Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay [1 ed.] 9780807899601, 9780807834176

Citation preview

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

blackness in the white nation

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

This page intentionally left blank

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

george reid andrews

blackness in the white nation

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

A History of Afro-Uruguay

the university of north carolina press Chapel Hill

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

∫ 2010 the university of

The paper in this book meets the guidelines for permanence and

north carolina press

durability of the Committee on Production Guidelines for Book

All rights reserved

Longevity of the Council on Library Resources.

Manufactured in the United States of America Designed by Jacquline Johnson Set in Cycles by Keystone Typesetting

The University of North Carolina Press has been a member of the Green Press Initiative since 2003. Parts of this book have been reprinted with permission in revised form from ‘‘Remembering Africa, Inventing Uruguay: Sociedades de Negros in the Montevideo Carnival, 1865–1930,’’ Hispanic American Historical Review 87, no. 4 (2007): 693–726, and ‘‘Rhythm Nation: The Drums of Montevideo,’’ ReVista 2, no. 2 (2003): 64–68. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Andrews, George Reid, 1951– Blackness in the white nation : a history of Afro-Uruguay / George Reid Andrews. — 1st ed. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index.

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

isbn 978-0-8078-3417-6 (cloth : alk. paper) isbn 978-0-8078-7158-4 (pbk : alk. paper) 1. Blacks—Uruguay—History. 2. Blacks—Uruguay—Social conditions—19th century. 3. Blacks—Social conditions—Uruguay— 20th century. 4. Candombe (Dance)—Uruguay. 5. Uruguay—Race relations. I. Title. f2799.n3a53 2010 989.5%00496—dc22

2010010133

cloth 14 13 12 11 10 5 4 3 2 1 paper 14 13 12 11 10 5 4 3 2 1

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

To Rubén Darío Galloza, 1926–2002

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

painter, poet, composer, activist

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

This page intentionally left blank

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

contents Acknowledgments xi Introduction 1 ∞ This Noble Race Has Glorious Aspirations, 1830–1920 21 ≤ Remembering Africa: Comparsas and Candombe, 1870–1950 50 ≥ The New Negros, 1920–1960 85 ∂ Today Everyone Dances Candombe, 1950–2010 112 ∑ Dictatorship and Democracy, 1960–2010 141

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Glossary 175 Notes 177 Bibliography 215 Index 233

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

This page intentionally left blank

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

illustrations and tables Illustrations South America 10 Afro-Uruguayan infantry sergeant, 1860s 33 Gramillero and mama vieja, 1957 66 Escobero, mama vieja, and gramillero, 1964 67 Warrior drummers, 1943 69 Parodistas de Chocolate, ca. 1950 75

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Society matrons at a blackface dance, 1958 76 Neighborhood tablado, ‘‘El Congo está de fiesta,’’ 1935 77 Miscelánea Negra, 1948 78 Martha Gularte, 1950 80 Carnival float, 1963 82 Carnival spectators, 1960 83 Vedette and drummers, 1979 115 Rosa Luna 171

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Tables i.1 Population Counts by Race, in Percentages, Uruguay, 1852–2006 7 i.2 Racial Terminology in Mainstream Uruguayan Newspapers and Magazines, in Percentages, 1870–2000 13 i.3 Racial Terminology in Afro-Uruguayan Newspapers, in Percentages, 1870–2000 14 5.1 Human Development Indicators in Selected Latin American Countries, 2000 156 5.2 Average Years of Schooling in Uruguay and Brazil, by Age and Race, 1996 157 5.3 Percentage Rates of Academic Enrollment in Uruguay and Brazil, by Age and Race, 2006 158 5.4 Civilian Employment, Uruguay (1996) and Brazil (1991), by Race, in Percentages 159 5.5 Population of Uruguay and Brazil, in Percentages, by Quintiles of National Income Distribution and Race, 2006 160 5.6 Social Spending as Percentage of gnp in Selected Latin American Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Countries, by Major Categories of Spending, 1990–2005 163

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

acknowledgments This book has its origins in the energy and generosity of three individuals. In the year 2000, my then-student and now friend and colleague Jorge Nállim invited me to a conference he had helped organize in Buenos Aires. While there, I took advantage of the opportunity to cross the Río de la Plata to visit Montevideo. In Montevideo, I dropped by the headquarters of the black civil rights organization Mundo Afro, whose executive director, Romero Rodríguez, extended me an e√usive welcome and urged me to return someday to do research on Afro-Uruguayan history. Shortly after returning home from that trip, I saw an announcement for a fellowship competition at the Centro de Estudios Interdisciplinarios Latinoamericanos (ceil) at the Universidad de la República in Montevideo. Under the leadership of the distinguished literary theorist and cultural critic Hugo Achugar, ceil was seeking to promote research on cultural diversity in Uruguay. This struck me as a harmonic convergence that I could not ignore. I applied for the fellowship, was accepted, and arrived in Montevideo in July 2001 to begin an almost decade-long immersion in Afro-Uruguayan history. So many people have helped me during those years that it is hard to know where to begin. Alex Borucki, Ana Frega, and Gustavo Goldman answered questions and provided invaluable suggestions on research sources and collections. Romero Rodríguez was instrumental in helping me arrange interviews with comparsa directors and veteran carnavaleros. Tomás Olivera Chirimini invited me to his home and, with Juan Antonio Varese, to lunches at the Mercado del Puerto that epitomized gracious hospitality. Pilar Alsina and Roberto Righi, directors of the Gozadera comparsa, welcomed a novice drummer with two left hands and two left feet (it sometimes seemed) to their Sunday morning ensayos in Malvin.

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

And Miguel García and Sergio Ortuño, guerreros africanos y candomberos de ley, introduced me and the other students in their drumming classes to candombe and then led us in the Llamadas. The sta√s at the Archivo Fotográfico de Montevideo, the Archivo General de la Nación, the Asociación Cultural y Social Uruguay Negro, the Biblioteca del Poder Legislativo, the Biblioteca Nacional, Mundo Afro, the Museo del Carnaval, the Museo Romántico, and the Archivo Histórico Municipal were unfailingly courteous and helpful. Anne Garland Mahler, Lars Peterson, Lindsay Ruprecht, and Christine Waller provided invaluable research assistance and very good company indeed. In addition to a Rockefeller Humanities Fellowship awarded by ceil, the research and writing for this project were supported by the University of Pittsburgh through a Faculty Fellowship, research support from the University Center for International Studies, and sabbatical and research support from the School of Arts and Sciences. In addition to that financial support, the university is generous in human terms as well. I am blessed to work with dear friends and colleagues who help me in many di√erent ways: Bill Chase, Alejandro de la Fuente, Seymour Drescher, Pinar Emiralioglu, Janelle Greenberg, Maurine Weiner Greenwald, Van Beck Hall, Lannie Hammond, Patrick Manning, Lara Putnam, Marcus Rediker, Rob Ruck, Liann Tsoukas, and Bruce Venarde. When the manuscript was completed, Alejandro de la Fuente, Christine Ehrick, and my wife, Roye Werner, did me the great favor of reading it closely and carefully and making thoughtful comments for revision. So did two tremendously helpful anonymous readers for the University of North Carolina Press and that press’s legendary senior editor, Elaine Maisner. The text was further improved by Alex Martin’s meticulous copyediting. My thanks to all and my apologies for any errors, infelicities, or omissions that may have slipped through despite their best e√orts. Roye and our children Eve, Jesse, and Lena all came with me to Montevideo for a joyous year in 2001–2; Roye and Eve then returned with me on a follow-up trip in 2004. Thank you, dear family, for sharing the tranquilidad and for making life so beautiful! Most of all I must thank the many Uruguayans (some of whom are listed in the bibliography) who took time out of their lives to talk to an inquisitive foreigner about candombe, Carnival, Afro-Uruguayan history, and life in general. All of those encounters were enlightening; some were xii acknowledgments

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

unforgettable. For especially illuminating conversations, I am grateful to Diputado Edgardo Ortuño, to Beatriz Santos, and to the late Rubén Galloza, a friend and mentor since our first meeting in Buenos Aires thirty-five years ago. He did not live to see this book completed; it is dedicated to his memory.

acknowledgments xiii

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

This page intentionally left blank

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

introduction A drum corps sixty strong, we march through the Montevideo night, pounding out the African rhythms of candombe (can-dome-bay). Racing winds blowing o√ the Río de la Plata drive thick banks of thunderclouds across the sky. Rain threatens; we will soon be drenched. But carried on surging waves of rhythm, and cheered by thousands of spectators who line the parade route in Montevideo’s historic Barrio Sur, we march on. Tonight is the 2002 Llamadas, the annual parade of the Africaninspired Carnival comparsas (drum and marching corps) and one of the most characteristic and defining features of Uruguayan popular culture. Thousands of people gather to celebrate and dance through the night to the thundering rhythms laid down by Serenata Africana, Yambo Kenia, Elumbé, Senegal, and some thirty other groups. But amid all the alegría (joy, festivity), one cannot help noting an apparent paradox. The drums are African, the rhythms are African, the names of the groups are African. Yet most of the performers—drummers, dancers, flag carriers, and others—are white! Some groups are entirely white, most are majority white; only a handful are majority Afro-Uruguayan. How can this be? How did an African-based cultural form come to be practiced and populated mainly by white people? And how did a nation that has historically prided itself on its European heritage and traditions, one that used to bill itself as the Switzerland of South America, come to embrace African-based cultural forms as core elements of its cultural identity? These questions in turn raise others. When an overwhelmingly ‘‘white’’ nation opts to define itself as, at least in part, culturally ‘‘black,’’ what impact does that decision have on patterns of racial equality, or inequality? Does such a decision reflect racial equality and egalitarianism or tend

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

to promote the achievement of such egalitarianism over time? Or by emphasizing the exotic ‘‘otherness’’ of blackness and African-based culture, does it reinforce lines of racial di√erence and hierarchy?

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

How White Your White Whiteness In 1925, and again in 1930, Uruguayans gathered to commemorate the centennial of their existence as a nation.∞ There was much to celebrate. In 1904, after decades of intermittent civil war in the 1800s between the Blanco and Colorado political parties, the national government had finally brought the fighting to an end. Under the visionary leadership of President José Batlle y Ordóñez (1903–7, 1911–15), Uruguay went on to enact one of the most progressive bodies of social legislation anywhere in the world at that time, including the eight-hour workday; workers’ rights to unionization and collective bargaining, workers’ compensation, and workplace protections; universal male su√rage (women received the vote shortly after the centennial, in 1932); the right to divorce; the expansion of elementary, secondary, and university education; and the beginnings of a national social security system. Booming exports in meat and wool provided the tax base for these programs: as of 1913, Uruguay had the highest per capita gross domestic product in Latin America and the highest per capita tax receipts. That prosperity produced social indicators that were the envy of the region: the lowest birth and death rates, and the highest levels of literacy and newspaper readership, anywhere in Latin America.≤ El libro del Centenario del Uruguay, a semio≈cial publication prepared under the direction of the Ministry of Public Instruction, highlighted the country’s many achievements. In the area of politics and governance, Uruguay’s ‘‘institutional system has perfected its ability to guarantee the equal exercise of the broadest democratic rights. Centuries-old struggles between races and religions, which in other countries have provoked such serious conflicts, in Uruguay pose no obstacle to the ceaseless work of progress and the perfection of our social programs. Liberal, progressive laws have reduced the magnitude and bitterness of the struggles between labor and capital, keeping to a prudent level the revolutionary extremism that so a√ects other rich and prosperous societies.’’≥ In the social realm as well, Uruguay had achieved something unique: it was ‘‘the only American nation that can make the categorical statement that within its borders there is not a single town or settlement of indige2 introduction

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

nous population. The last Charrúas disappeared as a tribe . . . in 1832 and since that long distant date, almost a century ago, the Uruguayan territory has remained in the absolute possession of the European race and its descendents.’’ To remove all doubt on this point, the chapter on demography began with the sentence, ‘‘Uruguay is populated by the white race, totally of European origin.’’ The indigenous population no longer existed, and ‘‘the small contingent of the Ethiopian race, brought to the country by the Spanish conquerors from the African continent to serve as slaves, has visibly declined, to the point of constituting an insignificant percentage of the total population. Furthermore, for reasons of climate, environment, and mixture with the European race, its original characteristics have su√ered fundamental modifications,’’ though these modifications went unspecified.∂ In celebrating the country’s European character, El libro del Centenario both expressed and confirmed the prevailing consensus among turn-ofthe-century Uruguayan elites. The 1907 annual report on the state of primary education in the country informed readers that Uruguayans constitute ‘‘a new ethnic type. . . . All the countries of the white race have contributed to our formation and perfection, working in common.’’ ‘‘The [Uruguayan] race is Caucasian,’’ concurred geographer Orestes Araújo in 1913, ‘‘as the result of race mixture that will not cease as long as Uruguay continues to receive individuals from the other civilized peoples on the planet.’’ The principal text on Uruguayan geography informed its readers that the country’s inhabitants were ‘‘all of the white race. . . . One must emphasize that in our country there are no Indians and very few blacks. Our million-and-a-half inhabitants are worth more than the four or five million semicivilized Indians that one finds in other South American countries. Only Argentina has a race as select as ours.’’ ‘‘No other country of the Americas can display a population like ours, where the Caucasian race so clearly prevails,’’ proclaimed Horacio Araújo Villagrán in 1929. ‘‘The [Uruguayan] national type is active, noble, honest, hospitable, intelligent, strong, valiant, and almost entirely of the white race, which implies our nation’s great superiority over others in the Americas, where the majority of the population is composed of Indians, mestizos, blacks, and mulattoes.’’∑ The message of Uruguayan whiteness was further instilled by the textbooks used in the country’s schools.∏ Democracia, one of a series of readers published from the 1920s through the 1960s, was built on two recurring themes: the uniquely democratic character of Uruguayan politics introduction 3

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

and society, and the importance of European immigrants in building that society. Gauchos were acknowledged as having contributed to Uruguay’s national character, but it was the immigrants who had come to Uruguay ‘‘longing for freedom, which meant that they were, by definition, democrats. . . . Thus the Uruguayan nation was always democratic.’’π One of the indicators of that democratic spirit, the book noted, was the country’s relatively early abolition of slavery, in 1842. This was one of only two references to Afro-Uruguayans in the entire book, the other being a paean to Uruguayan democracy that returned, as always, to the immigrants. ‘‘The Fatherland that [the patriots] created was not just for one class or caste. It was for the white and for the black; it was for the gaucho and for the Charrúa; and it was not just for those born here,’’ but for the immigrants as well, so that ‘‘men from all latitudes would feel like her children and live here as citizens, enjoying the privilege of her laws.’’∫ Nowhere else in the book were Afro-Uruguayans mentioned: not in an essay on the independence armies, which were heavily African and AfroUruguayan in composition; not in an essay on colonial Montevideo, where Africans and Afro-Uruguayans had constituted one-third of the population; not in a piece on Carnival (where black comparsas, as we will see, were absolutely central); and, most incredibly of all, not even in an essay on Pedro Figari, the famous painter of Afro-Uruguayan themes and subjects.Ω Blackness was invisible in the book, which concluded, in semidelirium, with the poem ‘‘How White Your White Whiteness’’ (‘‘Blanca tu blancura blanca’’), by Marta Aguiar. How white your white whiteness. How white the face of the things That reflect your whiteness. How white the cloud that looks down on your paleness, How white the secret color of the rose That brought a flush to your white face. How white your soul, with white ethereal murmurs. How white your perfume. There was none whiter: White essences, in white flasks.∞≠ Why ‘‘How White Your White Whiteness’’ should have been the concluding text of a reader on Uruguayan democracy was not at all clear. But the book’s overall message, like that of the celebrations of Uruguay’s centennial, left little room for uncertainty: Uruguay’s political, 4 introduction

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

economic, social, and racial progress all went hand in hand. Peace, democracy, economic growth, and guarantees of legal equality powerfully attracted European immigrants, who in turn were responsible for the country’s continuing economic, political, and social advancement. AfroUruguayans were certainly free to watch that progress and, because of the country’s firm commitment to civic equality, to share in it. But as ‘‘an insignificant percentage of the total population,’’ they did not contribute to that process and were essentially extraneous to Uruguayan modernity. Just three years after the 1930 centennial, two events called into question the centennial’s assertions of Uruguayan political and social democracy. First, in March 1933, President Gabriel Terra dissolved the national legislature, suspended the Constitution of 1918 and ruled as dictator until 1938. In comparison to the right-wing governments that ruled Argentina at the same time, or the semifascist Estado Novo instituted by Getúlio Vargas in Brazil, Terra’s government was relatively restrained in its authoritarianism. But it was a clear departure from the civilian democracy that had functioned in the country since 1904 and a troubling indication that perhaps Uruguay was not so di√erent from its South American neighbors after all.∞∞ The second event occurred five months later, on 25 August (Independence Day) 1933, when a group of Afro-Uruguayan writers and intellectuals launched what would become one of the longest-lasting black newspapers in all of Latin America.∞≤ Published regularly from 1933 through 1948, Nuestra Raza (Our Race), was the most important of the many black periodicals published in Uruguay. Between 1870 and 1950 Afro-Uruguayans produced at least twenty-five newspapers (usually monthly or biweekly) aimed at black readers.∞≥ During these same years, Brazil, with a black and brown population today almost four hundred times larger than Uruguay’s, produced between forty and fifty periodicals aimed specifically at the black population; Cuba, with a black population twenty times larger than Uruguay’s, produced fourteen. Per capita, Afro-Uruguayans generated by far the most active black press anywhere in Latin America, and in absolute terms the second-largest, after Brazil.∞∂ Nuestra Raza and the other black newspapers e√ectively contradicted two central tenets of Uruguay’s national mythology: that the country had no significant black population and that those Afro-Uruguayans who might exist were completely integrated into national life and felt no sense of di√erence from their white compatriots. By chronicling the introduction 5

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

community’s numerous social and civic events, and the individuals and organizations who oversaw these events, the Afro-Uruguayan papers made clear not only that the country had a black population but that its members felt themselves to be marginalized in various ways from full participation in national life. Reports of discrimination and, occasionally, outright segregation revealed both the limits of Uruguayan democracy and, at the same time, Afro-Uruguayan activists’ determination to make real the nation’s promises of equality for all. What do these newspapers and other sources—the mainstream press, interviews, and research and writing by Uruguayan scholars—reveal about the conditions of black life in Uruguay during the past two centuries, and about Afro-Uruguayans’ responses to these conditions? How did the country’s blacks pursue social and economic advancement and political and civic equality? What kinds of organizational structures and what kinds of individual and collective tactics and strategies did they use? With what results? Chapters 1, 3, and 5 of this book address these questions for the period 1830–2010. Before turning to these chapters, however, we must first ask who exactly are the subjects of this book and how we will recognize them when we see them.

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Who Are the Afro-Uruguayans? As in other Latin American countries, the Afro-Uruguayan population includes both dark-skinned negros (blacks) and lighter-skinned, racially mixed mulattoes or pardos (browns) who show visible evidence (skin color, hair texture, facial features) of African ancestry. Colonial Spanish law and custom consigned both groups to legal and social inferiority, ‘‘with no distinction between blacks, mulattoes, and other subraces.’’ Free pardos and morenos (a colonial euphemism for negros) su√ered the same debilities under colonial law, served in the same colonial militia units, and worshiped in the same segregated Catholic lay brotherhoods.∞∑ In Uruguay’s national census of 1852, and in the Montevideo municipal census of 1884, blacks and mulattoes were counted separately from whites. From 1884 to the late twentieth century, the Uruguayan state gathered no data on race; when it once again began to do so, in the national household surveys of 1996 and 2006, it again tabulated blacks and racially mixed nonwhites separately from whites. By the late 1900s, however, the word ‘‘mulatto’’ was no longer considered to be acceptable 6 introduction

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

table i.1. Population Counts by Race, in Percentages, Uruguay, 1852–2006 Year

White

Black

Brown

Mestizo/ Indigenous

Other/ Unspecified

N

1852

64.1

5.0

3.8

—

27.1

131,969

1884a

98.8

0.6

0.3

0.3

—

214,951

1996

93.2

0.9

5.0

0.4

0.4

2,790,600

2006

87.4

2.0

7.1

2.9

0.5

3,314,466

Sources: Anuario Estadístico, 1902–1903, 45, 150; ine, Encuesta continua, 1; Bucheli and Cabela, Perfil demográfico, 14–15. a

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Population of Montevideo only.

usage; searching for a more neutral term for racially mixed people, the household surveys opted for negra-blanca (1996) and afro-blanca (2006). The four population counts tabulated in table I.1 show clear statistical and terminological changes over time. The two nineteenth-century counts used the same racial categories but found very di√erent levels of African and Afro-Uruguayan representation in the population: 8.8 percent (or, if we exclude the ‘‘unspecified’’ column from the total, 12.1 percent) in 1852, versus less than 1 percent in 1884. This dramatic decline in the recorded black percentage of the population resulted in part from massive European immigration into Uruguay during the 1800s. It might also be partially explained by di√erences in the black percentage of the country as a whole (1852) and of the city of Montevideo (1884), though the 1852 census showed blacks and mulattoes constituting a slightly larger proportion of Montevideo (10.7 percent) than of Uruguay as a whole (8.8 percent). A third possibility is that census takers in 1884 were more willing than those in 1852 to count racially mixed mulattoes as white: while the negro group was about one-third larger than the mulatto group in 1852, in 1884 the former outnumbered the latter by two-to-one, the opposite of what we would expect during a period of large-scale white immigration and race mixture. However, even if the mulatto population had been equal to or slightly larger than the negro population, total Afro-Uruguayan representation in the city that year would still have been only slightly higher than 1 percent. A fourth explanation for the decline in the Afro-Uruguayan population introduction 7

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

between those two years is the possibility of a substantial undercount of the entire nonwhite group in 1884. Some years ago I made similar arguments concerning a possible undercount of the Afro-Argentine population in the Buenos Aires municipal census of 1887. That census found Afro-Argentines comprising less than 2 percent of the population of the Argentine capital; yet at that time black people were abundantly in evidence in photographs of the city’s streets and squares. They also sustained an active black press and a range of black mutual aid, civic, and Carnival organizations.∞∏ As we will see in the course of this book, evidence of a continued black presence is even stronger in Montevideo than in Buenos Aires. Black newspapers and social organizations were more numerous and active in the former city than the latter; and while the Afro-Argentine population today probably comprises less than 1 percent of the national population, recent population counts in Uruguay show Afro-Uruguayans accounting for 6–9 percent of the national population.∞π This disparity in black presence in the two countries results from two factors. First, while both nations received large numbers of European immigrants between 1880 and 1930, Argentina received far more, in both absolute and relative terms. Net migration to Argentina was 3.8 million during these years, a figure 1.6 times larger than the country’s 1880 population of 2.4 million; net migration to Uruguay was 580,000, a figure only slightly larger than the 1880 population of 520,000.∞∫ Thus while both countries’ racial composition was significantly ‘‘whitened’’ by European immigration, that process went further in Argentina than in Uruguay. A second factor is that over the course of its history Uruguay has been closely tied politically, economically, and socially to its northern neighbor, Brazil. Montevideo was established in 1724 as part of Spain’s e√ort to prevent Portuguese incursions into the Río de la Plata. In the late 1700s the two empires clashed repeatedly over control of Uruguay (or, as it was known at that time, the Banda Oriental, the eastern shore of the Uruguay River). When Uruguay won its independence in 1828, it did so not from Spain but from Brazilian forces that had invaded and occupied the country in 1816. Even after independence, landowners based in Brazil’s southernmost state, Rio Grande do Sul, continued to hold large properties in Uruguay that they worked with slaves brought from their Brazilian estates. After the abolition of Uruguayan slavery in 1842, some of these landowners continued to import slaves into the country under the rubric of indentured laborers. Other Brazilian slaves came to Uruguay under 8 introduction

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

their own power, fleeing across the border in search of freedom.∞Ω Population movement between the two countries continued even after the abolition of Brazilian slavery in 1888; and since the population of Rio Grande do Sul was almost one-quarter (24 percent) black and mulatto in 1890, a significant portion of that migration was Afro-Brazilian. The northern border departments of Artigas and Rivera are today the ‘‘blackest’’ regions of Uruguay, with populations that are 26 and 20 percent AfroUruguayan, respectively. These border zones are sparsely populated, however, and owing to persistent rural-urban migration over the course of the 1900s, most Afro-Uruguayans (54 percent) live today either in Montevideo or the adjacent suburban department of Canelones. It is Montevideo, therefore, that will be the focus of this book, with occasional attention to black communities in other parts of the country.≤≠ As the recipient of less European migration than Argentina, and more Brazilian (and Afro-Brazilian) migration, Uruguay is today a ‘‘blacker’’ nation than its southern neighbor, though exactly how much blacker is open to interpretation. The national household surveys of 1996 and 2006 showed Afro-Uruguayans constituting 5.9 and 9.1 percent of the national population, respectively—a di√erence of over 50 percent. At the same time, the proportion of the population identifying as white declined from 93.2 percent in 1996 to 87.4 percent in 2006. Afro-Uruguayan activists and organizations seized on these figures as evidence of the growth of either the black population or the number of Afro-Uruguayans willing to acknowledge their blackness, or both. The figures do suggest the impact on Uruguayan society of the racial debates and discussions of the 1990s and early 2000s, as well as the e√ectiveness of the Afro-Uruguayan movement in highlighting the presence of blackness in the country’s racial and ethnic mix.≤∞ But the di√erences between the two counts can also be explained by the respective questions they posed. While the 1996 survey asked respondents, ‘‘To what race do you think you belong?’’ the 2006 survey asked respondents, ‘‘Do you think you have ancestry?’’ and allowed them to check o√ all racial terms that they felt applied. As the report on the 2006 survey acknowledged, these two questions were not equivalent and therefore did not measure the same thing. ‘‘In 2006 the operative term in the question was ancestry. This concept refers to the genetic inheritance of individuals but not necessarily to their physical appearance.’’≤≤ The 1996 figures therefore probably measure more accurately that portion of the population that would be generally recognized by Uruguayan society, on the basis of introduction 9

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

South America. (Lena Andrews)

physical appearance, as nonwhite. The 2006 question measured the number of Uruguayans willing to acknowledge any degree of black or indigenous ancestry, even if that ancestry was invisible and thus would play no rule in determining how they were treated or perceived by fellow Uruguayans. 10 introduction

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Despite these di√erences in the two counts, the changes in selfidentification that they register are worth noting: while in 1996 less than 1.0 percent of the population had identified as negro, by 2006 that percentage had more than doubled, to 2.0 percent (i.e., 2.0 percent of respondents identified themselves as being of exclusively black ancestry). While in 1996 5.0 percent of the population had identified itself as being mixed black and white (or, in the case of 0.1 percent of the population, mixed black-indigenous), in 2006 7.1 percent of the population acknowledged black ancestry mixed with white (6.3 percent), indigenous (0.2 percent), or both (0.6 percent). The most dramatic change of all occurred in the category of mestizo/indigenous, which went from 0.4 percent of the population in 1996 to 2.9 percent in 2006. In both surveys, the national census agency aggregated negros and people of mixed African ancestry into a single category of negra (1996) or afro o negra (Afro or black, 2006). In neither case did the agency provide a rationale for doing so, other than the need to construct more statistically robust categories (it did the same with mestizos and indigenous people, combining them into a single indigenous category). The agency may well have been influenced by similar practices in Brazil, where beginning in the 1980s the national census agency started to combine pretos (blacks) and pardos (browns) together into a single negro category. By the early 2000s, this dichotomous black/white system of racial classification had ‘‘become widely accepted by the government, media, and academia’’ in that country.≤≥ The potential applicability of Brazilian racial taxonomy to Uruguay was inadvertently anticipated in 1956, when the Brazilian anthropologist Paulo de Carvalho-Neto came to Montevideo to carry out research on race in Uruguay. He asked members of the Asociación Cultural y Social Uruguay (acsu), a black civic organization, to identify themselves and other members either as negros or racially mixed pardos. To his surprise, the members were unwilling to draw such distinctions. ‘‘They a≈rmed that they had never thought about who was more or less black. Perhaps owing to a certain psychological solidarity, even the lightest-skinned of those present considered themselves to be among the darkest-skinned.’’ Carvalho-Neto eventually persuaded the members to categorize themselves by color, though ‘‘sometimes there was uncertainty. While some maintained that a given individual was negro, others said that he was pardo. . . . The determinations of pardo and negro, therefore, have been somewhat subjective.’’≤∂ introduction 11

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Some of the reasons for that solidarity were suggested by CarvalhoNeto’s research among high school students in Montevideo, to whom he administered questionnaires aimed at determining their levels of racial prejudice. The survey used the same questions as those administered to students in Rio de Janeiro several years earlier as part of a U.N.sponsored study of race relations in Brazil. Levels of prejudice proved to be somewhat (though not greatly) lower in Montevideo than in Rio de Janeiro; but unlike the Brazilian students, who drew clear distinctions between blacks and browns, students in Montevideo saw little di√erence between the two groups. For example, 77 percent of Montevideo high school students would not marry a negro, and 72 percent would not marry a pardo; 42 percent would not want their brother or sister to marry a negro, and 39 percent would not want them to marry a pardo; 62 percent felt that their parents would not allow a negro to come to their birthday party, and 61 percent a pardo; and so on.≤∑ An anecdote from one of the acsu members suggests the degree to which Uruguayan pardos are seen as negros: ‘‘We mailmen have an association, which at one time had a president who was a pardo. He was a very good man, very intelligent, very hard-working, very active; the association owes him a lot; he achieved a lot of improvements for posto≈ce employees. It pained me greatly one time to hear one of my comrades say, ‘‘Ah yes, the president is very good; he’s a great compañero and an excellent president; too bad that he’s a negro.’’≤∏ In 1982 the white writer Francisco Merino, who during the 1960s and 1970s directed the black theater group Teatro Negro Independiente, sought to explain Afro-Uruguayans’ ‘‘concept of who is ‘negro.’ [That concept] is the following: whoever has a ‘negro’ grandparent, no matter how light brown that grandparent may be, is considered . . . to be ‘of the race.’ ’’≤π The tendency to group negros and pardos together into a single negro racial category is quite clear in Montevideo’s Afro-Uruguayan and mainstream newspapers and magazines.≤∫ Perhaps the most striking difference between black and white racial terminology is that, in every historical period, white Uruguayans saw (to judge by the mainstream publications’ use of language) their black compatriots first and foremost as negros, and this tendency increased steadily over time (table I.2). The biggest jump was from the 1870–1920 period to 1920–70; by the latter period, the notion of ‘‘colored society’’ (sociedad de color) had completely disappeared from white usage, though not the idea of ‘‘colored’’ (de color) 12 introduction

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

table i.2. Racial Terminology in Mainstream Uruguayan Newspapers and Magazines, in Percentages, 1870–2000 Term

1870–1920

1920–1970

1970–2000

Negro/a(s)

36

66

71

De color

21

17

2

Sociedad de color

16

—

—

Moreno/a(s)

13

4

8

Raza negra

4

4

2

Comunidad negra

—

—

7

Afrouruguayo/a(s)

—

—

4

Other

10

9

6

127

149

91

N

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Sources: See note 28.

per se. White publications continued to use de color through the mid1900s, and even to the end of the century. Unlike the white newspapers, the black press did not initially refer to its readers as negros (table I.3). Between 1870 and 1920, ‘‘our race’’ (nuestra raza) and ‘‘our society’’ (nuestra sociedad) were the preferred terms, followed closely by ‘‘colored’’ ([de color] usually applied to ‘‘people’’ [gente], ‘‘society’’ [sociedad], or ‘‘person’’ [persona]). Negros accounted for only 11 percent of racial references in those years, closely followed by the less overtly racial terms ‘‘our collectivity’’ (nuestra colectividad) and ‘‘our class’’ (nuestra clase).≤Ω By the mid-twentieth century, however, negro was the most frequently used racial identifier in the black press, followed by ‘‘our race’’ and a new combination of the two, the ‘‘black race’’ (raza negra). By the end of the 1900s, almost all of the previously used racial descriptors had disappeared from the black press and only two terms predominated: negros (79 percent) and the new afrouruguayos (‘‘AfroUruguayans,’’ 12 percent). Had we been able to continue the count into the early 2000s (the last black newspapers, Mundo Afro and Bahia-Hulan-Yack, both ceased publication in the late 1990s), we would have encountered yet another new term, afrodescendientes (‘‘Afro-descendents’’), energetically promoted introduction 13

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

table i.3. Racial Terminology in Afro-Uruguayan Newspapers, in Percentages, 1870–2000 Term

1870–1920

1920–1970

1970–2000

Nuestra (or other) raza

28

19

3

Nuestra (or la) sociedad

22

1

—

De color

19

10

—

Negro/a(s)

11

35

79

Nuestra (or la) colectividad

10

8

3

Nuestra (or la) clase

8

1

—

Raza negra

—

16

—

Afrouruguayo/a(s)

—

—

12

3

11

3

106

358

32

Other N

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Sources: See note 28.

by the black movement not just in Uruguay but throughout Latin America. Both innovations—‘‘Afro-Uruguayans’’ and ‘‘Afro-descendents’’— sought to replace the language of race, based on ‘‘blood’’ and color, with the language of ethnicity, based on place (in this case, Africa).≥≠ And while ‘‘Afro-Uruguayan’’ struck a decidedly nationalist note, ‘‘Afrodescendent’’ specifically sought to transcend nationality by invoking a transnational diasporic ethnicity. Both Afro terms were also an e√ort to move beyond the term negro, which in every Latin American country carries strong associations with both slavery and social inferiority. These associations certainly exist in Uruguay, along with a common practice of referring to individual AfroUruguayans as ‘‘el negro’’ or ‘‘la negra.’’ This is especially common in the entertainment and sports worlds, where a few Afro-Uruguayans have achieved success and national visibility. Rubén Rada, the country’s foremost candombe singer, is widely known as ‘‘el negro Rada’’; Uruguay’s first vedette, or featured female Carnival dancer, won fame not under her real name, Gloria Pérez Bravo, but rather under her stage name, La Negra Johnson. The country’s first Afro-Uruguayan soccer star, Juan Delgado (1889–1951), was ‘‘el negro Juan’’; the second such star, Isabelino Gradín 14 introduction

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

(1894–1944), was both ‘‘el negro Gradín’’ and, for many of the country’s sportswriters, ‘‘el negro con el alma blanca,’’ the black man with a white soul.≥∞ José Leandro Andrade (1901–57), the hero of Uruguay’s first world soccer title, in 1924, was ‘‘el negro Andrade’’ and ‘‘la maravilla negra,’’ or ‘‘the black marvel’’; Obdulio Varela (1917–96), captain of the Uruguayan national team that won the World Cup in 1950, was ‘‘el negro jefe,’’ and so on.≥≤ While I was living in Uruguay in 2001–2, two black players, Richard Morales and Darío Silva, scored game-saving goals in a World Cup qualifying match against Australia. In its front-page story the next day, the newspaper La República identified each player as ‘‘el moreno’’ and proclaimed in its headline that ‘‘God Is Black.’’≥≥ Writing in 1970, the sportswriter Eduardo Gutiérrez Cortinas explained that ‘‘since in Uruguay calling someone a negro has no pejorative sense, the sports public identifies many of its idols in that way.’’ He used the term, he said, ‘‘in order to be faithful to that popular, a√ectionate, and family-like way of identifying’’ respected players.≥∂ The journalist José Martínez made a similar point in 1945, explaining that Colonel Feliciano González (1820–94) ‘‘could not feel any resentment when his former commander . . . a√ectionately called him ‘el negro Feliciano,’ since this signified neither disrespect nor vulgarity but rather an a√ectionate acknowledgement of his high soldierly qualities.’’≥∑ How González felt about being addressed this way, we will never know; but more than one Afro-Uruguayan has registered his or her unhappiness with the practice. In Uruguay, reflected the journalist César Techera in 1947, ‘‘it is very common that either our first name or our last is taken away from us or hidden, so that we have ‘la negra María’ or ‘el negro Benavídez,’ and never, as it should be, Doña María or Mister Benavídez. . . . And what makes it even worse is that in most cases it is we who are most complicit in this devaluation of our personality.’’≥∏ Forty years later, the legendary Carnival dancer Rosa Luna, aka La Negra Rosa, protested that ‘‘when you catalogue us as ‘Negro’ Rada, ‘Negro’ Diogo or ‘Negra’ Rosa, you’re underlining our color because you see us as ‘di√erent.’ . . . Nobody ever called anyone ‘the white person X.’ ’’≥π In addition to its highlighting of racial di√erence, negro also carries with it a heavy load of negative images and meanings. The university student Noelia Maciel reflects that ‘‘people have trouble saying ‘negro’ because it’s associated with bad things, bad smells, candombe, wine. [But] we prefer that they call us ‘negros’ because that’s what we are. If they call us ‘morenos’ or ‘morochos’ [a slang form of morenos], or ‘colored’ introduction 15

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

it’s because they don’t want to call us ‘negros.’ And that’s worse.’’≥∫ Edgardo Ortuño, elected to the Cámara de Representantes (the lower house of the Asamblea General, or national legislature) in 1999, agrees. ‘‘I prefer to speak of black people [gente negra]. We have to work to remove the pejorative associations from the word negro, which is often identified with undesirable things. I understand that other words like moreno or persona de color are an e√ort to reduce the negative connotations or to show respect, but it seems to me that the amendment is worse than the original. Let’s call things by their name.’’≥Ω

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Who Are the Negros Lubolos? At the same time that national elites and o≈cials at Uruguay’s centennial celebrations were celebrating negros’ absence, the crowds at Montevideo’s Carnival (the annual ‘‘feast of the flesh’’ in February that precedes the forty days of Lent) were celebrating negros’ exuberant presence. Carnival-goers in the 1920s had the opportunity to see legendary groups including the Lanceros Africanos, the Libertadores de Africa, the Pobres Negros Cubanos, and the greatest group of all, the Esclavos de Nyanza (Slaves of Nyanza). In both centennial years (1925 and 1930), and ten other years between 1918 and 1931, the Nyanzas consistently won the first-place prize in their category of Carnival competition, which was that of sociedades de negros.∂≠ Under the rules governing that category, as laid down by the city’s Comisión de Fiestas, the ‘‘black societies’’ were required to dress in AfroUruguayan costumes, play Afro-Uruguayan candombe music on Africanstyle drums, and present stage performances featuring such stock AfroUruguayan characters as the gramillero (herb doctor), escobero (broomsman), and the mama vieja (old mother), also known at that time as la negra vieja or simply la negra.∂∞ There was one requirement, however, that the sociedades de negros were not expected to meet: that they actually be black. To the contrary, it was understood that most of the performers in these groups would be white; in some groups, virtually all of them were. This was the case with the Esclavos de Nyanza, whose members hailed not from Kenya or Rwanda, as their name might suggest, but rather from Italy, Spain, and other European countries.∂≤ Save for their lead drummer, the famed Afro-Uruguayan soccer star Juan Delgado (‘‘el negro Juan’’), the group was comprised almost entirely of European immigrants and their o√spring.∂≥ 16 introduction

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

As we will see, this in no way prevented them from composing and performing heartfelt songs of devotion to their African homeland or from competing in Carnival as negros—or more precisely, as negros lubolos, the term in Montevideo’s Carnival for a white man performing and parading in blackface. In chapters 2 and 4 of this book I trace the origins of the negro lubolo in the 1870s and his subsequent career through the 1900s and into the early 2000s. In so doing I seek to shed light on a littleknown (outside Uruguay) yet fascinating case of what Eric Lott famously described as ‘‘love and theft’’: white people’s appropriation and reworking of black musical forms.∂∂ Looking at the specific case of nineteenthcentury blackface minstrelsy in the United States, Lott found white people, and especially white men, simultaneously fascinated by blackness but fearful of its socially contaminating e√ects. Blackface minstrelsy was an expression of that desire and that fear, as well as a way for white men, many of them recent immigrants from Europe, to confront their anxieties and uneasiness about their tenuous class position in a society undergoing wrenching economic change. Blackface was not confined to the United States. It was a mainstay of Cuban theatrical performances in the 1800s, as white actors blacked up to play Afro-Cuban negritos. In Cuba, as in the United States, blackface served as a means for white society to simultaneously embrace and distance itself from blackness while reinforcing concepts of racial di√erence and white supremacy. Such reinforcement was all the more necessary during a period of prolonged political crisis and transition, as the island fought three independence wars against Spain and tried to imagine its future as an independent republic. As white Cubans fought to construct that future and to prevent it from spinning out of their control, blackface teatro bufo was one way they asserted their continuing superiority over their black compatriots.∂∑ With a much smaller black population than either the United States or Cuba, Uruguay’s need for racial controls and for clear discursive boundaries between blackness and whiteness would seem to have been less pressing. Yet as both performers and spectators, white Uruguayans embraced blackface with as much enthusiasm as their North American and Caribbean counterparts. In so doing, they engaged in another combination of love and theft: the appropriation of an African-derived ‘‘black’’ musical form, candombe, and its eventual transformation into a ‘‘national rhythm.’’∂∏ Throughout the Americas in the late 1800s and early 1900s, musical introduction 17

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

forms closely tied to blackness—Cuban rumba and son, Brazilian samba, U.S. ragtime and jazz, Argentine tango—were transformed from lowerclass, socially marginal musical styles into core symbols of national identity. A number of structural forces drove this process, some of them commercial and economic—radio stations, record companies, and eventually film studios, all pursuing mass audiences—and others political— governments, parties, and movements seeking popular symbols of national identity.∂π Ultimately, however, it was not structural forces that composed the songs, wrote the lyrics, and played, sang, and danced them. Rather, in Uruguay as in other countries, it was individual musicians and performers, black and white, male and female, who created and reworked these new forms in a never-ending cycle of renewal and innovation. When, therefore, the negros lubolos appropriated candombe for themselves in the 1870s and after, what did they do with it? How did they rework it musically, lyrically, and in terms of performance? How, specifically, did the white negros perform blackness? And what about the ‘‘real’’ negros, the Afro-Uruguayans? When white people took up candombe, black people did not abandon it. To the contrary: they continued to be the best-known creators and performers of the music, initially (in the 1800s) on their own, in all-black groups segregated from whites, and then later (in the 1900s) working with white musicians, composers, entrepreneurs, and performers in integrated groups. In this ‘‘troubling hall of mirrors,’’ in which whites imitated blacks while blacks imitated whites’ imitation of blacks, what, again, were the outcomes, musically and otherwise?∂∫ What were the settings—social, cultural, and institutional—within which that process of cross-racial exchange took place? Who took part and who took charge? Which individuals, white and black, led in creating and transforming candombe, and which images and meanings of blackness did these individuals convey in their performances? And what were the consequences for racial ideology and racial hierarchy in Uruguay?

Uruguay in Regional Context When I started the research for this book, in 2000, scholarly literature on Afro-Uruguayan history, or indeed any aspect of Afro-Uruguayan studies, was not abundant.∂Ω Indeed, one of the incentives for beginning this project was my hope of contributing to the development of a badly neglected field of study. Now, ten years later, that field has undergone a 18 introduction

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

boom of sorts, partly in response to the discussions and debates promoted by Afro-Uruguayan activists and intellectuals in the 1990s and early 2000s, and partly as a result of increasing interest in Afro-Latin American studies throughout the region.∑≠ Whatever the causes, between 2000 and 2010 many books and articles appeared on Afro-Uruguayan topics.∑∞ It was thrilling to see this upsurge in interest in Afro-Uruguayan studies; but in the face of so much new scholarship, I wondered what would be the contribution of my own little grain of sand (a frequently used phrase in Uruguay). Did it make any sense to continue with my research? In the end, obviously, I decided that it did, and for three reasons. First, neither the recent books nor the older ones attempt long-term, comprehensive coverage of Afro-Uruguayan history over the past two hundred years. Yet it is only through such a long-term perspective that we can identify the important shifts and, at the same time, continuities in Afro-Uruguayan history.∑≤ Second, almost all of that recent research has been written and published in Spanish and is thus largely inaccessible to English-language readers.∑≥ Finally, almost all previous writers on Afro-Uruguayan history have been Uruguayan and have therefore written that history within an explicitly national paradigm. This is neither surprising nor cause for blame: in any country, it is the rare historian who looks beyond national boundaries to see how his or her country’s experiences compare to those of other societies. Yet only through such comparison can we see how national histories fit into larger regional or world patterns of historical change; at the same time, only through comparison can we identify what is truly distinctive and exceptional about the society we are examining. Having arrived at Uruguay through the study of other African diaspora societies in the New World, inevitably I look at the country from a di√erent perspective than its native-born scholars.∑∂ Doubtless I have missed important aspects of the story that they are better equipped to see and understand; conversely, perhaps I am better positioned to see and relate some important features of that story that are less visible to those who have spent their lives within it. One of the most striking of these features is the relationship, in Uruguay as in other countries, among concepts of social democracy, political democracy, and racial democracy. An indispensable component of discussions of race in other Latin American countries, the concept of ‘‘racial democracy’’—the idea that one’s society is, or at least should be, racially introduction 19

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

harmonious and egalitarian—is almost never invoked in Uruguay.∑∑ This does not mean that Uruguayans do not think about or value racial equality. Rather, when they think about questions of social fairness and equity, they tend to do so in terms not of race but rather of ‘‘universalist,’’ classbased concepts of social and political democracy. If pressed on this point, most Uruguayans, I believe, would argue that the achievement of these universalist goals would lead directly and more or less automatically to the achievement of full racial equality as well. These beliefs, and Uruguay’s commitment over the course of the 1900s to broad-based social and political democracy, make the country an almost ideal test case for debates currently under way in Brazil (and elsewhere) over the relative e√ectiveness (for reducing racial inequality) of ‘‘universalist’’ social programs as compared to racially based a≈rmative action.∑∏ We will return to this question at the book’s conclusion, in chapter 5. In the meantime, I hope that occasional comparative references to other American countries will not prove distracting and may even tempt readers to spend a few hours learning about this little-known but integral part of the New World African diaspora.

20 introduction

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

chapter one

this noble race has glorious aspirations, 1830–1920

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Seventy-one years later, in 1963, Toribia Petronila Pardo Larraura still remembered that night, down to the words she and a chorus of young women had sung on the stage of the Teatro San Felipe. As her interviewer pressed her for details, she broke into song: A great, harmonious memory Tonight we send to Columbus. And as we raise our voices in chorus, We express our hopes and dreams, Remembering on such a solemn day The most glorious deed in history, And he who gave one world to another, Making precious his memory. This noble race has glorious aspirations, And as we sing this hymn to Columbus, We ask God to grant in his celestial mansion A place reserved for the great discoverer.∞ It was 12 October 1892, and throughout the Western world governments, civic organizations, and social clubs were commemorating the four hundredth anniversary of the discovery of America. Montevideo was no exception; and among the many events scheduled for that night was a velada, an evening of music, poetry, speeches, and readings, held by and for the sociedad de color. The principal organizer was Sergeant Camilo Machado, an orderly to President Julio Herrera y Obes. The evening

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

opened with the national anthem, sung by, in the words of El Día, one of the city’s principal newspapers, ‘‘a large chorus of very nice morenitas and elegant morenitos’’ dressed, like the audience, in tuxedos and ball gowns.≤ Speeches and poems followed, and musical selections performed by a quartet of piano, violin, oboe, and double bass, led by Guillermo Céspedes. Following an intermission, the second half of the program opened with the ‘‘Hymn to Columbus,’’ composed by Céspedes, with lyrics by poet and journalist Marcos Padín. More poems, speeches, and music, this time performed by the piano duo of Céspedes and Carlos Pérez, ‘‘two colored men,’’ in the words of La Tribuna Popular, ‘‘who justify the vulgar saying that there is no such thing as a pardo who is not a musician.’’ The program concluded with an address by Julián Acosta, ‘‘a boy eighteen or twenty, tall, well formed, and with a nice voice that won the attention and interest of the audience as soon as he began to speak. He talked of the advances of the people of color, who began by spilling their blood on the battlefields and finished by dedicating themselves to study, in order to stop being cannon fodder and to begin to exercise their civil and political rights.’’≥ The audience then adjourned for refreshments and dancing that continued until 4:00 a.m. The Montevideo press was unanimous in its praise of the event, though with an occasional note of condescension. ‘‘A large crowd attended, thinking they were going to a picnic of blacks,’’ reported La Semana, employing a phrase used in Uruguay to refer to something that is disorganized and poorly put together. ‘‘But they were wrong. The event was magnificent, receiving great and well-deserved applause . . . [and] demonstrating clearly the degree of culture and progress to which the colored class has arrived.’’ La Tribuna Popular agreed. ‘‘The descendents of those unhappy Africans, hunted like beasts by those who took part in the infamous slave trade, have advanced to the point of being able to present themselves as educated and free to celebrate the glorious discovery of America with beautiful speeches and inspired poetry. Last night’s party redounds not just to the honor of the illustrious mariner but especially to the honor of the sociedad de color and the social culture of Montevideo.’’∂ Because it succeeded so e√ectively in demonstrating the ‘‘culture and progress’’ of the black community, the 1892 velada was remembered for years afterward as a high point in the community’s history.∑ The event was memorable as well for the way it encapsulated and illustrated some 22 this noble race

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

of the principal features of nineteenth-century Afro-Uruguayan history: the transition from slavery and forced labor to freedom and citizenship; the role in that transition of black military service; the rise of black social and civic organizations; and the central role of music and dance in the community’s history. And hovering in the background were the progenitors of that history: ‘‘those unhappy Africans, hunted like beasts’’ and brought to Montevideo to work as slaves. By 1892 not many of them still lived, but their memories persisted, accompanied by the question of exactly where Africanness and blackness fit into a modern, Europeanstyle white republic. Of moderate interest to white Uruguayans, for their black compatriots the question was considerably more pressing.

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Africans in Uruguay At Montevideo two great oceans meet. One is the maritime ocean of the Atlantic, which has connected the city at di√erent times to Europe, to Africa, to the Caribbean, and always to its neighbor and sister city across the Río de la Plata, Buenos Aires. The other is the land ocean of the pampa, the waves of grassland that roll hundreds of miles north into southern Brazil, west into Argentina, and east to the Atlantic. The city sits on the shores of those two seas. Its original core, the Ciudad Vieja, rests on a narrow peninsula, eight to ten blocks wide, between the Río de la Plata and the large inland bay that forms the port. From its central square, the Plaza Matriz, one can see both bodies of water sparkling in the sun. Ever since the city’s founding in 1724, the bay has been a perfect anchorage, easily defended by the fortress and gun emplacements on the Cerro, the hill that overlooks it from the west. Into that bay came ships from Africa and Brazil bearing the slave laborers who built the colonial city’s fortifications, houses, and commercial buildings. Slaves also worked as domestic servants, as street vendors, as porters, and as skilled artisans. In the countryside surrounding Montevideo they worked on farms and ranches, many as gaucho cowboys, and in the saladeros where beef was dried and salted for export to Brazil and the Caribbean.∏ The census of 1805 counted ninety-four hundred people living in the city, of whom over one-third (thirty-three hundred) were African or Afro-Uruguayan.π Almost all of them (86 percent) were slaves, a rate of enslavement higher than in other Latin American cities at that time.∫ This was the result both of Montevideo’s relatively recent foundation this noble race 23

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

(Afro-Uruguayans had had less time than in Mexico City, Rio de Janeiro, or other older cities to win freedom and bear subsequent generations of free children and grandchildren) and the arrival in the late 1700s of large numbers of Africans to the city.Ω In comparison to native-born AfroLatin Americans, Africans were much less knowledgeable of the laws and customs governing slavery, as well as of the psychology, cultural values, and even languages of their owners. As a result, Africans were greatly disadvantaged in the pursuit of freedom and won grants of manumission (freedom granted them by their owner) at rates much lower than those of American-born slaves.∞≠ While in cities like Buenos Aires and Lima manumission rates averaged 1.2–1.3 percent per year or higher (i.e., of every one thousand slaves, on average twelve or thirteen gained freedom each year), in Montevideo manumission rates between 1790 and 1820 were 0.9 percent or less.∞∞ The recent arrival of large numbers of Africans meant the presence in the city of an institution found in other Latin American cities at this time: mutual aid societies based on African ethnic identities.∞≤ In Montevideo, the salas de nación (roughly translatable as ‘‘nation courts’’) provided a variety of benefits to their members. To people who had been torn away from friends, family, and home, the nations provided much-needed social networks and support. These networks helped make life in the New World endurable; and if they were important during life, they were essential at the moment of death, when African souls required the prayers of compatriots to be restored to their homes and their ancestors.∞≥ To people seemingly powerless at the hands of their owners, the nations provided political representation and lobbying organizations through which the African population courted colonial and then national authorities and sought to recruit them as patrons and protectors. On major religious and civil holidays—Christmas, New Year’s, Epiphany, Easter—the monarchs of the nations, accompanied by their courts, would march to the presidential palace and to the homes of other politicians and o≈cials to convey their holiday greetings and express their obedience and political fealty.∞∂ To a people deprived of their gods and religions, the nations provided sanctuaries where those religions could be at least partially reconstructed and the gods worshipped.∞∑ And wherever Africans worshipped, they sang, danced, and drummed at ritual events that Montevideans called tangos or candombes.∞∏ The latter word first appeared in print in 1834, in a Montevideo newspaper, referring to the dances held by the 24 this noble race

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

nations on Sundays and other holidays. The following year it appeared again, in a poem commemorating the tenth anniversary of the 1825 Law of the Free Womb.∞π Written in Afro-Uruguayan dialect by the white poet Francisco Acuña de Figueroa (the author of the lyrics to Uruguay’s national anthem), the poem sought to convey the jubilation of the city’s Africans at the edict of gradual emancipation. Candombe brother [compañelo di candombe], Make some noise and drink corn beer, Now the children that we have Will be slaves no longer here. That’s why the Cambundá, The Kasanje, the Cabinda, The Benguela, the Munyolo, All are singing, all are shouting.∞∫

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

The candombes held by the Cambundá, the Kasanje, the Congo, the Benguela, and other nations were immensely powerful and evocative occasions. Part of this power was provided by the rhythmic impact of the African drums, which was then reinforced by the visual (and again rhythmic) impact of the dances that the Africans performed. A French visitor described those that he witnessed in Montevideo in 1827. On 6 January, the Day of the Kings, strange ceremonies called our attention. All the blacks born on the coasts of Africa gathered together in tribes, each one electing a king and a queen. Costumed in the most original manner, with the most brilliant outfits they could find, preceded by the subjects of their respective tribes, these monarchs for a day went first to mass and then paraded through the city; and gathered at last in a small plaza near the Market, everyone performed, each in his own way, a dance characteristic of their nation. I saw in rapid succession war dances, representations of agricultural labor, and steps of the most lascivious type. There, more than six hundred blacks appeared to have regained for a moment their nationality, in the heart of that imaginary country, whose memory alone . . . in the midst of that noisy saturnalia of another world, made them forget, for one single day of pleasure, the pains and su√erings of long years of slavery.∞Ω The intensity of emotion at the dances, their alien aesthetic, the crowning of African monarchs and the re-creation of what appeared to be scenes of war, combined to provoke occasional apprehension among the this noble race 25

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

city’s o≈cials. In 1807 the city council banned the dances both within and outside the city walls, then in 1816 it lifted the prohibition on dances outside the walls. A police decree of 1839 reiterated that distinction— candombes were banned inside the walls but permitted outside—and indeed, for most of the 1800s, candombes were held mainly in the Recinto area immediately outside the city walls, in what is now the Barrio Sur. Most of the nations built their headquarters in that neighborhood, partly because unoccupied land was available there, and partly, according to legend, to be close to the sea and therefore to Africa.≤≠ The candombes were less in evidence during the eight-year (1843–51) siege of the city during the Guerra Grande civil war, but they burst forth with renewed energy in the 1850s and 1860s. Following extensive black military service (on both sides, Blanco and Colorado) during the war, few questioned Africans’ right to play their music and dance their dances. Those who did were roundly reproved in 1859 by La Nación. ‘‘It is no dishonor for Montevidean society, nor any lessening of its civilization, to tolerate this kind of celebration [candombe]; to try to ban these festivities would be both. Far from diminishing our civilization, they enhance it, enhancing as well our republican customs’’ of freedom and toleration.≤∞ By the 1850s and 1860s, Montevideans were not only willing to tolerate candombe; many actively embraced it. The African dances were the most heavily attended form of public entertainment in the capital, drawing crowds of five to six thousand in a city of some sixty thousand— 10 percent of the population. ‘‘Yesterday afternoon the streets . . . were filled with merrymakers, an uninterrupted flood of people heading south, toward where the Congo nation and others have their thrones,’’ reported La Nación on 7 January 1860, the day after Epiphany (known in Latin America as the Day of the Kings, for the three magi who came to honor the baby Jesus). ‘‘Some five thousand people were there, and wherever one looked the panorama was magnificent: groups of lovely girls and young men, on foot and on horseback, all united by the harsh sound of the drums.’’ A report on 6 January 1862, indicated some six thousand people present. Other articles from the 1860s and into the 1870s cited no numbers but described the festivities as ‘‘extremely crowded,’’ drawing ‘‘large crowds,’’ ‘‘incalculable crowds,’’ and so on. ‘‘It was something to see,’’ recalled a memoir written later in the century. ‘‘There was not a single old shopkeeper, nor a single family head, nor matron, nor young girl, nor gentleman who did not head down to the candombe.’’≤≤ 26 this noble race

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Several contemporary accounts referred to the crowds as being on a ‘‘pilgrimage’’ to the candombes.≤≥ The word was entirely appropriate. Held on Sundays or religious holidays, the candombes were deeply rooted in African religious observances and were powerfully spiritual events. As such, they were a direct response to, and repudiation of, the su√erings of slavery. As Rachel Harding has observed with reference to Brazil, ‘‘the same body that contorted under the weight of cane-stalk bundles or barrels of rum or water or years of washing clothes by hand, the same body that worked involuntarily, unpaid, and under duress emphasized, through dance, another meaning of itself.’’≤∂ As an alternative to the oppressive, painful, dehumanizing movements of coerced labor, the candombes o√ered the deeply pleasurable, healing movements of dance— and dance, furthermore, performed collectively, in concert, with friends and countrymen from one’s homeland. Here elders and spiritual leaders, gifted musicians and dancers, all assumed the positions of authority and prestige denied them in daily life; here the nations strode onto the public stage, asserting their collective presence and their Africanity in ways impossible for Montevidean society to deny. Onlookers could not but be a√ected by the flow of rhythm, emotion, and spirit at the dances. Yet the very power of these events required Montevideans to distance themselves from the African rites and to assert their superiority and detachment from what they had come to see. One way they did this was by ridiculing the disparity between, on the one hand, the African monarchs’ dignity and solemnity, and on the other, their material poverty and social dishonor. White observers often commented on the laughable clothes worn on holidays and special occasions by the monarchs and their courts. Members of the nations sought to dress as elegantly as possible: the women in their best gowns, the men in frock coats and top hats, or military uniforms festooned with medals won in Uruguay’s wars. Often, however, these clothes were threadbare, ill-fitting hand-me-downs, lent or donated by employers or former owners. This generated, in the words of one writer, ‘‘comic aspects that threatened to upend all the seriousness, circumspection, and formality’’ of the day, producing situations that were ‘‘ridiculous in the extreme.’’≤∑ A particular source of amusement was the king of the Congo nation during the 1860s. His African and Spanish names both lost to history, the Congo monarch was known by his nickname, Catorce Menos Quince (Quarter to Two). Whenever he was asked the time, the Congo king would ostentatiously pull out a pocket watch, consult it, and, regardless this noble race 27

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

of the actual hour, reply that it was quarter to two. The joke, of course, was that, having acquired an adornment of European civilization, he supposedly had no idea of what it meant or how to use it. In 1863, following the death of the king of the Banguela nation, and in the absence of other eligible candidates, Catorce Menos Quince assumed the Banguela throne as well. Two years later, El Siglo reported on the king’s most recent professional achievement: cleaning out a massive latrine at a military barracks. The king of the two nations earned his living servicing latrines in the city, an occupation formerly carried out by slaves and one still, in the 1860s, closely associated with African and Afro-Uruguayan racial status. ‘‘For some time this illustrious personage has taken it as a point of honor to obtain yet another triumph to add to his odoriferous crown.’’≤∏ El Siglo’s 1880 profile of Antonio Fuentes, king of the Congo de Augunga nation, sounded a similar note, stressing the disparity between Fuentes’s royal status and his lowly occupation of ragpicker and garbage man. The article devoted particular attention to his military service, like that of so many other African men, in the Guerra Grande. It described him as ‘‘very small, faithful as a dog, a great aficionado of corn on the cob, and fervent admirer of his general,’’ the Colorado leader and former president Fructuoso Rivera. If you should happen to pass by the Congo de Augunga headquarters, the paper urged its readers, ‘‘give a few pennies to the little old black man, to the king of the Congos, to Rivera’s sergeant who faced death on a hundred battlefields and who today makes his living in . . . the garbage.’’≤π

The Licenciado Negro: Jacinto Ventura de Molina As the African nations’ occasional spokesperson and legal representative, Jacinto Ventura de Molina was only too familiar with these tropes of ridicule. Born in 1766, the child of African parents, he had made his way upward in life through a combination of education, relentless ambition and persistence, and the cultivation of powerful patrons. Molina pursued these strategies from early childhood, which he spent in the house of his parents’ master (and eventual liberator), Spanish General Don Josef Eusebio de Molina. The general took a lively interest in the boy’s education, instructing him in grammar and Latin and providing him with books on philosophy, theology, and mathematics. ‘‘Until I was sixteen years old, not a day passed in which I did not receive a lesson from 28 this noble race

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Brigadier Don Josef de Molina.’’ Indeed, in Molina’s accounts of his life, the general stands in as the father figure, with Molina’s own father playing a shadowy, secondary role.≤∫ If from General Molina Jacinto received his formal education, from his mother, Juana del Sacramento, he received his spiritual and emotional education. Born in Angola and brought to Brazil in the slave trade, as a ‘‘young woman of 13[, she] fled from Portuguese Brazil to the Spanish lines in 1765, in time of war. She risked her life, which by law and right made her free.’’≤Ω Molina remembered her as beautiful, and beautifully dressed, in lace shawls, velvet gowns, and abundant gold and silver jewelry. ‘‘How did a black woman acquire such luxuries? Through a life of ceaseless labor.’’ She made and sold bread, cakes, and other baked goods, and ‘‘did laundry constantly . . . carrying me on her back, tied to her waist in her shawl.’’ ‘‘What mother ever brought up her child with more care and attention than mine did? . . . And who would ever say that such memories of a black woman are possible? [And yet] I’ll tell you, [they are] identical for all the African women.’’≥≠ Molina’s strategic position between the white and African populations, his familiarity with and education in the ways of both, enabled him to mediate between the Africans and state agencies. During the Brazilian occupation of Uruguay (1816–28), Molina honed his advocacy skills in petitions and appeals to Emperor Dom Pedro I and local Brazilian o≈cials. Following Uruguay’s independence, he informed the new national authorities that he had been granted a law degree by Dom Pedro, thus making him a licenciado negro. Despite the lack of any written confirmation of this claim, in 1832 the Ministry of the Interior, citing ‘‘the great scarcity of lawyers that the Republic unfortunately confronts’’ and ‘‘the extreme utility to the citizens of color of such an eloquent and philanthropic defender of their rights,’’ confirmed Molina’s degree and admitted him to the practice of law.≥∞ As a self-taught black lawyer, Molina’s professional position was precarious in the extreme, as he had acknowledged in one of his petitions to the Brazilian emperor. ‘‘White men fly like the Birds and swim like the fishes. They write naturally; blacks do not, even though, thanks be to God, we are men like they are, redeemed by the most Precious Blood of my Lord Jesus Christ. And if the whites desire that we be saved, we equally desire that they be saved themselves.’’≥≤ Besides this implicit equalizing of blacks and whites (‘‘We are men like they . . . and if the whites desire that we be saved, we equally desire that this noble race 29

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

they be saved themselves’’), Molina also sought to shore up his position by displaying his extensive education. His petitions flow on, sometimes for a hundred pages or more, with lengthy Biblical exegeses, discussions of Christian and Jewish theology, of Greek and Roman literature and mythology, of classical and medieval history, and, especially in his letters to the Brazilian emperor, of European dynastic power struggles of the late 1700s and early 1800s. These discussions went on at such length that they sometimes defeated their purpose. The Montevideo city councilman Juan María Pérez, the recipient of several such documents, complained that ‘‘the vast erudition of Dr. Molina, his elevated and superabundant style, have so complicated his simple petition that it is not easy for the undersigned to enter that prodigious labyrinth’’ to deal with ‘‘the five thousand or more points’’ raised by the document.≥≥ Another recipient of Molina’s petitions, who responded anonymously, was even harsher in rejecting the lawyer’s pretensions. Writing in verse, he abjured Molina to

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Be gone, crazy, disgusting black man, Stop your foolish impertinence. Follow your profession of shoemaker And don’t be a lazy idler. Stop writing foolishness That makes everyone laugh out loud.≥∂ A contemporary description of Molina by the writer Isidoro de María hit exactly the same note of bemused condescension as the previously quoted descriptions of the African monarchs, and through the same literary device, emphasizing the contrast between Molina’s assumed dignity and his ragged, ill-fitting clothes. ‘‘He was welcome at all social events, at which he made a great spectacle of himself, with his high collars, his wide pants, his velveteen vest and threadbare blue frock coat, stained with flour . . . [and] patched with little pieces of cloth to cover the moth holes. . . . What he lacked in color [i.e., whiteness],’’ de María recalled, ‘‘he more than made up in honorable behavior and courteous manners, like the very best little white person.’’≥∑ Faced with such scorn and dismissal, Molina trod carefully in advocating for his clients, who included individual Africans and several of the African national societies. In the early 1830s, Molina listed thirteen such organizations active in the city. Six derived from West Africa— 30 this noble race

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

the Ausá (Hausa), Carabarí (Calabar), Minas-Maxi, Moros, Nagó y Tacuá (Yoruba), and Santé (Ashanti)—five from the Congo and Angola—Banguela, Cambundá (Cabinda), Casanchi (Kasanje), Lubolo, and Songo— and two from East Africa—Mozambique and Muñambano.≥∏ In arguing for the nations, Molina explained their goals and purpose in terms drawn from European political thought. In order to constitute modern societies, ‘‘it was necessary that men divide themselves into private corporations to which they give the proper name of Civil Societies. This was the only way that the inhabitants of the di√erent parts of the earth could establish among themselves the principles of liberty, the security of their property, and freedom from violence from abroad. So that Civil Society was, and is . . . the necessary starting point for the happiness and prosperity of the human race.’’ The African national societies, Molina argued, were classic examples of civil society, formed ‘‘by a contract through which many men come together and agree to work toward the common good.’’≥π Much of that work was religious. Under Spanish colonial rule, any expression of African-based religion was heretical and therefore had to be carried out behind closed doors or under the guise of Catholic religious observance. This had invested the nations with a secretive, mysterious, even somewhat sinister quality that Molina took pains to dispel. Appearances to the contrary, he argued in an 1834 petition on behalf of the Congos de Gunga, the nations were not secret societies. ‘‘Our associations are public, their doors open, in well-known and established houses, with well-known presidents . . . Far from causing any alarm, they help maintain order, obedience, and subordination by promoting morality, Religion, and Piety, which are the most solid bases of thrones and states.’’≥∫ Such bases were particularly required among the Africans, he noted in another petition, who otherwise might fall prey to bad influences. ‘‘Among the Blacks, the starting point for civility is the one true Religion, capable of uprooting their natural love of barbarism. [Religion] must give them the correct methods to live and die well, and the good judgment, as with other parents, with which to raise their children.’’ Since the nations were the best vehicle for providing such indoctrination, he argued, the government should allow them to function freely.≥Ω It is worth pausing here to note some of Molina’s rhetorical strategies in dealing with the Uruguayan authorities: his appeal to the European concept of civil society; his transforming the kings of the African nations this noble race 31

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

into presidents, in keeping with Uruguay’s recently established republican institutions; and finally, his references to his African clients’ ‘‘natural love of barbarism,’’ a claim that he knew would resonate with his listeners. All of these points, he hoped, would be persuasive. But the most potent argument of all he saved for last. The previous year (1833) the Congos de Gunga nation had been closed down by the city government, which suspected its members of involvement in a planned rebellion by the city’s slaves. This was ‘‘a bitter action’’ indeed, Molina protested, ‘‘against those who had recently defended the lives’’ of government o≈cials and prominent citizens in the Lavalleja rebellions of 1832.∂≠ In a second petition on the same subject several months later, Molina recalled ‘‘the memorable events’’ of Uruguay’s struggle for independence and early republican years. ‘‘The free black regiments have taken part in all of them, with splendor and as the strongest supporters of their governments.’’ On the basis of this record, he argued, the Congos de Gunga deserved to have their headquarters restored.∂∞

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Soldiers, Citizens, Workers In citing black military service, Molina was making an argument that he knew would carry weight with his listeners. Throughout the Americas, black military service in independence, civil, and international wars has been one of the principal points of leverage for admitting black people into the nation and for according them full civil and political equality.∂≤ This was true as well in Uruguay, where African and Afro-Uruguayan soldiers and battalions played prominent roles in all the nation’s nineteenthcentury wars. Black service in the independence wars against Spain, Buenos Aires, Portugal, and Brazil (1810–20, 1825–28) led to the declaration of gradual emancipation through the Free Womb Law, in 1825.∂≥ And the need for black troops to fight in the Guerra Grande civil war (1839–51) motivated the final abolition of slavery, decreed in 1842 and 1846 by, respectively, the competing Colorado and Blanco forces. Both decrees ordered all newly freed male slaves to be drafted into the two contending armies; twelve hundred liberto draftees served with the Colorados and an unknown but probably comparable number with the Blancos.∂∂ AfroUruguayan troops went on to serve in the Paraguayan War (1864–70) and the civil conflicts of the second half of the 1800s. Only in 1904, with the final defeat of the Blancos by the government of Colorado President José 32 this noble race

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Afro-Uruguayan infantry sergeant, 1860s. (Servicio Oficial de Difusión

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Radio Televisión y Espectáculos)

Batlle y Ordóñez, did civil violence come to an end in Uruguay and with it the need for black soldiers.∂∑ Echoing Molina’s rhetorical strategy, in the second half of the 1800s Afro-Uruguayan journalists, activists, and intellectuals repeatedly cited black military service as justification for black legal and civil equality. Afro-Uruguayans took great pride in how, as Marcos Padín recalled in his 1873 poem, ‘‘Song to My Race,’’ ‘‘your grandfathers . . . won laurels for this noble race 33

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

your august race’’ through their service in the independence wars and the Guerra Grande. The black papers regularly noted the anniversaries of battles at which black troops had distinguished themselves, and they called on politicians and historians to publicly acknowledge these achievements. Several articles noted the importance not just of black soldiers but black o≈cers, a number of whom had distinguished themselves in the Guerra Grande and in ending ‘‘the abominable tyranny’’ of the Argentine dictator Juan Manuel de Rosas.∂∏ But in compiling that record of military service, the black population had paid a terrible price, most obviously in the thousands of Africans and Afro-Uruguayans killed and wounded in defense of the fatherland. Less obvious perhaps, but pervasive in their e√ects, were the striking continuities between slavery and military service. While some AfroUruguayans did achieve o≈cer rank, the o≈cer corps remained almost entirely white, with complete and often arbitrarily exercised authority over enlisted ranks who were disproportionately Afro-Uruguayan. The treatment and punishments meted out to enlisted men were strongly reminiscent of those employed under slavery, as were the terms of service: the black papers complained repeatedly of soldiers retained past their enlistments for terms of ten or twenty years. ‘‘Now that our [civil] conflicts are over,’’ El Progresista optimistically suggested in 1873, ‘‘wouldn’t it be better to set these men at liberty and allow them to exercise their craft or profession, rather than keep them in the barracks? We believe that if they are left there, they will never achieve anything, other than to be totally lost’’ to the productive life.∂π Most alarming of all was Uruguayan society’s apparent expectation that black men had a special obligation to serve the nation, and the resulting singling out of these men for forced conscription and impressment. That expectation had been clearly expressed in the emancipation decrees of the 1840s and remained in e√ect throughout the 1850s and 1860s, complained La Conservación. ‘‘It seemed as though having a dark face was a crime. The colored man was treated with disdain, seized in flagrante in the street and sent to the army, held in the most remote and unhealthy jail, there to wait according to the commander’s whim.’’ So bad was the situation that hundreds of young black men fled Uruguay ‘‘to live like pariahs’’ in Buenos Aires, ‘‘forgetting their country forever.’’∂∫ The theme of black conscription even found its way into the Carnival celebrations of 1883, in which the Negros Africanos comparsa reflected on the fate su√ered by African draftees several decades earlier. 34 this noble race

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Any African they see on the street They draft into the army, for the long haul. If you don’t want to serve, they tell you to hop it Or they’ll give you a beating and no food at all. . . . Once you’re enlisted, you get no corn beer, No money either—you can’t buy a shirt. For the nation and freedom they tell you to cheer. Then they cast you aside, saying, ‘‘Go and find work.’’ By the time that happens, you’re no good for anything, You can’t even carry a four-pound sack. But if you beg in the street, and they see you there, It’s o√ to the workhouse, and don’t look back!∂Ω In 1876 Afro-Uruguayan community leaders appealed to the recently installed dictator Lorenzo Latorre to stop the forced recruitment of black men. ‘‘We were received, and the dictator, even though invested with total power, accepted our petition, found it just,’’ and ordered an end to the forced recruitment of Afro-Uruguayans. In taking this action, Latorre acknowledged that ‘‘this abusive procedure . . . has condemned citizens of color to an imposition that not only contradicts the Fundamental Law of the State, which demands equal rights for all, but also the democratic principles to which we adhere.’’∑≠ But following Latorre’s fall from power in 1880, the levas (forced impressments) resumed, forcing more young men to flee to Argentina. By 1884 enough Afro-Uruguayans had taken up residence in Buenos Aires to create a black mutual aid society, the Centro Uruguayo.∑∞ While on a state visit to the Argentine capital in 1889, President (and General) Máximo Santos accepted an invitation to meet with its members. The main topic that they raised with him was ‘‘the predestined persecution, automatic but tenacious,’’ of black men by military recruiters. Santos assured them that ‘‘the doors of the fatherland were open to all Uruguayan émigrés who wish to return, and nobody there will bother them. . . . Even those who were deserters, he would sign their absolute discharge’’ and pay the cost of their passage back to Montevideo.∑≤ Despite these promises, reported the black newspaper El Periódico a month later, forced conscription remained uno≈cial state policy, producing such painful scenes as the following: An anguished mother comes to the barracks, asking for her son, whom she knows positively is there. She experiences all manner of pain and this noble race 35

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

su√ering, because even though she is black, she is still a mother. After receiving bloody epithets, insults, and humiliations from those who are perhaps much lower [morally] than she is . . . she returns to her empty home. . . . What a pretty way the Government has of persuading our poor compatriots to return home.∑≥ Four years later, La Propaganda observed that young black men were still fleeing to Buenos Aires to escape military service. In their first issue, the editors stated that

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

one of the obligations that we impose on ourselves as we create this publication is to defend our rights, to demonstrate that blacks are not just cannon fodder, nor have they been born just to fill the barracks. . . . The black man has never been deaf to the call of the Fatherland, has never spared his blood in its defense; [but] when he returns to his home after having done his duty, his ambition to be allowed to enjoy rest and relaxation among his family, and to take up honest labor, has to be and must be respected.∑∂ In subsequent issues the paper reported on specific cases of impressment and lobbied the authorities for the men’s release. Several soldiers thanked the paper for getting them discharged from an artillery battalion ‘‘in which we have been serving for more than ten years against our will.’’ The following year the paper reported the War Ministry’s announcement that ‘‘it is prepared to discharge from the battalions all those who are serving under force [a la fuerza].’’ Commented the editors, ‘‘It’s high time.’’∑∑ Meanwhile, the black papers argued, the record of black military service, combined with the 1830 constitution’s declaration of civil and political equality for all, entitled Afro-Uruguayans to the full rights of citizenship. Writing on Independence Day (25 August) 1872, the AfroUruguayan journalists Andrés Seco and Marcos Padín reflected on the di√erences between the ‘‘yesterday’’ of the 1830s and 1840s and conditions today, in the 1870s. ‘‘Yesterday the minds of all the colored people were aflame with thoughts of freedom. Today we think only of enlightenment. Yesterday humility reigned. Today we think only of achieving our aspirations.’’ Several months later, they returned to the theme of how conditions had changed since the 1830s and 1840s. ‘‘That timidity that aΔicted our fathers, let it cease, that fear that possessed our hearts. That humility and deference that our fathers expressed in front of 36 this noble race

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

whites, let it disappear. Let us think only of our regeneration, let’s reclaim our rights . . . [and] let’s leave to our children the rights of liberty, democracy, and equality.’’∑∏ Padín and Seco founded La Conservación and its successor, El Progresista, in hopes of establishing a greater Afro-Uruguayan political presence in the city.∑π That presence already existed but in a form deeply unappealing to the two young writers and many of their compatriots. As a result of their military service in the Guerra Grande and other wars, many Afro-Uruguayan men had become closely tied to the military caudillos of the Blanco and Colorado parties.∑∫ As a generation of young, university-educated liberals formed in the 1860s and 1870s in opposition to these caudillos, its members sought to clarify the distinction between the two groups by dubbing themselves principistas—champions of constitutional and liberal principles—and their opponents as candomberos. Using the latter word enabled them to make several points at once. First, by tying the military caudillos to African-based music and dance, the principistas implicitly contrasted their own adherence to European liberalism to the caudillos’ alleged savagery and barbarism. Second, they likened the violence and instability of national politics to the (supposed) disorder and chaos of black street dances. Finally, by labeling their opponents as candomberos, the principistas tied the caudillos to one of their principal sources of military and political support, the Afro-Uruguayan population.∑Ω Despite their lack of university education, Padín, Seco, and other young Afro-Uruguayans shared the principistas’ distaste for military caudillismo and viewed themselves as part of the principista movement.∏≠ In preparation for the parliamentary elections of 1872, they founded a political club, the Club Igualdad, and a newspaper, La Conservación, to support the candidacy of Afro-Uruguayan José María Rodríguez. Rodríguez proposed to run on the Colorado party ticket, and the party was initially willing to include him among its candidates. But several months before the election the party withdrew its support, one of its leaders posing the question, ‘‘What will the foreigners think if they see a black man occupying a seat’’ in the national legislature?∏∞ Rodríguez’s supporters were furious. ‘‘As much as they try to disguise their aversion toward our race, feigning liberal and democratic sentiments, white men will always be the same. . . . Whatever party they belong to, white men are the enemies of our race. In order to obtain our rights, let’s forget about Blancos and Colorados and just consider that we this noble race 37

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

are free citizens, who by banding together will triumph.’’∏≤ Launching a new publication, El Progresista, the following year (1873), Padín and Seco continued to push for full black civil and political rights and for an end to black humility, subservience, and candombero politics. ‘‘We are equal before the law,’’ the paper proclaimed. ‘‘We are citizens of the same nation, the same flag shelters us, the same laws govern the whites, the blacks, and the mulattoes.’’∏≥ Pointedly contrasting the concepts of rights, citizenship, and political participation to the perceived passivity and ‘‘humility’’ (shading into humiliation) of black-white relations under slavery, El Progresista and other black papers insisted that a new day had come. A decade later, evoking that sense of rebirth in its very name, La Regeneración (edited by Enrique Munn and Manuel Arturaola) announced in its inaugural issue that, ‘‘leaving behind as one of the natural conditions of our society that [people of color] should su√er and be silent, we raise our voice in defense of our rights and individual protections [garantías].’’∏∂ Two weeks later, it added to the issue of race the issue of class, proclaiming its intention to ‘‘bring to the home of the proletarian news of the social movement, [journalism] that will inspire a love of association, that will accustom him to reading, that will defend him, that will instruct him in his rights and duties, etc.—in short, that will speak to him in a way he understands.’’∏∑ Following La Regeneración’s lead, the mastheads of El Periódico (1889) and La Propaganda (1893–94) labeled both of these papers as ‘‘organ[s] of the working classes.’’ This reflected the overwhelmingly working-class character of the city’s black population, and its poverty. While Afro-Uruguayan men labored in Montevideo’s workshops and factories, on the docks, in construction, and in all manner of informal day labor, Afro-Uruguayan women earned their living as laundresses, cooks, domestic servants, wet nurses, and in paid sex work. In 1873 El Progresista wrote about the gangs of children roaming through Montevideo searching for bones, rags, scrap metal, and other items to sell for pennies. Most of these children, the paper observed, were Afro-Uruguayan.∏∏ Forty years later, in 1912, the black newspaper La Verdad commented that the economic downturn of that year had hit the working class very hard and the black population even harder. This was because skilled workers, ‘‘those who have the greatest likelihood of [being able to] struggle for their existence,’’ were not abundant among the black population. Rather, ‘‘the immense majority’’ of black workers were low-wage empleados whose families lived from 38 this noble race

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

hand to mouth and thus were particularly vulnerable to financial reversals or economic downturns.∏π Despite these acknowledgements of Afro-Uruguayans’ working-class status, the black papers carried little or no information on the union movement or worker mobilization. Nor did the labor press of the early 1900s have anything at all to say about Afro-Uruguayans. Socialist, anarchist, and union newspapers frequently invoked the equality of all men (and occasionally women) and the need to promote class solidarity across racial lines. ‘‘Servitude is not white, or yellow, or black,’’ proclaimed La Voz del Obrero in 1903. ‘‘It is simply proletarian.’’∏∫ But none pushed on to consider racial conditions in Uruguay; rather, in discussing violations of the principle of racial equality they focused either on the United States or on colonial Africa.∏Ω The labor press’s occasional discussions of race did not always redound to black people’s advantage. An anonymous ‘‘Argentine gentleman’’ writing in El Amigo del Obrero in 1904 ventured some brief but heartfelt comparisons of racial conditions in the United States and in Uruguay’s neighbor Argentina. Blacks in the United States, he reported, ‘‘are not the fearful, timid beings that we know’’ in Argentina. ‘‘These dark-skinned beings, among us so good and humble, here [in the United States] constitute a family of 9 million perverse individuals, enraged against the whites.’’ He had never met anyone, he reported, ‘‘more insolent, more decidedly insolent, than the American black. Ah, the blacks . . . they are the terror of foreign tourists and the ominous shadow of their white compatriots.’’ When asked by African Americans how black people were treated in Argentina, he replied that they enjoyed full and perfect equality. When his questioners expressed interest in moving there, he was horrified at the thought of a ‘‘legion’’ of African Americans heading south to the Río de la Plata.π≠ Occasional references to Africa in the labor papers were even less flattering than this portrait of African Americans. ‘‘Human sacrifice continues in many parts of Africa,’’ El Amigo del Obrero reported in 1904, describing the sacrifices in bloody detail; a cartoon in El Guerrillero in 1903 depicted an African eating Europeans. Reporting on conflict between Spain and Morocco in 1909, El Amigo del Obrero tied the Moroccans to ‘‘African barbarism’’ and described them as ‘‘the traditional enemies of our race,’’ clearly positioning itself and its readers on the side of whiteness.π∞ Given the ethnic and racial composition of the city’s labor movement, this noble race 39

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

the racial attitudes of organized labor were not altogether surprising. Between 1860 and 1908 the city’s population grew from 58,000 to 309,000, driven in large part by the arrival of European immigrants coming to work in the meat-packing industry, construction, transport, commerce, and the artisan trades. By 1908 the city’s population was 30 percent foreign-born; the proportion of immigrants among the city’s workers was even higher; and the proportion of immigrants in the city’s labor movement was higher still.π≤ In Brazil, Cuba, Panama, and other Latin American countries the racial, ethnic, and national diversity of late nineteenth- and early twentiethcentury workforces posed serious challenges to organized labor. In many instances, however, Latin American unions succeeded in overcoming these potential sources of division and constructing inclusive, cross-racial movements.π≥ In Montevideo, blacks were invisible in elite and workingclass visions of Uruguayan society. Was this a function of their absence in these movements, and in the industrial workforce more generally? Or alternatively, was it evidence of their easy and frictionless integration into these movements and this workforce, to such a degree that racial di√erence passed unremarked? Both hypotheses seem unlikely: given the persistently racial ‘‘gaze’’ of Uruguayan society at that time (i.e., its alertness to racial markers) and the constant ‘‘othering’’ of nonwhites in that society, easy and automatic integration seems improbable. At the same time, however, neither the labor papers nor any other source o√er any evidence of the systematic exclusion of nonwhites from the industrial labor force or the labor movement. This question, along with the larger question of the vocational distribution of the Afro-Uruguayan population at that time, awaits further research. Of the black population’s poverty there is little doubt; and as the black papers discussed how to remedy this situation, they focused on the traditional virtues of education, discipline, and hard work. Such an approach seemed especially appropriate after the passage of the national educational reform of 1877, which established the principle, and to a certain degree the reality, of free, state-supported elementary education for all. Between 1877 and 1880 the number of elementary schools in Montevideo increased from 62 to 310, and the number of students attending these schools tripled (from eight thousand to twenty-five thousand). In 1878 the federal government launched a vocational high school, the Escuela de Artes y Oficios, aimed specifically at children of poor and workingclass families.π∂ 40 this noble race

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

As a result of these advances, observed La Regeneración in 1885, ‘‘we are no longer in the same situation as our ancestors,’’ who had had no access to public education.π∑ Elementary education was now available to all, and the Escuela de Artes y Oficios o√ered courses of training in metalwork, shipbuilding, engine repair, and other industrial skills. Since the school was overseen by the Ministry of War, the paper reported, many black families had initially held their children back, fearing that the students would be forcibly conscripted. ‘‘But time has demonstrated the contrary, proving that what goes on there is the formation of hardworking, honorable citizens.’’ As a result, ‘‘many black parents have decided, with no reservations, to send their children to that great establishment.’’π∏ The black papers urged their readers to capitalize on the opportunities a√orded by state-supported schools.ππ Yet the very regularity with which they ran such articles indicated that not all families were doing so. Readers occasionally wrote in to suggest that most black families’ poverty left them little choice but to send their children to work. While readily conceding the reality of that poverty, María Esperanza Barrios, one of the founders in 1917 of Nuestra Raza, insisted that the consequences of pulling children out of school were simply too dire to permit the practice to continue. Even the poorest families could send their children to school for an hour or two a day, she said; not to do so was to condemn them to a lifetime of the same poverty su√ered by their parents. ‘‘We have been struggling against this negligence for many years . . . yet [parents] have remained indi√erent, obstinately opposed to the principle of education. This is a truth . . . that hurts.’’π∫ The financial obstacles that prevented many black students from attending primary and secondary school were all but overwhelming at the university level. The handful of Afro-Uruguayans who attended the university did so, La Propaganda noted in 1894, ‘‘at the cost of so many sacrifices’’ by themselves and their families.πΩ Because of their lack of financial resources, black university students usually had to work fulltime to support themselves, which slowed their progress and made it di≈cult for them to finish their degrees. Owing to his poverty, one such student, Juan Crisóstomo Díaz, began law school ‘‘at an age when many students are concluding their studies.’’ Another law student, Francisco Rondeau, worked full-time as an orderly in the Senate, which stretched his studies to almost a decade.∫≠ Even after these sacrifices, none of the black law graduates achieved success in their careers. ‘‘Even after receiving his law degree,’’ reported this noble race 41

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

La Regeneración, Juan Crisóstomo Díaz ‘‘lived in the obscurity to which his origins consigned him . . . watching from day to day as so many passed him by, boasting merits far inferior to his own.’’ Unable to support himself, Díaz sank into poverty and died in 1885 of tuberculosis.∫∞ Rondeau, the best known of the black lawyers, did manage to earn a living from his profession. But he concluded his career feeling ‘‘deeply pained by his unjust omission from the public administration’’—that is, by his failure to obtain a position in the state bureaucracy.∫≤ Rondeau’s pursuit of public employment had led him to write to President Julio Herrera y Obes in 1892, charging that racial barriers were preventing him from obtaining a state job. The president responded that ‘‘if there is one country in which democracy is a practical reality, it is ours. [In Uruguay] nobody asks a man where he comes from, but rather what he is worth and where he is going.’’ He went on to advise Rondeau that ‘‘the color black is only a cause of shame and scorn when it is reflected in [one’s] conscience. Try to keep your conscience always white, and to not let the black color of your face matter.’’∫≥ Shortly after, Rondeau was hired to work as an orderly in the Senate, a position he held during his years at the university. Following his graduation in 1901, he requested an appointment commensurate with his new status, but no such job was forthcoming. The editors of La Verdad were probably referring to Rondeau when in 1912 they reflected on the questionable value, for a black person, of a university degree. ‘‘Without a doubt it is very lovely, very honorable, to count among the members of the family one who holds a university degree.’’ Yet what happens to those university graduates when they go out into the world to seek work? Even though ‘‘in our beloved country up until the present time there exists no racial antagonism, unlike other countries, at least ostensibly, even so, we say, the men of our class, once having finished their studies, and even when these studies have been concluded in the most brilliant manner that one could ask, do not find a suitable environment to develop their activities and apply to good advantage the knowledge acquired at the university.’’ The paper did not go on to reflect on why this was the case; but given these conditions, it concluded, the meager rewards of a university degree did not justify the immense investment of time, energy, and family resources required to obtain it. Better instead to learn a trade and set oneself up in one’s own small business, free of control by a boss or employer.∫∂ 42 this noble race

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

The Sociedad de Color The fate of the black lawyers (to whom we can add Jacinto Ventura de Molina, who died in poverty in 1841) made clear the limits of black upward mobility in late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century Montevideo. Further defining these limits were the restrictions on AfroUruguayans’ freedom to enter the social clubs, society dances, and other entertainment venues reserved for the city’s middle and upper classes. ‘‘It’s raining clubs,’’ La Tribuna reported in 1869. ‘‘Club fever is claiming many victims.’’∫∑ In a broad social movement very similar to what was taking place in Buenos Aires at the same time, during the second half of the 1800s Montevideans founded a multitude of civic, social, and cultural organizations: political clubs tied to specific candidates and parties; immigrant mutual aid societies, defined by European ethnicity; literary, drama, musical, and artistic groups; and upper- and middleclass social clubs.∫∏ Afro-Uruguayans were very much a part of this movement, though a racially segregated part. Informally barred from joining the white organizations (outright racial prohibitions would have violated the country’s guarantees of civic equality), Afro-Uruguayans constructed their own parallel entities: political clubs (the Club Defensa and the Club Igualdad); a mutual aid society (the Sociedad del Socorro); numerous Carnival groups (see chapter 2); social clubs (Club Regeneración, Centro Social de Señoritas); and, to chronicle the activities of all these organizations, the black newspapers. The goals of the black organizations are suggested in the statutes of the Sociedad Pobres Negros Orientales (Society of Poor Uruguayan Blacks, founded in 1869) and the Club Social 25 de Agosto (25 August Social Club, 1913).∫π Both charters stressed the importance of having ‘‘a meeting place’’ or ‘‘social center’’ where ‘‘the colored class’’ (Pobres Negros) or ‘‘colored society’’ (25 de Agosto) could gather to cultivate ‘‘the greatest harmony and union among persons of color’’ (Pobres Negros) and ‘‘the moral and social uplifting of the collectivity’’ (25 de Agosto). Members were required to be ‘‘persons of morality and order’’ and to maintain public decorum at all times. In hopes of maintaining that decorum, the Club Social 25 de Agosto specifically barred members from discussing politics or religion at club functions. Both organizations focused on the arts. The Club Social 25 de Agosto this noble race 43

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

sought to ‘‘cultivate the love of literature by organizing public readings, lectures, and other similar activities such as the presentation of dramas, comedies, and so on.’’ It also maintained a small library inherited from the Club Regeneración, which had closed its doors in 1899.∫∫ The Pobres Negros Orientales sponsored a music academy that o√ered lessons in piano, violin, flute, guitar, and voice, teaching members ‘‘a useful art that can serve for recreation and at the same time as a means to earn one’s living.’’ Members met monthly for a collective practice, followed by a dance for members only. Twice a year—in July and on the first Sunday after Carnival—the club held public dances open to all. The Pobres Negros thus provided an essential service to the AfroUruguayan community. In nineteenth-century Latin America, ‘‘almost everyone danced,’’ reports historian John Chasteen, and Montevideo was no exception.∫Ω During the first half of the 1800s, Africans and AfroUruguayans had gathered at the candombes held by the African nations. Beginning in the 1850s, however, the Africans’ Uruguayan-born children and grandchildren began to turn away from the candombes in favor of more ‘‘civilized’’ and modern imports from Europe. Reporting on the Christmas dances of 1857, the Comercio del Plata reported that, while the Africans remained devoted to their candombes, ‘‘the new generation, especially the women, disdains these relics of their ancestors. The young and pretty black women ardently give themselves up to the delights of the polka, the mazurka, the waltz.’’Ω≠ That same year, another newspaper, La Nación, ran a semihumorous piece about a young white woman who brought her black maid to a masquerade ball at the aristocratic Teatro Solís. Her face and skin concealed by her mask, costume, and gloves, the maid danced gaily all night. When her identity was finally revealed at the end of the ball, the partner with whom she had danced most of the night was horrified and demanded satisfaction (i.e., a duel) for the ‘‘insult’’ he had su√ered.Ω∞ Even if apocryphal, this story suggests the line of racial segregation that prevailed at ‘‘society’’ dances. That line was seldom explicit: when a producer of Carnival dances ran an advertisement in 1882 ‘‘absolutely prohibiting’’ admission to ‘‘people of color,’’ public protests from AfroUruguayan leaders got the prohibition overturned.Ω≤ Nevertheless, a clear system of informal racial strictures ruled. An 1873 article in the mainstream newspaper La Democracia reported on two Carnival masquerade balls, one for whites at the Teatro Solís, the other for the ‘‘society of color’’ at the Teatro Nacional. The two events promised to be 44 this noble race

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

‘‘each of its kind, of the highest quality.’’ While ‘‘the dance at the Solís [was] intended for polite society [gente de buen tono],’’ the dance at the Teatro Nacional would ‘‘go down in the annals of the society of color.’’ The paper congratulated the men planning to attend, who would find ‘‘something on o√er for every taste . . . from blue-eyed blondes to kinkyhaired women with jet-black skin.’’ The challenge, the paper suggested, would be in detecting who was who behind their masks, though ‘‘even with their faces covered, the women at the Teatro Nacional . . . can’t deny their color.’’Ω≥ Public dances in more ‘‘democratic’’ and ‘‘popular’’ venues—secondand third-tier theaters, dance halls, and ‘‘academies’’—did not enforce racial strictures. But such settings were also the scene of prostitution and casual sex, which made them unsuitable for black families seeking to preserve their daughters’ honor and marriage prospects. For these families, barred from the white ‘‘society dances’’ and unwilling to attend the ‘‘popular’’ dances, the only alternative was to create their own version of the former. This was one of the principal functions of the black social clubs and of a small cadre of Afro-Uruguayan businessmen who found economic opportunity in producing ballroom dances for the would-be black middle class. Of these entrepreneurs, the most successful and best known was Eulogio Alsina, an Afro-Argentine from Buenos Aires. During the 1870s and 1880s, Alsina established himself as ‘‘the model industrialist, the indefatigable entrepreneur of Carnival dances,’’ and as the ‘‘revolutionary’’ who weaned young Afro-Uruguayans from the candombe and taught them to ‘‘dance national [i.e., no longer African], that is to say: quadrilles, waltzes, polkas, etc.’’ For the white and black press alike, Alsina set the standard for fashion, modernity, elegance, and respectability. ‘‘To see the good order and composure that reigns [at his dances], one would think that, rather than at a public dance, you were at a formal ball at the royal court of Haiti.’’Ω∂ The black newspaper La Regeneración reported on a masquerade ball put on by Alsina in the closing days of the 1885 Carnival. It was a brilliant occasion. Once in the hall my joy grew as I saw the Mysterious Ones, in their fantastic black dresses covered with golden stars; the Improvisers of 85, dressed in red, somewhat Mephistophelean it seemed; the Pilgrims dressed in blue and white, definitely a contrast, since I don’t know that any pilgrim ever wore clothes of these colors. . . . We went into the this noble race 45

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

second room, and met a nameless group of girls dressed in black, with white sheets, Sisters of Charity with faces so pale and languid that they looked as though they had fasted all through Carnival; and another group of young women overflowing with beauty, dressed in costumes that inflamed more than one onlooker.Ω∑ Forty-five years after the event, doña Melchora Morales recalled the 1900 Carnival dance that was

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

my first presentation in society. . . . Everything was beauty and distinction, the hall tastefully and colorfully decorated, an orchestra, and what an orchestra! . . . Girls wearing splendid dresses and costumes. . . . A bu√et lacking nothing, and everything served with delicacy and care; and at the end of each part of the program, the young men with their partners went to invite the mothers, and everybody sat down at the tables, overflowing with joy, and had the most wonderful time. . . . Golden times . . . yes sir, golden, pure gold.Ω∏ For a people systematically marginalized and looked down on, its majority living in poverty (doña Melchora worked as a laundress), the dances represented all the good things lacking in their daily life: elegant surroundings and clothing; abundant food, beautifully served; and the pleasures of music, dance, and sociability. No wonder, then, that the dances, su√used with a golden glow, were a recurrent topic in the black papers’ social columns and a central focus of Afro-Uruguayan community life.Ωπ In 1912 the community was electrified by news that the city government had decided to include as part of that year’s Carnival a municipally sponsored public dance at the Teatro Cibils for the ‘‘society of color.’’ To twenty-first-century eyes, such an event smacks of, and in fact was, statemandated racial segregation. Afro-Uruguayans, however, were so accustomed to de facto segregation in the city’s clubs and theaters that they saw nothing objectionable in this proposal. To the contrary, for the city to fund such an event was considered a breakthrough. ‘‘Never before has our class been included in events of this sort. . . . At last our hour has come. Our poor race, which has o√ered so much valuable service, in all the arenas of communal life. Our race, which has always been the prototype of faithfulness and valor . . . is beginning to reap the fruits of its perseverance and faithfulness.’’Ω∫ The city selected the Agrupación Pro-Centro de la Raza, the leading 46 this noble race

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

black civic organization at the time, to organize the dance. This immediately provoked bitter infighting within the organization for control of the funds provided by the municipality. The city government intervened to create a committee of the organization’s members to mediate the dispute, and that committee promptly handed over control of the funds to the group’s female auxiliary, the Comisión de Señoras y Señoritas. This decision, which enraged some of the Agrupación’s male members, was in fact a reflection of women’s long-standing role as the organizers and sustainers of black community life. While supposedly occupying a secondary, auxiliary role in the black social clubs and civic organizations, women were in fact largely responsible for the maintenance of these organizations, beginning with the black press. In the absence of regularly paid dues or subscription fees, the black papers, like the black organizations more generally, relied heavily on benefit dances, bazaars, raΔes, and theatrical performances.ΩΩ These were almost always organized, not by the men who ran the papers, but by their female supporters. La Regeneración, struggling to cover its bills, announced in 1885 that an anonymous female benefactor had come forward, o√ering to organize a benefit for the paper. ‘‘This is not the first time, nor will it be the last, that a woman distinguishes herself in our social life’’ by taking on the work of supporting black institutions. While men sit around talking and wasting time, women ‘‘carry out their ideas in practice.’’ This had been the experience as well, the editors noted, with the mutual aid society Sociedad del Socorro, whose female members had raised the money to build the organization’s mausoleum in the city’s Cementerio Central.∞≠≠ While the editors of the black papers consistently acknowledged women’s support of their work, some expressed uneasiness about the papers’ financial dependence on activities such as dances and raΔes. The social clubs and recreational societies would do better to remove the word ‘‘recreational’’ from their names, sermonized La Propaganda in 1893, and instead devote themselves to education, sponsoring libraries, and the fine arts, rather than to dances and other frivolous activities.∞≠∞ The community was far from ready to commit to those more serious pastimes, however, as the male organizers of a benefit for the paper discovered in 1911. Of 256 invitations sent out for the a√air, only five were accepted, and the event was canceled.∞≠≤ Other critics, and occasionally the papers themselves, charged the organizers of the benefit dances and raΔes with financial double-dealing, and with keeping for themselves part of the money raised.∞≠≥ While it is this noble race 47

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

unclear how much truth there was to these charges, there is no question that the dances were major moneymakers and significant business enterprises in Montevideo’s black community. When added to black women’s equally crucial role as wage earners and sole sources of support in many families, this resulted in considerable tension and ambivalence within the black papers over the gender roles appropriate for black women. On the one hand, black families, and the community more generally, could not dispense with the income generated by female work and enterprise. But women’s centrality in family and community political economy contradicted the principles of domesticity and gender subordination at the heart of Uruguayan middle- and upper-class life, which upwardly mobile Afro-Uruguayans sought to emulate.∞≠∂ Conflicts over gender ideology emerged clearly in a 1911 article in La Verdad, ‘‘In Favor of Female Education.’’ As the title suggests, the author (Margot, a pseudonym) expressed her strong support for female education, and for women’s adopting an active, take-charge approach to life. Women should not depend on men for their financial well-being, or prepare themselves exclusively for marriage. Mothers should ‘‘teach daughters that work is the source of happiness’’ and educate them to take up useful, productive employment.∞≠∑ Then abruptly shifting course, Margot proceeded to observe that work was also ‘‘the most powerful antidote against wrinkles.’’ And while women should not devote themselves exclusively to getting ready for marriage, to prepare girls for their future struggles, they must be taught how to su√er in silence. Make them see how ridiculous is a whining, complaining woman, how unpleasant she makes her own life and that of others. Make them understand that being soft and delicate is not the way to please a man, and that for a father, a brother, or a husband, coming home tired from work, finding a cheerful woman, full of life, is more attractive than the sight of a ‘‘maja’’ reclining on her couch, unable to move or smile because she has a headache.∞≠∏ While Margot endorsed the idea that women should be strong, active, and competent, her strongest argument in favor of these qualities was that they would please and attract men by concealing women’s exhaustion. With occasional exceptions, this proved to be the orientation of the black papers—which, not coincidentally, were written almost entirely by men, some of whom adopted female pseudonyms to write advice col48 this noble race

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

umns to their female readers (Margot herself may very well have been male). ‘‘The good woman is like wheat bread,’’ concluded La Propaganda in 1893. ‘‘She seems insipid, but we can’t do without her, like the air that we cannot see but that enables us to live. Her heart, her life, belong to others; she consecrates herself eternally, we feel that she is ours. We drink from her soul, we squeeze it and take from it, as from a treasure belonging to all.’’∞≠π Like the Columbus Day velada of 1892, the 1912 Carnival dances at the Teatro Cibils were acclaimed by the black and white press alike as evidence of the sociedad de color’s progress and civilization. ‘‘As is natural,’’ reported El Día, ‘‘the dances were just for them, the people of color. And few stayed away: by midnight on both days, the joy and enthusiasm were unflagging. They danced in every style, always with grace.’’∞≠∫ ‘‘I had no idea that you held events in such a cultivated way,’’ the director of the city’s Comisión de Fiestas reportedly observed to the dances’ organizers. He promised more such events for the 1913 Carnival, to which the black newspaper La Verdad could ‘‘not find words to express our thanks. This is the first time that the public authorities have included our race in this kind of event.’’ Credit for the dances, it concluded, should go to the Comisión de Señoras y Señoritas that had organized the event, and particularly its chair, ‘‘the active young woman Adelina Pardo . . . the true heroine of the day.’’∞≠Ω Further enlivening the festivities at the Cibils were performances by three Carnival comparsas: the Pobres Negros Orientales (Poor Uruguayan Blacks), the Hijos del Congo (Sons of the Congo), and the Esclavos del Congo (Slaves of the Congo). Dressed in their Carnival costumes, the groups played candombes, tangos, and milongas for the crowd to dance to. But the candombes they performed were no longer those played and sung by the African nations one hundred years before. During the second half of the 1800s, the comparsas had developed a new form of candombe that had taken Carnival and Montevideo by storm. We turn now to the process of creation and innovation through which that new national music came to be.

this noble race 49

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

chapter two

remembering africa

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Comparsas and Candombe, 1870–1950

Carnival, the citywide celebration that precedes the self-denial and asceticism of Lent, is one of the high points of Montevideo’s cultural calendar. From the early 1800s to the present, inhabitants of the city have donned their costumes and taken to the streets to celebrate the annual overturning and remaking of the everyday. Perhaps never do societies so clearly reveal themselves, suggests the historian Milita Alfaro, as at such moments. ‘‘To look at a society at play . . . is to draw closer to a singularly rich world in which fantasies, desires, conflicts, and representations of the collective unconscious all flourish.’’∞ In her three-volume history of Montevideo’s Carnival, Alfaro examines the transition from the ‘‘barbarous,’’ anarchic Carnival of the first half of the 1800s to the ‘‘disciplined,’’ state-regulated Carnival of the second half of the century. This in turn was part of a larger process, she argues, of imposing European models of order and modernity on a turbulent, frontier society.≤ Since African cultural practices were core components both of Uruguayan ‘‘barbarism’’ and of Uruguayan Carnival, inevitably the drive toward modernity had major impacts on these practices, though not perhaps the impacts we might expect. Rather than doing away with African cultural forms, a modernizing Carnival incorporated African-based music, song, and dance as central and ever more popular elements of the annual festivities. In the process, the candombes of the African nations became something new and di√erent: the popular, commercially successful music of a cosmopolitan, twentieth-century American capital.≥ And that music was created, not by the city o≈cials

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

governing Carnival, but by the musicians, composers, and performers who came together each year to celebrate the feast of the flesh.

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Black Comparsas One of the first steps in modernizing Carnival was raising the performance standards for the comparsas, groups that paraded through the streets during Carnival singing humorous songs and playing pranks on passersby. Between 1867 and 1872 the number of such groups more than quadrupled, from 12 to 54; by 1879 La Tribuna was lamenting the passing of ‘‘the improvised family comparsas in which everyone took part, including the grandmothers,’’ now pushed aside by ‘‘groups governed by regulations and ordered around by a director.’’∂ These new groups represented a variety of carnivalesque identities: gauchos, workers, sailors, European immigrants, cooks, señoritas, society matrons, and others. Among the most popular were the comparsas de negros, of which the first was the Raza Africana (African Race), founded in 1867. In its name and its song lyrics, as we shall see, the group’s members celebrated their African ancestry. Somewhat more circumspect were the Pobres Negros Orientales (Poor Uruguayan Blacks), mentioned in chapter 1. While admitting both their poverty and their blackness, the Pobres Negros simultaneously insisted on their standing as native-born orientales, or Uruguayans.∑ As stated in its charter, the group’s principal goal was to create a music academy o√ering instruction in the instruments of European civilization (piano, violin, flute, and guitar). At the same time, however, the comparsa did not completely reject its African past: ‘‘tambourines, castanets, drums, cymbals, triangles, and other African implements for the accompaniment of music are also understood to be instruments.’’ Though no instruction was o√ered in these instruments, it was assumed that members would know how to play them and would incorporate them into the group’s performances.∏ A third black comparsa, the Negros Argentinos, followed the Pobres Negros in opting for an American identity over an African one. All three groups, however (and other black comparsas, whose racial composition was not specified in their names or in newspaper accounts, and who therefore remain unknown), saw African instruments and the music that they made as too rich a cultural resource to abandon. As the black comparsas combined the drums and rhythms of candombe with melodies, remembering africa 51

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

chords, and instruments derived from Europe, they found themselves creating a new form of music and dance that they called ‘‘tango.’’ Since the early 1800s, the word had been used in Buenos Aires and Montevideo to refer to the drum-based music played by Africans and to the dances at which that music was played. As such, ‘‘tango’’ was interchangeable with candombe; and this new form of tango contained ‘‘unmistakable echoes’’ of the African candombes, recalled the journalist Vicente Rossi. Writing in the 1920s, Rossi described the tangos of the 1860s and 1870s as a kind of ‘‘Creolized candombe,’’ a simple but tremendously appealing musical and dance form that ‘‘conserved African harmony in sharp, stuttering notes that culminated in nervous, breaking drum rolls.’’π Africa was present not just in the black comparsas’ music and instruments but in their song lyrics as well. Di√erent groups addressed their African heritage in di√erent ways, as we see when we compare lyrics performed by the Pobres Negros Orientales and the Raza Africana.∫ Following the lead of white poets and journalists who portrayed enslaved and free Africans speaking heavily accented and grammatically incorrect Spanish, the Pobres Negros performed numerous songs in black dialect, in many of which African men expressed amorous longing for their white amitas (owners or mistresses). That longing was supposedly so overpowering that in several songs black men who had won freedom o√ered to reenslave themselves through love. In one piece the singer o√ered to carry his mistress’s rug to church, a common function of household slaves in Montevideo; in another, the entire comparsa o√ered to serve as the rug under their mistresses’ feet.Ω In yet another, the singer recalled how I was a slave, my lady, On a plantation in Brazil, And now that I’ve seen your eyes, I wish to serve as your slave still.∞≠ Of course these songs were part of the playful humor of Carnival and not meant to be taken literally.∞∞ But for members of the Raza Africana, it appears, humorous presentation of themselves as slaves cut too close to the bone, with the result that this lyrical device was completely absent in their songs. They did occasionally use black dialect, but more sparingly and in less heavy-handed fashion (e.g., the mispronunciations of words were less extreme) than in the lyrics of the Pobres Negros. Nor did the 52 remembering africa

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Raza Africana pursue white women; rather, its attention was directed toward negras and morenas, as suggested in its 1870 ‘‘Canción de ‘la Raza Africana.’ ’’ The black women dance tango, And black men, the same measure. Here we feel no pain, We all feel only pleasure.∞≤ By the second half of the 1870s, the Pobres Negros had joined the Raza Africana in acknowledging black women’s appeal, which was clearly di√erentiated from that of white women. While the latter remained distant, untouchable, and in a position of clear superiority to black men, black women were readily accessible, both socially and physically. As the Raza Africana had already suggested in 1870, and as the Pobres Negros now (in 1876) agreed, they were especially desirable as dance partners.

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

What a pretty dance—mi negra Jesus, how lovely—shake Your body, just a little. Like that! Like that! Like that! Just like that! Look at those legs—how lovely. I’m happy—I swear. Come with me, morena, Come, come, Come, come.∞≥ The Raza Africana was slightly more restrained in its lyrics, but the intent was no less clear. Ay, mi negra, what a delicious dance! Oh, the way it makes me feel! My blood is boiling, I’m burning up, I’m about to die—this thing’s for real!∞∂ In addition to love, hot rhythm, and dance, the black comparsas also commented on the political events of the day. In 1873 the Pobres Negros Orientales lampooned the presidential elections of that year as a struggle between competing factions of ‘‘candomberos’’ (devotees of candombe; on the political meanings of this term, see chapter 1) and ‘‘cancaneros’’ (deremembering africa 53

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

votees of the French cancan). In 1877 the Raza Africana humorously addressed the challenges faced by the recently installed dictatorship of Lorenzo Latorre, while also pledging its loyalty to the Colorado party. The previous year the group even managed to make inflation and government monetary policy the subject of a tango. ‘‘For a ten-peso note, I swear, you won’t even get three [pesos]. . . . No one wants them, not even as wrapping paper.’’∞∑ Among the political issues addressed by the Afro-Uruguayan comparsas, race figured for the Raza Africana but not for the Pobres Negros. In 1872 the Raza Africana hired the white lyricist Julio Figueroa to write lyrics for an unusually (in the context of Carnival) somber piece condemning racial prejudice and discrimination. Because nature gave us faces As dark and black as night, For white people we’re pariahs, Rejected by society outright. To servitude they condemn us, To shame and humiliation, With no comprehension or understanding Of our pain and our privation.∞∏

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

The following year the group again protested white people’s treatment of Afro-Uruguayans and reminded listeners of black men’s military service to the nation. Though our faces are black, And our color they condemn, And we seem to be, with reason, A degraded race to them, In their times of pain and struggle, And on more than one occasion, They owed to black men’s e√orts The glory and triumph of the nation.∞π The Pobres Negros Orientales, by contrast, never touched on racial prejudice and discrimination, save in a brief toast in 1878 to Momus, the Greek god of mockery and satire who oversees Carnival. ‘‘Only he can get blacks and whites to mix, other than in the tomb.’’ Only during Carnival (and in death) were blacks and whites free to cross racial barriers and come together.∞∫ 54 remembering africa

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

White Comparsas The Pobres Negros Orientales’ toast to Momus echoed a similar toast to the spirit of Carnival made by another comparsa, the Negros Lubolos, the year before (1877).

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

If blacks and whites today are Mixed up in the same class, Only during Carnival Can such madness last.∞Ω To judge by their name, the Negros Lubolos were another of the AfroUruguayan comparsas. And indeed, they had much in common with these groups. They wore similar costumes, played the same instruments —a combination of European wind and string instruments and African drums—and sang and danced tangos based on African candombe. But unlike the Afro-Uruguayan comparsas, the Negros Lubolos included no female members. And unlike the Afro-Uruguayan comparsas, they included no black members. Every member of the Negros Lubolos was a young white man, of either middle- or upper-class background. Their goal, they announced at their first appearances in 1876, was ‘‘to make known among the public the customs of the old Negroes,’’ that is, of the African nations. In order to do this, they dressed in costumes reminiscent (supposedly) of the nations, trained themselves in ‘‘the songs and dances . . . that the blacks do at their candombes,’’ and, using burnt cork and soot, ‘‘dyed themselves perfectly black.’’≤≠ They were not the first Carnival group to take up blackface. Across the Río de la Plata, in Buenos Aires, a popular blackface comparsa, the Negros, had been parading in Carnival since 1865, and there are references to two blackface groups, the Negros and the Negros Esclavos, taking part in the Montevideo Carnival beginning in 1868.≤∞ The Negros Esclavos disappeared in 1870 but were resurrected in 1876, the same year that the Negros Lubolos appeared on the scene. Both groups were drawn from ‘‘the most select young men of our society’’ and had the financial means to ‘‘spare no sacrifice in the purchase of truly original costumes.’’ The Negros Lubolos commissioned a magnificent flag ‘‘made of silk embroidered with gold and plush,’’ reported the newspaper El Ferro-carril. ‘‘They tell us that it cost quite a bit and we are not surprised, for it is a very fine piece of work.’’≤≤ remembering africa 55

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

The appearance of these blackface groups in the Carnival of 1876 was not entirely coincidental. In 1873, as part of its campaign to ‘‘civilize’’ Carnival, the municipal government had outlawed the juego de agua, the traditional Carnival practice of throwing water, eggs, and other liquidfilled missiles at passersby. Far from adding to the holiday, city authorities argued, the juego de agua forced most people, and especially members of the middle and upper classes, to stay indoors. Only with the banning of water-throwing could Carnival become a truly public and participatory event.≤≥ Vigilantly enforced by the city’s police, these new policies produced the desired result. Looking back on the Carnivals of 1873 and 1874, El Ferro-carril proclaimed the ‘‘splendid victory of civilization’’ and congratulated the city on the ‘‘magnificent and radical change’’ that had taken place seemingly overnight. No longer having to fear being soaked by water-throwers, ‘‘all classes’’—including the upper and middle classes —had turned out to take part ‘‘in the lovely, cheerful, and extremely popular festivities.’’ El Siglo concurred, contrasting the ‘‘civilized character’’ of the last two Carnivals with the sopping festivities of previous years and running a poem that concluded, ‘‘every barbarism comes to an end / Rest in peace, waterlogged Carnival.’’≤∂ Now free to celebrate Carnival without fear of being drenched, Montevideans donned their costumes and took to the streets to parade as gauchos, Turks, sailors, Italians, cooks, laundresses, and ‘‘redskins’’ (pieles rojas), to mention just a few of the most popular Carnival personae. But it was the role of negro, or more specifically, of negro lubolo (a white person parading in blackface), that seems to have proved most appealing, and over time most popular and enduring. In the absence of any recollections from the nineteenth-century negros lubolos as to why they donned blackface and imitated Africans, we might turn for help to studies of cross-racial mimicry in another American country at the same time: the United States. Eric Lott’s analysis of nineteenth-century minstrelsy makes several points that we can apply with profit to the blackface comparsas of Montevideo. First, minstrelsy was ‘‘a principal site of struggle in and over the culture of black people. . . . It was based on a profound white investment in black culture’’ characterized by ‘‘the dialectical flickering of racial insult and racial envy, moments of domination and moments of liberation.’’ Second, that dialectical flickering had a powerful sexual dimension based on 56 remembering africa

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

‘‘white men’s fascination with and attraction to black men and their culture’’ and, at the same time, their fear of black men. Finally, through minstrelsy white men used black characters as ‘‘ventriloquists’ puppets’’ to voice a series of anxieties and preoccupations concerning the place of whiteness, of masculinity, and of social class in American life. In so doing, minstrel performances played a central role in ‘‘marking’’ the boundaries of class, race, and gender in the United States.≤∑ Was something similar going on in Uruguay? As we have seen, beginning with the African nations, white Uruguayans were indeed ‘‘profoundly invested’’ in black culture. And that investment displayed much the same ‘‘dialectical flickering of racial insult and racial envy’’ that Lott finds in the United States. White Montevideans found the African candombes simultaneously ridiculous and irresistible. Sexual themes are not terribly visible in contemporary descriptions of the nineteenth-century candombes (though the frequent references to the pretty young girls who came to hear them are suggestive); but they are unmistakable in the performances of the blackface comparsas (as in, of course, the AfroUruguayan comparsas). In seeking to recreate ‘‘the customs of the old Negroes,’’ the blackface comparsas began a century-long process of ‘‘white occupation’’ in which ‘‘white actors step into the social skin of [nonwhite] others . . ., enabling the continued production and maintenance of racial di√erence.’’≤∏ This occupation was carried out in part through the creation of the comparsas’ stock characters, two of which originated in the 1870s. One was an old black man, seemingly ‘‘one hundred years old, who always lagged behind the group, o√ering medicinal herbs and engaging in polite Africandialect conversation with onlookers.’’ The other was ‘‘the master of ceremonies, who was called the ‘broomsman’ because he used a broom as a symbol of command. . . . He had to be an expert candombero and equal to any challenge.’’≤π Readers familiar with present-day Montevidean Carnival will recognize in these figures the modern gramillero (herb doctor), an ancient black man, dressed in top hat and frock coat and carrying a bag of herbs, who, staggering along on his cane, is almost overcome by age but then is periodically inspired to fits of dancing by the powerful rhythms of candombe; and the escobero (broomsman), a graceful dancer who performs extraordinary feats of juggling and balance with his broom. Each figure embodies di√erent forms of black male power. Despite or because of his remembering africa 57

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

age (it took him years to acquire this knowledge) and his infirmity, the gramillero commands forces both natural and supernatural that can cure illness, inspire love, and bewitch one’s enemies.≤∫ The escobero, on the other hand, embodies the strength and grace of youth. He is a skilled gymnast, acrobat, and dancer whose broom/baton, alternately poised in delicate balance and then hurled high in the air, eloquently expresses his sexual power.≤Ω Sex was present as well in the songs sung by the blackface comparsas. These songs were not based directly on the music of the African nations but rather on the new tango-candombes of the Afro-Uruguayan comparsas. The tremendous success of this new musical and dance form, and young white men’s desire to try their hand at that form, was doubtless another reason for the appearance of blackface groups in the second half of the 1870s. In 1877 El Ferro-carril congratulated the Negros Lubolos for their success in writing and performing songs ‘‘that have the idiosyncratic air of the African tangos’’; and it is striking to see, in one of the group’s songs from that year, what may be the first appearance in print of the onomatopoeic formula that represents the clave rhythm of twentieth-century candombe.≥≠

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Borocotó, borocotó, chás, chás, Let’s go, moreno, it’s getting late. Borocotó, borocotó, chás, chás, And the little master is getting tired.≥∞ Since servility and deference to former masters were basic tropes of blackness in Montevideo, the blackface groups consistently paid their respects to their amitos (little masters). But like the Pobres Negros Orientales, they were primarily interested in their amitas (little mistresses). Beginning with the theme song of the first blackface comparsa in the Río de la Plata, the Buenos Aires group the Negros, a recurrent motif of such groups’ lyrics was the fiery but unrequited love between black(face) males and the white female objects of their adoration. Oh white girls! Have mercy! Hear the black man’s sad lament! Though our faces Are colored, We’re made of fire within.≥≤ 58 remembering africa

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

The Negros Lubolos followed directly in this line. Deep in my chest I feel a kind of burning. For that girl my heart dances And feels such a yearning. But because I am a black man We must remain apart; It seems like it’s a heresy That I might have a heart.≥≥

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

All the blackface groups worked this vein heavily. Doubtless they were doing so in part for comic e√ect—in their performances they were singing, after all, to the very white girls who would never ‘‘pay attention to a negro black as coal.’’≥∂ At the same time, however, these songs exemplify the ‘‘racial ventriloquism’’ identified by Lott: here ardent young white men employed racial strictures as a way to comment on the gender conventions that kept middle- and upper-class young men and women at arm’s length from each other in order to keep love’s fires from burning out of control.≥∑ The Nación Lubola used this device in a song expressing exasperation at the color line separating black men from beautiful young white women. If allowed to follow their hearts, the song suggests, white women would welcome the comparsa’s members as lovers. But standing in for gender conventions, racial barriers impede that natural attraction. To her the black man Can make no declaration. If he does, the poor thing Will lose her reputation. They look at us brightly, They wait for a word. What does the world want!? It’s all too absurd!≥∏ Despite their playful tone, these songs deeply inscribed the message of black men as unsuitable partners for romance or marriage, and as pariahs and outsiders in Uruguayan society. Further reinforcing that message were songs that ridiculed the negro pretencioso: pretentious black dandies aspiring to the status of ‘‘high-life’’ (the English word was used) and elite society while lacking the education, money, and social connections necessary to achieve that status.≥π remembering africa 59

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Yet at the same time that the blackface comparsas inscribed the message of black ‘‘otherness’’ and social inferiority, and practiced segregation in their own ranks, they occasionally attacked and criticized racial discrimination and inequality. Like the Raza Africana’s denunciations of racial discrimination, some of these songs are quite striking in their departure from the light-hearted quality of most Carnival compositions. They are somber, heavy, freighted with anger and resentment. Some songs recalled the torments of slavery and slaves’ struggle for freedom.≥∫ In some ways even harsher were the songs that reflected on what had happened to Africans and their descendents since emancipation. In 1883 the Negros Africanos denounced the forced conscription of black men into the army, while the Negros Gramillas protested the displacement of black street vendors by Italian competitors and called on the government to intervene on their behalf.≥Ω With the exception of the Raza Africana, the Afro-Uruguayan comparsas were much more restrained and circumspect in attacking racism or racial inequality than were the blackface groups. Doubtless young white men from the middle and upper classes felt themselves to be on firmer ground in attacking the established order (a time-honored function of Carnival), especially in the area of race. And it is not impossible that some of them were genuinely o√ended by the disparity between the republican principles of citizenship and equality and the reality of racial hierarchy and discrimination. Whatever the reasons, the Afro-Uruguayan comparsas were more likely to express their criticisms of Uruguayan race relations indirectly, by invoking a lost African paradise. In ‘‘Memories of the Fatherland,’’ performed by the Raza Africana, the (anonymous) composer recalls a happy childhood on the shores of the Danda River.∂≠ The sylvan forests of beautiful Africa Blessed me with shade and shelter and ease. The virgin flowers, drenched in perfume, I breathed in deeply on the fragrant breeze. The beauty and grace of this African life was destroyed by ‘‘the vile slave trader,’’ ‘‘the barbarous white man, hungry for gold.’’ Farewell forever to the shores of the Danda, To its deserts, its palm trees and forests, goodbye! Destiny chose to part us forever, Nevermore shall I see the African sky.∂∞ 60 remembering africa

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

This song neatly reversed the usual assumptions about African backwardness and European modernity. Here it was the white slave trader who represented barbarism, and the African rivers and forests a truly humane and human way of life. And while invocations of the patria would normally mean Uruguay, here the longed-for fatherland was Africa —a truly carnivalesque inversion.∂≤

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Proletarian Comparsas Songs invoking the beauties of Africa and the loss of the homeland were much in evidence in the Carnivals of the 1880s, by which point black and blackface comparsas had become the most important element of the annual festivities.∂≥ Among the twenty principal comparsas of the Carnival of 1882, thirteen were black or blackface, in addition to three visiting groups from Buenos Aires. In 1887, eleven out of nineteen groups were black or blackface; and in 1883, ‘‘the comparsas that paraded through our streets . . . were formed entirely of blacks (or whites painted as blacks), because now the craze is for sons of tropical Africa.’’∂∂ More than one Montevideo newspaper expressed misgivings on this score. ‘‘Can any student of human nature,’’ asked the English-language Montevideo Times in 1893, ‘‘explain why it is that the people of these countries, when they wish to disguise themselves, should show such an extraordinary preference for imitating low types of humanity such as the nigger and the Indian?’’∂∑ La Mosca (1892) expressed dismay at ‘‘the mania many whites have for blackening their faces in order to imitate the most backward race in the world’’; Montevideo Noticioso (1891) deplored ‘‘the tiresome spectacle of a dirty, sweaty mob of blacks shuffling through the streets, dressed in Carnival rags, to the sound of music (or noise) as monotonous as it is discordant.’’∂∏ ‘‘Basta de negros!’’ exclaimed El Siglo in 1905, urging the city not to encourage the formation of any more blackface comparsas. ‘‘Every one is heartily tired’’ of them, the Times agreed, ‘‘and longs to see something more original.’’∂π Yet that very year, when the comparsas threatened to boycott Carnival unless the city established a special competition for the sociedades de negros, the authorities caved in to the comparsas’ demands.∂∫ Why, if people were so ‘‘heartily tired’’ of the comparsas, did the city give in to them so readily? And why, when the comparsas turned out to play, did so many people come to see them that (in 1911) ‘‘the side-walks were impassible, and even the road-way was thronged’’ and (in 1916) the remembering africa 61

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

crowds were so thick that the comparsas were unable to push through them to the stage and the competition had to be canceled?∂Ω Clearly, what for middle- and upper-class observers had become tiresome and dull, for the population as a whole retained enormous appeal. And by the 1890s and early 1900s, that population, and the city’s working class, was increasingly asserting its presence in all aspects of urban life, including Carnival. Milita Alfaro notes in the 1890s ‘‘the first signs of a progressive distancing [from Carnival] by the upper classes who, in the 1900s, would definitively desert’’ the annual festivities. Somewhat anticipating this trend, in 1894 the Montevideo Times reported that the holiday had now been ‘‘delegated almost entirely to the lower classes, with the e√ect that a dull and monotonous vulgarity has become the predominant theme.’’ That ‘‘vulgarity’’ expressed itself in a clear preference for blackface candombe groups: ‘‘of the ‘comparsas’ that sallied forth into the streets [this year] there was hardly one worthy of a second glance, in fact they were nearly all reproductions of the eternal ‘nigger’ with burntcorked face, or the ‘marinero’ [sailor] in blue and white.’’∑≠ There was no shortage of ‘‘lower classes’’ to organize such groups. As European immigrants poured into the city, they crowded into conventillos—large, multiunit tenement buildings in which families would rent a single room, or even part of a room—in the center-city neighborhoods of Barrio Sur, Palermo, and Cordón.∑∞ These were the same neighborhoods that had housed the headquarters of the African nations and, by the late 1800s, the bulk of the city’s Afro-Uruguayan population; and in the conventillos the newly arrived immigrants listened to and learned, through direct contact, the music and dances of the Afro-Uruguayans. The immigrants learned as well that African-based music did not belong only to African-descended people. Middle- and upper-class negros lubolos had adopted the music as their own, to the wild applause of Carnival audiences. So strong was the blackface and Afro-Uruguayan presence in Carnival that, to a very high degree, to celebrate Carnival was to come listen to and watch the candombe/tangos of the African-based groups. Under these circumstances, one way to be, or to become, Uruguayan was to take part, either as performer or onlooker, in an African-based cultural form. During the late 1800s and into the 1900s, many European immigrants, and even more so their Uruguayan-born sons and grandsons, opted to do so. As these new working-class negros lubolos took up candombe, they did so in ways that borrowed selectively from the Afro-Uruguayan and middle- and upper-class comparsas lubolas that had 62 remembering africa

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

gone before them. From the blackface groups the working-class lubolos borrowed, obviously, the concept of blackface itself and of white people adopting African identities. They adopted the blackface groups’ all-male composition and the stock characters of the gramillero and escobero. From both the black and the white comparsas the working-class lubolos adopted the musical form of candombe/tango. And from the AfroUruguayan groups the working-class lubolos borrowed their principal lyrical themes: orgiastic dance, sexualized morenas, and a nostalgic looking back to Africa.∑≤ While borrowing from earlier Afro-Uruguayan and blackface comparsas, the new proletarian comparsas also departed from previous practice in several important ways. We will consider four innovations in particular: racial integration; the invention of a new ‘‘African’’ character, the mama vieja; and the adoption of a martial ‘‘warrior’’ identity—this last driven and supported by increased emphasis on African drums and percussion instruments. When the black and blackface comparsas first came into existence in the 1860s and 1870s, they were racially segregated. This probably continued into the 1880s and perhaps into the 1890s, though it is impossible to say for certain. Photographs of groups from these years do not survive; and perhaps because readers already knew which groups were which, newspapers did not comment on their racial composition. All the comparsas, whether Euro-Uruguayan or Afro-Uruguayan, were sociedades (or comparsas) de negros.∑≥ This silence on the racial composition of the comparsas makes it difficult, if not impossible, to detect the timing of a rather momentous change in that composition: by the first decade of the 1900s (and perhaps earlier), the groups were no longer segregated. Rather, they now included Afro- and Euro-Uruguayans, and European immigrants, together in the same organizations. Levels of integration varied considerably across the comparsas. The most important sociedad de negros of those years, the Esclavos de Nyanza, founded in 1900, was almost entirely white and drawn from Spanish and Italian immigrants living in the La Facala conventillo in the Palermo neighborhood. Fragmentary evidence suggests that, beginning with the Negros Esclavos in the 1860s, any group with the word Esclavos in its name was either entirely white or, in the 1900s, majority white. Afro-Uruguayans, it seems, were not eager to invoke that particular aspect of their past. Thus the Nyanzas, along with the other ‘‘slave’’ groups of the early 1900s— remembering africa 63

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Esclavos del Congo, Esclavos de La Habana, Esclavos de Asia, and others—were majority white. Each of these groups, however, included at least a few black members. One of the founders of the Nyanzas was Juan Delgado, the well-known Afro-Uruguayan soccer player and director of the group’s drum corps.∑∂ Playing a similar role in the majority-white Libertadores de Africa was the Afro-Uruguayan football star José Leandro Andrade, who, like Delgado, led the group’s drummers.∑∑ Another majority-white group was a new incarnation of the Pobres Negros Orientales. Having disbanded sometime in the 1880s, the comparsa was resurrected in 1894, this time as a white rather than AfroUruguayan group. The black newspaper La Propaganda asked who had authorized this ‘‘usurpation’’ of the Pobres Negros’ name and expressed regret that the comparsa’s original founder, José Lisandro Pérez, was no longer alive to contest it. However, by 1912 the Pobres Negros, while remaining majority white, had picked up a few black members. Perhaps as a result, they were invited to play at that year’s Carnival dances for the sociedad de color at the Teatro Cibils.∑∏ More mixed in composition, and more or less equally divided between whites and blacks, were the Congos Humildes, founded in 1907, and the Guerreros del Sur.∑π Other groups were racially mixed but, lacking photographic or other evidence concerning their racial composition, we cannot know in what proportions. These included the Pobres Negros Cubanos (founded in the 1890s), Pobres Negros Hacheros (1896), Hijos de La Habana (1912), Guerreros de las Selvas Africanas (1915), Libertadores de La Habana (1915), and others.∑∫ Regardless of their racial composition, all the comparsas proclaimed the ‘‘hotness’’ of their rhythm. ‘‘When we hear that beat / our bodies shake / as though we were getting / electric shocks,’’ sang the Guerreros de las Selvas Africanas in 1916.∑Ω Or the Congos Humildes (1912): It was something to see, When we danced it in the Congo, How our bodies used to shimmy As they struck up the tango. Beat the drum, compañero, Even if you break it. This song and this dance Will make the Congos shake it. Our burning chests 64 remembering africa

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Are soaked with sweat, Dancing this tango, The hottest one yet.∏≠ ‘‘Hot’’ rhythm was rhythm that compelled its listeners to move; indeed, that left them no recourse but to move, ‘‘as though we were getting electric shocks.’’∏∞ That movement took place through dance, which immediately raised the question: with whom did one dance these potent rhythms? The Pobres Negros Hacheros proclaimed themselves ready to dance with any young woman, regardless of race: ‘‘come, white girls and morenas / color doesn’t matter / as long as you can break it, / dance the tango and shake it.’’∏≤ Most groups, however, preferred the ‘‘bewitching morena’’ invoked by the Lanceros del Plata, ‘‘who moved her hips so gracefully / inscribing in my memory / the kisses we exchanged / when together we danced a tango nacional.’’∏≥ The middle- and upper-class lubolos of the 1860s and 1870s had avoided black women, focusing instead on young white women of their own class. Retracing the steps of the Afro-Uruguayan comparsas, the proletarian groups now turned back to the dark-skinned morena. At the same time, however, they sought to keep her sexuality under control by transforming her into a new ‘‘African’’ character comparable to the gramillero and escobero. This was the mama vieja (also known as the negra vieja), the ‘‘old mother,’’ an elderly black woman wearing a long, full skirt pu√ed out by white petticoats, a pu√-sleeved white blouse, and a colorful head cloth. Usually carrying a fan or an umbrella, she dances a graceful, hip-swinging candombe with her equally aged partner, the gramillero.∏∂ Today an essential element of the comparsas, the mama vieja did not actually appear on the scene until the early 1900s. And while today her role is danced by females, during the early 1900s it was danced by crossdressing males.∏∑ Why did the mama vieja appear in Carnival at that time? In the absence of any explanations by comparsa members, we can only speculate. Like the escobero and gramillero, the mama vieja expressed a specifically ‘‘black’’ form of power; indeed, several forms of power. She was the Black Mother who cared for, nourished, and raised white and black children alike.∏∏ She was the trusted servant and domestic manager responsible for the smooth operation of upper- and middleclass Montevidean homes. And in some cases (we cannot know how many) she was the mistress or sexual initiator of the male members of elite families.∏π remembering africa 65

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Gramillero and mama vieja, 1957. (Author’s collection)

66 remembering africa

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Escobero, mama vieja, and gramillero, 1964. (Archivo Fotográfico de Montevideo)

By 1900 African women had almost disappeared from Montevideo; and those few who remained were reluctant to expose themselves to public ridicule by ‘‘dancing ‘nation,’ ’’ that is, in African ways.∏∫ By creating the character of the mama vieja, the comparsas appropriated to themselves this figure deeply symbolic of maternal, domestic, and sexual power. This appropriation was simultaneously class-based (proletarian comparsas appropriating a figure closely tied to the Montevidean upper class), racial (never again would African women refuse to entertain white people by ‘‘dancing nation’’), and sexual. And if in many cases these African women were in fact European men, all the better for the richly comic possibilities this created.∏Ω Montevideans had long poked fun at the disparity between the Africans’ solemn dignity and their lowly social status; now they could laugh even harder at the yawning gap remembering africa 67

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

between the mama vieja’s aging black femininity and her impersonators’ youthful white manliness. In addition to serenading morenas, both young and ‘‘hot,’’ and old and comic, the working-class comparsas also imitated the black comparsas’ nostalgic invocations of their African homeland. Exhibit number 1 of this tendency was the most important comparsa of the early 1900s, the Esclavos de Nyanza. Composed almost entirely of European immigrants, the Nyanzas’ songs vividly expressed the melancholy of migration, of having left their homeland across the ocean, quite possibly forever, and come to a new land. Yet that melancholy was expressed in terms of longing not for Europe but rather for a mythical, Edenic homeland in Africa.

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Far from our homeland, The hearts of the Nyanzas Swell as we remember The land of our dreams. The Creator, in his wisdom, Formed your virgin soil, your Eden. . . . Gentle, sublime land, That of East Africa. Only to you, lovely garden, Do I pledge my youthful soul.π≠ Recalling an Edenic Africa was one response to the immigrants’ displacement to a new land and to their outsider status in Montevideo. Another was to adopt an aggressively masculine ethos of warrior pride, courage, and physical valor, often expressed in relation both to the Nyanzas’ (supposedly) African past and to their historic struggle to escape slavery. Show your chests, Nyanzas! While cowards wail, The brave ones fight. We never ask—we demand Our long-sought freedom! Anything but slavery! Noble race oppressed by the yoke, Prepare your heroic legions, While in deepest Africa the lion Roars and shakes its mane!π∞ 68 remembering africa

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Warrior drummers, 1943. The tall man at left center is the football superstar José Leandro Andrade.

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

(Author’s collection)

Many of the comparsas expressed this martial quality in their names: Liberators of Africa, African Lancers, Warriors of the South, and African Warriors, to cite just a few. They expressed martial spirit in their behavior as well. The comparsas were fiercely competitive, and that competition erupted not infrequently into street brawling and violence. The Nyanzas were involved in numerous such incidents, including a famous battle with the Lanceros Africanos that overwhelmed the police and required intervention by troops from the Montevideo garrison.π≤ These confrontations usually occurred when rival groups met while parading through the streets. The comparsas would greet each other with thunderous volleys of massed drumming and competitive dancing by the escoberos, who, like modern break dancers, sought to outdo each other in skill and daring. If tempers ran too high, the confrontation would spill over into armed combat. The Montevideo Times reported on numerous such incidents, including one in 1903 in which ‘‘four rival comparsas of burnt-cork niggers came into collision, it is believed by preconcerted arrangement, and there was a general battle royal, in which sticks and stones were freely used, and some revolvers fired.’’ All the police of the district were called out, and eighty to ninety individuals were arrested.π≥ Massed drum corps formed the backdrop to these battles, both by initiating the confrontation and by laying down the rhythm that imposed military form and discipline on the comparsa. Where the AfroUruguayan and blackface groups of the 1860s, 1870s, and 1880s had sought to ‘‘civilize’’ the rhythms of the African nations with European remembering africa 69

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

instrumentation and melodies, the turn-of-the-century comparsas reversed that tendency by restoring the drums to center stage. It was during the 1890s, the historians Tomás Olivera Chirimini and Juan Antonio Varese observe, that ‘‘the drum began to impose itself as the basic element of the black comparsa, becoming its fundamental instrument’’ and the defining element, not just of the comparsas but of Carnival as a whole. ‘‘We are in the midst of Carnival,’’ announced the weekly magazine Caras y Caretas in 1892. ‘‘The news will not take you by surprise . . . because you will hear the traditional black comparsas’ bo-ro-co-ton’’ (the onomatopoeic rendering of the drumbeat of candombe).π∂ The Montevideo newspapers most vehement in their opposition to the comparsas also provide the clearest evidence of the groups’ immense popularity and of the drums’ role in producing that popularity. Mundo Uruguayo, an illustrated weekly magazine founded in 1919, routinely bemoaned Carnival’s ‘‘monotony and lack of originality’’ and ruthlessly lampooned the sociedades de negros.π∑ One of its cartoons followed the adventures of an African drummer (it was unclear from the drawing whether he was white or black) who, ‘‘after three months of continuous practice . . . sallies forth to strut his stu√ in the streets’’ and parades for three days without stopping. ‘‘The enthusiasm of the poor black free slave [a satirical takeo√ on the names of the comparsas] never flags. . . . Like a war horse, he hears the trumpet’s call, and the music of the parade drags him back into the fray.’’π∏ Another piece reported humorously on the Pobres Negros Desnudos (Poor Naked Blacks), a fictitious comparsa. As the group prepares for Carnival, practicing from 9:00 p.m. to 1:00 a.m. every night, neighbors living next to their headquarters ‘‘feel nothing other than the continuous beating of their drums and their poetic but thunderous songs.’’ One would think that the neighbors would object. But no: ‘‘infected by [the comparsa’s] magnificent enthusiasm, they rise from their beds and run to the rooftops, doors, and windows, to admire the frenzy and contortions of the blackfaced’’ drummers and dancers.ππ Memoirs of the early 1900s confirm the tremendous excitement and emotional response generated by the comparsas. As the drummers and dancers marched through the streets of the city, ‘‘the people came running out of their houses to admire them as they passed. These groups of negros lubolos . . . provoked in the public an enthusiasm that approached rapture, caused by the sonorous and continual beating of the drums, the 70 remembering africa

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

strident mazacallas [a type of maraca], the cheers and applause of the crowds on the sidewalks and the clamor of hundreds of boys and teenagers’’ who sought to imitate the drummers and dancers. ‘‘You can’t imagine how exciting it was,’’ recalled Pedro Ocampo, born in the Palermo neighborhood in 1912.π∫ Peeking out from the edges of turn-of-the-century descriptions of the comparsas are shadowy crowds of boys and adolescents too poor and young to take part in the groups but itching to do so. On 2 February 1902, the Montevideo Times complained bitterly about ‘‘that unmitigated nuisance the small street boy, whose idea of Carnival is to sit on the kerbstone [sic] beneath one’s window and beat a tin can or an improvised tom-tom for hours at a time, at all hours of the day and night, and whose misplaced energy is not confined to the days of Carnival proper but overflows for many days before and after, so that there is no peace in the land.’’ Eleven days later, the newspaper’s editorialist returned to the theme: ‘‘Any group of six, eight or ten dirty boys, with the tawdriest of finery or merely with their coats turned inside out, with their faces smudged with soot or mud, and armed with tin cans, are allowed to call themselves a ‘comparsa’ and to take possession of the principal streets day and night.’’πΩ In the Palermo neighborhood, several hundred such youths formed a particularly notorious group, the Embutido. Excluded from the other, more established groups because of their inability to pay for costumes, they wore everyday street clothes, ‘‘only painting their faces with soot or other dyes.’’ Such money as they had went toward the purchase of their ‘‘numerous drums and masacallas, with which they deafened the neighborhood.’’∫≠ Candombe drumming, which as recently as the 1850s and 1860s had been the exclusive patrimony of the city’s Africans, had now spread through the city’s working-class neighborhoods and been embraced by Euro-Uruguayans, Afro-Uruguayans, and European immigrants alike. In these neighborhoods it continued to play much the same role that it had in the African nations, as a potent vehicle of community-building and of social bonding. As such, the comparsas provided a cultural, performative counterpart to the labor unions forming in the city at the same time. Young men struggling to find their place in the class, gender, and racial hierarchies of a rapidly growing, modernizing city did so not just by joining unions but also by forming themselves into regiments of rhythm: crack fighting units that went into battle not with swords and guns but remembering africa 71

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

with drums and shakers, stars and moons. In so doing, they set the template for the sociedades de negros that paraded in Montevideo’s Carnival throughout the 1900s and into the twenty-first century.

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Show-Biz Comparsas: The Return of the Morena African drums provided the organizational vehicle, and a powerfully compelling voice, through which members of the city’s working class could ‘‘speak’’ to the rest of the city and make themselves heard. As they marched through the streets of Montevideo, the proletarian comparsas brought joy and alegría to Carnival merrymakers but not always to the city’s business and political elites who, having ‘‘civilized’’ Carnival in the late 1800s, now sought to turn the festival into a commercial attraction that would bring tourists from abroad. This led to the emergence of new kinds of Carnival groups, an increasing emphasis on staged theatrical performances, and, for the comparsas, the creation of the last and most important of their stock characters, the vedette. In 1913 the Montevideo Times reported on ‘‘the awakening recognition that this city is a gathering place for summer visitors from Argentina and Brazil, and that Carnival . . . is one of the culminating attractions of the summer season. To-day, therefore, it may be said that Carnival is being worked as a commercial enterprise, for the sake of the visitors it attracts.’’∫∞ Each year the weekly photo magazine Mundo Uruguayo reported on the city’s e√orts to produce a Carnival that would attract foreign visitors. It strongly endorsed the municipality’s decision in 1923 to start subsidizing the tablados, open-air stages erected in the city’s neighborhoods at which the comparsas and other Carnival groups were invited to perform and compete for prizes.∫≤ These subsidies, when added to financial support from neighborhood businesses and community organizations, led to a proliferation of tablados throughout the city. There were some 150 by the 1930s.∫≥ In 1944 the city inaugurated the Teatro del Verano, a large outdoor theater at which, beginning the following year, Carnival groups competed for municipal prizes.∫∂ With the rise of the tablados and the Teatro del Verano, expectations increased for more polished, ‘‘theatrical’’ shows and presentations by Carnival groups. This in turn generated new kinds of groups aimed at producing such shows; and in the development of these groups, international influences played a central role. ‘‘As the celebration of a decidedly cosmopolitan city, a port city open to the entire world,’’ observes 72 remembering africa

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

the journalist Alfredo Percovich, ‘‘the Uruguayan Carnival was a cannibalistic Carnival, absorbing everything that arrived from abroad.’’∫∑ Touring Spanish zarzuela companies inspired the formation of murgas, male choruses that donned clown-like costumes and makeup and sang satirical songs. First appearing around 1910, during the 1920s the murgas further developed their comic style by imitating the mannerisms of the U.S. comedians Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin.∫∏ Another form of Carnival group, originating in the 1920s, was the troupe, a male choral group inspired by Parisian music-hall reviews. Mostly or entirely white in composition, the troupes shared the nineteenth-century lubolos’ fascination with black music and embraced the African American (in the hemispheric sense) musical genres that were taking the French capital by storm: Brazilian maxixe (the predecessor to samba), U.S. ragtime and jazz, and Cuban rumba.∫π Also taking Paris by storm at that time was the archetypal, world-class morena, the African American performer Josephine Baker and her Revue Nègre. Baker’s ‘‘danse sauvage,’’ performed topless and wearing a girdle of dangling bananas, was a sensation in the French capital. News of her performances soon arrived in Montevideo, further fueling Uruguayan audiences’ fascination with sensual black women and providing rich lyrical material for the troupes.∫∫ ‘‘Don’t comb your kinks out,’’ pleaded one such song; ‘‘Give me some chocolate, my mulatta,’’ begged another.∫Ω One of the best-known troupes, Un Real al 69, scored a runaway hit with ‘‘Batuque,’’ which combined black female sexuality and ‘‘hot’’ foreign rhythm (the title refers to a Brazilian musical genre) to set the parameters for the troupes’ repertoire. When they play the batuque, I feel on fire Ay, mi negra, say you’ll dance with me, Close to your soul, close to your mouth, I’ll sing you all the secrets of my desire. Yum, yum, yum, yum, Yum, yum, yum, yum, Yum, yum, yum, yum, Your mouth says when we kiss.Ω≠ Or, closer to home: The old rules are broken In a burning frenzy, remembering africa 73

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Ay mi negra, mi negra, mi negra, I die just thinking of you. Ay . . . Ay . . . Ay . . . How lovely to do the candombe, To dance with you the candombe Every day I love you more.Ω∞ .

The morenas serenaded in the troupes’ compositions were sometimes Brazilian, sometimes Cuban, sometimes Uruguayan.Ω≤ I have not found any cases of the troupes singing to African American women, despite the fact that they drew heavily on African American music, as for example the Troupe Oxford’s ‘‘Black Melody’’ (1931; the phrase ‘‘black melody’’ was in English both in the title and in the lyrics).

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Black melody, strange song, Crazy music, sensual rhythm That makes my body dance and shake. Black melody, song of love From the Virginia Negro, A ray of sun, in the darkness of slavery.Ω≥ Endorsed by Parisian arbiters of taste, ‘‘black melodies’’ from Brazil, the United States, and Cuba conveyed a message of cosmopolitan sophistication and urbanity not present in candombe. Thus when in 1931 a group of Afro-Uruguayan musicians formed an all-black murga, La Jazz Band, they adopted a collective persona as ‘‘musical negritos’’ from the United States who had triumphed in ‘‘the Old World’’ and had now come to Montevideo, ‘‘looking to cause a sensation.’’ One of their songs, ‘‘Fox-Trot Americano,’’ traced their career in detail, ‘‘from Broadway to Montmartre and London, to Berlin and Spain.’’Ω∂ One of the inadvertent contributions of U.S. jazz to Montevideo Carnival was to breathe new life into the event’s venerable tradition of blackface. While the troupes occasionally performed in blackface, they did not make this the centerpiece of their shows. However, after seeing Al Jolson’s performance in The Jazz Singer (1927), several of the troupes’ directors moved in the 1930s to create two new Carnival genres, humoristas and parodistas, that relied heavily on blackface.Ω∑ Jolson’s influence is clearly visible in the photos of these groups—Parodistas de Chocolate, Negros Melódicos, Humoristas del Betún (Burnt Cork Humorists), Jardineros de Harlem (Gardeners of Harlem), Andá que te Kure 74 remembering africa

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Parodistas de Chocolate, ca. 1950. (Author’s collection)

la Lola—which for most North American viewers will awaken uneasy memories of our own blackface past. Equally jarring are photos of the many blackface Carnival dances held in the 1940s and 1950s, which attracted hundreds of costumed participants in Montevideo and other cities.Ω∏ Similarly direct in their communication of racial messages were the black- or African-themed neighborhood tablados and floats presented each year. One such display, ‘‘El Congo está de fiesta’’ (Party in the Congo), was recorded by numerous photographers and won a municipal prize as ‘‘one of the best conceived and executed’’ stage sets of the 1935 Carnival.Ωπ In a painted tableau set against a tropical background of palm trees and bananas, and observed by two quizzical monkeys, a bird, and an elephant, three statuesque black women in grass skirts dance for the audience, hips thrust out, arms extended, breasts exposed, halfsmiling in a vaguely demonic way. The influence of Josephine Baker is unmistakable. Throughout the 1920s and 1930s the comparsas and troupes continued to serenade the morena, singing to her of love, sex, rhythm, and dance. Whence the inevitable question: When would Carnival-goers finally get to dance with the morena, or at least get to watch her dance? Earlier in the century, as we have seen, the morena’s sexuality had been too threatening to allow her into the festivities except in the aged, neutralized form of the mama vieja. But now, facing the challenge of Josephine Baker, and remembering africa 75

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Society matrons at a blackface dance, 1958. (Author’s collection)

in response to increasing competition from the troupes and murgas, the comparsas reconsidered the question of black female dancers and decided to allow them in. A 1945 article on the Pobres Negros Orientales (a third incarnation of the fabled group) mentioned their female dancers; and a photo of the Libertadores de Africa the following year shows three female dancers at the front of the group.Ω∫ 76 remembering africa

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Neighborhood tablado, ‘‘El Congo está de fiesta,’’ 1935. (Servicio Oficial de Difusión Radio Televisión y

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Espectáculos)

Playing a central role in reintroducing women into the comparsas were two white Carnival entrepreneurs, Emidio Riverón and José Antonio Lungo. Looking to capitalize on the opportunities created by the inauguration of the Teatro del Verano, Riverón and Lungo sought to combine the comparsas’ drums, history, and candombe with the production values of the troupes: flashier costumes, more sophisticated musical arrangements, featured singers and musicians, and female dancers performing choreographed routines. These innovations were su≈ciently novel to raise the question of whether these new groups could still be considered sociedades de negros. The name of Riverón’s group, Miscelánea Negra, implicitly acknowledged this point: gone were the warriors, slaves, and lancers of the traditional comparsas, replaced by a ‘‘black miscellany’’ that, like the troupes, drew its musical repertoire from Brazil, Cuba, and the United States. When Riverón entered the group in its first Carnival competition, in 1946, the judges declined to include it in the sociedades de negros competition. However, the group was so strongly applauded, and was considered such a welcome addition to Carnival, that the judges remembering africa 77

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Miscelánea Negra, 1948. Note the escoberos (front row), drummers (center and in back row, holding

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

their drums aloft), gramillero (upper right), and female dancers (front left). (Author’s collection)

decided to create a special prize for it, equal in cash value to the prize awarded to the top black comparsa. The following year Miscelánea Negra was allowed into the sociedades de negros category, where it won first prize that year and again in 1948.ΩΩ By allowing Miscelánea Negra into the negros competition and awarding it two consecutive first prizes, the city government took the first steps toward creating a new model for the black comparsa, one in which historical ‘‘authenticity,’’ while still important, now held less weight than production values and an entertaining show.∞≠≠ This new tendency was further confirmed by José Antonio Lungo’s group, Añoranzas Negras (Black Nostalgia), which won the sociedad de negros competition for the next five consecutive years (1949–53). Like Miscelánea Negra, Añoranzas Negras drew on a pool of extraordinary young Afro-Uruguayan performers. The Silva brothers, Juan Angel, Raúl, and Wellington, a few 78 remembering africa

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

years later founders of the renowned comparsa Morenada, began their Carnival careers in Añoranzas, as did the young (and later to be famous) singers Lágrima Ríos (real name Lida Melba Benavídez Tabárez) and Rubén Rada. Gloria Pérez Bravo (La Negra Johnson) and Carlos ‘‘Pirulo’’ Albín were featured dancers. But the star of the show, and a major Carnival innovator in her own right, was Martha Gularte (real name Fermina Gularte Bautista), who pioneered the role of the vedette, or featured female dancer, in the comparsas. Today the most important of the comparsa characters, the vedette was the last to be added and the only one with no direct connection either to Africa or the Afro-Uruguayan past.∞≠∞ Rather, as her name suggests, the vedette was imported from France and modeled on the showgirls of Parisian musical reviews (with, again, a strong admixture of Josephine Baker).∞≠≤ Dressed in plumes, high heels, and a revealing swimsuit-style costume, she is the featured female dancer of the group and an overt expression of black female sexuality. The first vedette in the Montevideo Carnival was the Afro-Venezuelan actress and dancer Gloria Pérez Bravo, who paraded in the Carnival of 1948 (and many subsequent occasions) under the stage name (perhaps selected to evoke echoes of Baker) of La Negra Johnson.∞≠≥ The greatest of all the vedettes, Martha Gularte, began her career the following year with Añoranzas Negras. A veteran cabaret performer, Gularte had begun dancing in Carnival in the 1940s. She was a great hit with the crowds and in 1949 helped propel Añoranzas to its first Carnival championship. The next year, 1950, was, in the judgment of La Tribuna Popular, Gularte’s ‘‘true consecration’’ as a Carnival performer.∞≠∂ As part of its continuing campaign to promote tourism by raising the visibility of Montevideo’s Carnival, the municipality had invited the Cuban bandleader Xavier Cugat to play at a number of Carnival dances and parties and his wife, the U.S. actress Abby Lane, to preside as Queen of Carnival. Not all Montevideans were in favor of having a foreigner, no matter how glamorous and well known, reign over the event. One of El País’s columnists wrote a humorous piece suggesting that, while Lane had lovely legs, on balance the columnist preferred those of Obdulio Varela, the AfroUruguayan soccer star who four months later led Uruguay to its upset victory over Brazil in the World Cup.∞≠∑ The writer then went on contrast Lane to Gularte, ‘‘a Conga who can shake it even better than the boogie [woogie] itself. . . . I’m not saying Abby isn’t pretty. She is. But compared to Mart[h]a . . . there is no contest.’’∞≠∏ remembering africa 79

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Martha Gularte, 1950. (Archivo Fotográfico de Montevideo)

80 remembering africa

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

When La Tribuna Popular reported on Gularte’s performance at the Carnival competition, it titled the piece, ‘‘Mart[h]a Gularte, the Black Queen,’’ implicitly removing the title from Lane and bestowing it on Gularte. Uruguayan nationalism thus contributed in part to her triumph that year, as did Uruguayan audiences’ long-standing hunger for things African. The crowd loved her ‘‘dance of mystery, of the jungle and ‘macumba,’ ’’ the paper reported. ‘‘A true religious rite on the altar of the night, inflamed with desire, with drums and rockets.’’ Gularte adeptly took her cue, explaining that

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

my great grandmother was a pure African. . . . That blood flows in me, driving me to dance in a profound and barbarous way that destroys me, that leaves me annihilated and spent. At the sound of the bongo, when I hear the sounds of the African drums, I feel first a languor and then a frenzy that I don’t understand. My waist seems made out of rubber, my belly quivers, my hips, and all my limbs feel disconnected. . . . It’s as if Shangó were possessing me. . . . And I feel the most delicious sensuousness, better than I’ve ever felt from the lips of a lover.∞≠π Her African blood, her (supposedly) natural sensuality, her (supposedly) innate sense of rhythm and dance—in Martha Gularte Montevideo found the black siren that the comparsas and troupes had been serenading for the previous fifty years. So it was that the vedette was added to the comparsas’ cast of characters, and that future vedettes stuck to the ‘‘natural rhythm in my African blood’’ script laid down by Gularte.∞≠∫ From 1948 through the early 1980s, all of the important vedettes (and perhaps all of the vedettes, period) were Afro-Uruguayan.∞≠Ω In the larger corps of dancers that accompanied the vedettes, one does see in photos from those years (1940–80) occasional dancers who appear to be white. But the overwhelming majority (over 90 percent) of the women appear to be Afro-Uruguayan, in a city where people of color probably did not exceed 6 percent of the population. When the (white) Carnival director Hugo Arturaola created a new incarnation of the Esclavos de Nyanza in the late 1970s, he insisted that the dancers for the group be entirely AfroUruguayan; to have any white dancers, he felt, would be a ‘‘stain’’ (mancha) on the comparsa. José de Lima, the director from the 1970s through the present of the Marabunta and Serenata Africana comparsas, concurred. ‘‘I wasn’t racist, but I wanted the group [of dancers] to be black, I saw it as more authentic.’’ Not until the 1990s did he start using white dancers.∞∞≠ remembering africa 81

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Carnival float, 1963. (Archivo Fotográfico de Montevideo)

There were serious drawbacks to black women’s monopoly on Carnival dancing. To dance with a comparsa was to run serious risks of ‘‘desvirtuarse,’’ of acquiring a reputation for sexual looseness or even being a prostitute—which, Martha Gularte and the singer Lágrima Ríos acknowledged, some of the dancers indeed were. As a result, most respectable Afro-Uruguayan families would not allow their daughters to join the comparsas. Gularte’s family was very upset with her; Lágrima Ríos’s parents were unhappy as well and allowed her to perform with Añoranzas only on condition that a relative accompany her at all times. She never drank or smoked, she recalls, ‘‘and nobody ever saw me with a man. I always took care of my public image.’’∞∞∞ Not all of the dancers were so cautious. Indeed, part of the appeal of joining a comparsa was the transgressive pleasure of flaunting one’s sexuality by dancing seminude in the street.∞∞≤ This was the case with Gularte, who, when asked years later why she had defied her family and continued to dance, gave two reasons. One was that, dancing in Carnival, she could earn much more than by working as a maid or domestic servant, which she had done as a teenager and young woman. The other was that ‘‘I liked to show my body, to take my clothes o√.’’∞∞≥ 82 remembering africa

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Carnival spectators, 1960. (Author’s collection)

Gularte’s personification of sexual independence and autonomy touched a chord not just with male spectators but with Uruguayan women as well, winning her many female fans.∞∞∂ But her performances did little to undermine long-standing images of hot rhythm and black female sexuality, both carried ‘‘in the blood.’’ These images in turn consigned black people, and especially black women, to the role of the perpetual savage, the primitive ‘‘other’’ in modern, civilized, white Uruguay. That trope was visible, for example, in the 1945 documentary film Candombe, which traced the music’s history back to African slaves who danced ‘‘to the African tom-tom, the cause of lustful orgies. . . . Crazed, frenetic, they abandoned themselves to the most violent and absurd contortions, to the sensual rhythm of the drum.’’ And today (1945) candombe ‘‘speaks to their [black people’s] souls of emotions almost forgotten in the past, it reminds them of the dark sorcery of their naked bodies, the creaking of the ancient trees in the virgin African jungles, which reflected in their uncontrolled movements indicate the changing mood of their spirits.’’∞∞∑ An article on the 1953 Carnival was particularly insistent on the theme of rhythm in the blood. For white people, Carnival is remembering africa 83

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

an escape, through masks and laughter (which itself is a kind of mask) from everyday life. But for the blacks, Carnival is not an escape but a return, not a forgetting but a remembering. For the blacks, Carnival is the great return to their own blood, and to the red-hot rhythm that flows in that blood and vibrates with it to each beat of the hand on the drum. . . . Thus just as all of autumn can be found in a single leaf . . . so can all of Carnival be found in a single negro, as long as his hair is good and kinky and his drum is strapped on tight.∞∞∏

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

While it is not possible to document the full social impact of such images and stereotypes, it would be surprising indeed if they did not contribute to and reinforce the obstacles confronting upwardly mobile black people in mid-twentieth-century Uruguay. Though not often commented on in the white press, these obstacles were frequently reported in the Afro-Uruguayan press. In 1956, in a case far removed from the carnivalesque world of Martha Gularte, they burst into the national press through the controversy surrounding a young Afro-Uruguayan schoolteacher, Adelia Silva de Sosa.

84 remembering africa

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

chapter three

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

the new negros, 1920–1960

As the young woman slowly descended the steps from the airplane, she was met by a small crowd composed of ‘‘representatives from the black organizations in our city, and the public in general. . . . Visibly moved, Mrs. Sosa spoke in hesitant, faltering words, expressing her immense thanks to those who had intervened in the appeal that has been launched on her behalf and, at the same time, in defense of the fundamental principles of brotherhood within a democratic society such as ours.’’∞ Adelia Silva de Sosa was returning to Montevideo from her home in the department of Artigas, on Uruguay’s northern border with Brazil. The principal of a small rural school, she had been awarded a federal scholarship to come to Montevideo and work as a student teacher while studying for her teaching certificate. She had arrived in the capital in early May 1956, expecting to be assigned to the Gran Bretaña elementary school. When the expected opening there did not materialize, she was reassigned to Public School 125. Upon Sosa’s arrival at the school, Principal Ofelia Ferretjans de Ugartemendia expressed to the other teachers her unhappiness at having been sent ‘‘that black woman, so untidy and disorganized,’’ and pressured Sosa to apply for a transfer to yet another school. When Sosa arrived at her third assignment, Public School 16, Principal Irene Castro de Mandado greeted her with the fretful declaration that ‘‘you’re only going to create problems for me’’ because, upon seeing a black woman teaching at the school, parents would withdraw their children immediately. And indeed, on the day that Sosa arrived, a group of parents submitted a petition requesting her removal on the grounds that her Spanish was so heavily accented and mixed with Brazilian Portuguese as to be ‘‘incomprehensible.’’≤

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Thoroughly demoralized by this reception, Sosa resigned her scholarship and returned home. Her initial inclination was to pursue the matter no further and to try to ignore ‘‘a problem that to a certain degree was personal, owing to my color.’’ But as she talked to friends and colleagues in Artigas, she concluded that the problem was not in fact ‘‘personal’’ and that she had been the target of racial discrimination. She wrote to the national teachers’ federation and to the National Council of Primary Education to protest the treatment she had received and to request an investigation of what had happened to her in Montevideo. The Sosa case was one of a number of such incidents in Latin American countries during the late 1940s and 1950s. The postwar economic boom created opportunities for black upward mobility that growing numbers of Afro-Latin Americans diligently pursued. Barriers of prejudice and discrimination continued to impede black advancement. But new national doctrines of ‘‘racial democracy,’’ further strengthened by the recent defeat of Nazi racism and the inclusion of antiracism as one of the basic principles of the United Nations, gave the victims of discrimination much firmer rhetorical and ideological support than they had had earlier in the century. In response to highly publicized cases of racial discrimination, Venezuela (1945), Brazil (1951), and Panama (1956) passed federal antidiscrimination laws during these years, and Cuba (1951) issued a presidential decree on the subject.≥ No such law was passed in Uruguay, but as with similar cases in other countries, the Sosa incident received extensive national attention.∂ The national teachers’ federation and local teacher unions throughout the country strongly supported Sosa and urged her to return to Montevideo and resume her duties there; so too did black organizations and other civic groups in Artigas and Montevideo.∑ Most newspapers in the capital were noncommittal, simply reporting on the case.∏ Two papers, however, staked out clearly defined editorial positions. La Mañana supported Sosa’s claims of discrimination and argued that her case was only the tip of the iceberg. An in-depth investigation, the paper charged, would find public ‘‘schools that frankly and openly do not admit black children or children from poor families; schools where certain families have had ‘reserved seats’ for generations; schools where only the right political connections can get a child admitted.’’ These privileges and exclusions were completely contrary to the spirit of Uruguayan democracy, the paper charged, and were especially reprehensible in the sphere of education, which should o√er equal opportunity for all. The paper called for a 86 the new negros

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

full investigation and severe sanctions for anyone found to have discriminated against Sosa.π The conservative daily El País agreed completely on the principle of equality in the public schools and in all aspects of national life but argued that, since that equality had already been achieved, discrimination was simply not an issue.

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

In Uruguay the racial problem does not exist. . . . In Uruguay black people constitute a minority that develops itself in the life of the society without encountering any obstacles to impede or humiliate it. . . . Even if there are episodes in which the rights of colored citizens have been damaged or aggrieved, these are cases [committed by] isolated individuals who are not aware, or who pretend not to be aware, of the basic equality of all Uruguayan citizens. . . . The circumstance that citizens of color, saving a few exceptions, have not attained positions of importance in Uruguayan public or professional life is not attributable to our democratic way of life, but rather perhaps to lack of personal ambition and enterprise among those who have every door open to them, whenever their merits and talents make them eligible to enter.∫ Yet as the paper acknowledged, Adelia Sosa was not someone who lacked ambition or enterprise. If anything, she deserved credit for ‘‘overcoming her humble origins and the usual fate reserved for blacks, which doesn’t take them much beyond working as a doorman in some public o≈ce or in domestic service.’’Ω What then explained her experiences at P.S. 125 and 16? ‘‘Su√ering, for understandable reasons, from a certain inferiority complex, she viewed as insults and injuries’’ episodes that happen to all young teachers but ‘‘that did not correspond to her hopes and aspirations.’’ Before rushing to judgment on this case, El País concluded, the authorities needed to gather evidence, take testimony and come to a reasoned, judicious decision.∞≠ A year later, the National Council of Primary Education rendered its verdict. It found that Principal Ugartemendia had indeed engaged in racial discrimination, ‘‘adopting an attitude of rejection toward [Sosa] that was clearly visible and expressed in repeated statements, actions, and other unfortunate displays.’’ Ugartemendia was fined six months’ half salary and transferred to another school. Concerning Principal Mandado, the Council reported that several teachers had provided ‘‘negative evaluations’’ of her actions and attitude toward Sosa but that the the new negros 87

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

evidence was insu≈cient to confirm a finding of racial discrimination. Mandado was allowed to remain in her position; Sosa, meanwhile, had returned to Artigas and resumed her position as principal and teacher at her rural school.∞∞ The Sosa case received national attention for several reasons. One was the stark and painful contradiction between Sosa’s charges of racial discrimination and Uruguay’s o≈cial doctrines of civic and social equality. ‘‘If confirmed,’’ the National Council of Primary Education explained in announcing its investigation, ‘‘these charges would signify the violation of a principle that is basic and essential to the People’s schools,’’ that of providing equal access and opportunity to all. The Council therefore signaled ‘‘its absolute commitment . . . that discriminatory acts that violate the equality under the law that is the basic norm of social coexistence will not be tolerated.’’∞≤ This was a position widely shared in Uruguayan society, to judge from the reaction of the teachers’ unions, other civic groups, and many individuals who expressed their support for Sosa. But the publicity that the case received also resulted from the e√orts of the Asociación Cultural y Social Uruguay (acsu), a black social club founded in 1941.∞≥ For acsu, the Sosa case was the latest in a series of incidents that revealed the clear limits of Afro-Uruguayan integration into national life. Making the case even more incendiary was its occurrence during a period of maximum expansion in the Uruguayan economy and of unprecedented opportunity for black social and economic advancement. If blacks were barred from capitalizing on such opportunities in a vocational area of critical importance to them, what did this portend for their position in Uruguayan society?

Education Following the Great Depression of the 1930s, the 1940s and 1950s were a period of sustained recovery and growth in the Uruguayan economy. Buoyed by exports of meat and wool first to the Allies during World War II and then to a recovering Europe after the war, successive governments used these revenues to greatly expand federal spending on social programs and the promotion of national industry. Disability insurance was enacted in 1941, a system of allowances (asignaciones familiares) to working-class families in 1943, unemployment insurance in 1944, paid vacations in 1945, protections for rural workers in 1946, and price con88 the new negros

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

trols and state subsidies for basic foodstu√s in 1947. As a result of a wave of postwar nationalizations, by 1950 the federal government owned the national electric utility, the telephones, water and sewage systems, the refining and sale of oil and gasoline, the railroads, urban transport, much of the banking sector, and other industrial firms.∞∂ As state spending increased in these years, the expansion of the educational system was a top priority. The number of Uruguayan students enrolled in high school almost doubled between 1942 and 1950, from nineteen thousand to thirty-four thousand, and then doubled again between 1950 and 1960, to seventy thousand.∞∑ As a result of that expansion, noted acsu’s newspaper Revista Uruguay in 1945, ‘‘we have students in high schools, law schools, vocational schools, medical schools, in chemistry and pharmacy, artists, painters, poets, public speakers, actors, violinists, pianists, guitarists, vocalists.’’ Given rising opportunities in education and employment, the paper concluded, ‘‘little or nothing remains to be done to eliminate once and for all that color line, so absurd and vile in countries that maintain and defend democracy.’’∞∏ Yet on other occasions the paper was less sanguine about Afro-Uruguayan educational achievement. Just the month before, it had noted that black enrollments were ‘‘not at all in accord with the numbers of children that one sees roaming in the streets.’’ Two years later the paper estimated that 50–70 percent of Afro-Uruguayans had no more than a third-grade education. Too many parents, the paper charged, took the attitude that, since their own parents had sent them to work at nine or ten, they would do the same with their children, with ‘‘fatal’’ consequences for the current generation. Setting as its goal ‘‘that every black student finish the sixth grade!’’ the paper called on parents to keep their children in school. Like the nineteenth-century black papers, it made a point of publicly recognizing children who scored well on their annual examinations.∞π While ascribing black children’s low rates of enrollment to their parents’ negligence or indi√erence, Revista Uruguay acknowledged in another article that in some cases the schools themselves ‘‘impose[d] obstacles that prevent[ed] the admission of these children.’’ The paper did not specify these obstacles but asked any reader running into them to please inform the school authorities and the newspaper’s editors.∞∫ Another black newspaper, Nuestra Raza, was more forthcoming in listing the barriers that reduced black enrollments: many schools were too crowded to accept new students; when one did find a school with openings, it was the new negros 89

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

often too far from home for one’s children to attend. And though the schools charged no tuition, students were expected to provide their own uniforms, pencils, paper, and other supplies, the combined cost of which was out of reach for poor families. ‘‘It turns out, therefore, that the sensible o≈cial advice to ‘send your child to school’ is undermined by the o≈cial obstacles of lack of teachers, lack of schools, and lack of supplies in the schools.’’∞Ω Lack of teachers was indeed a problem, La Vanguardia had observed in the late 1920s, even when those in place ‘‘spare[d] no e√ort so that the numerous groups of students in their charge would arrive at the end of the year displaying the highest level of preparation.’’ In turning away black students, the paper reported, schools almost always cited lack of space. Any parents who ‘‘encounter such di≈culties, whatever they may be, please let us know.’’≤≠ The nagging doubt persisted whether ‘‘such di≈culties’’ applied equally to all or whether they applied especially to black students. Writing years later, in 1964, the teacher René Antonio Arellaga reported having witnessed instances of teachers and administrators refusing to register black students because their classes were supposedly full, and then later admitting white students to the same classes.≤∞ Once admitted to the public schools, black students seem to have been treated fairly and equally by their teachers. Of the elderly AfroUruguayans whom I interviewed or whose life stories I read, not a single one mentioned having encountered prejudice or discrimination from their teachers. Pedro Ocampo described the instructors he had in the 1920s as dedicated professionals who would do anything to help a talented student, regardless of his or her race. Other aspects of school he recalled less warmly, however. He was the frequent butt of racial jokes and insults from white classmates, many of whom were immigrants or the children of immigrants. In the face of such harassment, it was not easy to come to school each day; but he managed to complete the sixth grade and then apprenticed in an auto mechanic’s shop.≤≤ Of the Afro-Uruguayans I met who attended school in the 1920s, 1930s, and 1940s, every single one described painful and deeply wounding treatment from (some, not all, of) their classmates and of feeling di√erent, apart from the crowd, exposed, and alone. When Margarita Méndez’s father went to register her at a school in the middle-class neighborhood of Pocitos in the 1930s, the principal initially refused to admit her because, he insisted, her family could not possibly be living in 90 the new negros

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

that neighborhood. When her father produced proof of residence, she was allowed in. But as the only black child in the class, ‘‘it was hard; it was very, very hard,’’ she recalled, her eyes tearing up as she thought back to those years.≤≥ ‘‘Everyone made me feel di√erent. I was the only black person in the class, and obviously I felt very bad,’’ recalled the artist and activist Rubén Galloza. ‘‘You had friends you were with every day, and then there would be a party and they wouldn’t invite you. And afterward you would find out it had been the birthday of somebody’s sister, and they didn’t invite you.’’≤∂ Martha Gularte, the famous Carnival dancer, was the target of racial taunts and insults and left school after the third grade. Another famous vedette, Rosa Luna, remembered that ‘‘during the brief time that I went to school I su√ered a great deal. . . . The mother of the girl I shared a desk with complained to the teacher because her daughter had to sit next to a black girl. You see how it is? Racism attacks you from when you’re little, and I can tell you this because I su√ered it in the flesh, beginning in school, like many, many others.’’≤∑ The Uruguayan state had promised equal educational access to all and had invested considerable resources to keep that promise. Yet obstacles both ‘‘o≈cial’’ (underfunded, overcrowded schools) and ‘‘uno≈cial’’ (black poverty and white racism) combined to limit black access to public education. And if racial disparities were visible at the primary and secondary levels, at the federal Universidad de la República these disparities were almost absolute: between 1900 and 1950 only five AfroUruguayans managed to graduate from the university. The financial difficulties most black families confronted in sending their children to the university were doubtless the principal explanation for infinitesimal rates of black attendance and graduation. But José María Rodríguez Arraga, the sole black graduate of the medical school, also complained of ‘‘unjust delays and . . . innumerable di≈culties created by racial prejudice, vestiges of which some of the professors still have not been able to overcome.’’≤∏

Employment Contemplating the obstacles to black access to higher education, Nuestra Raza invoked Booker T. Washington’s dictum that ‘‘in apprenticing to learn a craft lies the true emancipation of the race. . . . Those parents who cannot send their children to the university can send them to an industhe new negros 91

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

trial school.’’≤π Revista Uruguay concurred that, as a result of vocational training o√ered at the Universidad del Trabajo (opened in 1942 as the upgraded successor to the Escuela de Artes y Oficios), the black community boasts many ‘‘skilled and highly qualified workers: photographic engravers, typesetters, jewelers, electricians, mechanics; and none of them has encountered the least resistance to succeeding and advancing in their professions.’’≤∫ In urging their readers to pursue vocational training, the black papers were particularly concerned that young Afro-Uruguayan males not abandon their studies to pursue the most glittering employment opportunity available to them: professional football (soccer). As in neighboring Argentina and Brazil, football occupied a privileged place in Uruguayan popular culture, one made all the more precious by the tiny country’s outsize achievements in the sport. In the quarter-century between 1924 and 1950, Uruguay won four world championships, at the Olympics of 1924 and 1928, the World Cup of 1930 (the first such event ever, held in Uruguay), and the World Cup of 1950 (held in Brazil).≤Ω Uruguay had been the first South American country to include blacks on its national team, provoking protests (in 1916) that it had violated South American league rules by recruiting players from Africa.≥≠ In each of its world championships, a black player was central in leading the team to victory: in the first three championships, José Leandro Andrade, ‘‘la maravilla negra,’’ and in 1950, the team’s captain, Obdulio Varela, ‘‘el jefe negro.’’≥∞ Black players were prominent on most local teams; indeed, as one pages through Uruguayan newspapers of the 1930s, 1940s, and 1950s, most of the black faces that one sees are those of football players. While the black press took great pride in the achievements of these men, it also cautioned that for the Afro-Uruguayan population as a whole sport was not a viable career path. Football (and boxing, the other principal venue for black athletes) were fine as a means of exercise and physical conditioning but not as a way to earn one’s living. Only club owners and a handful of unusually talented stars derived any benefit from professional sports; for the rest, it led only to financial exploitation and careers cut short by injury.≥≤ Even the most successful players did not fare particularly well: when the soccer star Isabelino Gradín died in 1944, he left his family in a state of such financial distress that the black papers and social clubs organized a fund drive for his widow and children.≥≥ José Leandro Andrade died in a state home for the indigent in 1957 and Ob92 the new negros

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

dulio Varela in dire financial straits in 1996. Even for these demigods of Uruguayan football, sport was the path to fame but not fortune.≥∂ In the absence of census or other data documenting black vocational achievement during this period, it is di≈cult to evaluate AfroUruguayans’ overall position in the labor market. The great majority of black wage earners, male and female alike, labored in manual occupations, most of them poorly paying. The most successful of the black papers, Nuestra Raza, which published without interruption from 1933 to 1948, probably lasted as long as it did because of its receptiveness and attention to the problems confronted by the black working class, ‘‘where one finds the immense contingent of our brothers and sisters.’’ The paper ran numerous articles, short stories, and poems dramatizing the poverty and hardships that aΔicted the city’s workers, black and white. While its covers were normally devoted to portraits of famous people of color from around the Atlantic world (e.g., the Brazilian author Tobias Barreto, the U.S. poet Langston Hughes, and the Cuban independence leader Antonio Maceo), in October 1934, in the depths of the Depression, the paper ran a photo of an anonymous black newspaper vendor, his ragged appearance eloquently expressing ‘‘the frightening crisis that afflicts the country, [and that] a√ects even more sharply and cruelly the working class.’’≥∑ Black men worked in a variety of jobs both formal and informal: in factories and workshops, as street vendors, shining shoes, as porters in the public markets, in moving and transport, and, as we will see, in lowlevel state jobs. Vocational options for women were more limited and were heavily concentrated in domestic service, working as cooks, laundresses, housekeepers, and maids. Many of these Afro-Uruguayan domestic workers were migrants from the countryside or from the smaller towns and cities of the interior, seeking greater opportunities in the national capital.≥∏ As late as the 1990s, the national household survey found one-third of Afro-Uruguayan women working as domestic servants; a 1997 survey of one thousand Afro-Uruguayan women found half of them working in domestic service.≥π Black women’s concentration in this area of the labor market was probably even higher in the 1930s and 1940s, and it placed them at tremendous social and economic disadvantage. Even today, domestic service ‘‘is a sector that remains excluded from the most basic forms of workplace protection. Working conditions (length of the workday, salary, etc.) are determined entirely by the emthe new negros 93

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

ployer. Owing to the nature of the work, it is very di≈cult for workers to mobilize, and thus it is unlikely that they can make collective demands. The prestige of the work is low, and the remuneration poor. . . . There is little possibility of occupational mobility.’’≥∫ When the question of domestic service was discussed at the 1936 Women’s Congress in Montevideo, the two Afro-Uruguayan delegates to the event, Iris Cabral and Maruja Pereira, introduced a motion calling for full labor rights (i.e., rights to unionize, workplace protections, pensions and other benefits) for domestic workers. In 1940 a group of domestic workers sought to organize a mutual aid society and to support legislation recently introduced in Uruguay’s General Assembly extending labor rights to domestic servants. The group included black and white workers alike and made no distinctions of race. ‘‘Here we are all compañeras, for us it’s enough that we share the reality of being poor and being workers.’’≥Ω Black overrepresentation in domestic service did not spill over into service occupations in private firms, especially those involving direct contact with the public. Sparked by the Adelia Sosa case, in May and June 1956 the leftist magazine Marcha investigated conditions for black workers in the Montevideo labor market. Making her way through the streets of the city, the reporter, Alicia Behrens, ‘‘did not encounter any blacks working as salespeople in the shops, or as clerks in any of the stores, or as policemen in the downtown areas, or as waiters in the restaurants, or as bus or taxi drivers.’’ Seeking the reasons for this exclusion, Behrens visited the unions representing the largest categories of service workers: restaurant waiters, hotel workers, hairdressers, and bus drivers. She also visited the police department and three of the city’s largest department stores. The results were astonishing: of two thousand members of the waiters union, and five hundred hotel maids and housekeepers, not a single one was black or mulatto. Of seven thousand hairdressers, not one was Afro-Uruguayan. Of four thousand bus drivers and ticket collectors, ten were black. And out of sixteen hundred employees at the three department stores, one was Afro-Uruguayan.∂≠ Out of over fifteen thousand service workers in the city, eleven were black or mulatto: less than one worker out of every thousand, in a city that was probably about 5 percent Afro-Uruguayan. Racial barriers this absolute, Behrens concluded, ‘‘will keep blacks always restricted to the lowest jobs and living in the poorest classes of society. They will have no incentive to study or to finish their degrees.’’ In an article the following month, she wrote, ‘‘Would a customer who won’t even let a black person cut his 94 the new negros

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

hair ever let that person perform surgery on him? If he won’t let blacks serve him a meal, or take his ticket on a bus, if he won’t accept them as policemen or buy fabric from them in a department store, how will he ever accept them as hotel or bank managers, as generals or legislators?’’∂∞ In the face of these barriers, a final area of the job market assumed particular importance for Afro-Uruguayans: public, or state, employment. As a result of the social and economic programs enacted during the 1940s, and the steady expansion of the state’s role in regulating and directing the national economy, state employment took an ever larger share of the labor market. Between 1925 and 1940 state employment grew by more than 50 percent, from thirty thousand to forty-six thousand, and then almost quadrupled to 166,000 in 1955.∂≤ In return for their loyalty to urban party machines and for their votes on election day, AfroUruguayans were rewarded with low-level public-sector jobs that, for many families, made the di√erence between dire poverty and modest security. During the first half of the century, recalled the artist and activist Rubén Galloza, government jobs ‘‘had a certain status because they had a guaranteed salary, a fixed monthly income . . . , and all the other benefits that went with being a state employee.’’ Interviews carried out by the Universidad de la República’s Instituto de Estudios Sociales in 1979 suggested that this remained true well into the second half of the century. Of thirty-four Afro-Uruguayans interviewed, 40 percent were domestic workers and one-third were state employees. Commenting on the paucity of job opportunities in the private sector, one of the state workers observed that ‘‘a state job is as important for blacks as a university degree is for whites.’’∂≥ Yet racial barriers persisted in state employment as well. Almost all of the positions held by blacks were at the lowest levels of the bureaucratic hierarchy, consisting, as Galloza recalled, of ‘‘doormen, janitors, street sweepers.’’∂∂ Lowest of all were those who worked in the municipality’s corralón, the pool of reserve laborers who received, ‘‘year after year, the miserable salary of eight to ten days [of work] per month.’’∂∑ Occasionally a black orderly or laborer would be promoted to the position of foreman or supervisor.∂∏ But such promotions were rare, charged La Vanguardia in 1928, and came only after years of ‘‘continuous injustices . . . [and] delays.’’∂π Some areas of state employment were completely closed to blacks. The port authority refused to hire black lifeguards at the city’s beaches.∂∫ The police and fire departments did not admit Afro-Uruguayans until the new negros 95

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

ordered to do so by President Gabriel Terra in 1931.∂Ω Even after black men were hired onto both forces, racial barriers continued. The chief of police freely admitted to Alicia Behrens in 1956 that he restricted AfroUruguayans to the fire department and the dog-handling squad, two areas in which they would have less contact with the public. Only a few were allowed to work as uniformed city police or as detectives, and for obvious reasons, the chief observed: ‘‘If a black policeman were to admonish someone for violating the tra≈c laws, it would be like inciting that individual to defy authority.’’∑≠

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Black Responses In the face of such discrimination, Afro-Uruguayans continued to generate the newspapers, social clubs, recreational societies, drama groups, Carnival comparsas, and other organizations that they had been creating since the late 1800s. But in the context of social, economic, and political developments taking place not just in Uruguay but throughout the Atlantic world, these organizations now set course in novel and unfamiliar directions. In Uruguay as in Brazil, Cuba, France, the United States, and other parts of the African diaspora, the 1920s and 1930s marked the advent of the ‘‘new Negro,’’ a symbolic figure representing new forms of black political and cultural consciousness and action.∑∞ The ‘‘new Negro’’ was the product of converging forces of twentiethcentury modernity: industrialization and urbanization, both based on growing rural-to-urban migration, and new forms of political radicalism based in Marxism, the labor movement, antifascism, and anticolonialism. All these factors were present in Uruguay, beginning with migration from the interior regions of the country to the national capital. Between the censuses of 1908 and 1963, the proportion of the national population living in Montevideo rose from 30 percent to 46 percent as tens of thousands of Uruguayans moved to the capital in search of employment, education, and other opportunities.∑≤ No statistical data are available on the racial composition of these migrants, but anecdotal data indicate that Afro-Uruguayan migration to the capital paralleled other currents of black migration at this time, by African Americans to Chicago, Detroit, and Harlem; Afro-Cubans to Havana; and Afro-Brazilians to São Paulo and Rio de Janeiro.∑≥ Many figures prominent in black community life in the capital traced their origins to the smaller cities of the interior. Salvador Betervide, the editor of La Vanguardia and the first president of the 96 the new negros

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Partido Autóctono Negro (which I will discuss shortly), was from the northern city of Melo; Pilar and Ventura Barrios, the editors and publishers of Nuestra Raza, were from San Carlos; César Techera, the editor of Rumbo Cierto, was from Rocha, as was the journalist and activist Iris Cabral; the singer Lágrima Ríos was born in Durazno and the dancer Martha Gularte in Tacuarembó; the football star José Leandro Andrade was from Salto; Adelia Sosa, as we have seen, moved to the capital from Artigas; Ceferino Nieres, whom we will meet later in this chapter, was from Melo. Also hailing from Melo was a particularly active group of migrants, the Comité de Damas Melenses. In 1923 Melo’s black community had formed a social club, the Centro Uruguay, and purchased a lot on which to eventually build a headquarters. The club’s Comité Femenino had been instrumental at that time in raising funds to buy the land; a decade later, the Comité de Damas Melenses, comprised of women who had moved to Montevideo to work in domestic service and other occupations, stepped forward to raise money for the construction of the building. After months of preparation, they traveled to Melo in October 1935 to hold a benefit for the building campaign.∑∂ Black newspapers in Montevideo ran regular reports on the Centro Uruguay and other black social clubs in the smaller regional cities: the Centro Renacimiento in Rocha, the Sociedad Recreativa Ansina in Rivera, the Club Social Antonio Ledesma Ansina in Treinta y Tres, even the Centro Farroupilha in the Brazilian border town of Livramento. Black newspapers in these cities—Acción and Orientación in Melo, Rumbos and Democracia in Rocha, El Peligro in Rivera—reciprocated with news from Montevideo. But with an estimated 40–50 percent of the national black population, Montevideo was the unquestioned center of AfroUruguayan cultural and political life; and it was in Montevideo that the principal expressions of the ‘‘new Negro,’’ drawing in equal parts on currents of African diaspora thought and practice and on Marxism and antifascism, first appeared.∑∑ The first such expression was the newspaper La Vanguardia, edited by Salvador Betervide and Isabelino José Gares. During its brief career (a little over a year, from 1928 to 1929), La Vanguardia adopted a posture of racial militancy not seen in the Afro-Uruguayan press since La Conservación and El Progresista in the 1870s. Its first issue proposed a new chapter in the history of Afro-Uruguayan political and cultural mobilization: ‘‘A large community, with a genuine inclination toward life in society, the new negros 97

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

[the Afro-Uruguayan population] has always felt the need to organize itself, to be strong and respected, and it has tried to do so on many occasions. But never was such an e√ort more justified than now, as an unprecedented invasion of North American hatred for blacks begins to spread’’ through Uruguayan society. ‘‘We are at the bottom of the social and economic movement; we represent nothing as a factor of progress; after having been e√ective participants in the initial period of nationbuilding, we now live at the margins’’ of national life.∑∏ While La Vanguardia carried out the traditional function of reporting on community social events and dances, it pushed on to look at racism and discrimination much more closely than any previous AfroUruguayan publication had. The paper reported on movie theaters, barber shops, and restaurants that refused to serve black patrons, landlords who refused to rent to black tenants, and companies that refused to hire black employees. Most upsetting of all was the refusal of state institutions to promote their black workers, who remained concentrated at the lowest levels of public service. The paper protested ‘‘the continual injustices represented by the postponements [of promotions] to which we see our people subjected by that Yankee spirit [of racism] that already ascends to unsuspected spheres of government, though the egotists may not wish to see it.’’ The Asociación de Empleados Civiles had declined to take any action in these cases, the paper reported, which meant that black workers would have to organize to address these grievances on their own.∑π La Vanguardia also paid much more attention than previous black papers to events outside Uruguay.∑∫ The paper’s second issue condemned the U.S. occupation of Nicaragua and other Caribbean nations; the 15 May issue celebrated the fortieth anniversary of the abolition of slavery in Brazil (13 May 1888); two months later Isabelino Gares analyzed the shortcomings of the Kellogg-Briand Pact and, in an article marking the tenth anniversary of the end of World War I, expressed the hope that the world would never again descend into another global conflict. In November La Vanguardia applauded the election of Oscar De Priest, the first black congressman in the United States in the twentieth century; and as 1928 came to an end, the paper lamented the outbreak of the Chaco War between Paraguay and Bolivia.∑Ω La Vanguardia ceased publication in March 1929, citing the familiar financial di≈culties that aΔicted all the Afro-Uruguayan papers.∏≠ In the face of the Great Depression, no other publication immediately ap98 the new negros

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

peared to replace it. When one finally did, in 1933, it was a reincarnation of a newspaper that had begun life in the eastern city of San Carlos in 1917. Edited at that time by three siblings—brothers Pilar and Ventura Barrios and their sister María Esperanza—Nuestra Raza had closely resembled its Montevideo contemporaries La Verdad (1911–14) and La Propaganda (1893–95, 1911–12). Proposing to ‘‘struggle tenaciously for the interests of the colored race’’ and to pursue ‘‘any project, idea, or initiative that tends toward [the race’s] progress and improvement,’’ the paper devoted most of its coverage to news of dances, picnics, parties, and other social events, and to romantic poetry and short stories written by the young Pilar Barrios and other contributors.∏∞ The paper operated for nine months, ceasing publication at the end of 1917. The following year, Ventura Barrios moved to Montevideo, where he worked in the printing department of several newspapers and magazines and became an active member of the printers’ union.∏≤ At some point Pilar followed him, and by the time they decided to relaunch their paper in 1933, in partnership with Elemo Cabral, they were able to call on a broad range of collaborators. Some of these contributors—including Alberto Britos, Carlos Cardozo Ferreira, Roberto Suárez, Iris Cabral, Maruja Pereira, and Selva Escalada—were new to the world of AfroUruguayan journalism, while others—such as Marcelino Bottaro, Lino Suárez Peña, Salvador Betervide, and Isabelino Gares—were veterans of earlier publications.∏≥ They also benefited from the invaluable assistance of the white poet and anthropologist Ildefonso Pereda Valdés. In many ways the founding father of Afro-Uruguayan studies, Pereda Valdés was the Uruguayan counterpart of Brazil’s Gilberto Freyre, Cuba’s Fernando Ortiz, and other white Latin American intellectuals of the 1920s and 1930s who worked to ‘‘rehabilitate’’ their countries’ African pasts.∏∂ Reacting against Latin American societies’ avid pursuit of ‘‘whitening’’ and Europeanization during the half-century from 1880 to 1930, these intellectuals sought to rewrite Africans and their descendents into national history and to acknowledge Afro-Latin Americans’ rightful place in their respective nations.∏∑ Black intellectuals in Montevideo were delighted to have Pereda Valdés’s voice on their side; because of his standing in white society and academia, his arguments for the importance of studying Afro-Uruguayan history and culture resonated more loudly and had greater impact than theirs did. He was also helpful in placing Afro-Uruguayan intellectuals and activists in contact with international circuits of racial thought and the new negros 99

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

activism.∏∏ He was the conduit through which essays by Elemo Cabral and Marcelino Bottaro were included in Nancy Cunard’s 1934 anthology, Negro, and he was instrumental in connecting Nuestra Raza to the international movement on behalf of the Scottsboro Boys.∏π ‘‘Neither classes, nor races, nor color,’’ proclaimed Pereda Valdés in a 1935 essay. ‘‘That is the motto of the workers, the proletarian class, which fights for the emancipation of all the workers of the world, black and white, red or yellow!’’∏∫ His proletarian internationalism was shared by Ventura Barrios, whose experiences in the printers’ union had brought him into close contact with leftist politics in the capital. Nuestra Raza repeatedly invoked the goal of cross-racial proletarian unity, which it sought to cement by publishing articles, short stories, and poems that portrayed the poverty and su√ering of workers and their families at the hands of capitalist exploiters. While the individuals in these articles or stories were occasionally identified as black, more often their race was left unspecified, thus presenting them as members of the proletariat rather than of a given racial group.∏Ω The lines of class struggle were clearly drawn in the 1930s, as leftists and social democrats across the globe confronted the rise of European fascism and Japanese militarism. Nuestra Raza had come into existence, in fact, partly as a response to the coup of March 1933 and the implantation of the right-wing, antilabor dictatorship of Gabriel Terra.π≠ The following year the paper condemned the e√orts of the Nazi regime in Germany to stir up ‘‘ancestral animosities and infamous hatreds against races and peoples.’’ ‘‘Each speech by Mussolini or Hitler provokes disquiet,’’ the paper commented several months later.π∞ The paper also reported on the imposition of Brazil’s Estado Novo in 1937, denouncing it as a ‘‘Nazi regime’’ and protesting its imprisonment of the Communist leader Luis Carlos Prestes.π≤ The threat posed by European fascism became crystal clear in 1935, as Italian forces swept into Ethiopia. The paper ran on its cover a cartoon in which a globe of the world, waving its arms in protest, looks on in horror as Mussolini hacks away with an axe at a bloody pile of African bodies. ‘‘What are you doing, Duce?’’ the world asks, to which Mussolini replies, ‘‘civilizing.’’π≥ ‘‘To defeat fascism in Africa,’’ Nuestra Raza’s editors wrote, ‘‘is to accelerate its fall in Italy . . . [and] to win a great battle in favor of the liberation and equal rights of all the black race throughout the capitalist world.’’π∂ But in keeping with the paper’s cross-racial proletarianism, Nuestra Raza gave equal attention to the threat that fascism posed to 100 the new negros

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

European workers: ‘‘The first victim of the Fascist adventure in Africa is the Italian people, for whom Fascism will mean hunger, misery, pain, the complete lack of freedom, and a holocaust of bloodshed at the whim of a monster who imposes his sovereign will on millions.’’π∑ In January 1936, Nuestra Raza reported that, ‘‘in fighting against Mussolini, the masses are fighting not only for Ethiopia but for peace in Europe. Defeat for the popular forces would strengthen the Fascist dictatorships against the democracies, and their policy of terrorist oppression against the working class.’’π∏ In the absence of any action by the League of Nations or the Western allies, ‘‘mass movements of white workers and workers of all races constitute the strongest support for the freedom of the Abyssinian people. . . . Union and the common action of all workers, of all races and tendencies: that is the formidable and invincible force ranged on the side of our Abyssinian brothers.’’ππ If European fascism was one of the paper’s two principal international concerns, the racial situation in the United States was the other. Throughout its fifteen-year career, Nuestra Raza paid close attention to U.S. race relations, reporting at length on the Scottsboro case, lynchings, the Harlem Renaissance, and African American e√orts to mobilize against racism.π∫ Cross-racial worker solidarity seemed at best a utopian dream in the United States; yet even in that country, the paper reported in 1938, ‘‘today there are many thousands [of African Americans] who are following the road of a new kind of democracy, in alliance with the world proletariat, a road that will lead to their self-determination as a race and as a class.’’πΩ Nuestra Raza regularly discussed and printed the work of writers and artists from around the world: Jorge Icaza, Ivan Turgenev, Jorge Amado, Lima Barreto, Rómulo Gallegos, Castro Alves, Machado de Assis, René Maran, and others. But as models of political commitment and black artistic achievement, the paper particularly embraced the African American poet Langston Hughes and the Afro-Cuban poet Nicolás Guillén. Friends since their first meetings in Cuba in 1930 and 1931, and both associated with their respective national Communist parties (Hughes traveled to the Soviet Union in 1932 and was a frequent contributor to the U.S. Communist Party’s magazine The New Masses; Guillén joined the Cuban Communist Party in 1937), Hughes and Guillén produced passionate, politically committed poetry that aligned perfectly with Nuestra Raza’s editorial stance.∫≠ The two men’s e√orts to incorporate African American musical forms into their work (in the case of Hughes, blues the new negros 101

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

and jazz; for Guillén, rumba and son) also struck a chord with AfroUruguayan poets, a number of whom were attempting similar experiments with candombe.∫∞ Nuestra Raza printed numerous poems by and appreciations of both men and reported at length on their trips to Spain in 1937–38 to support the Republican cause.∫≤ When Guillén arrived in Montevideo in February 1947 for a stay of several months, the paper devoted an entire issue to him and his work.∫≥ It also publicized the news that Guillén brought from Cuba of e√orts by the Communist party and the National Federation of Colored Societies to pass a national antidiscrimination law in the Cuban Congress.∫∂ Throughout the 1930s and 1940s, the paper had called on the various Afro-Uruguayan organizations to join together in a common front to represent black interests in Uruguayan society; it now cited the Cuban federation as a model of how to ‘‘group together all the institutions of the black race, in a single united front, so that together with progressive whites they can begin a new stage of liberation and the elimination of all the barriers and prejudices that rule in our country as in all others save one, the U.S.S.R.’’∫∑ After Guillén left Montevideo in June 1947, the paper stayed in close contact with him: when his friend and fellow communist, the Afro-Cuban congressman and labor leader Jesús Menéndez, was murdered the following year, the paper ran Menéndez’s picture on its cover.∫∏ Just before Guillén’s visit, another diaspora intellectual came to Montevideo, the African American anthropologist Ellen Irene Diggs. A former research assistant to W. E. B. DuBois, Diggs devoted herself in the 1940s and 1950s to the study of black history and culture in Latin America, spending extended periods in Brazil, Cuba, and Uruguay.∫π Supported by a fellowship from the U.S. State Department, Diggs lived the second half of 1946 in Montevideo, with occasional side trips to Buenos Aires.∫∫ Like Guillén, Diggs was very cordially received by Afro-Uruguayan organizations, which held several receptions and other events in her honor.∫Ω Toward the end of her stay, she gave interviews to Uruguayan and Argentine newspapers and magazines in which she took the Afro-Uruguayan population to task for its ‘‘visible cultural poverty’’ and its alleged lack of progress and ‘‘in some ways, a move backward.’’ Though it pained her to speak negatively of a community that had received her so warmly, she had found no evidence in Montevideo of the ‘‘strong impulse of collective advancement’’ that had motivated African Americans in the years since emancipation and that had led to the founding of black colleges, 102 the new negros

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

churches, businesses, and other institutions in the United States. This was all the more lamentable, Diggs suggested, in a country that o√ered ideal conditions for black advancement, in the form of economic prosperity, legal and civic equality for all, and a complete absence of racial discrimination and prejudice.Ω≠ Nuestra Raza was deeply pained by Diggs’s comments. She was completely wrong in her assertions of Uruguay’s freedom from discrimination and prejudice, the paper replied, noting some of the incidents it had reported in recent years. And while she was on firmer ground in asserting a lack of organization and mobilization in the black population, the reason for that absence was ‘‘the traditional isolation of the educated professionals of our race,’’ who ‘‘changed their color, deliberately set themselves apart’’ from the rest of the black population and declined to take part in community initiatives. The paper closed with the reflection that Diggs appeared to fall into that same social category in the United States, where ‘‘she lives in the same artificial environment as some of the educated blacks and mulattoes in Uruguay.’’Ω∞ Diggs had stumbled on some of the landmines lying in the path of all those who set out to compare race across cultures. Familiar with, and justifiably proud of, the experience of black cultural and political mobilization in the United States, she was disappointed not to find similar developments in Uruguay.Ω≤ Yet in asserting the lack of discrimination and prejudice in that country, she had touched on an important reason for the absence of such movements. It was overt, state-mandated segregation that had provoked black mobilization in the United States; in the absence of such conditions in Uruguay, why would one expect civil rights movements comparable to those of the United States? At the same time, in asserting the absence of prejudice and discrimination in Uruguay, Diggs had apparently missed the evidence of forms of racial exclusion more subtle and flexible than those to which she was accustomed in the United States. One wonders as well how deeply Diggs had delved into the history of black movements in Uruguay, including another recent manifestation of the ‘‘new Negro’’: the creation in 1936 of a racially defined black political party, the Partido Autóctono Negro (pan).Ω≥ Closely tied to the Nuestra Raza group, the party’s founding manifesto included Popular Front ideology and rhetoric invoking the struggle of the ‘‘poor against the rich, of the oppressed against the oppressors, [and] for true social justice. . . . We will struggle tirelessly against all the more or less new [political] tendenthe new negros 103

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

cies that, under the names of warlike Fascism or imperialism, threaten the existence of Democracy and Law.’’ Most of the party’s attention, however, was focused on the specific issue first raised by its president, Salvador Betervide, in La Vanguardia in 1928: racial discrimination in state employment. Eight years later, ‘‘we all know perfectly well that in more than one hundred cases, promotions or hirings of state employees have depended not on the fitness or aptitude of the candidate, or on the merits of the one seeking promotion, but rather on the greater or lesser pigmentation of his skin.’’ This was an obvious violation of the promises of ‘‘equality expressed so clearly in our laws and our Constitution . . . the egalitarian picture that in theory everyone accepts as beyond discussion.’’ The mainstream political parties were ‘‘completely unable to understand this problem in its true reality’’ or to recognize either the continuing ‘‘prejudice [that] is far from disappearing’’ or ‘‘the veiled but certain racial struggle’’ that Afro-Uruguayans confronted every day. Black people therefore needed to ‘‘fully exercise [their] rights’’ by creating a political party willing to address the issues of racial discrimination and inequality. ‘‘We sincerely believe that the race not only can and needs to enter the struggle on its own behalf, it has the obligation to do so.’’Ω∂ The pan was one of three black political parties created in Latin America during the first half of the 1900s. The other two were Cuba’s Partido Independiente de Color (pic, 1908–12) and the Frente Negra Brasileira (fnb, 1931–38). These two parties followed quite di√erent trajectories: in Cuba the pic was outlawed by the government and ultimately destroyed in the ‘‘race war’’ of 1912. In Brazil the fnb was allowed to compete freely for votes and political support but was finally closed down as part of the Vargas dictatorship’s general ban on political parties in 1937.Ω∑ Even prior to their dissolution, both parties had shown little ability to attract public support or votes, and the same was true of the pan. The party presented a list of ten candidates in the parliamentary elections of 1938, of which not one was elected.Ω∏ The party ‘‘ran a massive campaign, from the interior [of the country] to Montevideo,’’ recalled Margarita Méndez, daughter of the party’s second president, Mario Méndez. ‘‘But it didn’t matter.’’ Black voters ‘‘were either Blanco or Colorado, and they weren’t interested in anything else.’’ Another former party member agreed: Afro-Uruguayans ‘‘ended up voting for the Blancos or the Colorados. In this sense they were very loyal, they voted for the caudillo who had done them favors, and they remained faithful all their lives.’’Ωπ The party centered its campaign on the issue of discrimination in state 104 the new negros

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

employment, calling on ‘‘colored men’’ to ‘‘fight to eliminate the ‘established system’ of unjust delays in promotions based on skin color.’’Ω∫ Yet it was precisely state employees who were most vulnerable to pressure and influence from the mainstream parties. State workers depended directly on these parties for their jobs and for any hope of advancement. It would have been risky indeed for them to turn their backs on the parties to support the pan, and few did so. Nor did the party exert much appeal outside the ranks of state employees: of 376,000 votes cast in the 1938 elections, the pan received only 87.ΩΩ Shattered by its poor showing, the party never returned to the polls and quietly dissolved in 1944, leaving the issue of racial discrimination in state employment unresolved. Nuestra Raza continued to protest the situation of black state workers, who formed ‘‘the majority of the lowlevel employees,’’∞≠≠ and in 1947 Revista Uruguay reported on events at the Club Cuerpo de Bomberos, a social club formed recently by and for the city’s firefighters. As part of its regulations, the club stipulated that ‘‘colored persons’’ were not allowed on the premises on days on which there were parties or dances. When Ceferino Nieres, a black fireman and member of the club, read that announcement, ‘‘I felt like resigning, like giving up, like jumping out the window and going far away, where nobody would see me.’’ Instead, he went to the club’s board to protest; its response was that the rule did not apply to him, but to ‘‘the others,’’ that is, to other Afro-Uruguayans. Gathering together a group of fellow black firemen, he approached the board again, which again replied that the rule did not apply to black firemen but to Afro-Uruguayans who were not part of the force. Insisting that the restriction was illegal, Nieres tried to take the matter to the courts, but without success.∞≠∞ Revista Uruguay ran this story not because it was rare or unusual but because it was all too common. The color line at the firemen’s club was nothing new to Afro-Uruguayans. Blacks were barred from membership and attendance at almost all private social clubs, and the black papers reported numerous incidents of blacks being refused admission to theaters, restaurants, dance halls, and other public facilities.∞≠≤ ‘‘We su√ered tons, yes tons, of discrimination and discriminatory acts, tons and tons,’’ recalled Rubén Galloza, born in 1926. ‘‘We were constantly discriminated against. . . . They wouldn’t let you into the dances, they wouldn’t let you go anywhere, they wouldn’t let you into the theaters, into the better theaters, or into the cafés.’’∞≠≥ In the face of such treatment, ‘‘the blacks united,’’ Galloza recalled. the new negros 105

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

‘‘Blacks came together for their self-interest, nothing more.’’ Various organizations sought to represent Afro-Uruguayan interests to the larger society. The Comité Pro-Homenaje a Don Manuel Antonio Ledesma (Ansina), founded in 1939, sought to raise funds for a monument to the legendary soldier of the war for independence.∞≠∂ The Círculo de Intelectuales, Artistas, Periodistas y Escritores Negros, founded in 1946, sponsored plays, poetry readings, art exhibitions, and other cultural events.∞≠∑ A younger generation of black artists and intellectuals—the artists Ramón Pereyra, Rubén Galloza, and Orosmán Echeverri, the poet Sara Prieto, the musician Gilberto Silva, and others—launched the Movimiento Juvenil Independiente Pro Unidad de la Raza Negra in 1948.∞≠∏ Other civic organizations, and as always, innumerable social and recreational clubs, came and went.∞≠π As in earlier decades of the century, few of these organizations lasted more than a few years—with one exception. Founded in 1941, the Asociación Cultural y Social Uruguay (acsu) is still in existence today, making it one of the longest-lasting black social clubs anywhere in Latin America.∞≠∫ What has accounted for this extraordinary longevity? Part of the reason is the historical moment at which it was founded. acsu’s institutional life began just as Uruguay was exiting from the Great Depression and entering the ‘‘golden years’’ of the 1940s and 1950s, the years of como Uruguay no hay (‘‘there’s no place like Uruguay,’’ a semio≈cial slogan at that time). An expanding economy and rising wages fueled the dreams and aspirations of a would-be Afro-Uruguayan middle class, providing it with the financial means to support an organization that expressed these dreams. acsu represented an ambitious, upwardly mobile stratum of Afro-Uruguayan society that sought the full benefits of membership in the rapidly growing broader Uruguayan middle class. The doctrines of Uruguayan political and social democracy suggested that such a goal was reasonable, legitimate, and well within reach. And the founding members of acsu, led by its president, Ignacio Suárez Peña, believed that they knew how to achieve that goal: through education, hard work, good manners, and unimpeachable morality.∞≠Ω In its early years, acsu’s position on race relations in Uruguay, repeated regularly in its monthly publication, Revista Uruguay, was that ‘‘there are no problems. If problems exist, we make them ourselves’’ by failing to take full advantage of the rights and opportunities available to all Uruguayan citizens, regardless of color. On those rare occasions when Afro-Uruguayans did encounter race prejudice or discrimination, 106 the new negros

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

all they needed to do was to go to the authorities and ‘‘present their complaints, with the certainty that . . . they will be duly attended by the Public Powers.’’ The editors of Revista Uruguay celebrated the fact that ‘‘we live in a country in which we enjoy the most complete freedom, as legitimate citizens, with all the rights and prerogatives granted by the Constitution and the social laws. . . . Therefore everything depends on our actions, on our morals, and on [our observing] the customs required by the rules of duty.’’∞∞≠ acsu sponsored numerous activities and programs aimed at instilling these lessons in its members. The ‘‘Páginas Femeninas’’ in Revista Uruguay gave female members beauty tips and discussed how to balance the competing demands of work, marriage, and family. Children’s programs provided recreational opportunities and instruction in correct social behavior. The club’s drama group performed plays and skits illustrating moral lessons. But the principal venue for teaching proper behavior was the organization’s dances, held on national holidays, during Carnival, and on other special occasions. This emphasis on dance continued a century-long tradition going back to the African nations and the ‘‘colored society’’ dances of the late 1800s, precedents that Revista Uruguay explicitly cited in its reports on the events. Responding to criticism that acsu devoted too much attention to dances and not enough to education and social uplift, the paper replied that of course the organization should be, and in fact was, undertaking other projects in addition to dances. But dances were a long-standing tradition in the community, and one that remained necessary ‘‘to bring our race together; . . . through dance people get to know each other. What is the way to bring people together in our milieu, if not through dance?’’∞∞∞ The club insisted on the highest standards of decorum and respectability at its events. It reportedly took its name from Montevideo’s most aristocratic social club, the Club Uruguay, and aspired to play a similar role in the black community. Revista Uruguay cautioned members that ‘‘when dancing to the music of jazz bands, it is necessary to maintain one’s composure. One can overdo it when dancing the conga or other similar dances, moving in ways that are not appropriate for social occasions, and that by any measure are antisocial. [Such movements] are somewhat acceptable at Carnival dances or at dances in the countryside, but never, we repeat, at society dances.’’ One article scathingly criticized other clubs for holding dances so crowded and so drenched with cigarette smoke and sweat that they reminded the writer of a slave ship (a the new negros 107

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

comparison clearly intended to shock readers). Such events served only ‘‘to destroy and not to build up.’’∞∞≤ After a particularly successful Independence Day dance in 1945, the paper trumpeted that the event had recaptured ‘‘the prestige of thirty years ago,’’ referring to the municipally sponsored Carnival dances at the Teatro Cibils.∞∞≥ Eight young women made their debut at the dance. ‘‘Deliciously young and exquisitely feminine, they were, as one might imagine, the queens of the ball. . . . Light and shimmering, ethereally dressed in brilliant fabrics, gauzy muslins, and tulles, they had a setting worthy of their personalities.’’ ‘‘The beauty of our ladies, the gentility and culture of our gentlemen, and the joyous happiness conferred on everything by the orchestra,’’ all made it one of the most memorable evenings ever produced by ‘‘the collectivity of the civilized black race.’’∞∞∂ Even more gratifying to acsu was the report on the event in the photo magazine Mundo Uruguayo, an arbiter of middle-class taste and style in Montevideo. Accompanying the photos of women in floor-length gowns and men in business suits, the text by Alberto Etchepare complimented the club’s members on the ‘‘unalterable respect that ruled over the party, with no diminution of the uncontrollable merrymaking or of the convulsive desire to dance.’’ When he arrived, the band was playing a Cuban rumba at ‘‘extraordinary volume’’ and ‘‘as though animated by a singular frenzy.’’ The music then shifted to tango, in response to which the black men calm down. . . . Their embrace of their partners loses the strength and the sense of animal possession with which moments before they had clasped their black women by the waist. Truly the tango moves us more, its sensuality captures us. For the blacks, the conga, the rumba, the maxixe, the samba. Anything that makes them excited, that revives them, that breaks the sad, atavistic tension of colonial slavery. The tango represents a prolongation of slavery, even if it is the slavery of romance, and its sadness does not suit the black soul. Its languid music, not at all tiring, suits us better, and we enter it slowly, easily, as into a zone of peace and of remembrance. According to Etchepare, this was why, when the band returned to Cuban rumba, the crowd recovered its former animation, everyone singing along with the chorus, ‘‘yambambó, yambambé!’’ The evening then concluded with ‘‘a dance evocative of the days of independence, the traditional lanceros.’’ For Etchepare, the beautifully performed dance was the 108 the new negros

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

high point of the evening, as ‘‘for an instant it occurs to us that we are living in the romantic days of the past.’’∞∞∑ acsu and Revista Uruguay were thrilled with this coverage.∞∞∏ Nuestra Raza was not. For the contributor Mario Montero, the piece left ‘‘a ridiculous impression, unreal and degrading for our collectivity.’’ Montero did not fault Mundo Uruguayo for the story but rather the attendees at the dance. Instead of giving Etchepare ‘‘the ammunition’’ he used to slander the black community, they should have been more dignified and restrained in their movements, he argued. Another contributor, writing under the pseudonym Sabas, took a di√erent tack, blaming Etchepare. Sabas lampooned the writer as the Great White Hunter setting o√ into the jungle of the acsu dance wearing his pith helmet and with a retinue of African porters in tow. Etchepare had treated the dance as though it were something exotic and bizarre, Sabas observed, rather than the perfectly normal and unexceptionable community event that it was.∞∞π Etchepare’s treatment of the event was indeed relentlessly racialized. Rather than human beings like himself, what he saw as he looked at the dancers (or at least what he chose to write about) were ‘‘morenos orientales’’ inescapably tied to the history of colonial slavery. And though the article closed with ritual invocations of racial brotherhood, expressed in the image of ‘‘Ansina, the black gaucho of independence, riding next to the white gaucho,’’ it conveyed a clear sense of racial di√erence, and of racial hierarchy, between the article’s white ‘‘us’’ and its black subjects. In a 1956 interview with the mainstream magazine Marcha, former acsu president Suárez Peña readily acknowledged that feelings of racial di√erence were widespread among white Uruguayans. Labeling these feelings as ‘‘discrimination,’’ he described them as normal, ‘‘natural,’’ and not a problem for most Afro-Uruguayans. ‘‘You know that discrimination has to exist because our color is di√erent, and even the children in the street look at us with curiosity and examine us from head to foot. Discrimination exists and doesn’t upset us. . . . Discrimination exists and it’s natural that it does.’’ He drew a line, however, between ‘‘discrimination’’ and ‘‘segregation,’’ which occurred when whites acted on their perceptions of di√erence to exclude black customers from theaters, hotels, cafés, restaurants, and other public services (as had happened to him and many other Afro-Uruguayans) and black jobseekers from employment. ‘‘Since there are many people who refuse our company, it’s almost impossible for us to get jobs where we will have direct conthe new negros 109

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

tact with the public, unless they are low-level jobs like doorman, street cleaner, or cook. . . . Segregation is what concerns us and what we want to abolish.’’∞∞∫ This acknowledgement of racial barriers in employment and public services reflected a visible shift from acsu’s assurances ten years earlier that ‘‘there are no problems’’ in the area of race or that ‘‘little or nothing remains to be done to eliminate . . . the color line.’’ During the second half of the 1940s Revista Uruguay had itself run a number of articles on racial discrimination in the city, including the stories on the barring of blacks from the firemen’s club, and other pieces on incidents of discrimination in the public schools, housing, medical care, hotels, and employment.∞∞Ω acsu members interviewed in the mid-1950s by the Brazilian sociologist Paulo de Carvalho-Neto reported being refused admission to dances and restaurants and being the target of racial gibes and insults at school and at work. None felt that they personally had been refused employment or promotion because of their race, but several commented on the general exclusion of blacks and mulattoes from white-collar and professional employment and the discouraging e√ect that this had on their pursuit of higher education and professional advancement. One young woman’s white friends advised her that, ‘‘ ‘look, it doesn’t make sense for you to continue [with her studies]. How are you going to get a job in your profession, being colored?’ So often did they say this to her that she became discouraged and abandoned her studies.’’ Another young woman reported that ‘‘I developed an inferiority complex [because of] my friends at work. They knew that I was studying, and they kept saying, ‘that negra who studies thinks she’s going to amount to something.’ ’’∞≤≠ By the 1950s, it was clear that acsu’s founding generation had been overly optimistic. At the same time, generational, gender, and financial pressures in the organization were coming to a head.∞≤∞ Like all the black social clubs, acsu relied on the dances not just as a means to teach good manners and comportment but also for income. As in the other clubs, most of the work required to put on the dances was done by acsu’s female members.∞≤≤ Yet within the organization’s administrative structure, women were barred from any voice in governance and were even required to sit apart from the men during meetings. Suárez Peña retained all receipts from the dances and other activities and allegedly spent them as he saw fit, with little if any oversight from the organization’s board.∞≤≥ In 1954 a group of younger members challenged Suárez Peña, demand110 the new negros

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

ing to see the organization’s financial records and demanding also that women be allowed to serve on the board. He was removed as president and replaced by a new administration that sought a more activist role for the organization. Rather than simply commenting on the exclusion of Afro-Uruguayans from dances, theaters, and other public venues, acsu began protesting it, taking aim at the most notoriously exclusionary venues in the city, such as the casinos at the Parque and Carrasco hotels, and the Casa de Galicia social club. It also took the lead in publicizing the Adelia Silva de Sosa case, holding several public meetings and urging her to return to Montevideo.∞≤∂ At the same time, acsu pursued a second track aimed at raising the position of black people in Uruguayan society. To the degree that whites learned to appreciate Afro-Uruguayan culture, the club’s new leaders believed, their regard for their black compatriots would increase. Since that culture revolved around candombe, acsu proposed to municipal authorities a new vehicle to bring black music and dance to white audiences. This was the Fiestas Negras, a series of events to be held each year during the Christmas season (25 December–6 January). These would include public dances held at the municipally owned Hotel del Prado and aim at bringing together a cross-racial, middle-class public to dance candombe, followed by a parade on 6 January of all the black comparsas.∞≤∑ The municipal authorities approved the idea. The dances at the Hotel del Prado continued through the early 1960s;∞≤∏ the parade of the black comparsas proved more durable, lasting to the present and becoming one of the major events of the Montevideo summer season. In approving the proposal, however, the city decided to hold the parade not during Christmas but rather as part of Carnival. Dubbed Las Llamadas (The Calls), after the comparsas’ practice of summoning their members into the street with drum calls, the parade of the black comparsas debuted at the 1956 Carnival. It was a night that none who were present would ever forget.

the new negros 111

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

chapter four

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

today everyone dances candombe, 1950–2010

It was a balmy summer night in late February 1956. Under a brilliant full moon, one hundred thousand spectators jammed the streets of the Barrio Sur and Palermo, awaiting the first-ever Llamadas, the parade of the comparsas de negros.∞ By 1956 the comparsas had been marching through Montevideo for almost a century; but they had done so either individually or in larger parades that combined Carnival groups of all sorts (sailors, gauchos, murgas, etc.). Now, for the first time, the city had devoted a night exclusively to the sociedades de negros, and the public anticipation was enormous. As they waited, the crowd was buzzing, lively, and expectant. But as the sounds of drumming were heard in the distance and then drew closer, ‘‘an absolute silence fell over the crowd, as though at a religious rite.’’ The comparsas, reported El País, ‘‘gave the sense that they were arriving from the sea, that they had landed from an invisible ship, beneath the magic of a full moon, not like one hundred years ago, as slaves, but rather as they are today, free, masters of their own destiny and of that unforgettable rhythmic sound that comes to them from centuries past, never flagging, never weakening.’’≤ Galvanized by the thunderous drumming, the comparsas’ female dancers danced ‘‘frenetically,’’ like ‘‘spinning tops, crazed with joy.’’ As each group passed, ‘‘the black women swayed back and forth . . . as though possessed by Lucifer’’; they writhed ‘‘like serpents on whom a rain of flowers had fallen, imprinting the madness of fire and night’’ on the scene. In short, concluded the paper, ‘‘it was jungle in the city.’’≥ The illustrated weekly magazine Mundo Uruguayo concurred. ‘‘From time to time Carnival has these incredible resurrections that make up for

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

long periods of languor and decadence,’’ and this first Llamadas was such a night. ‘‘The streets of Palermo . . . never saw such crowds, or heard such shouts of admiration and applause.’’∂ Years later, Tomás Olivera Chirimini, today a veteran candombero, recalled that first parade, which he saw as a teenager: ‘‘It was something I will never forget for the rest of my days. The cheering and applause were like an earthquake; . . . with the thundering of the drums, the shouts of the spectators, the bombs and rockets shooting up into the sky, one had the sense that the buildings on each side of the street were about to explode into thousands of pieces. The joy and enthusiasm were overwhelming, completely out of control.’’∑

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

The Spectacle of Carnival The Llamadas were the Uruguayan variant of a phenomenon taking place throughout midcentury Latin America: the creation or ‘‘nationalization’’ by the state of folkloric festivals and holidays that, through lavish pageantry and symbolism, defined the place of nonwhite peoples in the nation. In doing so, national governments sought two complementary goals: to market the black and indigenous past as a potential source of revenue from tourism; and to project an ‘‘o≈cial story’’ of how that past and these people had been peacefully and successfully integrated into modern, twentieth-century republics. Thus in Brazil and Cuba in the 1930s, national and municipal authorities imposed tight control over the Rio de Janeiro and Havana Carnivals, mandating the instruments to be played by Carnival comparsas, the costumes to be worn, and the types of songs to be sung. In Guatemala, state o≈cials added a Maya beauty contest and a model indigenous village to the annual celebrations of independence day. In Peru, municipal authorities in Cuzco resurrected the Inca Festival of the Sun in 1944; eight years later, the national government took control of the event to ensure an ‘‘accurate’’ representation of the Inca past. And in Venezuela, the National Folklore Service inaugurated an annual Festival of Tradition in 1948, aimed, in the words of its founder, at ‘‘attain[ing] a perfect synthesis’’ of national popular culture.∏ The anthropologist David Guss reflects on some of the pitfalls of ‘‘nationalizing’’ folkloric festivals and turning them into core symbols of national identity: Events that were not only structured by local histories and conflicts but that also celebrated them now become symbols for a nation at everyone dances candombe 113

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

large, a purpose for which they were never intended. To accomplish this has required that the hallmark of festive behavior, its superabundance of symbols and meanings, be shrunk as much as possible to a handful of quickly and easily understood ideas. At its most reduced, a festival is transformed into an icon of ‘‘national tradition,’’ a borrowed image of di√erence made to stand for the nation as a whole. With the audience magnified many times over, the subtle ambiguities of local performance, the layerings of history and context, must be all but eliminated. . . . The privileging of the visual, accomplished through colorful costumes and dramatic choreography, combines with technical excellence and virtuosity to present a cheerful, unceasingly optimistic world. This increased theatricalization abjures any mention of true historical conditions and replaces them with the staged creation of a mythic, detemporalized past.π Yet as Guss also recognizes, the symbols and images projected in these national festivals are not simply and automatically imposed by state authorities. Composers, lyricists, choreographers, performers, and audiences all have their say as well, making annual events like the Llamadas sites of recurring dispute and negotiation over the content and meaning of national popular culture. In the case of the Llamadas, these negotiations began in 1955 with the initial proposals to the Montevideo municipal authorities by the Asociación Cultural y Social Uruguay (acsu) for Fiestas Negras, an Afro-Uruguayan cultural festival to take place during the twelve days of Christmas (25 December–6 January). City o≈cials liked the idea but saw the parade in particular as an opportunity to focus renewed attention on Carnival by highlighting the new, glitzier comparsas being formed in the late 1940s and early 1950s.∫ The municipality therefore reconfigured acsu’s proposal as the Llamadas: a special parade, exclusively for the black comparsas and with significant cash prizes, to be held annually as part of Carnival.Ω The comparsas would continue to take part in the parades that included all the di√erent types of Carnival groups and to present shows on the neighborhood stages and the Teatro del Verano. But now they would also have their own night devoted entirely to African-based drumming and dancing. Six groups took part in that first Llamadas, of which at least two—the Candombera and the Tamborileros—were largely or entirely white in composition. Of course this posed no obstacle to their taking part in the parade, as El País dutifully explained. ‘‘These are white men with black 114 everyone dances candombe

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Vedette and drummers, 1979. (Archivo Fotográfico de Montevideo)

everyone dances candombe 115

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

souls . . . [who] beat their drums as though their hands were dark. . . . If these men play what they know, it is beyond doubt that they know what they are playing,’’ and they were warmly applauded by the crowd. The winners of that first Llamadas competition, however, were two relatively new groups, Fantasía Negra (created in 1954) and Morenada (1953), which shared the first-place prize.∞≠ Both groups were racially integrated but were directed by members of a rising generation of AfroUruguayan carnavaleros who had learned their trade in the new comparsas of the 1940s. In his study of the Montevideo Carnival of 1954, the Brazilian anthropologist Paulo de Carvalho-Neto concluded that the financial demands of producing the more lavish shows demanded by the Montevideo public at that time had had the e√ect of ‘‘displacing the black man from the position of comparsa director. Comparsa directors or entrepreneurs are white, though there may be a few blacks and mulattoes. But the whites have access to capital that blacks do not have, so that the black comparsas with white directors are the biggest and the best.’’∞∞ CarvalhoNeto was premature in announcing the demise of the black-led comparsas. During the months he spent in Montevideo, two of the most important twentieth-century groups were beginning careers that in turn would pave the way for more such groups in the 1970s, 1980s, and 1990s. Fantasía Negra was directed by Julio Jiménez and the composer and bandleader Pedro Rafael Tabares, who worked under the stage name of Pedro Ferreira. During the 1940s, Jiménez and Ferreira had worked together as director and musical director, respectively, of the Libertadores de Africa comparsa. In composing the Libertadores’ songs, Ferreira incorporated rhythms, melodies, and instrumentation that he had learned while playing with touring Cuban rumba bands in Buenos Aires in the 1930s. This more Caribbean, ‘‘tropical’’ form of candombe proved immensely popular in Montevideo and quickly found its way into the repertoire of Emidio Riverón’s and José Antonio Lungo’s groups.∞≤ When the Libertadores disbanded in 1951, Ferreira and Jiménez went on to form Fantasía Negra, drawing on the residents of the racially integrated Ansina housing project in Palermo. The group proved to be the dominant comparsa of the 1950s, winning five first-place Teatro del Verano titles from 1954 to 1958 and five first-place Llamadas titles from 1956 to 1963.∞≥ So complete was Fantasía Negra’s domination of Carnival that, after it won its fifth straight title, municipal authorities required it to with116 everyone dances candombe

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

draw from competition for several years to give other groups a chance. This opened the way for its chief competitor, Morenada (literally, group or gang of morenos). Based in the Medio Mundo conventillo of the Palermo neighborhood, the comparsa was directed by the Silva brothers— Juan Angel, Raúl, and Wellington—who had begun their Carnival careers in the 1940s working with José Antonio Lungo in Añoranzas Negras. From Lungo the brothers had learned how to produce the Parisian-style musical reviews that appealed to the Montevideo public. Drawing their drummers, dancers, singers, seamstresses (costumes were an integral part of the comparsa’s appeal), and other members from the families living in the conventillo’s forty one-room apartments, Morenada won five first-place Carnival titles between 1959 and 1969, and four more in the 1980s.∞∂ During the 1970s and 1980s the comparsas continued in the direction of ever more elaborate production values. A central figure in this development was José de Lima (real name Carlos Lasalvia), an AfroUruguayan dancer, choreographer, and dressmaker. While living and working in Brazil in the 1960s, Lima had become fascinated with the spectacle of the Rio de Janeiro Carnival and returned to Uruguay determined to apply that model to the Montevideo comparsas. He worked initially with José Antonio Lungo on a second incarnation of Añoranzas Negras and then, beginning in 1970, created his own comparsas, Serenata Africana (1970–75, 1998–) and Marabunta (1976–93). His guiding principles, he recalls, were ‘‘luxury, innovation, and spectacle,’’ achieved through eye-catching and (in the case of the dancers) flesh-revealing costumes and choreography. Lima designed and sewed most of the costumes himself, incorporating glittery fabrics, giant feathers, and other accoutrements imported from Brazil.∞∑ These innovations, and the increasing professionalization of the comparsas, did not come cheap. In his research on the 1954 Carnival, Carvalho-Neto found comparsa directors keeping detailed accounts of the salaries paid to their top performers. ‘‘Without money, there is no comparsa, because it becomes impossible to contract the members, who are paid . . . either by the engagement or at the end of the Carnival season.’’ At that time female vedettes and male escoberos commanded the highest salaries; by the 1970s and 1980s, the categories of paid professionals had expanded to include composers and lyricists, choreographers, singers, costume designers, musicians, and, at the bottom of the hierarchy, drummers.∞∏ everyone dances candombe 117

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

In 2002, the year that I observed Carnival, salaries for top composers, musical directors, and choreographers were in the neighborhood of five thousand dollars U.S. for a three-month season (mid-December through mid-March); top performers (singers, musicians, dancers) earned thirtyfive hundred dollars, with lesser amounts as one worked down the scale. By Uruguayan standards, these are high monthly wages, but performers earn them only three months out of the year. For the other nine they must piece together earnings from occasional performances or their day jobs, which in the Uruguay of the early 2000s were neither plentiful nor well-paying. As a result, almost all of the Carnival performers that I interviewed lived very modestly and some in poverty. Like the country’s star football players, some of the most famous Carnival performers spend their last years in states of absolute destitution.∞π A young drummer, commenting to me in 2008 on the poverty in which the director of his own comparsa lives, observed that that individual, a well-known drummer and drumming instructor, ‘‘lives from the drums, and doesn’t live well. The drums pay very badly.’’ ‘‘The Llamadas generate a lot of money,’’ charged the master drummer and drum maker Fernando ‘‘Lobo’’ Núñez in 1988. ‘‘Thousands of dollars for chair rentals, refreshment stands, television rights; and of that money, black people don’t see a peso.’’∞∫ In an interview in 2001, Núñez described a number of highly accomplished drummers who, despite their skills, and after many years of playing and performing, did not even own their own drums, which they had sold or pawned to pay their debts. This was partly owing to their own problems in managing their financial a√airs, he admitted, but partly as well to the remarkable rise in the number of young drummers during the 1990s. The entry of so many drummers into the field had had the e√ect of driving down wages in that segment of the Carnival labor market, almost to the point of eliminating them entirely. Indeed, many of these new drummers were actually willing to pay for the experience of parading in a comparsa (more on this later).∞Ω Carnival thus provides a modest living for a handful of stars but not for the great mass of those who take part.≤≠ It is particularly unrewarding, in financial terms, for comparsa directors. All the directors with whom I spoke described the enormous pressures of putting together the budget for each year’s shows. Their principal sources of income are commercial sponsorships (often from soft drink or beer companies), income from paid performances (at parties, football games, corporate meetings, etc.), subsidies and prize money from the city government, 118 everyone dances candombe

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

and shares of the television rights to the Llamadas and other Carnival events. But income almost never su≈ces to cover expenses; José de Lima, one of the most successful comparsa directors, reports never having made money on any of his groups. In good years he breaks even; in bad years he loses money and must cover the deficit out of his own pocket.≤∞ The key to running a successful comparsa, directors agree, is essentially the same as in running any kind of business: relentless attention to detail and especially to costs. They all report extensive recycling of costumes, stage sets, and other materials from previous years, and hard bargaining with their sponsors, suppliers, and star performers. Yet they are powerfully driven as well by the desire to prevail in the various Carnival competitions (the Llamadas, the general Carnival parade, and the Teatro del Verano), which can only be won, they believe, by putting on lavish spectacles. The resulting pressures, financial and otherwise, can suck the enjoyment out of an enterprise aimed, paradoxically, at bringing alegría and pleasure to the masses. Every director with whom I spoke was visibly tense and anxious about the coming year’s Carnival. One noted that, because of his responsibilities with the comparsa, he had not taken a summer vacation in fifteen years. ‘‘Carnival,’’ he reflected ruefully, ‘‘has not brought me the happiness that I deserve.’’ Then why continue to do it, year after year? All the directors cite the motive of public service, especially that of representing candombe and their neighborhood to the city at large.≤≤ Most acknowledge as well their desire to prevail in the annual competitions, which for them are the whole point, the punto vital, of Carnival. But inextricably tied to competition, and just as powerful a motivator, is the desire to create something of beauty and meaning. While our conversations about the comparsas’ financial and organizational aspects often provoked uneasiness and anxiety, discussions of the shows themselves elicited a very di√erent reaction. As they sang to me snatches of the previous year’s songs, or those of the coming year, directors’ faces would relax and their eyes half-close with pleasure. As José de Lima showed me the ornate hand-stitched costumes he was creating for his star dancers, he smiled and stroked the outfits lovingly. Lobo Núñez described in elaborate detail the historically accurate techniques he uses to build the drums for his group, the Calenda. And sixty-year-old Benjamín Arrascaeta, director of Elumbé, displayed an almost boyish enthusiasm as he described the group’s plans to revive forgotten drumbeats and rhythms from the 1920s and 1930s. everyone dances candombe 119

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

All the comparsa directors take intense pleasure in these acts of creation; but Néstor Silva, an Afro-Uruguayan activist, and a composer and singer for Sarabanda, suggests their particular importance for the AfroUruguayan directors. ‘‘In a country and a society in which black people, no matter what they do, are nobody and will always be nobody,’’ he says, Carnival allows them to be figures of national and even international stature.≤≥ Black directors manage enterprises that, even if they make little or no money, are highly visible in the public space and control enormous amounts of symbolic and cultural capital. The comparsas also provide employment opportunities that, even if they do not lead to wealth or advancement, are significant sources of income for Afro-Uruguayan (and white) performers. Thus despite its pressures and anxieties, organizing a comparsa o√ers Afro-Uruguayan carnavaleros the opportunity, very rare in Uruguayan society, to become figures of influence and importance.≤∂ Meanwhile, what about the more general e√ects of Carnival’s commercialization and professionalization—its transformation, in the historian Antonio Plácido’s formulation, from a festival created and put on by the people to a festival put on for the people?≤∑ Not everyone with whom I spoke was opposed to these changes. The late Juan Velorio (real name Bienvenido Martínez), a well-known maker of candombe drums, began his apprenticeship in the comparsas in the 1940s and paraded in them until the 1970s. The groups of the 1940s were ‘‘boring,’’ he recalled in a 2001 interview, and they were greatly improved by the innovations in music, costume, and choreography introduced by Fantasía Negra and Morenada. These innovations did distance the comparsas from their African past, he said, ‘‘but we’re in the year 2001, not the 1940s.’’ Now that Uruguayans had televisions, stereos, and computers, why should the comparsas not have new elements as well?≤∏ The famous vedette Rosa Luna firmly rejected ‘‘the notion that everything in the past was better’’ and argued that the comparsas had been greatly improved by their embrace of sophisticated production values. The comparsa director and long-time carnavalero Julio ‘‘Kanela’’ Sosa agreed that ‘‘from a professional point of view, there is no doubt that today’s Carnivals are far superior’’ to those of the past. Comparing the comparsas of 1950 to Uruguay’s World Cup soccer championship that year, Carlos Larraura, the director of Yambo Kenia, observed in 2002 that ‘‘we were champions in 1950 but we can’t stagnate. We have to be champions again’’ by continuing to innovate and improve the comparsa and its show.≤π Other observers are much more critical of what Carnival has become, 120 everyone dances candombe

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

as merrymakers who might formerly have taken part in the festivities now sit passively on the sidelines, watching the professionals entertain them. And as the comparsas and other groups work to generate the money required to pay these professionals, ‘‘Carnival stopped being fun and became a business.’’≤∫ ‘‘Poor Momus,’’ lamented the journalist Omar Rodríguez in 2000, ‘‘they have sold you for thirty pieces of silver, they have privatized you. Carnival of Montevideo, I don’t know you any more. What happened to your style, born in the old neighborhoods and organized by the residents? A group of capitalists has privatized you.’’≤Ω Criticisms of the commercialization of Carnival, and the less participatory character of the festival over the last fifty years, merit our full attention and must be taken seriously. It is worth noting, however, that such complaints have a long genealogy and were by no means limited to the late twentieth century. As early as 1912, the Montevideo Times charged that Carnival festivities ‘‘have been given too ‘o≈cial’ a character, they have become fêtes made for the people, rather than made by the people themselves, and thus it is that the large majority have fallen into the roles of passive spectators rather than active participants.’’≥≠ Complaints of declining participation, allegedly owing to the commercialization of Carnival, continued through the 1920s, 1930s, 1940s, and into the 1950s, at which point Mundo Uruguayo noted that ‘‘it has been said, and with reason, that Carnival is more and more a show with many spectators and few actors,’’ at which most people just sit and watch. But as the magazine went on to observe, that did not mean that any fewer people were involved in the festivities. As the shows had become more professional, the number of participants involved in them had actually increased, though now they were doing di√erent things: directing, composing, performing, making sets and costumes, conducting rehearsals, arranging transport and refreshments, and so on. As a result, participation in the comparsas and in Carnival had not in fact declined, ‘‘nor ha[d] the meaning or the popular vibrancy of Momus’s kingdom diminished. [Rather,] all the supporting artistic work now reign[ed] supreme, of undeniable quality and ever greater as the comparsas [grew] in number and importance.’’≥∞ Despite his qualms about state regulation and the increasing commercialization of Carnival, the anthropologist Paulo de Carvalho-Neto acknowledged (in 1954) the continuing popularity of the event and widespread public participation in it. ‘‘It is thrilling [to see] how, overnight, the working and middle classes of Montevideo pour forth a legion of people’’ to take part in the comparsas and other Carnival groups. everyone dances candombe 121

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Warehouse workers, hardware store clerks, masons and bricklayers, meat packers, salesmen, o≈ce and bank clerks, mechanics, carpenters, ticket-takers [on buses], electricians, textile workers, mailmen, pharmacists, clerks from the customs o≈ces and the telephone company, shoemakers, law students, professional singers, piano tuners, furniture and floor cleaners, the unemployed, all become artists for a month . . . while the neighborhood . . . an intelligent, well-behaved audience, standing in the street, applauds them.≥≤ In this passage, Carvalho-Neto signaled two forms of participation in Carnival: as a member of the Carnival groups, and as a spectator. Although these are two very di√erent relationships to the spectacle of Carnival, they are not impermeable to each other. Not all performers are always performing, nor are all spectators always watching. Many people go back and forth between the two roles at Carnival, taking time o√ from their own performances to watch other groups. Further blurring the distinction between performer and spectator is the way the intensely rhythmic, drum-driven performances of the comparsas draw people into the action. From the early 1900s to the present, virtually every newspaper or magazine article on the comparsas’ practice sessions in the months before Carnival has commented on the large neighborhood turnouts. Neighbors came (and come) to the practices to dance, sing, and socialize. In so doing they become very much a part of the preparations for, and the eventual celebration of, Carnival. Even at the actual performances, the line between performers and spectators is often a fine one, as became clear at the very first Llamadas, in 1956. Organizers of the event were taken aback when an unknown and unannounced group, dressed in ragged costumes and marching under an ancient, tattered flag, pushed its way into the line of march and set o√ down the parade route. It was the comparsa with no name. Under its red and yellow flag marched those who did not fit in any of the other comparsas but who could not remain quiet. They wanted to take part. . . . In truth, what happened to those blacks and burnt-cork whites happened to everyone there, to the one hundred thousand people who came to see a spectacle and found that they wanted to be part of it. Everyone was moving their body like each of the picturesque [African] characters, and when the escobero threw his sta√ thirty feet in the air, they did the 122 everyone dances candombe

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

same, holding nothing back, and showing in that hot, impatient gesture the same, identical longing, to all live the same emoción lubola.≥≥

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Rhythm Nation In recent decades, hundreds of thousands of Montevideans have wanted to feel that emoción lubola. ‘‘There are a good number of Montevideans willing to respond, to become excited and to feel, in some perhaps obscure way, that they have more in common with all that [drums, candombe, and Llamadas] than with the Spain and Italy of their grandparents,’’ reported the magazine Marcha in 1966. ‘‘With their hearts open and ready to let themselves go, to let themselves be assaulted by emotions remembered from other occasions, and always desired . . . somehow, when faced by our blacks who sing and dance, we are always somewhat more than spectators.’’≥∂ That desire to be more than spectators is visible in newsreel and documentary coverage of the Llamadas of those years, in which crowds of onlookers, almost entirely white and formally dressed in suits, ties, and dresses, press in so closely on the parading comparsas that police must intervene to push them back. Yet the crowd will not be held back and keeps surging forward, bobbing and moving to the rhythm of the drums.≥∑ The Llamadas assumed even greater public significance during the military dictatorship (1973–85), one of whose goals was to close down civic space and political mobilization of all kinds. During these years Carnival was subject to even closer government regulation and control than usual, but its vitality and inherently oppositional character proved impossible to repress completely. It thus became one of the very few means available to express public opposition to authoritarian rule.≥∏ Some of the murgas criticized the government either openly or indirectly in their satirical songs. The comparsas, more focused on the Afro-Uruguayan past, did not take such an openly oppositional stance. But as several individuals commented to me, during the years in which the dictatorship silenced most of Uruguayan civil society, the thundering drums of candombe were the antithesis of that public silence. And in a society in which it had become forbidden to meet in groups and to discuss collective issues publicly, the concept of the llamada, of calling people into the street to drum, dance, and become part of a public celebration, was a direct denial of the authoritarian project.≥π everyone dances candombe 123

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Under these conditions candombe became closely associated in the public mind with opposition to the dictatorship, an association that was further strengthened when the government demolished several of the historic conventillos and housing projects that had produced the most ‘‘traditional’’ and best-known comparsas: the Ansina housing project in Palermo, home of Libertadores de Africa and Fantasía Negra; the Medio Mundo conventillo in Palermo, home of Morenada; the Gaboto conventillo in Cordón; and others. The government justified these demolitions as part of long overdue urban renewal projects; but when state agencies failed to rebuild the sites, simply leaving them as rubble-strewn vacant lots, neighborhood residents saw darker motives at work: a desire to remove poor black and white families from the city center and disperse them to outlying neighborhoods; and a desire as well to silence the historic voices of Afro-Uruguayan culture by destroying the homes and birthplaces of the great comparsas.≥∫ If the government’s goal was indeed to undermine candombe and the comparsas, it failed miserably. By the late 1980s the destruction of the conventillos was still ‘‘a deep wound that continues to ache (and to bleed) in the city’s battered body.’’≥Ω But the comparsas based in the vanished buildings continued not only to meet and parade but to give ‘‘a positive [life-a≈rming] response to those who destroyed their homes,’’ in the words of José Carrizo Agapito, the director of the Concierto Lubolo comparsa. The lineal descendant of Fantasía Negra, Concierto Lubolo was formed by former residents of the Ansina housing project and was dedicated to preserving memories of the project’s proletarian, multiracial environment.∂≠ Meanwhile, former residents of the Medio Mundo conventillo continued to parade in Morenada, which almost every year sang songs in homage to its vanished home. And when Waldemar ‘‘Cachila’’ Silva, son of the Morenada founder Juan Angel Silva, decided to create his own group in 1999, he named it C 1080, in homage to Medio Mundo’s street address, Cuareim 1080.∂∞ At the same time that the historic comparsas of Barrio Sur, Palermo, and Cordón continued to meet and parade, the dispersion of the conventillos’ inhabitants throughout the city may well have contributed to an upsurge of candombe drumming and comparsas in neighborhoods not traditionally associated with either. During the 1990s and early 2000s, the city was swept by a ‘‘mania’’ or ‘‘epidemic’’ of drumming. ‘‘The drums became fashionable,’’ says Cachila Silva, ‘‘and the comparsas, too.’’ During the 1960s and 1970s, the annual Llamadas had typically 124 everyone dances candombe

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

included six to eight groups. By the end of the 1990s more than thirty groups were parading, each of them fielding one hundred to two hundred drummers, dancers, and other performers. By 2003 more than forty groups marched. Many more such groups played informally in their neighborhoods. From candombe’s very beginnings as a musical genre, white drummers and musicians had played a central role in its evolution. Now, however, whites were pouring into the comparsas in numbers never seen before, and in so doing, raising new questions about the very nature of candombe, blackness, and whiteness. As we have already seen, the massive influx of white drummers exercised significant downward pressure on the wages of all but the most expert black drummers. Under the relentless financial pressures of running their comparsas, few directors could resist the temptation of drummers who demanded no payment and in many cases would pay for the experience of parading in the Llamadas. José de Lima commented to me that this was one of the few bright financial aspects of recent Carnivals. While in the 1970s and 1980s he had supplied the drums for most of his drummers, by the 1990s he no longer had to do so, since most of the new drummers owned their own instruments. Nor did the new drummers demand payment, with the result that he now only paid wages to his top five or ten drummers. (This provoked one of his dancers, who had dropped by to try on her costume, to retort that you could get most drummers to parade simply by dangling a bottle of wine in front of them—the traditional triad of negro, vino y tambor.) As wages for drummers fell, the only motivation for continuing to take part in a comparsa was pleasure or personal satisfaction; but as novice drummers poured into the groups, that motivation, too, came under siege. Candombe drumming, the master drummers told me over and over again, is entirely about dialogue, listening, and response. But the new drummers did not have su≈cient drumming vocabulary to ‘‘hear’’ and understand these dialogues, let alone to take part in them. Many came to drumming with the simple desire to pound away at their instrument and make a big noise; meanwhile, drum corps that formerly might have consisted of twenty to thirty drummers now swelled to one hundred or more, making it even more di≈cult to hear and respond to the conversations among the drums. Under these conditions, more than a few master performers hung up their drums and retired from Carnival.∂≤ By the late 1990s, the artist, activist and composer Rubén Galloza could no longer bear to attend the Llamadas. As executive secretary of everyone dances candombe 125

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

acsu in 1955, he had been instrumental in proposing and creating the event; but forty years later he was disgusted by what it had become. All the comparsas sound great as they come down the street, he told me, but that’s because they put their best drummers in the front ranks. The test of any comparsa is what the drummers in the middle and last rows sound like; and in almost every group, he said, they are terrible.∂≥ So problematic were many of the new drummers that their presence raised a question that, to the best of my knowledge, had never been considered in drumming circles: Were white people able to learn how to drum? Historically this had never been an issue. Obviously white people could drum, since over the course of the 1900s they had provided the bulk of the drum corps for the comparsas. But now, with their professional position increasingly undercut by new, lower-paid (or unpaid or paying) white competition, a number of black drummers and other candomberos sought to shore up that position by invoking the timehonored claim, taken directly from the Carnival songs of the previous hundred years, that candombe (and African rhythm in general) is ‘‘in the blood.’’ Whites could never be as good drummers (or dancers or singers) as blacks because they do not have candombe ‘‘en la sangre.’’ I heard this assertion repeatedly in drumming circles, including from many white drummers, who would cite it as the explanation for the di≈culties they sometimes had in learning to play and march. There are two main problems with such a statement. First, there have been many fine white candombe drummers. Second, if Afro-Uruguayans carry rhythm and candombe in their blood, what else might they be carrying there as well? Criminality? Laziness? Lower intellectual ability? Recognizing the pitfalls of a racial explanation for black prowess in candombe, some critics of the new drummers couch their criticism not in terms of race but of culture. The musicologist Coriún Aharonián asserts that it is impossible for white drummers to ‘‘get’’ the rhythms of candombe, but not for genetic reasons. ‘‘To play the drum it is not necessary to be, physically, a Montevidean black . . . but to be one culturally. The functional logic of the llamada is incompatible with that of an individual brought up in white, European, Western culture. And it can’t be learned through classes. Therefore, in order to have well-played drums one needs musicians brought up in Afro-Montevidean culture.’’∂∂ The comparsa director Cachila Silva concurs. Drumming can be learned, he told me, 126 everyone dances candombe

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

but it cannot be taught; and one learns it only by growing up in drumming families and households, which, it goes without saying, are AfroUruguayan.∂∑ So deeply engrained and widely di√used is the concept of ‘‘candombe in the blood’’ that people tend to invoke it reflexively, even when they do not really believe in it. For example, the master drummer Lobo Núñez suggested in a 2001 newspaper interview that although whites are able to master the technical aspects of drumming, they lack ‘‘certain things that are in the blood. . . . Candombe is an essence of the race. . . . The root is there, it’s di√erent, it’s a question of blood.’’∂∏ When we sat down to talk about this, he again suggested that white drummers ‘‘don’t have the rhythm, it’s not in their blood.’’ However, when I asked whether this meant that it was racially impossible for them to be the equal of black drummers, he shifted position to focus instead on many white drummers’ relatively recent entry into drumming. The problem is not that they cannot learn the rhythms; they just have not been playing these rhythms long enough to be able to relax and enjoy the music. Playing and marching are a struggle for them, and so they are tense. And since being tense is tiring, they have ever greater di≈culty playing, which makes them tenser, and so on in a downward spiral. Marching and drumming are tiring for everyone, he acknowledged, even the masters. The trick is to be able to throw o√ the tiredness, refocus one’s energies, and hurl oneself back into the fray as ‘‘a good warrior’’ of rhythm.∂π Clearly, then, the answer is not a blood transfusion but long and systematic exposure to the discipline and techniques of drumming.∂∫ What a relief! And here it is finally time to come clean: if it has not already become apparent, I will now confess to being one of these millions of white people who are fascinated by black rhythm. So when I arrived in Montevideo in July 2001 to find thousands of white people going to ‘‘percussion school’’ to learn how to play African drums and parade in the streets, it was only a matter of time. By October I had bought a drum and was taking lessons at the Mundo Afro percussion school. From October through February, our class, taught by the master drummer Miguel García, met weekly to learn basic drumming technique; beginning in November, we started parading through the Ciudad Vieja to practice marching and drumming in formation. Our goal was to be ready to march in the Llamadas, in early February. Like thousands of Montevideans before me, I was in training to be a negro lubolo. everyone dances candombe 127

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Being a Negro Lubolo While I did want to learn how to play candombe, I also had an academic motive for joining Mundo Afro: to find out why so many white people were taking up the drums. Talking to Montevideans, I had heard any number of explanations. Some focused on the nature of the music itself: candombe was an irresistible musical form that, beginning with Pedro Ferreira’s ‘‘tropical’’ innovations of the 1940s and 1950s, and continuing with candombe’s incorporation into Uruguayan pop music and canto popular in the 1960s and 1970s, had won ever larger audiences. It was inevitable, then, that Uruguayans would return to the source and learn the original rhythm. Add to that the ever increasing emphasis in global pop music on African-based rhythms—exemplified in the United States, for example, by soul music and R&B in the 1960s, funk and disco in the 1970s, and rap and hip-hop in the 1980s and 1990s—and EuroUruguayans’ embrace of the drums looks almost overdetermined. Other (not necessarily conflicting) explanations are not musical but social and political. Several people observed to me that over the past thirty years, partly as a result of the experience of the dictatorship, partly as a result of Montevideo’s continuing growth and modernization, the practices and institutions of traditional neighborhood life have eroded markedly. This is especially the case in the newer middle-class neighborhoods in the eastern part of the city and in the beach-front suburbs. Living in detached houses or high-rise apartment buildings, increasingly devoted to career during the day and television at night, members of the city’s middle class find themselves isolated, alienated, and cut o√ from the community life that, indeed, they moved to these neighborhoods partly to escape. Taking up the African drums—which are played in groups, not individually—and joining comparsas is thus a way to reconnect to urban social life. Some push this explanation further, noting that an inherent part of modernization, especially in the 1990s and early 2000s, is globalization and displacement of national identities by symbols, messages, and commodities originating in the United States and elsewhere. As Uruguayans react against these tendencies and search for ways to reassert and a≈rm their national uniqueness, their Uruguayanness, one of the most compelling and appealing ways to do so is to take up candombe. Finally, some suggest that drumming is simply the most recent form of youth rebellion and protest. During the 1950s and 1960s, such rebellion, 128 everyone dances candombe

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

especially among middle-class youth, tended to be channeled into leftist politics and the student movement. But the brutal repression of the left by the military dictatorship of the 1970s, followed by the international collapse of socialism in the 1980s and 1990s, greatly reduced the appeal of political activism for today’s young people. At that point, and precisely because of its associations with the marginal underworld of negro, vino y tambor, candombe drumming presented itself as a perfect way to defy white, middle-class norms. As I listened to them, each of these explanations sounded plausible; but what, I wondered, would the drummers themselves say?∂Ω As it turns out, each of the hypotheses cited above contains some measure of truth. Concerning the search for national identity, over and over I heard the refrain, from drummers and nondrummers alike, of the Uruguayanness of candombe. Though its roots are African, candombe was created in Uruguay and exists nowhere else, my friends told me. Upon learning that I had joined a comparsa and paraded in that year’s Llamadas, a city cultural o≈cial whom I met toward the end of my stay smiled delightedly and said that I could not possibly have had a more profoundly Uruguayan experience—which I think is probably true. But as they embrace candombe as a core component of national identity, no one ever mentions feeling under siege by internationalization. The drummers seem to come to candombe not from feelings of defensiveness but for purely positive reasons, and for love of the music itself. As we have seen, Uruguayans love candombe, and for good reason. Like samba, salsa, merengue, jazz, funk, hip-hop, and all the other Africanbased ‘‘national rhythms,’’ it is a musical form that, in the words of one informant, ‘‘won’t let you sit still.’’∑≠ And over the last hundred years, the comparsas have developed methods of playing it that enable them to take people with limited musical experience and turn them into juggernauts of rhythm. The music is played on three types of drums—chico, repique, and piano—each of which has a di√erent voice—alto, tenor, and bass, respectively—and plays a di√erent rhythmic figure. The piano hits heavy downbeats on one and four, with intervening syncopated eighth and sixteenth notes; the chico leaps in immediately following each beat with a sequence of three sixteenth notes. Both drums pound out the same stuttering phrases over and over again, in a deep aesthetic of monotony; the repique players have more freedom to improvise, and drive the group forward with their counterrhythms.∑∞ The result, when played at maximum volume and with maximum force everyone dances candombe 129

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

and authority, is irresistibly powerful and compelling. Here we might recall Tomás Olivera’s memories of the 1956 Llamadas: ‘‘The cheering and applause were like an earthquake; and . . . with the thundering of the drums, the shouts of the spectators, the bombs and rockets shooting up into the sky, one had the sense that the buildings on each side of the street were about to explode into thousands of pieces.’’ This is an accurate and not at all exaggerated description of what it feels like to march and drum with a comparsa. The waves of rhythm put out by our drums did indeed feel strong enough to demolish the buildings around us. As we marched along on our weekly practices, we set o√ every car and building alarm en route; yet the whooping alarms could barely be heard as tiny yawps above the thunderous din. Several of the drummers I talked to described the feeling of being ‘‘transported’’ while marching; and as we marched and drummed, digging deeper and deeper into the groove, I did feel simultaneously rooted and floating. The force of gravity and the steady reassurance of the ground had never seemed so necessary, to keep us from levitating o√ down the street on the cresting waves of rhythm. Yet the ground provided no rest, and was itself charged with surging electrical forces that flowed through us in a steady pulsing voltage. Everything was su√used with rhythm: the air, the ground, the universe, our bodies, our organs, and of course our drums. We were simultaneously the source, the conduit, and the recipient of that rhythm, I and fifty other drummers, hands rising and falling, legs stepping and marching, all together, all as one.∑≤ Yes, obviously the feeling is sexual—how could it not be, with these rich currents flowing through you? At the end we were exhausted, drenched with sweat, yet refreshed, relaxed, and glowing. Everyone felt good after drumming—unless, that is, we had su√ered injury or exhaustion along the way, which are frequent parts of the enterprise. The marches ‘‘are a test of exceptional physical strength,’’ notes one analysis of the comparsas, ‘‘and psychic strength as well.’’∑≥ That is an exaggeration, I would say; anyone in reasonable physical condition can carry and play the drums. But there is no question that doing so while marching, listening to the rest of the group, and maintaining perfect rhythm (or trying to) for an hour or more is intensely demanding. And all drummers, even the most experienced, can tear skin o√ their hands as they pound the leather drumheads. Ever ‘‘the good warriors’’ invoked by Lobo Núñez, drummers are expected to ignore their wounds and play through the pain, heads held high and gazing coolly into the distance.∑∂ 130 everyone dances candombe

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Bloodshed is just one part of the military character of the comparsas. The experience of preparing for the Llamadas is not unlike going through boot camp. There are clear lines of authority and command, based on the age, experience, and ability of the di√erent members. Our instructor Miguel, his colleague Sergio, and their lieutenants, all work to instill a kind of martial discipline. Miguel and Sergio in particular adopt a classic good cop/bad cop approach. As we march, Sergio stalks up and down the ranks, bawling us out for our numerous shortcomings. Miguel looks on gloomily, leaving us to guess whether he is more saddened by Sergio’s ferocity or by our clumsy mediocrity. As in any military unit, we pass long stretches of boredom and inactivity punctuated by brief bursts of intense action and excitement. Since comparsas field a lot of people, we routinely spend an hour or more waiting for everyone to show up, for drums to be tuned, for ranks to form, and so on. We pass the time smoking, joking, complaining about our ‘‘o≈cers’’; and then it is time to go over the top, into action. These experiences produce their intended results, and gradually one becomes part of the unit, bonded to one’s fellow drummers. Thus the explanation for drumming’s popularity—as based on the search for community, solidarity, and social connection—turns out to be true, although none of the drummers I talked to ever mentioned this. I saw the social aspects of the comparsas not so much through what people said as through their behavior; and that behavior makes clear that the groups are nothing if not community- and solidarity-building institutions. This was the prime motive for their lineal ancestors, the African nations and the proletarian comparsas of the early 1900s, and it remains so today.∑∑ These two previous incarnations of African-based community organization were both the product of experiences of profound social dislocation and crisis: the arrival of thousands of African slaves in the late 1700s and early 1800s; and the arrival of (many more) thousands of European immigrants in the rapidly growing and modernizing Montevideo of the late 1800s and early 1900s. In such settings, African-based drumming and culture provided an organizational vehicle through which newly arrived outsiders could define a place for themselves in the city’s society. Is it possible that something analogous was happening in the 1990s? One of the darker explanations for the drumming craze came from the musician and activist Néstor Silva, who suggested that one reason that young people in particular have taken up drumming is because they know that ‘‘there is no future’’ for them in Uruguay, and as they search for everyone dances candombe 131

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

some sort of identity or activity to fill that void, drumming is an appealing option.∑∏ Silva was referring to the sense, which is indeed widespread in the Uruguayan middle and working classes, that the model of economic development that produced the ‘‘golden years’’ of the 1940s and 1950s is now definitively over. The social programs enacted during the first half of the 1900s proved too expensive to sustain in the second half; and Uruguayan national industry, already constrained by the country’s tiny internal market, was then dealt fatal blows by the creation of the Mercosur common market in 1991, which opened the country’s borders to imports from Argentina and Brazil. As a result, the emigration that had begun for political reasons under the dictatorship of 1973–85 continued for economic reasons during the 1980s and 1990s. By 2000, 220,000 Uruguayans were living abroad, about 7 percent of the national population.∑π (An equivalent figure for the United States at that time would have been 20 million people.) Many of those who remained in the country saw themselves as survivors on a slowly sinking ship.∑∫ In such a setting, the comparsas provided a framework of social and community solidarity comparable in importance to the African nations of the mid-1800s and the proletarian comparsas of the early 1900s. Yet in none of these three periods did an embrace of African-based culture produce anything approaching racial equality or the full integration of Afro-Uruguayans into national life; and as I spent more time in the Mundo Afro group, I began to see some of the comparsas’ limits as vehicles of racial integration and equality. One of the black candomberos’ most frequent criticisms of young white drummers is that they are largely ignorant of candombe’s historical and cultural context. In appropriating the music for their own uses, the young drummers rip it out of context and try to play it in ways for which it was never intended, as an individual expression of their own energy and will to power rather than as part of a collective, communal expression. The drums can be played properly, these musicians and activists argue, only if one is aware of their social and cultural history.∑Ω Most of the comparsas and percussion schools make at least some e√ort to impart that history to their students. Since the Mundo Afro group forms part of a larger Afro-Uruguayan civil rights organization (see chapter 5), part of whose mission is to educate Uruguayans about their country’s black history and culture, the school’s commitment to providing such instruction is particularly strong. Our weekly classes often included short lectures on African religion and music, the Afri132 everyone dances candombe

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

can mutual aid societies of the early 1800s, the nineteenth- and earlytwentieth-century comparsas, the stock characters of the escobero, gramillero, and mama vieja (for reasons I will discuss shortly, the vedette was not mentioned), important Afro-Uruguayan musicians (e.g., Pedro Ferreira, or the clarinetist Santiago Luz), drum making, and other topics. The students listened dutifully to these presentations but with a sense of waiting through them as the price of admission to get to the good stu√, that is, to the drumming. In my conversations with five to ten students, all white, only one took the lectures seriously and tried to absorb the information they presented; the others shrugged them o√ as well-intentioned but essentially a waste of time. I did not get the sense that this was for racial or racist reasons. Rather, it was because these students had not come to hear history lectures; they had come to drum. In at least one respect, the Mundo Afro group sought to break with the comparsas’ past practices by forbidding the use of alcohol and drugs at any of our classes or practices. This was an e√ort to break the stereotypical association of negro, vino y tambor and at the same time improve the quality of the group’s drumming (since drunken drummers find it hard to keep the beat). Yet the prohibition proved completely futile: Miguel often brought beer to class, which we would drink during breaks (never enough to get drunk). And after one of our parades in a suburb down the coast from Montevideo, our teachers and several members wandered o√ for an hour of fairly purposeful drinking (to judge by their mood when they returned), leaving the rest of us sitting on the bus waiting for them. No one had any objection to our ‘‘o≈cers’’ drinking on the job, but it did little to break the stereotype of negro, vino y tambor. In keeping with patterns of Uruguayan racial interactions more generally, racial dynamics within the group were cordial and amicable. Especially given Mundo Afro’s agenda as a black civil rights organization, however, questions of race always hovered in the background and occasionally emerged openly. Our practices for the Llamadas inevitably had their high points and their low points; during one of the latter, Sergio came down on us particularly hard, yelling angrily about our lack of motivation, competence, and general manliness. After the practice, several of us gathered to grumble about Sergio’s tirade. Some felt that he had crossed the line separating harsh treatment from abuse; one drummer introduced race into the discussion by invoking the frequently made (in Montevideo society) distinction between negros usted and negros ché: between polite, cultivated, well-mannered blacks and rude, aggressive, everyone dances candombe 133

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

overly familiar blacks. While Miguel, he observed, is a negro usted, Sergio is a negro ché, who exploits his position to lord it over us. ‘‘Carnival is the only time when blacks are in charge,’’ this white drummer commented, ‘‘and some of them take advantage of that.’’ Other members defended Sergio, arguing that one of the reasons the group sounded as good as it did (and on our better days, we could sound very good indeed) was his dedication and insistence on setting high standards. Sergio and Miguel were very ‘‘didactic’’ in their approach, several members argued, and insistent on bringing out the musicality of the drums. Sergio was not looking just to create a comparsa, they said; what he wanted was ‘‘a drum orchestra.’’ When he got mad at us, therefore, it was usually for good reason, because we were failing to meet his high but appropriate standards. In making the case for Sergio, several members noted as well the overwhelmingly masculine nature of the drumming world, with its constant conflicts and occasional violence among would-be alpha males. As other friends and drummers remarked to me on other occasions, some of the best drumming in Montevideo takes place in the most aggressive and pesado (heavy) environments, situations that can (and do) escalate into verbal and physical violence—as with the comparsas of the early 1900s. Miguel and Sergio are firmly rooted in that world, as they readily acknowledged—indeed, that experience and upbringing is part of what gave them the authority to be drumming instructors. Born and raised in the Ansina housing project, Miguel recalls that he learned to play drums by su√ering repeated slaps to the back of the head whenever he got something wrong (or even when he did not). It was hardly surprising, then, that he and Sergio would bring an attenuated form of that violence with them into the drumming classes, either in the form of Sergio’s tirades or Miguel’s occasional joking threats to give us a piña (a blow) when we screwed up. Our teachers were much more constrained in dealing with the group’s female drummers and dancers. As part of Mundo Afro’s mission of promoting black culture to all, women were welcome in the classes, and at that year’s Llamadas perhaps 10 percent of the group’s drummers were female.∏≠ Given the historically male character of candombe drumming, this struck me as a significant opening in the gendered world of candombe and Carnival. Prior to 1990, I could find only a single mention of a female drummer in a comparsa: Cuca (no last name given), the director (surprisingly!) of the drum corps in the Sueño de Colón comparsa in 134 everyone dances candombe

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

1970.∏∞ This exception aside, clearly there was no institutional space for women in the comparsas’ drum corps, and those interested in drumming had to find other settings for that pursuit. In the late 1980s five AfroUruguayan women formed a musical group, Nosotras, in which they drummed, sang, and danced candombe. Several years later, three white women formed a similar such group, the Comadres, after taking drumming lessons from instructors at acsu.∏≤ During the late 1990s and early 2000s, women joined in the drumming ‘‘mania’’ that swept Montevideo. They attended percussion schools, began to parade with comparsas, and by 2002 were a visible presence both at the Llamadas and at the Teatro del Verano, where I witnessed a thrilling and well-received performance by a group of about thirty young women led by the (male) master drummer Malumba Giménez.∏≥ Given this surge of interest in drumming among women, I was not completely surprised to find, when I returned to the city in 2008, that one of the newest sociedades de negros was an all-female group, Melaza (Molasses). The group had its origins in the 2005 commemorations of International Women’s Day. Looking for ways to mark the day, several women who were studying drumming sent out open invitations, through e-mail and other media, for women drummers to join them in a march through the center of the city. Seventy-seven drummers took part, from which came the idea of forming a comparsa oriented toward women’s issues. The group initially allowed men to join; but as more men did so and the gender ratio approached 50⁄50, many of the women found that they did not enjoy practicing or performing with men, whose demeanor and drumming style tended to be more aggressive and competitive. The experience of male aggression was already abundantly available in the traditional comparsas, the female members decided; what they were looking for was something di√erent, a more cooperative and supportive drumming environment. They therefore decided to make men ineligible for membership in the group (though men are still allowed to attend practices on the last Sunday of each month).∏∂

Candombe in the Blood In its e√orts to redefine the masculine ethos of drumming and what it means to be a Carnival comparsa, Melaza is probably the most radical recent challenge to the traditions and history of candombe. It is not the only such challenge, however. My own group, Mundo Afro, opted to everyone dances candombe 135

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

dispense completely with the figure of the vedette, instead fielding a corps of twenty to thirty female dancers attired in colorful African-style head cloths and modest ankle-length dresses. Their choreography displayed none of the writhing and hip shaking of (present-day) candombe. Instead, the women marched in formation, forming two single files that wove back and forth through each other in synchronized patterns, moving in rhythmic but not sexually provocative ways. The goal of such dancing, I was told, is to return to candombe’s African roots by removing the hypersexualized vedette, which Mundo Afro viewed (correctly, as we have seen) as a relatively recent and alien imposition on candombe and the comparsas.∏∑ Another way to return to Africa is to invoke not the African past but the African present. This was the mission of several comparsas created during the last years of the struggle against South African apartheid, in the late 1980s and early 1990s. Sarabanda, founded in 1988 by Alfonso Pintos, was inspired by that struggle and by the continent’s larger e√orts to attain economic independence and social justice. ‘‘Africa, my ancestral land / is divided between freedom and oppression,’’ its members sang in 1989, saluting those ‘‘blacks who sing out for freedom / and those who denounce repression.’’∏∏ The following year, the comparsa Mogambo followed in a similar vein, using (perhaps unintentionally) language reminiscent of Martin Luther King Jr.: ‘‘Last night I had a dream / that hasn’t yet come true. / I dreamed of a free Africa / That would be the pride of the world.’’∏π Also at the 1990 Llamadas, the deeply traditional Morenada presented a song on events in South Africa, where Nelson Mandela had been released from prison just days before.∏∫ For most of the comparsas, however, more traditional views of Africa and blackness continued to set the norm. Indeed, given the undeniable processes of change and evolution taking place in the comparsas in recent years, it is a bit startling to see how faithfully they have continued to reproduce the racial and gender content of the songs written fifty or one hundred years before. In his study of the 1954 Carnival, Carvalho-Neto had found the comparsa lubola to be the most conservative and backwardlooking of the various kinds of Carnival groups (murgas, parodistas, etc.). Its members, young and old, were ‘‘always eager to refer to the past’’ and to invoke the glories of bygone Carnivals and groups.∏Ω Thirty-six years later, the Argentine anthropologist Alejandro Frigerio found the situation little changed. Analyzing the lyrical and thematic content of the shows the comparsas presented at the Teatro del Verano during the 1990 136 everyone dances candombe

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Carnival, he found the presentations to be intensely ‘‘self-referential’’ (i.e., focusing on the groups themselves and on the Afro-Uruguayan past) and to center on five themes: drums and drumming, the comparsas’ desires for racial brotherhood and equality, the African past, the slave past, and the sexual desirability of black women. The songs thus ‘‘reinforce, or are compatible with, the stereotyped image of the black person that exists in Montevidean society: a picturesque object condemned to play the drum, dance, and be happy during Carnival, in order to forget the pain of the past.’’ Even the groups’ appeals for racial harmony and unity, he concluded, were too vague and general to contradict that image or to lead to greater public awareness of present-day racial discrimination or inequality.π≠ Many composers and lyricists have contributed to these representations.π∞ One of the most prolific was Hugo Alberto Balle, a light-skinned Afro-Uruguayan who wrote for numerous groups from the 1960s through the 1990s. Africa was a recurrent theme in his work, usually presented in highly theatrical and at times phantasmagorical terms. His 1968 show for Rapsodia en Negro opened with ‘‘Africa tamba,’’ in which the Diosa Rosa (the Goddess Rosa, probably a reference to the popular vedette Rosa Luna) rules over a kingdom of warrior drummers (‘‘the drums say WAR! There is fear in the jungle!’’) and proceeded on to ‘‘Negra,’’ an homage to the vedette La Negra Johnson and a classic of the morena genre. Negra! Body like a palm tree! Flower divine and carnal, You are the messenger Of this year’s Carnival. Negra! Swaying back and forth, With your jet-black skin, When you hear the drum-beats, You come back once again.π≤ Balle’s 1980 show for the Calle Ancha comparsa opened with ‘‘Hermanos a cantar,’’ in which the requisite African goddess, ‘‘swaying romantically,’’ brings peace to two warring tribes. ‘‘Una fantasía’’ saluted the morena and ‘‘Ansina,’’ the faithful viejo moreno who had served the independence leader José Artigas. The show’s concluding number, ‘‘Es mi raza,’’ invoked most of the stereotypical images of Afro-Uruguayans. everyone dances candombe 137

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

It’s my race: the black race! That produces the best drummers. We set the night on fire, And banish thoughts of slumber. It’s my race: the black race! When our drums play, you can feel them. When white people feel pain, Black people want to heal them. It’s my race: the black race! That knows how to have fun, Because running in our veins Is blood warmed by the African sun.π≥

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Municipal regulations governing the comparsas mandated that their stage shows present the groups’ ‘‘origins in the colonial epoch, with their typical clothes, songs, and dances, thus recreating the natural and gradual evolution from their African origins to the present.’’π∂ The comparsas often met this requirement with songs depicting colonial-period slaves in stereotypical occupations (water-vendor, candle- or broom-vendor, washerwoman, etc.); Balle’s ‘‘Viejo carretón,’’ written in 1980 for Kanela y su Barakutanga, is representative of this genre. Along the cobblestoned streets Walks the black washerwoman, Wearing a freshly starched skirt And white silk underwear. Don’t get me started, morenos, By playing on your drums. I can’t resist those rhythms That drive me wild with pleasure.π∑ The familiar themes of hot morenas, warrior drummers, nostalgia for Africa, and black people carrying candombe in their blood were as omnipresent in the Carnivals of the late 1900s as they had been one hundred years before. To these long-standing constants, however, the comparsas now added a new element: an acknowledgement of candombe’s power not just over black people but over white people as well. This had been implicit in the comparsas’ presentations since the very beginnings of the 138 everyone dances candombe

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

lubolo groups in the 1870s. Obviously candombe had power over white people; if it did not, why would white men join these groups and crowds flock to hear them? But throughout the 1800s and the first half of the 1900s, the sociedades de negros consistently maintained their ‘‘black’’ personae, never lyrically admitting their white or racially mixed character. By the 1970s and 1980s, however, the groups were starting to acknowledge their cross-racial membership and to cite it as a metaphor for Uruguayan racial harmony and brotherhood. Thus in 1985 Kanela y su Barakutanga—a largely white group directed by the white dancer and choreographer Julio Sosa—spoke for all white lubolos in claiming that I carry the race in my heart. I’m not black, but that’s how I feel. I’m as happy as those morenos You hear beating their drums for real. I carry the race in my heart, And I know that to play that beat, I must drum like those dark-skinned people You see marching down the street. My drum pounds out candombe With no regard for anyone’s color.π∏

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

In 1980, the comparsa Raíces (Roots) cited candombe’s power to Convene blacks and whites To dance to a common rhythm . . . Those whose skin is not the color of night On the inside have already darkened. In this divine land of black people and white, Even the most elite respond to my call. In this virgin land of wild sierras and blue sea, All carry the sound of the drum in their hearts.ππ ‘‘Today everyone dances candombe,’’ sang the Balumba comparsa in 1980, ‘‘in this Uruguay that every day becomes more integrated and free of prejudice.’’π∫ It was precisely this integrating function that enabled La República in 2002 to announce that the Llamadas, the ‘‘ancestral ritual of the black race[,] . . . is today the great ritual of an entire people, without distinction of skin color, religion, social class, or cultural di√erences. everyone dances candombe 139

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Tonight the drum will call, and an entire people will answer, dancing and renewing their commitment to a tradition rooted in the very foundation of our national identity.’’πΩ As ‘‘the great ritual of an entire people,’’ bringing tens of thousands of spectators and participants to Palermo and Barrio Sur, the Llamadas had admirably fulfilled its mission as a unifying national cultural event. But far from eradicating ‘‘distinction[s] of skin color . . . or cultural di√erences,’’ the event is built on them. Not only does it continually inscribe and reinscribe the messages of black racial di√erence and ‘‘candombe in the blood’’; almost from its beginnings in the 1950s, it has been presided over by a queen of the Llamadas who is always Afro-Uruguayan, in direct contrast to the queen of Carnival, who is always white. Indeed, it was the rigid racial barriers surrounding the queen of Carnival, and the impossibility of a black woman ever occupying that position, that led to the creation, in 1957, of an alternative nonwhite beauty contest. When two black finalists were ‘‘vetoed’’ from the 1956 Queen of Carnival competition, acsu once again (as in 1955, with its proposal for Fiestas Negras) petitioned the municipality, this time to create a beauty competition reserved for Afro-Uruguayan women.∫≠ Nowhere in the regulations governing Carnival is that racial requirement spelled out, and a recent municipal director of tourism told me that she had considered the idea of breaking with tradition by imposing a black queen on Carnival and a white queen on the Llamadas. But ‘‘the culture of Carnival is very strong,’’ and she did not go forward with the idea.∫∞ And so, as in other Latin American countries that maintain segregated black, white, and indigenous beauty contests, the queens of Carnival and the Llamadas go their separate ways, eloquently signifying the whiteness of Carnival (and Uruguayan society) in general, the blackness of its ‘‘African’’ component, the sociedades de negros, and the clear and continuing divide between the two.∫≤

140 everyone dances candombe

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

chapter five

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

dictatorship and democracy, 1960–2010

The order came down on 1 December 1978: the Medio Mundo conventillo, built in 1885 and in 1975 declared a National Historical Monument, had been condemned and was to be evacuated immediately. Municipal trucks came four days later, on 5 December, to remove the 170 residents; those who could find no other place to go were housed at city expense in a former factory in the Capurro neighborhood until they could make alternative arrangements. The conventillo’s residents were in shock. As the newspaper El Diario reported at the time, ‘‘This was the culmination of a process that began many years ago, as the passage of time wore the building out, weakening its structure to the point of making it—in the judgment of the technicians—dangerous to its occupants.’’ But everyone, from the building’s residents to the city at large, was taken aback by the speed and finality of the city’s action and by the scant time given the residents to vacate the premises.∞ Amid the stress and tension of preparing for the move, the residents organized a ceremonial farewell to this hallowed home of candombe. On 3 December, led by the Lonjas de Cuareim, the drum corps of the Morenada comparsa, thirty to forty drummers gathered for a last session of drumming and dancing, a despedida (goodbye party), in the building’s central patio and the street outside. No one was absent, and all Palermo, like in the great Carnival celebrations, came out for this final gathering, over which joy and joviality reigned. But the next day, everything that had been fun and festivity turned into sadness as the move became imminent. There were scenes

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

of deep emotion, especially among those older people who had lived most of their lives between these legendary walls, as the city’s trucks began loading up their belongings. The entire neighborhood accompanied the inhabitants of Medio Mundo, who with tears in their eyes left their homes to begin a new life.≤ A month later the same fate befell the Ansina housing project, several blocks away. The two-block-long complex of row houses had been condemned in October and then given what for most of them was a brief reprieve. In January three hundred of the complex’s five hundred residents received orders to vacate. (The remaining two hundred people lived in houses judged to be still in inhabitable condition.) Again the residents were in shock; again they held farewell sessions of drumming, singing, and dancing, though in this case on three successive nights (5–7 January). On 17 January came the desalojo (literally, the dislodging of the inhabitants). The day before the trucks arrived, ‘‘emotional scenes occurred throughout the afternoon, and by nightfall the Ansina conventillo showed a hitherto unknown face: few people, silence, and a few lights were all that remained of one of the most joyous Carnival neighborhoods.’’≥ In later years black activists and organizations charged that the forced evacuation of Medio Mundo, Ansina, and other conventillos were racist assaults on the Afro-Uruguayan population, motivated in part by a desire to profit from rising real estate values in the city’s central neighborhoods and in part by a desire to disrupt foci of black political and cultural resistance to the dictatorship.∂ Such charges are somewhat at odds with contemporary descriptions and photographs of the conventillos, which portray them as thoroughly integrated, multiracial settings (though, to be sure, with a higher proportion of black residents than in the city at large).∑ These charges also do not take into account the climate of public emergency surrounding the desalojos, which followed a wave of building collapses in late 1978. A system of rent controls imposed by the federal government in 1947 had held rents artificially low for thirty years. Under these conditions, many landlords had decided that it was no longer in their interest to invest in or maintain their nineteenth- and early-twentieth-century properties, a number of which were now in very shaky condition, both physically and financially.∏ Occasional cave-ins or collapses had alerted the authorities to this problem; and on 6 October 1978, the worst such col142 dictatorship and democracy

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

lapse ever took place in the Barrio Sur. Nineteen people were killed in what one paper described as ‘‘one of the most heartbreaking tragedies in Uruguayan history.’’π During the next seven to ten days, all the Montevideo newspapers ran daily stories (usually more than one) on the collapse and its aftermath; in a year-end Gallup poll, the event was named by a wide margin of respondents as the most ‘‘impactante’’ (having the greatest impact) national news story of 1978.∫ Two other buildings in the Barrio Sur also collapsed that day, fortunately with no loss of life. In one of those buildings the city had been trying for weeks to persuade the inhabitants to move; following the collapse, they were forcibly removed to city shelters.Ω In the weeks following, the city was shaken by additional stories of cave-ins and collapses. Three people died, and several were injured, in a collapse in November; in December an elderly woman was critically injured when the ceiling of her apartment fell in; and more than fifty residents were evicted from two buildings that collapsed in February.∞≠ Other cave-ins caused no fatalities but added to the climate of alarm in the city. Shortly after the October tragedy, residents of the Ansina complex started calling city building inspectors to report movements and shifting in their buildings; the city fire department reported ‘‘numerous calls’’ and alarms from houses and apartment buildings in Palermo and Barrio Sur.∞∞ Because of fears of possible collapses during the Llamadas, the parade was moved that year from its customary route in the Barrio Sur and Palermo to the more central Avenida 18 de Julio.∞≤ Amid the growing sense of a public emergency, on 30 November the military government suspended the normal legal procedures governing the eviction of residents of condemned buildings, granting the municipality the power to remove residents immediately and with no legal recourse. The following day the city issued the order to evacuate Medio Mundo; two weeks later it formed a special task force to oversee evictions and to evaluate the condition of every building in the neighborhoods of Ciudad Vieja, Palermo, and Barrio Sur. Within months, hundreds of properties had been condemned and scheduled for demolition.∞≥ The closing of Medio Mundo, Ansina, and other buildings thus took place within a context of public emergency and crisis that had little if any direct connection to questions of race. While many of those who were evicted were Afro-Uruguayan, many others, and perhaps most, were not.∞∂ Nevertheless, the desalojos were experienced by Afro-Uruguayans as a direct assault on their families, culture, history, and traditions. In dictatorship and democracy 143

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

the thirty years since those events, they have been regularly invoked as a potent symbol and expression both of black grievance against Uruguayan society and of the lawless (literally, since normal legal procedures had been suspended) excesses of the military dictatorship that closed down Uruguayan democracy in 1973 and ruled the country for the next twelve years.

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Dictatorship and Democracy By the early 1970s, Uruguay was succumbing to the wave of military rule sweeping through southern South America. Worsening economic crisis, rising demands by organized labor, and the Tupamaro guerrilla insurgency combined to convince the armed forces that the economic and political situations were spinning out of control and that the civilian parties lacked the will or capacity to resolve the problems facing the country. After defeating the Tupamaro guerrillas (in 1972) and taking formal power (in 1973), the armed forces sought to impose military-style discipline on the society, economy, and political system. Uruguayanstyle democracy had led to ‘‘excessive’’ demands by organized interest groups (principal among which, in the eyes of the military, were organized labor and the student movement) and an unacceptable movement toward the left, symbolized by the formation of the Convención Nacional de Trabajadores in 1964 and the Frente Amplio, a coalition of leftist political parties, in 1971. In an e√ort to reverse these tendencies, between 1973 and 1985 the armed forces arrested and imprisoned an estimated eighty-seven hundred political prisoners, giving Uruguay the highest rate of political incarceration anywhere in the world. Most of these prisoners were tortured.∞∑ The dictatorship imposed equally harsh economic policies. It sought to reduce inflation by repressing wage demands, reducing state spending on social programs and national industry, and removing restrictions on imports. The result was dramatic trade imbalances, rising unemployment, and plummeting standards of living. By 1978 average real wages in the country were one-half what they had been in 1957; by 1984, they were one-third of what workers had earned in 1957. Nor did these policies produce the desired result: though inflation briefly fell below 50 percent in 1978, the following year it reignited to over 80 percent.∞∏ Under these conditions, when in 1980 the armed forces presented Uruguayan society with the opportunity to vote on a constitutional reform that would ratify 144 dictatorship and democracy

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

the military’s governing role, the vote was overwhelmingly against. Military hardliners were reluctant to cede power; but negotiations between civilian politicians and the o≈cers led to the eventual restoration of civilian rule and electoral democracy in 1985.∞π For many (perhaps most) Uruguayans, military rule was a shattering experience. A society deeply committed to electoral democracy and the rule of law had seen that democracy and those laws replaced by authoritarianism, violence, and state terror. Numerous civil society organizations were closed during those years; however, the city’s principal AfroUruguayan organization, acsu, appears to have escaped that fate. The organization’s records from those years show it functioning normally and in fact receiving a building from the municipality in 1974 to use as its headquarters.∞∫ During the early 1980s acsu established a relationship with members of the Franciscan religious order who were undertaking community development projects in Montevideo’s working-class neighborhoods. The friars believed that acsu’s long history in the black community made it an appropriate institutional vehicle for development assistance to Palermo and the Barrio Sur. Their foundation, cipfe (Centro de Investigación y Promoción Franciscano y Ecológico), began to fund projects overseen by acsu and to help the organization raise additional grants from other local and foreign funders. In 1985 the foundation gave acsu a house that had been left to the church by a deceased parishioner, enabling the organization to finally realize its dream of acquiring a permanent home (the other headquarters had been on loan from the city, which could reclaim it at any time).∞Ω This infusion of funding and property intensified internal conflicts that had been simmering within acsu for some time. The youths who had risen up in the 1950s to contest the leadership of Ignacio Suárez Peña were now the older generation, with children who were entering their twenties and thirties. These younger members tended to be better educated than their parents, many of whom had not completed elementary school. They were also more leftist politically: while acsu had historically been aligned with the Colorado party, many of the younger members looked instead to the Frente Amplio.≤≠ These younger members were initially delighted when the Franciscans and other sources started to provide funding for community development projects. They were then badly disappointed when much of that money was diverted to other purposes, such as maintaining the organidictatorship and democracy 145

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

zation’s new headquarters or underwriting its parties and dances. The younger members accused acsu’s leadership of catering to the fantasies of the black ‘‘false middle class’’ (false in the sense that it lacked the financial resources to join the ‘‘real’’ middle class) and of ignoring the plight of the Afro-Uruguayan poor. They were particularly incensed that acsu had done little to help the people made homeless by the desalojos of 1978–79. The organization’s leadership responded with angry orders to the young dissidents to keep their mouths shut and obey their elders; some denounced the younger members as communists, a charge that was no longer as dangerous (to its objects) as during the dictatorship but that did little to calm the waters.≤∞ In 1988, after a bitter two-year struggle that left badly wounded feelings on both sides, a group led by Romero Rodríguez and Beatriz Ramírez withdrew from acsu to form a new organization, Organizaciones Mundo Afro. In contrast to acsu, the very name of which proclaimed a desire to recreate the norms and prestige of the white aristocracy’s Club Uruguay, Mundo Afro’s name invoked the world African diaspora. As we have seen, that diasporic orientation traces back at least as far as the articles and editorials in La Vanguardia (1928–29) and Nuestra Raza (1933– 48); it had been further reinforced by the experiences of Mundo Afro’s president, Romero Rodríguez. After being jailed and then released by the dictatorship, Rodríguez had spent the years from 1976 to 1983 in exile in Brazil, where he had befriended the long-time Afro-Brazilian activist (and future senator) Abdias Nascimento and seen first-hand the rise of the ‘‘new’’ black movement in that country. He had returned to Uruguay hoping to create something similar.≤≤ Beatriz Ramírez also shared that ‘‘internationalist’’ perspective. In the 1970s she had followed the U.S. civil rights movement closely, and in the 1980s the antiapartheid struggle in South Africa. The experience of the desalojos (which she, living in Palermo, had witnessed firsthand) had further radicalized her; and her studies in social work, and her life experiences—as well as those of her friends and relatives—had sensitized Ramírez to the particularly di≈cult position of black women in Uruguayan society. One of her first actions in the newly created organization was to form a Grupo de Apoyo a la Mujer Afrouruguaya (Support Group for Afro-Uruguayan Women—gama) to serve the needs of that gender and racial group.≤≥ gama was one of several groups a≈liated with Mundo Afro. Early in Mundo Afro’s career, its founders decided that it should function 146 dictatorship and democracy

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

as an umbrella organization for subgroups with more specific interests and missions. While gama was oriented toward women’s issues, sos Racismo was responsible for receiving and acting on complaints of discrimination against Afro-Uruguayans; the Instituto Superior de Formación Afro sought to train activists through courses in Afro-Uruguayan history and culture, tactics and strategies of political mobilization, and other topics; the Movimiento Juvenil Afro brought together high school and college-age Afro-Uruguayans; the Instituto de Arte y Cultura Afro organized public events, art exhibits, and classes in candombe and other Afro-Uruguayan arts; chapters in Rivera and Artigas represented Afro-Uruguayans in the country’s northern border regions; and so on. Representatives of these various units served on the organization’s board; and the units’ activities were reported in the organization’s newspaper, Mundo Afro (1988–93, 1997–98) and, during the early 2000s, through a weekly program on tv Ciudad, the city government’s television channel.≤∂ As they exited acsu, the new Mundo Afro members took with them several significant advantages: their youth and energy; their higher levels of education; and, not least, funding and support from the Franciscans. Disappointed by acsu’s failure to use the funds it had received for their intended purpose, cipfe withdrew financial support from the organization and transferred it to Mundo Afro. Other funders also withdrew support from acsu and at least one brought suit to recover the grant it had made. As fall-out from that lawsuit, at some point in the 1990s acsu temporarily lost its legal incorporation (personería jurídica), eventually reincorporating under its current name, the Asociación Cultural y Social Uruguay Negro (acsun).≤∑ Mundo Afro’s members also took with them their much better (than acsu’s) reading of, and alignment with, the changes under way in Uruguayan politics. While for most of the twentieth century the Colorado party had been the dominant political force in Uruguay, and even more so in Montevideo, between 1985 and 2005 national political currents shifted decisively. In each successive election, the Frente Amplio increased its representation and standing, until in 2004 it won both the presidential election and a majority in both houses of the General Assembly. Meanwhile, the Colorado party virtually collapsed as a political force, winning a scant 10 percent of the presidential vote in 2004 and a similar proportion of seats in the legislature.≤∏ The Frente Amplio’s first victories were in Montevideo, where its dictatorship and democracy 147

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

candidate, Tabaré Vázquez, won the mayoralty in 1989. Every municipal administration since that time has been a Frente Amplio government, from which Mundo Afro benefited significantly.≤π Most tangibly, in 1995 the municipality granted the organization a twenty-year lease on the second floor of the Municipal Market, behind the historic Teatro Solís. The space was very large but in terrible condition, with a damaged roof, missing windows, and other problems. Making use of paid and volunteer labor, the organization renovated the space, constructing a suite of offices, classrooms and meeting rooms, a café, diorama exhibits of AfroUruguayan history, and a performance space for concerts, dances, practices, and other public events.≤∫ The same energy and initiative displayed in the renovation of its headquarters extended to the rest of the organization’s program. During the 1990s and early 2000s Mundo Afro was by far the most visible and influential of the Afro-Uruguayan social and civic groups.≤Ω Its extensive program of activities sought to address what it perceived to be the three principal problems confronting the black population: (1) poverty; (2) the ‘‘invisibilization’’ of black people in Uruguay, where society refused to acknowledge black contributions to national history and culture; and (3) racial discrimination and prejudice. Of these three areas of contention, it was probably Mundo Afro’s denunciations of racism and racial discrimination that garnered the most public attention and were ultimately the most e√ective. As we have seen, Uruguayan society and the Uruguayan state have long been committed to the principle of absolute civic and legal equality for all citizens (and even noncitizens: foreign immigrants and visitors enjoy almost all of the rights guaranteed to native-born and naturalized Uruguayans). Yet that very commitment to equality made it di≈cult for Uruguayan o≈cials or citizens to acknowledge racism and discrimination as national issues. Mundo Afro’s executive director, Romero Rodríguez, has summarized this attitude as: ‘‘Since our laws prohibit racial discrimination, our government would never permit it and therefore it can’t occur.’’≥≠ Even in instances in which discrimination undeniably took place, as with Adelia Silva de Sosa in 1956 (see chapter 3), o≈cials and the media would acknowledge these only as isolated phenomena, not representative of any broader or deeper problem. When the Brazilian anthropologist Paulo de Carvalho-Neto sought to conduct survey research that year on racial attitudes among Montevideo high school stu148 dictatorship and democracy

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

dents, most of the schools that he approached refused to allow him to administer the questionnaire, telling him that ‘‘in this country there is no such problem’’ as racism.≥∞ Twenty-five years later, in 1982, the white writer Francisco Merino insisted that ‘‘the constitution and laws of our country do not discriminate. Discrimination, if it exists, takes place outside the law’’ and is restricted to ‘‘isolated situations, [occasional] injustices committed here and there.’’≥≤ Yet most observers of race relations in Uruguay, whether black or white, acknowledge the existence of deep-seated prejudices and discriminatory practices in daily life. As I noted in the introduction, CarvalhoNeto found ample evidence of widespread prejudice among the city’s high school students.≥≥ Twenty-four years later, in 1980, a study of the city’s black population by the Universidad de la República’s Instituto de Estudios Sociales found three-quarters of informants agreeing that discrimination existed in the country. The proportion was particularly high among professional and white-collar workers, over 90 percent of whom a≈rmed the existence of discrimination, many citing specific incidents.≥∂ Even Francisco Merino, while arguing that discrimination in Uruguay was merely episodic, acknowledged ‘‘a multitude of examples’’ of such discrimination and the same ‘‘strange situations’’ that the journalist Alicia Behrens had documented at the time of the Sosa case. ‘‘Along the [downtown] Avenida 18 de Julio, in dozens and dozens of shops, the total number of black employees does not reach ten. . . . There are no black hairdressers. . . . Except for very low-class bars, there are no black waiters, nor in hotels, restaurants, or cafes.’’ Just one page after insisting on the almost trivial nature of antiblack discrimination in Uruguay, Merino abruptly acknowledged ‘‘what I call the ‘masked or underground discrimination’ that still exists in our country.’’≥∑ Mundo Afro set out to unmask that discrimination by denouncing it whenever and wherever it occurred and by holding public events to discuss its cultural, historical, and even psychological roots and frequency. One of the largest and most visible such events was a two-day conference on Racism, Xenophobia, and Discrimination, jointly organized by Mundo Afro and the Jewish Central Committee of Uruguay and held in August 1994 at the federal government’s executive o≈ce building, the Edificio Libertador. That event was part of a visible opening by the federal government to Mundo Afro and its lobbying e√orts. A month earlier, President Luis Alberto Lacalle had visited the organization to dictatorship and democracy 149

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

meet with its directors; the following year the Instituto Nacional de Estadística agreed to gather racial data, for the first time in over a century, in the national household survey of 1996. The data, which were released to the public in 1998, made clear both the size of the Afro-Uruguayan population—164,000, 5.9 percent of the national total—and its disadvantage in comparison to the white population. The white rate of university graduation was double that of blacks (14 percent of whites were graduates of universities or postbaccalaureate professional schools, as opposed to 7 percent of blacks); the black unemployment rate was 50 percent higher than that of whites; average black earnings were 60 percent those of whites; and so on.≥∏ As in the United States and Brazil, where census data on racial inequality had provided invaluable ammunition for black organizations and activists to use in lobbying the federal government, Mundo Afro used these data to argue for government e√orts to redress racial inequalities through programs aimed at assisting the black population.≥π In addition to appealing to the Uruguayan public, civil society, and the state, Mundo Afro sought support through international connections. In 1990 the organization had hosted a meeting of black organizations from Argentina, Brazil, Chile, and Paraguay; in 1994 it repeated the initiative, this time involving groups and organizations from throughout South America and the Caribbean. With the assistance of the Franciscans, it contacted representatives of the European Union and of the United Nations, which maintained an o≈ce in Montevideo. At the urging of Mundo Afro, and also in response to the statistical evidence of racial inequality in Uruguay, in 1999 the U.N. Committee for the Elimination of Racial Discrimination decided to investigate racial conditions in that country. At hearings in Geneva, the Uruguayan ambassador ‘‘repeatedly dismissed [the idea] that there is discrimination in Uruguay’’ and denied that the country even had a significant black population. ‘‘If you go to Montevideo you’re not going to find many blacks, you’re not going to find them. There aren’t many; we didn’t kill them; we didn’t expel them; there just aren’t many; there never were many.’’≥∫ The U.N. committee’s final report maintained the diplomatic niceties by acknowledging Uruguay’s ‘‘long-term achievements in the field of human development’’ and its constitutional provisions outlawing all forms of discrimination, including racial discrimination. Despite these achievements, however, it found that ‘‘the de facto social and economic marginalization of the Afro-Uruguayan and indigenous communities has 150 dictatorship and democracy

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

generated discrimination against them’’ that needed to be addressed through specific government initiatives, ‘‘such as a≈rmative action programmes.’’ Also recommended were ‘‘special programmes aimed at facilitating the social enhancement of women belonging to the AfroUruguayan community, who su√er double discrimination on grounds of both their gender and race,’’ and ‘‘e√orts to facilitate equal access to the courts and administrative bodies for persons belonging to the AfroUruguayan and indigenous communities, in order to ensure equality of all persons.’’ Finally, ‘‘with respect to employment, education and housing, the Committee recommends that [Uruguay] take steps to reduce present inequalities and adequately compensate a√ected groups and persons for earlier evictions from their houses,’’ a clear reference to the desalojos of 1978–79.≥Ω The U.N. finding was a harsh blow to a nation that had long prided itself on its civic equality and social egalitarianism. Incoming President Jorge Batlle Ibáñez (the son of President Luis Batlle Berres [1947–51] and grandnephew of the turn-of-the-century President José Batlle y Ordóñez) committed his government to working closely with Mundo Afro in preparing for the 2001 U.N. Conference against Racism, Racial Discrimination, and Xenophobia, which took place in Durban, South Africa. The o≈cial document that Uruguay submitted to the conference can be read as a direct response to the 1999 U.N. report: Economic progress, the eradication of poverty, and the realization of the economic, social, and cultural rights of all the inhabitants of the country, free of any kind of discrimination, constitute a national goal that involves all social actors and the participation and commitment of civil society. . . . No country is exempt from the blight of racism, racial discrimination, xenophobia, and other forms of intolerance. It is necessary to adopt a policy of a≈rmative action that will permit [us] to compensate for social inequality in every possible sphere, and that includes the adoption of special measures to protect groups and individuals that are especially vulnerable to multiple forms of discrimination . . . including racial discrimination.∂≠ The Batlle administration never followed through on these commitments. It did pass an antidiscrimination law in 2004 that declared ‘‘the fight against racism, xenophobia, and all other forms of discrimination’’ to be ‘‘of national interest’’ and created a national commission to coordidictatorship and democracy 151

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

nate antidiscrimination policy.∂∞ The commission was not installed, however, until 2007, when the Frente Amplio administration of President Tabaré Vázquez (2005–10) extended to the federal level initiatives begun several years earlier by the Frente Amplio administrations of Montevideo. In 2003 the city government had established the Unidad Temática por los Derechos de los Afrodescendientes (Thematic Unit for Afro-Descendent Rights). This was a consultative agency on AfroUruguayan a√airs, in which black representatives were assigned to each of the city’s administrative departments (Planning, Finance, Human Resources, etc.) to monitor that department’s activities and initiate projects to promote the development and advancement of the black population. The unit’s first director was Romero Rodríguez; when the Frente Amplio took power at the national level, Rodríguez was appointed a special advisor to President Vázquez on Afro-descendent issues, and two new o≈ces were created in the Ministry of Social Development, one devoted to Afro-Uruguayan women (in the Instituto Nacional de la Mujer) and the other to Afro-Uruguayan youth (in the Instituto Nacional de la Juventud).∂≤ These Afro-Uruguayan spaces in the municipal and federal government are without doubt historic achievements and testimony both to Mundo Afro’s negotiating and lobbying skills and its ability to put the question of race on the national political agenda. The ability of these o≈ces to a√ect policy, however, is extremely limited.∂≥ As special advisory units, they are marginal to the institutional bureaucracies within which they seek to work. One former member of the municipal Unidad Temática, with whom I spoke in 2008, recalled the enthusiasm with which she embarked on her position in 2004 and the good relations she enjoyed with the departmental director with whom she worked. She was an unpaid ‘‘volunteer’’ advisor, however, with no institutional leverage or authority, and none of her proposals went anywhere. She felt constantly rebu√ed and rejected by the career bureaucrats. I should note, in fairness, that similar feelings of marginality and powerlessness were expressed by almost every middle- to lower-level state employee whom I met in Uruguay, black or white: all felt powerless and ignored by the massive institutional structures within which they worked. But if that is the case among the career bureaucrats, Afro-Uruguayan activists who work from outside that structure, in a purely advisory capacity, feel even more ine√ectual. After several years of serving on the Unidad, my infor152 dictatorship and democracy

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

mant eventually resigned in frustration, deciding that her time was better spent on other projects in other venues. Her sense of the black governmental units’ powerlessness is widely shared among the people with whom I spoke, many of whom were harshly critical of Mundo Afro’s apparent focus on inserting its leaders into the state apparatus. A theme that I heard frequently in my interviews was that, especially during its early years, Mundo Afro had been highly e√ective in publicizing issues of racial inequality and speaking for the black population. Over time, however, it had evolved into an organization that existed primarily as a source of employment to its leaders, who used foundation grants, international consultancies, and occasional government contracts to cover their salaries. Many of my interviewees in the early 2000s wondered what the organization was doing to benefit the larger black community. Where were the soup kitchens, after-school programs, scholarships, computer classes, health clinics, credit unions, housing projects, and other social services that the community so desperately needed? Mundo Afro did in fact try to provide some of these services but found that it lacked the resources required. Its most disappointing failure was probably in the area of housing. During the 1990s and early 2000s, Mundo Afro worked with its Grupo de Apoyo a la Mujer Afrouruguaya (gama) to acquire and convert into apartments a city-owned warehouse in Palermo, several blocks from the former Medio Mundo conventillo. In return for funding from the Ministry of Housing, the British embassy, and other international donors, a cooperative of (mostly single) Afro-Uruguayan mothers pledged to contribute fixed amounts of labor each month toward the renovation of the building. When the renovation was complete, those who had worked on it would occupy its thirtyeight units. This project generated enormous headaches for Mundo Afro, both external and internal. Externally, residents of several neighboring highrise apartment buildings, who had been hoping to acquire the warehouse to use as a parking garage, protested the project bitterly. In a petition to the municipal authorities, they demanded to know who would police the children who would be living in the building’s apartments. ‘‘Since we suppose that the mothers will be working, who will take care of, feed, and be responsible for these children? Will [the mothers] send them into the street to form gangs that begin by playing soccer, then become street dictatorship and democracy 153

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

toughs and eventually criminals?’’ The organizers of the petition insisted that their concerns were not racially motivated, but Mundo Afro expressed its ‘‘profound indignation at the prejudice and racism of those who identify criminality with the black population.’’∂∂ Despite this inauspicious beginning, by 2000 the neighbors had withdrawn their objections and work on the building had begun. Almost immediately problems emerged. Some of the co-op’s members failed to meet their work obligations and were asked to withdraw from the project. Even those parts of the construction assigned to paid workers and contractors fell far behind schedule, and gama and Mundo Afro were unable to agree on which of them should exercise control over the project and particularly over its funding. At some point between my visits to the city in 2004 and 2008, the project collapsed amid great acrimony and conflicting accusations of misuse of funds.∂∑ Even before that collapse, by the early 2000s Mundo Afro had largely pulled back from the area of social assistance and defined its role as that of a persistent voice in Uruguayan civil society, raising questions and issues not normally raised—that is, questions of race, discrimination, and inequality—and working to ‘‘make visible the invisible’’ Afro-Uruguayan minority.∂∏ Here Mundo Afro unquestionably made its mark. While the norm for most of the twentieth century had been for government o≈cials and institutions to deny the existence of racism and discrimination, by the end of the 1990s this was no longer possible. Responding in 1998 to the statistics released that year by the national household survey, President Julio Sanguinetti acknowledged that Uruguay had ‘‘inherited discrimination that was not o≈cial, but that was real in social life. . . . All of this is not easy to erase in a society, even in a country as egalitarian as ours.’’∂π Two years later, in 2000, President Batlle admitted that ‘‘it would be false to say that we haven’t had problems. . . . We have had them, many times, as a consequence of our di√erent social positions, our di√erent religious tendencies, our di√erent ethnic origins. To say that Uruguay is free of that sin would be to lie to ourselves.’’∂∫ Growing recognition of racial inequality and discrimination took place not just at o≈cial levels but among the population as a whole. In 1998 El País reported that ‘‘in recent years, black cultural organizations in our country have been making an e√ort to sensitize the population to the discriminatory practices su√ered by their race: lower possibilities of employment, lower incomes for the same jobs, and a lower proportion of blacks in supervisory and professional positions than their proportion in 154 dictatorship and democracy

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

the total population.’’ Judging from the results of a recent survey (the paper did not specify who took the survey or how many people it covered), ‘‘one-quarter of the population agrees with this diagnosis and believes that in [Uruguay] there is either a great deal or a significant amount of racism against blacks.’’∂Ω By 2007, in a survey of forty-four hundred households in Montevideo and two other departments, that proportion had risen to 44 percent.∑≠

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

A Tale of Two Countries Of central importance in helping Mundo Afro demonstrate the depth and reach of racial inequality in Uruguay were the statistics generated by the national household surveys of 1996 and 2006. For almost a century and a half, Uruguay had gathered no data on the racial and ethnic composition of its population. Now, in the late twentieth and early twentyfirst century, Uruguayans could finally see not just the racial makeup of their society but the di√erences and inequalities among racial groups. In addition to giving us a clearer vision of Uruguayan society, these data enable us to compare Uruguayan racial inequality to similar structures in other Latin American countries.∑∞ Such a comparison must begin by acknowledging Uruguay’s status as Latin America’s leading social democracy. In a region historically afflicted by some of the highest levels of social and economic inequality anywhere in the world, Uruguay stands out for its strong and longstanding commitment to social and economic inclusion.∑≤ It is by no means a classless society. But by the end of the twentieth century, the disparities among its social classes were smaller than in any other Latin American country except socialist Cuba. In terms of social spending and measures of social well-being (literacy, life expectancy, access to adequate sanitation), it ranked at or near the top of the region, and in measures of poverty and income inequality, at the very bottom (table 5.1). In Cuba, the only Latin American nation that consistently exceeds Uruguay in measures of social well-being and socioeconomic equality, these levels were achieved through state investment in education, health, housing, and other social goods aimed at benefiting workers and peasants. While virtually eliminating class inequality on the island between 1960 and 1980, these policies had the simultaneous e√ect of almost eliminating racial inequality. By 1980 racial di√erentials in life expectancy, education, and vocational achievement were the lowest in the Americas, dictatorship and democracy 155

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

table 5.1. Human Development Indicators in Selected Latin American Countries, 2000 Country

Per Capita gdp (in 1995 U.S.$)

Gini Index of Income Concentration

Percentage of Population Living in Poverty

Social Spending as Percentage of gdp, 1992– 2001

Life Expectancy

Percentage of Population Literate

Percentage of Population with Access to Adequate Sanitation

Argentina

7,283

59

—

21

73

97

85

Brazil

4,328

64

27

18

68

87

77

Chile

5,792

56

9

14

75

96

97

Colombia

2,288

57

36

13

71

92

85

Cuba

3,836

—

—

27

76

97

95

Guatemala

1,562

55

34

5

64

68

85

Mexico

4,813

54

38

9

72

91

73

Uruguay

5,826

44

7

21

74

98

95

Venezuela

3,082

50

47

9

73

92

74

Sources: Columns 1–2, 4–6, un-eclac, Social Panorama, 2002–2003, 176, 239–42, 301–2; columns 3, 7, undp, Human Development Report, 2002, 157–58, 166–68; social spending in Cuba: un-eclac, Social Panorama, 2007, 132.

table 5.2. Average Years of Schooling in Uruguay and Brazil, by Age and Race, 1996 Uruguay Age

Brazil

Black

White

White – Black

25–29

8.6

10.0

1.4

30–39

8.2

9.5

1.3

40–49

7.1

8.9

1.8

50–59

6.0

7.6

60–

4.2

5.8

Age

Black

White

White – Black

25–44

5.2

7.5

2.3

1.6

45–59

3.1

5.5

2.4

1.6

60–

1.6

3.5

1.9

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Sources: ine, Encuesta continua, 6; Shicasho, Desigualdade racial, table 2.2.

and very close to 0. As socioeconomic inequality started to reassert itself in Cuba during the prolonged economic crisis of the 1990s, so too did racial di√erentials, though data on this point remain largely anecdotal.∑≥ In direct contrast to the Cuban experience of dramatic reductions in racial and class inequality are those of Brazil and Guatemala, where at the close of the twentieth century levels of class and racial inequality both remained very high. In both countries these two forms of inequality were closely connected and mutually reinforcing; and in neither country, despite relatively high levels of social spending in Brazil, had national governments made any serious e√ort to reduce them.∑∂ These connections between racial and class inequality raise the hope that relatively low levels of class inequality in Uruguay might translate into comparably low measures of racial inequality, especially as compared to its markedly unequal (in both class and racial terms) neighbor, Brazil. Yet when we compare statistical data on race in the two countries, the picture is decidedly mixed. In the area of education, Uruguay and Brazil disaggregate data on enrollment and years of schooling completed into slightly di√erent age cohorts that prevent an exact comparison (table 5.2). Even so, it is clear that by the end of the 1900s, Uruguayan blacks and whites were staying in school longer than their Brazilian counterparts (Afro-Uruguayans completed more years of schooling, on average, than Brazilian whites), and that racial di√erentials in years of schooling completed (less than two years for all age cohorts in Uruguay, versus more than two years for dictatorship and democracy 157

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

table 5.3. Percentage Rates of Academic Enrollment in Uruguay and Brazil, by Age and Race, 2006 Uruguay

Brazil

Age

Black

White

White – Black

Age

Black

White

White – Black

4–6

89.7

90.8

1.1

5–6

83.0

86.4

2.6

7–13

98.4

98.9

0.5

7–14

97.1

98.4

1.3

14–17

68.4

80.5

12.1

15–17

79.6

85.1

5.5

18–24

22.3

40.7

18.4

18–19

45.1

48.9

3.8

20–24

22.0

29.1

7.1

Sources: Bucheli and Cabela, Perfil demográfico, 42; IBGE, Síntese de indicadores sociais, 2007,

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

table 8.4.

all age cohorts in Brazil except for those over sixty) were lower in Uruguay than in Brazil.∑∑ Rates of university graduation were also much higher in Uruguay than in Brazil. In 1996, 6.9 percent of Afro-Uruguayans and 13.8 percent of white Uruguayans were university graduates, as opposed to 2.1 percent of Afro-Brazilians and 10.0 percent of Brazilian whites. Uruguayan whites were twice as likely as Afro-Uruguayans to graduate from a university. But that disparity was even higher in Brazil, where whites were almost five times more likely than Afro-Brazilians to receive university degrees.∑∏ When we turn to more recent rates of school enrollment, however, the picture is di√erent (table 5.3). Again, Brazil and Uruguay use di√erent age cohorts in compiling such data, which makes comparison di≈cult but not impossible. These data suggest that, by 2006, rates of enrollment were relatively high in both countries through age fourteen, at which point they dropped significantly. Somewhat unexpectedly, the decline was much greater in Uruguay than in Brazil, with the result that rates of high school and university enrollment were lower in the former country than in the latter, and especially low for Afro-Uruguayans, in comparison either to white Uruguayans or to Afro-Brazilians. As a result, racial differentials in high school and university enrollment were much higher in Uruguay than in Brazil. 158 dictatorship and democracy

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

table 5.4. Civilian Employment, Uruguay (1996) and Brazil (1991), by Race, in Percentages Uruguay Employment

Brazil

Black

White

Black – White

Black

White

Black – White

6.7

11.7

–5.0

5.8

11.4

–5.6

Administrative

11.6

18.9

–6.3

9.3

19.8

–10.5

Commerce

13.0

15.6

–2.6

9.7

11.7

–2.0

Nonagricultural manual

36.7

31.1

5.6

28.1

26.5

1.6

Service

27.2

17.8

9.4

17.3

12.3

5.0

5.0

4.9

0.1

29.9

18.1

11.8

Professional/technical

Agriculture Index of dissimilarity

14.5

18.3

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Sources: ine, Encuesta continua, 12; IBGE, Censo demográfico, 1991: Mao de obra, 223.

Comparative employment data are congruent with the comparative data on education (table 5.4). During the 1990s, 18.3 percent of the AfroUruguayan labor force worked in white-collar (professional/technical and administrative) occupations, while 15.1 percent of Afro-Brazilians did, reflecting Afro-Uruguayans’ higher educational achievement. In both absolute and relative terms racial di√erentials in these two middle-class areas of the labor market were lower in Uruguay than in Brazil. Counterbalancing relatively high (in comparison to Brazil) AfroUruguayan representation in white-collar occupations was heavy AfroUruguayan overrepresentation in service occupations. Somewhat surprisingly, racial disparities in the service sector were almost twice as high in Uruguay as in Brazil. However, in the other markedly low-wage sector of the two national economies, agriculture, racial di√erentials were very high in Brazil and negligible in Uruguay. As a result, the index of dissimilarity, measuring overall racial inequality in the two labor markets, was higher in Brazil than in Uruguay. Because of lower levels of racial inequality in occupational distribution, racial di√erentials in wages were lower in Uruguay than in Brazil. In both countries, however, these di√erentials were substantial: as of 1996, average Afro-Brazilian earnings were 48 percent of white earnings, while in Uruguay average black earnings were 61 percent of white earnings.∑π Yet these di√erent levels of racial disparity in earnings did not prevent dictatorship and democracy 159

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

table 5.5. Population of Uruguay and Brazil, in Percentages, by Quintiles of National Income Distribution and Race, 2006 Uruguay Quintile

Brazil

Black

White

Black

White

0–20

38.4

17.9

28.3

11.8

20–40

25.1

19.4

24.3

15.8

40–60

17.7

20.3

21.1

18.9

60–80

12.2

20.8

16.2

23.8

80–100

6.7

21.5

10.2

29.5

Index of dissimilarity

26.1

27.1

Sources: Bucheli and Cabela, Perfil demográfico, 48; IBGE, Síntese de indicadores sociais, 2007,

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

table 8.13.

the two countries from having surprisingly similar racial di√erentials in poverty. In both Uruguay and Brazil, black poverty rates were approximately double those of whites. As of 2006, 50 percent of AfroUruguayans fell below the national poverty line, versus 24 percent of whites. In Brazil in 2006, 43 percent of Afro-Brazilians fell below the poverty line, versus 22 percent of whites.∑∫ Racial di√erentials in poverty are confirmed by data on income distribution within racial groups in the two countries (table 5.5). In both societies, blacks fell into the two lowest income deciles—the bottom fifth of the population—at a rate more than double that of whites. But black overrepresentation at the lowest levels of the economy, and underrepresentation at the highest, was even more extreme in Uruguay than in Brazil: while 28.3 percent of Afro-Brazilians fell into the bottom fifth of the income distribution, and 10.2 percent had made their way into the top fifth, the equivalent figures for Afro-Uruguayans were 38.4 percent and 6.7 percent. Afro-Uruguayans have been less successful than their Afro-Brazilian counterparts in reaching the top of the income distribution; and they fall to the bottom of the national economy at rates more than double those of Uruguayan whites. These data o√er little support for the idea that race has no impact, either on Afro-Uruguayan earnings or on their lives more generally. If in Brazil race has been shown to exert powerful e√ects on education, em160 dictatorship and democracy

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

ployment, earnings, and life chances in general, it appears that these e√ects are similarly powerful in Uruguay—and this despite clear di√erences in the two countries’ social, political, and economic histories, and in particular between Uruguay’s commitment to social democracy and inclusion and Brazil’s history of extreme social and economic inequality. In both countries, as in any country with a multiracial population, the causes of racial disparities and inequalities are complex, deeply rooted, and not easy to sort out and identify. Many of these causes are structural in character: for instance, the concentration of black people in poorer, less economically dynamic parts of the country, where educational and employment opportunities are fewer, can pose powerful obstacles to social and economic advancement. But so too do racial prejudice and discrimination; and beginning in the 1970s, Brazilian economists and sociologists started using techniques of statistical analysis to disaggregate the respective e√ects of structure and discrimination and to see how much each contributed to racial disparities in wages. They found that racial discrimination operated at all levels of the Brazilian labor market, but that its impact on racial di√erentials in earnings was greater at higher (in terms of skill and education) levels of the labor market than at lower, and that this impact has tended to increase over time. AfroBrazilians who acquired higher levels of education have faced greater discrimination than those who were less educated; and as more AfroBrazilians acquired high school diplomas and university degrees in the 1960s, 1970s, and 1980s, overall labor market discrimination appears to have increased as well.∑Ω The lack of longitudinal data from previous decades makes it impossible to say how, or whether, patterns of discrimination have changed over time in Uruguay. Analysis of salary data from the household survey of 2006 indicates that about half of the salary di√erential between black and white males can be attributed to their respective levels of education, experience, and other characteristics, and the other half to racial discrimination; for black and white women, discrimination accounts for about 20 percent of the di√erence between their earnings.∏≠ Under such conditions, ‘‘returns to education are higher for whites than for Afrodescendents’’; in e√ect, Afro-Uruguayans are paid less than whites for each year of education they receive.∏∞ As in Brazil, the more education that they receive, the further they fall behind their white compatriots in terms of salary, promotions, and advancement. To the degree that AfroUruguayans are aware of this situation (and anecdotal evidence suggests dictatorship and democracy 161

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

that they are), it would serve as a powerful disincentive to pursue higher education and may be part of the explanation for the sharp fallo√ in enrollment for Afro-Uruguayans after the age of thirteen (table 5.3). Further contributing to racial disparities in earnings is the greater value ascribed to education in private schools, where Afro-Uruguayans are notoriously underrepresented.∏≤ Because of their lower earnings, Uruguayans of color must rely disproportionately (in comparison to whites) on the public schools; and here we run into one of the real limitations of Uruguayan social democracy. While by regional standards overall social spending in Uruguay is quite high, relatively little of that spending finds its way to the public schools (table 5.6). As a percentage of gross national product (gnp), Uruguay’s expenditures on education rank near the bottom among Latin American countries. Indeed, of the countries tabulated in tables 5.1 and 5.6, only Guatemala spent a smaller proportion of its national economy on education. Seventy percent of Uruguay’s social spending goes to Social Security. In proportional terms, the country spends far more on pensions than any of its Latin American neighbors. This is necessitated in part by Uruguay’s top-heavy age structure: among Latin American nations, it has by far the largest contingent of population over the age of sixty-four, at 13 percent.∏≥ But that proportion varies greatly between the white and black racial groups: while 16 percent of whites are sixty-five or over, only 7 percent of Afro-Uruguayans have reached that age. And at the other end of the age distribution, while only 22 percent of the white population is aged fourteen and under, 33 percent of Afro-Uruguayans fall into that age category.∏∂ Under these conditions, social spending weighted overwhelmingly toward old-age pensions and away from education has powerful, even if unintended, racial consequences. Thus a first step toward achieving racial equality in Uruguay’s social democracy would involve a rebalancing of the current distribution of social spending and redirection of public funds away from pensions and toward education. Increased spending on education by itself is not enough, however. As research on both Brazil and Uruguay has suggested, even when AfroBrazilians and Afro-Uruguayans attain higher levels of education, racial discrimination prevents them from receiving the full benefits of their educational achievements. In the face of such discrimination, Uruguay will require racial remedies similar to those that have been discussed and partially adopted, piecemeal fashion, in Brazil. Uruguay needs e√ective legislation barring discrimination in employment, and it needs to con162 dictatorship and democracy

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

table 5.6. Social Spending as Percentage of gnp in Selected Latin American Countries, by Major Categories of Spending, 1990–2005 Country

Education

Health

Social Security

Other

Total

Argentina

4.3

4.6

9.9

1.5

20.3

Brazil

4.5

3.9

10.9

0.9

20.3

Chile

3.2

2.6

7.5

0.2

13.5

Colombia

3.9

2.5

4.6

0.9

11.9

Cuba

9.9

5.6

7.6

2.2

26.7

Guatemala

2.1

1.0

0.9

1.2

5.1

Mexico

3.7

2.5

1.5

1.3

8.9

Uruguay

3.0

2.6

14.0

0.4

20.0

Venezuela

4.2

1.5

3.0

1.1

9.8

Source: un-eclac, Social Panorama, 2007, 132–37. Note: Each column calculated by averaging annual figures in that category of spending for 1990–2005. ‘‘Total’’ column therefore does not always correspond exactly to the sum of the

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

other four columns.

sider as well a≈rmative action measures aimed at increasing black representation in university education and in white-collar employment. Such measures have proven enormously controversial in Brazil but nevertheless helped produce the relatively high (in comparison to earlier decades) rates of Afro-Brazilian university enrollment documented in table 5.3. Over the past hundred years, racial barriers to black advancement in Uruguay have proven to be as durable as those in Brazil. In the face of deeply engrained patterns of behavior both among whites who discriminate and among blacks who have learned to accept and accommodate that discrimination, state action in education and employment will be required, I believe, to impose something approaching racial equality on Uruguayan social democracy. Indeed, the failings of Uruguayan social democracy in the area of race suggest some of the limits to the ‘‘universalist’’ policies being proposed by opponents of a≈rmative action in Brazil, and the need for specifically racial remedies in both countries.∏∑ dictatorship and democracy 163

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Finally, state action will also be required to combat and uproot what the sociologist Edward Telles has called, in the case of Brazil, ‘‘racist culture.’’ He identifies such culture, and deeply ingrained ideas about racial di√erence, superiority, and inferiority, as one of the principal supports of racial inequality in that country, and the support that is perhaps most di≈cult to eradicate. Alejandro de la Fuente reached similar conclusions in the case of Cuba, where he identified the profound irony that by ‘‘impos[ing] an e√ective ban on public discussions of race . . . the same [socialist] government that did the most to eliminate racism also did the most to silence discussion about its persistence.’’ As a result, long-standing racial stereotypes remained largely in place on the island and visibly resurfaced during the economic crisis of the 1990s.∏∏ Racist culture is as ubiquitous in Uruguay as it is in Brazil, Cuba, or any other American country. One hears it in references to ‘‘el negro Rada’’ and other well known Afro-Uruguayans. One hears it in the constant gibes and jokes about black people, jokes that are perhaps good-natured and well-intentioned but that always have a barely concealed bite. And one hears and sees it, I deeply regret to say, in the song lyrics and performances of candombe. Yet despite candombe’s visible deficiencies as a vehicle for racial equality, in 2006 it was enlisted for precisely that purpose by the country’s leading Afro-Uruguayan political figure, Diputado Edgardo Ortuño.

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

El Diputado Candombero Historians customarily point to Ricardo Zavalla, who served in the Cámara de Representantes (the national legislature’s lower house) from 1929 to 1932, as the first and, until Ortuño, the only Afro-Uruguayan diputado in the country’s history.∏π But the late writer and literary critic Alberto Britos Serrat identified the journalist and poet Fermín Ferreira y Artigas, who served in the legislature during the late 1860s, as AfroUruguayan.∏∫ A more ambiguous case is that of the lawyer, poet, and populist politician Alba Roballo, who served as a senator (1958–68, 1971– 73), as Uruguay’s first female cabinet minister (of education and culture, in 1968), and as a founding member of the Frente Amplio. Roballo did not present herself publicly as Afro-Uruguayan. However, in oral history interviews carried out when she was in her seventies, she reminisced about growing up in a small rural community in Artigas, near the Brazilian border. She described herself as a child who was ‘‘thin, ugly, and 164 dictatorship and democracy

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

black (as I surely still am).’’ When she and her sisters dressed for school, she always demanded that her hair be braided exactly as theirs was and would cry bitterly if she felt they had received any favoritism. ‘‘I wanted some compensation for certain things that seemed horrible to me, which were that I was the skinniest, the ugliest, the blackest’’ in the family. During her political career Roballo regularly appeared at campaign events accompanied by Afro-Uruguayan candombe drummers, to whom she expressed ‘‘profound gratitude’’ (in the oral history interviews) for never charging money to play for her. Like other prominent Afro-Uruguayans, she was widely known as La Negra Roballo, a name that she did not appreciate. She also thanked the candombe drummers for cheering her as ‘‘Alba, Alba,’’ and not as La Negra.∏Ω While Roballo was guarded and ambiguous about her racial identity, Edgardo Ortuño, elected in 1999 as a part-time suplenteπ≠ to the Cámara de Representantes and in 2004 as a full-time legislator, acknowledged his blackness from the very beginning. Doubtless as a result, his election provoked ‘‘a tremendous uproar,’’ Ortuño recalls, with many Uruguayans, both black and white, hailing him (erroneously, as we have seen) as the country’s first black congressman. tv and radio stations surveyed their audiences to ask whether they thought a black man was capable of serving in the General Assembly. I was unable to get access to these surveys and so do not know how opinions divided; Ortuño remembers them as mixed, with some people saying that of course he could do it, while others were more skeptical, and yet others were undecided.π∞ A member of the Vertiente Artiguista, one of the principal parties of the Frente Amplio coalition, Ortuño began his political involvement in the student movement of the 1980s, as Uruguay was returning to civilian rule. During those years and into the 1990s he studied to be a high school history teacher, taking courses at the Instituto de Profesores Artigas and the Universidad de la República. The education he received at these institutions was classically Marxist and trained him to see and analyze the world in terms of economic modes of production and social class. He had no connection at that time with Mundo Afro or any other black organization and never gave much thought to questions of race—though, he recalls, the issue did come up among his friends. A disciplined, hardworking student, he was perfectly willing to party on weekends but drew the line at drinking during school hours. Since this did not conform to the stereotype of negro, vino y tambor, his friends, all of whom were white, made fun of his sobriety and dubbed him ‘‘medio negro,’’ half-black. dictatorship and democracy 165

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Only when he entered the General Assembly did issues of race start to become salient in his life. Activists from Mundo Afro and other organizations sought him out to congratulate him on achieving this milestone and to ask him to take up Afro-Uruguayan causes. This confronted him with a considerable dilemma, since race played no part in the Vertiente Artiguista program. To the contrary, many of his Frente Amplio colleagues felt that to single out a racial minority for special attention was to contradict the class-based, ‘‘universalist’’ principles both of socialist thought and of Uruguayan civil equality. As in other countries, politicians and intellectuals operating from a Marxist perspective saw their political struggle as one against capitalism and class inequality; if these underlying economic and social structures could be dealt with and transformed, racial inequality would automatically be resolved. Ortuño was himself trained in this approach; but as he continued to talk with Afro-Uruguayan activists and intellectuals, and particularly the leaders of Mundo Afro, he found increasingly compelling their analysis of structural racism in Uruguayan society and of how racial inequality was connected to class inequality but not equivalent to it. Ultimately Ortuño came to see his role as that of mediator and ‘‘translator’’ (his word) between the black activists and his leftist colleagues, seeking to show the latter that, like gender inequality, racial inequality was not simply an alternative form of class inequality but rather had its own social and historical causes, dynamics, and consequences. This has been an uphill battle, he reports, but not an impossible one, and over time many of his fellow legislators have become increasingly open to such arguments. Meanwhile, he has set himself the goals of (1) promoting study and analysis of racial issues in Uruguay; (2) enacting public policy to address these issues; and (3) promoting social movements that will pressure the government to act. With respect to goal 1, Ortuño has already had a measurable impact on Uruguayan intellectual life. After taking his full-time seat in 2005, he approached the various schools and departments of the Universidad de la República to see how much research and teaching was being done on what we might call Afro-Uruguayan studies. When he learned that almost no such work was taking place, Ortuño asked the local o≈ce of the U.N. Development Program to fund a research project on race and discrimination in the country. The result was Población afrodescendiente y desigualdades étnico-raciales en Uruguay (2008), a pathbreaking collection 166 dictatorship and democracy

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

of essays on the Afro-Uruguayan past and present, based on research and data generated by teams of researchers in the fields of history, sociology, and demography.π≤ Ortuño feels that he has made little or no progress on goal 3. In a population of 280,000 Afro-Uruguayans, he reports (using the figures from the 2006 household survey), no more than one hundred engage in political activism; and of those one hundred, very few will take part in collaborative endeavors or even speak to each other. ‘‘There is very little unity,’’ he says, echoing a consistent complaint of the black organizations and the black press since their beginnings in the 1800s. For reasons of personality, political orientation, generational di√erences, and other factors, it has proven very di≈cult, and indeed almost impossible, for Afro-Uruguayans to construct inclusive and enduring organizations or movements.π≥ In the absence of that political base, goal 2 becomes all the more di≈cult to achieve; but here Ortuño resorted to what he describes as a ‘‘Trojan horse’’ strategy. Uruguayan society is perhaps not yet ready to accept wide-ranging government initiatives in the area of race; but what it is ready to accept, and has been more than happy to accept for the past 150 years, is of course candombe. In November 2006 Ortuño introduced a bill to declare 3 December the annual National Day of Candombe, AfroUruguayan Culture, and Racial Equality. Marking the anniversary of the farewell 1978 candombe in the Medio Mundo conventillo, the bill called for the national government to organize ‘‘activities, educational initiatives, and campaigns of communication to . . . combat racism and promote racial equality.’’ It also declared candombe to be part of the national cultural heritage, defining the music as having been ‘‘created by the AfroUruguayans on the basis of their ancestral African heritage, their ritual origins, and their social context as a community.’’π∂ In his presentation of the bill, Ortuño gave an extended address that included each of its three constituent elements: candombe, AfroUruguayan culture more generally, and present-day racial inequality. The last point drew heavily on the language and analysis developed by Mundo Afro during the 1990s, beginning with a critique of ‘‘the o≈cial story, collective self-perception, and definition of Uruguay as a country of European immigrants, with a homogeneous and integrated society free of indigenous or African elements, and thus di√erent from the other societies of America. All of which caused the invisibilization or the dictatorship and democracy 167

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

undervaluing . . . of Afro-Uruguayans in the society, and resulting inequalities’’ in education, employment, earnings, self-esteem, and other social goods.π∑ Ortuño’s ‘‘Trojan horse’’ strategy was that an annual state-mandated celebration of candombe could provide the opening for the discussions of racial inequality, and the policy initiatives to overcome that inequality, that he sought to promote. Or, as the leftist newspaper La República deftly put it, ‘‘To the sound of borocotó chas, chas, Uruguay goes in search of racial equality.’’π∏ The reactions of his fellow congressmen, however, immediately suggested some of the limits of such a strategy. Newspaper coverage of his speech reported that he was repeatedly interrupted by the presiding o≈cer’s e√orts to restore order to the chamber and that ‘‘the talking that buzzed through the room made it di≈cult to hear.’’ The noise came from legislators who, ‘‘from looking so much at Tina [Ferreira, a well-known vedette who had come to support the bill], had become a bit excited.’’ In his subsequent speech in favor of the bill, the Colorado legislator Washington Abdalá referred specifically to Ferreira and fondly recalled learning to dance candombe with Martha Gularte. Other responses, all in support, were more serious in tone. Carlos Gamou, of the Frente Amplio, acknowledged that ‘‘the left has been a little lazy’’ in confronting the problems of discrimination and inequality; Gustavo Borsari, of the Blanco party, suggested that the name of the day give racial equality higher priority (he proposed the National Day of Afro-Uruguayan Culture, Racial Equality, and Candombe). In the end the bill passed unanimously as originally proposed.ππ The first Día Nacional del Candombe was celebrated at the General Assembly building a month later, on 3 December 2006, with an exhibit of works by Afro-Uruguayan artists, including rarely seen paintings by Victor Ocampo Vilaza (1881–1960) and Ramón Pereyra (1920–54), speeches by politicians and Afro-Uruguayan activists, a Llamadas-style parade by thirty-seven comparsas around the building, and a concert that evening by the candombe singer and drummer Rubén Rada.π∫ The national focus on candombe and black culture continued the following year, when the Ministry of Education and Culture decided to devote the annual Día del Patrimonio (Heritage Day, 6–7 October) to Afro-Uruguayan culture and, more specifically, to three legendary stars of candombe: the singer Lágrima Ríos (1924–2006) and the vedettes Martha Gularte (1919–2002) and Rosa Luna (1937–93). The ministry commissioned a book of short articles on Afro-Uruguayan history and culture, with brief biographies of 168 dictatorship and democracy

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

the three women, and an intense schedule of cultural events throughout the nation.πΩ Without question Ríos, Gularte, and Luna merited this recognition. Accomplished performers and women of wide-ranging achievements, they had risen from childhoods of poverty and deprivation to places on the national cultural and political stage. In 1994, after a nearly fifty-year career as Uruguay’s leading female singer of candombe and tango, Lágrima Ríos was recruited by the Frente Amplio to run for the General Assembly.∫≠ She decided not to run for o≈ce but was elected the following year as president of Mundo Afro, where she served as a highly visible spokesperson for the organization and its causes.∫∞ Following her triumph as a vedette in the 1950 Carnival, Martha Gularte went on to a long career as a dancer and performer. In the 1980s, together with her two children, the musician and composer Jorginho Gularte and the Carnival vedette Katy Gularte, she organized and led her own comparsa, Tanganika. She published two books of verse and an autobiographical play, the latter produced successfully in the 1990s. And in her last years, she created the Martha Gularte Foundation to support cultural programs for poor children in the city’s central neighborhoods.∫≤ Following in Gularte’s footsteps, Rosa Luna began dancing in Carnival in the 1950s and soon emerged as Gularte’s leading competitor. Like Gularte, she created her own comparsa, the Tribu (Tribe), and wrote candombe lyrics.∫≥ And like Gularte and Ríos, her energy and ambition took her well beyond the boundaries of Carnival and candombe. Belying the traditional association between Afro-Uruguayans and the Colorado party, Luna was a stalwart Blanco and a fervent supporter of its popular leader, Wilson Ferreira Aldunate. She took an active and public role in the 1987–88 campaign to revoke the 1986 law granting amnesty to those who had committed torture and other crimes under military rule.∫∂ Gathering signatures for the campaign alongside Frente Amplio leader Liber Seregni, she attracted su≈cient attention that in 1988 the newspaper La República, closely tied to the Frente, o√ered her a position as a weekly columnist. This was the first time that a mainstream Uruguayan newspaper had had a black columnist, and Luna capitalized on the opportunity to cover a broad range of topics, with particular attention to issues of race and discrimination in Uruguayan society.∫∑ When she died suddenly while on tour in Canada in 1993, the entire nation joined in mourning her loss. La República memorialized her with a poem, ‘‘Flor de Luna’’ (Moonflower). dictatorship and democracy 169

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

She exploits the rhythm of her hips; Her arms float like serpents. Her breasts fight to free themselves. Everyone rises, tense and in suspense. Ebony Eve, a pagan rite, Planted on your long legs, The crowd’s queen and lover, The brutal kiss of rebellion.

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Onward, Rosa, flower of the moon, Life and poetry, the beat of the drum, With blood ignited and on fire, May death die between your hips.∫∏ Fourteen years later, on the Día del Patrimonio 2007, Marcello Figueredo, a columnist for El País, welcomed the opportunity to remember ‘‘these three divine black women.’’ Lágrima Ríos he had never met; but Rosa Luna he had, and ‘‘my first memory’’ of her ‘‘was obviously associated with her tits [tetas]. That glorious frontispiece that legions of Uruguayans came every February to the Barrio Sur to inspect and applaud, that robust and sweaty chest that caused children to blush, and even those who are no longer children.’’∫π For those who knew and admired Rosa Luna, she was far more than a pair of breasts.∫∫ But for those who did not know her personally— and that would include virtually the entire population of Uruguay—her breasts, and her larger-than-life sexuality, were her calling card. Rosa Luna and Martha Gularte were the morena made flesh, with all the tensions and contradictions of such a role. In dedicating the Día del Patrimonio to their memory, the Ministry of Education and Culture had, with the very best of intentions, carved the image of Rosa Luna’s breasts, and the message of black sexuality, a few millimeters more deeply into the national memory and imaginary. Is the ‘‘Trojan horse’’ of the Día del Candombe, and Afro-Uruguayan culture more generally, the most e√ective way to introduce discussions of race into Uruguayan society? I am skeptical, and for the following reasons. First, Diputado Ortuño, Mundo Afro, and other activists argue that Uruguayans are ignorant of black contributions to the cultural life of the nation. But can there possibly be a single Uruguayan alive today who 170 dictatorship and democracy

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Rosa Luna. (Jorge Castelli)

does not know about candombe and its Afro-Uruguayan roots? If there is, I did not meet that person during my year in Montevideo. Even those who do not particularly like candombe or feel connected to it (and there are many such individuals) are well aware of the music’s African heritage. And how could they not be, when candombe constantly proclaims that heritage through its instruments (African drums), its lyrical themes, its stock characters (the escobero, etc.) and the African names and personae of the comparsas that perform it? Yet the claim that candombe was ‘‘created by the Afro-Uruguayans on the basis of their ancestral African heritage’’ is true, I would argue, only in the most remote, historical sense. The music did originate in the AfroUruguayan comparsas; but it was so quickly seized on by white comparsas and musicians, and so extensively reworked and re-created over the course of the twentieth century, that by now it is a thoroughly multiracial, multicultural musical form, genuinely expressive of the Uruguayan nation and its beliefs in racial di√erence—from which arises the second problem with candombe as a vehicle of racial equality. The message that candombe conveys is precisely the message of racial inequality: of basic, essential di√erences between whites and blacks, centering on the ‘‘natural,’’ ‘‘primitive’’ domains of sex and rhythm. Whites are free to dictatorship and democracy 171

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

partake of these pleasures by parading as negros lubolos and, since the 1980s, even as vedettes; then at the end of the day (or, more accurately, the night), they are also free to remove their blackface makeup and costumes and return to their everyday identities as educated, employed, respectable citizens of the white republic. Afro-Uruguayans do not have that option. Unlike the white lubolos, their negro identities are not so easily cast o√; nor are Afro-Uruguayans free to define these identities as they might wish. Instead, what it means to be black in Uruguay is shaped and determined, to a very large degree, by candombe’s constantly repeated images of black men and women helplessly in thrall to rhythm (‘‘don’t get me started, morenos, I can’t resist those rhythms’’). Candombe does grant black people their own special forms of power, but that power is rooted in magic, herbs, African gods, rhythm, and sex. How likely are these forces to break down the barriers to black participation in national life? And in the meantime, how might they block that participation by channeling it in directions that do little to promote Afro-Uruguayan advancement? Fully as important as candombe’s role in shaping images of race is its role in shaping images of gender. By casting men as stalwart warrior drummers and confining women to the roles either of superannuated domestic servants or undulating bombshells, the comparsas project clear messages not just of racial di√erence and inequality but of gender di√erence and inequality as well. As an abundant scholarly literature has made clear, race and gender are mutually constituting social categories that interact to produce powerful structures of di√erence and exclusion.∫Ω Certainly these structures are visible in Uruguay, where few people today remember Rosa Luna’s newspaper columns or Martha Gularte’s books of poetry but many people still talk about Luna’s breasts and Gularte’s legs. The world of candombe and the comparsas is a rich and fertile one that over time has undergone repeated renewal and innovation. As we have seen, a number of individuals and organizations are currently trying to reorient the comparsas in new and more progressive directions by breaking down gender barriers, downplaying the role of the vedette, and introducing new visions of Africa and of racial equality. But these e√orts are taking place mainly on the margins of Carnival; for the time being, most groups remain wedded to the old ways and to centuryold images of race and gender that undermine the comparsas’ potential role as forces for democracy and equality. Whatever the road to 172 dictatorship and democracy

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Uruguayan racial democracy turns out to be, it will not, I suspect, run through the throbbing realms of candombe.

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

We Say Goodbye During the final weeks of our time in Montevideo, my family joined the citizens of Montevideo in their annual pilgrimage to pay obeisance to Iemanjá, the Yoruba orishá (goddess, or divine embodiment) of the sea. Worshipped in West Africa, Cuba, Brazil, and other parts of Afro-Latin America, Iemanjá arrived in Uruguay in the 1930s and 1940s, introduced by Umbanda priests and priestesses from Brazil.Ω≠ Each year on 2 February, her followers come to the beaches in Montevideo and other towns and cities along the coast to thank her for favors rendered, to o√er her gifts, and to tell her their hopes and wishes for the coming year. Despite Uruguay’s rigorous observance of religious tolerance and the separation of church and state, during the 1940s and 1950s worshippers of Iemanjá and other orishás feared that their practices of spirit possession and divination might attract negative attention from neighbors and state authorities; they therefore carried out their ceremonies secretly, behind closed doors. By the 1960s Umbanda was emerging tentatively into the open, but it retreated again into clandestinity under the military dictatorship. Following the end of military rule in 1985, the religion grew rapidly in popularity, gaining tens of thousands of followers. By 2000 there were an estimated 150 temples in Montevideo dedicated to the worship of the African gods; in 1994 the municipality recognized the orishás and their followers by erecting a statue of Iemanjá at the Playa Ramírez in Palermo, the principal site for her veneration.Ω∞ When we arrived at the beach in the early evening, thousands of worshippers and onlookers filled its broad sands, clumped in groups gathered around the many priests and priestesses in attendance. Lines of supplicants waited to consult with the pais and mães de santo (in Portuguese, ‘‘fathers and mothers of the saint’’) and to be cleansed of the spirits obstructing their quests for success, love, and happiness. Priests wearing white robes and turbans performed rapid ritual exorcisms, casting o√ malign energies. Other priests and priestesses conducted religious services in which the orishás ‘‘mounted’’ and took possession of their followers. Drumming, chanting, singing, the shouts and yells of those possessed, and the surging sounds of the crowd filled the night. Adding to the otherworldly quality of the scene were thousands of dictatorship and democracy 173

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

candles sunk in holes dug into the sand, some of them small (two to three feet across), some larger (ten to twenty feet across, with hundreds of candles). The following day El País compared the glowing shrines to a constellation of stars scattered jewel-like across the sands; to me they looked like dozens of windows or portals through which rays of light shone forth from the depths of the earth. Along the shore and in the water stood crowds of worshippers, most dressed in white and holding small boats containing Iemanjá’s favorite o√erings: perfume, lipstick, flowers, fruit, mirrors, scarves, and other objects to flatter her vanity. Wading into the waves, her followers gently nudged their little vessels out to sea, sending their prayers, wishes, hopes, and dreams to the goddess of the oceans. As the night wore on, a stunning golden moon rose in the east, bathing the scene in light. Let it be, I thought. May Iemanjá smile on the paisito, the little country, and grant its citizens their wishes for life, love, and happiness. And may she grant as well their dreams, so long in the making, of democracy and equality for all.

174 dictatorship and democracy

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

glossary afrodescendiente: ‘‘Afro-descendent’’; person of African descent alegría: joy, happiness candombe: African-based music and dance form native to Uruguay and Argentina candombero: performer of candombe carnavalero/a: an individual strongly connected to Carnival, often in a professional or semiprofessional capacity comparsa: Carnival performance group conventillo: large, multiunit tenement building corralón: pool of reserve laborers de color: ‘‘colored’’ desalojo: forced eviction diputado/a: member of the Cámara de Representantes, the lower house of the Asamblea General, the Uruguayan national legislature escobero: broomsman, one of the stock characters of the ‘‘black’’ Carnival comparsas gramillero: herb doctor, one of the stock characters of the ‘‘black’’ Carnival comparsas humoristas: Carnival group specializing in humorous songs juego de agua: traditional Carnival practice of throwing water, eggs, and other liquid-filled missiles at passersby lanceros: formal ballroom dance dating from the 1800s leva: forced military conscription liberto: freed ex-slave, or child born free to a slave mother under the Free Womb Law of 1825 licenciado: university graduate llamada: traditionally, the act of ‘‘calling’’ comparsa members into the street by drumming lubolo: see ‘‘negro lubolo’’ mãe de santo: literally, ‘‘mother of the saint’’; female leader of an Umbanda temple or congregation mama vieja: ‘‘old mother,’’ one of the stock characters of the ‘‘black’’ Carnival comparsas

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

mazacalla: maraca-like percussion instrument moreno/a: polite euphemism for negro murga: Carnival group that specializes in singing satirical songs negro/a: ‘‘black’’; a person of African ancestry negro lubolo: white person parading in a ‘‘black’’ Carnival comparsa oriental: of or pertaining to Uruguay orishá: West African deity worshipped in Umbanda, Candomblé, and other African-based religions pai de santo: literally, ‘‘father of the saint’’; male leader of an Umbanda temple or congregation pardo/a: ‘‘brown’’; a person of racially mixed, partially African ancestry parodistas: Carnival group specializing in satirical, humorous songs preto/a: in Brazil, ‘‘black’’; a dark-skinned person of African ancestry principista: nineteenth-century supporter of liberal constitutionalism and the rule of law sala de nación: mutual aid society based on the African ethnicity of its members saladero: colonial-period and nineteenth-century facility for salting and drying beef sangre: blood sociedad de color: literally, ‘‘colored society’’; the upper and middle strata of the Afro-Uruguayan population sociedad de negros: formal title for ‘‘black’’ Carnival comparsa that performs candombe suplente: part-time member of the Asamblea General who substitutes for fulltime legislators when the latter are unable to attend parliamentary sessions tablado: outdoor stage for Carnival performances tambor: drum troupe: male choral Carnival group vedette: featured female dancer of the ‘‘black’’ Carnival comparsas velada: evening performance of music, poetry, speeches, and readings

176 glossary

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

notes Abbreviations ACSUN BN-ME BN-SU CIAPEN DAECPU

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

FNB IBGE IMM INE JVMP MAHM PAN PIC PIDF SERPAJ SODRE

Asociación Cultural y Social Uruguay Negro, Montevideo Sala de Materiales Especiales, Biblioteca Nacional, Montevideo Sala Uruguay, Biblioteca Nacional, Montevideo Círculo de Intelectuales, Artistas, Periodistas y Escritores Negros, Montevideo Directores Asociados Espectáculos Carnavalescos del Uruguay, Montevideo Frente Negra Brasileira, São Paulo Instituto Brasileiro de Geografia e Estatística, Brasília Intendencia Municipal de Montevideo Instituto Nacional de Estadística, Montevideo Jacinto Ventura de Molina Papers, Sala de Materiales Especiales, Biblioteca Nacional, Montevideo Museo y Archivo Histórico Municipal, Montevideo Partido Autóctono Negro, Montevideo Partido Independiente de Color, Havana Partido Independiente Democrático Femenino, Montevideo Servicio Paz y Justicia, Montevideo Servicio Oficial de Difusión Radio Televisión y Espectáculos, Montevideo

Introduction 1. The country’s two principal political parties, the Blancos and the Colorados, could not agree on which date to celebrate. The Blancos favored 1825 (when Blanco leader Juan Antonio Lavalleja had led the independence movement against Brazil) and the Colorados 1830 (because of Colorado leader Fructuoso Rivera’s role in overseeing the writing of the constitution of that year). The parties eventually negotiated a compromise to celebrate both dates. To this day Uruguay has two foundational holidays: 25 August (the declaration of independence in 1825) and 18 July (the

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

2.

3. 4. 5.

6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12.

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

13.

14.

15.

adoption of the Constitution of 1830). Caetano, Los uruguayos del Centenario, 11–14. On Batlle’s reforms, see Vanger, José Batlle y Ordóñez; Vanger, The Model Country; Frega, ‘‘La formulación de un modelo’’; and Ehrick, Shield of the Weak. For statistical indicators, see Bulmer-Thomas, Economic History, 85, 110, 147; and Thorp, Progress, Poverty, 354. In some ways the most gratifying indicator of all was the tiny country’s gold medals in soccer at the Olympics of 1924 and 1928, its selection to host the first World Cup in 1930, and its victory (over Argentina) at that event in the newly constructed Centennial Stadium. Galeano, El fútbol, 50–53, 59–60, 62–64. El libro del Centenario, 6. Ibid., 6, 43. Araújo, Tierra uruguaya, 48–50; Leone, ‘‘Manuales escolares,’’ 175; Araújo Villagrán, Estoy orgulloso, 78, 80. The U.S. visitor W. J. Holland found that ‘‘the Uruguayans pride themselves upon the fact that racial questions are not likely to trouble their republic in the future. ‘Ours,’ they say, ‘is a white man’s country.’ ’’ Holland, To the River Plate, 94. See also Herrera, El Uruguay internacional, 28; and Feldwick and Delaney, Twentieth Century Impressions, 78, 518. On those texts, see Leone, ‘‘Manuales escolares.’’ Abadie Soriano and Zarrilli, Democracia, 128–30. Ibid., 15. Ibid., 23, 91–92, 110–11, 182. Ibid., 180. On the Terra period, see Jacob, El Uruguay de Terra; and Porrini, Derechos humanos. The only black Latin American periodicals more durable than Nuestra Raza were A Alvorada (1907–63?), published in the Brazilian state of Rio Grande do Sul, and the English-language Panama Tribune (1928–73). Loner, Construção de classe, 459; Westerman, Los inmigrantes antillanos, 124–28. In addition to those titles listed in the bibliography, all of which are available in the Biblioteca Nacional, two additional titles that I did not have time to read were Democracia (Rocha, 1942–46) and Orientación (Melo, 1941–45). Additional titles to which I found references but was unable to locate include CIAPEN (Montevideo, 1951), La Crónica (Montevideo, 1870), El Erial (Montevideo, 1942), PAN (Montevideo, 1937–38), El Peligro (Rivera, 1934), El Porvenir (Montevideo, 1877), Renovación (Montevideo, 1939–40); El Sol (Montevideo, 1870s); and El Tribuno (Montevideo, 1870s or 1880s). On the Afro-Brazilian and Afro-Cuban presses, see Ferrara, A imprensa negra paulista, 237–77; Mello, ‘‘Para o recreio’’; and de la Fuente, A Nation for All, 415. Population comparisons are based on the year 2000; see Andrews, AfroLatin America, 156. On the Afro-Uruguayan press, see Rodríguez, Mbundo malungo, 57–154; and Lewis, Afro-Uruguayan Literature, 27–46. On the legal equivalence of blacks and mulattoes, see Petit Muñoz et al., La condición jurídica, 61–69; quotation from 61. On the legal restrictions that weighed on both groups, see ibid., 334–65, 385–434.

178 notes to pages 2–6

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

16. Andrews, The Afro-Argentines, 77–92; Platero, Piedra libre; Geler, ‘‘¿‘Otros’ argentinos?’ ’’; Cirio, Tinta negra. 17. A 2005 World Bank survey of two historically black neighborhoods in the cities of Buenos Aires and Santa Fé found that 3.0 percent of the residents of these neighborhoods considered themselves to be ‘‘Afro-descendents.’’ Another 0.8 percent did not identify as Afro-descendents but acknowledged having one or more African ancestors. Afro-Argentine representation in the country as a whole is undoubtedly much lower than in those two neighborhoods. ‘‘Resultados de la Prueba Piloto.’’ 18. For immigration figures, see Sánchez-Albornoz, ‘‘Population,’’ 92. For population figures, see Rock, Argentina, 153; and Nahum, Manual, 1:205. 19. Borucki et al., Esclavitud y trabajo, 126–51, 175–90. 20. Directoria Geral de Estatística, Sexo, raça, 2–3; Bucheli and Cabela, Perfil demográfico, 57. On the border zones of Artigas and Rivera, see Chagas and Stalla, Recuperando la memoria. 21. See chap. 5. 22. Bucheli and Cabela, Perfil demográfico, 10–11. 23. Telles, Race in Another America, 85; for recent statistical studies that employ black/white racial categories, see Shicasho, Desigualdade racial; Lopes and Moreira, Relatório; and Paixão and Carvano, Relatório anual. 24. Carvalho-Neto, Estudios afros, 197. The final numbers were 106 negro members, 135 pardos, and 3 whites (all married to black members); see 197–99. Researchers in Brazil have found similar uncertainty and porousness in the line separating pretos and pardos. Telles, Race in Another America, 88–91; Lovell and Wood, ‘‘Skin Color, Racial Identity,’’ 91–94. 25. Carvalho-Neto, Estudios afros, 215–25. In Rio de Janeiro, 81 percent of students surveyed would not marry a preto, and 66 percent would not marry a mulatto; over-all, 53 percent of students felt hostility toward negros and 68 percent toward mulattoes. Pinto, O negro no Rio, 180, 193. 26. Carvalho-Neto, Estudios afros, 231. 27. Merino, El negro en la sociedad, 100. 28. The idea of looking systematically at racial terminology in those publications did not occur to me until I had concluded my research in Uruguay and was back in the United States. Tables I.2 and I.3 are therefore based not on the complete universe of periodicals that I read but rather on my notes on specific articles. The number of racial references in those notes, however, is su≈ciently large—367 in the mainstream press and 496 in the black press— to constitute a reasonably representative sample of racial usage in the country’s newspapers. 29. On the use of class as a racial term, see Andrews, The Afro-Argentines, 204. 30. On this distinction, see Wade, Race and Ethnicity, 16–19. 31. López Reboledo, ‘‘Isabelino Gradín’’; Blixen, Isabelino Gradín, 23. 32. On Andrade, see Morales, Andrade; and Chagas, Gloria y tormento. On Varela, see Pippo, Obdulio; and Mancuso, Obdulio. On famous Afro-Uruguayan players, see Gutiérrez Cortinas, ‘‘Los negros en el fútbol.’’ 33. ‘‘Dios es negro,’’ La República (26 Nov. 2001), 1.

notes to pages 8–15 179

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42.

43.

44. 45.

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

46. 47.

48. 49.

50.

51.

Gutiérrez Cortinas, ‘‘Los negros en el fútbol,’’ 218. ‘‘Coronel Feliciano González,’’ Rumbo Cierto (May 1945), 3. ‘‘Nuestra personalidad,’’ Revista Uruguay (Apr. 1947), 10. Quoted in Pierri, Una mujer, 29. ‘‘Afrouruguayos sienten discriminación en tiendas y escuelas, según informe,’’ El País (8 Sept. 2004). ‘‘El diputado candombero,’’ El País (17 Feb. 2001). Outerelo Souto et al., Carnaval, 1:81. On those regulations, ibid., 1:42–44. Nyanza is a province of Kenya bordering on Lake Victoria and, coincidentally, the birthplace of U.S. President Barack Obama’s father, Barack Obama Sr. On the Nyanzas, and for photos of the group (not, unfortunately, of good enough quality to reproduce), see ‘‘Trouppes [sic] y comparsas que obtuvieron los primeros premios en el Concurso Municipal,’’ Mundo Uruguayo (3 Apr. 1930), 26–27; ‘‘Evocación de Nianza,’’ Mundo Uruguayo (7 Mar. 1935), 12–13; ‘‘Palermo ya no tiene carnavales,’’ Mundo Uruguayo (6 Mar. 1941), 4– 5, 83; and ‘‘Al chas chas de sus tamboriles los esclavos [sic] de Nyanza volverán a recorrer las calles montevideanas,’’ Mundo Uruguayo (10 Feb. 1949), 22–23. Lott, Love and Theft. See also Radano’s reference to blackface minstrelsy’s combination of ‘‘contempt [and] desire.’’ Radano, Lying Up a Nation, 6. Lane, Blackface Cuba; Leal, La selva oscura. On the racial tensions sparked by the independence wars, see Ferrer, Insurgent Cuba; and Helg, Our Rightful Share. On the later impacts of teatro bufo in Puerto Rico, see Rivero, Tuning Out Blackness, 22–66. Chasteen, National Rhythms. Ibid.; Moore, Nationalization of Blackness; Lane, Blackface Cuba, 149–79; McCann, Hello, Hello Brazil; Vianna, Mystery of Samba. For the later (post– 1950) case of Afro-Colombian costeño music, see Wade, Music, Race, and Nation. Quotation from Chasteen, National Rhythms, 63. The principal works available to consult at that time were Petit Muñoz et al., La condición jurídica; Rama, Los afrouruguayos; Pereda Valdés, El negro en el Uruguay; Isola, La esclavitud; Carvalho-Neto, El negro uruguayo; Merino, El negro en la sociedad; Porzecanski and Santos, Historias de vida; Britos Serrat, Antología de poetas negros; Pelfort, 150 años; Beatriz Santos, La herencia cultural africana; Montaño, Umkhonto; Ferreira, Los tambores del candombe; and Goldman, ¡Salve Baltasar!. On the former (debates and discussions promoted by Afro-Uruguayan activists), see chap. 5. On the latter (interest in Afro-Latin American topics more generally), see Wade, ‘‘Afro-Latin Studies’’; and Andrews, ‘‘AfroLatin America.’’ Olivera Chirimini and Varese, Los candombes de Reyes; Ferreira, El movimiento negro; Rodríguez, Racismo y derechos humanos; Rodríguez, Mbundo malungo; Borucki et al., Esclavitud y trabajo; Lewis, Afro-Uruguayan Literature; Porzecanski and Santos, Historias de exclusión; Betancur et al., Estu180 notes to pages 15–19

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

52. 53.

54. 55.

56.

dios sobre la cultura; Acree and Borucki, Jacinto Ventura de Molina; Gortázar, El licenciado negro; Betancur and Aparicio, Amos y esclavos; Goldman, Lucamba; Goldman, Cultura y sociedad; Montaño, Historia afrouruguaya; Scuro Somma, Población afrodescendiente; Chagas and Stalla, Recuperando la memoria; Borucki, Abolicionismo y tráfico. The book that comes closest to that long-term perspective is Rodríguez, Mbundo malungo. Until now, English-speaking readers seeking an introduction to AfroUruguayan history have been limited to very brief treatments of the subject. See Rama, ‘‘The Passing of the Afro-Uruguayans’’; Rout, The African Experience, 197–205; da Luz, ‘‘Uruguay’’; and Olivera Chirimini, ‘‘Candombe, African Nations.’’ Andrews, The Afro-Argentines; Andrews, Blacks and Whites; Andrews, AfroLatin America. On racial democracy in other countries, see de la Fuente, ‘‘Myths of Racial Democracy’’; Andrews, ‘‘Brazilian Racial Democracy’’; Lasso, Myths of Harmony; Alberto, Black Intellectuals; Wright, Café con Leche; and Montañez, El racismo oculto. Telles, Race in Another America, 239–70; Fry et al., Divisões perigosas; Kamel, Não somos racistas; Risério, A utopia brasileira; Guimarães, Racismo e antiracismo, 165–210; Sales Santos, Ações afirmativas; Brandão, Cotas raciais.

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Chapter 1 1. CD 185, Archivo Sonoro Lauro Ayestarán, Museo Romántico. At the time of the interview (27 Apr. 1963) Pardo Larraura was either eighty-nine or ninety-six (she gave her age as eighty-nine but later said she was born in 1867). She corrected her interviewer, musicologist Lauro Ayestarán, on several points: he thought the event was in 1894 (1892, she reminded him) and at the Teatro Solís (no, she replied, the Teatro San Felipe). For photos of Pardo Larraura c. 1890 and in 1966, see Goldman, Candombe, 127–28. 2. ‘‘La gente de color en el Centenario,’’ El Día (14 Oct. 1892), 3. 3. ‘‘La velada de San Felipe,’’ La Tribuna Popular (13 Oct. 1892), 2; original emphasis. 4. ‘‘Reseña general de las fiestas del Centenario,’’ La Semana (16 Oct. 1892), 3; ‘‘La velada de San Felipe,’’ La Tribuna Popular (13 Oct. 1892), 2. See also ‘‘La gente de color en el Centenario,’’ El Día (14 Oct. 1892), 3; and ‘‘La gente de color,’’ La Nación (15 Oct. 1892), 2. 5. ‘‘Glosando ‘reminiscencias,’ ’’ Nuestra Raza (Oct. 1933), 8–11; ‘‘Crónicas de antaño,’’ Revista Uruguay (Sept.–Oct. 1946), 13–14. 6. Montaño, Historia afrouruguaya, 211–24. On the kinds of work performed by slaves, see Kandame, ‘‘Colección de anuncios.’’ 7. Montaño, Umkhonto, 120. 8. Of Africans and Afro-Brazilians living in Rio de Janeiro in 1799, 63 percent were enslaved and 37 percent free; in the Brazilian province of Bahia (1808), with a large plantation sector, 47 percent of Africans and Afro-Brazilians were enslaved; and in Brazil as a whole, 55 percent of Africans and Afronotes to pages 19–23 181

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

9.

10. 11.

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

12.

13. 14. 15.

16.

17.

Brazilians were enslaved. Even Buenos Aires, a city similar in many respects to Montevideo, had a lower rate of enslavement, at 77 percent. Karasch, Slave Life, 62; Reis, Slave Rebellion, 4–5; Andrews, Afro-Latin America, 41; Andrews, The Afro-Argentines, 50. Of the ninety-four thousand Africans brought to the Río de la Plata between 1600 and 1812, almost two-thirds (sixty thousand) arrived after 1777. Borucki, ‘‘The Slave Trade.’’ It is unclear how many of those sixty thousand went to Montevideo and how many to Buenos Aires. From 1791 on, slave ships were required to dock at Montevideo to have their cargoes inspected before proceeding to Buenos Aires. There are no records of how many slaves disembarked in Montevideo; since Buenos Aires was the transshipment point for slaves to travel to inland Argentina, Chile, Bolivia, and Paraguay, one suspects that the majority continued on to the Argentine port, with the rest staying in Uruguay. Klein and Vinson, African Slavery, 200–206. This calculation is based on the city’s slave population of 2,874 in 1805, and Arturo Betancur’s finding of 741 grants of manumission between 1790 and 1820. Betancur and Aparicio, Amos y esclavos, 25. That produces annual average freeings of 24.7, and an annual average manumission rate of 0.9 percent. When we take into account that grants of freedom recorded in the city included slaves from the city’s hinterland and thus drawn from a larger base population, the rate of manumission drops lower. Annual rates of manumission averaged 1.3 percent in Buenos Aires at this time, 1.2 percent in Lima, and ‘‘about 1 percent’’ in the Brazilian province of Bahia. Johnson, ‘‘Manumission’’; Hünefeldt, Paying the Price, 211; Stuart Schwartz, Sugar Plantations, 332. On African mutual aid societies in other countries, see Chamosa, ‘‘ ‘To Honor the Ashes’ ’’; Howard, Changing History; David Brown, Santería Enthroned, 25–61; Friedemann, ‘‘Cabildos negros’’; and Chasteen, National Rhythms, 88–113. On those societies in Uruguay, see Goldman, Candombe, 37–64; and Borucki, Abolicionismo y tráfico, chap. 4. Chamosa, ‘‘ ‘To Honor the Ashes.’ ’’ Pereira, ‘‘Los reyes negros’’; Vicente Rossi, Cosas de negros, 60–70. On religious practices in the nations, see Olivera Chirimini and Varese, Los candombes de Reyes, 110–15; and Gallardo, ‘‘Un testimonio sobre la esclavitud.’’ Néstor Ortiz Oderigo and Robert Farris Thompson trace the word to the Kimbundu (Angola) and Ki-Kongo (Congo) languages, respectively. It means ‘‘pertaining to blacks’’ (ka + ndombe). Ortiz Oderigo, Calunga, 19; Thompson, Tango, 97. On candombe in Brazil, see Kiddy, Blacks of the Rosary, 59, 61. As in other Latin American nations, the Free Womb Law was a program of gradual emancipation under which the children of slave mothers were born legally free. They were obligated to serve their mother’s master until reaching the age of majority, at which point they would become fully free. The law was first announced as part of the rebel program of independence in 1825 and then confirmed in the Constitution of 1830. Pelfort, 150 años, 50–53. 182 notes to pages 24–25

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25.

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

26.

27. 28.

29. 30. 31.

32. 33.

Olivera Chirimini and Varese, Los candombes de Reyes, 96. Ibid., 105; for other descriptions of the dances, see 103–6. Ayestarán, El folklore musical uruguayo, 151–57. Olivera Chirimini and Varese, Los candombes de Reyes, 137. Ibid., 138–45; de María, Montevideo antiguo, 1:278. De María, Montevideo antiguo, 1:274; Goldman, Candombe, 86, 109, 111; see also Rómulo Rossi, Recuerdos y crónicas, 1:48. Harding, A Refuge in Thunder, 153. The author referred to one incident in which one of the monarchs was wearing an outfit much too large for him. ‘‘The tails of his frock coat were dragging on the ground, and his pants legs were folded in half, so that looking at him, it was impossible not to laugh.’’ To make matters worse, the monarch’s shoes were too small, so that at some point he removed them and spent the rest of the day walking around barefoot, carrying the shoes in his hands. Pereira, ‘‘Los reyes negros,’’ 161–63; see also Vicente Rossi, Cosas de negros, 62. Goldman, Candombe, 58; Vicente Rossi, Cosas de negros, 62; see also Olivera Chirimini and Varese, Los candombes de Reyes, 139–40. One of the few statues of an Afro-Uruguayan in present-day Montevideo is that of a latrine cleaner. Erected in 1930 as part of the centennial celebrations, it was intended to represent a water vendor, another occupation closely associated with blackness. But the sculptor, José Belloni, ‘‘erred in his representation of the figure of the water vendor and instead sculpted the figure of a collector of excrement.’’ Antola and Ponce, ‘‘La nación en bronce,’’ 225. In 1942 the newspaper Nuestra Raza demanded that the statue be removed. ‘‘The sculptor Belloni, [working] with a false aesthetic concept and inconceivable ignorance of the customs of that time . . . symbolized the black in a profession that, even though he did perform it, did not need to be perpetuated in bronze.’’ ‘‘La estatua del ‘aguatero,’ ’’ Nuestra Raza (30 Oct. 1942), 1–2. Goldman, Candombe, 58, 60; original ellipsis. Quotation from Acree and Borucki, Jacinto Ventura de Molina, 56. Molina’s collected papers, totaling more than one thousand pages of manuscripts bound in three thick volumes, are on deposit in the Sala de Materiales Especiales at the Biblioteca Nacional in Montevideo. An edited and annotated version of them is available in ibid.; see also Acree, ‘‘Jacinto Ventura de Molina’’; and Gortázar, El licenciado negro. ‘‘Esprecyon natural agradecida,’’ 1836, book 3, JVMP; Acree and Borucki, Jacinto Ventura de Molina, 56. Acree and Borucki, Jacinto Ventura de Molina, 83–84. Miguel Angel Berro, Secretario del Gobierno, to Jacinto Ventura de Molina, 4 May 1832, book 3, JVMP; Acree and Borucki, Jacinto Ventura de Molina, 204. ‘‘Carta de haviso, escrita à S.M.Y. en 20 de Avril: de 1827,’’ book 1, JVMP; Acree and Borucki, Jacinto Ventura de Molina, 137. Petition to M.A.I.P.SSs, undated (Pérez’s notation is dated 6 Dec. 1832), book 3, JVMP; emphasis in original. notes to pages 25–30 183

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

34. ‘‘Conclusión Poetica de Todo el Discurso,’’ n.d., book 3, JVMP; Acree and Borucki, Jacinto Ventura de Molina, 203. 35. Acree and Borucki, Jacinto Ventura de Molina, 209; for other mocking descriptions of or responses to Molina, see ibid., 200–208. 36. ‘‘Naciones del 1er Nordeste y Regulos que los Preciden,’’ book 3, JVMP; Acree and Borucki, Jacinto Ventura de Molina, 112–13. 37. Acree and Borucki, Jacinto Ventura de Molina, 129. 38. Ibid., 139. 39. Molina to Yllmo. y Exclmo. Sor Capn. General, n.d. (reply in margin dated 15 Apr. 1834), book 2, JVMP; Acree and Borucki, Jacinto Ventura de Molina, 125. 40. Molina to Yllmo. y Exclmo. Sor Capn. General; Acree and Borucki, Jacinto Ventura de Molina, 126. On the alleged slave conspiracy of 1833, see Pedemonte, Hombres con dueño, 61–69. 41. Acree and Borucki, Jacinto Ventura de Molina, 139. In petitions to colonialand national-period o≈cials on his own behalf, Molina frequently cited his own military service, which began, he claimed, in 1771, when, at the age of five, he and other boys served in a Spanish artillery unit carrying ammunition and other supplies to the gunners. He eventually rose to sergeant major in the colonial militia, first under Spain and then, after 1816, under Portugal and Brazil. ‘‘Primero Memorial Ystorico,’’ book 2, JVMP; Molina to Illmo. Sor. Secretario, encargado de los Asuntos de la Guerra (30 Oct. 1823), book 2, JVMP; Acree and Borucki, Jacinto Ventura de Molina, 81. 42. Blanchard, Under the Flags of Freedom; Ferrer, Insurgent Cuba; Helg, Our Rightful Share; Lasso, Myths of Harmony; Andrews, Afro-Latin America, 55– 67, 87–100. 43. On black service in the independence wars, see Montaño, Umkhonto, 157– 200; and Pereda Valdés, El negro en el Uruguay, 107–23. 44. Figure on Colorado draftees from Borucki et al., Esclavitud y trabajo, 45; on black military service in the Guerra Grande, see 33–97. On the various emancipation decrees, see Pelfort, 150 años. 45. On the final Blanco-Colorado civil war, see Chasteen, Heroes on Horseback. 46. O≈cers listed included Feliciano González, José María Rodríguez, Isidoro Carrión, Agustín Berón, Simón Rodríguez, ‘‘and so many others.’’ ‘‘Caseros,’’ La Regeneración (1 Feb. 1885), 1. See also ‘‘Canto a mi raza,’’ El Periódico (14 July 1889), 2; ‘‘Pocos quedan,’’ La Regeneración (4 Jan. 1885), 1; and special supplement, ‘‘Homenaje de ‘La Propaganda’ al centenario de la batalla de Las Piedras,’’ La Propaganda (10 May 1911). The highest-ranking Afro-Uruguayan military o≈cer, though rarely publicly acknowledged as such, was Lieutenant General Pablo Galarza (1851–1937), one of the principal commanders in the civil war of 1903–4. Vanger, José Batlle y Ordóñez, 145–65. 47. ‘‘Igualdad ante la ley,’’ El Progresista (18 Sept. 1873), 1. 48. ‘‘El pasado y presente,’’ La Conservación (11 Aug. 1872), 1. In 1876, AfroUruguayans living in Buenos Aires petitioned the government in Montevideo to reinstate Emilio Rodríguez as Uruguayan consul in the Argentine capital. ‘‘The colored class is that which truly knows who is or is not a good 184 notes to pages 30–34

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

49. 50. 51.

52. 53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58. 59. 60.

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

61.

62. 63. 64. 65. 66. 67. 68.

69.

consul; because generally we are treated with no consideration, and are the most sacrificed, and deserve greater attention.’’ ‘‘Concedido,’’ El Ferrocarril (5 Feb. 1876), 2. ‘‘Negros Africanos,’’ El Entierro del Carnaval (11 Feb. 1883), 2. ‘‘Decíamos ayer,’’ El Periódico (5 May 1889), 1; López-Alves, State Formation and Democracy, 93. ‘‘Centro Uruguayo,’’ La Regeneración (25 Jan. 1885), 1–2. The Centro was still in existence as of 1914. ‘‘Correspondencia,’’ La Verdad (30 June 1914), 1–2. Reporting on the light turnout at a recent dance, La Regeneración attributed the absence of men to ‘‘reports of levas’’ in the city. ‘‘Miscelanea,’’ La Regeneración (15 Mar. 1885), 2. ‘‘Sociedad ‘Centro Uruguayo,’ ’’ El Periódico (9 June 1889), 1. ‘‘¿Volvemos á las andadas?,’’ El Periódico (7 July 1889), 1. ‘‘Soldados à la fuerza,’’ La Propaganda (3 Sept. 1893), 1–2. La Propaganda (1 Oct. 1893), 3; ‘‘Ultimo dia,’’ La Propaganda (12 Aug. 1894), 3. ‘‘Ayer y hoy,’’ La Conservación (25 Aug. 1872), 1; ‘‘Siempre los mismos,’’ La Conservación (6 Nov. 1872), 1; emphasis in original. Gortázar, ‘‘La ‘sociedad de color.’ ’’ On party militias as a form of political mobilization in nineteenth-century Uruguay, see López-Alves, State Formation and Democracy, 49–95. On principistas and candomberos, see Pivel Devoto, Historia de los partidos, 2:155–59, 227–81; and Alfaro, Carnaval y modernización, 179–82. Gortázar, ‘‘La ‘sociedad de color.’ ’’ Commenting on the country’s various military presidents, one of the black papers characterized ‘‘the sons of Mars’’ as ‘‘lamentable because of their absolute lack of talent for civil government; they are soldiers with no education whatsoever, and no aspirations other than to accumulate wealth and satisfy their appetites and desires.’’ ‘‘Candidaturas presidenciales,’’ El Periódico (9 June 1889), 3. ‘‘No más silencio,’’ El Progresista (25 Sept. 1873), 1. The paper did not name the party leader. On Rodríguez’s candidacy, see Rodríguez, Mbundo malungo, 57–62. ‘‘Los hombres blancos y nosotros,’’ La Conservación (27 Oct. 1872), 1. ‘‘No más silencio,’’ El Progresista (25 Sept. 1873), 1. ‘‘Nuestro programa,’’ La Regeneración (14 Dec. 1884), 1. ‘‘No es obra de romanos,’’ La Regeneración (28 Dec. 1884), 1. ‘‘La educación, y varios padres de nuestra sociedad,’’ El Progresista (4 Sept. 1873), 1–2; see also ‘‘Notas de redacción,’’ La Propaganda (7 Jan. 1894), 1. ‘‘Una buena iniciativa,’’ La Verdad (5 Aug. 1912), 2. ‘‘Comité Socialista Internacional: A los trabajadores de todos los países,’’ La Voz del Obrero (Mar. 1904), 1. See also ‘‘La influencia religiosa y la libertad humana,’’ El Amigo del Obrero (22 Jan. 1903), 1; ‘‘Discurso de un caballo inteligente al gran rey africano Mononene,’’ La Voz del Obrero (June 1904), 2; and El Socialista (14 May 1911), 3–4. See ‘‘Comité Socialista Internacional: A los trabajadores de todos los países,’’ La Voz del Obrero (Mar. 1904), 1; ‘‘La raza negra ante el Socialismo,’’ La Voz del Obrero (Oct. 1904), 3–4; ‘‘Los negros en los Estados Unidos: notes to pages 35–39 185

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

70. 71.

72. 73.

74. 75. 76.

77.

78.

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

79.

80.

81. 82. 83. 84.

85. 86.

Lucha de razas,’’ El Amigo del Obrero (27 July 1904), 2; cartoon in El Guerrillero (26 July 1903), 1; and ‘‘La civilización de los negros,’’ El Amigo del Obrero (29 Mar. 1905), 2. For titles and dates of labor newspapers read (by my research assistant, Lars Peterson) in connection with this project, see the bibliography. ‘‘Los negros en los Estados Unidos: Lucha de razas,’’ El Amigo del Obrero (27 July 1904), 2. ‘‘Sacrificios humanos—Africa,’’ El Amigo del Obrero (19 Nov. 1904), 1; cartoon in El Guerrillero (5 July 1903), 2–3; El Amigo del Obrero (11 Aug. 1909), 1; El Amigo del Obrero (7 Sept. 1909), 1–2. On similarly negative images of Africa in the São Paulo labor press, see Andrews, Blacks and Whites, 64. Klaczko, ‘‘El Uruguay de 1908.’’ On questions of race and ethnicity in Latin American labor unions, see de la Fuente, A Nation for All, 123–28; Scott, Degrees of Freedom, 207–15, 253– 69; Andrews, Blacks and Whites, 60–66; Machado, ‘‘From Slave Rebels to Strikebreakers’’; Cruz, ‘‘Puzzling Out Slave Origins’’; and Loner, Construção de classe, 269–84. Nahum, Manual, 1:181. ‘‘Educación-instrucción,’’ La Regeneración (12 Apr. 1885), 1. ‘‘A la Escuela de Artes,’’ La Regeneración (19 Apr. 1885), 1; see also ‘‘La Escuela de Artes y Oficios,’’ La Regeneración (29 Mar. 1885), 1; and ‘‘La Escuela de Artes y Oficios,’’ El Periódico (16 June 1889), 1. See, e.g., ‘‘Instrucción,’’ El Eco del Porvenir (1 Oct. 1901), 1; ‘‘La apertura de las escuelas,’’ La Verdad (15 Mar. 1913), 1; ‘‘Por la instrucción de la raza,’’ Nuestra Raza (20 and 30 Mar. 1917), 1; and ‘‘La terminación del año escolar,’’ La Vanguardia (30 Nov. 1928), 1. ‘‘Refutando errores,’’ Nuestra Raza (30 July 1917), 1–2. In the same vein, see also ‘‘Instrucción,’’ La Regeneración (18 Jan. 1885), 1; ‘‘Notas de redacción,’’ La Propaganda (7 Jan. 1894), 1; and ‘‘Páginas femeninas,’’ La Verdad (15 Dec. 1913), 1. ‘‘Necrología,’’ La Propaganda (3 June 1894), 2. This article reported the death of law student Hipólito Martínez, ‘‘a model father,’’ who died halfway through his studies. ‘‘Doctor Juan Crisóstomo Diaz,’’ La Regeneración (8 Mar. 1885), 1. Rondeau took his first exams in 1894 and finally graduated in 1901. ‘‘El señor Francisco Rondeau,’’ La Propaganda (18 Nov. 1894), 1–2; ‘‘Dr. Francisco Rondeau,’’ El Eco del Porvenir (15 Sept. 1901), 1–2. ‘‘Doctor Juan Crisóstomo Diaz,’’ La Regeneración (8 Mar. 1885), 1. ‘‘Hablando con el Dr. Francisco Rondeau,’’ Nuestra Raza (Mar. 1934), 2–3. ‘‘Los morenos de antes y ahora,’’ Nuestra Raza (23 Aug. 1934), 3–4. ‘‘Un tema interesante,’’ La Verdad (15 Dec. 1912), 1. This conclusion did not prevent the paper from publicizing courses o√ered by Club Social 25 de Agosto, aimed at preparing high school students to enter the university. ‘‘Centros y sociedades,’’ La Verdad (15 Jan. 1913), 2. Quoted in Goldman, Lucamba, 15 Systematic research on these organizations remains to be done. On their

186 notes to pages 39–43

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

87.

88. 89. 90. 91. 92.

93. 94.

95. 96. 97.

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

98. 99.

100.

101. 102. 103.

104.

counterparts in Buenos Aires, see González Bernardo de Quirós, Civilidad y política. Reglamento de la Sociedad Pobres Negros Orientales; Estatutos del Club Social 25 de Agosto. Many thanks to Gustavo Goldman for alerting me to the existence of these documents in the Biblioteca Nacional. The Reglamento is reprinted in Olivera Chirimini and Varese, Los candombes de Reyes, 123–28. ‘‘Centros y sociedades,’’ La Verdad (15 Nov. 1912), 4. Chasteen, National Rhythms, 11; on Montevideo, see ‘‘La ciudad bailando’’ in Goldman, Lucamba, 57–98. Quoted in Olivera Chirimini and Varese, Los candombes de Reyes, 136–37. Goldman, Lucamba, 74–76. Olivera Chirimini and Varese, Los candombes de Reyes, 185–88. In those protests, community leaders pointed to a similar case in Buenos Aires in 1880, where racial prohibitions had also been overturned after public outcry. On that incident, see Soler Cañas, ‘‘Pardos y morenos.’’ Goldman, Lucamba, 78–79. El Ferro-carril (22 Feb. 1876); El Ferro-carril (6 Jan. 1883); and La Tribuna (12 Feb. 1877); all quoted in Olivera Chirimini and Varese, Los candombes de Reyes, 173, 154, 178. On black dances in the late 1800s, see Olivera Chirimini and Varese, Los candombes de Reyes, 170–91. ‘‘Sección amena,’’ La Regeneración (8 Mar. 1885), 2–3. ‘‘Una amena entreview [sic] con Doña Melchora M. de Morales,’’ Revista Uruguay (May 1945), 6–7. Also on the dances, see ‘‘Cronica del baile,’’ La Conservación (8 Sept. 1872), 2; ‘‘Cronica,’’ La Propaganda (18 Feb. 1894), 3; ‘‘En el Teatro Stella d’Italia,’’ El Eco del Porvenir (25 Aug. 1901), 1–2; and the musicologist Lauro Ayestarán’s 1963 interview with Toribia Petronila Pardo Larraura, cited in note 1. ‘‘La Comisión de Fiestas,’’ La Verdad (5 Feb. 1912), 1. On the financial di≈culties of the black papers, see ‘‘Ultimo dia,’’ La Regeneración (5 Apr. 1885), 4; ‘‘La situación del momento y nuestra hoja,’’ La Verdad (31 July 1914), 1–2; ‘‘Advertencias,’’ La Vanguardia (30 Nov. 1928), 1; and ‘‘A los suscriptores,’’ La Vanguardia (15 Mar. 1929), 1. ‘‘No es para un dia,’’ La Regeneración (19 Apr. 1885), 1. Similarly, when the Centro Uruguayo in Buenos Aires ran into financial di≈culties in 1914, its Comisión Auxiliar de Damas y Señoritas organized a well-attended dance. ‘‘Correspondencia,’’ La Verdad (15 May 1914), 2. On the dance itself, at the ‘‘elegante salón San Martín,’’ see ‘‘Correspondencia’’ (15 June 1914), 2–3. See also the role of the Comité Femenino in collecting funds to buy the lot on which the headquarters of the Centro Uruguay, in the northern city of Melo, was later built. ‘‘A la colectividad femenina,’’ Acción (15 Nov. 1934), 3. ‘‘Nuestra situación moral,’’ La Propaganda (3 Dec. 1893), 1. ‘‘De la culta sociedad,’’ La Propaganda (31 Aug. 1911), 2. See, e.g., the bitter charges and countercharges concerning the financial reports of the Centro Social de Señoritas, La Propaganda (Mar.–May 1894); ‘‘Sobre el mismo tema,’’ La Verdad (5 Jan. 1912), 2, and (15 Jan. 1912), 2. Barrán, Historia de la sensibilidad, 339–67.

notes to pages 43–48 187

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

105. 106. 107. 108.

‘‘Por la educación femenina,’’ La Verdad (15 Oct. 1911), 2. The reference is to Francisco Goya’s famous painting, The Nude Maja. ‘‘La mujer buena,’’ La Propaganda (19 Nov. 1893), 2. ‘‘Carnaval: Las fiestas del ultimo día,’’ El Día (26 Feb. 1912), 5–6; see also ‘‘Carnaval: Las fiestas de hoy,’’ El Siglo (25 Feb. 1912), 4; and ‘‘Momo fué enterrado alegremente,’’ La Razón (26 Feb. 1912), 3. For photos of the dances, see the El Día article and La Verdad (25 Feb. 1912). 109. ‘‘Las tertulias de Cibils,’’ La Verdad (25 Feb. 1912), 1–2; ‘‘Ecos de las tertulias de Cibils,’’ La Verdad (15 Mar. 1912), 2–3. The city provided funds for annual Afro-Uruguayan Carnival dances until 1923, when the subsidies were discontinued. ‘‘Glosando reminiscencias: Nuestros bailes al traves [sic] del tiempo,’’ Nuestra Raza (23 Mar. 1935), 3–4.

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Chapter 2 1. Alfaro, El Carnaval ‘‘heroico,’’ 13. 2. Ibid.; Alfaro, Carnaval y modernización; Alfaro, Memorias de la bacanal. Alfaro draws her explanatory framework from Barrán, Historia de la sensibilidad. 3. On similar processes in other Latin American countries, see Chasteen, National Rhythms; Moore, Nationalization of Blackness; Lane, Blackface Cuba, 149–79; McCann, Hello, Hello Brazil; and Vianna, Mystery of Samba. For the later (post-1950) case of Afro-Colombian costeño music, see Wade, Music, Race, and Nation. 4. Alfaro, El Carnaval ‘‘heroico,’’ 69; Alfaro, Carnaval y modernización, 222. On the comparsas, see Alfaro, El Carnaval ‘‘heroico,’’ 63–72; and Alfaro, Carnaval y modernización, 216–25. 5. This usage derives from Uruguay’s formal name, the República Oriental del Uruguay, which in turn derives from its colonial-period denomination as the Banda Oriental (the eastern shore of the Uruguay River). 6. Reglamento de la Sociedad Pobres Negros Orientales, 4. 7. Vicente Rossi, Cosas de negros, 98. Musicologist Gustavo Goldman persuasively argues that these early tangos borrowed heavily from the Cuban habanera, another Creolized musical form combining African and European elements. See Goldman, Lucamba, 121–36; and Thompson, Tango, 111– 20. On early tangos in Buenos Aires, see Rodríguez Molas, ‘‘Los afroargentinos y el orígen del tango’’; and Natale, Buenos Aires, 127–42. 8. These song lyrics, and those by other comparsas as well, are reproduced in Goldman, Lucamba, 202–34. 9. Ibid., 202, 203. 10. Ibid., 202. 11. On Carnival as a time of humor, fantasy, and play, see Alfaro, El Carnaval ‘‘heroico,’’ 19–36. 12. Goldman, Lucamba, 206. 13. Los Pobres Negros Orientales, ‘‘Tango,’’ in Figueroa, El Carnaval (1876), 33– 34. On ‘‘dancing the happy dance, that gives one convulsions,’’ see Los Pobres Negros Orientales, ‘‘Tango,’’ in Figueroa, El Carnaval (1877), 35–36. 14. La Raza Africana, ‘‘Tango,’’ in Figueroa, El Carnaval (1878), 47–48. 188 notes to pages 48–53

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

15. Alfaro, Carnaval y modernización, 180; ‘‘Fiestas de Carnaval,’’ El Ferro-carril (10 Feb. 1877), 2; Figueroa, Carnaval (1876), 30–31. 16. Alfaro, El Carnaval ‘‘heroico,’’ 67. 17. Goldman, Lucamba, 209. 18. Los Pobres Negros Orientales, ‘‘Brindis,’’ in Figueroa, Carnaval (1878), 44. 19. Los Negros Lubolos, ‘‘Brindis,’’ in Figueroa, Carnaval (1877), 11. 20. Olivera Chirimini and Varese, Los candombes de Reyes, 161; Vicente Rossi, Cosas de negros, 106. 21. Antonio Plácido describes Los Negros as an Afro-Uruguayan group. Plácido, Carnaval, 71, 73–74. But Ortiz Oderigo and Goldman both describe them as a white blackface group. Ortiz Oderigo, Calunga, 65; Goldman, ‘‘Tango y habanera,’’ n. 4. 22. Vicente Rossi, Cosas de negros, 106; ‘‘Mas comparsas,’’ El Ferro-carril (26 Feb. 1876), 2; ‘‘Estandarte,’’ El Ferro-carril (3 Mar. 1878), 2. 23. On these reforms, and the general e√ort to ‘‘civilize’’ Carnival, see Alfaro, Carnaval y modernización; and Barrán, Historia de la sensibilidad, 399–408. 24. ‘‘El Carnaval’’ and ‘‘Espléndida victoria de la civilizacion,’’ El Ferro-carril (15–18 Feb. 1874), 1; ‘‘El Carnaval de antaño,’’ El Siglo (22 Feb. 1874), 2; ‘‘El Carnaval mojado,’’ El Siglo (24 Feb. 1874), 2. 25. Lott, Love and Theft, 18, 57, 95; Holt, ‘‘Marking.’’ 26. Lane, Blackface Cuba, 16. 27. Vicente Rossi, Cosas de negros, 106. 28. For songs celebrating those powers, see ‘‘No es broma, que es verdad,’’ and various songs by Sociedad Negros Gramillas, all in El Carnaval de 1884 (24 Feb. 1884), 1–2; as well as Negros Mozambiques, ‘‘Danza,’’ in Goldman, Lucamba, 210–11. 29. On these two characters, see Carvalho-Neto, El Carnaval, 14–19. 30. Olivera Chirimini and Varese, Los candombes de Reyes, 162–63. 31. ‘‘Fiestas de Carnaval,’’ El Ferro-carril (10 Feb. 1877), 2. 32. Andrews, The Afro-Argentines, 161. 33. Figueroa, Carnaval (1877), 9. 34. Pobres Negros Esclavos, ‘‘Tango,’’ El Carnaval de 1884 (24 Feb. 1884), 2. 35. ‘‘No other period in Uruguayan history was so puritanical, so intent on separating the sexes, or contemplated sexuality with such concern, and at times horror, as this one [1860–1920].’’ Barrán, Historia de la sensibilidad, 315; in part 2 of that book, see chaps. 3–5. See also Barrán, Amor y transgresión, which contrasts the relative sexual openness of the early 1900s to the controls and conventions of the late 1800s. 36. La Nación Lubola, ‘‘¡Ay! Dios ¿Qué querrán?’’ El Carnaval de 1884 (24 Feb. 1884), 1. 37. E.g., Esclavos de Guinea, ‘‘Danza,’’ and (no group credited) ‘‘El negrito pretencioso,’’ El Carnaval de 1884 (24 Feb. 1884), 1–2. On the analogous figure of the ‘‘negro catedrático’’ in Cuba, see Lane, Blackface Cuba, 71–86. 38. See, e.g., Los Esclavos, ‘‘Habanera,’’ in Figueroa, Carnaval (1876), 17–19; and Pobres Negros Esclavos, ‘‘Danza,’’ El Carnaval de 1884 (24 Feb. 1884), 2. 39. ‘‘Negros Africanos’’ and ‘‘El cuchicheo,’’ El Entierro del Carnaval (11 Feb. 1883), 1–2. notes to pages 54–60 189

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

40. Presumably the Dande, in Angola. Miller, Way of Death, 10, 16. 41. La Raza Africana, ‘‘Recuerdos de la patria,’’ in Figueroa, Carnaval (1878), 46. 42. These inversions are very similar to those in ‘‘Canto al Africa,’’ written the year before by the Afro-Argentine poet Casildo Gervasio Thompson. Lewis, Afro-Argentine Discourse, 51–73. 43. See, e.g., Esclavos de Guinea, ‘‘Brindis,’’ El Carnaval de 1884 (23 Feb. 1884), 1; and Nación Bayombe, ‘‘Brindis,’’ El Carnaval de 1884 (24 Feb. 1884), 1. 44. Quotation from ‘‘Cabos sueltos,’’ El Entierro del Carnaval (11 Feb. 1883), 1. Figures from ‘‘El Carnaval de 1882,’’ El Ferro-carril (17 Feb. 1882), 3; ‘‘Mas sobre el Carnaval,’’ El Ferro-carril (23 Feb. 1887), 1; Alfaro, Carnaval y modernización, 219. 45. ‘‘Sundries,’’ Montevideo Times (16 Feb. 1893), 1. 46. Quoted in Alfaro, Carnaval y modernización, 153. 47. ‘‘El Carnaval,’’ El Siglo (26 Feb. 1905), 1; ‘‘The Carnival,’’ Montevideo Times (9 Mar. 1905), 1. See also a Caras y Caretas cartoon showing two Carnival maskers, one dressed as a ragged beggar and the other as an African drummer. ‘‘Seeing these two maskers / Dressed up for the ball / You know you can be certain / Of having seen them all.’’ ‘‘Nuestro Carnaval,’’ Caras y Caretas (8 Feb. 1891), 244. 48. ‘‘El Carnaval,’’ El Siglo (26 Feb. 1905), 1. The comparsas had started agitating for the special competition in 1903. See various articles, all titled ‘‘Carnaval,’’ El Siglo (18, 20, 21 Feb. 1903), 1. 49. ‘‘Carnival,’’ Montevideo Times (3 Mar. 1911), 1–2; ‘‘Competition Frustrated,’’ Montevideo Times (10 Mar. 1916), 5. 50. Alfaro, Carnaval y modernización, 112; ‘‘Carnival,’’ Montevideo Times (8 Feb. 1894), 1. 51. Rial, ‘‘Situación de la vivienda’’; Rodríguez Díaz, Los sectores populares, 1:32–38. 52. For songs employing these themes, see the collections of Carnival broadsheets housed in the BN-ME and BN-SU. 53. In the United States as well, ‘‘blackface performers became ‘negroes’ in the playbills, daily newspapers, and song sheets that registered their careers.’’ Lott, Love and Theft, 97. 54. On the Nyanzas, see ‘‘El carnaval,’’ Rojo y Blanco (24 Feb. 1901), 230; ‘‘Palermo ya no tiene carnavales,’’ Mundo Uruguayo (6 Mar. 1941), 4–5, 83; and González Samudio, Carnaval del Uruguay, 10:3. 55. ‘‘Con el tamboril en la sangre,’’ special supplement of El País (19 Mar. 1976), 5. 56. See the photo of the Pobres Negros Orientales in La Semana (2 Mar. 1912); see also ‘‘Noticias,’’ La Propaganda (28 Jan. 1894), 3; and La Verdad (25 Feb. 1912). 57. See their photos in ‘‘Preparativos del Carnaval,’’ Mundo Uruguayo (26 Feb. 1919); La Semana (2 Mar. 1912); and ‘‘De como el pueblo preparó el Carnaval,’’ Mundo Uruguayo (26 Feb. 1925). 58. Photos of these groups are not of su≈cient quality to distinguish between Afro-Uruguayan and blackface (white) members. See La Verdad (25 Feb.

190 notes to pages 60–64

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

59. 60. 61.

62.

63. 64. 65.

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

66.

67.

68. 69.

70. 71.

1912); and, in the following issues of Mundo Uruguayo: ‘‘Carnaval’’ (19 Feb. 1920); ‘‘Carnaval 1921’’ (10 Feb. 1921); ‘‘La conmemoración del Carnaval’’ (2 Mar. 1922); ‘‘Algunas de las comparsas y murgas’’ (18 Feb. 1926); and ‘‘Ecos del Carnaval’’ (17 Mar. 1927). For a very clear photo of an unidentified integrated comparsa, see Alfaro, Memorias de la bacanal, 40. ‘‘Tango,’’ Sociedad Guerreros de las Selvas Africanas (1916), carpeta 3, Carnaval, 1916, BN-ME. ‘‘Tango,’’ Sociedad Congos Humildes (1912), carpeta 2, Carnaval, 1911–1912, BN-ME. One of my interviewees described present-day candombe as ‘‘a rhythm that won’t let you sit still.’’ Interview, Waldemar ‘‘Cachila’’ Silva, 29 Sept. 2001. On the concept of ‘‘hot’’ rhythm closely tied to blackness, see Wade, Blackness and Race Mixture, 247–49; and Radano, Lying Up a Nation, 234–38. ‘‘Tango,’’ Sociedad Pobres Negros Hacheros, (1928), carpeta 43, Carnaval, 1928, BN-ME. On ‘‘breaking,’’ a hip movement common to all Africanbased national rhythms, see Chasteen, National Rhythms, 17–21. ‘‘Tango,’’ Sociedad Lanceros del Plata (1924), carpeta 21, Carnaval, 1923–24, BN-ME. On the mama vieja, see Carvalho-Neto, El Carnaval, 16. The musicologist Gustavo Goldman dates the first appearance of the mama vieja to around 1900, saying he has found no evidence of any earlier appearances. Interview, 29 June 2004. On males dancing the part of the mama vieja, see the male names (usually two or three) listed as ‘‘negras’’ in the broadsheets put out by the comparsas. See the representation of this figure by the artist and activist Rubén Galloza in his mural, Afro-Uruguay, a wall-size depiction of Afro-Uruguayan history. At the center of the mural, a black woman dressed in white nurses a white baby. The mural can be seen at the headquarters of the ACSUN or on the covers of Lewis, Afro-Uruguayan Literature; and Chagas et al., Culturas afrouruguayas. Also on the mama vieja, see the classic song, ‘‘Milongón de la mama vieja,’’ composed by Eduardo da Luz for the 1981 Carnival. Outerelo Souto et al., Carnaval, 1:67–68. On the African tías, see Rómulo Rossi, Recuerdos y crónicas, 4:26–27; and Merino, El negro en la sociedad, 86–87. Throughout colonial and nineteenthcentury Latin America, these women were ‘‘essential to the running of a household.’’ Socolow, The Women of Colonial Latin America, 132. On the similar figure of the Black Mother in Brazil, see Seigel, Uneven Encounters, 206–34. ‘‘Un candombe,’’ Rojo y Blanco (18 Nov. 1900), 565. Italian-surnamed negras included Lorenzo Rossi (Guerreros de las Selvas Africanas), Constante Fedulo (Pobres Negros Hacheros and Lanceros del Plata), W. Carusso (Lanceros del Plata), and others. ‘‘Vals,’’ Esclavos de Nyanza (1923), carpeta 19, Carnaval, 1923, BN-ME. ‘‘Marcha,’’ Sociedad Esclavos de Nyanza (1916), carpeta 3, Carnaval, 1916, BN-ME. See also ‘‘Himno,’’ Sociedad Esclavos de Nyanza (1919), carpeta 10, Carnaval, BN-ME; and the Libertadores de Africa’s 1923 o√ering: ‘‘Afri-

notes to pages 64–68 191

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

72. 73.

74. 75.

76. 77.

78.

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

79. 80. 81. 82. 83. 84. 85. 86. 87.

88.

89. 90. 91. 92.

cans, arise! / Pain cannot be our eternal state. / No one can wield the lance or the lyre / Unless he is the master of his own fate.’’ González Samudio, Carnaval, 10:4. Puppo, ‘‘En Carnaval,’’ 171. ‘‘Carnival,’’ Montevideo Times (10 Mar. 1903), 1. Also in the Montevideo Times, see ‘‘News of the Day’’ (12 Feb. 1891), 1; ‘‘Burial of Carnival’’ (21 Feb. 1893), 1; ‘‘Carnival’’ (8 Feb. 1894), 1; ‘‘The Burial of Carnival’’ (6 Mar. 1900), 1; and ‘‘Combative Comparsas’’ (10 Mar. 1908), 1. For photos of two comparsas at a police station, having been arrested for fighting, see ‘‘El Carnaval,’’ Rojo y Blanco (24 Feb. 1901), 228–32. Alfaro, Carnaval y modernización, 152; ‘‘Zig-Zag,’’ Caras y Caretas (28 Feb. 1892), 250; see also Plácido, Carnaval, 133–36. Quotation from ‘‘Acción que se impone,’’ Mundo Uruguayo (17 Feb. 1921), n.p. In the same publication, see also ‘‘Ha terminado el Carnaval’’ (5 Mar. 1925), n.p.; ‘‘Carnaval’’ (18 Feb. 1926), n.p.; and ‘‘Antes y ahora’’ (28 Feb. 1929), n.p. ‘‘La triste historia de una mascarita entusiasmada,’’ Mundo Uruguayo (7 Mar. 1919), n.p. ‘‘Se viene el Carnaval,’’ Mundo Uruguayo (3 Feb. 1921), n.p. This article was reprinted, under the same title, in the issue of 17 Feb. 1927. See also a hilarious cartoon in which members of the national legislature are portrayed as a blackface comparsa, the Parlamentarios. ‘‘En vísperas del Carnaval,’’ Mundo Uruguayo (23 Feb. 1922), n.p. Alvarez Daguerre, Glorias del Barrio Palermo, 53, see also 38; and interview, Pedro Ocampo, 4 Sept. 2001. ‘‘Sundries,’’ Montevideo Times (2 Feb. 1902), 1; ‘‘Decadent Carnival,’’ Montevideo Times (13 Feb. 1902), 1. Alvarez Daguerre, Glorias del Barrio Palermo, 45. ‘‘Carnival,’’ Montevideo Times (8 Feb. 1913), 1. ‘‘El Carnaval que pasó,’’ Mundo Uruguayo (22 Feb. 1923), n.p. Percovich, ‘‘El Carnaval,’’ 59; Carvalho-Neto, El Carnaval, 136. Alfaro, Memorias de la bacanal, 84. Percovich, ‘‘El carnaval,’’ 60. On murgas, see Carvalho-Neto, El Carnaval, 44–66; González Samudio, Carnaval, vols. 5–7; and Remedi, Carnival Theater. On the troupes and their musical repertoire, see Fornaro and Sztern, Música popular, 4–61. On the impacts of U.S. jazz and other Afro-Atlantic musical and cultural forms on Paris, see Stovall, Paris Noir; Blake, Le Tumulte Noir; and Archer-Straw, Negrophilia. On Baker, see Rose, Jazz Cleopatra; and Jules-Rosette, Josephine Baker. On her impact on the Montevideo Carnival, see Outerelo Souto et al., Carnaval, 3:13. Fornaro and Sztern, Música popular, 89, 93. González Samudio, Carnaval del Uruguay, 4:4. Fornaro and Sztern, Música popular, 35. See, e.g., as performed by the following troupes: ‘‘Provocadora morena,’’ Contigo Morena (1930); ‘‘La tiznada’’ and ‘‘Bullanguera,’’ Centenario (1930); 192 notes to pages 69–74

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

93.

94.

95.

96.

97.

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

98.

99. 100.

101.

102.

103.

‘‘Labios de miel,’’ Carcajada de Momo (1933); ‘‘Amor, amor,’’ Oxford (1933); ‘‘Mulatinha do sertão,’’ Olímpica (1927); ‘‘Buscando a mi negra,’’ Farándula de Antaño (1942); and others. Or see the cover of ‘‘Troupe 1930’’ (1930), which is a cartoon of a well-dressed older white man, in top hat and carrying a cane, following an attractive black woman down the street. These and other Carnival broadsheets cited below are in the BN-SU. See also Fornaro and Sztern, Música popular, 27, 28. On similar song lyrics (i.e., lyrics fetishizing black women) in Brazil, see Abreu, ‘‘Mulatas, Crioulas, and Morenas’’; and in Cuba, see Kutzinski, Sugar’s Secrets, 163–98. ‘‘Black Melody,’’ Troupe Oxford (1931), BN-SU. See also the Troupe Black Bottom, which took its name from a popular African American dance of the 1910s and 1920s. ‘‘Murga ‘La Jazz-Band’ ’’ (1931), BN-SU. On the arrival of North American jazz in neighboring Argentina and Brazil at this time, see Pujol, Jazz al sur, 17–70; and Seigel, Uneven Encounters, 95–135. On Jolson’s role in inspiring these groups, see Ramón Collazo, 10; 50 años de DAECPU, 89; and Alfaro, Memorias de la bacanal, 82. On humoristas and parodistas, see Outerelo Souto et al., Carnaval, vol. 2; and Carvalho-Neto, El Carnaval, 66–76. See photos of these dances in ‘‘Baile de los negros,’’ El País (18 Mar. 1950), 3; ‘‘Fiesta tradicional en Fray Bentos el baile ‘de los negros,’ ’’ Mundo Uruguayo (8 Mar. 1951), 25; and at the Hotel Carrasco in Montevideo, El Diario (17 Feb. 1956), 1. ‘‘El Carnaval se ha refugiado en los barrios,’’ La Mañana (13 Mar. 1935), 2; ‘‘Los tablados premiados,’’ Mundo Uruguayo (28 Mar. 1935), 45; photographic archive, SODRE. ‘‘Esta noche y mañana se realizarán gran número de fiestas bailables,’’ El Día (3 Mar. 1945), 7; author’s collection. Hugo Arturaola, former director of the Esclavos de Nyanza, remembers women dancing in the comparsas in the 1940s. Interview, 23 Oct. 2001. 50 años de DAECPU, 135. Recordings of Miscelánea Negra’s 1946 Carnival show are strongly reminiscent of 1940s Hollywood versions of Cuban rumba. The performances are very polished, featuring a lead male singer backed by a well-rehearsed male chorus, all singing over a strong rumba beat. CD 56, Archivo Sonoro Lauro Ayestarán, Museo Romántico. For similar recordings by the Lanceros del Congo (1948) and Añoranzas Negras (1957), see (or hear) CD 64, CD 103. In a 2001 interview, the vedette Tina Ferreira tried to construct such a connection, telling me that the comparsas were based on African tribes, of which the vedette was the princess. Interview, Tina Ferreira, 11 Dec. 2001. Some observers have argued that the vedette was inspired by the scantily dressed dancers in Brazil’s (or more specifically, Rio de Janeiro’s) Carnival. It is probably true that these Brazilian dancers were one of the sources for the vedette; but these dancers were themselves strongly influenced by the model of the French showgirl. ‘‘Negra Johnson,’’ La República (4 June 1996), 38; ‘‘Adiós Negra Johnson,’’ La República de las Mujeres (9 June 1996), 10. notes to pages 74–79 193

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

104. ‘‘Marta Gularte, la Reina Negra, bailó ayer para Xavier Cugat,’’ La Tribuna Popular (10 Mar. 1950). 105. See chap. 3. 106. ‘‘Las piernas de Abbe son preciosas,’’ El País (8 Mar. 1950), 16. See also Gularte’s poem, ‘‘Recordando mi primer reinado de Carnaval de 1950,’’ recalling her triumph that year. ‘‘They were all shouting my name / They learned it right away / Onward, Martha, they called, / You’re the queen of Carnival, / We don’t want queens from far away.’’ Gularte Bautista, Con el alma, 34. See also her memories of that night, recorded in Gularte, El barquero del Río Jordán, 44–45. 107. ‘‘Marta Gularte, la Reina Negra’’; see also ‘‘La sangre africana desenreda en su cintura la danza negra,’’ Acción (6 Mar. 1950). 108. See, e.g., the famous vedette Rosa Luna, for whom ‘‘candombe has no choreography, one just feels it and that’s it. . . . I had the fire in my blood, which made my movements innate and my smile sincere.’’ Luna and Abirad, Rosa Luna, 18, 31; see also Pierri, Una mujer, 19. Or Lola Acosta: ‘‘For me candombe is everything. I hear it and something comes into me; I start to dance and I go crazy. Really it’s everything.’’ ‘‘La dicen la sucesora de Rosa Luna,’’ La República (26 Jan. 1997), 11. See Jules-Rosette’s insight that attributing her ‘‘savage dance’’ to subconscious instincts enabled Josephine Baker to ‘‘abdicate conscious responsibility for the creation of her racialized image.’’ Jules-Rosette, Josephine Baker, 61. 109. Among the white vedettes who emerged after 1980 were Katy Gularte and Florencia Gularte, the daughter and great-niece, respectively, of Martha Gularte. 110. Interview, Hugo Arturaola, 23 Oct. 2001; ‘‘De tantos años,’’ El País de los Domingos (8 Mar. 1998), 3. Lima concluded that ‘‘that bringing in the white dancers,’’ some of whom were professionally trained, ‘‘has added a lot. . . . Inserted into the comparsa, they bring the choreography needed to improve the whole show.’’ 111. Interview, Martha Gularte, 23 Nov. 2001; interview, Lágrima Ríos, 28 Nov. 2001; interview, Amanda Rorra, 19 Oct. 2001. Singer Ester Fernández recalls her mother’s reaction when the young Ester announced (in the 1970s) that she wanted to join a comparsa. ‘‘A huge fight broke out [and my mother said], ‘I don’t want my daughters in comparsas.’ She threw me out of the house. Sadly, I had to wait until after my mother died before I could take part in Carnival.’’ ‘‘El sagrado llamado del tambor,’’ La República (27 Oct. 1996), 11. 112. The vedette Tina Ferreira, for example, described her dancing as a way to show love and a√ection to the public while receiving love and a√ection back from them in return. She also claimed credit for being the first vedette to dance in high-heeled boots and a tiny, two-piece outfit, innovations that she said made it easier to move in the street. ‘‘I was very criticized for that, but now everyone does it that way.’’ Her family, she reports, does not like her dancing but ‘‘respects’’ her decision to do it. Her boyfriend also does not like it. Interview, 11 Dec. 2001. 113. Interview, Martha Gularte, 23 Nov. 2001. 194 notes to pages 79–82

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

114. Interview, Margarita Méndez, 11 Dec. 2001; interview, Jorginho Gularte, 28 Nov. 2001. The historian Marysa Navarro once told me that her mother, a Spanish immigrant to Uruguay, was a huge fan of Gularte. 115. ‘‘Interesante exponente de cinematografía nacional,’’ El País (26 Feb. 1945), 5. 116. ‘‘¡Carnaval de los negros, bienvenido seas!’’ Mundo Uruguayo (26 Feb. 1953), 36.

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Chapter 3 1. ‘‘Vino a Montevideo la maestra de color,’’ La Tribuna Popular (29 May 1956), 2. See also ‘‘Ayer llegó a Montevideo Adelia Silva,’’ La Mañana (29 May 1956), 3. ‘‘Llegó la maestra artiguense y nos dijo que no aceptaron su color en la escuela,’’ El País (29 May 1956), 6. 2. ‘‘Una maestra negra ha sido obligada a renunciar,’’ La Mañana (22 May 1956), 1; ‘‘Adelia Silva, desde su retiro en Artigas, nos relata como fue tratada aquí, en Montevideo,’’ La Mañana (28 May 1956), 3. After interviewing Sosa, a reporter concluded that ‘‘she speaks Spanish perfectly, with a pronunciation that many teachers born in Montevideo would be happy to have.’’ ‘‘Llegó la maestra artiguense y nos dijo que no aceptaron su color en la escuela,’’ El País (29 May 1956), 6. 3. Andrews, Afro-Latin America, 178. 4. On the case, see Carvalho-Neto, Estudios afros, 208–16. 5. See the photo of her reading ‘‘the many messages of solidarity arriving from all corners of the Republic.’’ ‘‘El retorno a la paz hogareña y el contacto humano y cordial con los habitantes de su pueblo sostienen la esperanza de la maestra negra,’’ El País (26 May 1956), 3; ‘‘Prosiguen los pronunciamentos favorables a la actitud de la maestra Adelia Silva de Sosa,’’ La Mañana (30 May 1956), 3. 6. See, e.g., ‘‘Aclara Primaria ante el problema planteado con la maestra, Sra. de Sosa,’’ La Tribuna Popular (24 May 1956), 3; ‘‘Vino a Montevideo la maestra de color,’’ La Tribuna Popular (29 May 1956), 2; ‘‘La situación de la maestra Sra. Adelia Silva de Sosa, aclara la Inspección Departamental,’’ and ‘‘Acerca de un presunto caso de discriminación racial,’’ El Día (24 May 1956), 9; ‘‘Enseñanza primaria,’’ El Día (25 May 1956), 8; and ‘‘Enseñanza primaria,’’ El Día (27 May 1956), 10. 7. ‘‘El Consejo de Primaria interviene en el problema de la maestra negra,’’ La Mañana (23 May 1956), 3; ‘‘¿Discriminaciones raciales en nuestro magisterio?’’ La Mañana (22 May 1956), 4. 8. ‘‘¿Discriminación racial?’’ El País (25 May 1956), 5. 9. ‘‘El caso de la maestra de Artigas debe investigarse exhaustivamente,’’ El País (24 May 1956), 4, 2. 10. ‘‘¿Conflicto racial?’’ El País (27 May 1956), 5. 11. ‘‘Se aplicaron sanciones en el caso denunciado por la maestra Adelia Silva,’’ La Mañana (31 July 1957), 3; ‘‘El Consejo dió razón a la maestra que denunció discriminación racial en 1956,’’ El País (31 July 1957), 4. Several years later Sosa, still living in Artigas, earned her high school teaching certificate; she notes to pages 83–88 195

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17.

18. 19. 20. 21.

22. 23.

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

24.

25.

26.

27. 28. 29.

30.

died in 2004 at the age of eighty-nine. Personal communication, Karla Chagas, 23 Aug. 2009. ‘‘Podrá continuar sus estudios de becaria la Maestra Silva de Sosa,’’ La Tribuna Popular (26 May 1956), 7. On ACSU’s role in the case, see ‘‘El debate sobre el problema del negro,’’ La Mañana (11 June 1956), 3. On economic growth and state policy during those years, see Nahum et al., Crisis política y recuperación, 123–45. Ibid., 161. On Uruguayan education over the course of the 1900s, see Marrero, ‘‘La herencia de nuestro pasado.’’ ‘‘El problema racial,’’ Revista Uruguay (July 1945), 3–4. In Revista Uruguay, see ‘‘La Revista Uruguay y los niños’’ (May 1945), 3; ‘‘Orientación cultural’’ (June 1945), 2, 4; ‘‘Comienzan las clases’’ (Mar. 1947), 3; and ‘‘Jóvenes que triunfan en las aulas’’ (Dec. 1947), 6. Also on parents taking their children out of school, see ‘‘Negligencia condenable,’’ Nuestra Raza (Jan. 1934), 11. ‘‘Notas y comentarios,’’ Revista Uruguay (Apr. 1945), 5–6. ‘‘De un consejo a la realidad,’’ Nuestra Raza (30 Mar. 1939), 10. ‘‘La terminación del año escolar,’’ La Vanguardia (30 Nov. 1928), 1. ‘‘Prejuicio racial,’’ Bahia-Hulan-Yack (Sept. 1964), 47–48. Arellaga did not refer to his race in the article, and it is unclear whether he was black or white. Interview, Pedro Ocampo, 4 Sept. 2001. Interview, Margarita Méndez, 11 Dec. 2001; see also her interview in Porzecanski and Santos, Historias de exclusión, 62. ‘‘Cuarenta años en la pintura y en defensa de lo folklórico,’’ La Mañana (day and month unknown, 1993); Porzecanski and Santos, Historias de exclusión, 109. Galloza was not paranoid. A survey of some seven hundred Montevidean high school students in the 1950s found that 61 percent felt that their parents would oppose their inviting a black person to their birthday party. Carvalho-Neto, Estudios afros, 215–19. Interview, Martha Gularte, 23 Nov. 2001; Pierri, Una mujer, 127. See also ‘‘La tía solidaria,’’ Mundo Afro (21 Sept. 1997), 4–5; and ‘‘La primera reina de las Llamadas,’’ La República (23 Feb. 1997), 11. The figure of five graduates comes from Pereda Valdés, El negro en el Uruguay, 190; see Rodríguez Arraga’s comments in ‘‘Nuevo médico,’’ Nuestra Raza (25 May 1935), 2. ‘‘La mujer moderna,’’ Nuestra Raza (Oct. 1933), 4–5. ‘‘El problema racial,’’ Revista Uruguay (July 1945), 3–4. The World Cup of 1950 was the first such event since 1938, the tournaments of 1942 and 1946 having been canceled because of the war. On the importance of football in Uruguayan life, and those four world championships, see Galeano, El fútbol a sol y sombra. Gutiérrez Cortinas, ‘‘Los negros en el fútbol,’’ 233; Galeano, El fútbol a sol y sombra, 42. The two black players were Juan Delgado and Isabelino Gradín. On Gradín, see Blixen, Isabelino Gradín; and López Reboledo, ‘‘Isabelino Gradín.’’ 196 notes to pages 88–92

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

31. On Andrade, see Morales, Andrade; and Chagas, Gloria y tormento. On Varela, see Mancuso, Obdulio; and Pippo, Obdulio. 32. ‘‘Reflexiones,’’ Nuestra Raza (Feb. 1934), 3–4; ‘‘Semillas: Sobre cultura física,’’ Nuestra Raza (23 Dec. 1934), 7; ‘‘Nuestra raza y los deportes,’’ Nuestra Raza (24 Aug. 1935), 17–18. 33. ‘‘Comité de ayuda a la viuda de I. Gradín,’’ Nuestra Raza (Apr. 1945), 12; ‘‘Comité pro-ayuda a la viuda e hijos de Isabelino Gradín,’’ Rumbo Cierto (Apr. 1945), 3. 34. Or see the case of Próspero Silva, who retired from football in 1998. Three years later, he was working in his wife’s vegetable stand because ‘‘having spent my whole life in football, I don’t know how to do anything else. . . . If I could go back and do my life over again, I would study, I would make the time to do both [study and play football].’’ ‘‘Con permiso para jugar,’’ El País de los Domingos (2 Sept. 2001), 7. 35. Quotations from ‘‘Desde el mirador,’’ Nuestra Raza (23 Sept. 1934), 3. For stories, poems, and articles on workers, see ‘‘La Nochebuena de Jorge’’ and ‘‘Nochebuena’’ (23 Dec. 1934); ‘‘Del dolor proletario’’ (25 May 1935), 5; ‘‘Del natural’’ (30 May 1938), 9; ‘‘Cuatro poemas para recitar en las esquinas’’ (29 Feb. 1940); ‘‘Teobaldo obrero negro’’ (30 June 1942); etc. 36. On those migrants, see da Luz, ‘‘Uruguay,’’ 337–39. 37. INE, Encuesta continua, 12; Diagnóstico, 31. 38. Diagnóstico, 33. 39. ‘‘Gremio que se organiza,’’ Nuestra Raza (30 May 1940), 3; ‘‘Nuestras obreras se movilizan,’’ Nuestra Raza (30 Aug. 1940), 8–9. 40. Alicia Behrens, ‘‘¿Cuál es la situación de los negros en el Uruguay?’’ Marcha (4 May 1956), 10; Alicia Behrens, ‘‘La discriminación racial en el Uruguay,’’ Marcha (15 June 1956), 9. 41. Same sources as in previous note. 42. Nahum, Manual, 2:160, 178, 218. 43. Porzecanski and Santos, Historias de exclusión, 105; Graceras et al., ‘‘Informe preliminar,’’ 18. This helps explain why the black lawyer Francisco Rondeau felt so ‘‘deeply pained’’ by his failure to obtain state employment; see chap. 1. 44. Porzecanski and Santos, Historias de exclusión, 105. 45. ‘‘Analfabetismo y semi-analfabetismo,’’ Nuestra Raza (30 June 1940), 2–3. 46. See, e.g., ‘‘El señor Ignacio Maurente,’’ La Propaganda (18 Nov. 1894), 2; ‘‘Ascenso merecido,’’ La Propaganda (30 Sept. 1911); ‘‘Notas sociales,’’ La Verdad (15 Sept. 1912), 4; and ‘‘Merecido ascenso,’’ Nuestra Raza (22 Mar. 1936), 5. 47. ‘‘Insistiendo,’’ La Vanguardia (15 July 1928), 3; ‘‘Insistiendo,’’ La Vanguardia (30 Oct. 1928), 1. 48. ‘‘La ‘linea de color’ sigue imperando,’’ Nuestra Raza (30 Nov. 1939), 11. 49. ‘‘Recuerdos oportunos,’’ Revista Uruguay (Aug. 1945), 15. 50. ‘‘La discriminación racial en el Uruguay,’’ Marcha (15 June 1956), 9. On the police chief Juan Carlos Gómez Folle’s opposition to having black men on the force, see ‘‘Cambiantes . . . que tienen su origin,’’ Nuestra Raza (Dec. 1945), 3; and ‘‘Sobre un reportaje,’’ Nuestra Raza (Mar. 1947), 6–7. notes to pages 92–96 197

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

51. The ‘‘new Negro’’ took his name from the 1925 collection of essays edited by the African American philosopher and literary theorist Alain Locke, The New Negro. On the use of that term and concept in other countries, see Butler, Freedoms Given, 67–87; Rosalie Schwartz, ‘‘Cuba’s Roaring Twenties’’; Guridy, Forging Diaspora, chap. 3; Edwards, The Practice of Diaspora; and Cunard, Negro Anthology. 52. Nahum, Manual, 2:31, 224. 53. Of eleven elderly Afro-Uruguayans profiled in a recent collection of oral history interviews, six were born in Montevideo, one in the neighboring department of Canelones, and four in the inland departments of Cerro Largo, Durazno, and Tacuarembó. Porzecanski and Santos, Historias de exclusion. On black migration to Montevideo, see da Luz, ‘‘Uruguay,’’ 337– 39. 54. ‘‘El esfuerzo y la voluntad triunfan,’’ Nuestra Raza (24 Nov. 1935), 1–4; ‘‘Bienvenidos hermanos de la raza’’ and ‘‘Conjunto artístico,’’ Acción (16 Oct. 1935), 1. In the same issue of Acción, see the photo of the Comité de Damas Melenses, 5. 55. On these currents in other countries, see Dewitte, Les mouvements nègres; de la Fuente, A Nation for All, 210–43; Robinson, Black Marxism; and Kelley, Hammer and Hoe. The estimate of one-third to one-half of Afro-Uruguayans living in Montevideo is based on the national household survey of 2006, which showed 41 percent of all Afro-Uruguayans living in the national capital and an additional 13 percent in the neighboring department of Canelones. Bucheli and Cabela, Perfil demográfico, 57. 56. ‘‘De nuevo en la brecha,’’ La Vanguardia (15 Jan. 1928), 1. 57. ‘‘Insistiendo,’’ La Vanguardia (15 July 1928); see also ‘‘Prejuicios de raza,’’ La Vanguardia (15 Mar. 1928), 1; and ‘‘Insistiendo,’’ La Vanguardia (30 Oct. 1928), 1. 58. La Regeneración (1884–85) and La Propaganda (1893–94, 1911–12) had reported extensively on black social clubs and civic organizations in Buenos Aires. But the social and cultural similarities between the two cities were so great, and the distance between them so small, that the contacts between them were international only in the most formal sense. 59. ‘‘Panamericanismo de pega,’’ La Vanguardia (30 Jan. 1928), 1; ‘‘El 13 de mayo,’’ La Vanguardia (15 May 1928), 1; ‘‘Apuntes de mi cartera,’’ La Vanguardia (30 Aug. 1928), 2; ‘‘Hacia el triunfo definitivo de nuestra raza,’’ La Vanguardia (15 Nov. 1928), 1; ‘‘Bolivia Paraguay,’’ La Vanguardia (15 Dec. 1928), 1; ‘‘Abajo la guerra,’’ La Vanguardia (31 Dec. 1928), 1. The paper got Congressman De Priest’s name wrong, calling him Oscar Aldemar; but it is clear from the article that they were referring to De Priest, who was elected in Chicago in 1928. 60. ‘‘A los suscriptores,’’ La Vanguardia (15 Mar. 1929), 1. 61. Quotation from ‘‘Nuestras miras,’’ Nuestra Raza (10 Mar. 1917), 1. For Barrios’s poetry, see Barrios, Piel negra. 62. Lorenzo Ventura Barrios, 18. 63. On the members of Nuestra Raza’s editorial board, see ‘‘Los redactores de ‘Nuestra Raza,’ ’’ Nuestra Raza (Jan. 1934), 8. Bottaro had been the editor of 198 notes to pages 96–99

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

64. 65.

66. 67.

68.

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

69.

70. 71. 72.

73. 74. 75.

La Propaganda, Suárez Peña and Gares had written for La Verdad, and Gares and Betervide had edited La Vanguardia. I am grateful to Hugo Achugar for suggesting this comparison. On ‘‘whitening’’ and the eventual reaction against it, see Andrews, AfroLatin America, 117–24, 153–73. On Pereda Valdés’s work, see Carvalho-Neto, La obra afro-uruguaya. For some of his major titles, see Raza negra; Antología de la poesía negra; Negros esclavos; and El negro en el Uruguay. For an interview with him at the end of his long career, see ‘‘Ildefonso Pereda Valdés,’’ Mundo Afro (Aug. 1988), 34–36. On those circuits, see Robinson, Black Marxism; Edwards, The Practice of Diaspora; Seigel, Uneven Encounters; and Guridy, Forging Diaspora. The paper’s first issue carried an article by V. (probably Ventura Barrios) on the Scottsboro case; subsequent issues carried frequent reports on the case. In Nuestra Raza, see ‘‘Scottsboro: La lucha de razas’’ (Aug. 1933), 2–3; ‘‘Adhieren los gráficos’’ (May 1934), 2; ‘‘El Comité Scottsboro’’ (May 1934), 15; ‘‘Del proceso Scotsboro [sic]’’ (June 1934), 6; and others. The Scottsboro Boys were nine young African Americans accused of raping two white women in Alabama in 1931. The U.S. Communist Party took up their defense and helped lead an international campaign against the young men’s wrongful conviction. See Carter, Scottsboro; and Goodman, Stories of Scottsboro. For the Cabral and Bottaro essays, see Cunard, Negro Anthology, 518–22. For an essay in the same volume by Pereda Valdés, on Brazil, see 514–17. ‘‘Ni clases, ni razas, ni color,’’ Nuestra Raza (24 Aug. 1935), 8–9; see also ‘‘Un año más,’’ Nuestra Raza (Aug. 1945), 1. For examples, see ‘‘La Nochebuena de Jorge’’ and ‘‘Nochebuena,’’ Nuestra Raza (23 Dec. 1934), 5–6; ‘‘Del dolor proletario,’’ Nuestra Raza (25 May 1935), 5; ‘‘Del natural,’’ Nuestra Raza (30 May 1938), 9; ‘‘Nuestros hijos,’’ Nuestra Raza (30 June 1938), 5; ‘‘Cuatro poemas para recitar en las esquinas,’’ Nuestra Raza (29 Feb. 1940); ‘‘Teobaldo, obrero negro,’’ Nuestra Raza (30 June 1942), 8–9; ‘‘En pleno auge de la explotación,’’ Nuestra Raza (Jan. 1945), 2; and ‘‘1\ de mayo,’’ Nuestra Raza (Apr. 1945), 9. An article written in 1936, in the depths of the Depression, focused specifically on ‘‘the population of white factory workers’’ living in the neighborhood of the Cerro, ‘‘who live among the rocks and with tin cans and kerosene containers as their roof.’’ The paper called for food banks and public works programs in support of these workers and others. ‘‘El dolor de pasar la vida,’’ Nuestra Raza (25 Jan. 1936), 9. Lorenzo Ventura Barrios, 54. On the Terra dictatorship, see Jacob, El Uruguay de Terra. ‘‘La democracia y la raza negra,’’ Nuestra Raza (May 1934), 5; ‘‘La ultima hoja,’’ Nuestra Raza (23 Dec. 1934), 1. ‘‘¡Hermanos negros del Uruguay!’’ Nuestra Raza (30 Jan. 1938), 2; ‘‘La Esperanza encarcelada,’’ Nuestra Raza (Mar. 1945), 10–11; ‘‘Prestes fue reintegrado al pueblo,’’ Nuestra Raza (Apr. 1945), 6–7. ‘‘Il lavoro dei fascismo,’’ Nuestra Raza (24 Nov. 1935), cover. ‘‘Abisinia: Punto neurálgico de la hora,’’ Nuestra Raza (26 Sept. 1935), 5. ‘‘¡Por la defensa de Abisinia!’’ Nuestra Raza (24 Nov. 1935), 8. notes to pages 99–101 199

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

76. ‘‘Enormes masas acompañan al pueblo negro en su lucha por su liberación,’’ Nuestra Raza (25 Jan. 1936), 4. 77. ‘‘Algo mas sobre Abisinia,’’ Nuestra Raza (22 June 1935), 3. 78. On race in the United States, see the following articles from Nuestra Raza: ‘‘Crímenes de lesa-humanidad’’ (Jan. 1934), 4–5; ‘‘Supervivencia de la esclavitud’’ (22 June 1935), 4; ‘‘El lynchamiento’’ (22 June 1935), 8; ‘‘Otra vez Scottsboro’’ (22 Mar. 1936), 2–3; ‘‘Casos de barbarie’’ (30 Jan. 1938), 9–10; ‘‘La población de la raza negra en los EE.UU.’’ (30 Apr. 1938), 3–4; ‘‘La ‘linea de color’ no ha sido rota’’ (30 Mar. 1939), 2; ‘‘La cultura del negro yanqui’’ (30 June 1940), 10–12; ‘‘Un general negro en Estados Unidos’’ (25 Dec. 1940), 8; ‘‘La barriada negra de Harlem’’ (30 Apr. 1942), 6–8; and ‘‘Angustias y traiciones en las esperanzas negras’’ (June 1946), 5–6. 79. ‘‘La población de la raza negra en los EE.UU.’’ (30 Apr. 1938), 3–4. The paper adopted a similar line on Brazil, where ‘‘there is a working class that, conscious of its historical worth and its importance as a class, puts itself at the head of the people. In short, there are whites, blacks, and mulattoes who aspire to a better life, these last guided by the star of Sambi [Zumbi] of Palmares,’’ the seventeenth-century monarch of the quilombo of Palmares. ‘‘Haciendo confusionismo,’’ Nuestra Raza (Sept. 1946), 7–8. On cross-racial working-class solidarity, see also ‘‘Lo que no muere,’’ Nuestra Raza (28 Feb. 1939), 1. 80. On the personal and political relationship between Guillén and Hughes, see Ellis, ‘‘Nicolás Guillén and Langston Hughes’’; and Guridy, Forging Diaspora, chap. 3. 81. Lewis, Afro-Uruguayan Literature, 47–77; Britos Serrat, Antología de poetas negros. 82. See the following articles from Nuestra Raza: ‘‘Recibimos y publicamos’’ (26 Jan. 1935), 2; Guillén’s ‘‘España’’ (30 Jan. 1938), 5; Hughes’s ‘‘A New Song,’’ translated as ‘‘Un nuevo cantar’’ (30 Mar. 1939), 7; ‘‘Poetas negros y poetas de España’’ (30 Apr. 1938), 5; ‘‘Poetas negros y poetas de España’’ (30 May 1938), 2–4; ‘‘Nicolás Guillén, mirado desde lejos’’ (30 June 1939), 4; ‘‘Langston Hughes, vocero de la esperanza negra’’ (30 June 1940), 6–8; ‘‘F. García Lorca, el poeta fusilado, y Nicolás Guillén’’ (Sept. 1946), 8–9; and ‘‘Libros’’ (May 1947), 6–7. 83. On Guillén’s visit to Montevideo, see Augier, Nicolás Guillén, 291–99; Nuestra Raza’s issues of January–May 1947; and ‘‘Nicolás Guillén en el Uruguay,’’ Mundo Afro (June 1990), 21–22. 84. On those e√orts, eventually unsuccessful, see de la Fuente, A Nation for All, 231–47. 85. ‘‘Hacia una confederación de sociedades negras,’’ Nuestra Raza (Apr. 1947), 3–4. 86. ‘‘¡Crimen!’’ Nuestra Raza (Feb. 1948), 3. On Guillén’s departure from Montevideo, see ‘‘CIAPEN tributó cálido homenaje al poeta Nicolás Guillén,’’ Nuestra Raza (June 1947), 3–4. 87. Bolles, ‘‘Ellen Irene Diggs.’’ 88. On her Argentine research, see Diggs, ‘‘Negro in the Viceroyalty.’’

200 notes to pages 101–2

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

89. ‘‘Gran recepción en la A. Cultural y Social Uruguay,’’ Revista Uruguay (Aug. 1946), 13; ‘‘Sala de candombe,’’ Revista Uruguay (Sept.–Oct. 1946), 5. 90. ‘‘Al margen de una apreciación,’’ Nuestra Raza (Jan. 1947), 5–6; ‘‘Sobre un reportaje,’’ Nuestra Raza (Mar. 1947), 6–7; ‘‘Una expresión franca y sincera de la Dra. Ellen I. Diggs,’’ Revista Uruguay (Mar. 1947), 9; see also ‘‘Miss Irene Diggs habla para nuestras lectoras,’’ Revista Uruguay (Dec. 1946), 5. 91. ‘‘Al margen de una apreciación,’’ Nuestra Raza (Jan. 1947), 5–6. For more positive responses to Diggs’ comments, see ‘‘El negro y su problema’’ and ‘‘Una expresión franca y sincera de la Dra. Ellen I. Diggs,’’ Revista Uruguay (Mar. 1947), 5, 9. 92. For similar disappointment among African-American intellectuals studying black movements in Brazil forty to fifty years later, see Hanchard, Orpheus and Power; and Twine, Racism in a Racial Democracy. 93. As the party’s founding manifesto acknowledged, it was an ‘‘initiative of the magazine Nuestra Raza.’’ ‘‘La iniciativa de NUESTRA RAZA,’’ Nuestra Raza (26 June 1936), 5–6. Its first president was Salvador Betervide, the former editor of La Vanguardia and a regular contributor (under the pseudonym El del Paletó) to Nuestra Raza. Following Betervide’s death (of tuberculosis) in 1936, he was succeeded as president by Mario Méndez, the paper’s photographer and illustrator. Pilar and Ventura Barrios, Isabelino Gares, and Elemo Cabral were also founding members, as was Pilar Barrios’s wife, Maruja Pereira. On the PAN, see Gascue, ‘‘Partido Autóctono Negro’’; and Rodríguez, Mbundo malungo, 129–43. 94. ‘‘La iniciativa de NUESTRA RAZA,’’ Nuestra Raza (26 June 1936), 5–6. 95. On the PIC, see Fernández Robaina, El negro en Cuba, 46–109; Helg, Our Rightful Share, 141–226; de la Fuente, A Nation for All, 66–91; Scott, Degrees of Freedom, 224–52. On the FNB, Fernandes, A integração do negro, 2:7–115; Butler, Freedoms Given, 113–28; and Barbosa, Frente Negra Brasileira. 96. Those candidates were Mario Méndez, Carmelo Gentile, Pilar Barrios, Rufino Silva González, Juan Carlos Martínez, Rolando Olivera, Victoriano Rivero, Cándido Guimaraes, Sandalio del Puerto, and Roberto Sosa. See the cover of Nuestra Raza (25 Mar. 1938). 97. Quotations from Porzecanski and Santos, Historias de exclusión, 60; Gascue, ‘‘Partido Autóctono Negro,’’ 20. 98. Nuestra Raza (25 Mar. 1938), 3. 99. Fabregat, Elecciones uruguayas, 1:272. Similarly disastrous was the performance of the Partido Independiente Democrático Femenino, founded in 1933 as a feminist alternative to the Colorado and Blanco parties. The PIDF received 122 votes in the 1938 elections and dissolved shortly thereafter. Lavrin, Women, Feminism, and Social Change, 345–49. 100. ‘‘Analfabetismo y semi-analfabetismo,’’ Nuestra Raza (30 June 1940), 2–3. 101. ‘‘Racismo en el Club ‘Cuerpo de Bomberos,’ ’’ Revista Uruguay (Apr. 1947), 8; ‘‘Racismo en el Club ‘Cuerpo de Bomberos,’ ’’ Revista Uruguay (May 1947), 6. 102. ‘‘Insistiendo,’’ La Vanguardia (30 Oct. 1928), 1; ‘‘El prejuicio de razas no existe, pero . . . ,’’ Rumbos (Feb. 1940), 3; ‘‘Dos casos inauditos de de-

notes to pages 102–5 201

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

103. 104.

105.

106. 107. 108.

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

109.

110.

111. 112.

113. 114. 115.

scriminación [sic] racial,’’ Revista Uruguay (Oct. 1948), 6–7; ‘‘Situación económica de la raza negra en el Uruguay,’’ Nuestra Raza (30 Apr. 1938), 9; ‘‘La ‘linea de color’ sigue imperando,’’ Nuestra Raza (30 Nov. 1939), 11; ‘‘Barbarie,’’ Nuestra Raza (29 Feb. 1940), 3–4; ‘‘Una gran honra para los negros,’’ Nuestra Raza (Feb. 1945), 11; ‘‘¿Existen o no, prejucios raciales?’’ Nuestra Raza (Sept. 1945), 3. Porzecanski and Santos, Historias de exclusión, 109–10. See its annual publication, Ansina: Manuel Antonio Ledesma (1939–42). Ansina was the Afro-Uruguayan servant and loyal companion of the independence leader José Gervasio Artigas. Famously declaring that he would follow Artigas to the ends of the Earth, Ansina accompanied the defeated general into exile in Paraguay and remained with him until Artigas’s death in 1850. In 1939 Ansina’s remains were repatriated from Paraguay and interred next to Artigas’s in the National Pantheon. During the first half of the 1900s black organizations frequently invoked him as a model of black loyalty and service to Uruguay; especially in the smaller regional cities, a number of black social clubs were named after him. Later in the century, activists sought to recast him as a more independent, autonomous figure and as an early Afro-Uruguayan poet and intellectual. See Equipo Interdisciplinario, Ansina me llaman. Founding members included César Techera, Pilar and Ventura Barrios, Alberto Noé Méndez, the poet Virginia Brindis de Salas, the composer and bandleader Pedro Ferreira, and others. ‘‘CIAPEN: Nueva entidad de la raza negra,’’ Revista Uruguay (Apr. 1946), 12. ‘‘La juventud de pie,’’ Revista Uruguay (June 1948), 5. See the regular ‘‘Panorama informativo’’ in Revista Uruguay. The only Afro-Uruguayan club with a longer trajectory than that of ACSU is the Centro Uruguay, founded in the city of Melo in 1923 and still in existence. See its newspaper Acción (1934–35, 1944–45). In this sense ACSU was quite similar to middle-class black social clubs in Cuba and Brazil; see de la Fuente, A Nation for All, 168–71, 232–38, 244–48, 281–84; and Andrews, Blacks and Whites, 141–43, 213–16. ‘‘Ideales sin rumbos,’’ Revista Uruguay (June 1945), 6; ‘‘Recuerdos oportunos,’’ Revista Uruguay (Aug. 1945), 15; ‘‘Notas y comentarios,’’ Revista Uruguay (June 1945), 8–9. ‘‘Unificación de la juventud, objetivo de URUGUAY,’’ Revista Uruguay (Oct. 1948), 6. Quotations from ‘‘¡Hay que reprimirse!’’ Revista Uruguay (Aug. 1945), 10; and ‘‘Bailes sociales . . . esclavistas,’’ Revista Uruguay (Nov. 1947), 5. See also invocations of the need to maintain ‘‘the respect, honor, and morality of everything related to the collectivity of color.’’ ‘‘Hay que pagar,’’ Revista Uruguay (Mar. 1946), 6. See chap. 1. ‘‘La sociedad resurge con el prestigio de hace treinta años,’’ Revista Uruguay (Sept. 1945), 5–7. ‘‘ ‘Songoro cosongo’ en la noche montevideana,’’ Mundo Uruguayo (6 Sept. 1945), 4–5, 62. 202 notes to pages 105–9

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

116. ‘‘Res non verba,’’ Revista Uruguay (Oct. 1945), 3. 117. ‘‘ ‘Songoro Cosongo’ en la noche,’’ and ‘‘¿Songoro Cosongo?’’ Nuestra Raza (Sept. 1945), 6–7. 118. ‘‘¿Cuál es la situación de los negros en el Uruguay?’’ Marcha (4 May 1956), 10. 119. See n. 101, and, ‘‘Notas y comentarios,’’ Revista Uruguay (Apr. 1945), 5–6; ‘‘Comentarios raciales,’’ Revista Uruguay (Mar. 1947), 4; ‘‘Siguen las estampas ejemplares,’’ Revista Uruguay (June 1947), 6; and ‘‘Dos casos inauditos de descriminación [sic] racial,’’ Revista Uruguay (Oct. 1948), 6–7. 120. Carvalho-Neto, Estudios afros, 230–33. 121. A study of the group’s membership in 1956 found that, of its 244 members, 58 percent were female, and 53 percent were in their twenties. CarvalhoNeto, Estudios afros, 198–99. 122. See, e.g., the role of the Comisión de Señoritas in putting on the Carnival dances of 1945. ‘‘Homenaje al Cuerpo de Redacción y colaboradores de la Revista Uruguay’’ and ‘‘Páginas femeninas,’’ Revista Uruguay (Mar. 1945). 123. Interviews, Amanda Rorra, 19 Oct. 2001; Rubén Galloza, 3 Sept. 2001. 124. ‘‘El debate sobre el problema del negro,’’ La Mañana (11 June 1956), 3; ‘‘Acerca de un presunto caso de discriminación racial,’’ El Día (24 May 1956), 9. 125. Interview, Rubén Galloza, 3 Sept. 2001. 126. ‘‘ ‘El Retiro’ del Parque Rodó será sede del candombe y el arte negro,’’ Acción (7 Feb. 1968).

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Chapter 4 1. Strikingly, this was the same proportion of the city—about 10 percent—that came to see the African nations one hundred years before, in the 1850s and 1860s. The census of 1963 set Montevideo’s population at 1.2 million. Nahum, Manual, 2:224. 2. ‘‘Cobró inusitada animación el desfile de anoche realizado en el ‘Barrio Sur,’ ’’ El País (28 Feb. 1956), 4. 3. Ibid. 4. ‘‘Pleamar del Carnaval en el barrio Palermo,’’ Mundo Uruguayo (8 Mar. 1956), 36; see also ‘‘Ruidoso éxito popular tuvo el concurso de Llamadas de anoche,’’ El Diario (28 Feb. 1956), 1. 5. Olivera Chirimini and Varese, Los candombes de Reyes, 80–81. For recordings of that night, which make clear the tremendous excitement both of the crowd and of the radio announcers covering the event, see CD 90, Archivo Sonoro Lauro Ayestarán, Museo Romántico. 6. Raphael, ‘‘Samba and Social Control’’; McCann, Hello, Hello Brazil, 59–60; Moore, Nationalizing Blackness, 80–84; Grandin, Blood of Guatemala, 194– 96; de la Cadena, Indigenous Mestizos, 152–76; Guss, The Festive State, 20. 7. Guss, The Festive State, 13–14. See also García Canclini: ‘‘It is rare that a ritual alludes openly to the conflicts among ethnic groups, classes, and other groups. The history of all societies shows rites to be devices for neutralizing heterogeneity and reproducing order and social di√erences in an authoritarian manner.’’ García Canclini, Hybrid Cultures, 134. notes to pages 109–14 203

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

8. See chap. 2. 9. On the origins of the parade, see Olivera Chirimini and Varese, Los candombes de Reyes, 205–8. 10. The o≈cial municipal history of Carnival shows Fantasía Negra taking first prize that year and Morenada second. Outerelo Souto et al., Carnaval, 1:77; Olivera Chirimini and Varese, Los candombes de Reyes, 209. However, Olivera Chirimini remembers the two groups sharing first prize (Los candombes de Reyes, 81), and that memory is confirmed by ‘‘Morenada y Fantasía Negra se impusieron en ‘las Llamadas,’ ’’ El País (29 Feb. 1956), 6. 11. Carvalho-Neto, El Carnaval, 173–74. 12. A sampling of Ferreira’s music is available on Bantú recuerda. 13. Outerelo et al., Carnaval, 1:77–81. Carnival titles were (and are) based on groups’ stage performances at the Teatro del Verano, while Llamadas titles are based on performances in the Llamadas parade. 14. Ibid., 81. For a fascinating article on Morenada’s founding in 1953, see ‘‘Mientras repican los tamboriles en sordina, se anima el vasto movimiento del Carnaval cercano,’’ Mundo Uruguayo (5 Feb. 1953), 4–6. While Fantasía Negra disbanded in the 1970s, Morenada continues to function, though considerably slowed by the age of its founders and original members. Wellington Silva died in 1997, Juan Angel Silva in 2003. 15. Interview, José de Lima, 12 Oct. 2001; ‘‘De tantos años,’’ El País de los Domingos (8 Mar. 1998), 3; ‘‘¡A lonja y madera!, José, que la ‘Marabunta’ pide cancha,’’ El País (21 Feb. 1993), 18. 16. Carvalho-Neto, El Carnaval, 37; interviews, José de Lima, 12 Oct. 2001; Waldemar Silva, 29 Sept. 2001, 26 Nov. 2001. 17. This was the case, for example, with Pedro Ferreira (d. 1980). Interview, Pedrito Ferreira, 3 Dec. 2001. Gloria Pérez Bravo, La Negra Johnson, was unable to support herself during her final years and was forced to move in with friends. ‘‘Negra Johnson,’’ La República (4 June 1996), 38; ‘‘Adiós Negra Johnson,’’ La República de las Mujeres (9 June 1996), 10. See also the case of the dancer Carlos ‘‘Pirulo’’ Albín. ‘‘Y la antorcha se va,’’ El Mercado (5 Feb. 1989), 2–3; ‘‘Adiós al maestro Carlos Abín [sic] ‘Pirulo,’ ’’ La República (5 July 1995), 34. 18. ‘‘Fernando Lobo Núñez propone no solo candombe,’’ Mundo Afro (Aug. 1988), 8–9. See also ‘‘Las Llamadas: Los números fríos y el tambor caliente,’’ Mundo Afro (Aug. 1988), 20–22. For similar complaints concerning the Rio Carnaval, see Sheri√, ‘‘The Theft of Carnaval’’; and Rodrigues, Samba negro. 19. Interview, Fernando ‘‘Lobo’’ Núñez, 24 Oct. 2001. 20. See, e.g., Martha Gularte, who after a long and successful career as a vedette owned her own house and lived in modest comfort. Interviews, Martha Gularte, 23 Nov. 2001, 28 Nov. 2001. Or the vedette Tina Ferreira, who was able to parlay her Carnival appearances into a career as a TV journalist. Interview, Tina Ferreira, 11 Dec. 2001. But such cases are rare. 21. Interview, José de Lima, 12 Oct. 2001. Lima’s depiction of the comparsas’ financial arrangements was seconded by other directors: see interviews with Benjamín Arrascaeta, 9 Oct. 2001; Hugo Arturaola, 23 Oct. 2001; 204 notes to pages 114–19

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

22.

23.

24.

25. 26. 27.

28.

29.

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

30.

31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38.

Waldemar Silva, 29 Sept. 2001, 26 Nov. 2001; Pilar Alsina and Roberto Righi, 9 Nov. 2001; and Alfonso Pintos, 26 Nov. 2001. In 2001 Julio Sosa dissolved his long-standing comparsa Kanela y su Barakutanga and formed a new group, Tronar de Tambores. His motive for doing so, according to some informants, was to escape the debts incurred by the earlier group. As I was interviewing one director, Cachila Silva of C 1080, we were interrupted by a group of Down’s syndrome children who had been brought to his house to hear candombe drumming. ‘‘You see?’’ he said to me. ‘‘When they want tambores and candombe, they come to me. How can I not do this?’’ Interview, 27 Oct. 2001. Successful comparsas are often invited to perform in Argentina and other countries; the C 1080 comparsa performed in Washington, D.C., in 2004 and was the subject of the documentary Cachila (dir. Sebastián Bednarik, 2009). On this point see the comment later in this chapter by one of the participants in the Mundo Afro comparsa that ‘‘Carnival is the only time when blacks are in charge.’’ Plácido, Carnaval, 157. Interview, Juan Velorio, 6 Oct. 2001. Luna and Abirad, Rosa Luna, 95, 97; ‘‘Las amarguras quedaron en la vía de Nico Pérez,’’ El Observador (17 Jan. 1999), 6; ‘‘En busca del quinquenio,’’ El País de los Domingos (3 Feb. 2002), 1–2. Interview, Fernando ‘‘Lobo’’ Núñez, 24 Oct. 2001. I encountered this sentiment frequently in my interviews. See Rubén Galloza, 3 Sept. 2001; Beatriz Ramírez, 21 Nov. 2001; Amanda Rorra, 19 Oct. 2001; etc. See also Martínez, La historia del Carnaval, 2; and ‘‘Dolores y dólares de Momo,’’ La República (25 Jan. 1990), 33. ‘‘¡Pobre dios Momo! Te han privatizado y luego te hicieron burgués,’’ Martes (23–28 Feb. 2000), 23. Momus is the Greek god of satire and mockery and represents the spirit of Carnival. ‘‘Carnival,’’ Montevideo Times (23 Feb. 1912), 1. Also in the Montevideo Times, see ‘‘The Carnival’’ (25 Feb. 1909), 1; ‘‘Carnival’’ (8 Feb. 1913), 1; and ‘‘The Carnival’’ (9 Mar. 1916), 1. See also ‘‘Antes y ahora,’’ Mundo Uruguayo (28 Feb. 1929), n.p.; and ‘‘Corso a contramano,’’ Montevideo: Ciudad Abierta 9 (May 1999), 23–26. ‘‘Mientras repican los tamboriles en sordina, se anima el vasto movimiento del Carnaval cercano,’’ Mundo Uruguayo (5 Feb. 1953), 4–6. Carvalho-Neto, El Carnaval, 172. ‘‘Cobró inusitada animación el desfile de anoche realizado en el ‘Barrio Sur,’ ’’ El País (28 Feb. 1956), 4. ‘‘Cosas de blancos,’’ Marcha (11 Feb. 1966), 28. See newsreel footage at the Cinemateca Uruguaya archives; or the 1966 documentary Llamadas (dir., Mario Handler). Interview, Milita Alfaro, 10 Oct. 2001; Enríquez, Momo encadenado; Remedi, Carnival Theater, 56–84. Interviews, Pedrito Ferreira, 3 Dec. 2001; Miguel García, 29 Oct. 2001. On the desalojos (dispossessions) of the 1970s, see Benton, ‘‘Reshaping the notes to pages 119–24 205

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45.

46. 47. 48.

49.

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

50. 51.

52.

Urban Core’’; Ferreira, Los tambores del candombe, 77–79; Cardoso, ‘‘El desalojo’’; and Boronat et al., Síntesis simbólica, 27–37. ‘‘Sueño de lonja y tambor cerquita del mar,’’ La República (11 Feb. 1989), 7–8. ‘‘Una comparsa que busca reflejar la realidad social,’’ La República (9 Oct. 1988), 11. Interview, Waldemar Silva, 29 Sept. 2001. Former residents of the Gaboto conventillo in the Cordón also formed a new comparsa in 1988, Sarabanda. Interview, Fernando ‘‘Lobo’’ Núñez, 24 Oct. 2001. Interview, Rubén Galloza, 23 Oct. 2001. Aharonián, ‘‘¿Pero qué es un candombe?’’ Interview, Waldemar Silva, 29 Sept. 2001. See also comments by the Mundo Afro activist Juan Pedro Machado: ‘‘I think that whites can’t play the drums as well as blacks because it’s an instrument with which [blacks have] an especially sensitive relationship.’’ His colleague Silvia Carvallo agrees that whites have more trouble learning the drums than blacks do, ‘‘but it’s hard for me to believe that it’s impossible for them to do so. . . . What will happen when blacks realize that there are other groups of nonblacks who can play as well as they do?’’ ‘‘¿Racismo al revés?,’’ Brecha (19 Nov. 1999), 27. ‘‘El arte del tambor,’’ La República (14 Aug. 2001), 30. Interview, Fernando ‘‘Lobo’’ Núñez, 24 Oct. 2001. As Paul Gilroy has observed, ‘‘the most important lesson music still has to teach us is that its inner secrets and its ethnic rules can be taught and learned.’’ Gilroy, The Black Atlantic, 109. In addition to talking with drummers at Mundo Afro, I also took part in Sunday-morning parades (and one on New Year’s Eve: thrilling!) with the Gozadera, a majority-white comparsa in the middle-class neighborhood of Malvin, and I attended practices of Elumbé, a racially mixed group also based in Malvin. These occasions provided additional opportunities to talk to comparsa members and bystanders. Interview, Waldemar ‘‘Cachila’’ Silva, 29 Sept. 2001. Readers wishing to hear candombe drumming should begin with the following CDs: Uruguay: Tambores del candombe, vols. 1 and 2; Arrascaeta, La llamada de Charrúa; and Candombe final. Samples of drumming are also available online at [www.candombe.com] and on YouTube. For written descriptions and analyses, see Ferreira, Los tambores del candombe; and Olivera Chirimini and Varese, Memorias del tamboril, esp. 36–47. On the African musical forms from which candombe descends, see Cherno√’s insistence that ‘‘in African music there are always at least two rhythms going on.’’ Cherno√, African Rhythm, 42; original emphasis. ‘‘The use of additive rhythms in duple, triple, and hemiola patterns is the hallmark of rhythmic organization in African music, which finds its highest expression in percussion music.’’ Nketia, Music of Africa, 131. On the experience of drumming, see Ferreira, Los tambores del candombe, 90–92. See also the historian William McNeill’s comments on the similar, though less intense, experience of close-order military drill. ‘‘A sense of pervasive well-being is what I recall; more specifically, a strange sense of personal enlargement; a sort of swelling out, becoming bigger than life, 206 notes to pages 124–30

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

53. 54.

55.

56. 57. 58.

59.

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

60. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65.

thanks to participation in collective ritual. . . . Moving briskly and keeping in time was enough to make us feel good about ourselves, satisfied to be moving together, and vaguely pleased with the world at large.’’ McNeill, Keeping Together, 2. Aharonián, ‘‘La música del tamboril.’’ During a break at one of our practices I noticed that one of our piano (bass) drummers, a quiet young man who played with great intensity, had torn all the skin o√ the palm of his drumming hand and was mopping blood o√ his hands, his clothes, and his drum. ‘‘Time to head for home,’’ I observed to him. ‘‘No way,’’ he replied. ‘‘La lonja cura.’’ ‘‘[Playing] the drum will cure me.’’ One sees many drumheads permanently stained with blood; this of course is considered a badge of honor. A prime example of such community-building is the Gozadera comparsa. Founded in the Malvin neighborhood in 2000, the group has become a focal point of community activities, many of which take place at its headquarters, the recently restored Teatro Moreno, where the group regularly presents courses, lectures, musical performances, and other events connected to candombe and Afro-Uruguayan culture. Interview, Pilar Alsina and Roberto Righi, 9 Nov. 2001; [www.lagozadera.org.uy]. Interview, Néstor Silva, 28 Sept. 2001. Pellegrino et al., ‘‘De una transición a otra,’’ 25. The metaphor of Uruguay as a sinking ship is suggested by Achugar, La balsa de la medusa; for an expression of the low state of morale among Uruguayan youth in the 1990s, see the film 25 Watts (dir. Juan Pablo Rebella, 2000). See the previously cited observation by the musicologist Coriún Aharonián that in order to play the drums properly, one must be ‘‘culturally AfroMontevidean.’’ See also interviews with Benjamín Arrascaeta, 9 Oct. 2001; and Fernando ‘‘Lobo’’ Núñez, 24 Oct. 2001. My daughter Lena joined me for drumming classes at Mundo Afro but did not parade with the group. ‘‘Se inició el Concurso de Agrupaciones,’’ El País (12 Feb. 1970), 1. In a photo (not of very good quality), she appears to be white. ‘‘Grupo Nosotras: ‘Queremos tener nuestra propia voz,’ ’’ La República (28 Jan. 1989), 9; ‘‘Blancas con cultura negra,’’ Mundo Afro (24 Aug. 1997), 8. On that performance, see ‘‘Perfume de mujer,’’ El País (31 Jan. 2002). Interview with Andrea Silva and other members of La Melaza, 21 Sept. 2008; see also the group’s website, [www.lamelaza.com]. Interestingly, Melaza fields a vedette (two, in fact), and its members were visibly surprised when I asked whether there had been any debate about that within the group. No, they replied: under the rules of the Llamadas, the vedette is a required element of the comparsa, and when they decided to enter the Llamadas (in 2008), they had to accept those rules. What about her highly sexualized presentation, I asked; does that raise any problems for you? No, no, they replied, what you have to realize is that the only things sexual about her are her costume and her dance moves. ‘‘Right, I got that part,’’ I thought to myself. notes to pages 130–36 207

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

66. José María Silva, ‘‘Entre libres y opresores’’ (1989), Sarabanda, ‘‘Lubolos 1987,’’ MAHM. In the same file, see ‘‘Candombe calypso’’ and ‘‘Mandela.’’ See also interview, Alfonso Pintos, 26 Nov. 2001. 67. Frigerio, Cultura negra, 118–19. 68. Ibid., 118. 69. Carvalho-Neto, El Carnaval, 37. For an example of this attitude, see the e√orts in 1949 to re-create the Esclavos de Nyanza comparsa, which had disbanded in 1934. ‘‘We don’t want the authentic black comparsa to disappear from Carnival,’’ explained its new director, Raúl Coureau. ‘‘We want to recreate the comparsa lubola in all its old authenticity.’’ ‘‘Al chas chas de sus tamboriles los esclavos [sic] de Nyanza volverán a recorrer las calles montevideanas,’’ Mundo Uruguayo (10 Feb. 1949), 22–23. 70. Frigerio, Cultura negra, 124–25; for more extended discussion, see 110–31. 71. On major candombe composers and songwriters, see Olivera Chirimini and Varese, Memorias del tamboril, 93–100. For comparsa song lyrics from the second half of the 1900s, see Frigerio, Cultura negra, 113–24; CarvalhoNeto, El Carnaval, 41–44; Outerelo et al., Carnaval, 1:65–73; Pierri, Una mujer, 137–48; and the rich collection of Carnival materials in the ‘‘Lubolos’’ files at the MAHM. 72. For these songs, see the ‘‘Lubolos’’ file, n.d., MAHM. 73. Hugo Alberto Balle, ‘‘Hermanos a cantar,’’ ‘‘Una fantasía,’’ ‘‘Ansina,’’ ‘‘Es mi raza,’’ Calle Ancha, ‘‘Lubolos, 1978–1980,’’ MAHM. 74. Frigerio, Cultura negra, 129. This language was repeated, slightly revised, in ‘‘Dossier,’’ Instituto de Estudios Municipales (2004), Archivo de la Ciudad de Montevideo, 6. 75. Hugo Alberto Balle, ‘‘Viejo carretón,’’ Kanela y su Barakutanga, ‘‘Lubolos, 1978–1980,’’ MAHM. For other examples of this genre, see Carlos Páez Vilaró, ‘‘Feria morena’’ and ‘‘Tamborileando,’’ Morenada [1954?], ‘‘Lubolos,’’ n.d., MAHM. 76. Elbio Olivera, ‘‘Asi suena mi tambor,’’ Kanela y su Barakutanga, ‘‘Lubolos’’ [1985], MAHM. 77. Emilio López Rey, ‘‘Orizonte [sic] Azul,’’ Raíces, ‘‘Varios Lubolos 1968/ 70/81/85,’’ MAHM. Also on cross-racial harmony, see ‘‘Danza de tambores,’’ Marabunta, ‘‘Lubolos,’’ 1985, MAHM; ‘‘Alma de moreno,’’ 50 años de DAECPU, 137; and Eduardo da Luz, ‘‘La verdad de nuestra historia,’’ Marabunta (1991), in Outerelo et al., Carnaval, 1:65. 78. Gilberto Silva, ‘‘El negro llegó,’’ Balumba, ‘‘Lubolos, 1987,’’ MAHM. 79. ‘‘Noche de Llamadas,’’ La República (8 Feb. 2002), 35. 80. Interview, Rubén Galloza, 27 Dec. 2001; ‘‘La primera reina de Llamadas,’’ La República (23 Feb. 1997), 11. 81. Interview, Lilián Kechichián, 15 Nov. 2001. Candidates for the two competitions are nominated by neighborhood councils and then selected by separate municipal commissions. 82. On racially defined beauty contests in other countries, see de la Cadena, Indigenous Mestizos, 177–81; Konefal, ‘‘Subverting Authenticity’’; López, ‘‘The India Bonita Contest’’; and Andrews, Blacks and Whites, 215. 208 notes to pages 136–40

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Chapter 5 1. ‘‘Ultimo candombe en el ‘Medio Mundo,’ ’’ El Diario (2 Dec. 1978), 20; see also ‘‘Desalojan el martes a moradores del Medio Mundo; Lo convertirán en museo,’’ La Mañana (3 Dec. 1978), 20; and ‘‘Entró en agonía el Medio Mundo,’’ El País (3 Dec. 1978), 6. 2. ‘‘Cayó el telón de vieja historia,’’ La Mañana (6 Dec. 1978), 8; see also ‘‘Lágrimas y repique de tamboriles en el adiós al viejo Medio Mundo,’’ El País (4 Dec. 1978), 14. The latter article has a number of evocative photos of the 3 December party; those photos, by Héctor Devia, were exhibited at the Museo y Archivo Histórico Municipal in the early 2000s (specific date unknown). 3. ‘‘Comienza hoy el desalojo del conventillo Ansina,’’ La Mañana (17 Jan. 1979), 8. 4. See, e.g., Día Nacional del Candombe, 10; Rodríguez, Racismo y derechos humanos, 59–60; and Cardoso, ‘‘El desalojo.’’ 5. See the Devia photos referenced in n. 2; Sanjurjo Toucon, Conventillo Medio Mundo; da Luz, Los conventillos; and Carvalho-Neto, El Carnaval, 32. See also the short film Carnaval de Montevideo (dir., Juan José Gascué), on the Carnival of 1957, and set in the Ansina housing project. 6. At the time of its closing, in December 1978, residents of Medio Mundo were paying a monthly rent of US$1.50 per one-room rental unit. With forty such units, the maximum monthly income that the building could produce was US$60—except that many residents paid no rent or were many months in arrears. The owners judged the building to be in a ‘‘calamitous’’ state and estimated the necessary repairs at US$150,000. ‘‘ ‘No podemos decidir qué destino tendrá el Medio Mundo,’ afirma su propietario,’’ La Mañana (6 Dec. 1978), 8. 7. ‘‘Derrumbe en el Centro,’’ El Diario (6 Oct. 1978), 1; see also ‘‘Catastrófico derrumbe,’’ El Diario (6 Oct. 1978), 22–26; and ‘‘Muerte, dolor, heroismo: Todo un pueblo sumido en la angustia por la honda tragedia,’’ El País (7 Oct. 1978), 1, and 1–10. 8. Thirty-six percent of respondents selected the building-collapse story as the most impactante; the next runner-up received 3 percent of votes. ‘‘Muerte de Papas y derrumbe, hechos impactantes de 1978,’’ La Mañana (13 Jan. 1979), 7. 9. ‘‘Otros dos derrumbes ayer; 30 evacuados,’’ La Mañana (7 Oct. 1978), 7. 10. ‘‘Integrarán comisión para tratar problema de fincas ruinosas,’’ La Mañana (18 Nov. 1978), 1; ‘‘Están en galpones municipales los desalojados por derrumbe,’’ La Mañana (19 Nov. 1978), 18; ‘‘Se derrumbó un cielo raso y una anciana experimentó lesiones,’’ La Mañana (14 Dec. 1978), 9; ‘‘Salvados por milagro: Salieron de la cama poco antes de desplomarse techo,’’ La Mañana (8 Jan. 1979), 13; ‘‘Desalojan dos viviendas: 54 personas fueron trasladadas,’’ La Mañana (14 Feb. 1979), 5. 11. ‘‘Sicosis de derrumbes: Ayer cundió alarma en el viejo barrio Palermo,’’ La Mañana (11 Oct. 1978), 8; ‘‘Desalojarán hoy a 200 personas del Barrio Sur,’’ El País (11 Oct. 1978), 8. notes to pages 141–43 209

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

12. ‘‘Desfile de llamadas, sería este año por la Avda. 18 de Julio,’’ La Mañana (14 Feb. 1979), 6. 13. ‘‘Derrumbes: Unidad para prevención de siniestros,’’ El País (14 Dec. 1978), 10; ‘‘Controlan estado de todas las fincas de Ciudad Vieja,’’ La Mañana (5 Jan. 1979), 1; ‘‘Derrumbes: Se está realizando un relevamiento casa por casa,’’ El País (5 Jan. 1979), 7; Benton, ‘‘Reshaping the Urban Core,’’ 42. 14. No data are available either on the number of people evicted or their racial composition. Benton estimates a total of four thousand people evicted from buildings in the downtown neighborhoods. Benton, ‘‘Reshaping the Urban Core,’’ 42. 15. SERPAJ, Uruguay Nunca Más, 65–66, 78–79. On the period of the dictatorship, see Caetano and Rilla, Breve historia de la dictadura. 16. Melgar and Cancela, El desarrollo frustrado, 17, 54. Inflation subsequently fell to 21 percent in 1982 but then shot back up to 52 percent in 1983 and 66 percent in 1984. See also Finch, Economía política, 271–300. 17. Gillespie, Negotiating Democracy. 18. The building was located in the Calle Cagancha, in the Cordón neighborhood. ‘‘Asociación Cultural y Social Uruguay,’’ a scrapbook of clippings, photographs, and other memorabilia, ACSUN. 19. Interview, Fr. Pedro Frontini, 18 Dec. 2001. 20. Interview, Beatriz Ramírez, 21 Nov. 2001. 21. Interviews, Beatriz Ramírez, 21 Nov. 2001; Enrique Díaz, 23 Nov. 2001; Fr. Pedro Frontini, 18 Dec. 2001; Romero Rodríguez, 11 Feb. 2002. For a contemporary account of those struggles, see ‘‘Una raza busca sus raíces,’’ El País de los Domingos (15 Mar. 1987), 11. 22. Interview, Romero Rodríguez, 11 Feb. 2002. On the Afro-Brazilian movement of the 1970s and 1980s, see Andrews, Blacks and Whites, 188–207; Hanchard, Orpheus and Power; Telles, Race in Another America, 47–77; and Alberti and Pereira, Histórias do movimento negro. On Abdias Nascimento, see Nascimento, Abdias Nascimento. 23. Interview, Beatriz Ramírez, 21 Nov. 2001. 24. On the organization’s first ten years, see the articles in Mundo Afro; and Ferreira, El movimiento negro. 25. Interview, Fr. Pedro Frontini, 18 Dec. 2001. ACSUN was allowed to retain its headquarters, which it owns to this day. 26. Electoral data available at the Political Database of the Americas, Georgetown University, [http://pdba.georgetown.edu/Elecdata/Uru/uruguay.html]. 27. On the Frente Amplio administrations of Montevideo, see Winn and Ferro-Clérico, ‘‘Can a Leftist Government Make a Di√erence?’’; Goldfrank, ‘‘The Fragile Flower’’; and IMM, Montevideo. 28. ‘‘Generando espacio,’’ Mundo Afro (25 Jan. 1998), 3. 29. Other groups in existence during those years included the Centro Cultural Afro-Uruguayo, ACSUN, Asociación de Arte y Cultura Afrouruguaya, Universitarios Afros, Centro Cultural por la Paz y la Integración, Africanía, and others. Rodríguez, Mbundo Malungo, 228–35. 30. Ibid., 190. 31. Carvalho-Neto, Estudios afros, 208. 210 notes to pages 143–49

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37.

38. 39.

40. 41.

42.

43. 44.

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

45.

46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51.

52. 53.

Merino, El negro en la sociedad, 60. Carvalho-Neto, Estudios afros, 215–25. Graceras et al., ‘‘Informe preliminar,’’ 22–26. Merino, El negro en la sociedad, 61. INE, Encuesta continua, 1, 5, 8, 15. On the campaign by black organizations in Brazil in the 1970s to restore racial data to that country’s censuses and national household surveys, see Nobles, Shades of Citizenship, 116–19. ‘‘Semino: ‘Si van a Montevideo no van a encontrar muchos negros,’ ’’ Sietedías (2 Sept. 1999), 13. ‘‘Concluding Observations.’’ The recommendation of special programs for Afro-Uruguayan women was probably in response to a report prepared by Mundo Afro’s Grupo de Apoyo a la Mujer Afro-Uruguaya, Diagnóstico. ‘‘Documento Uruguay.’’ Law 17.817, ‘‘Lucha contra el racismo, la xenofobia y la discriminación,’’ available at [http://www.parlamento.gub.uy/leyes/AccesoTextoLey.asp ?Ley=17817&Anchor=]. ‘‘Lucha contra el racismo se institucionaliza en Uruguay,’’ La República (31 July 2005); ‘‘Somos pobres porque somos negros,’’ El País (10 Mar. 2008). As of 2009, the head of the Secretariat for Afro-Descendent Women was Beatriz Ramírez, a long-time activist and one of the original founders of Mundo Afro. Similar units have been proposed for the Ministries of Health and Labor, and for the national prison system. On the weakness of similar black advisory groups in Brazil, see Hanchard, Orpheus and Power, 133–37. ‘‘Conflictos en el Barrio Sur: Ni negros ni blancos, marginados o integrados,’’ Brecha (30 Apr. 1998), 11–13. Interviews, Beatriz Ramírez, 21 Nov. 2001; Romero Rodríguez, 11 Feb. 2002. Rodríguez described the struggles over the project as probably the most di≈cult issue he had faced during his (at that time) fourteen years as head of Mundo Afro. Interview, Romero Rodríguez, 11 Feb. 2002; Rodríguez, Racismo y derechos humanos, 21–46; Ferreira, El movimiento negro, 66. ‘‘Sanguinetti y Arana destacaron el emprendimiento creativo de Mundo Afro,’’ El País (10 Oct. 1998). ‘‘Preocupación de Batlle, Sanguinetti y Mercader,’’ El País (15 Dec. 2002). ‘‘Discriminación en Uruguay,’’ El País (11 Oct. 1998). ‘‘Rompiendo mitos: Encuesta sobre percepción de exclusión social y discriminación,’’ Montevideo en la Mano 13 (Aug. 2007). For examples of cross-national comparisons of racial inequality using statistical data, see Andrews, ‘‘Racial Inequality’’; Telles, Race in Another America, 106–10, 114–16, 130–32, 175–79, 201–5; and Ferreira, ‘‘Desigualdades raciais.’’ On inequality in Latin America, see de Ferranti et al., Inequality in Latin America; and Ho√man and Centeno, ‘‘The Lopsided Continent.’’ De la Fuente, A Nation for All, 307–29; Sawyer, Racial Politics, 102–53. Racial data from the Cuban census of 2002 have not been released in any detail; notes to pages 149–57 211

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

54.

55.

56. 57. 58.

59.

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

60.

see the government report on the census at [www.cubagob.cu/otraseinfo/ censo]. Andrews, ‘‘Racial Inequality’’; Telles, Race in Another America, esp. 107–10; Casaús Arzú, Diagnóstico del racismo. Beginning in the late 1990s, Brazil undertook several social spending programs that between 2004 and 2006 were combined into the Bolsa Família program. Those initiatives have had significant impacts on reducing some aspects of class and racial inequality in Brazil (see, e.g., tables 5.3 and 5.5 and n. 55), but those reductions are quite recent and had not yet taken e√ect in 2000. On Bolsa Família, see Fenwick, ‘‘Avoiding Governors’’; and Paixão and Carvano, Relatório anual, 126–31. By 2003 racial di√erentials had fallen to less than two years in Brazil. Median years of education at that time were 7.3 for whites, 5.6 for pretos, and 5.4 for pardos. IBGE, Síntese de indicadores sociais 2004, 326. INE, Encuesta continua, 5; Telles, Race in Another America, 130. INE, Encuesta continua, 15; Shicasho, Desigualdade racial, table 8.3. Bucheli and Cabela, Perfil demográfico, 49; Paixão and Carvano, Relatório anual, 121. Uruguayan poverty rates cited here are higher than those in table 5.1, and than Brazilian rates, because Uruguay sets its o≈cial poverty threshold much higher than Brazil and other Latin American countries. The poverty figures reported in table 5.1 are based on the percentage of the population living on a family income of less than US$2 per day. Discrimination increased in Brazil as a whole between 1960 and 1980. Lovell and Wood, ‘‘Skin Color, Racial Identity,’’ 100–103. In the state of São Paulo specifically, discrimination appears to have remained constant for Afro-Brazilian men between 1960 and 2000, while increasing (and at higher levels than for men) for Afro-Brazilian women. Lovell, ‘‘Race, Gender, and Work.’’ Also on discrimination, see Telles, Race in Another America, 139–72. Bucheli and Porzecanski, ‘‘Desigualdad salarial,’’ 139–40. Bucheli and Porzecanski did not push on to analyze the role of gender discrimination in producing salary di√erentials. In São Paulo, Lovell found gender discrimination to have even greater e√ects than racial discrimination in producing salary inequality; the combined e√ects of racial and gender discrimination on Afro-Brazilian women were devastating. Lovell, ‘‘Race, Gender, and Work.’’ Data from Uruguay suggest similar conclusions. Special tabulations from the household survey of 1996, prepared for the author by INE, showed that in every occupational category except for service, and in both racial groups (white and black), the average education of female workers exceeded that of men. Yet female earnings consistently lagged behind male earnings; indeed, in every occupational category, black men earned more than white women, despite having significantly lower levels of education. Salary data from 2006, disaggregated by age (but not economic sector) showed white women earning slightly more than black men. All three ‘‘out’’ groups—black men and black and white women—earned much less than white men. Bucheli and Cabela, Perfil demográfico, 46.

212 notes to pages 157–61

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

61. 62. 63. 64. 65. 66.

67. 68. 69.

70.

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

71. 72. 73.

74.

On everyday experiences of discrimination, see Rudolf et al., ‘‘Las vivencias de la discriminación.’’ Bucheli and Porzecanski, ‘‘Desigualdad salarial,’’ 139. Ibid., 137. On the aging of Uruguay’s population, see Pellegrino et al., ‘‘De una transición a otra,’’ 30–35. Bucheli and Cabela, Perfil demográfico, 28. On the Afro-Uruguayan child and adolescent population, see Cabella, ‘‘Panorama de la infancia.’’ For similar conclusions, see Ferreira, ‘‘Desigualdades raciais.’’ Telles, Race in Another America, 268–70; de la Fuente, A Nation for All, 322– 29, 335–39; Sawyer, Racial Politics, 102–53; see also the articles in the special issue of América Negra 15 (Bogotá, 1998), edited by de la Fuente. The title of this section is borrowed from ‘‘El diputado candombero,’’ El País (17 Feb. 2001), an extended interview with Edgardo Ortuño. Britos Serrat, Antología de poetas negros, 2:27–29; see also Montero Bustamante, El Parnaso oriental, 76–78. Sapriza, Memorias de rebeldía, 212, 223. In a 1966 interview with candombe drummers in the Gaboto conventillo, the musicologist Lauro Ayestarán asked about their experiences playing at campaign events for Roballo. The drummers confirmed that they were not paid to appear with her; rather, they did it because she was a Colorado, and the Colorados are ‘‘the party of the people.’’ CD 192, Archivo Sonoro Lauro Ayestarán, Museo Romántico. Roballo left the Colorado party in 1968 and helped found the Frente Amplio three years later. Suplentes are candidates who are too far down the party lists of nominees to be elected to full-time o≈ce but who stand in for full-time legislators when the latter are unable to attend parliamentary sessions or committee meetings. This and all subsequent references, unless credited to other sources, come from my interview with Ortuño, 4 Sept. 2008. Scuro Somma, Población afrodescendiente. On the need for unity in the black community, and the enormous di≈culties in achieving it, see ‘‘Nuestras palabras,’’ La Conservación (Aug. 1872), 1; ‘‘La unión,’’ La Regeneración (1 Feb. 1885), 1; ‘‘Agradecemos,’’ La Propaganda (24 Sept. 1893), 1; ‘‘La doctrina que debe poner en practica,’’ La Propaganda (3 Feb. 1895), 1; ‘‘Primer palabra,’’ El Eco del Porvenir (25 Aug. 1901), 1; ‘‘Sin programa ni razones,’’ La Propaganda (20 Sept. 1911), 1; ‘‘Hacia el ideal,’’ La Verdad (15 Sept. 1911), 2; ‘‘El pasado y presente,’’ La Verdad (15 Oct. 1911), 1; ‘‘¡Año nuevo!’’ La Verdad (5 Jan. 1912), 1; ‘‘Las dos tendencias,’’ La Verdad (15 Apr. 1912), 1; ‘‘Ratificando algunos conceptos,’’ Nuestra Raza (Feb. 1934), 13; ‘‘La falta de confianza es factor contrario a la unidad colectiva,’’ Nuestra Raza (30 June 1942), 1–2; ‘‘Debe existir respetuosa consideración entre las diversas entidades negras,’’ Nuestra Raza (Apr. 1945), 7– 8; ‘‘Un eterno problema irrealizable desde hace más de seis décadas,’’ Revista Uruguay (May 1945), 2; and others. Ley 18.059, in Día Nacional del Candombe, 7.

notes to pages 161–67 213

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

75. Día Nacional del Candombe, 16. 76. ‘‘Al son del borocotó chas, chas, Uruguay busca la equidad racial,’’ La República (4 Dec. 2006). 77. ‘‘La cultura afrodescendiente fue centro de preocupación en la Cámara de Diputados,’’ La República (8 Nov. 2006). 78. Día Nacional del Candombe, 19–99. 79. For the informational booklet, see Chagas et al., Culturas afrouruguayas. For the schedule of activities, see Día del Patrimonio. 80. ‘‘Pronto para salir al escenario electoral,’’ La República (4 Sept. 1994), 3. 81. On Ríos’s career and life history, see ‘‘Cincuenta años de actividad,’’ La República (4 Sept. 1994), 3; ‘‘Lágrima va a más,’’ La República de las Mujeres (16 Feb. 2002), 12–13; ‘‘Lágrima Ríos’’; and Chagas et al., Culturas afrouruguayas, 19–20. 82. On Gularte’s life, see Blezjo and Ganduglia, ‘‘Notas de historia viva’’; and Porzecanski and Santos, Historias de exclusión, 27–55. For her books of poetry, see Gularte Bautista, Con el alma; and Gularte, El barquero del Río Jordán. 83. For some of those lyrics, see Pierri, Una mujer, 137–48. 84. Luna and Abirad, Rosa Luna, 70–73; on the anti-impunity campaign, see Weschler, A Miracle, 173–236. 85. A number of those columns are reprinted in Pierri, Una mujer, 27–76. See also her article, ‘‘El apartheid uruguayo,’’ in Informes Exclusivos, Sunday supplement of El Día (8 Oct. 1989), 22. 86. Pierri, Una mujer, 114. 87. ‘‘Negras,’’ El País (7 Oct. 2007). 88. For reflections on Rosa Luna at the time of her death, see Pierri, Una mujer, 151–70, 187–92. 89. See, e.g., Wade, Race and Ethnicity, 101–5; Wade, Music, Race, and Nation, 16– 23; Stepan, ‘‘The Hour of Eugenics’’; Caulfield, In Defense of Honor; Findlay, Imposing Decency; de la Cadena, Indigenous Mestizos; Lovell, ‘‘Race, Gender, and Work’’; and Candelario, Black behind the Ears, 177–255. 90. Umbanda is a syncretic Brazilian religion incorporating elements of AfroBrazilian Candomblé (itself a syncretic rite incorporating elements of Yoruba religion and Catholicism) and Kardecian spiritism. See Diana Brown, Umbanda; and Birman, O que é umbanda. 91. Estimate of 150 temples from ‘‘Un día de flores en el mar,’’ El País (3 Feb. 2002). On the history and growth of Umbanda in Uruguay, see Pi Hugarte, ‘‘La cultura uruguaya.’’ For news of current developments concerning the religion, see the monthly publication Atabaque (1997–), [www.atabaque.com.uy].

214 notes to pages 168–73

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

bibliography Archives and Libraries

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Archivo de la Ciudad de Montevideo Archivo Fotográfico de Montevideo Archivo General de la Nación, Montevideo Asociación Cultural y Social Uruguay Negro, Montevideo Biblioteca del Poder Legislativo, Montevideo Biblioteca Nacional, Montevideo Materiales Especiales Sala Uruguay Cinemateca Uruguaya, Montevideo Organizaciones Mundo Afro, Montevideo Museo Romántico, Montevideo Museo y Archivo Histórico Municipal, Montevideo Servicio Oficial de Difusión Radio Televisión y Espectáculos, Montevideo

Interviews Conducted by Author Eduardo Acosta, Montevideo, 26 Aug. 2008 Milita Alfaro, Montevideo, 10 Oct. 2001 Pilar Alsina, Montevideo, 9 Nov. 2001 Benjamín Arrascaeta, Montevideo, 9 Oct. 2001 Hugo Arturaola, Montevideo, 23 Oct. 2001 Jorge Canepa, Montevideo, 28 Aug. 2008 Enrique Díaz, Montevideo, 23 Nov. 2001 Ricardo Durán, Montevideo, 11 Oct. 2001 Amanda Espinosa, Montevideo, 19 Oct. 2001 Luis Ferreira, Montevideo, 3 Dec. 2001 Tina Ferreira, Montevideo, 11 Dec. 2001 Pedrito Ferreira Tabárez, Montevideo, 3 Dec. 2001 Father Pedro Frontini, Montevideo, 18 Dec. 2001 Rubén Galloza, Montevideo, Sept.–Dec. 2001 Miguel García, Montevideo, 5 Feb. 2002

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Gustavo Goldman, Montevideo, 2001, 2004, 2008 Fernando Gómez Germano, Montevideo, 11 Oct. 2001 Vicente Greco, Montevideo, 2 Sept. 2008 Jorginho Gularte, Montevideo, 28 Nov. 2001 Martha Gularte (Fermina Gularte Bautista), Montevideo, 23 and 28 Nov. 2001 Lilián Kechichián, Montevideo, 15 Nov. 2001 José de Lima (Carlos Lasalvia), Montevideo, 12 Oct. 2001 Margarita Méndez, Montevideo, July–Dec. 2001 Oscar Montaño, Montevideo, 3 Dec. 2001 Fernando ‘‘Lobo’’ Núñez, Montevideo, 24 Oct. 2001 Pedro Ocampo, Montevideo, 4 Sept. 2001 Tomás Olivera Chirimini, Montevideo, 16 Oct. 2001 Diputado Edgardo Ortuño, Montevideo, 4 Sept. 2008 Alfonso Pintos, Montevideo, 26 Nov. 2001 Beatríz Ramírez, Montevideo, 21 Nov. 2001 Roberto Righi, Montevideo, 9 Nov. 2001 Lágrima Ríos (Lida Melba Benavídez Tabárez), Montevideo, 28 Nov. 2001 Romero Rodríguez, Montevideo, 11 Feb. 2002 Amanda Rorra, Montevideo, 19 Oct. 2001 Beatriz Santos Arrascaeta, Montevideo, 2 Sept. 2008 Andrea Silva and members of the Melaza comparsa, Montevideo, 14 Sept. 2008 Néstor Silva, Montevideo, 28 Sept. 2001 Waldemar ‘‘Cachila’’ Silva, Montevideo, 29 Sept. and 27 Oct. 2001 Juan Velorio (Bienvenido Martínez), Montevideo, 6 Oct. 2001

Periodicals (with Years Consulted)

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Afro-Uruguayan Press Acción (Melo, 1934–35, 1944) Ansina: Manuel Antonio Ledesma (Montevideo, 1939–42) Bahia-Hulan-Yack (Montevideo, 1958–97) La Conservación (Montevideo, 1872) El Eco del Porvenir (Montevideo, 1901) Mundo Afro (Montevideo, 1988–93, 1997–98) Nuestra Raza (San Carlos, 1917) Nuestra Raza (Montevideo, 1933–48) El Periódico (Montevideo, 1889) El Progresista (Montevideo, 1873) La Propaganda (Montevideo, 1893–95, 1911–12) La Regeneración (Montevideo, 1884–85) Revista Uruguay (Montevideo, 1945–48) Rumbo Cierto (Montevideo, 1944–45) Rumbos (Rocha, 1938–45) La Vanguardia (Montevideo, 1928–29) La Verdad (Montevideo, 1911–14)

216 bibliography

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Labor Press La Acción Obrera (Montevideo, 1907–8) El Amigo del Obrero (Montevideo, 1904–6, 1909) El Atalaya (Montevideo, 1902–9) Despertar (Montevideo, 1905–7) La Fraternidad Uruguaya (Montevideo, 1913–18) El Guerrillero (Montevideo, 1903) La Libertad (Montevideo, 1902–6) El Libre Pensamiento (Montevideo, 1905–6) Nuestra Voz (Montevideo, 1911–14) El Obrero (Montevideo, 1905) La Rebelión (Montevideo, 1902–3) El Socialista (Montevideo, 1911–12) Solidaridad (Montevideo, 1912, 1919–21, 1923) La Voz del Obrero (Montevideo, 1904)

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Mainstream Press Brecha (Montevideo, 1991–2003) Caras y Caretas (Montevideo, 1890–95) La Democracia (Montevideo, 1875) El Día (Montevideo, 1892, 1912, 1939, 1942–1945) El Diario (Montevideo, 1956, 1970, 1978–79) El Ferro-carril (Montevideo, 1874–91) La Mañana (Montevideo, 1935, 1945, 1956, 1978–79) Marcha (Montevideo, 1956–73) Montevideo Times (Montevideo, 1891–1920) Mundo Uruguayo (Montevideo, 1919–67) La Nación (Montevideo, 1885, 1892) El País (Montevideo, 1939, 1943, 1945, 1950, 1956, 1970, 1978–79, 2001–9) La Razón (Montevideo, 1912) La República (Montevideo, 2001–9) Rojo y Blanco (Montevideo, 1900–1902) La Semana (Montevideo, 1892) La Semana (Montevideo, 1910–12) El Siglo (Montevideo, 1874, 1903, 1905) La Tribuna (Montevideo, 1912) La Tribuna Popular (Montevideo, 1892, 1939, 1942, 1956)

Books, Articles, and Theses Abadie Soriano, Roberto, and Humberto Zarrilli, eds. Democracia: Libro Sexto de Lectura—Antología de prosistas y poetas uruguayos. Montevideo: Imprenta Central, 1951. Abreu, Martha. ‘‘Mulatas, Crioulas, and Morenas: Racial Hierarchy, Gender Relations, and National Identity in Postabolition Popular Song.’’ In Gender and

bibliography 217

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Slave Emancipation in the Atlantic World, edited by Pamela Scully and Diana Paton, 267–88. Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2005. Achugar, Hugo. La balsa de la medusa: Ensayos sobre identidad, cultura y fin de siglo en Uruguay. Montevideo: Trilce, 1992. Acree, William. ‘‘Jacinto Ventura de Molina: A Black Letrado in a White World of Letters, 1766–1841.’’ Latin American Research Review 44, no. 2 (2009): 37–58. Acree, William, and Alex Borucki, eds. Jacinto Ventura de Molina y los caminos de la escritura negra en el Río de la Plata. Montevideo: Linardi y Risso, 2008. Aharonián, Coriún. ‘‘La música del tamboril afrouruguayo.’’ Brecha (8 Feb. 1991), 16. ———. ‘‘¿Pero qué es un candombe?’’ Brecha (10 July 1992), 16. Alberti, Verena, and Amilcar Araujo Pereira, eds. Histórias do movimento negro no Brasil: Depoimentos ao CPDOC. Rio de Janeiro: Pallas/CPDOC-FGV, 2007. Alberto, Paulina. Black Intellectuals and the Politics of Belonging in TwentiethCentury Brazil. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, forthcoming 2011. Alfaro, Milita. El Carnaval ‘‘heroico’’ (1800–1872). Montevideo: Trilce, 1991. ———. Carnaval y modernización: Impulso y freno del disciplinamiento (1873–1904). Montevideo: Trilce, 1998. ———. Memorias de la bacanal: Vida y milagros del Carnaval montevideano, 1850– 1950. Montevideo: Banda Oriental, 2008. Alvarez Daguerre, Andrés. Glorias del Barrio Palermo. Montevideo: Talleres Gráficos Prometeo, 1949. Andrews, George Reid. The Afro-Argentines of Buenos Aires, 1800–1900. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1980. ———. Afro-Latin America, 1800–2000. New York: Oxford University Press, 2004. ———. ‘‘Afro-Latin America: Five Questions.’’ Latin American and Caribbean Ethnic Studies 4, no. 2 (2009): 191–210. ———. Blacks and Whites in São Paulo, Brazil, 1888–1988. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1991. ———. ‘‘Brazilian Racial Democracy, 1900–90: An American Counterpoint.’’ Journal of Contemporary History 31, no. 3 (1996): 483–508. ———. ‘‘Racial Inequality in Brazil and the United States: A Statistical Comparison.’’ Journal of Social History 26, no. 2 (1992): 229–63. Antola, Susana, and Cecilia Ponte. ‘‘La nación en bronce, mármol y hormigón armado.’’ In Los uruguayos del Centenario: Nación, ciudadanía, religión y educación (1910–1930), edited by Gerardo Caetano, 217–43. Montevideo: Santillana, 2000. Anuario Estadístico de la República O. del Uruguay, Años 1902 y 1903. Montevideo: Dirección General de Estadística, 1905. Araújo, Orestes. Tierra uruguaya: Descripción geográfica de la República Oriental. 2 vols. Montevideo: La Nación, 1913. Araújo Villagrán, Horacio. Estoy orgulloso de mi país. Montevideo: Sociedad Universal de Publicaciones, 1929. Archer-Straw, Petrine. Negrophilia: Avant-Garde Paris and Black Culture in the 1920s. New York: Thames and Hudson, 2000. Augier, Angel. Nicolás Guillén. Havana: Instituto Cubano del Libro, 1971. 218 bibliography

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Ayestarán, Lauro. El folklore musical uruguayo. Montevideo: Arca, 1997. Barbosa, Márcio. Frente Negra Brasileira: Depoimentos. São Paulo: Quilombhoje, 1998. Barrán, José Pedro. Amor y transgresión en Montevideo, 1919–1931. Montevideo: Banda Oriental, 2002. ———. Historia de la sensibilidad en el Uruguay. 2nd ed. Montevideo: Banda Oriental, 2008. Barrios, Pilar. Piel negra: Poesías, 1917–1947. Montevideo: Nuestra Raza, 1947. Benton, Lauren. ‘‘Reshaping the Urban Core: The Politics of Housing in Authoritarian Uruguay.’’ Latin American Research Review 21, no. 2 (1986): 33–52. Betancur, Arturo A., and Fernando Aparicio. Amos y esclavos en el Río de la Plata. Montevideo: Planeta, 2006. Betancur, Arturo A., et al., eds. Estudios sobre la cultura afro-rioplatense: Historia y presente. 3 vols. Montevideo: Facultad de Humanidades y Ciencias de la Educación, 2004, 2005, 2007. Birman, Patrícia. O que é umbanda. São Paulo: Brasiliense, 1983. Blake, Jody. Le Tumulte Noir: Modernist Art and Popular Entertainment in JazzAge Paris, 1900–1930. University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1999. Blanchard, Peter. Under the Flags of Freedom: Slave Soldiers and the Wars of Independence in Spanish South America. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2008. Blezjo, Cecilia, and Néstor Ganduglia. ‘‘Notas de historia viva.’’ In El barquero del Río Jordán: Canto a la Biblia, by Martha Gularte, 7–61. Montevideo: Aymara, 1998. Blixen, Carina. Isabelino Gradín: Testimonio de una vida. Montevideo: Caballo Perdido, 2000. Bolles, A. Lynn. ‘‘Ellen Irene Diggs: Coming of Age in Atlanta, Havana, and Baltimore.’’ In African-American Pioneers in Anthropology, edited by Ira E. Harrison and Faye V. Harrison, 154–67. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1999. Boronat, J. Yolanda, et al. Síntesis simbólica: Candombe en barrios Sur y Palermo. Montevideo: Facultad de Arquitectura, Universidad de la República, 2007. Borucki, Alex. Abolicionismo y tráfico de esclavos en Montevideo tras la fundación republicana, 1829–1853. Montevideo: Biblioteca Nacional, 2009. ———. ‘‘The Slave Trade to the Río de la Plata, 1777–1812: Trans-Imperial Networks and Atlantic Warfare.’’ Colonial Latin American Review (forthcoming 2010). Borucki, Alex, et al. Esclavitud y trabajo: Un estudio sobre los afrodescendientes en la frontera uruguaya, 1835–1855. Montevideo: Pulmón, 2004. Brandão, André Augusto, ed. Cotas raciais no Brasil: A primeira avaliação. Rio de Janeiro: DP&A, 2007. Britos Serrat, Alberto. Antología de poetas negros uruguayos. 2 vols. Montevideo: Ediciones Mundo Afro, 1990, 1996. Brown, David H. Santería Enthroned: Art, Ritual, and Innovation in an Afro-Cuban Religion. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2003. Brown, Diana DeG. Umbanda: Religion and Politics in Urban Brazil. New York: Columbia University Press, 1994. Bucheli, Marisa, and Wanda Cabela. Perfil demográfico y socioeconómico de la bibliography 219

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

población uruguaya según su ascendencia racial. Montevideo: Instituto Nacional de Estadística, 2007. Bucheli, Marisa, and Rafael Porzecanski. ‘‘Desigualdad salarial y discriminación por raza en el mercado de trabajo uruguayo.’’ In Población afrodescendiente y desigualdades étnico-raciales en Uruguay, edited by Lucía Scuro Somma, 127–43. Montevideo: Programa de las Naciones Unidas para el Desarrollo, 2008. Bulmer-Thomas, Victor. The Economic History of Latin America since Independence. 2nd ed. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003. Butler, Kim. Freedoms Given, Freedoms Won: Afro-Brazilians in Post-Abolition São Paulo and Salvador. New Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers University Press, 1998. Cabella, Wanda. ‘‘Panorama de la infancia y la adolescencia en la población afrouruguaya.’’ In Población afrodescendiente y desigualdades étnico-raciales en Uruguay, edited by Lucía Scuro Somma, 103–26. Montevideo: Programa de las Naciones Unidas para el Desarrollo, 2008. Caetano, Gerardo, ed. Los uruguayos del Centenario: Nación, ciudadanía, religión y educación (1910–1930). Montevideo: Santillana, 2000. Caetano, Gerardo, and José Rilla. Breve historia de la dictadura, 1973–1985. Montevideo: CLAEH, 1987. Candelario, Ginetta E. B. Black behind the Ears: Dominican Racial Identity from Museums to Beauty Shops. Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2007. Cardoso, Jorge Emilio. ‘‘El desalojo de la calle de los negros.’’ In Obras escogidas, by Jorge Emilio Cardoso, 7–31. Montevideo: Tradinco, 2008. Carter, Dan. Scottsboro: A Tragedy of the American South. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1979. Carvalho-Neto, Paulo de. El Carnaval de Montevideo: Folklore, historia, sociología. Seville: Facultad de Filosofía y Letras, Universidad de Sevilla, 1967. ———. Estudios afros: Brasil, Paraguay, Uruguay, Ecuador. Caracas: Universidad Central de Venezuela, 1971. ———. El negro uruguayo, hasta la abolición. Quito: Editorial Universitaria, 1965. ———. La obra afro-uruguaya de Ildefonso Pereda Valdés. Montevideo: Centro de Estudios Folklóricos del Uruguay, 1955. Casaús Arzú, Marta, ed. Diagnóstico del racismo en Guatemala: Investigación interdisciplinaria y participativa para una política integral por la convivencia y la eliminación del racismo. 6 vols. Guatemala City: Vicepresidencia de la República de Guatemala, 2007. Caulfield, Sueann. In Defense of Honor: Sexual Morality, Modernity, and Nation in Early-Twentieth-Century Brazil. Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2000. Chagas, Jorge. Gloria y tormento: La novela de José Leandro Andrade. Montevideo: Rumbo, 2007. Chagas, Karla, et al. Culturas afrouruguayas. Montevideo: Comisión del Patrimonio Cultural de la Nación, 2007. Chagas, Karla, and Natalia Stalla. Recuperando la memoria: Afrodescendientes en la frontera uruguayo-brasileña a mediados del siglo XX. Montevideo: Mastergraf, 2009. Chamosa, Oscar. ‘‘To Honor the Ashes of Their Forebears: The Rise and Crisis of African Nations in the Post-independence State of Buenos Aires, 1820–1860.’’ Americas 59, no. 3 (2003): 347–78. 220 bibliography

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Chasteen, John Charles. Heroes on Horseback: A Life and Times of the Last Gaucho Caudillos. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1995. ———. National Rhythms, African Roots: The Deep History of Latin American Popular Dance. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2004. Cherno√, John. African Rhythm and African Sensibility. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1979. 50 años de DAECPU. Montevideo: Hacha, 2002. Cirio, Norberto Pablo. Tinta negra en el gris del ayer: Los afroporteños a través de sus periódicos entre 1873 y 1882. Buenos Aires: Teseo, 2009. ‘‘Concluding Observations of the Committee on the Elimination of Racial Discrimination: Uruguay’’ (Geneva, August 1999). Available at [http://www.unh chr.ch/tbs/doc.nsf/(Symbol)/CERD.C.304.Add.78.En?OpenDocument]. Cruz, Maria Cecilia Velasco e. ‘‘Puzzling Out Slave Origins in Rio de Janeiro Port Unionism: The 1906 Strike and the Sociedade de Resistência dos Trabalhadores em Trapiche e Café.’’ Hispanic American Historical Review 86, no. 2 (2006): 205–46. Cunard, Nancy, ed. Negro Anthology Made by Nancy Cunard. London: Wishart, 1934. da Luz, Alejandrina. Los conventillos de Barrio Sur y Palermo. Montevideo: Mastergraf, 2001. ———. ‘‘Uruguay.’’ In No Longer Invisible: Afro-Latin Americans Today, edited by Minority Rights Group, 332–44. London: Minority Rights Group, 1995. de la Cadena, Marisol. Indigenous Mestizos: The Politics of Race and Culture in Cuzco, Peru, 1919–1991. Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2000. de la Fuente, Alejandro. ‘‘Myths of Racial Democracy: Cuba, 1900–1912.’’ Latin American Research Review 34, no. 3 (1999): 34–73. ———. A Nation for All: Race, Inequality, and Politics in Twentieth-Century Cuba. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2001. de María, Isidoro. Montevideo antiguo: Tradiciones y recuerdos. 2 vols. Montevideo: Imprenta Nacional, 1976. Dewitte, Philippe. Les mouvements nègres en France, 1919–1939. Paris: L’Harmattan, 1985. Día del Patrimonio. Montevideo: Comisión del Patrimonio Cultural de la Nación, 2007. Día Nacional del Candombe, la Cultura Afro-Uruguaya y la Equidad Racial. Montevideo: Ideas, 2007. Diagnóstico socioeconómico y cultural de la mujer afrouruguaya. Montevideo: Ediciones Mundo Afro, 1998. Diggs, Irene. ‘‘The Negro in the Viceroyalty of the Río de la Plata.’’ Journal of Negro History 36, no. 3 (1951): 281–301. Directoria Geral de Estatística. Sexo, raça e estado civil, nacionalidade, filiação culto e analphabetismo da população recenseada em 31 de dezembro de 1890. Rio de Janeiro: O≈cina da Estatística, 1898. ‘‘Documento Uruguay ante la III CMCR.’’ In Racismo: Consenso de labios niños, 7. Montevideo: Organizaciones Mundo Afro, 2001. Edwards, Brent Hayes. The Practice of Diaspora: Literatures, Translation, and the Rise of Black Internationalism. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2003. bibliography 221

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Ehrick, Christine. Shield of the Weak: Feminism and the State in Uruguay, 1903–1933. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2005. Ellis, Keith. ‘‘Nicolás Guillén and Langston Hughes: Convergences and Divergences.’’ In Between Race and Empire: African-Americans and Cubans before the Cuban Revolution, edited by Lisa Brock and Digna Castañeda Fuentes, 129–67. Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1998. Enríquez, Xosé de. Momo encadenado: Crónica del Carnaval en los años de la dictadura (1972–1985). Montevideo: Cruz del Sur, 2004. Equipo Interdisciplinario de Rescate de la Memoria de Ansina. Ansina me llaman y Ansina yo soy. Montevideo: Rosebud, 1996. Estatutos del Club Social 25 de Agosto. Montevideo: Imprenta Latina, 1913. Fabregat, Julio. Elecciones uruguayas: Compilación de cifras oficiales. Escrutinios y proclamaciones. Concordado con las leyes de la materia. 7 vols. Montevideo: República Oriental del Uruguay, Poder Legislativo, Cámara de Representantes, 1950. Feldwick, W., and L. T. Delaney, eds. Twentieth Century Impressions of Uruguay. London: Lloyd’s Great Britain, 1912. Fenwick, Tracy Beck. ‘‘Avoiding Governors: The Success of Bolsa Família.’’ Latin American Research Review 44, no. 1 (2009): 102–31. Fernandes, Florestan. A integração do negro na sociedade de classes. 2 vols. São Paulo: Atica, 1978. Fernández Robaina, Tomás. El negro en Cuba, 1902–1958: Apuntes para la historia de la lucha contra la discriminación racial. Havana: Ciencias Sociales, 1990. Ferranti, David de, et al. Inequality in Latin America: Breaking with History? Washington, D.C.: World Bank, 2004. Ferrara, Miriam Nicolau. A imprensa negra paulista (1915–1963). São Paulo: Universidade de São Paulo, 1986. Ferreira, Luis. ‘‘Desigualdades raciais no mercado de trabalho e políticas sociais universais: Uma comparação entre Uruguay e Brasil.’’ Pós: Revista Brasileira de Pós-Graduação em Ciências Sociais 6 (2002): 57–92. ———. El movimiento negro en Uruguay (1988–1998): Una versión posible. Montevideo: Etnicas, 2003. ———. Los tambores del candombe. Montevideo: Colihue-Sepé, 1997. Ferrer, Ada. Insurgent Cuba: Race, Nation, and Revolution, 1868–1898. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1999. Figueroa, Julio. El Carnaval: Colección de canciones de la mayor parte de las comparsas carnavalescas. Montevideo: Idea, 1876. ———. El Carnaval: Colección de canciones de la mayor parte de las comparsas carnavalescas. Montevideo: Renaud Reynaud, 1877. ———. El Carnaval: Colección de canciones de la mayor parte de las comparsas carnavalescas. Montevideo: Renaud Reynaud, 1878. Finch, Henry. Economía política del Uruguay contemporáneo, 1870–2000. Montevideo: Banda Oriental, 2005. Findlay, Eileen J. Suárez. Imposing Decency: The Politics of Sexuality and Race in Puerto Rico, 1870–1920. Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 1999. Fornaro, Marita, and Samuel Sztern. Música popular e imagen gráfica en Uruguay, 1920–1940. Montevideo: Escuela Nacional de Bellas Artes, 1997. 222 bibliography

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Frega, Ana. ‘‘La formulación de un modelo, 1890–1918.’’ In Historia del Uruguay en el siglo XX (1890–2005), by Ana Frega et al., 17–50. Montevideo: Banda Oriental, 2008. Friedemann, Nina S de. ‘‘Cabildos negros: Refugios de africanía en Colombia.’’ Caribbean Studies 23, nos. 1–2 (1990): 82–97. Frigerio, Alejandro. Cultura negra en el Cono Sur: Representaciones en conflicto. Buenos Aires: Ediciones de la Universidad Católica Argentina, 2001. Fry, Peter, et al., eds. Divisões perigosas: Políticas raciais no Brasil contemporâneo. Rio de Janeiro: Civilização Brasileira, 2007. Galeano, Eduardo. El fútbol a sol y sombra. Madrid: Siglo Veintiuno de España, 1995. Gallardo, Jorge Emilio. ‘‘Un testimonio sobre la esclavitud en Montevideo: La memoria de Lino Suárez Peña.’’ Buenos Aires: Idea Viva, n.d. García Canclini, Néstor. Hybrid Cultures: Strategies for Entering and Leaving Modernity. Trans. by Christopher Chiappari and Silvia López. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2005. Gascue, Alvaro. ‘‘Partido Autóctono Negro: Un intento de organización política de la raza negra en el Uruguay.’’ Montevideo: unpublished ms., 1980. Geler, Lea. ‘‘¿‘Otros’ argentinos? Afrodescendientes porteños y la construcción de la nación argentina entre 1873 y 1882.’’ PhD diss., Universitat de Barcelona, 2008. Gillespie, Charles. Negotiating Democracy: Politicians and Generals in Uruguay. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991. Gilroy, Paul. The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1993. Goldfrank, Benjamín. ‘‘The Fragile Flower of Local Democracy: A Case Study of Decentralization/Participation in Montevideo.’’ Politics and Society 30, no. 1 (2002): 51–83. Goldman, Gustavo. Candombe: ¡Salve Baltasar! La fiesta de Reyes en el Barrio Sur de Montevideo. Montevideo: Perro Andaluz, 2003. ———, ed. Cultura y sociedad afro-rioplatense. Montevideo: Perro Andaluz, 2008. ———. Lucamba: Herencia africana en el tango, 1870–1890. Montevideo: Perro Andaluz, 2008. ———. ¡Salve Baltasar! La fiesta de Reyes en el Barrio Sur de Montevideo. Montevideo: n.p., 1997. ———. ‘‘Tango y habanera: Los repertorios de las comparsas de negros hacia 1870.’’ El País Cultural (29 March 2002). González Bernardo de Quirós, Pilar. Civilidad y política en los orígenes de la nación argentina: Las sociabilidades en Buenos Aires, 1829–1862. Buenos Aires: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 2001. González Samudio, Artigas, ed. Carnaval del Uruguay. 10 vols. Montevideo: El Diario, 1992. Goodman, James. Stories of Scottsboro. New York: Random House, 1994. Gortázar, Alejandro. El licenciado negro: Jacinto Ventura de Molina. Montevideo: Trilce, 2007. ———. ‘‘La ‘sociedad de color’ en el papel: La Conservación y El Progresista, dos bibliography 223

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

semanarios de los afro-uruguayos.’’ Revista Iberoamericana, no. 214 (2006): 109–24. Graceras, Ulises, et al. ‘‘Informe preliminar sobre la situación de la comunidad negra en el Uruguay.’’ Montevideo: Instituto de Estudios Sociales, Universidad de la República, 1980. Grandin, Greg. The Blood of Guatemala: A History of Race and Nation. Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2000. Guimarães, Antonio Sérgio Alfredo. Racismo e anti-racismo no Brasil. São Paulo: Editora 34, 2005. Gularte, Martha. El barquero del Río Jordán: Canto a la Biblia. Montevideo: Aymara, 1998. Gularte Bautista, Martha. Con el alma y el corazón. Montevideo: n.p., 1997. Guridy, Frank Andre. Forging Diaspora: Afro-Cubans and African Americans in a World of Empire and Jim Crow. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2010. Guss, David. The Festive State: Race, Ethnicity, and Nationalism as Cultural Performance. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000. Gutiérrez Cortinas, Eduardo. ‘‘Los negros en el fútbol uruguayo.’’ 100 años de Fútbol, no. 10 (5 Feb. 1970): 219–38. Hanchard, Michael George. Orpheus and Power: The Movimento Negro in Rio de Janeiro and São Paulo, Brazil, 1945–1988. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1994. Harding, Rachel. A Refuge in Thunder: Candomblé and Alternative Spaces of Blackness. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2000. Helg, Aline. Our Rightful Share: The Afro-Cuban Struggle for Equality, 1886–1912. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1995. Herrera, Luis Alberto. El Uruguay internacional. Paris: Bernard Grasset, 1912. Ho√man, Kelly, and Miguel Centeno. ‘‘The Lopsided Continent: Inequality in Latin America.’’ Annual Review of Sociology 29 (2003): 263–90. Holland, W. J. To the River Plate and Back. New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1913. Holt, Thomas C. ‘‘Marking: Race, Race-making, and the Writing of History.’’ American Historical Review 100, no. 1 (1995): 1–20. Howard, Philip. Changing History: Afro-Cuban Cabildos in the Nineteenth Century. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1998. Hünefeldt, Christine. Paying the Price: Family and Labor among Lima’s Slaves, 1800–1854. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994. Instituto Brasileiro de Geografia e Estatística (IBGE). Censo demográfico, 1991: Mão de obra. Resultados da mostra. Rio de Janeiro: Instituto Brasileiro de Geografia e Estatística, 1996. ———. Síntese de indicadores sociais, 2004. Rio de Janeiro: Instituto Brasileiro de Geografia e Estatística, 2005. ———. Síntese de indicadores sociais, 2007. Rio de Janeiro: Instituto Brasileiro de Geografia e Estatística, 2007. Instituto Nacional de Estadística (INE). Encuesta continua de hogares: Módulo de raza. Montevideo: Instituto Nacional de Estadística, 1998. Intendencia Municipal de Montevideo (IMM). Montevideo: Entre la memoria y el desafío. Montevideo: IMM, 2004. 224 bibliography

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Isola, Ema. La esclavitud en el Uruguay desde sus comienzos hasta su extinción, 1743– 1852. Montevideo: Comisión Nacional de Homenaje del Sesquicentenario de los Hechos Históricos de 1825, 1975. Jacob, Raúl. El Uruguay de Terra, 1931–1938. Montevideo: Banda Oriental, 1983. Johnson, Lyman L. ‘‘Manumission in Colonial Buenos Aires.’’ Hispanic American Historical Review 59, no. 2 (1979): 258–79. Jules-Rosette, Bennetta. Josephine Baker in Art and Life: The Icon and the Image. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2007. Kamel, Ali. Não somos racistas: Uma reação aos que querem nos transformar numa nação bicolor. Rio de Janeiro: Nova Fronteira, 2006. Kandame, Néstor A. H. ‘‘Colección de anuncios sobre esclavos.’’ Montevideo: n.p., 2006. Karasch, Mary C. Slave Life in Rio de Janeiro, 1808–1850. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1987. Kelley, Robin D. G. Hammer and Hoe: Alabama Communists during the Great Depression. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1990. Kiddy, Elizabeth W. Blacks of the Rosary: Memory and History in Minas Gerais, Brazil. University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2005. Klaczko, Jaime. ‘‘El Uruguay de 1908: Obstáculos y estímulos en el mercado de trabajo.’’ Revista de Indias 41, nos. 165–66 (1981): 675–722. Klein, Herbert S., and Ben Vinson III. African Slavery in Latin America and the Caribbean. 2nd ed. New York: Oxford University Press, 2007. Konefal, Betsy. ‘‘Subverting Authenticity: Reinas Indígenas and the Guatemalan State, 1978.’’ Hispanic American Historical Review 89, no. 1 (2009): 41–72. Kutzinski, Vera. Sugar’s Secrets: Race and the Erotics of Cuban Nationalism. Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia, 1993. ‘‘Lágrima Ríos: Entre bandoneones y tamboriles.’’ Available at [http://www.del uruguay.net/notas/nota.asp?idnota=29]. Lane, Jill. Blackface Cuba, 1840–1895. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2005. Lasso, Marixa. Myths of Harmony: Race and Republicanism during the Age of Revolution, Colombia, 1795–1831. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2007. Lavrin, Asunción. Women, Feminism, and Social Change in Argentina, Chile, and Uruguay, 1890–1940. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1995. Leal, Rine. La selva oscura: De los bufos a la neocolonia. Historia del teatro cubano de 1868 a 1902. Havana: Arte y Literatura, 1982. Leone, Verónica, ‘‘Manuales escolares e imaginario social en el Uruguay del Centenario.’’ In Los uruguayos del Centenario: Nación, ciudadanía, religión y educación (1910–1930), edited by Gerardo Caetano, 139–215. Montevideo: Santillana, 2000. Lewis, Marvin. Afro-Argentine Discourse: Another Dimension of the Black Diaspora. Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 1996. ———. Afro-Uruguayan Literature: Post-Colonial Perspectives. Lewisburg, Penn.: Bucknell University Press, 2003. El libro del Centenario del Uruguay, 1825–1925. Montevideo: Agencia Publicidad Capurro, 1925. bibliography 225

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Locke, Alain LeRoy, ed. The New Negro: An Interpretation. New York: A. and C. Boni, 1925. Loner, Beatriz Ana. Construção de classe: Operários de Pelotas e Rio Grande (1888– 1930). Pelotas: Editora e Gráfica Universitária, 2001. Lopes, Carlos, and Diva Moreira, eds. Relatório de desenvolvimento humano— Brasil 2005. Brasília: Programa das Nações Unidas para o Desenvolvimento, 2005. López, Rick. ‘‘The India Bonita Contest of 1921 and the Ethnicization of Mexican National Culture.’’ Hispanic American Historical Review 82, no. 2 (2002): 291– 328. López-Alves, Fernando. State Formation and Democracy in Latin America, 1810– 1900. Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2000. López Reboledo, Héctor. ‘‘Isabelino Gradín: Polirrítmico y polifuncional.’’ Estrellas Deportivas, no. 44, El Diario (19 July 1978): 1–16. Lorenzo Ventura Barrios: Homenaje del Centro Social ‘‘Fraternidad’’ en el 2do. aniversario de su desaparición física. Montevideo: n.p., 1954. Lott, Eric. Love and Theft: Blackface Minstrelsy and the American Working Class. New York: Oxford University Press, 1993. Lovell, Peggy. ‘‘Race, Gender, and Work in São Paulo, Brazil, 1960–2000.’’ Latin American Research Review 41, no. 3 (2006): 63–87. ———, and Charles Wood. ‘‘Skin Color, Racial Identity, and Life Chances in Brazil.’’ Latin American Perspectives 25, no. 3 (1998): 90–109. Luna, Rosa, and José Raúl Abirad. Rosa Luna: Sin tanga y sin tongo. Montevideo: Proyección, 1988. Machado, Maria Helena Pereira Toledo. ‘‘From Slave Rebels to Strikebreakers: The Quilombo of Jabaquara and the Problem of Citizenship in LateNineteenth-Century Brazil.’’ Hispanic American Historical Review 86, no. 2 (2006): 247–74. Mancuso, Radamés. Obdulio, el último capitán. Montevideo: Panamericana, 1973. Marrero, Adriana. ‘‘La herencia de nuestro pasado: Reflexiones sobre la educación uruguaya del siglo XX.’’ In El Uruguay del siglo XX: La sociedad, 45–75. Montevideo: Banda Oriental, 2008. Martínez, Julio. La historia del Carnaval, special supplement of Mate Amargo (date unknown, probably 1988). McCann, Bryan. Hello, Hello Brazil: Popular Music in the Making of Modern Brazil. Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2004. McNeill, William H. Keeping Together in Time: Dance and Drill in Human History. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1995. Melgar, Alicia, and Walter Cancela. El desarrollo frustrado: 30 años de economía uruguaya, 1955–1985. Montevideo: CLAEH, 1985. Mello, Marcos. ‘‘Para o recreio e a defesa da raça: A imprensa negra no Rio Grande do Sul.’’ Cadernos Porto y Vírgula, no. 11 (Porto Alegre, Brazil, 1995): 90–97. Merino, Francisco. El negro en la sociedad montevideana. Montevideo: Banda Oriental, 1982. Miller, Joseph C. Way of Death: Merchant Capitalism and the Angolan Slave Trade, 1730–1830. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1988. 226 bibliography

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Montañez, Ligia. El racismo oculto de una sociedad no racista. Caracas: Fondo Editorial Tropykos, 1993. Montaño, Oscar D. Historia afrouruguaya. Montevideo: Mastergraf, 2008. ———. Umkhonto: Historia del aporte negro-africano en la formación del Uruguay. Montevideo: Rosebud, 1997. Montero Bustamante, Raúl, ed. El Parnaso oriental: Antología de poetas uruguayos. Montevideo: n.p., 1905. Moore, Robin. Nationalizing Blackness: Afrocubanismo and Artistic Revolution in Havana, 1920–1940. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1997. Morales, Franklin. Andrade: El rey negro de París. Montevideo: Fin de Siglo, 2002. Nahum, Benjamín. Manual de la historia del Uruguay. 2 vols. Montevideo: Banda Oriental, 2000. Nahum, Benjamín, et al. Crisis política y recuperación económica, 1930–1958. Montevideo: Banda Oriental, 1988. Nascimento, Elisa Larkin, ed. Abdias Nascimento 90 Years—Living Memory. Rio de Janeiro: IPEAFRO, 2006. Natale, Oscar. Buenos Aires, negros y tango. Buenos Aires: Peña Lillo, 1984. Nketia, J. H. The Music of Africa. New York: W. W. Norton, 1974. Nobles, Melissa. Shades of Citizenship: Race and the Census in Modern Politics. Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 2000. Olivera Chirimini, Tomás. ‘‘Candombe, African Nations, and the Africanity of Uruguay.’’ In African Roots/American Cultures: Africa in the Creation of the Americas, edited by Sheila S. Walker, 256–63. Lanham, Md.: Rowman and Littlefield, 2001. Olivera Chirimini, Tomás, and Juan Antonio Varese. Los candombes de Reyes: Las Llamadas. Montevideo: Galeón, 2000. ———. Memorias del tamboril. Montevideo: Latina, 1996. Ortiz Oderigo, Néstor. Calunga: Croquis del candombe. Buenos Aires: Editorial Universitaria de Buenos Aires, 1974. Outerelo Souto, Eduardo, et al. Carnaval: Historias de una fiesta. 3 vols. Montevideo: Intendencia Municipal de Montevideo, 1998, 2000, 2001. Paixão, Marcelo, and Luiz M. Carvano, eds. Relatório anual das desigualdades raciais no Brasil; 2007–2008. Rio de Janeiro: Garamond, 2008. Pedemonte, Juan Carlos. Hombres con dueño: Crónica de la esclavitud en el Uruguay. Montevideo: Independencia, 1942. Pelfort, Jorge. 150 años: Abolición de la esclavitud en el Uruguay. Montevideo: La Plaza, 1996. Pellegrino, Adela, et al. ‘‘De una transición a otra: La dinámica demográfica del Uruguay en el siglo XX.’’ In El Uruguay del siglo XX: La sociedad, 11–44. Montevideo: Banda Oriental, 2008. Percovich, Alfredo. ‘‘El Carnaval del Uruguay: Los protagonistas del cambio.’’ In Montevideo en Carnaval: Genios y figuras, edited by Gustavo Diverso and Enrique Filgueiras, 42–60. Montevideo: Monte Sexto, 1992. Pereda Valdés, Ildefonso. Antología de la poesía negra americana. Montevideo: Biblioteca Uruguaya de Autores, 1953. ———. El negro en el Uruguay pasado y presente. Montevideo: Revista del Instituto Histórico y Geográfico del Uruguay, 1965. bibliography 227

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

———. Negros esclavos y negros libres. Montevideo: Imprenta Gaceta Comercial, 1941. ———. Raza negra. Montevideo: La Vanguardia, 1929. Pereira, Antonio. ‘‘Los reyes negros y el candombe.’’ In A máscara limpia: El Carnaval en la escritura uruguaya de dos siglos, edited by Carlos Cipriani, 161– 63. Montevideo: Banda Oriental, 1994. Petit Muñoz, Eugenio, et al. La condición jurídica, social, económica y política de los negros durante el coloniaje en la Banda Oriental. Montevideo: Talleres Gráficos 33, 1948. Pi Hugarte, Renzo. ‘‘La cultura uruguaya actual y los cultos de posesión.’’ In Los cultos de posesión en Uruguay: Antropología e historia, edited by Renzo Pi Hugarte, 19–58. Montevideo: Banda Oriental, 1999. Pierri, Ettore. Una mujer llamada Rosa Luna. Montevideo: La República, 1994. Pinto, Luis de Aguiar Costa. O negro no Rio de Janeiro. 2nd ed. Rio de Janeiro: Editora da UFRJ, 1998. Pippo, Antonio. Obdulio: Desde el alma. Montevideo: Fin de Siglo, 1993. Pivel Devoto, Juan. Historia de los partidos políticos en el Uruguay. 2 vols. Montevideo: Ediciones de la Cámara de Representantes, 1994. Plácido, Antonio. Carnaval: Evocación de Montevideo en la historia y la tradición. Montevideo: Letras, 1966. Platero, Tomás A. Piedra libre para nuestros negros: ‘‘La Broma’’ y otros periódicos de la comunidad afroargentina (1873–1882). Buenos Aires: Instituto Histórico de la Ciudad de Buenos Aires, 2004. Porrini, Rodolfo. Derechos humanos y dictadura terrista. Montevideo: Vintén, 1994. Porzecanski, Teresa, and Beatriz Santos. Historias de exclusión: Afrodescendientes en el Uruguay. Montevideo: Linardi y Risso, 2006. ———. Historias de vida: Negros en el Uruguay. Montevideo: EPPAL, 1994. Pujol, Sergio. Jazz al sur: Historia de la música negra en la Argentina. Buenos Aires: Emecé, 2004. Puppo, Julio Cesar. ‘‘En Carnaval, es más Carnaval todavía.’’ In A máscara limpia: El Carnaval en la escritura uruguaya de dos siglos, edited by Carlos Cipriani, 165– 77. Montevideo: Banda Oriental, 1994. Radano, Ronald. Lying Up a Nation: Race and Black Music. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2003. Rama, Carlos. Los afrouruguayos. Montevideo: El Siglo Ilustrado, 1967. ———. ‘‘The Passing of the Afro-Uruguayans from Caste Society into Class Society.’’ In Race and Class in Latin America, edited by Magnus Mörner, 28–50. New York: Columbia University Press, 1970. Ramón Collazo, Carmelo Imperio, Orlando Romanelli. Montevideo: n.p., 1971. Raphael, Alison. ‘‘Samba and Social Control: Popular Culture and Racial Democracy in Rio de Janeiro.’’ Ph.D. diss., Columbia University, 1980. Reglamento de la Sociedad Pobres Negros Orientales. Montevideo: Imprenta de la Tribuna, 1869. Reis, João José. Slave Rebellion in Brazil: The Muslim Uprising of 1835 in Bahia. Trans. by Arthur Brakel. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1993. Remedi, Gustavo. Carnival Theater: Uruguay’s Popular Performers and National 228 bibliography

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Culture. Trans. by Amy Ferlazzo. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2004. ‘‘Resultados de la Prueba Piloto de Captación en la Argentina.’’ In Mas allá de los promedios: Afrodescendientes en América Latina, edited by Josefina Stubbs and Hiska Reyes. Washington, D.C.: World Bank, 2006. Rial, Juan. ‘‘Situación de la vivienda de los sectores populares de Montevideo, 1889–1930.’’ In Sectores populares y vida urbana, by CLACSO, 137–60. Buenos Aires: CLACSO, 1984. Risério, Antonio. A utopia brasileira e os movimentos negros. São Paulo: Editora 34, 2007. Rivero, Yeidy. Tuning Out Blackness: Race and Nation in the History of Puerto Rican Television. Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2005. Robinson, Cedric J. Black Marxism: The Making of the Black Radical Tradition. 2nd ed. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2000. Rock, David. Argentina, 1516–1987: From Spanish Colonization to Alfonsín. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987. Rodrigues, Ana Maria. Samba negra, espoliação branca. São Paulo: Hucitec, 1984. Rodríguez, Romero Jorge. Mbundo malungo a mundele: Historia del movimiento afrouruguayo y sus alternativas de desarrollo. Montevideo: Rosebud, 2006. ———. Racismo y derechos humanos en Uruguay. Montevideo: Etnicas, 2003. Rodríguez Díaz, Universindo. Los sectores populares en el Uruguay del Novecientos. 2 vols. Montevideo: Compañero, 1989. Rodríguez Molas, Ricardo. ‘‘Los afroargentinos y el orígen del tango.’’ Desmemoria 7, no. 27 (2000): 87–132. Rose, Phyllis. Jazz Cleopatra: Josephine Baker in Her Time. New York: Doubleday, 1989. Rossi, Rómulo. Recuerdos y crónicas de antaño. 4 vols. Montevideo: Peña Hnos., 1922–29. Rossi, Vicente. Cosas de negros. 2nd ed. Buenos Aires: Librería Hachette, 1958. Rout, Leslie B. The African Experience in Spanish America, 1502 to the Present Day. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1976. Rudolf, Susana, et al. ‘‘Las vivencias de la discriminación en la población afrodescendiente uruguaya.’’ In Población afrodescendiente y desigualdades étnicoraciales en Uruguay, edited by Lucía Scuro Somma, 144–73. Montevideo: Programa de las Naciones Unidas para el Desarrollo, 2008. Sánchez-Albornoz, Nicolás. ‘‘Population.’’ In Latin America: Economy and Society, 1870–1930, edited by Leslie Bethell, 83–114. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989. Santos, Beatriz, ed. La herencia cultural africana en las Américas. Montevideo: EPPAL, 1998. Santos, Sales Augusto dos, ed. Ações afirmativas e combate ao racismo nas Américas. Brasília: Ministério da Educação, 2005. Sapriza, Graciela. Memorias de rebeldía: Siete historias de vida. Montevideo: Puntosur, 1988. Sawyer, Mark. Racial Politics in Post-Revolutionary Cuba. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006. Schwartz, Rosalie. ‘‘Cuba’s Roaring Twenties: Race Consciousness and the Colbibliography 229

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

umn ‘Ideales de una Raza.’ ’’ In Between Race and Empire: African-Americans and Cubans before the Cuban Revolution, edited by Lisa Brock and Digna Castañeda Fuentes, 104–19. Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1998. Schwartz, Stuart. Sugar Plantations in the Formation of Brazilian Society: Bahia, 1550–1835. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985. Scott, Rebecca. Degrees of Freedom: Louisiana and Cuba after Slavery. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2005. Scuro Somma, Lucía, ed. Población afrodescendiente y desigualdades étnico-raciales en Uruguay. Montevideo: Programa de las Naciones Unidas para el Desarrollo, 2008. Seigel, Micol. Uneven Encounters: Making Race and Nation in Brazil and the United States. Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2008. SERPAJ. Uruguay Nunca Más: Human Rights Violations, 1972–1985. Trans. by Elizabeth Hampsten. Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1992. Sheri√, Robin. ‘‘The Theft of Carnaval: National Spectacle and Racial Politics in Rio de Janeiro.’’ Cultural Anthropology 14, no. 1 (1999): 3–28. Shicasho, Sônia Tiê, ed. Desigualdade racial: Indicadores socioeconômicos, Brasil, 1991–2001. Brasília: Instituto de Pesquisa Económica Aplicada, 2002. Socolow, Susan Migden. The Women of Colonial Latin America. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000. Soler Cañas, Luis. ‘‘Pardos y morenos en el año 80.’’ Revista del Instituto de Investigaciones Históricas Juan Manuel de Rosas, no. 23 (1963): 272–309. Stepan, Nancy Leys. ‘‘The Hour of Eugenics’’: Race, Gender, and Nation in Latin America. Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1991. Stovall, Tyler. Paris Noir: African Americans in the City of Light. Boston: Houghton MiΔin, 1996. Telles, Edward. Race in Another America: The Significance of Skin Color in Brazil. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2004. Thompson, Robert Farris. Tango: The Art History of Love. New York: Pantheon, 2005. Thorp, Rosemary. Progress, Poverty and Exclusion: An Economic History of Latin America in the 20th Century. Washington, D.C.: Inter-American Development Bank, 1998. Twine, France Winddance. Racism in a Racial Democracy: The Maintenance of White Supremacy in Brazil. New Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers University Press, 1998. United Nations Development Program (UNDP). Human Development Report 2002: Deepening Democracy in a Fragmented World. New York: Oxford University Press, 2002. United Nations Economic Commission for Latin America and the Caribbean (UN-ECLAC). Social Panorama of Latin America, 2002–2003. Santiago: United Nations, 2004. ———. Social Panorama of Latin America, 2007. Santiago: United Nations, 2008. Vanger, Milton. José Batlle y Ordóñez of Uruguay: The Creator of His Times, 1902– 1907. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1963. ———. The Model Country: José Batlle y Ordóñez of Uruguay, 1907–1915. Hanover, N.H.: University of New England Press, 1980. 230 bibliography

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Vianna, Hermano. The Mystery of Samba. Trans. by John Charles Chasteen. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1999. Wade, Peter. ‘‘Afro-Latin Studies: An Overview.’’ Latin American and Caribbean Ethnic Studies 1, no. 1 (2006): 105–24. ———. Blackness and Race Mixture: The Dynamics of Racial Identity in Colombia. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1993. ———. Music, Race, and Nation: Música Tropical in Colombia. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2000. ———. Race and Ethnicity in Latin America. London: Pluto, 1997. Weschler, Lawrence. A Miracle, a Universe: Settling Accounts with Torturers. New York: Pantheon, 1990. Westerman, George. Los inmigrantes antillanos en Panamá. Panama City: n.p., 1980. Winn, Peter, and Lilia Ferro-Clérico. ‘‘Can a Leftist Government Make a Di√erence? The Frente Amplio Administration of Montevideo, 1990–1994.’’ In The New Politics of Inequality in Latin America: Rethinking Participation and Representation, edited by Douglas A. Chalmers et al., 447–68. New York: Oxford University Press, 1997. Wright, Winthrop R. Café con Leche: Race, Class, and National Image in Venezuela. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1990.

Compact Discs

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Arrascaeta, Benjamín. La llamada de Charrúa. Montevideo: n.p., 2001. Bantú recuerda a Pedro Ferreira. Montevideo: n.p., n.d. Candombe final. Montevideo: RIMANEL, 1999. Gularte, Jorginho. Fata morgana. Montevideo: Tambora Records, 1996. Música negra de la ciudad de Montevideo. Montevideo: n.p., 2001. Rada, Rubén. Quién va a cantar. Buenos Aires: Universal Music Argentina, 2000. Uruguay: Tambores del candombe. 2 vols. Vincennes, France: Buda Musique, 2000, 2009.

bibliography 231

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

This page intentionally left blank

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

index Abdalá, Washington, 168 Acción, 97 Acosta, Julián, 22 Acuña de Figueroa, Francisco, 25 A≈rmative action, 20, 151, 162 Africa, 3, 39, 51–52, 92, 100; in candombe lyrics, 60–61, 63, 68, 136–37, 172, 173. See also Africans African diaspora, 14, 20, 96–97, 118, 146 African nations. See Salas de nación Africans, 3, 22–32, 52, 56, 60, 67, 71, 81, 99, 100. See also Candombes Afrodescendiente: as racial term, 13–14 Afro-Uruguayans: invisibility of, 2–3, 40, 148, 154; in armed forces, 4, 22– 23, 28, 32–37, 54, 60; newspapers of, 5–6, 13–14, 33–42, 47, 97–110; migration of, 9, 34–36, 93, 96–97; civic organizations of, 9, 43, 46–47, 106, 148, 167; racial terminology among, 11–16; as racial term, 13–14; in Carnival, 18, 44–49, 51–63, 65, 69, 75–83, 116–20, 134; studies of, 18– 19, 99, 166; history of, 18–19, 99, 168; political movements of, 37–38, 103–5, 167; children of, 38, 41, 89– 91, 153–54; occupations of, 38, 42, 91–96, 159, 163; and education, 40– 42, 85–91, 157–59, 162–63; social clubs of, 43–45, 92, 97, 106–11, 145– 47, 202 (n. 104); and dance, 44–49,

107–9; culture of, 111, 126–27, 167, 168. See also Sociedad de color; Women, Afro-Uruguayan Agrupación Pro-Centro de la Raza, 46–48 Aguiar, Marta, 4 Aharonián, Coriún, 126 Albín, Carlos ‘‘Pirulo,’’ 79 Alfaro, Milita, 50, 62 Alsina, Eulogio, 45 Amado, Jorge, 101 Amigo del Obrero, El, 39 Andá que te Kure la Lola, 74–75 Andrade, José Leandro, 15, 64, 69, 92, 97 Añoranzas Negras, 78–79, 82, 117 Ansina (housing project), 116, 124, 134; destruction of, 142–43 Ansina (Manuel Antonio Ledesma), 106, 109, 137, 202 (n. 104) Apartheid, 136, 146 Araújo, Orestes, 3 Araújo Villagrán, Horacio, 3 Arellaga, René Antonio, 90 Argentina, 3, 8–9, 92, 102, 116, 132; Afro-Uruguayan migration to, 34– 36; race in, 39; comparsas in, 55, 58, 61; black organizations in, 150 Arrascaeta, Benjamín, 119 Artigas, 9, 85–86, 97, 147, 164 Artigas, José Gervasio, 137, 202 (n. 104)

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Arturaola, Hugo, 81 Arturaola, Manuel, 38 Asamblea General, 16, 147, 164, 165, 166, 168, 169 Ashanti. See Santé Asociación Cultural y Social Uruguay (ACSU), 11–12, 89, 114, 126, 135, 140; antidiscrimination protests by, 88, 111; in 1940s, 106–10; divisions within, 110–11, 145–47. See also Asociación Cultural y Social Uruguay Negro Asociación Cultural y Social Uruguay Negro (ACSUN), 147 Ausá (sala de nación), 31 Bahia-Hulan-Yack, 13 Baker, Josephine, 73, 75, 79 Balle, Hugo Alberto, 137–38 Balumba, 139 Banguela (sala de nación), 25, 28, 31 Barreto, Tobias, 93 Barrio Sur, 145; and Carnival, 1, 112, 124, 140, 170; and candombes, 26; and conventillos, 62, 143 Barrios, María Esperanza, 41, 99 Barrios, Pilar, 97, 99, 201 (n. 93) Barrios, Ventura, 97, 99–100, 201 (n. 93) Batlle Berres, Luis, 151 Batlle Ibáñez, Jorge, 151, 154 Batlle y Ordóñez, José, 2, 32–33, 151 Behrens, Alicia, 94–96, 149 Belloni, José, 183 (n. 26) Benavídez Tabárez, Lida Melba. See Ríos, Lágrima Betervide, Salvador, 96–97, 99, 104, 201 (n. 93) Blackface: in Cuba, 17; in United States, 17, 56–57, 74–75; in Argentina, 55; in Uruguay, 56–63, 74–76. See also Negros lubolos Blacks. See Afro-Uruguayans Blanco party, 2, 26, 32, 168, 177 (n. 1); Afro-Uruguayans and, 37, 104, 169 Blood. See Rhythm: in blood Bolivia, 98

Borsari, Gustavo, 168 Bottaro, Marcelino, 99, 100 Brazil, 23, 86, 92, 96, 97, 100, 132, 173, 177 (n. 1); Estado Novo in, 5, 102; slavery in, 8, 27, 29, 98; immigration to Uruguay from, 8–9; racial terminology in, 11; racial prejudice in, 12, 164; music from, 18, 73–74, 77; a≈rmative action in, 20, 163; black movements in, 104, 146, 150; Carnival in, 113, 117; racial inequality in, 157–61, 164, 212 (nn. 54–55) Britos Serrat, Alberto, 99, 164 Buenos Aires. See Argentina Cabral, Elemo, 99, 100, 201 (n. 93) Cabral, Iris, 94, 97, 99 Calenda, 119 Calle Ancha, 137 Cámara de Representantes. See Asamblea General Cambundá (sala de nación), 25, 31 Candombe (film), 83 Candombe (music), 1–2, 16–18, 49, 83, 111; rhythm of, 1, 58, 64–65, 69–72, 129–30; creation of, 51–52, 58; lyrics of, 52–55, 58–60, 64–65, 68, 136–39; and racial inequality, 54, 60, 164, 167–68, 170–73; Cuban influence on, 116; and dictatorship, 123–24; reasons for popularity of, 128–29. See also Drummers; Drumming Candombera, La, 114 Candomberos, 37, 53 Candombes (dances), 23–27, 44, 50, 52, 55, 57 Canelones, 9, 198 (n. 55) Canto popular, 128 Carabarí (sala de nación), 31 Caras y Caretas, 70 Cardozo Ferreira, Carlos, 99 Carnival, 1; municipal regulation of, 16, 46–47, 50, 56, 61, 72, 77–78, 114, 116– 17, 123, 138, 140; whites in, 16–17, 61– 81, 114–15, 123–27; Afro-Uruguayans in, 18, 44–49, 51–63, 65, 69, 75–84, 116–20, 134; dances in, 44–49, 64,

234 index

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

75–76, 108; commercialization of, 72, 120–21; queen of, 140. See also Candombe (music); Comparsas Carrasco Hotel, 111 Carrizo Agapito, José, 124 Carvalho-Neto, Paulo de, 11–12, 110, 116, 117, 121–22, 136, 148–49 Casa de Galicia, 111 Casanchi (sala de nación), 31 Castro Alves, Antônio de, 101 Catorce Menos Quince, 27–28 Censuses: of Uruguay, 6–11, 23, 150, 154, 155, 203 (n. 1); of Argentina, 8; of Brazil, 11, 211 (n. 37); of Cuba, 211–12 (n. 53) Centro de Investigación y Promoción Franciscano y Ecológico, 145, 147 Centro Farroupilha, 97 Centro Renacimiento, 97 Centro Social de Señoritas, 43 Centro Uruguay, 97, 202 (n. 108) Centro Uruguayo, 35 Céspedes, Guillermo, 22 Chaco War, 98 Chaplin, Charlie, 73 Chasteen, John, 44 Chile, 150 Círculo de Intelectuales, Artistas, Periodistas y Escritores Negros (CIAPEN), 106 Ciudad Vieja, 23, 127, 143 Club Cuerpo de Bomberos, 105 Club Defensa, 43 Club Igualdad, 37, 43 Club Regeneración, 43, 44 Club Social Antonio Ledesma Ansina, 97 Club Social 25 de Agosto, 43 Club Uruguay, 107, 146 Colorado party, 2, 26, 28, 32, 147, 177 (n. 1); Afro-Uruguayans and, 37, 54, 104, 145, 169, 213 (n. 69) Comadres, 135 Comercio del Plata, 44 Comisión de Fiestas, 16, 49 Comisión de Señoras y Señoritas, 47, 49

Comité de Damas Melenses, 97 Comité Pro-Homenaje a Don Manuel Antonio Ledesma (Ansina), 106 Communism, 101–2 Comparsas, 1–2, 16–18, 49, 111, 123, 128, 171; Afro-Uruguayan, 51–63, 65, 69; white, 55–65, 69; proletarian, 61–72; social functions of, 71–72, 131–32; in 1940s and 1950s, 76–82, 112–17; directors of, 116–20, 125 Concierto Lubolo, 124 C 1080, 124, 205 (n. 23) Congo (sala de nación), 25, 26, 27 Congo de Augunga (sala de nación), 28 Congos de Gunga (sala de nación), 31– 32 Congos Humildes, 64 Conservación, La, 34, 37, 97 Constitution: of 1830, 36, 177–78 (n. 1), 182 (n. 17); of 1918, 5 Convención Nacional de Trabajadores, 144 Conventillos, 62, 63; destruction of, 124, 141–44, 146, 151. See also Ansina (housing project); Medio Mundo Cordón, 62, 124 Cuba, 5, 17, 86, 96, 101–2, 104, 113, 173; music from, 18, 74, 77, 116; racial inequality in, 155–57, 164 Cuca, 135 Cugat, Xavier, 79 Cunard, Nancy, 100 Danda River, 60 De la Fuente, Alejandro, 164 Delgado, Juan, 14, 16, 64 De María, Isidoro, 30 Democracia, 97 Democracia, La, 44 Democracy. See Uruguay: political democracy in De Priest, Oscar, 98 Desalojos. See Conventillos: destruction of Día, El, 22, 49 Día del Patrimonio, 168–69, 170

index 235

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Día Nacional del Candombe, 167–68, 170 Diario, El, 141 Diaspora. See African diaspora Díaz, Juan Crisóstomo, 41–42 Dictatorship. See Uruguay: military dictatorship in Diggs, Ellen Irene, 102–3 Disco, 128 Discrimination. See Racial discrimination Drummers, 117–18; in late 1800s and early 1900s, 69–72; white, 125–27; training of, 131–34; female, 134–35; and Alba Roballo, 165, 213 (n. 69) Drumming: recent growth in popularity of, 124–25, 127–29; experience of, 130–31 Dubois, W. E. B., 102 Durazno, 97 Echepare, Alberto, 108–9 Echeverri, Orosmán, 106 Education. See Afro-Uruguayans: and education; Uruguay: education in Elections: of 1872, 37; of 1873, 53; of 1938, 104–5, 201 (n. 99); of 1989, 148; of 2004, 147 Elumbé, 1, 119, 206 (n. 49) Embutido, 71 Escalada, Selva, 99 Esclavos de Asia, 64 Esclavos de La Habana, 64 Esclavos del Congo, 49, 64 Esclavos de Nyanza, 16, 63–64, 68–69, 81, 208 (n. 69) Escobero, 16, 57–58, 63, 65, 67, 117, 122, 133 Escuela de Artes y Oficios, 40–41, 92 Ethiopia, 100 Europe: immigration from, 3–5, 7– 8, 62; dances from, 44. See also Immigrants European Union, 150 Facala, La, 63 Fantasía Negra, 115–16, 120, 124

Fascism, 100–101, 104 Ferreira, Pedro, 116, 128, 133 Ferreira, Tina, 168, 193 (n. 101), 194 (n. 112), 204 (n. 20) Ferreira Aldunate, Wilson, 169 Ferreira y Artigas, Fermín, 164 Ferro-carril, El, 55, 58 Fiestas Negras, 111, 114, 140 Figari, Pedro, 4 Figueredo, Marcello, 170 Figueroa, Julio, 54 Football, 14–15, 92–93 France, 73–74, 79, 96 Franciscans, 145, 147, 150 Free Womb Law, 25, 32, 182 (n. 17) Frente Amplio, 147–48, 165, 168, 169; creation of, 144, 164; and AfroUruguayans, 145, 166; and Mundo Afro, 148, 152 Frente Negra Brasileira, 104 Freyre, Gilberto, 99 Frigerio, Alejandro, 136–37 Fuentes, Antonio, 28 Funk, 128, 129 Gaboto, 124, 206 (n. 41) Gallegos, Rómulo, 101 Galloza, Rubén, 91, 95, 106, 107, 125– 26, 191 (n. 66) Gamou, Carlos, 168 García, Miguel, 127, 131, 133–34 Gares, José Isabelino, 97–99, 201 (n. 93) General Assembly. See Asamblea General Germany, 100 Giménez, Malumba, 135 González, Feliciano, 15 Gozadera, La, 206 (n. 49), 207 (n. 55) Gradín, Isabelino, 14–15, 92 Gramillero, 16, 57–58, 63, 65, 66, 133 Grupo de Apoyo a la Mujer Afrouruguaya (GAMA), 146, 153–54, 211 (n. 39) Guatemala, 113, 157, 162 Guerra Grande. See Wars: civil Guerreros Africanos, 69

236 index

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Guerreros de las Selvas Africanas, 64 Guerreros del Sur, 64, 69 Guerrillero, El, 39 Guillén, Nicolás, 101–2 Gularte, Jorginho, 169 Gularte, Katy, 169 Gularte, Martha, 79–84, 91, 97, 168– 70, 172, 194 (n. 106), 204 (n. 20) Gularte Bautista, Fermina. See Gularte, Martha Guss, David, 113–14 Gutiérrez Cortinas, Eduardo, 15

Kanela y su Barakutanga, 138, 139, 205 (n. 21) Kasanje (sala de nación), 25, 31 Keaton, Buster, 73 King, Martin Luther, Jr., 136

Icaza, Jorge, 101 Iemanjá, 173–74 Immigrants, 3–5, 7–8, 16–17, 40, 167; in Carnival comparsas, 62–64, 67– 68, 71, 131 Indians. See Indigenous people Indigenous people, 2–3, 7, 11, 61, 113, 150–51 Inequality. See Racial inequality Instituto de Arte y Cultura Afro, 147 Instituto de Profesores Artigas, 165 Instituto Nacional de Estadística, 150 Instituto Nacional de la Juventud, 152 Instituto Nacional de la Mujer, 152 Instituto Superior de Formación Afro, 147 Italy, 16, 23, 100–101

Labor movement. See Organized labor Lacalle, Luis Alberto, 149–50 Lanceros Africanos, 16, 69 Lanceros del Plata, 65 Lane, Abby, 79 Larraura, Carlos, 120 Lasalvia, Carlos. See Lima, José de Latorre, Lorenzo, 35, 54 Lavalleja, Juan Antonio, 177 (n. 1) League of Nations, 101 Libertadores de Africa, 16, 64, 69, 76, 116, 124 Libertadores de La Habana, 64 Lima, José de, 81, 117, 119, 125 Lima Barreto, Afonso Henriques de, 101 Livramento, 97 Llamadas, 1, 124–30 passim, 136, 143, 168; origins of, 111–16, 122; as national cultural event, 113–14, 139– 40; commercialization of, 118–19; and dictatorship, 123; training for, 131–36; queen of, 140 Lonjas de Cuareim, 141 Lott, Eric, 17, 56–57, 59 Lubolo (sala de nación), 31 Lubolos. See Negros lubolos Luna, Rosa, 15, 91, 120, 137, 168–71, 172 Lungo, José Antonio, 77–78, 116–17 Luz, Santiago, 133

Japan, 100 Jardineros de Harlem, 74 Jazz, 18, 73, 102, 129 Jazz Band, La, 74

Maceo, Antonio, 93 Machado, Camilo, 21 Machado de Assis, Joaquim Maria, 101

Harding, Rachel, 27 Hausa. See Ausá Herrera y Obes, Julio, 21, 42 Hijos de La Habana, 64 Hijos del Congo, 49 Hip-hop, 128, 129 Hitler, Adolf, 100 Hotel del Prado, 111 Hughes, Langston, 93, 101–2 Humoristas, 74–75 Humoristas del Betún, 74

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Jazz Singer, The, 74 Jewish Central Committee, 149 Jiménez, Julio, 116 Jolson, Al, 74 Juego de agua, 56

index 237

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Maciel, Noelia, 15 Mama vieja, 16, 65–68, 75, 133, 191 (nn. 65–66) Mañana, La, 86 Mandado, Irene Castro de, 85, 87–88 Mandela, 136 Marabunta, 81, 117 Maran, René, 101 Marcha, 94–95, 109, 123 Martínez, Bienvenido. See Velorio, Juan Martínez, José, 15 Marxism, 96–97, 165–66 Medio Mundo, 117, 124, 153; destruction of, 141–43, 167 Melaza, La, 135, 207 (n. 65) Melo, 97 Méndez, Margarita, 90–91, 104 Méndez, Mario, 104, 201 (n. 93) Menéndez, Jesús, 102 Mercosur, 132 Merengue, 129 Merino, Francisco, 12, 149 Mestizos, 7, 11 Minas Maxi (sala de nación), 31 Ministry of Education and Culture, 168, 170 Ministry of Housing, 153 Ministry of Interior, 29 Ministry of Public Instruction, 2 Ministry of Social Development, 152 Ministry of War, 36, 41 Minstrels. See Blackface: in United States Miscelánea Negra, 77–78 Mogambo, 136 Molina, Jacinto Ventura de, 28–32, 43, 184 (n. 41) Molina, Josef Eusebio de, 28–29 Momus, 54, 121 Montero, Mario, 109 Montevideo Noticioso, 61 Montevideo Times, 61, 62, 69, 71, 72, 121 Morales, Melchora, 46 Morales, Richard, 15 Morenada, 79, 115–16, 120, 124, 136, 141

Moreno: as racial term, 6, 15–16 Moros (sala de nación), 31 Mosca, La, 61 Movimiento Juvenil Afro, 147 Movimiento Juvenil Independiente Pro Unidad de la Raza Negra, 106 Mozambique (sala de nación), 31 Mulato: as racial term, 6–7 Muñambano (sala de nación), 31 Mundo Afro (newspaper), 13, 147 Mundo Afro (organization): percussion school of, 127–28, 131–36; creation of, 146–47; activities of, 147– 54; and Edgardo Ortuño, 165–67; and Lágrima Ríos, 169 Mundo Uruguayo, 70, 72, 108–9, 112, 121 Munn, Enrique, 38 Murgas, 73, 76, 123 Mussolini, Benito, 100–101 Nación, La, 26, 44 Nación Lubola, 59 Nagó y Tacuá (sala de nación), 31 Nascimento, Abdias, 146 National household surveys. See Censuses Nazism, 100 Negra Johnson, La. See Pérez Bravo, Gloria Negra vieja. See Mama vieja Negro: as racial term, 6–7, 11–15; negro pretencioso, 59; negro, vino y tambor, 125, 129, 133, 165; negro ché, 133–34; negro usted, 133–34 Negros (comparsa), 55, 58 Negros Africanos, 34–35, 60 Negros Argentinos, 51 Negros Esclavos, 55, 63 Negros Gramillas, 60 Negros lubolos, 16–18, 55–62, 65, 70, 73, 172 Negros Lubolos (comparsa), 55, 58, 59 Negros Melódicos, 74 ‘‘New Negro,’’ 96–97 Newspapers. See Afro-Uruguayans: newspapers of

238 index

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Nicaragua, 98 Nieres, Ceferino, 97, 105 Nosotras, 135 Nuestra Raza, 5, 41, 89–93, 97, 99–105, 109, 146 Núñez, Fernando ‘‘Lobo,’’ 118, 119, 127, 130

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Ocampo, Pedro, 71, 90 Ocampo Vilaza, Victor, 168 Olivera Chirimini, Tomás, 70, 113, 130 Organizaciones Mundo Afro. See Mundo Afro (organization) Organized labor, 39–40, 71, 94, 144 Orientación, 97 Ortiz, Fernando, 99 Ortuño, Edgardo, 16, 164–68, 170 Ortuño, Sergio, 131, 133–34 Padín, Marcos, 22, 33, 36, 38 País, El, 79, 87, 112, 114, 154, 170, 174 Palermo, 145, 153, 173; and conventillos, 62, 63, 141–43, 146; and Carnival, 71, 112–13, 116, 117, 124, 140 Panama, 86 Paraguay, 98, 150, 202 (n. 104) Paraguayan War, 32 Pardo: as racial term, 6, 11–12 Pardo, Adelina, 49 Pardo Larraura, Toribio Petronila, 21 Paris. See France Parodistas, 74–75 Parodistas de Chocolate, 74–75 Parque Hotel, 111 Partido Autóctono Negro, 97, 103–5, 201 (n. 93) Partido Independiente de Color, 104 Partido Independiente Democrático Femenino, 201 (n. 99) Pedro I (emperor of Brazil), 29–30 Peligro, El, 97 Percovich, Alfredo, 73 Pereda Valdés, Ildefonso, 99–100 Pereira, Maruja, 94, 99, 201 (n. 93) Pereyra, Ramón, 106, 168 Pérez, Carlos, 22 Pérez, José Lisandro, 64

Pérez, Juan María, 30 Pérez Bravo, Gloria, 14, 79, 137, 204 (n. 17) Periódico, El, 35, 38 Peru, 113 Pintos, Alfonso, 136 Plácido, Antonio, 120 Pobres Negros Cubanos, 16, 64 Pobres Negros Desnudos, 70 Pobres Negros Hacheros, 64, 65 Pobres Negros Orientales, 43–44, 49, 51–55, 58, 64, 76 Pocitos, 90 Prejudice. See Racial prejudice Prestes, Luis Carlos, 100 Prieto, Sara, 106 Principistas, 37 Progresista, El, 34, 37, 38, 97 Propaganda, La, 36, 38, 41, 47, 49, 99 Racial democracy, 19–20, 86 Racial discrimination, 98, 103, 105, 106, 109–11; in politics, 37; in employment, 42, 85–88, 94–96, 98, 104–5, 109–10, 149, 162–63; in social clubs, 43, 105; at dances, 44– 46, 105; in candombe lyrics, 54, 59– 60; in education, 90–91; AfroUruguayan protests against, 97, 104–5, 111, 148–50; in Carnival queen contests, 140; government acknowledgment of, 151–52, 154; statistical evidence of, 161; in Brazil, 161, 212 (n. 59). See also Women, Afro-Uruguayan: double discrimination against Racial equality, 19–20, 87–88, 163; Afro-Uruguayan demands for, 34– 38, 97–105, 111, 148–50, 167–68; in candombe lyrics, 137, 139 Racial inequality, 1–2, 87, 151; in colonial legislation, 6; in candombe lyrics, 60, 171–72; in employment, 94–96; statistical indicators of, 150, 154, 157–61; in Cuba, 155–57; and class inequality, 155–57, 166; in Guatemala, 157; in Brazil, 157–64;

index 239

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

and gender inequality, 172, 212 (n. 60) Racial prejudice, 12, 54, 90–91, 103, 104, 106, 148–49, 164; in Brazil, 12, 164 Racial terminology, 5–16, 133–34; in Brazil, 11 Rada, Rubén, 14, 15, 79, 164, 168 Ragtime, 18, 73 Raíces, 139 Ramírez, Beatriz, 146, 152, 211 (n. 42) R&B, 128 Rap, 128 Rapsodia en Negro, 137 Raza Africana, La, 51–54, 60 Regeneración, La, 38, 41, 45, 47 República, La, 15, 139–40, 168, 169 Revista Uruguay, 89, 92, 105–10 Revue Nègre, 73 Rhythm: of candombe, 1, 58, 64–65, 69–72, 129–30; national, 17–18, 129; in blood, 81, 83–84, 126–27, 138, 172, 194 (n. 108) Ríos, Lágrima, 79, 82, 97, 168–70 Rivera, 9, 97, 147 Rivera, Fructuoso, 28, 177 (n. 1) Riverón, Emidio, 77, 116 Roballo, Alba, 164–65 Rocha, 97 Rodríguez, José María, 37 Rodríguez, Omar, 121 Rodríguez, Romero, 146, 148, 152 Rodríguez Arraga, José María, 91 Rondeau, Francisco, 41–42 Rosas, Juan Manuel de, 34 Rossi, Vicente, 52 Rumba, 18, 73, 102, 108, 116 Rumbo Cierto, 97 Rumbos, 97 Sacramento, Juana del, 29 Salas de nación, 32, 55, 62, 131; candombes of, 24–27, 44, 50, 58, 69, 71, 107; monarchs of, 27–28; list of, 30–31 Salsa, 129 Salto, 97

Samba, 18, 73, 108, 129 San Carlos, 97, 98 Sanguinetti, Julio, 154 Santé (sala de nación), 31 Santos, Máximo, 35 Sarabanda, 120, 136, 206 (n. 41) Scottsboro Boys, 100, 101, 199 (n. 67) Seco, Andrés, 36, 38 Semana, La, 22 Senegal, 1 Seregni, Liber, 169 Serenata Africana, 1, 81, 117 Siglo, El, 28, 56, 61 Silva, Darío, 15 Silva, Gilberto, 106 Silva, Juan Angel, 78–79, 117, 124, 204 (n. 14) Silva, Néstor, 120, 131 Silva, Raúl, 78–79, 117 Silva, Waldemar ‘‘Cachila,’’ 124 Silva, Wellington, 78–79, 117, 204 (n. 14) Slavery: abolition of, 4, 8, 32; in candombe lyrics, 52, 60, 68, 136, 138 Slaves, 23–24, 52, 182 (nn. 9, 11) Soccer. See Football Sociedad de color, 12–13, 21–22, 43–49, 64, 107 Sociedad del Socorro, 43, 47 Sociedades de negros. See Comparsas Sociedad Recreativa Ansina, 97 Son, 18, 102 Songo (sala de nación), 31 Sosa, Adelia Silva de, 84–88, 94, 97, 111, 148, 149, 195–96 (n. 11) Sosa, Julio ‘‘Kanela,’’ 120, 139, 205 (n. 21) SOS Racismo, 147 Soul music, 128 South Africa, 136, 146, 151 Soviet Union, 101, 102 Spain, 8, 16, 32, 39, 102, 123 Student movement, 144, 165 Suárez, Roberto, 99 Suárez Peña, Ignacio, 106, 109, 110–11, 145

240 index

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest

Suárez Peña, Lino, 99 Sueño de Colón, 135

Copyright © 2010. University of North Carolina Press. All rights reserved.

Tabares, Pedro Rafael. See Ferreira, Pedro Tablados, 72, 75, 77, 114 Tacuarembó, 97 Tamborileros, 114 Tanganika, 169 Tango, 18, 52, 53, 64–65, 108 Teatro Cibils, 46–49, 64, 108 Teatro del Verano, 72, 77, 114, 116, 119, 135, 136 Teatro Nacional, 44–45 Teatro Negro Independiente, 12 Teatro San Felipe, 21 Teatro Solís, 44–45, 148 Techera, César, 15, 97 Telles, Edward, 164 Terra, Gabriel, 5, 96, 100 Treinta y Tres, 97 Tribu, La, 169 Tribuna, La, 43, 51 Tribuna Popular, La, 22, 79, 81 Troupe Oxford, 74 Troupes, 73–74, 76, 77, 81 Tupamaros, 144 Turgenev, Ivan, 101 Ugartemendia, Ofelia Ferretjans de, 85, 87 Umbanda, 173, 214 (n. 90) Unidad Temática por los Derechos de los Afrodescendientes, 152–53 United Nations, 12, 86, 150–51, 166 United States, 39, 132; blackface performance in, 17, 56–57, 74–75; music from, 18, 73–74, 77, 128; black movements in, 96, 101, 102–3, 146, 150; racism in, 98, 101 Universidad de la República, 91, 95, 149, 165, 166 Universidad del Trabajo, 92 Un Real al 69, 73 Uruguay: economy of, 2, 5, 87–88, 132, 144; social democracy in, 2, 19–20, 87–88, 106, 132, 155–56, 162–63; cen-

tennial of national independence, 2–5, 16, 177–78 (n. 1); political democracy in, 2–5, 19–20, 106, 144– 45; racial thought in, 2–5, 19–20, 148–49; population of, 5–11, 40, 132; independence of, 8, 177 (n. 1); education in, 40, 88, 157–59, 162; internal migration within, 96; military dictatorship in, 123–24, 128– 29, 142–46, 169, 173; emigration from, 132; name of, 188 (n. 5) Vanguardia, La, 89, 95, 96, 97–99, 104, 146 Varela, Obdulio, 15, 79, 92–93 Varese, Juan Antonio, 70 Vargas, Getúlio, 5, 104 Vázquez, Tabaré, 148, 152 Vedette, 72, 79–83, 117, 133, 136, 172, 193 (nn. 101–2), 207 (n. 65) Veladas, 21–22 Velorio, Juan, 120 Venezuela, 86, 113 Verdad, La, 38, 42, 99 Vertiente Artiguista, 165, 166 Voz del Obrero, La, 39, 48, 49 Wars: civil, 2, 26, 28, 32–34; independence, 32, 34 Washington, Booker T., 91–92 Women, Afro-Uruguayan: occupations of, 38, 82, 93–94; and dance, 44–49, 75–83, 108, 112; as organizers of community life, 47–49, 97, 110; in Carnival song lyrics, 53, 63, 65, 73–74, 137, 138; sexualized images of, 53, 65, 67, 75, 79, 81–83, 138, 170, 172; in comparsas, 55, 75–83; in tablados, 75, 77; double discrimination against, 146, 151, 212 (n. 60); government agency for, 152; housing cooperative for, 153–54 Women’s Congress, 94 Yambo Kenia, 1, 120 Zavalla, Ricardo, 164

index 241

Blackness in the White Nation : A History of Afro-Uruguay, University of North Carolina Press, 2010. ProQuest