian, Korean, Vietnamese, Cambodian,

* In 1980, 1990, and 2000, Spanish, Hispanic, and Latino Origin were not listed as race but as ethnicity. 312 appendix

Hmong, Laotian, Thai, Pacific Islander-Hawaiian, Samoan, Guamanian; Other Hispanic Origin: Mexican, Puerto Rican, Cuban, Other 2000: White; Black or African American; American Indian or Alaska Na- tive; Asian: Asian Indian, Chinese, Filipino, Japanese, Korean, Vietnamese, Cambodian, Hmong, Laotian, Thai; Native Hawaiian or Pacific Islander: Hawaiian, Guamanian or Chamorro, Samoan; Some other race; Two or more races Hispanic or Latino: Mexican, Puerto Rican, Cuban, Other Spanish/Hispanic/ Latino Notes

Introduction

1. William DeBuys, A Great Aridness: Climate Change and the Future of the Amer- ican Southwest (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 81–94. 2. David Weber, The Spanish Frontier in North America (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1992), 22–23, 77–87, 91, 106–21. 3. David Weber, Foreigners in Their Native Land: Historical Roots of the Mexi- can Americans (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1973), 59–61, 65–78. For examples, see Frederick Law Olmsted, A Journey Through Texas; or, A Saddle-Trip on the Southwestern Frontier (New York: S. Low, 1857). Mark Thompson cites Olmsted and Santa Fe Trail traders Albert Pike and Josiah Gregg in American Character: The Curious Life of Charles Fletcher Lummis and the Rediscovery of the Southwest (New York: Arcade, 2001), 32. 4. I follow DeBuys’s lead and, rather than refer to Pueblo peoples as prehistori- cal, I use the chronological vocabulary that historians apply to Europeans. See DeBuys, Great Aridness. 5. D. W. Meinig, Southwest: Three Peoples in Geographical Change, 1600–1970 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1971), 3. 6. Meinig, Southwest, argues similarly; see 3–6. 7. Rachel St. John, Line in the Sand: A History of the Western U.S.-Mexico Border (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2011). 314 Notes to Pages 6–11

. 8 See Grace Peña Delgado, Making the Chinese Mexican: Global Migration, Local- ism, and Exclusion in the U.S.-Mexico Borderlands (Stanford, CA: Stanford Uni- versity Press, 2012); Samuel Truett, Fugitive Landscapes: The Forgotten History of the U.S.-Mexico Borderlands (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2008); Erik Meeks, Border Citizens: The Making of Indians, Mexicans, and Anglos in Arizona (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2007); Katherine Benton-Cohen, Borderline Americans: Racial Division and Labor War in the Arizona Borderlands (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2009); St. John, Line in the Sand, 112–14; Geraldo L. Cadava, Standing on Common Ground: The Making of a Sun- belt Borderland (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2013). 9. Erna Fergusson, Our Southwest (New York: Knopf, 1940), 6. 10. I am influenced in my discussion of tourism by Lawrence Culver, The Frontier of Leisure: Southern California and the Shaping of Modern America (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), and David M. Wrobel and Patrick T. Long, eds., Seeing and Being Seen: Tourism in the American West (Lawrence: Univer- sity Press of Kansas, 2001). While Culver chooses the term “leisure” to escape the “relentlessly grim” portrayals of tourism in so much scholarly literature, I feel tourism is more appropriate to the Southwest where the industry has played a more dominant role than it has in Southern California. In Southern California, the shipbuilding, aircraft, oil, and film industries balance to some degree the demands made by promoters of the region they sell, so that locals see themselves as less beholden to tourism and, as a result, tend to resent it less. I address the historiography of tourism more fully in chapter 5. 11. In shaping my geographic and temporal definition of the Southwest, I have been influenced by James W. Byrkit, “Land, Sky, and People: The Southwest Defined,” Journal of the Southwest 34, no. 3 (Fall 1992): 256–387, especially 257– 73. I disagree with Byrkit’s dismissive characterization of Taos and Santa Fe as “quaintsy-poo” and of the Southwest Museum as a “mausoleum,” but agree with his implication that tourism and scarcity (a theme I explore more fully below) are defining characteristics of the twentieth-century Southwest. 12. For information on Lummis, I have relied on Mark Thompson, American Char acter, Culver, Frontier of Leisure, 15–51, and Martin Padget, Indian Country: Travels in the American Southwest, 1840–1935 (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2004), 115–36. 13. Padget, Indian Country, 125–26. 14. Culver, Frontier of Leisure, 29. Notes to Pages 11–12 315

15. Elizabeth Hutchinson, The Indian Craze: Primitivism, Modernism, and Trans- culturation in American Art, 1890–1915 (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2009), 113–16. Also see Frank Hamilton Cushing and the Hemenway Southwest- ern Archaeological Expedition, 1886–1889, in two volumes; vol. 2, The Lost Itiner- ary of Frank Hamilton Cushing, ed. Curtis M. Hinsley and David R. Wilcox (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2002). For Anglo visions of Native people broadly, see Sherry L. Smith’s book, Reimagining Indians: Native Ameri- cans Through Anglo Eyes, 1880–1940 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002). 16. Thompson, American Character, 29–31. For the death of Frank Cushing, see Jesse Green, ed., Cushing at Zuñi: The Correspondence and Journals of Frank Hamilton Cushing, 1879–1884 (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1990), 26. 17. Charles Montgomery, The Spanish Redemption: Heritage, Power, and Loss on New Mexico’s Upper Rio Grande (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002), 114. 18. Charles F. Lummis, A Tramp Across the Continent (1892; repr., New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1900), 94–95. Lummis did, however, present New Mexico’s Penitentes, a fraternity of Catholic men who practiced self-flagellation, as backward and barbaric. By distinguishing between those Hispanos he celebrated and Penitentes, he allowed himself to continue to express racist sentiments of the time while countering such sentiments in other presentations of Hispanos. See Padget, Indian Country, 128–31. As Padget puts it: “For all of Lummis’s profound interest in Native Americans and Mexican Americans, he imagined the United States as hierarchized along racial, class, and gender lines that clearly privileged forms of Anglo male authority.” Padget, Indian Country, 136. 19. John Nieto-Phillips, The Language of Blood: The Making of Spanish-American Identity in New Mexico, 1880s–1930s (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2004), 149–52. 20. Lummis, Tramp Across the Continent, Kindle edition, chap. 7. 21. Culver argues that more than an exotic portrayal of the Southwest, Lummis and Jackson both favored one that united Indians and Hispanos with an invented American past, including Quakers and Yankees. See Culver, Frontier of Leisure, 31–32. Padget argues convincingly that Lummis was well aware of the region’s modernity but knew that eastern audiences would accept his presentation of “this textualized ‘past’ [as] their entry into the contemporary United States.” Padget, Indian Country, 126–27. 22. Lummis, Tramp Across the Continent, Kindle edition, chap. 9. 316 Notes to Pages 14–18

23. Charles F. Lummis, The Land of Poco Tiempo (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1897), 3. 24. Padget, Indian Country, 126. 25. Lummis, Tramp Across the Continent, Kindle edition, chap. 9. 26. Padget, Indian Country, 124. 27. Culver, Frontier of Leisure, 31–32. 28. Kevin Starr, Inventing the Dream: California Through the Progressive Era (New York: Oxford University Press, 1985), 64–98. 29. Chris Wilson, The Myth of Santa Fe: Creating a Modern Regional Tradition (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1997), 91. 30. Ibid., 90–91. 31. Ibid., 128–29; Phoebe Kropp, California Vieja: Culture and Memory in a Mod- ern American Place (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006), 137–54; “The Exposition Gets Under Way,” chap. 2, Panama-California Exposition, San Diego History Center, accessed September 27, 2012, http://www.san diegohistory.org/pancal/sdexp033.htm. 32. Wilson, Myth of Santa Fe, 86–87, 91–92, 129; Montgomery, Spanish Redemption, 116–20. 33. Thompson, American Character, 247, 292; Byrkit, “Land, Sky, and People,” 373– 74; Culver, Frontier of Leisure, 47–48. 34. Padget addresses the commercial intent of Lummis’s boosterism and its unexpected result of cultivating commercially savvy indigenous craftspeople in Indian Country, 115–36, esp. 127 and 132. 35. Barbara A. Babcock and Marta Weigle, eds., The Great Southwest of the Fred Harvey Company and the Santa Fe Railway (Phoenix: Heard Museum, 1996), 2–3, 52, 210. 36. Charles Lummis, “The Artists’ Paradise: II,”Out West: A Magazine of the Old Pacific and the New 29, no. 3 (September 1908): 191. 37. Lummis, Tramp Across the Continent, Kindle edition, chap. 17. 38. Paula Lupkin, “Rethinking Region Along the Railroads: Architecture and Cul- tural Economy in the Industrial Southwest, 1890–1930,” Buildings and Land scapes: Journal of the Vernacular Architecture Forum 16, no. 2 (Fall 2009): 16–47. 39. DeBuys, Great Aridness, 41, 239–245, 334n5, 334–35n9. 40. Late in this project, I realized that I owed the title of this chapter in part to John Brinckerhoff Jackson’s A Sense of Place, A Sense of Time (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1994). Jackson speaks more of recurring rituals and Notes to Pages 19–25 317

seasons in his discussion of how a sense of time builds a sense of place. My interest here is more precisely in a sense of history, a sense of change over time. Nonetheless, Jackson’s deep understanding of places and his enthusiasm for vernacular landscapes, especially those near his home (and mine) in La Cienega, New Mexico, helped shape the structure of this book. In fact, one might think of a sense of place and a sense of time as antidotes to the condition of being out of place and out of time. 41. I have been influenced in this approach by scholarship in the history of teaching learning, especially Sam Wineburg, Historical Thinking and Other Un- natural Acts: Charting the Future of Teaching the Past (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2001). For the essay as form, I drew on Thomas S. Kane and Leonard J. Peters, eds., Writing Prose: Techniques and Purposes, 6th ed. (New York: Oxford University Press, 1986), 169–71. 42. Richard Bradford, Red Sky at Morning (1968; repr., New York: Harper and Row, 1986), 44–45. 43. My goal has been to follow the example of historians of the eighteenth- and nineteenth-century American West who have shown how we can tell the history of slavery, the Civil War, and Reconstruction in ways that advance both national and regional history. I have tried to do the same here with the twentieth century. See, for example, Elliott West, “Reconstructing Race,” Western Historical Quarterly 34 (Spring 2003): 6–26; Ari Kelman, A Misplaced Massacre: Struggling over the Memory of Sand Creek (Cambridge, MA: Harvard Univer- sity Press, 2013); Ned Blackhawk, Violence over the Land: Indians and Empires in the Early American West (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2006); Andrés Reséndez, The Other Slavery: The Uncovered Story of Indian Enslave- ment in America (New York: Houghton, Mifflin, Harcourt, 2016); and Juliana Barr, Peace Came in the Form of a Woman: Indians and Spaniards in the Texas Borderlands (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2007). 44. My use of stories in this book has been influenced by William Cronon, “A Place for Stories: Nature, History, and Narrative,” Journal of American History 78, no. 4 (March 1992): 1347–76, and the Southwest’s own storytelling traditions represented in part here: “Hopi Storytelling” at Southwest Crossroads: Cultures and Histories of the American Southwest, School for Advanced Re- search (SAR) and Project Crossroads, http://southwestcrossroads.org/record .php?num=89, accessed February 25, 2016; Sharon Batala, “American Indian Heritage and StoryCorps 2011: Winter Storytelling in Hopi Lands,” National Museum of the American Indian, November 8, 2011, accessed February 25, 2016, 318 Notes to Pages 28–32

http://blog.nmai.si.edu/main/2011/11/storycorps-2011-winter-storytelling -in-the-hopi-language.html; Cormac McCarthy, The Crossing (New York: Vintage International, 1994); N. Scott Momaday, House Made of Dawn (New York: Harper and Row, 1966); Leslie Marmon Silko, “Language and Litera- ture from a Pueblo Indian Perspective,” in English Literature: Opening Up the Canon, ed. Leslie A. Fiedler and Houston A. Baker (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1981), 54–73; and which I explore more fully in the conclusion.

Part I. Borders

1. Randall C. Archibold, “Side by Side, but Divided Over Immigration,” New York Times, May 11, 2010, accessed August 26, 2013. 2. Rudolfo A. Anaya, Bless Me, Ultima, 2nd ed. (New York: Warner Books, 1994). Luis Alberto Urrea, the great-grand-nephew of Teresa Urrea (also known as Santa Teresa, or Teresita), has written The Hummingbird’s Daughter (New York: Little, Brown, 2005), and Queen of America (New York: Little, Brown, 2011), two novels in which his great-great-aunt is featured as a main character. For a conventional narrative account of Teresita’s life, see Desirée A. Martin, Borderlands Saints: Secular Sanctity in Chicano/a and Mexican Culture (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2013), 32–65. 3. For an excellent microhistory of a portion of the Southwest that explores the same theme, see Linda Gordon, The Great Arizona Orphan Abduction (Cam- bridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2001). 4. I am here drawing on the idea of resistant adaptation as presented by Eric V. Meeks in Border Citizens: The Making of Indians, Mexicans, and Anglos in Ari- zona (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2007), 4.

Chapter 1. A Place by Itself

1. Daniel Webster, Writings and Speeches, 18 vols. (New York: Little, Brown, 1903), 10: 29–31. For the Ruxton quotation, see George F. A. Ruxton, Adventures in Mexico (New York: Outing Pub., 1915), 197. 2. Linda C. Noel, “ ‘I Am an American’: Anglos, Mexicans, Nativos, and the National Debate over Arizona and New Mexico Statehood,” Pacific Historical Notes to Pages 32–34 319

Review 80, no. 3 (August 2001): 430–67. And see Linda C. Noel, Debating American Identity: Southwestern Statehood and Mexican Immigration (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2014). 3. Anthony Mora, Border Dilemmas: Racial and National Uncertainties in New Mexico, 1848–1912 (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2011). 4. Brian DeLay, War of a Thousand Deserts: Indian Raids and the U.S.-Mexican War (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2008). 5. Howard R. Lamar, The Far Southwest, 1846–1912: A Territorial History, rev. ed. (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2000), 220–21, 420–31, 434; see also D. W. Meinig, Southwest: Three Peoples in Geographical Change, 1600–1970 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1971), 23–26. Mark Stein also argues that the constitutional imperative to admit states of roughly equal size led Congress to arrive at New Mexico and Arizona’s northern border line in order to create three tiers of roughly equal height (Colorado, Wyoming, Montana) between the U.S.-Mexico border and the U.S.-Canada border. See Mark Stein, How the States Got Their Shapes (New York: HarperCollins, 2008), 9, 22–24, 196. 6. David Holtby, Forty-Seventh Star: New Mexico’s Struggle for Statehood (Nor- man: University of Oklahoma Press, 2012), 39. 7. In the Philippines and the American Southwest Beveridge would be unsuccessful in “exporting” American racial models to the new territories that the United States had acquired. See, for example, Paul Kramer, The Blood of Gov- ernment: Race, Empire, the United States, and the Philippines (Chapel Hill: Uni- versity of North Carolina Press, 2006). 8. John Calhoun’s speech to the Senate on the annexation of Mexican territory, Cong. Globe, 30th Cong., 1st sess., Tuesday, January 4, 1848 (Washington, DC), 99. 9. Katherine Benton-Cohen, Borderline Americans: Racial Division and Labor War in the Arizona Borderlands (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2009), 31. 10. U.S. House of Representatives, Committee on Territories, May 19, 1876, Re- port 503: Part Two—Minority Report on Petition for Statehood for New Mexico, 44th Cong., 1st sess. (Washington, DC: GPO, 1876), 12. 11. “The Admission of New Mexico,” Chicago Tribune, June 29, 1894. 12. Noel, “ ‘I Am an American,’ ” 433, 437. See also U.S. Census Bureau, “Popula- tion Density,” 1900, prepared by Social Explorer, accessed October 29, 2014, http://www.socialexplorer.com/tables/Census1900/R10822701at www.census .gov/overview. 320 Notes to Pages 35–37

13. Lynne I. Perrigo, The American Southwest: Its Peoples and Cultures (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1971), 309. 14. Holtby, Forty-Seventh Star, 52. 15. U.S. Congress, Senate, New Statehood Bill: Hearings Before the Subcommittee of the Committee on Territories on House Bill 12543, to Enable the People of Okla- homa, Arizona, and New Mexico to Form Constitutions and State Governments, 57th Cong., 2d sess., S. Doc. 7 (Washington, DC: GPO, 1902), 9, as cited in Holtby, Forty-Seventh Star, 57. 16. Warren A. Beck argues that when Beveridge and a delegation visited the territory to determine its suitability for admission, “the evidence . . . indicates that the junketing senators were more interested in cementing their precon- ceived opinions than they were in objectively gathering the facts.” Beck, New Mexico: A History of Four Centuries (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1962), 236. 17. Ibid., 235. 18. Ibid., 238. 19. Ibid., 235. 20. Noel, “ ‘I Am an American,’ ” 452, 454, 458; Lamar, Far Southwest, 486–99; Thomas Sheridan, Arizona: A History (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1995), 173–75. 21. Samuel Truett, Fugitive Landscapes: The Forgotten History of the U.S.-Mexico Bor- derlands (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2008), 78–103, 108–12, 170–71. 22. Sheridan, Arizona, 175–81; Benton-Cohen, Borderline Americans, 129, 203. Erik Meeks discusses how Mexicans made “convenient scapegoats, both because the radicalism and violence of the Mexican Revolution helped to justify a hard line against the strikes and because Mexican immigration was far out- pacing that of any other group.” See Meeks, Border Citizens: The Making of Indians, Mexicans, and Anglos in Arizona (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2007), 108. 23. Meeks, Border Citizens, 42–43; Benton-Cohen, Borderline Americans, 170; Noel, “ ‘I Am an American,’ ” 459; David R. Berman, Reformers, Corporations, and the Electorate: An Analysis of Arizona’s Age of Reform (Niwot: University Press of Colorado, 1992), 92. 24. Sarah Deutsch, No Separate Refuge: Culture, Class, and Gender on an Anglo- Hispanic Frontier in the American Southwest, 1880–1940 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1987), 33–35. 25. Noel, “ ‘I Am an American,’ ” 437. Notes to Pages 38–41 321

26. John Nieto-Phillips, The Language of Blood: The Making of Spanish-American Identity in New Mexico, 1880s–1930s (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2004), 82–83. 27. Noel, “ ‘I Am an American,’ ” 443. 28. McGregor [pseud.?], “Our Spanish-American Fellow Citizens,” Harper’s Weekly, June 20, 1914, as cited in Nieto-Phillips, Language of Blood, 170. 29. Noel, “ ‘I Am an American,’ ” 447; Phillip B. Gonzales, introduction to Express ing New Mexico: Nuevomexicano Creativity, Ritual, and Memory, ed. Phillip B. Gonzales (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2007), 18–19. 30. Erlinda Gonzalez-Berry, “Which Language Will Our Children Speak?” in The Contested Homeland: A Chicano History of New Mexico, ed. Erlinda Gonzalez-Berry and David R. Maciel (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2000), 172–74. 31. Nieto-Phillips, Language of Blood, 2, 13–14, 80–92 (esp. 84–85). 32. Noel, “ ‘I Am an American.’ ” 33. Thomas E. Sheridan, Los Tucsonenses: The Mexican Community in Tucson, 1854– 1941 (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1986). 34. Benton-Cohen, Borderline Americans, 173. 35. Sheridan notes that the 1900 census was the last that recorded Mexicans as a majority of Tucson’s population—54.7 percent of 7,531 inhabitants; see Sheri- dan, Los Tucsonenses, 126. See also Benton-Cohen, Borderline Americans, 173. 36. Charles Montgomery, “Becoming ‘Spanish-American’: Race and Rhetoric in New Mexico Politics, 1880–1928,” Journal of American Ethnic History 20, no. 4 (Summer 2001): 59–60. 37. La Voz del Pueblo, October 7, 1893, as cited in Nieto-Phillips, Language of Blood, 82. 38. Patricia Preciado Martin, collector and editor, with photographs by José Galvez, Beloved Land: An Oral History of Mexican Americans in Southern Ari- zona (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2004), 69–73. 39. Lydia R. Otero, La Calle: Spatial Conflicts and Urban Renewal in a Southwest City (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2010), 19–20. Richard Griswold del Castillo discusses barrioization in Los Angeles during the nineteenth century in The Los Angeles Barrio, 1850–1890: A Social History (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1979). Albert Camarillo discusses barrioization in Santa Bar- bara and other areas of Southern California in Chicanos in a Changing Society: From Mexican Pueblos to American Barrios in Santa Barbara and Southern Cali- fornia, 1848–1930 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1979). 322 Notes to Pages 41–46

40. Chris Wilson and Stefanos Polyzoides, eds., The Plazas of New Mexico (San Antonio, TX: Trinity University Press, 2011), 28–31, 189–96. 41. Mora, Border Dilemmas, 1–9. 42. Edith Nicholl, Observations of a Ranchwoman (New York: Macmillan, 1898), 21. 43. Neither can we attribute such expressions to an unchanging and inherited Mexican essence. In showing the ways Mexican and Mexican American identity changed over time, I hope to historicize Richard L. Nostrand’s idea of a “Hispano Homeland.” Nostrand argues that homelands are characterized by three features: “a people, a place, and an identity with place.” See Nostrand, The Hispano Homeland (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1992), 214. Nos- trand locates the Hispano Homeland in northern New Mexico and southern Colorado and attributes its perseverance to its relative isolation from both white American and Mexican national culture. But if one sees “identity with place” as historically contingent, then homelands will shift over time. Rooted- ness, which we might define as “identity with place,” characterized different parts of New Mexico at different times. A “homeland” then shifted geographically and chronologically across the twentieth century. See also Robert D. Shadow and Maria J. Rodriguez-Shadow, “Rancheros, Land, and Ethnicity on the Northern Borderlands: Works on Social and Agrarian History in the Last Decade,” Latin American Research Review 32, no. 1 (1997): 171–98, as well as chap. 6 of this volume. 44. Robert McCaa, “Missing Millions: The Human Cost of the Mexican Revo- lution,” 2001, accessed January 30, 2015, http://www.hist.umn.edu/~rmccaa /missmill/mxrev.htm. 45. George J. Sánchez, Becoming Mexican American: Ethnicity, Culture, and Iden- tity in Chicano Los Angeles, 1900–1945 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1993), 9–10. 46. Sánchez, Becoming Mexican American, 67–68, 129–30. 47. Truett, Fugitive Landscapes, 176. 48. Rachel St. John, Line in the Sand: A History of the Western U.S.-Mexico Border (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2011), 112–14. 49. Truett, Fugitive Landscapes, 144–49. 50. David Lavender, The Southwest (1980; repr., Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1984), 297. 51. Perrigo, American Southwest, 368. See also Pancho Villa State Park Camp Furlong Day, accessed January 4, 2016, http://www.emnrd.state.nm.us/SPD Notes to Pages 46–51 323

/campfurlongday.html, and Milon Simonich, “Park Name Strikes Sore Spot in Border Town,” Santa Fe New Mexican, July 13, 2014, , accessed January 4, 2016, http://www.santafenewmexican.com/news/blogs/politics_and_news/park -name-strikes-sore-spot-in-border-town/article_f08d754d-daf5–5f58–996e -87197ec874d7.html. For a discussion of alternative images of the town of Co- lumbus, see Brandon Morgan, “Columbus, New Mexico: The Creation of a Border Place Myth, 1888–1916,” New Mexico Historical Review 89, no. 4 (Fall 2014): 481–504. 52. St. John, Line in the Sand, 71. 53. Benton-Cohen, Borderline Americans, 1–3, 198–238. 54. Daniel Kanstroom, Deportation Nation: Outsiders in American History (Cam- bridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2007), 209–10. 55. Charles Montgomery, The Spanish Redemption: Heritage, Power, and Loss on New Mexico’s Upper Rio Grande (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002), 54–88; Neil Foley, “Becoming Hispanic: Mexican Americans and the Faus- tian Pact with Whiteness,” in Reflexiones: New Directions in Mexican American Studies, ed. Neil Foley (Austin: Center for Mexican-American Studies, Uni- versity of Texas, 1997), 53–66. 56. Chris Wilson, The Myth of Santa Fe: Creating a Modern Regional Tradition (Al- buquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1997), 181–231; Flannery Burke, From Greenwich Village to Taos: Primitivism and Place at Mabel Dodge Luhan’s (Lawrence: University of Kansas Press, 2008), 60–88; Montgomery, Spanish Redemption, 54–88, 128–57. 57. A proposal by a group of Texas club women drove a wedge between Hewett and the Anglo artists who feared the women would bring a middlebrow, homogenizing influence to the Fiesta specifically and Santa Fe generally. See Montgomery, Spanish Redemption, 145–50, and Flannery Burke, “An Artists’ Home: Gender and the Santa Fe Culture Colony Controversy,” Journal of the Southwest 46, no. 2 (Summer 2004): 351–79. 58. “Now the Fiesta,” Santa Fe New Mexican, September 2, 1936, as cited in Mont- gomery, Spanish Redemption, 150. 59. Montgomery, Spanish Redemption, 8–9. 60. Robert L. Dorman, Revolt of the Provinces: The Regionalist Movement in Amer- ica, 1920–1945 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1993), 32. 61. Dorman, Revolt of the Provinces, 35. 62. Charlotte T. Whaley, Nina Otero-Warren of Santa Fe (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1994), 172; Tey Diana Rebolledo, “Narrative Strategies 324 Notes to Pages 51–55

of Resistance in Hispana Writing,” Journal of Narrative Technique 20, no. 2 (April 1990): 134–46; Virginia Scharff and Carolyn Brucken, “The House of the Three Wise Women: A Family Legacy in the American Southwest,”Cali- fornia History 86, no. 4 (January 2009): 44–87; Marci R. McMahon, “Politiciz- ing Spanish-Mexican Domesticity, Redefining Fronteras: Jovita González’s ‘Caballero’ and Cleofas Jaramillo’s ‘Romance of a Little Village Girl,’ ” Fron- tiers: A Journal of Women Studies 28, no. 1/2 (January 2007): 232–59; Maureen Reed, A Woman’s Place: Women Writing New Mexico (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2005), 69–169; Virginia Scharff, Twenty Thousand Roads: Women, Movement, and the West (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006), 115–35; Erlinda Gonzalez-Berry, ed., Paso por Aqui: Critical Essays on the New Mexican Literary Tradition, 1542–1988 (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1989); Genaro M. Padilla, “Imprisoned Narrative? Or Lies, Se- crets, and Silence in New Mexico Women’s Autobiography,” in Criticism in the Borderlands, ed. Hector Calderon and José David Saldívar (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1991); Vera Norwood and Janice Monk, eds., The Des- ert Is No Lady: Southwestern Landscapes in Women’s Writing and Art (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1997; Fabiola Cabeza de Baca, We Fed Them Cac- tus (1954; repr., Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1979). 63. Ann M. Massmann, “Adelina ‘Nina’ Otero-Warren: A Spanish-American Cultural Broker,” Journal of the Southwest 42, no. 4 (Winter 2000): 877–96. 64. Whaley, Nina Otero-Warren of Santa Fe, 18–24, 59–66, 77–100, 146–53. Burke, From Greenwich Village to Taos, 65–85, and Montgomery, Spanish Redemption, 151–87. 65. Nieto-Phillips, Language of Blood, 171–72. 66. Whaley, Nina Otero-Warren of Santa Fe, 101–30; Lionides Pacheco and Ruth C. Miller, “The Bi-Lingual Method and the Improvement of Instruction,” Feb- ruary 1938, Bergere Family Papers, New Mexico State Records Center and Archives, as cited in Nieto-Phillips, Language of Blood, 202–3. 67. Nieto-Phillips, Language of Blood, 201–4. 68. Benton-Cohen, Borderline Americans, 159–60. 69. Ibid., 165–67, quotations on 166. 70. Ibid., 175–76. 71. Meeks, Border Citizens, 73–93, 97. 72. Alberto Alvaro Ríos, Capirotada: A Nogales Memoir (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1999), 77. Notes to Pages 56–61 325

73. Henry Dobyns, The Papago People (Phoenix: Indian Tribal Series, 1972), 67, as cited in Meeks, Border Citizens, 87.

Chapter 2. The Story Attached to It

1. Don Usner, “Hispanic Plazas: A Perspective from a Chimayo Expatriate,” in The Plazas of New Mexico, ed. Chris Wilson and Stefanos Polyzoides (San Antonio, TX: Trinity University Press, 2011), 71. 2. Sarah Deutsch, No Separate Refuge: Culture, Class, and Gender on an Anglo- Hispanic Frontier in the American Southwest, 1880–1940 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1987), 164, 167. 3. Eric V. Meeks, Border Citizens: The Making of Indians, Mexicans, and Anglos in Arizona (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2007), 113. 4. See the appendix: “Racial and Ethnic Categories: U.S. Census, 1900–2000.” 5. “Glamour of Mexico Deceives Pilgrims,” Arizona Labor Journal, March 1, 1930, 3, as cited in Meeks, Border Citizens, 114. 6. Abraham Hoffman, Unwanted Mexican Americans in the Great Depression: Re patriation Pressures, 1929–1939 (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1974), 39–41. 7. Maximo Alonzo, interview by Rita Magdaleno, March 18, 1995, MSS-168, box 1, folder 9, 4–5, as cited in Meeks, Border Citizens, 114–15. 8. Paul S. Taylor, “Mexican Labor in the United States: Migration Statistics,” University of California Publications in Economics, vol. 3 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1934), as cited in Meeks, Border Citizens, 115. 9. Deutsch, No Separate Refuge, 165–66. 10. Meeks, Border Citizens, 115–16. 11. Ibid., 115. 12. Albuquerque Tribune, April 21, 1936, April 22, 1936, as cited in Deutsch, No Separate Refuge, 166. 13. Deutsch, No Separate Refuge, 166. 14. Charles Montgomery, The Spanish Redemption: Heritage, Power, and Loss on New Mexico’s Upper Rio Grande (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002), 161–89. 15. Workers of the Writers’ Program of the Work Projects Administration in the State of New Mexico, New Mexico: A Guide to the Colorful State (New York: Hastings House, 1940), 163. 326 Notes to Pages 61–66

16. Richard Melzer, Robert J. Tórrez, and Sandra K. Mathews, A History of New Mexico Since Statehood (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2011), 142–43. 17. Deutsch, No Separate Refuge, 193. 18. Tewa Basin Study, vol. 2, The Spanish-American Villages (April 1939, Center for Southwest Research: University of New Mexico), 71, 87, 91, 112, 131; “WPA Art . . . ,” El Palacio (March–April 1936), 93; Mela Sedillo Brewster, “A Practical Study of the Use of the Natural Vegetable Dyes in New Mexico,” University of New Mexico Bulletin, Training School Series, 2 (May 5, 1937), 3, as cited by Deutsch, No Separate Refuge, 195. 19. Charles L. Briggs, The Wood Carvers of Córdova, New Mexico: Social Dimen sions of an Artistic “Revival” (Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press, 1980), 53–54, 82. Briggs discusses López’s entire life and career and includes many plate photographic images of López’s work on pages 29–83. Plate 46 on page 83 shows a photo of López’s self-designed grave marker. 20. Stephanie Lewthwaite, A Contested Art: Modernism and Mestizaje in New Mexico (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 2015), 16. 21. Ibid., 87. 22. Ibid., 88. See also Lewthwaite, “Modernity, Mestizaje, and Hispano Art: Patro cinio Barela and the Federal Art Project,” Journal of the Southwest 52, no. 1 (2010): 41–70. 23. “The Alianza Hispano-Americana: A Brief History,” La Alianza 46, no. 2 (February 1953): 3, as cited in Geraldo L. Cadava, Standing on Common Ground: The Making of a Sunbelt Borderland (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2013), 72. 24. Chavez to Concha Ortiz y Pino, February 6, 1941, Concha Ortiz y Pino de Kleven Papers, 1930–2006, Center for Southwest Research, University of New Mexico (hereafter Kleven Papers), as cited in Rosina A. Lozano, “Managing the ‘Priceless Gift’: Debating Spanish Language Instruction in New Mexico and Puerto Rico, 1930–1950,” Western Historical Quarterly 44, no. 3 (Autumn 2013): 271, 279. 25. Chavez, quoted in “Chavez Irked by Men in ‘Power’: Hits Failure to Enact Spanish Teaching Law,” Albuquerque Journal, April 9, 1941, as cited in Lozano, “Managing the ‘Priceless Gift,’ ” 282. 26. Lozano, “Managing the ‘Priceless Gift,’ ” 283–84, 289–92. 27. Cadava, Standing on Common Ground, 67–68. Notes to Pages 67–71 327

28. Deborah Cohen, Braceros: Migrant Citizens and Transnational Subjects in the Postwar United States and Mexico (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2011). 29. Monica Perales, Smeltertown: Making and Remembering a Southwest Border Community (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2010), Kindle edition, chap. 6. 30. Bradford Luckingham, Phoenix: The History of a Southwestern Metropolis (Tuc son: University of Arizona Press, 1989), 161–62. 31. Cadava, Standing on Common Ground, 13. 32. Melzer, Tórrez, and Mathews, New Mexico Since Statehood, 236. 33. Macaela Anne Larkin, “Southwestern Strategy: Mexican Americans and Re publican Politics in the Arizona Borderlands,” in Barry Goldwater and the Remaking of the American Political Landscape, ed. Elizabeth Tandy Shermer (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2013), 67–75. 34. Matthew Whitaker, “Creative Conflict: Lincoln and Eleanor Ragsdale, Col laboration and Community Activism in Phoenix, 1953–1965,” Western Historical Quarterly 34 (Summer 2003): 165–90, 169; Michael J. Kotlanger, “Phoenix, Arizona, 1920–1940” (PhD diss., Arizona State University, 1983), 445–46, as cited in Meeks, Border Citizens, 159. 35. See Meeks, Border Citizens, 281n26. Senate Committee on the Judiciary, “Statement of Manuel Peña,” 96th Cong., 2nd sess., 1065–1078; Dave Wagner, “Rehnquist Tactics in ’62 Vote Were Probed,” Arizona Republic, January 10, 1999; and “Rehnquist’s Circle,” Arizona Republic, December 26, 2000, all clippings from Chicano Collection and Manuel Peña Papers, Special Col lections, Hayden Reading Room, Arizona State University, Tempe; and Brad ford Luckingham, Minorities in Phoenix: A Profile of Mexican American, Chinese American, and African American Communities, 1860–1992 (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1995), 48–49, 160, 168. 36. Cadava, Standing on Common Ground, 157. Social Explorer lists 34.4 percent of black families in New Mexico living below the poverty level in 1970 and 30.3 percent of “Spanish families” living below the poverty level. 37. Laura K. Muñoz, “Separate but Equal? A Case Study of ‘Romo v. Laird’ and Mexican American Education,” OAH Magazine of History 15, no. 2 (Winter 2001): 28. 38. Gonzales et al v. Sheely, 96 F. Supp. 1004 [1951], as cited in Meeks, Border Citizens, 177. 328 Notes to Pages 71–77

39. Meeks, Border Citizens, 176–77. 40. Mario T. García, Mexican Americans: Leadership, Ideology, and Identity, 1930– 1960 (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1989); Américo Paredes, ed., Humanidad: Essays in Honor of George I. Sánchez (Los Angeles: Chicano Studies Center Publications, University of California, 1977); George I. Sánchez, Forgotten People: A Study of New Mexicans (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1940), 53–54. 41. “Seniority Netted Senator Top Posts on Committees,” Albuquerque Journal, January 17, 1962. 42. Larkin, “Southwestern Strategy,” 73. 43. Ibid., 75–78. 44. Meeks, Border Citizens, 168. 45. Cohen, Braceros, 228–29. 46. B. H. Liddell-Hart, History of the Second World War (New York: Putnam, 1970), 23. 47. “Los Mineros,” The American Experience (PBS, 1991). 48. Salt of the Earth, directed by Herbert J. Biberman (1954; Organa, 1999), DVD. 49. Warren A. Beck, New Mexico: A History of Four Centuries (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1962), 275. 50. Ellen R. Baker, On Strike and On Film: Mexican American Families and Blacklisted Filmmakers in Cold War America (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2007), 170–71, 246; and Carl R. Weinberg, “Salt of the Earth: Labor, Film, and the Cold War,” OAH Magazine of History 24, no. 4 (October 2010): 44. 51. Barbara Kingsolver, Holding the Line: Women in the Great Arizona Mine Strike of 1983 (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1996). 52. David Coreilla, “Copper Giant Freeport-McMoRan Destroys Union in Southern New Mexico,” La Jicarita: An Online Magazine of Environmental Politics in New Mexico, September 30, 2014, accessed January 16, 2016, https:// lajicarita.wordpress.com/2014/09/30/copper-giant-freeport-mcmoran -destroys-famous-salt-of-the-earth-labor-union-in-southern-new-mexico/. 53. Armando Navarro, Mexican American Youth Organization: Avant-Garde of the Chicano Movement in Texas (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1995), 67. See also: Christin Marín, A Spokesman of the Mexican American Movement: Rodolfo “Corky” Gonzales and the Fight for Chicano Liberation, 1966–1972 (San Francisco, CA: R and E Research Associates, 1977), 35; Jake Kosek, Understories: The Political Life of Forests in Northern New Mexico (Durham, NC: Duke Uni versity Press, 2006), 221; John R. Chávez, The Lost Land: The Chicano Image of the Southwest (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1984), 141–44. Notes to Pages 78–85 329

54. Cadava, Standing on Common Ground, 155; Darius V. Echeverría, Aztlán Ari zona: Mexican American Educational Empowerment, 1968–1978 (Tucson: Univer sity of Arizona Press, 2014). 55. Cadava, Standing on Common Ground, 156. 56. Ibid., 168–70. 57. Ibid., 135–68. 58. Kosek, Understories, 10–12, 43–44, 220–21. 59. Melzer, Tórrez, and Mathews, History of New Mexico Since Statehood, 257–58. See also: Peter Nabokov, Tijerina and the Courthouse Raid (Albuquerque: Uni versity of New Mexico Press, 1969), 35; Reies Tijerina, They Called Me “King Tiger”: My Struggle for the Land and Our Rights, trans. and ed. José Angel Gutiérrez (Houston, TX: Arte Público Press, 2000), 60–127. 60. Enriqueta Vasquez, “Railroads and Land,” in Enriqueta Vasquez and the Chi cano Movement: Writings from El Grito del Norte, ed. Lorena Oropeza and Dionne Espinoza (Houston: Arte Público Press, 2006), 163–64. 61. Jerry Fuentes, as quoted in Kosek, Understories, 183. Chapter 5 of Kosek’s book is entitled “Smokey the Bear Is a White Racist Pig,” 183–227. 62. Enriqueta Vasquez, “The 16th of September,” in Enriqueta Vasquez and the Chicano Movement, 49–50. 63. Cadava, Standing on Common Ground, 172–79, and Cohen, Braceros, 220. 64. Julián Aguilar, “Profit Outweighs Risk in Juárez Factories,” New York Times, December 11, 2010. 65. Cadava, Standing on Common Ground, 172–79. 66. Ibid.; Cohen, Braceros, 220; Sterling Vinson, “Los Tapiros,” Journal of the South west 33, no. 1 (Spring 1991): 34–51. 67. Cadava, Standing on Common Ground, 172–79; Cohen, Braceros, 220; Vinson, “Los Tapiros”; Jesús Ángel Enriquez Acosta, “Migration and Urbanization in Northwest Mexico’s Border Cities, Journal of the Southwest 51, no. 4 (Winter 2009): 445–55. 68. Cadava, Standing on Common Ground, 196; Anne J. Goldberg, “Company Town, Border Town, Small Town: Transforming Place and Identities on the U.S.- Mexico Border,” Journal of the Southwest 48, no. 3 (Autumn 2006): 275–306. 69. Cadava, Standing on Common Ground, 188–97. 70. Ibid., 206–10. 71. “Mary E. Mendoza on the U.S.–Mexico Border Fence Construction,” inter view, Process: A Blog for American History, Organization of American Historians, http://www.processhistory.org/364/, accessed February 23, 2016. 330 Notes to Pages 85–92

72. Cadava, Standing on Common Ground, 199–206. 73. Ibid. 74. Ibid. 75. “New Mexico Is Declared Sanctuary for Refugees,” New York Times, March 30, 1986. 76. Amy Villarreal Garza, “Places of Sanctuary: Religious Revivalism and the Politics of Immigration in New Mexico” (PhD diss., University of California, Santa Cruz, 2014), 52–123. 77. Demetria Martínez, “Nativity: For Two Salvadoran Women, 1968–87,” ac cessed January 15, 2016, http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/nativity-for-two -salvadoran-women-1968–87/. 78. Garza, “Places of Sanctuary,” 124–210. 79. Aimee V. Garza, “Toney Anaya and the State of Sanctuary,” accessed Janu ary 15, 2015, http://newmexicohistory.org/people/toney-anaya-and-the-state-of -sanctuary. Garza argues further in her dissertation that the Sanctuary Dec laration was a part of three transnational, modern moments in the region’s political and religious practice. Future organizations, such as Somos Un Pueblo Unido and Catholic services at Our Lady of Guadalupe Church continued to link the region with Latin America and to transform political and religious practice. See Garza, “Places of Sanctuary.” 80. Rudolfo Anaya, Bless Me, Ultima, 2nd ed. (1972; repr., New York: Warner Books, 1994), 247. 81. “Author Chronicles Ever-Changing Life on the Border,” interview with Luis Urrea by Neal Conan, Talk of the Nation, NPR, June 26, 2012, transcript accessed March 16, 2014, http://www.npr.org/2012/06/26/155777840/author -chronicles-ever-changing-life-on-the-border. 82. Nigel Duara, “Joe Arpaio, ‘America’s Toughest Sheriff,’ Found in Contempt of Court in Racial Profiling Case,” Los Angeles Times, May 13, 2016; Michael Muskal, “Arizona Sheriff Arpaio Faces Contempt Hearing in Phoenix,” Los Angeles Times, April 21, 2015.

Part II. Indian Country

1. “Southwest Region—Tribes Served,” accessed March 3, 2015, http://www .bia.gov/ WhoWeAre/RegionalOffices/Southwest/ WeAre/Tribes/index.htm; Notes to Pages 92–100 331

“Western Region—Tribes Served,” accessed March 3, 2015, http://www.bia .gov/WhoWeAre/RegionalOfﬁces/Western/WeAre/Tribes/index.htm; “Navajo Region—Tribes Served,” accessed March 3, 2015, http://www.bia.gov / WhoWeAre/RegionalOffices/Navajo/ WeAre/Tribes/index.htm. 2. “Indian Lands in the United States,” accessed March 3, 2015, http://www.bia .gov/cs/groups/public/documents/text/idc013422.pdf. 3. Charles O. Paullin, Atlas of the Historical Geography of the United States, ed. John K. Wright (Washington, DC: Carnegie Institution, 1932). Digital edition edited by Robert K. Nelson et al., 2013, http://dsl.richmond.edu/historicalatlas/. 4. In repeating the names of the Southwest’s indigenous peoples and in addressing the distinctive qualities of the Southwest that spring from its indigenous past, I am trying to follow the model offered by Donald L. Fixico in Indian Resilience and Rebuilding: Indigenous Nations in the Modern American West (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2013) by treating indigenous history as history rather than a “problem.” While I cannot offer a perspective from “inside” indigenous worldviews, I hope that I do not repeat the errors of seeing Native people and their past as a “problem” or Indian life as singular. See Fixico, Indian Resilience and Rebuilding, Kindle edition, introduction. 5. Nancy Carol Carter, “Race and Power Politics as Aspects of Federal Guard ianship over American Indians: Land-Related Cases, 1887–1924,” American Indian Law Review 4, no. 2 (1976): 197–248.

Chapter 3. Nations, Tribes, Communities, and Towns

1. John Oskinson, “With Apache Deer-Hunters in Arizona,” Outing, April 1914, 67–78, 150–63. 2. Ibid. 3. Peter Iverson, Carlos Montezuma and the Changing World of American Indians (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1982). 4. Joe S. Sando, Pueblo Nations: Eight Centuries of Pueblo History (Santa Fe, NM: Clear Light Publishers, 1992), 112–14. 5. United States v. Joseph, 94 U.S. 614 (1876). 6. Ibid. 7. Ibid. 332 Notes to Pages 101–106

8. Cathleen Cahill, Federal Fathers and Mothers: A Social History of the United States Indian Service, 1869–1933 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2011), 78. 9. Polingaysi Qoyawayma, No Turning Back: A True Account of a Hopi Indian Girl’s Struggle to Bridge the Gap Between the World of Her People and the World of the White Man (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1964), 105–6. 10. John R. Gram, Education at the Edge of Empire: Negotiating Pueblo Identity in New Mexico’s Indian Boarding Schools (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2015). 11. Pablo Mitchell, Coyote Nation: Sexuality, Race, and Conquest in Modernizing New Mexico, 1880–1920 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2005). 12. Gram, Education at the Edge of Empire, 172. 13. Mitchell, Coyote Nation. 14. United States v. Sandoval, 231 U.S. 28 (1913). 15. United States v. Joseph, 94 U.S. 614 (1876). 16. Sandoval uses the wording “dependent tribes within its [U.S.] borders.” United States v. Sandoval, 231 U.S. 28 (1913). 17. Joe S. Sando, Pueblo Nations: Eight Centuries of Pueblo Indian History (Santa Fe, NM: Clear Light Publishers, 1992), 243–44. 18. Irene Harvey, “Constitutional Law: Congressional Plenary Power over Indian Affairs: A Doctrine Rooted in Prejudice,” American Indian Law Review 10, no. 1 (1982): 129, shows how Sandoval was representative of federal Indian policy more broadly in the early twentieth century. 19. An Act to Ascertain and Settle Land Claims of Persons Not Indian Within Pueblo Indian Land, Land Grants, and Reservations in the State of New Mexico, U.S. Senate, 67th Cong., 2d sess., S. 3855. 20. Tisa Wenger, We Have a Religion: The 1920s Pueblo Indian Dance Controversy and American Religious Freedom (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2009). 21. Cahill, Federal Fathers and Mothers, 115–16. 22. Tisa Wenger, We Have a Religion, 164–66. 23. Ibid., 110–11. 24. John Collier, “The Red Atlantis,” The Survey 49, no. 1 (October 1922): 16. 25. Lawrence Kelly, The Assault on Assimilation: John Collier and the Origins of Indian Policy Reform (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1983), 124–36, 213–16; Kenneth Philp, John Collier’s Crusade for Indian Reform, 1920–1954 (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1977), 32–33; Flannery Burke, From Notes to Pages 107–113 333

Greenwich Village to Taos: Primitivism and Place at Mabel Dodge Luhan’s (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2008), 44–60. 26. Lewis Meriam, The Problem of Indian Administration (Baltimore: John Hop kins Press, 1928). The Brookings Institute was then the Institute for Gov ernment Research. 27. Lawrence Kelly, The Navajo Indians and Federal Indian Policy, 1900–1935 (Tuc son: University of Arizona Press, 1968), 153–57; Philp, John Collier’s Crusade, 117–18. 28. Peter Iverson, Diné: A History of the Navajos (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2002), 55. 29. Ibid., 67; Ellen McCullough-Brabson and Marilyn Help, We’ll Be in Your Mountains, We’ll Be in Your Songs: A Navajo Woman Sings (Albuquerque: Uni versity of New Mexico Press, 2001), 62–65. 30. Kelly, Navajo Indians, 20–21; Iverson, Diné, 100–101. 31. Iverson, Diné, 134–35. 32. Marsha Weisiger, Dreaming of Sheep in Navajo Country (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2009), 79–82. 33. As cited in Erika Marie Bsumek, Indian Made: Navajo Culture in the Market place, 1868–1940 (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2008), 32. 34. Elizabeth Hutchinson, The Indian Craze: Primitivism, Modernism, and Trans culturation in American Art, 1890–1915 (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2009), 118–29. 35. Colleen O’Neill, Working the Navajo Way: Labor and Culture in the Twentieth Century (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2005), 70. 36. Weisiger, Dreaming of Sheep, 18. 37. Richard White, Roots of Dependency: Subsistence, Environment, and Social Change Among the Choctaws, Pawnees, and Navajos (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1983), 236–38, 275. 38. Weisiger, Dreaming of Sheep, 64, 79–83, 96–99. 39. Iverson, Diné, 149. 40. Weisiger, Dreaming of Sheep, 235; John Collier, From Every Zenith: A Memoir and Some Essays on Life and Thought (Denver, CO: Sage Books, 1963), 219. 41. Iverson, Diné, 137–79; for peyote use, see 178. 42. Senate Subcommittee of the Committee on Public Lands and Surveys, Bills Relative to the Pueblo Indian Lands: Hearings on S. 3865 and S. 4223, 67th Cong., 4th sess., January 23, 1923, 193–94. 43. Mabel Dodge Luhan, Winter in Taos (New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1935), 219. 334 Notes to Pages 115–124

44. Eric Meeks, Border Citizens: The Making of Indians, Mexicans, and Anglos in Arizona (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2007), 16–22, 34. 45. Ibid., 34–35. 46. Report of the Governor of Arizona to the Secretary of Interior 1895 (Wash ington, DC: GPO 1896), 43, as cited in David H. DeJong, “The Sword of Damocles? The Gila River Indian Community Water Settlement Act of 2004 in Historical Perspective,” Wicazo Sa Review 22, no. 2 (Fall 2007): 63. 47. Meeks, Border Citizens, 35. 48. Robert A. Trennert, The Phoenix Indian School: Forced Assimilation in Arizona, 1891–1935 (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1988). 49. Meeks, Border Citizens, 68.

Chapter 4. The Story Still Being Told

1. Leslie Marmon Silko, Ceremony (1977; repr., New York: Penguin Books, 2006), 1, 88, 229, 235. 2. Donald L. Fixico, Indian Resilience and Rebuilding: Indigenous Nations in the Modern American West (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2013). 3. Peter Iverson, “We Are Still Here”: American Indians in the Twentieth Century (Wheeling, IL: Harlan Davidson, 1998), 107; Joe S. Sando, The Pueblo Indians (San Francisco, CA: Indian Historian Press, 1976), 223. 4. Paul Rosier, Serving Their Country: American Indian Politics and Patriotism in the Twentieth Century (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2009); Daniel M. Cobb, Native Activism in Cold War America: The Struggle for Sov ereignty (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2010); Fixico, Indian Resil ience, 15. 5. Iverson, “We Are Still Here,” 106. 6. For a discussion of the controversy surrounding the links between land and Native spiritual practice, see Ferenc Morton Szasz, Religion in the Modern American West (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2000), 168. 7. Malcolm Ebright, Rick Hendricks, and Richard W. Hughes, Four Square Leagues: Pueblo Indian Land in New Mexico (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2014), Kindle edition, chap. 10. 8. Winthrop Griffith, “The Taos Indians Have a Small Generation Gap,” New York Times, February 21, 1971, SM26. Notes to Pages 124–129 335

9. John J. Bodine, “Blue Lake: A Struggle for Indian Rights,” American Indian Law Review 1, no. 1 (1973): 23–32; Bodine, “Taos Blue Lake Controversy,” Journal of Ethnic Studies 6, no. 1 (1978): 42–48; Marcia Keegan, Taos Pueblo and Its Sacred Blue Lake (Santa Fe, NM: Clear Light Publishers, 1991). 10. Sando, The Pueblo Indians, 113. 11. Rosier, Serving Their Country, Kindle edition, chap. 3. 12. Frank Waters, The Man Who Killed the Deer: A Novel of Pueblo Indian Life (1942; repr., Athens, OH: Swallow Press/Ohio University Press, 1970). 13. Andrew Graybill, “Strong on the Merits and Powerfully Symbolic: The Return of Blue Lake to Taos Pueblo,” New Mexico Historical Review 76, no. 2 (2001): 125–60. 14. Ebright, Hendricks, and Hughes, Four Square Leagues, Kindle edition, chap. 11. 15. Earl Caldwell, “Indians Discern a Turning Point: A Swing to Harsh Militancy Is Evident at Parley,” New York Times, October 12, 1969, 12. 16. Graybill, “Strong on the Merits,” 148. 17. Gordon McCutcheon, The Taos Indians and the Battle for Blue Lake (Santa Fe, NM: Red Crane Books, 1991), 177. 18. Ebright, Hendricks, and Hughes, Four Square Leagues, Kindle edition, chap. 11. 19. Eric Meeks, Border Citizens: The Making of Indians, Mexicans, and Anglos in Arizona (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2007), 222–23. 20. McCutcheon, Taos Indians, 213. 21. David M. Kennedy, Freedom from Fear: The American People in Depression and War, 1929–1945 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1999), 830; “Carl Gorman, Codetalker in World War II, Dies at 90,” New York Times, February 1, 1998, 21. 22. Adam Adkins, “Secret War: The Navajo Code Talkers in World War II,” New Mexico Historical Review 72, no. 4 (October 1997): 322–23. 23. U.S. Marine Corps, Navajo Code Talkers’ Dictionary, rev. June 15, 1945 (declassified under Department of Defense Directive 5200.9). 24. Douglas K. Miller, “Reservation Limits: Native American Mobility and Moder nity in the Twentieth Century” (PhD diss., University of Oklahoma, 2014); Miller, “Willing Workers: Urban Relocation and American Indian Initiative, 1940s–1960s,” Ethnohistory 60, no. 1 (Winter 2013): 51–90. 25. Ralph W. Anderson to J. M Steward and Chairman of the Navajo Tribe, April 30, 1943, in “For Our Navajo People”: Diné Letters, Speeches, and Petitions, 1900–1960, ed. Peter Iverson (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2002), 144. 26. Peter Iverson, Diné: A History of the Navajos (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2002), 203. 336 Notes to Pages 130–136

27. Iverson, Diné, 245; Navajo Nation, Navajo Tribal Code (Orford, NH: Equity, 1969), 1:7–8. 28. Navajo Nation, Navajo Tribal Code, 1:7–8. 29. Iverson, Diné, 190. 30. Colleen O’Neill, Working the Navajo Way: Labor and Culture in the Twentieth Century (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2005), 30–54. 31. Iverson, Diné, 217–18; O’Neill, Working the Navajo Way, 55–80. 32. Ruth M. Underhill, Red Man’s America: A History of Indians in the United States (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1953), 239; Underhill, The Navajos (Nor man: University of Oklahoma Press, 1956), 243–53. 33. Sam Ahkeah, speech to the Tribal Council, July 20, 1953, in Iverson, “For Our Navajo People,” 108. 34. Iverson, Diné, 205–7. 35. Fixico, Indian Resilience, Kindle edition, chap. 2. 36. Bradley Shreve, Red Power Rising: The National Indian Youth Council and the Origins of Native Activism (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2011), 190–91. 37. Robert A. Roessel Jr., as cited in Cobb, Native Activism, 84. 38. Cobb, Native Activism, 88–146; Iverson, Diné, 233–36. 39. Fixico, Indian Resilience, Kindle edition, chap. 2. 40. Iverson, Diné, 300. 41. Storyteller, Albuquerque Public Schools Indian Education Newsletter, March 2007, in Myla Vicenti Carpio, Indigenous Albuquerque (Lubbock: Texas Tech University Press, 2011), 3. 42. Carolyn Niethammer, I’ll Go and Do More: Annie Dodge Wauneka, Navajo Leader and Activist (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2001), 71–86. 43. Andrew Needham, Power Lines: Phoenix and the Making of the Modern South west (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2014), 146. 44. Donald L. Fixico, The Invasion of Indian Country in the Twentieth Century: American Capitalism and Tribal Natural Resources (Boulder: University Press of Colorado, 1998), 144–45; Fixico, “Understanding the Earth and the Demand on Energy Tribes,” in Indians and Energy: Exploitation and Opportunity in the Southwest, ed. Sherry L. Smith and Brian Frehner (Santa Fe, NM: School for Advanced Research Press, 2010), 21–34; Colleen O’Neill, “Jobs and Sov ereignty: Tribal Employment Rights and Energy Development in the Twen tieth Century,” in Indians and Energy, 135–36. Notes to Pages 136–140 337

45. Wade Davies, Healing Ways: Navajo Health Care in the Twentieth Century (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2001); John Adair and Kurt W. Deuschle, The People’s Health: Anthropology and Medicine in a Navajo Com munity (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico, 1988). 46. Niethammer, I’ll Go and Do More, 163–65. 47. Iverson, Diné, 198. 48. Ibid., 208. 49. Silko, Ceremony, 100. 50. Susan Lobo and Kurt Peters, eds., American Indians and the Urban Experience (Walnut Creek, CA: Altamira Press, 2001); Carpio, Indigenous Albuquerque, 3; Kurt M. Peters, “Watering the Flower: Laguna Pueblo and the Santa Fe Railroad, 1880–1943,” in Native Americans and Wage Labor: Ethnohistorical Per spectives, ed. Alice Littlefield and Martha C. Knack (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1996), 177–97. 51. Lobo and Peters, American Indians; Donald L. Fixico, Termination and Re location: Federal Indian Policy, 1945–1960 (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1986). 52. Fixico, Termination and Relocation and Indian Resilience. 53. Carpio, Indigenous Albuquerque, 11–12; Kenneth R. Philp, “Stride Toward Free dom: The Relocation of Indians to Cities, 1952–1960,” Western Historical Quar terly 16 (1985): 175–90. 54. Fixico, Invasion of Indian Country, and Fixico, Indian Resilience, Kindle edi tion, chap. 4. 55. Thomas Fujita-Roy, “Arizona and Japanese American History: The World War II Colorado River Indian Reservation Relocation Center,” Journal of the Southwest 47, no. 2 (Summer 2005): 209–32. 56. Stanley Lyman describing his experience when he joined the BIA in 1952, as cited in Miller, “Reservation Limits,” 108. 57. Interview with Philleo Nash, June 5, 1967, pp. 695–96, Harry S. Truman Presidential Library, Independence, Missouri, as cited in Miller, “Reservation Limits,” 109. 58. Fujita-Roy, “Arizona,” 209–32. 59. Ibid., 223. 60. Iverson, “We Are Still Here,” 111–12. 61. Albert Hemingway, Ira Hayes, Pima Marine (Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 1988), 149–56. 338 Notes to Pages 140–145

62. Meeks, Border Citizens, 166; Miller, “Reservation Limits,” 268. 63. Miller, “Reservation Limits,” 242, 272. 64. Relocation Survey Questionnaires (1959), box 6, folder 8, Sophie Aberle Pa pers, Center for Southwest Research, University of New Mexico, as cited in Miller, “Reservation Limits,” 217. 65. Paivi Hoikkala, “Feminists or Reformers? American Indian Women and Community in Phoenix, 1965–1980,” in Lobo and Peters, American Indians and the Urban Experience, 128. 66. Ibid., 130. 67. Ibid., 133–34, 136. 68. Miller, “Reservation Limits,” 258. Miller credits employment through Great Society programs and the dying of the California dream for Native people as the broad cause of return, but the proximity of urban areas and improved transportation seems like a more likely explanation for the specific case of Ohkay Owingeh (San Juan Pueblo). 69. Carpio, Indigenous Albuquerque, 52, 55, 57. 70. Meeks, Border Citizens, 219–20. 71. Shreve, Red Power Rising. 72. Hoikkala, “Feminists or Reformers,” 133–39; Carpio, Indigenous Albuquerque. 73. Carpio, Indigenous Albuquerque. 74. Shreve, Red Power Rising, 191. 75. Ibid., 200. 76. As discussed in chapter 3, Tohono O’odham lived as members of the Gila River Indian Community, the Ak-Chin Indian Community, and the Salt River Indian Community. 77. Meeks, Border Citizens, 143, 221. 78. Fixico, Indian Resilience, Kindle edition, chap. 3. 79. Jeré Franco, “Beyond Reservation Boundaries: Native American Laborers in World War II,” Journal of the Southwest 36, no. 3 (1994): 242–54. 80. Meeks, Border Citizens, 214. 81. Ibid., 217. 82. Raymond H. Thompson, “Anthropology at the University of Arizona, 1893– 2005,” Journal of the Southwest 47, no. 3 (Autumn 2005): 360. Meeks, Border Citizens, chap. 8, “Villages, Tribes, and Nations.” 83. Geraldo Cadava, “Borderlands of Modernity and Abandonment: The Lines Within Ambos Nogales and the Tohono O’odham Nation,” Journal of Amer ican History 98, no. 2 (2011): 372; Meeks, Border Citizens, 226. For a comparative Notes to Pages 146–151 339

study of assimilation efforts among the Tohono O’odham north and south of the U.S.-Mexico border until 1935, see Andrae M. Marak and Laura Tuennerman, At the Borders of Empires: Tohono O’odham, Gender, and Assimilation, 1880–1934 (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2013). 84. Meeks, Border Citizens, 227–28. 85. See Marak and Tuennerman, At the Borders of Empires, and Cadava, “Border lands of Modernity and Abandonment.” 86. James Robert Allison III, Sovereignty for Survival: American Energy De velopment and Indian Self-Determination (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2015), 48–55. 87. Smith and Frehner, introduction to Indians and Energy, 12. 88. Leah S. Glaser, “ ‘An Absolute Paragon of Paradoxes’: Native American Power and the Electrification of Arizona’s Indian Reservations,” in Smith and Freh ner, Indians and Energy, 184 89. Needham, Power Lines, 155. 90. Iverson, Diné, 246–47. 91. Needham, Power Lines, 13. 92. Fixico, Invasion of Indian Country, 160–61. 93. O’Neill, “Jobs and Sovereignty,” 139. 94. Needham, Power Lines, 225; Smith and Frehner, introduction to Indians and Energy, 11–12. 95. As cited in Needham, Power Lines, 231. 96. O’Neill, “Jobs and Sovereignty,” 139. 97. As cited in Needham, Power Lines, 228. 98. As cited in Fixico, Invasion of Indian Country, 145. 99. Needham, Power Lines, 242–43. 100. Ibid., 244. 101. Fixico, Invasion of Indian Country, 168. 102. Charles Wilkinson, Fire on the Plateau: Conflict and Endurance in the American Southwest (Washington, DC: First Island Press [for] Shearwater Books, 1999), Kindle edition, chap. 14. 103. Allison, Sovereignty for Survival, 54–57. 104. Glaser, “ ‘An Absolute Paragon of Paradoxes,’ ” 191. 105. Evelyn Hu-DeHart, Yaqui Resistance and Survival: The Struggle for Land and Autonomy, 1821–1920 (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1984). 106. Edward Spicer, People of Pascua (1988; repr., Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2011), 61–68. 340 Notes to Pages 151–156

. 107 George Pierre Castile, “Yaquis, Edward Spicer, and Federal Indian Policy: From Immigrants to Native Americans,” Journal of the Southwest 44 (Winter 2002): 383–435; Meeks, Border Citizens, 143–53. 108. Castile, “Yaquis, Edward Spicer, and Federal Indian Policy,” Spicer, People of Pascua. 109. Meeks, Border Citizens, 2. 110. Octaviana V. Trujillo, “Yaqui Cultural and Linguistic Evolution Through a History of Urbanization,” in Lobo and Peters, American Indians and the Urban Experience, 59. 111. Meeks, Border Citizens, 235. 112. Castile, “Yaquis,” 396. 113. Meeks, Border Citizens, 2. 114. Castile, “Yaquis” 397. 115. Meeks, Border Citizens, 237. 116. Trujillo, “Yaqui Cultural and Linguistic Evolution,” 60. 117. Meeks, Border Citizens, 232–37, 239. 118. Graybill, “Strong on the Merits,” 150–51. For a brief treatment of southwestern politicians’ reactions to Indian gaming and casinos, see Dean J. Kotlowski, “From Backlash to Bingo: Ronald Reagan and Federal Indian Policy,” Pacific Historical Review 77, no. 4 (November 2008): 617–52.

Part III. Reducing to Possession

1. Aldo Leopold, “Erosion as a Menace to the Social and Economic Future of the Southwest,” Journal of Forestry 44, no. 9 (September 1946): 629, as cited in Susan L. Flader, Thinking Like a Mountain: Aldo Leopold and the Evolution of an Ecological Attitude Toward Deer, Wolves, and Forests (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1974), Kindle edition, chap. 2. 2. Aldo Leopold, “General Inspection Report on the Gila National Forest, May 21–June 27, 1922,” as cited in Paul S. Sutter, Driven Wild: How the Fight Against Automobiles Launched the Modern Wilderness Movement (Seattle: Uni versity of Washington Press, 2002), Kindle edition, chap. 3. 3. John R. Sweet, “Men and Varmints in Gila Wilderness, 1909–1936: The Wil derness Ethics and Attitudes of Aldo Leopold, Ben Lilly, J. Stokley Ligons, and Albert Pickens Toward Predators,” New Mexico Historical Review 77, no. 4 (Fall 2002): 376. Notes to Pages 156–165 341

4. Aldo Leopold, A Sand County Almanac, and Sketches Here and There (London: Oxford University Press, 1949), 224. 5. Ibid.

Chapter 5. The Searchers

1. The Searchers, directed by John Ford (1956; Warner Home Video, 2015), DVD; Richard Slotkin, Gunfighter Nation: The Myth of the Frontier in Twentieth- Century America (New York: Harper Perennial, 1993), 461–73. 2. The Return of Navajo Boy, directed by Jeff Spitz (Chicago: Groundswell Edu- cational Films, 2000), DVD. 3. I am thinking especially of Hal Rothman’s idea of the “neonative” in Devil’s Bargains: Tourism in the Twentieth-Century American West (Lawrence: Univer- sity Press of Kansas, 1998), and of the implications of the title of Seeing and Being Seen: Tourism in the American West, ed. David M. Wrobel and Patrick T. Long (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2001). 4. Emily Lutenski introduced me to Coleman, and I am indebted to her work in West of Harlem: African American Writers and the Borderlands (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2015), 33–75. 5. Anita Scott Coleman, “Arizona and New Mexico—The Land of Esperanza,” in These “Colored” United States: African American Essays from the 1920s, ed. Tom Lutz and Susanna Ashton (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1996), Kindle edition; orig. in The Messenger 8, no. 7, September 1926. 6. Ibid. 7. Ibid. 8. Ibid. 9. Ibid. 10. Ibid. 11. Ibid. 12. Ibid. 13. Lutenski, West of Harlem, 50. 14. Elizabeth Shepley Sergeant, “New Mexico: A Relic of Ancient America,” in These United States, ed. Daniel H. Borus (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 255. 15. Robert L. Dorman, Hell of a Vision: Regionalism and the Modern American West (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2012), 66. 342 Notes to Pages 165–169

16. Sergeant, “New Mexico,” 255. 17. Margaret Jacobs, Engendered Encounters: Feminism and Pueblo Cultures, 1879– 1934 (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1999). 18. Marta Weigle and Kyle Fiore, Santa Fe and Taos: The Writer’s Era, 1916–1941 (Santa Fe, NM: Ancient City Press, 1982). 19. Molly H. Mullin, Culture in the Marketplace: Gender, Art, and Value in the American Southwest (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2001). 20. Lois Palken Rudnick, Mabel Dodge Luhan: New Woman, New Worlds (Albu- querque: University of New Mexico Press, 1987); Rudnick, Utopian Vistas: The Mabel Dodge Luhan House and the American Counterculture (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1998); Flannery Burke, From Greenwich Vil- lage to Taos: Primitivism and Place at Mabel Dodge Luhan’s (Lawrence: Univer- sity Press of Kansas, 2008). 21. Frederick W. Turner, “On Her Conquest of Space,” in Georgia O’Keeffe and New Mexico: A Sense of Place, by Barbara Buhler Lynes, Lesley Poling-Kempes, and Frederick W. Turner (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press/Santa Fe, NM: Georgia O’Keeffe Museum, 2004), 118. 22. Lesley Poling-Kempes, “A Call to Place,” in Lynes, Poling-Kempes, and Turner, Georgia O’Keeffe and New Mexico, 77. 23. Jacobs, Engendered Encounters, 149–79. 24. Hewett as quoted in Chris Wilson, The Myth of Santa Fe: Creating a Modern Regional Tradition (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1997), 141; Wilson, Myth of Santa Fe, 142. 25. Phoebe Kropp, California Vieja: Culture and Memory in a Modern American Place (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006), 137–54; Wilson, Myth of Santa Fe, 129. 26. Wilson, Myth of Santa Fe, 125–35. Santa Feans did not so much restore the Palace of the Governors as invent an architectural style for the regional revival led by Hewett and others. See Wilson, Myth of Santa Fe, 127, and Dorman, Hell of a Vision, 62. 27. Wilson, Myth of Santa Fe, 240. 28. Erna Fergusson, Our Southwest (New York: Knopf, 1940), 194–95; Stephen Fried, Appetite for America: Fred Harvey and the Business of Civilizing the West One Meal at a Time (New York: Bantam Books, 2010), Kindle edition, chap. 12. 29. Billy M. Jones, Health Seekers in the Southwest, 1817–1900 (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1967). Notes to Pages 169–171 343

30. Marta Weigle and Barbara A. Babcock, The Great Southwest of the Fred Harvey Company and the Santa Fe Railway (Phoenix: Heard Museum, 1999); Fried, Appetite for America, Kindle edition, chap. 9. 31. Van Deren Coke, Taos and Santa Fe: The Artist’s Environment, 1882–1942 (Al- buquerque: University of New Mexico Press for the Amon Carter Museum of Western Art, 1963); Charles C. Eldredge, Julie Schimmel, and William H. Truettner, eds., Art in New Mexico, 1900–1945: Paths to Taos and Santa Fe (Washington, DC: National Museum of American Art/Abbeville Press, 1986). 32. Emily Post, By Motor to the Golden Gate (New York: Appleton, 1916), 160, 162, as cited in David Wrobel, Global West, American Frontier: Travel, Empire, and Exceptionalism from Manifest Destiny to the Great Depression (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2013), 124 33. Marta Weigle, “Exposition and Mediation: Mary Colter, Erna Fergusson, and the Santa Fe/Harvey Popularization of the Native Southwest, 1902–1940,” Fron tiers: A Journal of Women Studies 12, no. 3 (1992): 117–50; Shelby J. Tisdale, “Railroads, Tourism, and Native Americans in the Greater Southwest,” Jour- nal of the Southwest 38, no. 4 (1996): 433–62; Louise Lamphere, “Women, Anthropology, Tourism, and the Southwest,” Frontiers: A Journal of Women Studies 12, no. 3 (1992): 5–12. 34. David Wrobel comments at greater length on the tendency of travel writers to overlook their own modern conveyance and dwell, instead, on the ugly modernity of places that they expected to be antimodern in Global West, Amer- ican Frontier, 122–24. 35. Leah Dilworth, Imagining Indians in the Southwest: Persistent Visions of a Primitive Past (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Scholarly Press, 1992); Erika Marie Bsumek, Indian-Made: Navajo Culture in the Marketplace, 1868–1940 (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2008); Marta Weigle, “ ‘In- sisted on Authenticity’: Harveycar Indian Detours, 1925–1931,” in Weigle and Babcock, Great Southwest of the Fred Harvey Company, 47–51. 36. Sylvia Rodriguez, “Art, Tourism, and Race Relations in Taos: Toward a So- ciology of the Art Colony,” Journal of Anthropological Research 45, no. 1 (1989): 77–99. 37. Bsumek, Indian-Made; Colleen O’Neill, Working the Navajo Way: Labor and Culture in the Twentieth Century (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2005). 38. Bsumek, Indian-Made, 15–22. Bsumek states that a letter dated July 24, 1905, in the Harvey Company and Hubbell correspondence in the Juan Lorenzo 344 Notes to Pages 171–174

Hubbell Collection, University of Arizona Special Collection, indicates that the baby survived. See Bsumek, Indian Made, 223n13. 39. H. A. Belt, quoting Herman Schweizer in a letter to Gladys Reichard, May 27, 1939, Gladys Reichard Collection, Museum of Northern Arizona, Flagstaff, as cited in Bsumek, Indian-Made, 15. 40. Dilworth, Imagining Indians. 41. Elizabeth Hutchinson, The Indian Craze: Primitivism, Modernism, and Trans- culturation in American Art, 1890–1915 (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2009). 42. Bsumek, Indian-Made, 15–46. 43. Ibid., 44. 44. Jacobs, Engendered Encounters, 2–3. 45. Kropp discusses how the Martinezes viewed the San Diego Exposition as an opportunity to expand their business in California Vieja, 148–49. 46. Martin Padget, Indian Country: Travels in the American Southwest, 1840–1935 (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2004), 135. 47. Alice Marriott, María: The Potter of San Ildefonso (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1948), 216. 48. Coke, Taos and Santa Fe; Eldredge, Schimmel, and Truettner, Art in New Mexico, 1900–1945. 49. Henderson as quoted in Jacobs, Engendered Encounters, 150. 50. Annual Report, Southwestern Association on Indian Affairs Collection, State Records Center and Archives; “Old Art in New Forms,” New Mexico Magazine 14, no. 9: 26–27, 56, as cited in Mullin, Culture in the Marketplace, 120–21. 51. Karl Hoerig, Under the Palace Portal: Native American Artists in Santa Fe (Al- buquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2003), 54. 52. As cited in Mullin, Culture in the Marketplace, 137. 53. Such goals, however, were frequently at odds, leading women especially to argue over how the arts furthered or retarded Native women’s economic and cultural opportunities. The friction is best described in Jacobs, Engendered En- counters, 149–79. 54. Jacobs, Engendered Encounters, 150; Mullin, Culture in the Marketplace, 101–4. I argue that women of the arts colony similarly tried to distance themselves from what they called “middlebrow” America through their rejection of a women’s club Chautauqua in “ ‘An Artists’ Home’: Gender and the Santa Fe Notes to Pages 175–177 345

Culture Colony Controversy,” Journal of the Southwest, 46, no. 2 (Summer 2004): 351–79. 55. Arnold Berke, Mary Colter: Architect of the Southwest (New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 2002); Claire Shepherd-Lanier, “Trading on Tradition: Mary Jane Colter and the Romantic Appeal of Harvey House Architecture,” Journal of the Southwest 38, no. 2 (1996): 163–95. 56. Keith L. Bryant Jr., Culture in the American Southwest: The Earth, the Sky, the People (College Station: Texas A&M University Press, 2001), 192. 57. Bryant, Culture in the American Southwest, 192. 58. Ann E. Marshall, Mary H. Brennan, and Nicole Haas, Heard Museum: History and Collections (Phoenix, AZ: Heard Museum, 2006). 59. Stephanie Lewthwaite, A Contested Art: Modernism and Mestizaje in New Mexico (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 2015), 36–40; Arrel Morgan Gibson, The Santa Fe and Taos Art Colonies: Age of the Muses, 1900–1942 (Nor- man: University of Oklahoma Press, 1988), 172–73; Coke, Taos and Santa Fe. 60. Lewthwaite, Contested Art, 40. 61. See chap. 1. 62. Charles Montgomery, The Spanish Redemption: Heritage, Power, and Loss on New Mexico’s Upper Rio Grande (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002); John Nieto-Phillips, The Language of Blood: The Making of Spanish- American Identity in New Mexico, 1880s–1930s (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2004). The writer Carey McWilliams created the phrase “Spanish Fantasy past” to describe California’s representation of its Spanish and indigenous past. The creation of a Spanish Fantasy past in New Mex- ico mirrored that in California somewhat, but, as Nieto-Phillips has argued, Nuevomexicanos’ investment in their own regional revival allowed them some control over its meaning. See Carey McWilliams, Southern California Coun- try: An Island on the Land (New York: Duell, Sloan, and Pearce, 1946), 70–83; William Deverell, White Washed Adobe: The Rise of Los Angeles and the Remak- ing of Its Mexican Past (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2004); and Kropp, California Vieja. 63. Wilson, Myth of Santa Fe, 206. 64. Burke, From Greenwich Village to Taos, 44–88. 65. Will Shuster, interview by Sylvia Loomis, July 30, 1964, Smithsonian Institu- tion, Archives of American Art, http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews /oral-history-interview-will-shuster-13208. 346 Notes to Pages 178–188

66. Sarah Bronwen Horton, The Santa Fe Fiesta, Reinvented: Staking Ethno- Nationalist Claims to a Disappearing Homeland (Santa Fe, NM: School for Advanced Research Press, 2007), 187. 67. As cited in ibid., 185. 68. As cited in ibid., 190. 69. Southwestern Association for Indian Arts, “History,” accessed October 30, 2015, http://swaia.org/About_SWAIA/History/index.html. 70. Bruce Bernstein, Santa Fe Indian Market: A History of Native Arts and the Marketplace (Santa Fe: Museum of New Mexico Press, 2012), 115. 71. Hoerig, Under the Palace Portal, 42. 72. Bruce Bernstein, “The Indian Art World in the 1960s and 1970s,” in Native American Art in the Twentieth Century: Makers, Meanings, Histories, ed. W. Jack son Rushing III (London: Routledge, 1999), 66. 73. Bernstein, “Indian Art World,” 66–67, new quotation, 67. 74. Bernstein, “Indian Art World, 67. 75. Bernstein, Santa Fe Indian Market. 76. Mullin, Culture in the Marketplace, 135–53. 77. Erin Joyce, “The Perks and Problems of Santa Fe’s Indian Market,” Septem ber 9, 2015, accessed November 4, 2015, http://hyperallergic.com/233394/the -perks-and-problems-of-santa-fes-indian-market/. 78. For a discussion of how New Mexican Native people understood Catholi- cism as a part of their daily lives and the complicated interplay between their identities and their Catholic schooling, see Brian S. Collier, “St. Catherine In- dian School, Santa Fe, 1887–2006: Catholic Indian Education in New Mexico” (PhD diss., Arizona State University, 2006). 79. As cited in Horton, Santa Fe Fiesta, Reinvented, 169. 80. As cited in Lutenski, West of Harlem, 212, 221. 81. As cited in ibid., 209. 82. Lutenski introduces this wider argument in “Mapping the New American Race,” West of Harlem, 191–225. 83. As cited in Rachel St. John, Line in the Sand: A History of the Western U.S.- Mexico Border (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2011), 154. 84. As cited in Geraldo Cadava, Standing on Common Ground: The Making of a Sunbelt Borderland (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2013), 149. 85. Cadava, Standing on Common Ground, 144. 86. As cited in Cadava, Standing on Common Ground, 146. Notes to Pages 188–197 347

. 87 Patricia Preciado Martin, “Orgullo, Pride,” in El Milagro and Other Stories (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1996), 32. 88. Lydia R. Otero, La Calle: Spatial Conflicts and Urban Renewal in a Southwest City (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2010), 66. 89. As cited in Thomas E. Sheridan, Arizona: A History (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1995), 241. 90. Bradford Luckingham, Phoenix: The History of a Southwestern Metropolis (Tuc- son: University of Arizona Press, 1989), 117. 91. As cited in Sheridan, Arizona, 265. 92. Sheridan, Arizona, 274–75. 93. Luckingham, Phoenix, 150. 94. Sheridan, Arizona, 263. 95. Bradford Luckingham, The Urban Southwest: A Profile History of Albuquerque– El Paso–Phoenix–Tucson (El Paso: Texas Western Press, 1982), 70. 96. Sheridan, Arizona, 279. 97. Andrew Needham, Power Lines: Phoenix and the Making of the Modern South- west (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2014), 62–63. 98. Sheridan, Arizona, 319. 99. Kevin Kane, Abigail M. York, Joseph Tuccillo, Lauren E. Gentile, and Yun Ouyang, “Residential Development During the Great Recession: A Shifting Focus in Phoenix, Arizona, Urban Geography 35, no. 4 (2014): 486–507. 100. Sheridan, Arizona, 319. 101. Slotkin, Gunfighter Nation, 471.

Chapter 6. Own It

1. Barbara Kingsolver, The Bean Trees (New York: Harper Perennial, 1988), 35, 37, 68, 78, 162–63. 2. Richard Etulain argues that Kingsolver’s Arizona novels function more as feminist texts than as regional ones. I would argue that The Bean Trees effec tively functions as both. See Etulain, Re-imagining the Modern American West: A Century of Fiction, History, and Art (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1996), 149. 3. Jamie Bronstein, “Sowing Discontent: The 1921 Alien Land Act in New Mexico,” Pacific Historical Review 82, no. 2 (2013): 364. 348 Notes to Pages 197–201

4. Ibid., 364. 5. Katherine Benton-Cohen, Borderline Americans: Racial Division and Labor War in the Arizona Borderlands (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2009), 274. 6. Bradford Luckingham, Minorities in Phoenix: A Profile of Mexican American, Chinese American, and African American Communities, 1860–1992 (Tucson: Uni versity of Arizona Press, 1994), 104 7. Luckingham, Minorities in Phoenix, 112–18, quotation 118. 8. Benton-Cohen, Borderline Americans, 76. 9. Julian Lim, “Chinese and Paisanos: Chinese Mexican Relations in the Border lands,” Pacific Historical Review 79, no 1 (2010): 50–85; Grace Peña Delgado, Making the Chinese Mexican: Global Migration, Localism, and Exclusion in the U.S.-Mexico Borderlands (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2012); Evelyn Hu-DeHart, “Immigrants to a Developing Society: The Chinese in Northern Mexico, 1875–1932,” Journal of Arizona History 21 (Autumn 1980): 275–312. 10. Grace Peña Delgado, “Neighbors by Nature: Relationships, Border Crossings, and Transnational Communities in the Chinese Exclusion Era,” Pacific His torical Review 80, no. 3 (August 2011): 401–29. 11. Ibid., 401–29. 12. “When the Japanese Come—the Whites Go,” Organized Farming, Septem ber–October 1919, p. 4, as cited in Bronstein, “Sowing Discontent,” 370. 13. “America for Americans,” Rio Grande Republic, October 7, 1920, p. 1, as cited in Bronstein, “Sowing Discontent,” 372. 14. Bronstein, “Sowing Discontent,” 372. 15. Ibid., 386–88. 16. John J. Culley, “World War II and a Western Town: The Internment of the Japanese Railroad Workers of Clovis, New Mexico,” Western Historical Quar terly 13, no. 1 (January 1982): 43–61. 17. Everett M. Rogers and Nancy R. Bartlit, Silent Voices of World War II: When Sons of the Land of Enchantment Met Sons of the Land of the Rising Sun (Santa Fe, NM: Sunstone Press, 2005), 49. 18. Ibid., 49. 19. As cited in ibid., 183. 20. Thomas Fujita-Roy, “Arizona and Japanese American History: The World War II Colorado River Indian Reservation Relocation Center,” Journal of the Southwest 47, no. 2 (Summer 2005): 220–21. Notes to Pages 201–205 349

21. Richard Melzer, “Casualties of Caution and Fear: Life in Santa Fe’s Japanese Internment Camp, 1942–46,” in Essays in Twentieth-Century New Mexico History, ed. Judith Boyce DeMark (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1994), 222. 22. Suzanne Stamatov, “Japanese American Internment Camps in New Mexico, 1942–1946,” accessed February 21, 2016, http://newmexicohistory.org/people /japanese-american-internment-camps-in-new-mexico-1942–1946. 23. Rogers and Bartlit, Silent Voices, 177. 24. Melzer, “Casualties of Caution and Fear,” 218. 25. Rogers and Bartlit, Silent Voices, 181. 26. As cited in Robert Nott, “Grant to Help Preserve History of Internment Camps in New Mexico,” Santa Fe New Mexican, June 24, 2014, accessed Feb ruary 21, 2016. 27. Natsu Taylor Saito, “Alien and Non-Alien Alike: Citizenship, ‘Foreignness,’ and Racial Hierarchy in American Law,” University of Oregon Law Review 76 (1997): 297. 28. Katherine Benton-Cohen, “Common Purposes, Worlds Apart: Mexican- American, Mormon, and Midwestern Women in Cochise County, Arizona,” Western Historical Quarterly 36, no. 4 (Winter 2005): 428–52; Benton-Cohen, Borderline Americans, 148–76. 29. Benton-Cohen, “Common Purposes,” 433. 30. Robert L. Dorman, Hell of a Vision: Regionalism and the Modern American West (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2012), 50. 31. Stephen Pyne, How the Canyon Became Grand: A Short History (New York: Penguin Books, 1998), Kindle edition, chap. 2. 32. Stephen Fried, Appetite for America: Fred Harvey and the Business of Civilizing the West One Meal at a Time (New York: Bantam Books, 2010), Kindle edition, chap. 24. 33. Ibid. 34. Douglas E. Kupel, Fuel for Growth: Water and Arizona’s Urban Environment (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2003), 77, 102. 35. Thomas E. Sheridan, Arizona: A History (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1995), 238; Hal Rothman, Devil’s Bargains: Tourism in the Twentieth-Century American West (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 1998), 52–70. 36. Pyne, How the Canyon Became Grand, Kindle edition, chap. 3. 37. Rothman, Devil’s Bargains, 66. 38. Erna Fergusson, Our Southwest (New York: Knopf, 1940), 109. 350 Notes to Pages 205–208

39. Sheridan, Arizona, 249; Jerome Rodnitzky, “Recapturing the West: The Dude Ranch in American Life,” Arizona and the West 10 (1967): 111–26; Alex Kim melman, “Luring the Tourist to Tucson: Civic Promotion During the 1920s,” Journal of Arizona History 28 (1987): 135–54; Kel Fox, “Of Dudes and Cows: The Foxboro Story,” Journal of Arizona History 32 (1991): 413–42. 40. Lynn I. Perrigo, The American Southwest: Its People and Cultures (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1971), 345. 41. Fergusson, Our Southwest, 142–44. 42. Sheridan, Arizona, 238. 43. Pyne, How the Canyon Became Grand, Kindle edition, chap. 3. 44. Wilson, Myth of Santa Fe, 114. 45. Rothman, Devil’s Bargains, 72–73. I favor the interpretation of Ruth Phillips and Elizabeth Hutchinson over that of Rothman in that I see Native Amer ican arts and crafts and Native American artists and craftspeople as part of “the Native experience of modern history.” As Hutchinson writes, “While I do not want to downplay the ongoing damage caused to Indian people by this history, it is useful to look more closely at how Native material culture records an intercultural response to the disruptions of modernity, criticizing it while embracing its underlying structures, using it to create points of identification and distinction between cultures.” Hutchinson, The Indian Craze: Primitivism, Modernism, and Transculturation in American Art, 1890–1915 (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2009), 49. Also see Ruth Phillips, Trading Identities: The Souvenir in Native North American Art from the Northeast, 1700–1900 (Seat tle: University of Washington Press, 1999), 10. 46. Karl Jacoby, Crimes Against Nature: Squatters, Poachers, Thieves, and the Hidden History of American Conservation (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001), 159. 47. Ibid., 177. 48. Ibid., 187–91. 49. Ibid., 183. 50. Rothman, Devil’s Bargains, 76–77. 51. “Leroy Shingoitewa, Hopi Tribe Against Grand Canyon Project,” Indian Country Today Media Network, February 18, 2013, accessed February 25, 2016, http://indiancountrytodaymedianetwork.com/2013/02/18/leroy-shingoitewa -hopi-tribe-against-grand-canyon-project-147738. 52. Julie Cart, “Tribe’s Canyon Skywalk Opens One Big Divide,” Los Angeles Times, February 11, 2007. Notes to Pages 208–214 351

53. “Hualapai Tribe Declares Eminent Domain to Manage Grand Canyon Skywalk,” Indian Country Today Media Network, February 13, 2012, accessed February 25, 2016, http://indiancountrytodaymedianetwork.com/2012/02/13 /hualapai-tribe-declares-eminent-domain-manage-grand-canyon-skywalk -97413. 54. Hyde, as cited in Pyne, How the Canyon Became Grand, Kindle edition, chap. 3. 55. Pyne, How the Canyon Became Grand, Kindle edition, chap 3. 56. William DeBuys, Enchantment and Exploitation: The Life and Hard Times of a New Mexico Mountain Range (1985; repr., Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1993), 252, 271–84. 57. Jake Kosek, Understories: The Political Life of Forests in Northern New Mexico (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2006), 92–94. 58. DeBuys, Enchantment and Exploitation, 295. 59. Kosek, Understories, 129–41. 60. As cited in Annie Gilbert Coleman, “The Unbearable Whiteness of Skiing,” Pacific Historical Review 65, no. 4 (1996): 583–614. 61. Coleman, “Unbearable Whiteness of Skiing,” 583–614. 62. William Philpott, Vacationland: Tourism and Environment in the Colorado High Country (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2013). 63. Sylvia Rodríguez, “Applied Research on Land and Water in New Mexico: A Critique,” Journal of the Southwest 32, no. 3 (1990): 300–315; Rodríguez, “The Impact of the Ski Industry on the Rio Hondo Watershed,” Annals of Tourism Research 14, no. 1 (1987): 88–103; Rodríguez, “Land, Water, and Ethnic Identity in Taos,” in Land, Water, and Culture, ed. C. Briggs and J. Van Ness, 313–403 (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1987). 64. Aldo Leopold, A Sand County Almanac, and Sketches Here and There (London: Oxford University Press, 1949), 129–30. 65. Nathan Sayre, Working Wilderness: The Malpai Borderlands Group and the Future of the Western Range (Tucson: Rio Nuevo, 2005); Susan Charnley, Thomas E. Sheridan, and Gary P. Nabhan, eds., Stitching the West Back Together: Con servation of Working Landscapes (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2014), Kindle edition, chap. 4, accessed February 22, 2016, http://www.malpaiborder landsgroup.org/?section=home. 66. Keith H. Basso, Wisdom Sits in Places: Landscape and Language Among the Western Apache (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1996), 29. 67. Ibid., 134. 68. Ibid., 102. 352 Notes to Pages 214–219

69. N. Scott Momaday, “Native American Attitudes to the Environment,” in Seeing with a Native Eye: Essays on Native American Religion, ed. Walter Holden Capps (New York: Harper and Row, 1974), 80. 70. Jeremy R. Ricketts, “Land of (re) Enchantment: Tourism and Sacred Space at Roswell and Chimayó, New Mexico,” Journal of the Southwest 53, no. 2 (2011): 243. 71. Steve Fox, “Sacred Pedestrians: The Many Faces of Southwest Pilgrimage,” Journal of the Southwest 36, no. 1 (1994): 46. 72. Ricketts, “Land of (re) Enchantment,” 246. 73. Alfonso Ortiz, The Tewa World: Space, Time, Being, and Becoming in a Pueblo Society (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1969), 10; Elizabeth Kay, Chi mayo Valley Traditions (Santa Fe, NM: Ancient City Press, 1985), 5. 74. Fox, “Sacred Pedestrians,” 45. 75. Andrew Kirk, Counterculture Green: The Whole Earth Catalog and American Environmentalism (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2007), 38–39. 76. As cited in Sherry L. Smith, Hippies, Indians, and the Fight for Red Power (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), Kindle edition, chap. 4. 77. As cited in Smith, Hippies, Indians, Kindle edition, chap. 4. On Southwestern communes, also see Iris Keltz, Scrapbook of a Taos Hippie: Tribal Tales from the Heart of a Cultural Revolution (El Paso, TX: Cinco Puntos Press, 2000); Arthur Kopecky, New Buffalo: Journals from a Taos Commune (Albuquerque: Univer sity of New Mexico Press, 2004); Kopecky, Leaving New Buffalo Commune (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2006); Roberta Price, Across the Great Divide: A Photo Chronicle of the Counterculture (Albuquerque: Uni versity of New Mexico Press, 2010). 78. Kirk, Counterculture Green, 74–78. 79. Ibid., 74. 80. Ibid., 76, 82. 81. As cited in Smith, Hippies, Indians, Kindle edition, chap. 4. 82. Ibid. 83. Ayame Fukuda, “Fish Out of Water: Growing Up Japanese in Santa Fe,” Santa Fe Reporter, March 27–April 2, 1996, 13. 84. Ibid., 12 85. Ibid., 11–15, 17. Final quotation, 11. 86. Ibid., 15. 87. Ibid. 88. Ibid., 15, 17. Notes to Pages 220–228 353

89. Ibid., 13. 90. Ibid., 17. 91. Ibid.

Part IV. The Theater of All Possibilities

1. Rebecca Reider, Dreaming the Biosphere: The Theater of All Possibilities (Albu- querque: University of New Mexico Press, 2009). For the costs of Biosphere 2, see 204. 2. Ibid., 271.

Chapter 7. Boom Towns

1. Robert Allen Goldberg, Barry Goldwater (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1997); Goldberg, “The Western Hero in Politics: Barry Goldwater, Ron ald Reagan, and the Rise of an American Conservative Movement,” in The Political Culture of the New West, ed. Jeff Roche (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2008), 13–50; Lawrence Culver, The Frontier of Leisure: Southern California and the Shaping of Modern America (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), Kindle edition, chap. 7. 2. Them! directed by Gordon Douglas (1954; Burbank, CA: Warner Home Video, 2002), DVD. 3. Allan M. Winkler, Life Under a Cloud: American Anxiety About the Atom (New York: Oxford University Press, 1993). 4. See the Nevada Test Site Oral History Project, http://digital.library.unlv.edu /ntsohp/; Peter Bacon Hales, Atomic Spaces: Living on the Manhattan Project (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1999); Jon Hunner, Inventing Los Alamos: The Growth of an Atomic Community (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 2004); Mark Fiege, “Atomic Sublime,” in Fiege, The Republic of Nature: An Environmental History of the United States (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2012), 281–317; Traci Brynne Voyles, Wastelanding: Legacies of Uranium Mining in Navajo Country (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2015). 5. Peggy Pond Church, The House at Otowi Bridge: The Story of Edith Warner and Los Alamos (1959; repr., Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1987), Kindle edition, chap. 6. 354 Notes to Pages 229–232

6. Frank Waters, The Woman at Otowi Crossing (1966; repr., Athens, OH: Swallow Press/Ohio University Press, 1987), 13. 7. Jon Hunner, J. Robert Oppenheimer, the Cold War, and the Atomic West (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 2009), 16–21; Kai Bird and Mart J. Sherwin, American Prometheus: The Triumph and Tragedy of J. Robert Oppenheimer (New York: Knopf, 2005). 8. Bird and Sherwin, American Prometheus, 80. 9. Church, House at Otowi Bridge, Kindle edition, chap. 13. 10. Leslie Groves, Now It Can Be Told: The Story of the Manhattan Project (New York: Da Capo Press, 1986). 11. Fiege, “Atomic Sublime,” in Republic of Nature, 292. 12. Charlotte Serber, “Labor Pains,” in Standing By and Making Do, 2nd ed., ed. Jane Wilson and Charlotte Serber (Los Alamos, NM: Los Alamos Historical Society, 1988), 84. 13. Hunner, J. Robert Oppenheimer, 86. 14. Church, House at Otowi Bridge, Kindle edition, chap. 12 15. Waters, Woman at Otowi Crossing, prologue. 16. Ruth Marshak, “Secret City,” in Wilson and Serber, Standing By and Making Do, 15. 17. Ferenc Morton Szasz, The Day the Sun Rose Twice: The Story of the Trinity Site Nuclear Explosion, July 16, 1945 (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1984), chap. 1. 18. A selection of Warner’s writings is available in Edith Warner, In the Shadow of Los Alamos: Selected Writings of Edith Warner, ed. Patrick Burns (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2008). 19. Eleanor Jette, Inside Box 1663 (Los Alamos, NM: Los Alamos Historical So ciety, 1977), 11. 20. Serber, “Labor Pains,” 75. 21. Ibid., 85. 22. Szasz, Day the Sun Rose Twice, Kindle edition, chap. 1. 23. Shirley Barnett, “Operation Los Alamos,” in Wilson and Serber, Standing By and Making Do, 112–13. 24. Kathleen Mark, “A Roof Over Our Heads,” in Wilson and Serber, Standing By and Making Do; Ruth Marshak, “Secret City”; Jane S. Wilson, “Not Quite Eden,” in Wilson and Serber, Standing By and Making Do, 48, 25, 66, 64–65. Notes to Pages 232–239 355

25. Marshak, “Secret City”; Wilson, “Not Quite Eden,” 19, 64–65; Philip Morrison to Edith Warner in House at Otowi Bridge, Kindle edition, chap. 14. 26. Mark, “Roof over Our Heads,” 53. 27. Marshak, “Secret City,” 23. 28. Jean Bacher, “Fresh Air and Alcohol,” in Wilson and Serber, Standing By and Making Do, 128. 29. Laura Fermi, Atoms in the Family: My Life with Enrico Fermi (Chicago: Uni versity of Chicago Press, 1954), 225 30. Serber, “Labor Pains,” 78. 31. Szasz, Day the Sun Rose Twice, Kindle edition, chap. 1 32. Alice Kimball Smith, “Law and Order,” in Wilson and Serber, Standing By and Making Do, 95. 33. Wilson, “Not Quite Eden,” 59. 34. Szasz, Day the Sun Rose Twice, Kindle edition, chap. 1. 35. Dorothy McKibbin, “109 East Palace,” in Wilson and Serber, Standing By and Making Do, 43. 36. Wilson, “Not Quite Eden,” 68. 37. Ibid., 70. 38. Leisl Carr Childers, The Size of the Risk: Histories of Multiple Use in the Great Basin (Norman: University of Oklahoma, 2015), Kindle edition, introduction. 39. Ryan H. Edgington, Range Wars: The Environmental Contest for White Sands Missile Range (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2014), 80–84. 40. Fiege, “Atomic Sublime,” in Republic of Nature, 307. 41. Szasz, Day the Sun Rose Twice, 82–83; Fiege, “Atomic Sublime,” in Republic of Nature, 307. 42. Ruth H. Howes and Caroline C. Herzenberg, Their Day in the Sun: Women of the Manhattan Project (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2003), 56. 43. Hunner, Inventing Los Alamos, Kindle edition, chap. 2 44. Fiege, “Atomic Sublime,” in Republic of Nature, 309. 45. Hunner, Inventing Los Alamos, Kindle edition, chap. 2. 46. Bernice Brode, “Life at Los Alamos, 1943–45,” Atomic Scientists’ Journal 3 (November 1953): 89. 47. Fiege, “Atomic Sublime,” in Republic of Nature, 314. 48. Church, House at Otowi Bridge, Kindle edition, chap. 14. 49. Hunner, Inventing Los Alamos, Kindle edition, chap. 3. 50. Bird and Sherwin, American Prometheus, 321. 356 Notes to Pages 239–243

51. As cited in Hunner, Inventing Los Alamos, Kindle edition, chap. 3. 52. Childers, Size of the Risk, Kindle edition, chap. 2, 19n. 53. A. Costandina Titus, Bombs in the Backyard: Atomic Testing and American Pol itics (Reno: University of Nevada Press, 1986), 145. 54. As cited in Hunner, Inventing Los Alamos, Kindle edition, chap. 3. 55. Hunner, Inventing Los Alamos, Kindle edition, chap. 4. 56. As cited in Hunner, Inventing Los Alamos, Kindle edition, chap. 3. 57. Hunner, Inventing Los Alamos, Kindle edition, chap. 3. 58. Ibid. 59. Carl Abbott, The Metropolitan Frontier: Cities in the Modern American West (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1993), 64. 60. Ric Dias, “The Great Cantonment: Cold War Cities in the American West,” in The Cold War American West, 1945–1989, ed. Kevin J. Fernlund (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1998), 81. 61. Maria Montoya, “Landscapes of the Cold War West,” in Fernlund, Cold War American West, 17. 62. Kevin Allen Leonard, “Migrants, Immigrants, and Refugees: The Cold War and Population Growth in the American West,” in Fernlund, Cold War Amer ican West, 35; Edgington, Range Wars, 105. 63. Edgington, Range Wars, 82–83. 64. Thomas E. Sheridan, Arizona: A History (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1995), 272. 65. Timothy M. Chambless, “Pro-Defense, Pro-Growth, and Anti-Communism: Cold War Politics in the American West,” in Fernlund, Cold War American West, 104, 109. 66. Edgington, Range Wars, 161. 67. Ibid., 204. 68. As cited in ibid., 195–203; quotation 202. 69. Titus, Bombs in the Backyard, 88. 70. Edgington, Range Wars, 105. 71. Dias, “Great Cantonment,” 81. 72. Gregg Herken, “The University of California and the Federal Weapons Labs,” in The Atomic West, ed. Bruce Hevly and John M. Findlay (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1998), 129. 73. Stephen I. Schwartz, Atomic Audit: The Costs and Consequences of U.S. Nuclear Weapons Since 1940 (Washington, DC: Brookings Institution Press, 1998). Notes to Pages 243–247 357

74. Stephen I. Schwartz, “The Hidden Costs of Our Nuclear Arsenal: Overview of Project Findings,” June 30, 1998, accessed January 31, 2016, http://www .brookings.edu/about/projects/archive/nucweapons/schwartz. 75. Laura McEnaney, Civil Defense Begins at Home: Militarization Meets Everyday Life in the Fifties (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2000), 113. 76. Hunner, Inventing Los Alamos, Kindle edition, chap. 5. 77. McEnaney, Civil Defense Begins at Home, 113. 78. As cited in Hunner, Inventing Los Alamos, Kindle edition, chap. 5. 79. For a comparative assessment of the effects of nuclear production on women workers, see Kate Brown, Plutopia: Nuclear Families, Atomic Cities, and the Great American and Soviet Plutonium Disasters (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013). 80. Sarah Fox, Downwind: A People’s History of the Nuclear West (Lincoln: Univer sity of Nebraska Press, 2014), 9. 81. Valerie L. Kuletz, The Tainted Desert: Environmental and Social Ruin in the American West (New York: Routledge, 1998). 82. Andrew G. Kirk, “Rereading the Nature of Atomic Doom Towns,” Envi ronmental History 17, no. 3 (2012): 635–47. 83. Childers, Size of the Risk, Kindle edition, introduction and chap. 2. 84. Ibid., chap. 3. 85. Titus, Bombs in the Backyard, 84. 86. Ibid., 85. 87. Richard L. Miller, Under the Cloud: The Decades of Nuclear Testing (New York: Free Press, 1986), 38; Childers, Size of the Risk, Kindle edition, chap. 3. 88. Miller, Under the Cloud, 252; Fox, Downwind, 136. 89. Lewis Strauss, chairman, AEC, to Mrs. Martha Bordoli, 1957, as cited in Fox, Downwind, 137. 90. Hunner, Inventing Los Alamos, Kindle edition, chap. 5. 91. Titus, Bombs in the Backyard, 85. 92. Szasz, Day the Sun Rose Twice, Kindle edition, chap. 7. 93. Titus, Bombs in the Backyard, 107. 94. Fox, Downwind, 183–87. 95. Barton C. Hacker, “ ‘Hotter Than a $2 Pistol,’ ” in Hevly and Findlay, Atomic West, 169. 96. Childers, Size of the Risk, Kindle edition, chap. 3, “Mushroom Cloud on the Range.” 358 Notes to Pages 247–251

97. Fox, Downwind, 186. 98. Paul Boyer, By the Bomb’s Early Light: American Thought and Culture at the Dawn of the Atomic Age (New York: Pantheon, 1985), 145. 99. Cynthia Gorney, “Stewart Udall’s War of the West,” Washington Post, April 19, 1990, accessed August 24, 2015. 100. “Justice Department Surpasses $2 Billion in Awards Under the Radiation Exposure Compensation Act,” Department of Justice, Office of Public Af fairs, March 2, 2015, accessed January 31, 2016, http://www.justice.gov/opa/pr /justice-department-surpasses-2-billion-awards-under-radiation-exposure -compensation-act. 101. Rebecca Solnit, Savage Dreams: A Journey into the Hidden Wars of the American West (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994), 30; Voyles, Wastelanding, Kindle edition, conclusion. 102. Barbara Rose Johnston, Susan Dawson, and Gary Madsen, “Uranium Mining and Milling: Navajo Experiences in the American Southwest,” in Indians and Energy: Exploitation and Opportunity in the American Southwest, ed. Sherry L. Smith and Brian Frehner (Santa Fe, NM: School for Advanced Research Press, 2010), 116. 103. As cited in Fox, Downwind, 27. 104. Fox, Downwind, 183. 105. Ibid., 25. 106. Johnston, Dawson, and Madsen, “Uranium Mining and Milling,” 128. 107. Ibid., 130. 108. Fox, Downwind, 178. 109. Andrew Needham, Power Lines: Phoenix and the Making of the Modern South west (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2014), 185–212. 110. Johnston, Dawson, and Madsen, “Uranium Mining and Milling,” 124. 111. Ibid., 127. 112. Ibid., 112. 113. Voyles, Wastelanding, Kindle edition, chap. 4. 114. Ibid. 115. Johnston, Dawson, and Madsen, “Uranium Mining and Milling,” 124–28. 116. Voyles, Wastelanding, Kindle edition, chap. 4. http://homeforwomenandchild ren.com/ and “DV Programs: Awareness Improving, Action Lacking,” Navajo Times, October 17, 2013, accessed November 13, 2016, http://navajotimes.com /news/2013/1013/101713dv.php. 117. Ibid., conclusion. Notes to Pages 251–260 359

118. Johnston, Dawson, and Madsen, “Uranium Mining and Milling,” 122. 119. Noah Sachs, “The Mescalero Apache Indians and Monitored Retrievable Storage of Spent Nuclear Fuel: A Study in Environmental Ethics,” Natural Resources Journal 36 (1996): 894n76. 120. Joseph Masco, The Nuclear Borderlands: The Manhattan Project in Post-Cold War New Mexico (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2006), 149–50. 121. Fox, Downwind, 217. 122. Masco, Nuclear Borderlands, 115. 123. As cited in Masco, Nuclear Borderlands, 140–41. 124. Serber, “Labor Pains,” 88. 125. Masco, Nuclear Borderlands, 138. 126. As cited in ibid., 118. 127. Kuletz, Tainted Desert, 109. 128. Tony Davis, “Apaches Send a Signal to Nuclear Industry,” High Country News, February 20, 1995. 129. As cited in Kuletz, Tainted Desert, 107. 130. As cited in Masco, Nuclear Borderlands, 123. 131. Carl Abbott, “Building the Atomic Cities,” in Hevly and Findlay, Atomic West, 105. 132. Masco, Nuclear Borderlands, 208. 133. Hunner, Inventing Los Alamos, Kindle edition, chap. 4. 134. Abbott, “Building the Atomic Cities,” 108. 135. Eileen Welsome, The Plutonium Files: America’s Secret Medical Experiments in the Cold War (New York: Random House, 1999). 136. Ibid., 432. 137. Masco, Nuclear Borderlands, 231. 138. Ibid., 231, 186. 139. Charles Kupfer, “The Cold War West as Symbol and Myth,” in Fernlund, Cold War American West, 182. 140. Jake Kosek, Understories: The Political Life of Forests in Northern New Mexico (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2006), 254–58. 141. “Top Ten Unsolved Mysteries,” New Mexico Magazine, September 2013. 142. Jeremy R. Ricketts, “Land of (Re)Enchantment: Tourism and Sacred Space at Roswell and Chimayó, New Mexico,” Journal of the Southwest 53, no. 2 (Summer 2011): 247–59. 143. The hrasep “mutant ecologies” is Masco’s. 144. Edgington, Range Wars. 360 Notes to Pages 260–267

145. Masco, Nuclear Borderlands, 197–98. 146. Lois P. Rudnick, “The Arts of Nuclear (Dis)Enchantment,” El Palacio 120, no. 1 (Spring 2015): 42. 147. Catherine Ramírez, “Deus Ex Machina: Tradition, Technology, and the Chi canafuturist Art of Marion C. Martinez,” Aztlán 29, no. 2 (Fall 2004): 55–92, quotation 78.

Chapter 8. Water Is the Earth’s Blood

Chris Schnell provided detailed copyediting of this chapter and wrote the majority of the discursive notes below. I am grateful for his assistance and elegant attention to detail. 1. Tony Hillerman, The Boy Who Made Dragonfly: A Zuni Myth (New York: Harper and Row, 1972), 5–6. 2. New York Times, November 5, 1972, Book Review, sec. A, 25. 3. John Nichols, The Milagro Beanfield War (1974; repr., New York: Holt Paper- back, 1994); The Milagro Beanfield War, directed by Robert Redford (1988; Uni- versal City, CA: Universal Studios Home Entertainment, 2005), DVD. 4. In their introduction to The Secret Life of John C. Van Dyke: Selected Letters, Da- vid W. Teague and Peter Wild suggest that Van Dyke traveled to the South- west in 1898 for reasons other than health or love of the desert. They note that Van Dyke’s personal correspondence offers hints that the lengthy trip, first to his brother’s southern California ranch and then to the desert Southwest, was spurred by Van Dyke’s desire to escape personal turmoil in New Jersey involving his relationship with his daughter Clare Van Dyke Parr. Parr’s mother was the wife of a Rutgers faculty member and a colleague of Van Dyke’s. David W. Teague and Peter Wild, eds., The Secret Life of John C. Van Dyke: Selected Letters (Reno: University of Nevada Press, 1997), 16–17. 5. John C. Van Dyke, The Desert: Further Studies in Natural Appearances (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1901), 59; Patricia Nelson Limerick, Desert Pas- sages: Encounters with the American Deserts (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1985), 95. 6. Van Dyke, Desert, 60; Limerick, Desert Passages, 103. 7. Limerick, Desert Passages, 103. 8. Van Dyke, Desert, 59. 9. Ibid., 13. Notes to Pages 268–269 361

10. Barbara Buhler Lynes and Russell Bowman, O’Keeffe’s O’Keeffes: The Artist’s Collection (New York: Thames and Hudson, 2001), 30, 66. During her career, O’Keeffe managed to secure a comfortable living from her work. In 1983, near the end of her life, O’Keeffe sold Summer Days for $1 million to Calvin Klein. After O’Keeffe’s death in 1986, her sister’s estate sold ten O’Keeffe paintings for a total of $6.82 million. Barbara Buhler Lynes, Georgia O’Keeffe: Catalogue Raisonné (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1999), 2:1147. 11. Georgia O’Keeffe to Henry McBride, summer 1929, in Georgia O’Keeffe: Art and Letters, ed. Jack Cowart and Juan Hamilton (Boston: Little, Brown, 1987), 189. Quoted in Wanda Corn, The Great American Thing: Modern Art and Na- tional Identity, 1915–1935 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999), 244. 12. Corn, Great American Thing, 249. 13. William H. Goetzmann and William N. Goetzmann, The West of the Imagina- tion (New York: Norton, 1986), 426–29. 14. Georgia O’Keeffe, interview by Ishbel Ross, “Bones of Desert Blaze Art Trail of Miss O’Keeffe,” New York Herald Tribune, December 29, 1931, 3. Quoted in Corn, Great American Thing, 271. 15. “Georgia O’Keeffe: Exhibition of Oils and Pastels,” at An American Place (New York: 1939), n.p., as cited in Corn, Great American Thing, 272. 16. Alessandra Ponte, “The House of Light and Entropy: Inhabiting the Ameri- can Desert,” in Landscapes of Memory and Experience, ed. Jan Birksted (Lon- don: Spon Press, 2000), 147. 17. Roxana Robinson, Georgia O’Keeffe: A Life (New York: Harper and Row, 1989), 326; second quotation from Calvin Tomkins, “Profiles: The Rose in the Eye Looked Pretty Fine,” New Yorker, March 4, 1974, 53; see also Ponte, “House of Light and Entropy,” 147. 18. See Vera Norwood and Janice Monk, eds., The Desert Is No Lady: Southwest- ern Landscapes in Women’s Writing and Art (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1987); and Leslie Poling-Kempes, Ladies of the Canyons: A League of Extraordinary Women and Their Adventures in the American Southwest (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2015). For the desert Southwest as an inspiration for O’Keeffe, see Elizabeth Duvert, “With Stone, Star, and Earth: The Pres- ence of the Archaic in the Landscape Visions of Georgia O’Keeffe, Nancy Holt, and Michelle Stuart,” in Norwood and Monk, The Desert Is No Lady, 199–201. 19. Norwood and Monk, The Desert Is No Lady; Flannery Burke, From Green- wich Village to Taos: Primitivism and Place at Mabel Dodge Luhan’s (Lawrence: 362 Notes to Pages 270–272

University Press of Kansas, 2008); Margaret D. Jacobs, “Shaping a New Way: White Women and the Movement to Promote Pueblo Indian Arts and Crafts, 1900–1935,” Journal of the Southwest 40 (Summer 1998): 187–215. 20. Georgia O’Keeffe, directed by Perry Miller Adato (1977; Homevision, 2000), VHS. 21. Limerick, Desert Passages, 99. 22. Donald Worster, Rivers of Empire: Water, Aridity, and the Growth of the Ameri- can West (1985; repr., New York: Oxford University Press, 1992), 30. 23. Ibid., 6–7. 24. Wallace Stegner, Where the Bluebirds Sing to the Lemonade Springs: Living and Writing in the West (1992; repr., New York: Random House, 1995), 47. 25. U.S. Bureau of the Census, Resident Population and Apportionment of the U.S. House of Representatives, Arizona, accessed November 2013, http://www .census.gov/dmd/www/resapport/states/arizona.pdf; U.S. Bureau of the Cen- sus, Resident Population and Apportionment of the U.S. House of Representatives, New Mexico, accessed November 2013, http://www.census.gov/dmd/www /resapport/states/newmexico.pdf. 26. Marienka Sokol, “Illusions of Abundance: Culture and Urban Water Use in the Arid Southwest” (PhD diss., University of Wisconsin–Madison, 2008), 10. 27. Another 1.44 percent of water went to livestock. Power facilities used 1.61 percent of water. Seven percent of water “withdrawals” were due to evaporation from large reservoirs. John W. Longworth et al., “New Mexico Water Use by Categories, 2005,” Technical Report 52 (Santa Fe: New Mexico Office of the State Engineer, June 2008), v–vi, accessed November 2013, http://www.ose .state.nm.us/PDF/Publications/Library/TechnicalReports/TechReport -052.pdf. 28. Marc Reisner, Cadillac Desert: The American West and Its Disappearing Water, rev. ed. (New York: Penguin, 1993), 113–19, 132–42. 29. Douglas E. Kupel, Fuel for Growth: Water and Arizona’s Urban Environment (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2003), 79–80. 30. Eric Meeks, Border Citizens: The Making of Indians, Mexicans, and Anglos in Arizona (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2007), 68. 31. Kupel, Fuel for Growth, 80. 32. Douglas R. Littlefield,Conflict on the Rio Grande: Water and Law, 1879–1939 (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 2008). 33. Ira G. Clark, Water in New Mexico: A History of Its Management and Use (Al- buquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1987). Notes to Pages 272–277 363

34. As cited in Fred M. Phillips, G. Emlen Hall, and Mary E. Black, Reining in the Rio Grande: People, Land, and Water (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2011), 90. 35. Phillips, Hall, and Black, Reining in the Rio Grande, 104–8. 36. Reisner, Cadillac Desert; Norris Hundley Jr., Water and the West: The Colorado River Compact and the Politics of Water in the American West (Berkeley: Univer- sity of California Press, 1975). For a more succinct account, see Hundley’s “The West Against Itself: The Colorado River—An Institutional History,” in New Courses for the Colorado River: Major Issues for the Next Century, ed. Gary D. Weatherford and F. Lee Brown, 9–49 (Albuquerque: University of New Mex- ico Press, 1986). 37. Reisner, Cadillac Desert, 124–25. 38. Thomas E. Sheridan, Arizona: A History (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1995), 222–23. 39. Ibid., 205–6. 40. Andrew Needham, Power Lines: Phoenix and the Making of the Modern South- west (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2014), 25. 41. Jack L. August Jr., “Carl Hayden and the Politics of Water,” Pacific Historical Review 58, no. 2 (May 1989): 215. 42. Phillips, Hall, and Black, Reining in the Rio Grande, 122–24. 43. Ibid., 132–40. 44. Ibid., 145–46. 45. Reisner, Cadillac Desert, 257–59. 46. Sheridan, Arizona, 341–46. 47. Riley Moffat, Population History of Western U.S. Cities and Towns, 1850–1990 (Lanham, MD: Scarecrow Press, 1996), 14. The exact figures are 65,414 in 1940 and 439,170 in 1960. 48. Barbara Tellman, Water Resources in Pima County: A Report for the Sonoran Desert Conservation Plan and for Update of the Pima County Comprehensive Plan (Tucson: Water Research Center, University of Arizona, 2001), 27. 49. Sokol, “Illusions of Abundance,” 12, 16–19, 259–60. 50. Ibid., 16. 51. Ibid., 263–68. 52. Edward Abbey, “The BLOB Comes to Arizona,” in The Journey Home: Some Words in Defense of the American West (New York: E. P. Dutton, 1977), 157. 53. Edward Abbey, Desert Solitaire: A Season in the Wilderness (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1968). 364 Notes to Pages 277–278

54. Edward Abbey, The Monkey Wrench Gang (Philadelphia: Lippincott, 1975). 55. Richard Etulain argues that The Monkey Wrench Gang “epitomiz[ed] a new environmental consciousness and an advocacy drum beat that many postre- gionalists have increasingly marched to since 1970.” See Etulain, Re-imagining the Modern American West: A Century of Fiction, History, and Art (Tucson: Uni- versity of Arizona Press, 1996), 154 56. Worster, Rivers of Empire, 5. Philip Fradkin describes the Colorado River as bereft of its nature by an all-encompassing matrix of human activity: the flow “is the most used, the most dramatic, and the most highly litigated and politi- cized river in this country, if not the world.” Even the Bureau of Reclamation describes the Colorado as “one of the most institutionally encompassed rivers in the country” and Fradkin finds support for this in the fact that no water ever reaches its natural outlet on the Pacific. Philip L. Fradkin, A River No More: The Colorado River and the West (New York: Knopf, 1981), 15–16. 57. Jared Farmer, Glen Canyon, Dammed: Inventing Lake Powell and the Canyon Country (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1999), xiii. 58. Edward Abbey, quoted in ibid., xiii. 59. Farmer, Glen Canyon, Dammed, xiv–xvii. 60. Ibid., 137–46. 61. The Sierra Club sent out hundreds of free copies of the expensively produced book to members of the U.S. Congress and California legislature. For Farmer, The Place No One Knew is limited by what it does not address. In writing the book, Brower, along with conservationists during the early 1960s, failed to acknowledge the damage done by smaller dams like Flaming Gorge Dam or those that ruined the Brazos River in Texas. Ted Steinberg contends that Brower’s efforts were successful because he commodified nature and sank to the level of “sales techniques employed by Madison Avenue” to win over the public. His efforts popularized the West as a vacationland in a twentieth- century America that was increasingly looking inward at its natural wonders less as untapped resources and more as amenities to be pursued in “leisure- time.” Roderick Nash also gives credit to the advertising campaign in the New York Times, Washington Post, and Los Angeles Times to stop the Grand Canyon dam projects, marking it as a high point in 1960s wilderness conservation. Farmer, Glen Canyon, Dammed, 144–46, 152–53; Ted Steinberg, Down to Earth: Nature’s Role in American History (New York: Oxford University Press, 2002), 243–46; Roderick Nash, Wilderness and the American Mind, 3rd ed. (New Ha- ven, CT: Yale University Press, 1982), 228–37, 317. Notes to Pages 279–282 365

62. Nash, Wilderness, 316–17. 63. Stegner, Where the Bluebirds Sing, 77–78. 64. Abbey, Journey Home, 233. 65. Limerick, Desert Passages, 161–62; Elliott West, The Way to the West: Essays on the Central Plains (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico, 1995), 146. Accord- ing to West, Abbey’s work, along with that of other “angry nature-seekers,” fits within a long tradition of nature writing that focuses on the purity of the nonhuman world. These “traditional” and “hidebound” texts contrast sharply with “profoundly radical” work by authors like Gary Paul Nabhan, whose nature explorations include a world in which man plays a part. West, Way to the West, 156–57. 66. Limerick, Desert Passages, 162; West, Way to the West, 156, 146. 67. Limerick, Desert Passages, 161–63; Peter Wild, ed., The New Desert Reader: De- scriptions of America’s Arid Regions (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 2006), 307–8. 68. Farmer, Glen Canyon, Dammed, 162. 69. John McPhee, Encounters with the Archdruid (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1971), 190–204. 70. West, Way to the West, 145–46. See also Jennifer Price, “Looking for Nature at the Mall: A Field Guide to the Nature Company,” in Uncommon Ground: Rethinking the Human Place in Nature, ed. William Cronon (New York: Nor- ton, 1996), 186–203. Price’s essay examines how consumerism can abstract our contact with the natural environment on several levels. While the subject of Price’s essay is a mall chain store that sold nature-inspired gifts during the 1990s, today’s booming outdoors/sporting goods retail market is certainly analogous. 71. Thomas Frank, The Conquest of Cool: Business Culture, Counterculture, and the Rise of Hip Consumerism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997), 6–9. 72. P. Reyner Banham, Scenes in American Deserta (Salt Lake City: Gibbs M. Smith, 1982), 76–78. 73. Dana F. White, “The Apocalyptic Vision of Paolo Soleri,” review of Arcology: The City in the Image of Man, by Paolo Soleri, and “The Architectural Vision of Paolo Soleri,” an exhibition at the Corcoran Gallery of Art, Washington, DC, Technology and Culture 12 ( January 1971): 78–79. 74. Cultural anthropologist Joseph C. Manzella contends that while Arcosanti’s time has passed, it has had an influence within the experimental architecture 366 Notes to Pages 283–286

community, providing inspiration for the Ecovillage at Ithaca, New York. Jo- seph C. Manzella, Common Purse, Uncommon Future: The Long, Strange Trip of Communes and Other Intentional Communities (Santa Barbara, CA: Praeger, 2010), 107–15. See also http://arcosanti.org/, where community members note that Arcosanti has continued its educational programming despite the passing of Paolo Soleri in April 2013. 75. Banham, Scenes in American Deserta, 86–87. 76. Ponte, “The House of Light and Entropy,” 152–53; Peter Wild, The Opal Desert: Explorations of Fantasy and Reality in the American Southwest (Austin: Uni- versity of Texas Press, 1999), 180–82. See also P. Reyner Banham, “The Man- Mauled Desert,” in Richard Misrach, Desert Cantos (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1987), 1–6. 77. Banham, Scenes in American Deserta, 87–89. 78. Chris Wilson, The Myth of Santa Fe: Creating a Modern Regional Tradition (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1997), 298–300. Wilson calls the “Santa Fe style,” made famous in a 1986 architecture/lifestyle book of the same name, a “romantic self-deception” (300) and a historicist architecture in which a deeply complex cultural past has been tamped down in favor of a cleaner, modern southwestern mythology. See also Christine Mather and Sharon Woods, Santa Fe Style (New York: Rizzoli, 1986). 79. See, for example, the home of Julia Roberts outside Taos, New Mexico, http:// www.bornrich.com/julia-roberts.html, and the style celebrated in Mather and Woods, Santa Fe Style, 237–47. 80. Phillips, Hall, and Black, Reining in the Rio Grande, 119. 81. Ibid. 82. José A. Rivera, Acequia Culture: Water, Land, and Community in the South- west (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1998), xvii. For mid -twentieth-century encounters with acequia culture, see also Stanley Crawford, Mayordomo: Chronicle of an Acequia in Northern New Mexico (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1998), and William DeBuys and Alex Harris, River of Traps: A Village Life (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1998). 83. Sylvia Rodríguez, Acequia: Water Sharing, Sanctity, and Place (Santa Fe, NM: School for Advanced Research Press, 2006), 81–90, 101–13, quotation on112. 84. Congreso de las Acequias, December 2, 2006, “El Agua es la Vida,” accessed November 2013, http://www.lasacequias.org/news/el-agua-es-la-vida -declaration/. Notes to Pages 286–291 367

85. See Alexander G. Fernald and Steven J. Guldan, “River, Acequia, and Shallow Groundwater Interactions,” Water Task Force Report 2, New Mexico State Uni- versity College of Agriculture and Home Economics, November 2004, accessed November 2013, http://aces.nmsu.edu/pubs/taskforce/water/WTFRpt2.pdf. 86. Rivera, Acequia Culture, xviii. 87. Gary Paul Nabhan, Coming Home to Eat: The Pleasures and Politics of Local Foods (New York: W. W. Norton, 2002), 31–41, and Why Some Like It Hot: Food, Genes, and Cultural Diversity (Washington, DC: Island Press, 2006). 88. Wilson, Myth of Santa Fe, 2–3. 89. Rebecca Neel’s survey shows that a consensus of Phoenix residents thought homeowners who chose low-water-use desert landscaping conveyed an image that was “lower-status, less sexually attractive, family-unfriendly.” See Oc tober 12, 2012, abstract at https://sustainability.asu.edu/dcdc/news/dcdc-spot lights/2/, accessed November 2013. 90. Marcello di Cintio, “Farming the Monsoon: A Return to Traditional Tohono O’odham Foods,” Gastronomica 12, no. 2 (Summer 2012): 14–17. 91. As cited in Phillips, Hall, and Black, Reining in the Rio Grande, 8. 92. Ibid., 8. 93. Ibid., 8–9. 94. “Arizona Water Rights Settlement Act,” U.S. Statues at Large 118 (2004): 3478–3574. 95. Daniel Kraker, “The New Water Czars,” in Water in the 21st Century West: A High Country News Reader, ed. Char Miller (Corvallis: Oregon State Univer- sity Press, 2009), 102, 104; Daniel Kraker, “The Great Central Arizona Project Funding Switcheroo,” High Country News, March 15, 2004, accessed Novem- ber 2013, http://www.hcn.org/issues/270/14628. 96. Winters v. United States, 207 U.S. 564 (1908). 97. Arizona v. California, 373 U.S. 564 (1963), at 600. 98. Kraker, “New Water Czars,” 102, 104; Kraker, “Great Central Arizona Project.” 99. Sheridan, Arizona, 226–27. 100. Brian Allen Drake, “The Skeptical Environmentalist: Senator Barry Goldwa- ter and the Environmental Management State,” Environmental History 15, no. 4 (October 2010): 587–611. 101. Robert Dean, “ ‘Dam Building Still Had Some Magic Then’: Stewart Udall, the Central Arizona Project, and the Evolution of the Pacific Southwest Wa- ter Plan, 1963–1968,” Pacific Historical Review 66, no. 1 (February 1997): 81–98; Charles Coate, “ ‘The Biggest Water Fight in American History’: Stewart 368 Notes to Pages 291–295

Udall and the Central Arizona Project,” Journal of the Southwest 37, no. 1 (Spring 1995): 79–101. 102. Byron E. Pearson, “ ‘We Have Almost Forgotten How to Hope’: The Huala- pai, the Navajo, and the Fight for the Central Arizona Project, 1944–1968,” Western Historical Quarterly 31, no. 3 (Autumn 2000): 297–316. 103. New Mexico secured the water and takes it from the San Juan–Chama diver- sion. Beginning in 2009, Albuquerque began using the Colorado River water, transported by the Rio Grande, for drinking water. See Phillips, Hall, and Black, Reining in the Rio Grande, 167–68. The consequences of the shift in water supply are not yet known. 104. As cited in Phillips, Hall, and Black, Reining in the Rio Grande, 141. 105. Thomas R. McGuire, “Illusions of Choice in the Indian Irrigation Service: The Ak Chin Project and an Epilogue,” Journal of the Southwest 30, no. 2 (1988): 200–221. See also Diana M. Meneses, “ ‘It Is What Holds Us Together as a People’: A History of the Ak-Chin Indian Community” (PhD diss., Ari- zona State University, 2009), 246–48. 106. Kraker, “New Water Czars,” 106–7; Matt Jenkins, “Seeking the Water Jack- pot,” in Miller, Water in the 21st Century West, 115. 107. Pearson, “ ‘We Have Almost Forgotten,’ ” 315–16. 108. Randal C. Archibold, “Indians’ Water Rights Give Hope for Better Health,” New York Times, August 30, 2008, accessed November 2013, http://www.ny times.com/2008/08/31/us/31diabetes.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0.

C onclusion

. 1 Joe Hayes, “The Prince,” in The Day It Snowed Tortillas: Tales from Spanish New Mexico retold by Joe Hayes (Santa Fe, NM: Mariposa Publishing, 1982), 66–73; Hayes, “A Heart Full of Turquoise,” “Frog and Locust,” and “The Butterflies Trick Coyote,” in A Heart Full of Turquoise: Pueblo Indian Tales retold by Joe Hayes (Santa Fe, NM: Mariposa Publishing, 1988), 35–39, 24–27, 62–68. Although Hayes has published many of the stories that he tells, they are best imagined when one hears them rather than when one reads them. I do not recall exactly which time or which story Hayes had told when he concluded, “Without problems, we wouldn’t have any stories,” but it may have been at the Wheelwright Museum in the summer of 2010, and it may have been a story about Coyote. Notes to Pages 296–298 369

2. As cited in Mark Colvin, The Penitentiary in Crisis: From Accommodation to Riot in New Mexico (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1992), 188. 3. Roger Morris, The Devil’s Butcher Shop: The New Mexico Prison Uprising (New York: Franklin Watts, 1983), 173. 4. Behind Bars, written and produced by Jonathan Stamp (BBC, 2000), accessed December 5, 2015, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3M-hPpuAqwQ ; Col vin, Penitentiary in Crisis, 177–92. 5. Behind Bars. 6. Colvin, Penitentiary in Crisis. 7. Ibid., 202. 8. Ibid., 151–54. 9. Ibid., 177–92. 10. Ibid., 184, 188. 11. Heather Ann Thompson, Blood in the Water: The Attica Prison Uprising of 1971 and Its Legacy (New York: Pantheon Books, 2016); Thompson, “Why Mass In- carceration Matters: Rethinking Crisis, Decline, and Transformation in Post- war American History,” Journal of American History 97, no. 3 (December 2010): 703–58; Thompson, “Rethinking Working-Class Struggle Through the Lens of the Carceral State: Toward a Labor History of Inmates and Guards,” Labor Studies in Working-Class History of the Americas 8, no. 3 (2011): 15–45. 12. National Institute of Corrections, accessed February 26, 2016, www.nicic.gov. 13. Thompson, “Rethinking,” 15–45. 14. Arizona Department of Corrections, accessed February 26, 2016, https:// corrections.az.gov/prisons; National Institute of Corrections, “Corrections Statis tics by State,” accessed February 26, 2016, http://nicic.gov/statestats/?st=NM. 15. Will S. Hylton, “The Shame of America’s Family Detention Camps,” New York Times Magazine, February 4, 2015. The privately owned Eloy Detention Center in Eloy, Arizona, has also come under criticism for its treatment of incarcerated immigrants. See Sarah Tory, “How Western Towns Profit from Detaining Immigrants,” High Country News, November 3, 2015, accessed February 26, 2016, https://www.hcn.org/articles/in-the-rural-west-confining -illegal-immigrants-means-big-business. 16. “Prison Economics Help Drive Arizona Immigration Law,” Morning Edition, National Public Radio, April 4, 2012, accessed December 11, 2015, http:// www.npr.org/2010/10/28/130833741/prison-economics-help-drive-ariz-immig ration-law. 370 Notes to Pages 299–303

17. “Warehoused and Forgotten: Immigrants Trapped in Our Shadow Private Prison System,” American Civil Liberties Union, June 2014, accessed Decem ber 11, 2015, https://www.aclu.org/sites/default/files/assets/060614-aclu-car -reportonline.pdf. 18. Colvin, Penitentiary in Crisis, 168. 19. Morris, Devil’s Butcher Shop, 108–9. In his summary of the riot, Morris implies a similar argument, but in his analysis of the riot, he gives less attention to race and more to the prison’s poor administration and horrific conditions. 20. Ibid., 170. 21. Jimmy Santiago Baca, A Place to Stand: The Making of a Poet (New York: Grove Press, 2001). 22. Ibid., 156 23. Ibid., 229. 24. Ibid., 133. 25. Ibid., 134. 26. Ibid., 134. 27. Ibid., 142. 28. Ibid., 149–52. 29. Ibid., 172. 30. Ibid., 260–63. 31. “Carrying the Magic of His People’s Heart: An Interview with Jimmy Santiago Baca,” by Gabriel Meléndez, accessed November 2016, http://www .english.illinois.edu/maps/poets/a_f/baca/melendez.html, originally published in Las Americas Journal. 32. Those quoted in Colvin, Penitentiary in Crisis, and Morris, Devil’s Butcher Shop, and the interviewees in the attorney general report on the riot all use varying terms. See Jeff Bingaman, Attorney General, Report of the Attorney General on the February 2 and 3, 1980, Riot at the Penitentiary of New Mexico, accessed November 2016, https://www.ncjrs.gov/pdffiles1/Digitization/72933NCJRS.pdf. 33. Dan Frosch, “Federal Panel Reviewing Native American Sentencing,” Wall Street Journal, April 21, 2015. 34. United States Sentencing Commission, 2009–2013 Datafiles, at Quick Facts, “Native American Offenders in the Federal Offenders Population,” accessed December 10, 2015, http://www.ussc.gov/sites/default/files/pdf/research-and -publications/quick-facts/Quick_Facts_Native_American_Offenders.pdf. 35. Lawrence A. Greenfeld and Steven K. Smith, “American Indians and Crime,” U.S. Bureau of Justice Statistics, Department of Justice, February 1999, accessed Notes to Pages 304–306 371

December 11, 2015, http://bjs.gov/content/pub/pdf/aic.pdf; Steven W. Perry, “American Indians and Crime: A Statistical Profile, 1999–2002, U.S. Bureau of Justice Statistics, Department of Justice, December 2004; Mike Males, “Who Are Police Killing?” Center on Juvenile and Criminal Justice, August 26, 2014, accessed December 11, 2015, http://www.cjcj.org/news/8113. 36. Suzette Brewer, “First Impressions: Dollar General and Indian Country,” Indian Country Today, December 9, 2015, accessed December 11, 2015, http:// indiancountrytodaymedianetwork.com/2015/12/09/first-impressions-dollar -general-and-indian-country-162709; Alysa Landry, “ ‘Murder for Fun’: Alex Rios Guilty of Killing Homeless ABQ Men,” Indian Country Today, Decem ber 10, 2015, accessed December 11, 2015, http://indiancountrytodaymedia network.com/2015/12/10/murder-fun-alex-rios-guilty-killing-homeless-abq -men-162717. 37. Hayes draws “Frog and Locust” from Hattie G. Lockett’s “The Unwritten Literature of the Hopis.” “A Heart Full of Turquoise” appears in Ruth Ben edict’s Tales of the Cochiti Indians. “The Prince’s Servant” is drawn from Spanish folk tales. “The Butterflies Trick Coyote” is drawn from Elsie Clews Parsons’s Tewa Tales. Hayes, “About the Stories,” in The Day It Snowed Tortillas, and Hayes, “Notes on the Stories,” in Heart Made of Turquoise, 69–73. 38. Interview with Joe Hayes, Radio Café (Santa Fe), July 18, 2008, accessed December 10, 2015, http://www.santaferadiocafe.org/sfradiocafe/2008/07/18 /friday-july-18–2008/.

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Cabeza de Baca, Fabiola. We Fed Them Cactus. 1954. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1979. Church, Peggy Pond. The House at Otowi Bridge: The Story of Edith Warner and Los Alamos. 1959. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1987. Kindle edition. Coleman, Anita Scott. “The Land of Esperanza.” In These “Colored” United States: African American Essays from the 1920s, edited by Tom Lutz and Susanna Ash- ton. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1996. Kindle edition. Orig. in The Messenger 8, no. 7, September 1926. Collier, John. From Every Zenith: A Memoir and Some Essays on Life and Thought. Denver, CO: Sage Books, 1963. ———. “The Red Atlantis.” The Survey 49, no. 1 (October 1922): 15–20, 63–64. Congreso de las Acequias. “El Agua es la Vida.” December 2, 2006. http://www .lasacequias.org/news/el-agua-es-la-vida-declaration/. Cowart, Jack, and Juan Hamilton, eds. Georgia O’Keeffe: Art and Letters. Boston: Little, Brown, 1987. Federal Writers’ Project, New Mexico. New Mexico: A Guide to the Colorful State. New York: Hastings House, 1940. Fergusson, Erna. Our Southwest. New York: Knopf, 1940. Fermi, Laura. Atoms in the Family: My Life with Enrico Fermi. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1954. Fukuda, Ayame. “Fish Out of Water: Growing Up Japanese in Santa Fe.” Santa Fe Reporter, March 27–April 2, 1996, 11–15, 17. Groves, Leslie. Now It Can Be Told: The Story of the Manhattan Project. New York: Da Capo Press, 1986. Hayes, Joe. The Day It Snowed Tortillas: Tales from Spanish New Mexico retold by Joe Hayes. Santa Fe, NM: Mariposa Publishing, 1982. ———. A Heart Full of Turquoise: Pueblo Indian Tales retold by Joe Hayes. Santa Fe, NM: Mariposa Publishing, 1988. Hillerman, Tony. The Boy Who Made Dragonfly: A Zuni Myth. New York: Harper and Row, 1972. Iverson, Peter, ed. “For Our Navajo People”: Diné Letters, Speeches, and Petitions, 1900–1960. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2002. Jette, Eleanor. Inside Box 1663. Los Alamos, NM: Los Alamos Historical Society, 1977. Kingsolver, Barbara. The Bean Trees. New York: Harper Perennial, 1988. Kopecky, Arthur. Leaving New Buffalo Commune. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2006. Selected Bibliography 375

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Qoyawayma, Polingaysi. No Turning Back: A True Account of a Hopi Indian Girl’s Struggle to Bridge the Gap Between the World of Her People and the World of the White Man. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1964. Ríos, Alberto Alvaro. Capirotada: A Nogales Memoir. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1999. Rogers, Everett M., and Nancy R. Bartlit. Silent Voices of World War II: When Sons of the Land of Enchantment Met Sons of the Land of the Rising Sun. Santa Fe, NM: Sunstone Press, 2005. Ruxton, George F. A. Adventures in Mexico. New York: Outing Pub., 1915. Sergeant, Elizabeth Shepley. “New Mexico: A Relic of Ancient America.” In These United States: Portraits of America from the 1920s, edited by Daniel H. Borus, 249–55. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992. Shuster, Will. Interview by Sylvia Loomis. Conducted July 30, 1964. Smithsonian Institution, Archives of American Art. Accessed November 2016. http://www .aaa.si.edu/collections/interviews/oral-history-interview-will-shuster-13208. Silko, Leslie Marmon. Ceremony. 1977. Reprint, New York: Penguin Books, 2006. Soleri, Paolo. Arcology: The City in the Image of Man. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1973. Solnit, Rebecca. Savage Dreams: A Journey into the Hidden Wars of the American West. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994. Spicer, Edward. People of Pascua. Edited by Kathleen M. Sands and Rosamond M. Spicer. 1988. Reprint, Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2011. Taylor, Paul S. “Mexican Labor in the United States: Migration Statistics.” Univer- sity of California Publications in Economics, vol. 3. Berkeley: University of Cali- fornia Press, 1934. Urrea, Luis Alberto. The Hummingbird’s Daughter. New York: Little, Brown, 2005. ———. Queen of America. New York: Little, Brown, 2011. U.S. Marine Corps. Navajo Code Talkers’ Dictionary. Rev. June 15, 1945 (declassified under Department of Defense Directive 5200.9). Van Dyke, John C. The Desert: Further Studies in Natural Appearances. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1901. ———. The Secret Life of John C. Van Dyke: Selected Letters, edited by David W. Teague and Peter Wild. Reno: University of Nevada Press, 1997. Vasquez, Enriqueta. Enriqueta Vasquez and the Chicano Movement: Writings from El Grito del Norte. Edited by Lorena Oropeza and Dionne Espinoza. Houston, TX: Arte Público Press, 2006. Selected Bibliography 377

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Films

Behind Bars. Written and produced by Jonathan Stamp. BBC, 2000. Accessed De- cember 5, 2015. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3M-hPpuAqwQ. Georgia O’Keeffe. Directed by Perry Miller Adato. 1977. Homevision, 2000. VHS. The Milagro Beanfield War. Directed by Robert Redford. 1988. Universal City, CA: Universal Studios Home Entertainment, 2005. DVD. 402 Selected Bibliography

“Los Mineros.” The American Experience. PBS, 1991. https://www.youtube.com /watch?v=lcVu5F9D73A. Return of Navajo Boy. Directed by Jeff Spitz. Chicago: Groundswell Educational Films, 2000. DVD. Salt of the Earth. Directed by Herbert J. Biberman. 1954. Organa, 1999. DVD. The Searchers. Directed by John Ford. 1956. Burbank, CA: Warner Home Video, 2015. DVD. Them! Directed by Gordon Douglas. 1954. Burbank, CA: Warner Home Video, 2002. DVD.

Websites

Arcosanti. Accessed November 2016. http://arcosanti.org/. Arizona Department of Corrections. Accessed February 26, 2016. https://corrections .az.gov/prisons. Bracero History Archive. Accessed May 2016. http://braceroarchive.org/. Malpai Borderlands Group. Accessed February 22, 2016. http://www.malpaiborder landsgroup.org/?section=home. National Institute of Corrections. Accessed February 26, 2016. www.nicic.gov. Nevada Test Site Oral History Project. Accessed September 2015. http://digital .library.unlv.edu/ntsohp/. “Panama-California Exposition.” San Diego History Center. Accessed September 27, 2012. http://www.sandiegohistory.org/pancal/sdexp033.htm. Paullin, Charles O. Atlas of the Historical Geography of the United States. Edited by John K. Wright. Washington, DC: Carnegie Institution, 1932. Digital edition edited by Robert K. Nelson et al., 2013. Accessed November 2016. http://dsl .richmond.edu/historicalatlas/. Southwest Crossroads: Cultures and Histories of the American Southwest. School for Advanced Research (SAR) and Project Crossroads. Accessed February 25, 2016. http://southwestcrossroads.org/record.php?num=89. Index

Page numbers in italics indicate illustrations.

Abbey, Edward, 276–80 Akimel O’Odham, 114–18, 272, 290. Abeita, Pablo, 113 See also Pima Abeyta, Bernardo, 214 Alamogordo, NM, 235, 238, 241, 259 acequias, 283–88 Albuquerque, NM: and African Amer Acoma Pueblo, 168, 249 icans, 163, 185 ; after World War II, activists, 75–89, 126, 141–43, 148–49, 208–13, 68; Albuquerque Tribune, 256; Alva 250–51, 255–57, 277–81 rado Hotel, 15, 16, 171–72, 175; Chi aesthetics, 157, 166, 267–70, 279 cana(o)s, 299; and energy, 147; and African Americans, 20–21, 48, 67, 69–71, Mexican Americans, 63; and mili 162–65, 168, 184, 185, 189, 191–93, 298– tary spending, 238, 241, 242; and 300 Native Americans, 101, 126, 137, 140– agriculture (farming): after World War II, 43, 153; and nuclear development, 256, 71–72; Bracero Program, 65–66, 71–72, 259; tourism, 170; and water, 275, 284 83; and hippies, 215; and Japanese Allen, John, 223 Americans, 198–99; and maquila All Indian Pueblo Council, 106–7, 126, doras, 83; and Native Americans, 95, 142 114–18, 139, 218, 286, 289, 292; seasonal, allotment, 99, 104, 109, 114–16 58, 122, 144; and water, 271–77, 284, Alloy event, 216–18 290 American Indian Movement (AIM), Ahkeah, Sam, 131–33 126, 142, 148–49 air-conditioning, 189–93 Anaya, Rudolfo, 28, 88 Ak-Chin reservation, 145, 291 Anaya, Toney, 86–87 404 index

Anglo Americans (Whites), 5–6, 9, 12– Baer, Steve, 217 20, 37, 45, 49–51, 60–66, 114, 165–78, Bandelier, Adolph, 10–12 181, 268–70, 298–300 Banham, Reyner, 282–83 anthropologists, 11–12, 167, 175–76 Banyacya, Thomas, 122 Apaches, 8, 10, 32–33, 91–92, 151, 213–14, Barela, Patrocinio, 62–64, 66, 88, 178 254, 257, 261 barrioization, 41 archaeology, 166–67 Bass, Ed, 221–22 architecture, 11, 15–16, 41–42, 167–68, 176, Begay, Elsie May and Lorenzo, 160–61 203, 240–41, 281–83 Belén, NM, 86 Arcosanti, AZ, 281–82, 282 belonging, 66–88, 213–20. See also place Arizona: compared to New Mexico, Benson, AZ, 53–54 8–9, 39–40, 75–77; deportations, 59– Berlitz, Charles, 259 60; Historical Society, 78; and mes Bethe, Hans A., 233 tizaje, 183; and military spending, 9, Beveridge, Sen. Albert J., 34–35, 39 67, 241; and the Mine Mill Union, bills, 27–28, 64, 68, 71, 89, 105–7, 113, 124, 73; and nuclear waste, 257; popula 151–52, 298. See also laws tion, 27, 37, 40, 66–67, 71, 140–41, Bimson, Walter, 189, 190 189, 192, 197, 241, 271, 276; and Biosphere 2, 221–24 prisons, 297–98, 303; Senate Bill Bisbee Deportation (1917), 44, 46–48 1070, 27–28, 89, 298; and statehood, Bisby, Minnie, 52–53 32–43; territory establishment, 33; Blackdom, NM, 163 and water, 272–76, 290–92. See also Black Legend, 13, 15 Phoenix, AZ Black Mesa, 146–50, 217, 250 Arpaio, Joe, 89, 298 Blue Lake, 123–27, 217 Arroyo Hondo, NM, 216 Bohr, Niels, 233, 234 art, 24, 61–66, 82, 176, 180–81, 182, 193, Bond, Frank, 210 261, 262. See also tourism boosters, 12, 16–17, 36, 38, 161–65, 171, 184, artists, 21, 61–62, 165–68, 170–81, 182, 188, 192–93, 206, 215, 266, 274 261–63, 268–70 borders, 6–9, 44–48, 55–56, 82–89, 143, assimilation, 15, 35, 78, 98, 100–101, 145–46, 186–87, 197 106–7, 118, 120–21, 125, 131–34, 151, Bosque Redondo, 108 192 Boyd, Dr. Nathan E., 272 Atomic Energy Commission (AEC), Boyden, John, 149 239–41, 245–49, 255 Brand, Stewart, 215–17 Atwood, Stella, 106–8 Brode, Bernice, 230–31 Augustine, Margret, 223 Brower, David, 278–81 Austin, Mary, 16, 165, 167, 176 Buffalo Bill’s Wild West, 95–96, 98 Aztlán, 77, 88 Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA), 63, Azul, Antonito, 116 91–93, 98–99, 103–8, 111–18, 123–25, 129, 133, 135–39, 142, 146–47, 151, 177, Baca, Jimmy Santiago, 300–303 249 Bacher, Jean, 238–39 Bureau of Reclamation, 271 index 405

Burke, Charles, 105–7 climate change, 18, 221–22, 295 Bursum, Sen. Holm, 105. See also bills Clovis, NM, 199–200 businesses, 45–48, 64–68, 72, 78, 83, 189– Cly, John Wayne, 160 90. See also mining Cochiti Pueblo, 252, 275, 289 Bynner, Witter, 50, 166, 177 Colby, Michael, 299–300 Cold War, 72–75, 178, 189, 238, 240–43, California, 6, 11–17, 50, 167, 178, 197–98, 246–51, 261 230, 241, 243, 253, 273–77, 289–91 Coleman, Anita Scott, 162–64, 184, Cameron, Ralph Henry, 203–4 304 Cananea Central Copper Company Collier, John, 63, 106–8, 111–13, 123–25, (CCCC), 45–48 138–39, 151 canes, presidential, 103, 127 Collier, Jr., John, 53 Carson, Col. Kit, 108 colonial past, 13, 20, 34–35, 38, 41–42, Cascabel, AZ, 52, 54 49–51, 55, 60, 77, 88, 92, 120–24, Castañeda depot, 15 147–49, 154, 176, 183, 186–88 Castro, Raúl, 71–72 Colorado, 33, 37, 58–60, 274–75 Cataract (Havasu) Canyon reservation, Colorado River, 7, 204, 208–9, 273–79, 207 290–92 Cather, Willa, 165–66 Colorado River Indian Tribes Reserva Catholicism, 49–51, 55–56, 62, 151, tion, 92, 138, 151 176–77, 284–86. See also religion Colter, Mary, 175, 176, 304 Central Arizona Project (CAP), Columbus, NM, 44–48 290–92 communes, 215–18 Chávez, César, 75, 76, 78 Communism, anti-, 73–75, 80 Chávez, Dennis, 64, 71, 255 Cooper, Paul, 246–47 Chávez, Thomas, 201 cotton, 114–16, 273 Chemehuevi, 138 court decisions, 70, 99–103, 116, 290. Chicana(o)s, 77–79, 298–300. See also See also laws Mexican Americans Coyote, Peter, 216 Chimayó, NM, 176, 214–15 “coyotes.” See mestizaje Chinese Americans, 197–98 Cruz, Rafael Orozco, 40–41 Chino, Wendell, 254 culture, 9, 49–51, 60–62, 66, 87, 107, churches, 47, 57, 66, 71–72, 74, 85–87, 165–68, 170, 284 112–13, 125, 217. See also religion Church Rock, NM, 251 dams, 111, 116, 146, 272, 274, 277–79 citizenship, 13, 32–37, 42–43, 47, 59–60, dances, 101, 105–7, 177 66–88, 94–95, 99–104, 113, 129, 146, Dawson, NM, 76 152, 197–99, 304 democracy, 238, 247 Civilian Conservation Corp (CCC), demographics, 27–29, 35–36, 40, 67–68, 144, 205 141, 189–91 class, 48, 54, 65, 72, 79, 142, 187, 240, 255, deportations, 44, 46–48, 58–60 283. See also race deserts, 157, 166, 265, 267–76, 279 406 index

Dietrich, Margretta Stewart, 166, Fermi, Enrico and Laura, 230–31, 233, 174 236, 237 Diné, 92. See also Navajo Nation fiestas, 49–51, 63–64, 65, 176–84 Dinétah, 109 Fife, John, 85 disarmament, 234 film, 159–61, 192, 287–88 discrimination. See race fires, 18 disenfranchisement. See race Fisher, Leon and Phyllis, 236 Dodge Luhan, Mabel, 106–7, 166, Flagstaff, AZ, 14, 203 173, 268 Ford, John, 159–61, 192 Dominy, Floyd, 280, 290 Fort McDowell Reservation, 98 drugs, 84, 89, 113, 216, 217 Friedman, Stanton, 259–60 Dude Ranchers Association, 204–5 Fukuda, Ayame, 218–20, 304 economy, 67–69, 75, 77, 82–89, 137, 178– Gadsden Purchase, 6, 32, 145 79, 189, 241–43, 253–56. See also nu Gallup, NM, 142, 172 clear development; reservations Gersh, Bill, 216 education: and the GI Bill, 124; Gila River, 7, 115–16, 275 Guadalajara Summer Program, 187; Gila River Indian Community Res and hispanida d, 51–56; and Indian ervation, 114–15, 117, 138, 139, 290, schools, 98, 101, 116, 133, 180; and 291 institutional racism, 78; and Mexi Glenn, Warner and Wendy, 211 can American studies, 89; and the Goldwater, Barry, 68, 72, 127, 137, 189, Navajo Nation, 112, 131–34; and New 190, 198, 225–26, 242, 290 Mexico public schools, 34–35, 38–39; Good Neighbor Policy, 64 and radiation, 250–51; Rough Rock Grand Canyon, 17, 203–9 Demonstration School, 134; and Grants, NM, 249 segregation, 69–71; and statehood, Graves, Al and Elizabeth, 236 35; and vocational training, 114, grazing, 123, 129, 148–49, 209–11, 299 132–33; and the WPA, 61 Great Depression, 57–66 employment, 44, 71–75, 83, 117, 131, 138– Great Quebrada, 57–66 39, 163, 198, 254. See also labor Great Recession, 191 energy, 109, 135, 146–50, 217, 250 Green Book, 185 environment, 18, 146–50. See also Greenway, Isabella, 188 wilderness Groves, Leslie, 229–30, 236 environmentalists, 208–13, 250, 255–57, 277–81 Harvey, Fred, 110, 168 expositions, 15–16, 167, 172–73, 180 Harvey Hotels, 167–76, 169, 203–9 Havasupai, 207–8 Fall, Albert, 105 Hayden, Sen. Carl, 189, 241, 274, 275, Feast of San Francisco (Magdalena, 290 Sonora), 55–56 Hayes, Ira, 139 Fergusson, Erna, 7, 170, 205, 229, 304 Hayes, Joe, 294–95, 304–6, 305 index 407

Head Start, 133, 136, 140, 143, 153 industrialization, 74, 83–84, 88, 108 health, 134–36, 142, 154, 245–47, 251–52. intermarriage, 15, 153, 192, 198 See also medical services Isleta Pueblo, 10, 173 Heard, Dwight and Maie, 175 Henderson, Alice Corbin, 165, 173–74 Jackson, Helen Hunt, 13 Henderson, William Penhallow, 166 Japanese Americans, 138, 198–201, Hewett, Edgar Lee, 13, 49–51, 166–67, 218–20 170, 177, 179–83 Jemez Pueblo, 252, 253 Hillerman, Tony, 264–65 Jette, Eleanor, 231 Hinton, Jean, 235–36 hippies, 215–18 Katchgonva, Dan, 122 Hispanics, 5–7, 12–17, 19–20, 27–29, 39, Kennedy, Bill, 160–61 40, 58, 62–63, 77–81, 87, 89, 210, 262, King, Jr., Martin Luther, 191–92 300–303. See also Mexican Ameri Kingsolver, Barbara, 194–95 cans; Spanish Americans Kistiakowsky, George, 236 hispanidad, 51–56, 61, 177 Kolb, Ellsworth and Emery, 204 homesteading, 201–2 Kosterlitzky, Emilio, 45 Hopi, 101, 106, 122–23, 146–50, 190, 206– 8, 216, 249, 251–52, 259 La Alianza, 63–64, 65, 70, 77 Hopi House, 175, 206–7 labor, 35–37, 44–49, 59–60, 65–66, 71–75, hotels, 15, 16, 167–68, 171–72, 175, 185, 188, 78, 114–15, 122, 130–31, 137–44, 206–7, 203–6. See also Harvey Hotels 253, 255, 283 Houser, Allan, 180, 181 La Farge, Oliver, 124–25 housing, 188 Laguna Pueblo, 105, 153, 168, 249 Hualapai, 208 La Luz, NM, 216 Huckle, John Frederick, 171 land grants, 79–81 Huerta, Dolores, 75, 76 land ownership, 37, 40–43, 51–53, 79–81, hunting, 156, 157, 206, 207, 210, 212–13 99, 103–5, 127, 196–201, 211–13, 252, 299. See also allotment identity, 28–29, 35–43, 46, 48–56, 62–63, landscapes, 14, 141–43, 153. See also 66–88, 111–18, 130, 144, 150–52, 154, aesthetics 165–68, 181–83, 213–20 language, 7–8, 19–21, 29, 35–40, 52–56, immigration, 27–28, 36, 44, 58–60, 68, 64–65, 69–71, 83, 89, 105, 131, 134, 151– 82–89, 197–99, 297–98. See also Mex 52, 250 ican Nationals La Raza, 77, 80 Indian Country, 92–94, 93, 103, 136–43, Las Cruces, NM, 41–42, 241, 242 153–54 Las Trampas, NM, 168 Indian Market, 174, 179–83 Las Vegas, NM, 15 Indian New Deal, 107–8, 111, 117–18 Latina(o)s, 83. See also Hispanics indigenous peoples, 5–8, 38, 43, 49, 94– laws: Ak-Chin Act (1978), 145; Alien 95, 104, 118, 151, 303–6. See also Mexi Land Act (1921), 199; American Indian can Americans; Native Americans Religious Freedom Act (1978), 252; 408 index

laws: Ak-Chin Act (1978) (continued ) maquiladoras, 82–84 Civil Rights Act, 68; Dawes Allot marginalization. See race ment Act, 99, 109; Immigration Act Maricopas, 114–18, 175 (1924), 197; Immigration Reform Mark, Kathleen, 232 and Control Act (IRCA), 84; Indian Marshak, Ruth, 230–31, 232 Reorganization Act (IRA), 111–13, Martínez, Demetria, 87 117–18, 125, 144, 151; Indian Self- Martinez, Maria, 172–73, 174, 237 Determination and Education Assis Martinez, Marion C., 261–63 tance Act (1975), 143, 145; Jim Crow Martinez, Susana, 89 laws, 162; Native American Graves Martin, Patricia Preciado, 40 and Repatriation Act (1990), 252; McKibbin, Dorothy, 233, 235 Navajo-Hopi Long Range Reha mechanization, 71–72 bilitation Act, 131, 135, 137–38; New Mechem, Edwin L., 274–75 lands Reclamation Act, 115–16; Page medical services, 134–36, 142. See also Act (1875), 197; Refugee Act (1980), health 85; right-to-work law, 73, 74; South Meem, John Gaw, 167–68 ern Arizona Water Rights Settle Meriam Report, 107 ment Act (1982), 145; Voting Rights Mescalero Apache reservation, 8, Act (1972), 69; Wilderness Act 254 (1964), 209. See also bills; court Mesilla, New Mexico, 32, 41–42, 198–99, decisions 272–73 Laws, Rufina, 254 mestizaje, 20, 43–48, 54–56, 62–63, Leopold, Aldo, 155–57, 209–12, 304 77, 183–84, 186–93, 302–3. See also Loeffler, Jack, 216 race Lopez, José Dolores, 61–62 mestizo, 302. See also mestizaje Los Alamos, NM, 229–33, 236–40, Mexican Americans, 19–20, 28–29, 35, 242–47, 252–59, 261 40, 42, 54, 61–67, 71–74, 78, 151–52, Los Angeles, CA, 15, 50, 178 187–91, 198, 283–88. See also Hispan Los Luceros, NM, 263 ics; Mexican Nationals; Spanish Luhan, Mabel Dodge, 106–7, 166, Americans 173, 268 Mexican-American War, 6, 31 Lujan, Tony, 106, 113 Mexican Nationals, 47, 57, 66, 72, 81. Lummis, Charles F., 10–17, 168, 173 See also immigration; labor; migration MacDonald, Peter, 147–49 Mexico, 5–6, 36, 43–48, 55–56, 63– magazines, 14, 15, 59, 98, 162, 164, 165, 66, 83–84, 145–46, 183, 186–88, 190–91, 202 242 Magón brothers, 45 Miami, AZ, 59 Malpai Borderlands Group, 212, 212 Middle Rio Grande Conservancy Manhattan Project, 227–28, 230–31, 233, District (MRGCD), 284 243, 248–49 migration, 37, 58–60, 65–66, 71–72, 75. maps, 8, 92, 93, 94, 169 See also Mexican Nationals index 409

military, 45–46, 67–68, 83, 121–22, 128, New, Lloyd, 181 130, 137, 144, 154, 189–91, 225–26, 238– New Mexico: compared to Arizona, 42, 246, 259. See also nuclear devel 8–9, 39–40, 75–77; and mestizaje, 183; opment; veterans northern, 37, 40, 49, 51, 58, 80–81, 210– mining, 36–37, 45–48, 58, 72–75, 130–31, 11, 217–18, 284–88; population, 27–29, 146–50, 204, 243, 247–51 34, 42, 66–67, 71, 141, 199–200, 241, Minutemen, 84 250, 254, 271; prisons, 295–300, 303; missions, 11, 15, 16, 168 state constitution, 38–39, 69, 71; and modernity, 49, 63, 87, 104, 107, 165, statehood, 32–43; territory establish 168, 170–76. See also nostalgia; ment, 33; and water, 272–75, 283–88, primitivism 291. See also Manhattan Project; nu Mohave, 138, 168 clear development Momaday, N. Scott, 214, 215 newspapers, 10, 45, 80, 81, 148, 217–18 Montezuma, Carlos, 97–98 Nichols, Jane, 206–7 Montoya family, 74 Nichols, John, 287–88 Monument Valley, 159–61 nostalgia, 12–17, 49–51. See also modernity Moore, William L., 259 nuclear development, 7–8, 225–63 Morrison, Philip, 238–39 Nuevomexicanos, 19, 37–43, 47, 50–51, museums, 16–17, 166–67, 175–76, 180, 181, 59–66, 104, 177–84, 186, 199, 210–17, 190, 304 254–55, 283–88 Myer, Dillon S., 138–39 Ohkay Owingeh, 141 Nabhan, Gary, 286–87 oil and gas, 109, 135, 146. See also Nampeyo, 206 energy Nash, Phillio, 138–39 O’Keeffe, Georgia, 166, 268–70, 304 national forests, 79, 80, 123–27, 155, One World Movement, 239 209–11. See also public lands Ong, Walter and Wing F., 197 nationalism, 94–95, 114, 143–50 Oppenheimer, Frank, 236–37 National Park Service, 203–9, 278 Oppenheimer, Robert, 229–30, 234, 235, Native American organizations, 95, 98, 237–38, 246 107, 124–26, 129–34, 140–44, 147–50, Oracle, AZ, 221–24 174, 179–83 Otero-Warren, Adelina (Nina), 50–52, Native Americans, 12–17, 55–56, 70, 95– 54 96, 98, 101, 116, 133, 137–43, 180, 183, Otway, Harry, 260 191, 206–9, 289–93, 303–6. See also self-determination; sovereignty; Palace of the Governors, 167, 179–80, termination 304 Navajo Nation, 5–6, 24, 94–95, 108–13, Pasatiempo, 177–78 128–36, 139–40, 146–50, 154, 160, 170– Paul, Paulina, 300 74, 216, 248–51, 291–92 Peabody Coal, 147, 148, 149, 216, 250 Nevada, 243–47, 249 Penitentiary of New Mexico riot, 295– New Deal, 60–66 300 410 index

Phelps, Dodge, and Company (PD), Fiesta, 183–84; and skiing, 210–11; 46, 75 and Spanish Americans, 48–56; and Phoenix, AZ, 9, 67–69, 82, 116, 140–42, statehood, 32–43; terms, 19–21, 29, 39, 152, 163, 175, 181, 189–91, 197–98, 241, 40, 83; and tourism, 162; and water, 272, 276, 304. See also Arizona 266, 288; whiteness, 34, 38, 39, 46, Picuris Pueblo, 127 48–49, 54, 70, 99–100, 104, 132, 199. pilgrimages, 55–56, 214–15 See also mestizaje Pima, 54–55, 114–18, 139, 175, 272, 290 radiation, 238–40, 243, 245–63 place, 28, 213–20, 268–69. See also railroads, 11, 14–17, 36, 46, 110, 167–70, belonging 173, 199–200, 203–4 pluralism, 39, 64 Rainer, John C., 124, 126 Pojoaque Pueblo, 253–54 Raton, NM, 168 politics, 27–28, 33–36, 53–54, 67–68, Reagan, Pres. Ronald, 84, 87 71–75, 84–85, 87, 89, 188–93, 225, reciprocal appropriation, 214, 215 242. See also sovereignty reconquest, 49–51 Pongonyuma, James, 122 Redhorse, David, 139–40 popular culture, 159–61, 192, 204, 213, refugees, 85–89 225–27, 227, 258–59, 287–88 Rehnquist, William, 69 possession and wilderness, 155–57 religion, 55–56, 62, 85–89, 95, 99–107, Post, Emily, 170 109–13, 122–27, 140, 145, 152, 177, 183, poverty, 133, 135–36, 143, 154. See also 202–3, 207, 252–53, 283–89. See also class Catholicism; churches Powers, Michael, 299 relocation, 136–43, 144. See also Preciado (Martin), Patricia, 187–88 termination primitivism, 60–62, 103, 104, 180. See reservations: BIA maps, 92–94, 93; con also art; modernity tradictions, 118; and crime, 303; and prisons, 9, 295–300 dual landscapes, 141–43; economies, public lands, 203–13, 241. See also na 122, 131, 144, 172, 249–50, 252, 257; tional forests limits of, 150–52; and political sover Pueblo Indians, 95, 99–108, 122–27, 141– eignty, 95, 99, 128–36; power and 42, 172–77, 180–83, 249–54 energy, 146–50; and relocation, 136– 43; roads, 130, 141; and taxes, 129; race: and artists, 165–68; and Asian Amer transnational, 143–46; water rights, icans, 196–201; and class, 48, 54, 65, 116–18, 127, 139, 145, 290 72, 79, 142, 187, 283; and colonial past, Revueltas, Rosaura, 74 20, 77, 183, 186; discrimination, 20, Reynolds, Steve, 275, 291 60, 66, 67, 71, 81, 143, 197–200; disen Rio Grande River, 7, 33, 198, 272–75, franchisement, 35, 37–39; ethnocen 284 tricity, 5–6; and identity, 38–43; and roads, 130–31, 141 labor, 35–37, 46–47; in Los Alamos, Roessel, Robert, 133–34 NM, 255; marginalization, 39, 42, Romero, Juan de Jesús, 124, 127 67; in Phoenix, AZ, 188–92; and Romo, Sr., Adolfo, 69 prisons, 298–300, 303; and Santa Fe Rosaldo, Renato, 187, 188 index 411

Roswell, NM, 163, 259–60 Smith, Martin Cruz, 258–59 Rotblat, Joseph, 234 Snell, Frank, 189, 190 Route 66, 170 Soleri, Paolo, 281–82, 304 Southwest, 4–9, 8, 19–21 Salt River Indian Community, 114 sovereignty, 104–5, 122, 128–36, 150, Salt River Project, 7, 114, 116, 175, 254 271–72 Soviet Union, 234, 239, 259 sanatoriums, 163, 165, 168, 193 Spanish Americans, 39, 40, 48–56, San Carlos Project, 116, 117 59–60. See also Hispanics; Mexi Sánchez, Alfonso, 79 can Americans Sánchez, George I., 71 Spanish-American War, 36, 38 Sanchez, Robert, 86 Spanish “fantasy past,” 49, 88 sanctuary movement, 83, 85–89 statehood, 32–43, 102 Sandia National Laboratories, 8, 241, Stegner, Wallace, 271, 279 253, 257, 261 Stephens, Jack, 299–300 San Ildefonso Pueblo, 127, 172–74, 228, Stewart, Warren H., 191–92 236, 252–56 stories, 213–14, 294–95, 303–6 San Juan Pueblo, 141 strikes, 37, 44–48, 72–75 San Pedro Valley (AZ), 40, 54 Strouse, Marlene, 139 Santa Ana Pueblo, 168 suburbia, 239–40, 255, 261 Santa Clara Pueblo, 217, 252–53 Sunbelt, 67–68, 75, 77, 137 Santa Fe Fiesta, 49–51, 176–84 syncretism, 55 Santa Fe, NM, 86, 87, 101, 141, 165–68, Synergia Ranch, 223 178, 180, 200–201 Santa Fe style, 17–18 Taos, NM, 33, 71, 165–68, 170, 173, Santo Domingo Pueblo, 127, 140 210–11, 216 science, 223 Taos Pueblo, 106–7, 123–27, 154 science fiction, 226–27, 258–60 taxes, 67, 83, 84, 99, 129–30, 191, 198, 273, Segrè, Emilio, 233 283, 290 segregation, 41, 65, 68–71, 78–79, 163, technology, 216–17, 221–24 188–89 Teller, Edward, 233, 237 self-determination, 124, 126, 129, 143, Tempe, AZ, 69 145, 150, 153 termination, 125–27, 135–36, 143–44. Serber, Charlotte, 231 See also relocation Sergeant, Elizabeth Shepley, 164–65, Tewa Pueblos, 214–15 167 Texas, 6, 46, 65, 68, 77, 83, 86, 274–75 sheep, 108–13, 129, 133 Thamert, Glen, 86 Shingoitewa, LeRoy, 208 Thanksgiving Night Riot, 189 Shoshone, Western, 249, 252 Thomas, Chip, 24 Shuster, Will, 177–78 Tijerina, Reies López, 79–81, 210 Sierra Club, 211, 250, 278, 280, 291 Tohono O’odham, 8, 9, 54–56, 95, 117, Silko, Leslie Marmon, 119–20, 136–37, 141, 143–46, 154, 289 142 Toomer, Jean, 184–86 412 index

tourism: and African Americans, 168– Van Dyke, John, 267–70 69, 184–86; in Arizona, 8, 189–91; Vasquez, Enriqueta, 80, 81 border, 186–87; in cars, 170; and dams, veterans, 71, 73–74, 119, 124, 129, 131, 134, 278; and dude ranches, 204–5; and 139, 189, 246, 248. See also military the Grand Canyon, 203–9; and ho Villa, Francisco “Pancho,” 44, 45–48, tels, 167–69; and Lummis, 10–17; 163 and the Museum of New Mexico, von Neumann, John, 233 167; and Navajos, 110–12, 170–72; voting, 8, 34, 37–39, 69, 129, 233, 240 and Nuevomexicanos, 176–83; and Pueblo Indians, 106, 172–76; and Warner, Edith, 228–31, 237 race, 162; and Santa Fe Fiesta, 49–51; war relocation, 138, 200 tourists defined, 160–61; and wilder Waste Isolation Pilot Plant (WIPP), ness, 280–81 257 trade, 11, 83–84, 110–12, 131, 172–75 water, 7, 8, 105, 114–18, 127, 139, 145, 203, tradition, 101, 105–7, 122, 131–32, 135, 142, 270–76, 283–91 149, 151, 157, 177, 181, 193 Waters, Frank, 124, 231 Treaty of Guadalupe-Hidalgo (1848), Wauneka, Annie, 135–36 6, 31, 104, 145 Weisskopf, Victor, 236 trinitite, 239 Welsome, Eileen, 256, 259 Trinity Site, 226, 235, 246 White, Amelia Elizabeth and Martha, Truman, Pres. Harry, 236, 240 166, 167, 173 Tuba City, AZ, 251–52 Whites. See Anglo Americans (Whites) tuberculosis, 134–35 White Sands Missile Range, 8, 235, Tucson, AZ, 63–68, 77–79, 85–86, 241–42, 259 151, 188, 198, 205, 276. See also wilderness, 155–57, 209–13, 278–81. Tucsonenses See also environment Tucsonenses, 19, 29, 40–42, 60 Wilson, Jane and Robert, 233, 234, 237 WIPP (Waste Isolation Pilot Plant), Udall family, 125, 129, 152, 225, 247–48, 257 251, 291, 304 wolves, 212 unions, 72–75, 78 women: artists, 165–68, 173–76, 269; universities, 77–79, 133–34, 141, Chinese, 197; General Federation 187, 221 of Women’s Clubs, 106–7; home urbanization, 67, 74, 88, 299 steaders, 202; and labor strikes, 73, Urrea, Teresa, 28 75; and the Manhattan Project, U.S. Census, 34–35, 58, 70, 142 226–37, 253, 261–63; in maquilado U.S. Civil War, 192 ras, 83–84; Navajo , 111–12, 131; and U.S. Department of the Interior, 111 nuclear development, 240, 244–45; U.S. Forest Service, 79–81, 123–27, 205, in Phoenix, 141; and radiation, 251; 209 and the Yaqui, 152 Works Progress Administration (WPA), Vado, NM, 163 60–66 Valencia, Anselmo, 152 World War I, 45–47, 106, 116 index 413

World War II, 66–67, 71–75, 121–27, Yuma, AZ, 76 138, 178, 189–90, 198–201, 214, 265. Yuman peoples, 115 See also Los Alamos, NM; nuclear development Zia Pueblo, 168, 253 Wright, Frank Lloyd, 281 Zimmerman Telegram, 46–47 Yaqui, 54–55, 95, 150–52, 154, 177 Zozobra, 177–78 Yavapai, 98, 129 Zuni Pueblo, 11, 107, 249 About the Author

Flannery Burke is associate professor of history at Saint Louis University. She received her PhD in history from the University of Wisconsin, Madison, in 2002. She is the author of From Greenwich Village to Taos: Primitivism and Place at Mabel Dodge Luhan’s (University Press of Kansas, 2008), and has published articles and book reviews in Journal of the Southwest, Perspectives, Western Historical Quarterly, Southwestern Historical Quarterly, OAH Magazine of History, and Pacific Historical Review. Burke teaches classes on U.S. envi ronmental history, the history of the American West, and American regional cultures. Her research interests include cultural history, environmental history, cultural geography, and gender studies, which she uses to examine the American West in the twentieth century.