Purchasing Whiteness: Pardos, Mulattos, and the Quest for Social Mobility in the Spanish Indies 9780804793209

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Purchasing Whiteness

Purchasing Whiteness pa r d os, m u l at tos, a n d t h e quest for soci a l mobilit y i n t h e spa n ish i n di e s

Ann Twinam

stanford university press stanfor d, califor ni a

Stanford University Press Stanford, California © 2015 by the Board of Trustees of the Leland Stanford Junior University. All rights reserved. Stanford University Press gratefully acknowledges financial assistance provided for the publication of this book from the President’s Office at The University of Texas at Austin. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system without the prior written permission of Stanford University Press. Printed in the United States of America on acid-free, archival-quality paper Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Twinam, Ann, author.   Purchasing whiteness : pardos, mulattos, and the quest for social mobility in the Spanish Indies / Ann Twinam.   pages cm   Includes bibliographical references and index.   isbn 978-0-8047-5092-9 (cloth : alk. paper)—   isbn 978-0-8047-5093-6 (pbk. : alk. paper)   1.  Racially mixed people—Spain—Colonies—History.  2.  Race discrimination— Caribbean Area—History.  3.  Race discrimination—Spain—Colonies—History.  4.  Racially mixed people—Legal status, laws, etc.—Caribbean Area—History.  5.  Caribbean Area—Race relations—History.  6.  Spain—Colonies—America— Race relations.  I.  Title.   f2191.r33t85 2015  305.800946—dc23 2014025471 isbn 978-0-8047-9320-9 (electronic) Typeset by Newgen in 11/14 Adobe Garamond Frontispiece. Anónimo Limeño: El Doctor José Manuel Valdés, Busione, insigne medico y distinguido literato. V-2.0-0246, Ca. 1875, Aquada sobre papel, 24.2 × 17.6 cm. Museo de Arte de Lima. Donación Memoria Prado.

This work is dedicated to all who appear in these pages who struggled for a better life and a fairer world

Contents

Acknowledgments

xi

Preface

xv

part one i n t r o d u c t i o n s 1. Conclusions: A Century of Historiography

The Internet: The New Challenge, 4.  U.S. Scholars and First Research on Gracias al Sacar, 5.  The Search for Documents: Lanning and King, 7.  Spaniards and Spanish Americans on Gracias al Sacar, 12.  The Konetzke Documents, 13.  Whitening: The 1960s and 1970s, 14.  Venezuelan Connections: Santos Rodulfo Cortés, 19.  The Caste versus Class Debate, 21.  Gracias al Sacar: Identity and Latin American Racism, 22.  Common Misconceptions, 24.  Finding the Gracias al Sacar: Reverse Engineering in the Archives, 25.  First Answers, Additional Questions, 29



2.

Introductions: Alternative Approaches

Methodology: Emic and Etic; Processual Analysis, 36.  Gracias al Sacar: A Comparative Perspective?, 39.  Contexts 1: Vocabularies of Change, 42.  Contexts 2: Vassals, Justice, Reciprocity, Inconveniences, 56.  Etic Considerations: Public, Private, Passing, Honor, 60.  The Actors, Paper Flows, and Chains of Command, 65.  Chronologies: Linear, Frozen, Atlantic, Traditional, 75

3

35

part two l o n g t i m e

3.

Interstices: Seeking Spaces for Mobility

Introduction, 81.  Movement from Slave to Free, 84.  Free Wombs: Ending Bondage for the Next Generation, 90.  Slaves and the Attachment of White Privileges, 96.  Freeborns:

81

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viii

contents The Society of Castes, 99.  1620s–1700: First Movements toward Whiteness, 104.  Continuities after 1700: Tribute and Militias, 113.  1700: Attaching White Perquisites, 118.  Conclusions, 121



4.

Connections: Genealogical Mathematics

Introduction, 124.  Mulatta and Parda Women, 127.  Mulatto and Pardo Males, 131.  White Females with Pardo Males, 136.  Results: Baptismal Certificates, 138.  Alternative Paths, 142.  Conclusions, 146

124

part three w h i t e n i n g : p r e c u r s o r c a s e s 5.

Benchmarks: Commoditizing Whiteness, Cuba and Panama

151



6.

Balances: Weighing the Prices of Full Whiteness

177



7.

Exceptions: The Venezuelan Cluster

198

Introduction, 151.  Cuban Surgeons: First Precedents, 1750s and 1760s, 152.  Panamanian Notaries: Further Precedents, 1760s and 1770s, 166.  The Smoking Gun Case: Panama, 1786, 171.  Conclusions, 175 Introduction, 177.  First Petitions for Total Whiteness, 179.  Guatemalan Efforts: Bernardo Ramírez, 185.  Reapplications, 192.  Conclusions, 196 Introduction, 198.  First Applications, 200.  Venezuelan Exceptionalism, 205.  Protest Letters to the King, 214.  The Audiencia Investigates, 218.  White Petitions, 221.  Cámara Indecisions, 226.  Conclusions, 232

part four t h e w h i t e n i n g g r a c i a s a l s a c a r : 1795‒1814

8.



9.

Opportunities: Whitening, the First Year, 1795‒1796

237

Dissentions and Discords: 1796–1803

269

Introduction, 237.  The Ayarzas: A Test Case, 238.  The First Applicants, Responses, Whitenings, 244.  The Ayarzas Revisited, 251.  First Judgments and Whitening Policy, 253.  Caracas Reactions: The Cabildo and Audiencia Respond, 255.  Conclusions, 265 Introduction, 269.  Madrid: Conflict over Whitenings, 270.  Free Pardos Strike Back: The Pardo Guild of Caracas, 274.  Madrid: First Enforcements and Caracas Complications, 277.  The Caracas Establishment Strikes Again, 281.  Madrid:

contents

ix

Applications, Tensions, 281.  The Don Issue, 284.  Gracias al Sacar: 1801 Version, 287.  Lima Is Not Caracas, 289.  Conclusions, 293



10.

Denouements: 1803‒1806



11. Recalibrations: The 1806 “Mystery” Consulta; the 1808 Viaña Consulta; and the Cortes, 1806‒1810

323

12.

352

Introduction, 297.  The Office of Fiscal under Stress, 298.  Local Responses to Whitening Decrees, 300.  Putting Whitening to the Test, 305.  Alternative Interpretations: Bishop and Governor, 309.  Caracas Resistance, 312.  The Council of the Indies: Rebukes and Retreats, 315.  Conclusions, 320

Introduction, 323.  Mystery Consulta: The Background, 324.  The 1806 Mystery Consulta and the Establishment, 327.  Mystery Consulta and Policy toward Pardos and Mulattos, 330.  Mystery Consulta and Influence on Whitening Policy, 333.  The Viaña Consulta, 1808, 340.  Subsequent Events, 344.  Conclusions, 345.  The Whitening Gracias al Sacar: Overtaken by Events, 348



Evolutions: Vassals to Citizens?

Introduction, 352.  September 24 to October 15, 1810: Are Spain and America Equal? Are Spaniards and Americans Equal?, 354.  December 16, 1810 to February 7, 1811: The Lurking Problem of the Castas, 359.  The Constitution of 1812: Who Are Spaniards? Who Are Citizens?, 365.  American Delegates Continue Support for Casta Citizenship, 376.  Intervention of the Mexican Consulado, 379.  Casta Compromise, 381.  Lima Responses, 382.  Conclusions, 386

297

part five c o n c l u s i o n s

13.

Retrospectives: Tidbits, Chunks, and Conclusions

Introduction, 391.  Methodologies: Alternative Digital Strategies, 392.  Whitening: Direct Outcomes, 394.  Alternative Paths, 395.  Variable and Ambiguous Outcomes, 401.  Conclusions and Processes, 410.  Contexts: Traditions, Time, Patterns, Genealogy, Locality, 411.  Actors: Castas, Royal Officials, Local Elites, 412.  Chronologies: Long, Linear, Frozen, Atlantic, Traditional, 417.  Conclusions, 420

Appendix A: Archival/Printed References to Whitening Cases

391

425

Appendix B: Dates of Service, Vacancies, and Experience of Fiscals for Peru and New Spain (Mexico)

429

x

contents Notes

431

Bibliography

489

Index

521

Acknowledgments

As with any long-term and complicated project, what follows would never have occurred without the contributions of many others. A first thank you must go to those unknown persons whose names I do not know who, over the centuries, have compiled indexes and catalogues in archives and libraries throughout Spain and the Americas. Without them, this research would not have been possible. Another special thank you goes to a more recent group—the digitalizers. Their online reproductions of archival materials, particularly through the Portal de Archivos Españoles (PARES) for the Archivo General de Indias (Seville) and the Archivo Histórico Nacional (Madrid), were immensely helpful. Reproductions thanks to Google books proved just as vital, significantly changing the parameters of research. Although the trademark “Google” might be superseded in future decades by new ways to search, this will always be a post-Google book. The staffs at the Archivo General de Indias (Seville), the Archivo Histórico Nacional (Madrid), the Biblioteca Nacional (Madrid), the Real Academia (Madrid), the Archivo General de la Nación (Caracas), the Archivo General de la Nación, the Registro General del Sello (Caracas), and the Perry Castaneda Library at the University of Texas at Austin deserve special thanks. A warm hug to everyone at the Nettie Lee Benson Latin American collection at the University of Texas at Austin. It remains a rare privilege to work with all of you and to be able to root in such a magnificent library. Special thanks to Margo Gutierrez, Michael Hironymous, and Adán Benavides. Certain individuals went above and beyond. I particularly recognize the assistance of Maria Antonia Colomar Albajar, Pilar Fájardo de la Escosura, Manuel Romero Fallafigo, and Rosario Parra in Seville; Raquel Rosario from Puerto Rico; Dora Davila, Luis Pellicer, and Olga González-Silen in xi

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Caracas and California. The latter not only changed dollars to bolivars, she shared her extensive knowledge of Caracas archives, sent me documents, and helped me unravel the intricacies of Venezuelan independence! Mauricio Pajon kept an eagle eye out for names as he researched in Guatemalan archives and passed on some key documents. Jesse Cromwell solved the mystery of a missing legajo at the Archivo General de Indias. William Phillips explained Spanish slavery. Gabriela de Vlachochaga shared insights concerning the watercolor of José Manuel Valdés. Sergio Paolo Solano sent me wonderful documents from Colombia. Laura Matthew literally helped me conclude the story, sharing Franciscan José Antonio Goicoechea’s amazing letter and the 1808 consulta. This work spans tenure at two universities; I began writing as a professor at the University of Cincinnati and finished the manuscript at the University of Texas at Austin. Colleagues from both places made contributions, including Ohio colleagues Barbara Ramusack, Zane Miller, and Roger Daniels who were there at the start. I now find myself privileged to work with a distinguished and collegial cohort of Latin Americanists at Texas, including Susan Deans-Smith, Virginia Burnett, Seth Garfield, Frank Guridy, Jonathan Brown, Matthew Butler, and Lina del Castillo. History head Alan Tully, as well as colleagues Jorge Canizares-Escurra, Julie Hardwick, Jackie Jones, Neil Kamil, and James Sidbury, provided insight and resources at key moments. I always knew that the Teresa Lozano Long Institute for Latin American Studies and Charles R. Hale were backup if I needed it. Since Purchasing Whiteness shares gracias al sacar documents collected during the research of Public Lives, Private Secrets, there are two whose substantive contributions have spanned both projects and who deserve special recognition. First is Asunción Lavrin, the chief draft-reader-critiquer and cheerleader who always has wise, productive as well as funny comments— and she even corrects my accents! My go-to guy in understanding the internal workings of the Spanish empire is always Mark Burkholder—he makes particularly significant contributions in Chapter 2. It can be hard over the years writing a monograph to keep on track. Annual attendance and paper-giving at the Rocky Mountain Council of Latin Americanists—the premier venue for colonialists—invariably recharged weakened intellectual batteries. Conversations and partying with so many of you—you know who you are!—kept the juices flowing. Not only have

acknowledgments

xiii

we shared our ongoing research—I expect every one of you to buy a copy of this book and assign it in your classes! I also thank those graduate students that I have had the privilege to work with at the University of Texas. Even if I have not always inspired them, they certainly motivate me! If it is any consolation as you endure my constant prodding and editing, I have tried to be as tough on myself as I am with you. Yes, a special thank you to my research seminar students, spring 2014, who commented on some final chapters. Resources to support this research were fundamental. I thank the National Endowment for the Humanities and the Charles Phelps Taft Foundation of the University of Cincinnati. At the University of Texas at Austin, the Teresa Lozano Long Institute of Latin American Studies provided Sponsored Fellowships for Research; the College of Liberal Arts, a Dean’s Fellowship and a Fellowship at the Humanities Institute; the College and the Department of History, a Fellowship at the Institute of Historical Research. I also gratefully acknowledge financial assistance provided for the publication of this book from the President’s Office at The University of Texas at Austin. The birth of this project began with a quick email sent too many years ago to Editor Norris Pope at Stanford, who enthusiastically supported the concept from the start. I also thank Stacy Wagner and Friederike Sundaram who carried this project along and to new history editor Eric Brandt who has helped it cross the finish. I remain in awe of project manager Fran Andersen’s attention to getting the details right. My deep gratitude goes to Matthew Restall as well as to R. Douglas Cope, the readers of the manuscript. I simply could have not asked for more perceptive questions and comments from two such distinguished experts in the field. I have taken both your wise observations and critiques to heart and, as a result, the manuscript is substantially better. Thank you. Last, but far from least, I must acknowledge L. J. Andrew Villalon, my soul mate for these many years. Since our move to Austin, Andy and I have enjoyed many sunsets sipping a glass of wine, looking over the hill country, and reviewing our day. My conversation inevitably returned to “the book”—what I had learned, what I could not figure out, why I was frustrated, or why exhilarated. Our sharing of each other’s research, as well as our lives together with our fuzzies, remains a rare and precious “value added” that I never fail to appreciate.

Preface

It is confession time. I seemed fated and privileged for the locale of my books to begin in Antioquia, Colombia. As a graduate student, I wondered why Medellín, the modern capital of the department of Antioquia, was one of those few places in Latin America where, at the beginning of the twentieth century, locals carried textile machinery on their backs over the Andes to begin one of the rare indigenous industrializations in Latin America. Researching the origins of this Antioqueño entrepreneurship in Miners, Merchants and Farmers in Colonial Colombia sent me back to an earlier era and a society where the presence and absence of natural resources demanded multiple investments and flexible notions of wealth.1 This promoted an entrepreneurial ethos that led some in the nineteenth century to label Antiqueños as the Jews of Colombia. Capital accumulation resulting from coffee exports would fuel that later industrialization and prove to be but another legacy of that earlier way of being, or modo de ser. Knowledge of the world of eighteenth-century Antioquia also led me to Gabriel Muñoz, who, even though a wealthy merchant, found himself excluded from prestigious service on the Medellín city council, or cabildo. Publicly denied the honorific title of Don on the street, he sued the royal official who spurned him. Although he won his lawsuit, he realized that his illegitimacy made him vulnerable to further insult, and so he purchased a gracias al sacar, a royal decree that erased the defect of his birth.2 It also led to his acceptance by local elites—he eventually assumed that coveted position on the cabildo. Wondering if there were others who experienced similar discrimination and sought redress led me to the Archive of the Indies in Seville and to archives throughout Spanish America. In Public Lives, Private Secrets, I traced the lives of 244 who applied for a gracias al sacar to erase their illegitimacy.3 xv

xvi

pr eface

Their histories not only provided insight into their private and public worlds but illuminated those of their families, friends, local elites, and imperial officials as they negotiated issues surrounding gender, honor, sexuality, and illegitimacy in eighteenth-century Spanish America. A final confession. One of the most commonly asked questions by colleagues as I sent Public Lives, Private Secrets to press was: “What about the mulattos and pardos (brown-skinned) who purchased whiteness through gracias al sacar? Aren’t you going to write about them?”4 They inquired because the same process that allowed Gabriel Muñoz to pay to eliminate his illegitimacy also permitted pardos and mulattos to buy whiteness. In 1795, the Spanish crown had issued an official price list (arancel) for the Americas that included both legitimation and whitening among seventyone purchasable options. My answer at the time was that I had just finished a huge manuscript, and although I mentioned the whiteness option that there was neither space nor time to do justice to that theme. I agreed that it was a compelling topic and I promised that I would. This monograph fulfills that pledge. Yet, I could not know, as I explored what I originally conceived as a topic focused solely on the purchase of whiteness, where it would eventually evolve. I began to wonder why those pardos and mulattos who petitioned the crown in the mid-eighteenth century for the whitening gracias al sacar felt they could do so—and why would the monarch take their requests seriously? It became imperative to understand the accomplishments of their ancestors, to understand the historic processes that facilitated those quests by earlier generations that had opened even wider paths for their descendants. I began to realize that the history of the whitening gracias al sacar could only be told as inextricably linked to centuries of struggles as Africans and their mixed-blood descendants (castas) moved from slavery to freedom, to status as vassals, and finally to citizenship.5 Many who appear in the following pages proved to be unheralded civil rights pioneers. While they seldom directly challenged the legitimacy of the overarching hierarchy, they nonetheless engaged Spanish officials and local elites and contested imperial norms as they fought to eliminate discrimination. Even at the twilight of empire, as the monarchy threatened to tear apart, peninsular and American delegates in the Cortes of Cádiz would continue to debate equal status for the castas.

pr eface

xvii

What follows suggests that the whitening gracias al sacar emerged as but one variant, an official reflection of widespread practices that had facilitated pardo and mulatto mobilities for centuries. Even those refused whitening by the Council of the Indies were able to follow alternative paths and sometimes achieve their goals. More significantly, unknown thousands would also informally enjoy the benefits of partial or full whitening. The gracias al sacar proved liminal, but not because of the few who applied for it or the even fewer who received it. Rather, its history coincides with the larger and mostly untold story of casta mobility in Spanish America. The extent to which such struggles failed and succeeded provides striking insight into those processes of exclusion and inclusion that shaped the texture of discrimination within the Spanish empire. It seems appropriate that at least one part of this story begins again in Antioquia, for the Valenzuela brothers, rich merchants from that colonial capital, were the first pardos in the Indies to receive a decree from the crown that made them white. However, there is much to explore before they appear. The best way to start would be with some first “Conclusions,” revisiting more than a century of scholarly fascination with the concept that pardos and mulattos could purchase whiteness.

one

Conclusions A Century of Historiography For the dispensation of the quality of Pardo . . . 500 [reales]. For the dispensation of the quality of Quinterón . . . 800 [reales]. royal cédula . . . of the pecuniary charges of the gracias al sacar1

In 1912, Brazilian historian Manoel de Oliveira Lima delivered a speech at Stanford University on a controversial theme. Referring to the “ever burning question of race feeling,” he pointedly observed that “it is a sentiment which among you has reached a degree of intensity which has never been equaled among Americans of Iberian descent.”2 He suggested that perhaps one reason that “scruples of blood” might not be as divisive in Latin America was that mixing was “silently solving” the “color problem.” He used as one historic example of such Hispanic “liberalism” the “famous cédulas de gracias al sacar” in which the Spanish state sold “certificates of white blood.”3 It must have taken a certain courage for Oliveira Lima to raise such a provocative subject: he was lecturing to a U.S. audience that lived in a world that institutionalized separation, prohibited mixing, and legitimized racism. Nor is there any doubt that he—as many authors who would write about gracias al sacar—fundamentally underestimated the presence of both racial consciousness and discrimination in Latin America. Still, these comments, which introduced the concept of purchasing whiteness to an 3

4

introductions

­ nglish-speaking audience, would initiate a trend. Scholars would consider E the option to purchase whiteness as providing insight not only to a comparative Anglo-Latin American past but also as speaking to the issues of their present. Through charged silences or pointed comments they would link the whitening gracias al sacar to contemporary events, as the United States moved from the apartheid of Oliveira Lima’s day, through the struggles of the civil rights movement, to the identity politics of today.4 Although the concept of purchasing whiteness has continually fascinated researchers, unanswered questions and inaccuracies riddle much of the existing historiography. This chapter explores some first “conclusions.” It traces how scholars searched for whitening documents, seizing on the gracias al sacar as a provocative marker as they explored key themes, including comparative slavery and citizenship in the Americas, the significance of caste versus class, the salience of identity, and the benefits and problematics of comparison. It also reveals how historians missed provocative clues suggesting that they needed to rethink why the whitening gracias al sacar appeared and what it meant. Even as they wrote incessantly about the purchase of whiteness, interpretations began to veer from the documentary record. Only the “reverse engineering” of known documents, the breaking of an archival code, and the systematic collection of whitening petitions have produced some first answers. It has also raised new questions. A central goal of what follows is to focus on what Ben Vinson called the “lens of success”—to explore those variables that might combine to permit successive generations of Africans and their descendants to achieve mobility in the Americas.5 Those who appear in the following pages formed a unique cohort. Never should their struggles for whiteness obscure recognition of the unknown thousands who were born or died in slavery or who lived at the margins even if free. Yet, it is also evident that successful transitions from slave to free person and from vassal to citizen formed essential progressions that linked the complex histories of Africans and their descendants in the Indies.

the internet: the new challenge Any review of existing literature on the purchase of whiteness has become far more complicated, albeit more revealing, as historians enter the ­digital



a century of historiogr aphy

5

age. As this work goes to press, an internet search reveals that the exact words “gracias al sacar” appear in 39,700 monographs and 630 articles. While previously a brief mention would be unlikely to appear in an index and tend to be overlooked, now search engines relentlessly reveal each occurrence and permit a more nuanced evaluation. The new challenge is to find a methodology to contextualize such an immense historiography. Digital searches reveal a provocative divide in scholarly writing about the whitening gracias al sacar. English-speaking, primarily U.S. authors have either implicitly or explicitly presented the purchase of whiteness as a conceptual lightening rod. The very fact of its presence exists as an immediate shorthand, a dramatic illustration of the different ways that the Anglo and Hispanic worlds have conceptualized and lived differences of race. A number have suggested that the purchase of whiteness provides insight not only to the past but also to contemporary issues of race relations in both Americas. In contrast, scholars, whether from Spain or Latin America, do not consider the purchase of whiteness to be a particularly novel concept. While some do not ignore the comparative American focus, their primary concern is to contextualize gracias al sacar within imperial or local themes. These include conflict over social and ethnic hierarchy or the subsequent impact of the whitening controversy on independence. Venezuelan historians and historians of Venezuela have played a particular role, given that much of this debate took place in Caracas. Only recently has the gracias al sacar appeared in this literature as providing insight into race relations or identity in the Hispanic world. Tracking these diverse approaches illustrates those ways that contemporary preoccupations shaped a scholarly agenda and a century of publications.

u.s. schol a r s a n d f i r s t r e se a rch on gr acias al sacar Although Manoel de Oliveira Lima’s comments concerning the purchase of whiteness to a Stanford audience in 1912 were provocative, they proved mostly to be a dead end. Since he did not footnote his remarks, he did not provide any documentary trail for U.S. historians to research, nor did they evidence much interest in doing so. Confirmation of rising awareness of the

6

introductions

whitening option became manifest in the 1930s as, with interest in Latin America increasing, U.S. historians who wrote textbooks began to refer to it, if only in passing. In his 1933 edition of Colonial Hispanic America, Charles E. Chapman initiated what would become a somewhat amusing trend: attempts to translate gracias al sacar for an English-reading audience. The problem was that the literal translation—“thanks to take”—does not convey the subtlety of the Spanish meaning. Since Chapman did not know that gracias al sacar included numerous purchasable favors, he shaped his translation solely around the acquisition of whiteness. He rendered gracias al sacar as “royal decrees of thanks for getting out of it, i.e. out of the colored ranks into those of white men.”6 When John Crow wrote his Epic of Latin America in 1946, he somewhat more elegantly, although equally mistakenly, translated gracias al sacar as a “decree of thanks for getting out of . . . the colored ranks.”7 Since then scholars have struggled to translate gracias al sacar—some with greater and others with lesser success—by combining the concept of thanks, gracias, with that of movement, al sacar, of being taken from one state to another. Later versions have included: “concession of exemptions” (1951), “removal thanks” (1967), “thanks for the exclusion” (1978), “thanks for getting out of it” (1979), “grateful for deliverance” (1980), “permission to pass” (1983), “document of thanksgiving for being pulled up” (1989), “thanks to be taken out, removed or freed” (1996), “document of grace upon receipt” (1997), “thanks for rescuing me” (2003), “proceeding to change legal status” (2004), “conceded grace” (2007), “thank you for removing” (2008), and “thanks for taking that background out” (2008).8 The more elegant solution seems less to translate gracias literally as “thanks,” but rather to consider it more reflective of the medieval concept of a “leave” granted by the monarch to a deserving vassal.9 It then becomes a “leave to take” or, more colloquially, a “permission to take” from one condition, for example, the state of pardo-ness and to move to another such as whiteness. Whether mentioned by Chapman or Crow in their textbooks in the 1930s and 1940s or by more recent scholars, allusions to gracias al sacar are significant less for their translations than for their proliferation. Almost every history on Spanish colonial America written for an English-language audience included a mention of the whitening option, including textbooks by Snow (1967), Davis (1968), Worcester and Schaeffer (1970), Burkholder and Johnson (1994), Keen (1996), Beezley and MacLachlan (1999), and Chas-



a century of historiogr aphy

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teen (2001) as well as the Cambridge History of Latin America.10 Nor were historians alone in considering the question. Anthropologists (Wauchope and Nash, 1967; Willems, 1975; Flora and Torres-Rivas, 1989b) and political scientists (Friedman, 1984) also referred to whitening.11 Gracias al sacar also figured in compendiums concerning slavery (Finkelman and Miller, 1998; Heuman and Burnard, 2011), race (Levine, 1980; Appiah and Gates, 1999), and diaspora (Davies, 2008).12 Even with so many references to whitening, serious research on the topic had stalled, for historians could not find the relevant sources. The result was that historians literally went in pursuit of these elusive documents. A look back suggests four stages in a hunt that not only discovered whitening petitions but also tantalizing clues as to what had occurred and what it signified. First were the initial publications in 1944 and 1951—by John Tate Lanning and James F. King, respectively—of a few pages from a whitening decree. In 1962, when Richard Konetzke issued his monumental five volumes of documents on Spanish American social history, he included a few additional cases. Next were two volumes, one of analysis and another of documents, published by historian Santos Rodulfo Cortés in 1978, the first systematically to research whitening petitions, in this case, for Venezuela. The last contribution was my own, involving a methodology of reverse engineering in the Archive of the Indies (AGI) to locate gracias al sacar applications throughout the empire. Understanding how historians searched for documents, what information they had, what they lacked, and how they wandered provides insight into the changing historiography on whitening.

the search for documents: l anning and king Even though Oliveira Lima had mentioned whitening in a lecture in 1912, and historians subsequently referred to it in textbooks, it was not until 1944 that scholars found any documentary trail leading to the gracias al sacar. In the midst of World War II, John Tate Lanning, then editor of the Hispanic American Historical Review (henceforth HAHR), decided to publish a special edition dedicated to the “Negro on the Spanish-American Mainland.” He printed a document in Spanish that dealt with the case of Joseph Ponciano de Ayarza, a mulatto student who attended but then found himself

8

introductions

unable to graduate from the University of Santa Fe in Bogotá, given that Indies legislation reserved university degrees for whites.13 The sixteen-page document contained his petition to the crown, local testimony in his favor, and included the royal decree that removed his mulatto-ness, made him white, and permitted him to graduate.14 Although Lanning penned a short introduction in English to the untranslated document, he did not acknowledge that he was the author, perhaps due to the nature of the publication. After all, he was teaching at a southern university (Duke) and writing in a wartime period where U.S. troops remained segregated, as did most venues. This included universities, many of which would never have admitted a mulatto such as Joseph Ponciano as a student, much less accepted his transformation to the status of white. Given the climate of race relations in the United States in the 1940s, the whitening gracias al sacar was a challenging document. It is important to underline the context in which Lanning found this first document on whitening, for he almost certainly discovered it by accident. Since he was researching the history of universities, he found a copy in the colonial education section of the National Archive in Bogotá. His introduction to the document treated it as a strange curiosity. He decided that Joseph Ponciano’s plight resulted from a rise in prejudice in late eighteenth-century universities. Lanning did not know that the petition was part of the gracias al sacar. Nor did he understand that Joseph Ponciano might not be alone— that there might be an official procedure permitting pardos to purchase whiteness, and therefore other cases and other petitions. Since Lanning published the whitening document in Spanish in a scholarly journal, it did not receive much circulation beyond specialists. The next mention would have far more lasting influence. In 1947, Frank Tannenbaum issued the first of what would be many editions of his classic if controversial comparison of slaves and freedmen in the United States and in Latin America, Slave and Citizen. Although he neither provided a footnote nor mentioned gracias al sacar, Tannenbaum nonetheless noted that it was possible in Spanish America for the free “Negro” to purchase whiteness “for a specific price.”15 Such an option buttressed his thesis that Iberian slavery proved more humane than its Anglo counterpart given that Spanish Americans recognized the slave as a fellow Catholic with a soul, deserving of legal protections from the state.



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Tannenbaum concluded that this acknowledgment of “legal personality and moral status” had facilitated the movement from slave to citizen.16 Once free from bondage, the “Negro” might even purchase whiteness, a path patently impossible for any U.S. counterpart. His mention continued the trend of referencing the whitening gracias al sacar as a marker highlighting Ibero and Anglo American differences. Slave and Citizen closed with the influential “Tannenbaum thesis.” He suggested that the customs and laws of Anglo and Latin American slave regimes had not only impeded or facilitated the movement from bondage to citizenship. They also formed part of the core of the deeply conflicted U.S. or more harmonious Latin American race relations characteristic of the twentieth century.17 While later scholars would challenge many aspects of Tannenbaum’s conclusion, a topic to be considered in the next chapter, there was an immediate problem concerning his reference to the purchase of whiteness. So far, historians had only found one case. It was left to John Tate Lanning’s co-editor of that HAHR publication on “Negros” in South America, James F. King, to discover the next clues. In 1950, while researching at the Archive of the Indies in Seville, he uncovered in a volume (legajo) of documents, another version of Joseph Ponciano’s whitening decree.18 However, this copy contained some bureaucratic scribbling that provided additional information. It revealed that after Joseph Ponciano had received permission to become white, he had paid for that privilege in the General Accounting House (Contaduría) according to a fixed price list (arancel). King followed this lead, searched imperial legislation, and discovered that the crown had issued three gracias al sacar schedules detailing a number of purchasable dispensations. There was a 1773 version for Spain, which did not contain whitening clauses, a 1795 counterpart for America, which listed seventy-one categories of favors sold by the crown—including the last two, which were the whitening clauses—and an 1801 revision that raised the prices for the favors. King suggested that Lanning had been mistaken in portraying Joseph Ponciano’s whitening as “a rare and isolated episode, which perhaps could take place only in academic halls.”19 Rather, he concluded that the case “involves a rather typical example of the granting of a cédula de gracias al sacar” that permitted “selected upper-class persons of part-Negro blood” to obtain “the legal rights and privileges of whites through the payment of a

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standard fee to the Crown.” His seven-page article became a foundational document of whitening literature, as later authors both constantly referenced and frequently misrepresented it. King introduced key themes that would dominate the historiography. He wondered who received it, pondered the number granted, questioned concerning the expense, speculated why the crown permitted it, and considered resulting consequences. He understood that the process was not limited to the purchase of whiteness but was a much more comprehensive one of multiple exemptions available for purchase. Nonetheless, his subsequent analysis raised as many questions as it answered. King immediately noticed two puzzling clues concerning categories and cost. He questioned why the whitening exemptions officially covered only two classifications: those who were pardos, or of darker-skinned mix, and those who were quinterones, or one-fifth African descent. He wondered why the price list specifically singled out only these two mixed ethnic (casta) designations and not others. Why not mulattos (African/white), castizos (whitish), zambos (African/Native), mestizos (Native/white), or myriad other designations? The differential in cost was also inconsistent, given that pardos, generally considered darker, paid less according to the price list (500 reales) than quinterones (800 reales) who tended to be physically lighter.20 Concluding that he was “at a loss” to understand this discrepancy, King ingeniously (if wrongly) speculated that “a quinterón, being practically white and probably already engaged in the process of ‘passing’ might be willing and able to pay more for assurance in his status.”21 These two provocative leads—why the gracias al sacar had only two categories and why the variation in cost— would later prove fundamental in understanding its origin. Another theme introduced by King was to question why the crown had issued the whitening legislation in the first place. The existence of a fee schedule suggested that such action was “partly, no doubt, because of the revenue.”22 However—in a paragraph quoted and re-quoted by later scholars—King provided a laundry list of somewhat conflicting policy considerations that might have produced the gracias al sacar. Included among these were “the desire to reward individual merit among colored subjects, to drain off potential leadership from the colored masses, and to create grateful new supporters of the Crown.” While the newly whitened would add to



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“the ranks of the white minority” they might simultaneously “undermine the pretensions of the creole aristocracy.” Even though King identified substantive issues surrounding whitening, he did not conclude that it was a widespread process permitting many pardos and quinterones to transform their status. He doubted that “any numerically important portion of the colored element” became white, given that “men of color” would have “lack[ed] the fees required.” From the start, speculation over the cost and the numbers whitened would remain another of the debated aspects of gracias al sacar. While King’s discovery was fundamental, he based his conclusions on minimal evidence. He cited only two cases: the original documents concerning Joseph Ponciano de Ayarza discovered by Lanning in Bogotá as well as his finding of the additional pages in Seville. He had also found a second petition, a decree from Venezuela that whitened Angela Inés Rodríguez, the wife of a royal official in Trinidad. His reading of the two cases suggested that there existed “a rather careful sifting process” whereby “only individuals who by occupation, social position or blood had already reached the periphery of white status,” received the transformative decrees. King also discovered at least one indication that local elites would not be receptive to whitening. He cited documents published by Venezuelan historians José Félix Blanco and Ramón Azupurú that reproduced Caracas city council records from 1796 in which city officials had vigorously protested against whitening and the gracias al sacar.23 Left unknown were the responses of others throughout the Indies. In later publications, James F. King and John Tate Lanning continued to speculate about gracias al sacar, attempting to locate it within broader historical contexts. King noted the absence of any mention of the whitening option in the 1810s, when, with Spain invaded by Napoleon and the king in exile, the Cortes (parliament) of Cádiz had struggled to draw up a governing constitution for the empire. Even though debate raged over whether to count the casta population equally with whites, he observed that “not a word was said” of gracias al sacar.24 He concluded that this was “evidence of its relative unimportance” as a mechanism for upward mobility. In contrast, Lanning seemed more sanguine. His research on the Enlightenment and colonial universities convinced him that whitening might be more common. Citing the case of Joseph Ponciano de Ayarza as an

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example, Lanning suggested that even if someone questioned the legality of pardo attendance at the university, and “attention was called to him, the Negro student could enlist the support of professors and fellow-students and graduate by royal dispensation.”25 Given that historians could still only locate two whitening cases, the debate about cost took on additional importance. It was one way to speculate if the price limited whitening to a few affluent pardos or—if the sum were modest—it might have provided potential mobility to a wider population. In 1956, Lanning questioned King’s conclusion that whitening was expensive and therefore prohibitive but for the wealthiest of pardos and mulattos. Lanning perceptively noted that the fees charged for whitening seemed strangely inexpensive. While the price list demanded 4000 reales for the purchase of another gracias al sacar favor, legitimation, it only charged pardos and quinterones 500 or 800 reales, respectively, to become white. Lanning described the cost as “a figure so low among the others in the schedule of rates as to be almost nominal.”26 He proved right: this differential pricing would remain another provocative clue in the eventual unraveling of the origins of the whitening option. Why would the purchase of whiteness, presumably a much greater status transformation than legitimation, prove to be so much less expensive?

spa n i a r ds a n d spa n ish a m e r ic a ns on gr acias al sacar Interest in the gracias al sacar was not limited to English-language publications: Spanish and Venezuelan historians were also writing about whitening. Unlike their U.S. counterparts, they did not find the concept that pardos could purchase whiteness to be particularly remarkable. Rather, they explored the impact of gracias al sacar on imperial or local trends.27 Spanish historians saw problems. In 1945, Salvador de Madariaga suggested the whitening decrees represented dissonance within the empire, given that slaves and free blacks were “without any natural tie with the Spanish regime.” This was one reason, he concluded, why the Venezuelan elite protested the upward mobility inherent in the whitening clauses, as they feared that pardos and mulattos were not loyal to the crown.28 When José María Ots Capdequi commented on the gracias al sacar price list in



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1968, he considered the selling of such favors as evidence of “a juridical system in frank decadence.”29 Not surprisingly, Venezuelans scholars, many who were not historians, concentrated on local responses to the whitening gracias al sacar. They viewed the late eighteenth-century controversy over whitening as marking deep divisions.30 In a 1960 review of how sociologists interpreted Venezuelan history, José Rafael Mendoza depicted local fights over whitening decrees as preshadowing the future “caste war” of independence as well as later nineteenth-century conflicts.31 To sociologist Laureano Vallenilla Lanz (1961) the existence of gracias al sacar posed a provocative question: Who were the oppressors of the Venezuelan masses? Was it the Spanish empire, whose promulgation of the whitening decree opened the way for “democratic evolution” and “for the equaling of the castas”? Or was it local elites, who in the 1790s had opposed the gracias al sacar and who had “fought until the last minutes of the revolution to conserve deep social inequalities”?32 Even when Venezuelan elites had later reversed direction and proclaimed the “rights of man” in 1810 and “the democratic republic” in 1811, pardos and mulattos had not forgotten their opposition to whitening. The not surprising result, Vallenilla Lanz concluded, was the novel alignment of coalitions that supported and opposed independence. In the early phases, that “great majority of the plebeians and people of color” initially backed the Spanish monarchy, rather than Simón Bolívar. Yet, for all Vallenilla Lanz’s speculation, it remained unknown how many pardos in Venezuela had taken advantage of the whitening decrees.

the konetzk e documents While U.S., Spanish, and Venezuelan scholars continued to speculate, without additional documents it remained difficult to answer the questions posed by gracias al sacar. It was not until 1962, when Richard Konetzke published five volumes on the social history of colonial Spanish America that historians found further sources. Konetzke had not only scoured published collections, but he had spent years in the Archive of the Indies collecting documents. He printed hundreds of imperial decrees and ordinances concerning slaves, free blacks, pardos, and mulattos from conquest through

14

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independence. Konetzke was clearly searching for whitening cases, for he republished the Ayarza petition that had appeared in the HAHR in 1944 and he added new finds: a one-page decree that whitened Julián Valenzuela in 1796 in Antioquia, Colombia, and a three-page royal confirmation of the whitening of a Diego Mexias Bejarano. The latter was petitioning in 1805 so that his son Diego Lorenzo might attend the University of Caracas.33 Two other groups of sources published by Konetzke turned out to include important clues that would later permit a systematic recovery of gracias al sacar documents. There were five precursor cases from the 1760s that provided intriguing hints that prior to 1795 pardos and mulattos had applied for royal decrees that did not fully whiten but that had relieved discrimination sufficiently so that they might practice the occupation of surgeon, legally reserved for whites.34 Konetzke also found a request in 1783 by Guatemalan Bernardo Ramírez asking for total whiteness.35 He printed examples of other gracias al sacar favors, including legitimations (six) and the grant of noble status (five).36 Unfortunately, just as in the cases of Lanning and King, these discoveries seemed to be random finds. There was still no systematic way to track the numbers of petitioners or to determine who received the coveted decrees. By the mid-1960s, the concept of whitening had spread beyond historical inquiries to emerge in popular, indeed, otherworldly imaginings. In one of its more bizarre iterations, gracias al sacar figured in a 1965 science fiction story by noted author Frank Herbert. In “Greenslaves,” at a dramatic moment, as the alien neared the “checkpoints . . . with an almost human gesture, he fingered the cédula de gracias al sacar, the certificate of white blood.”37 Meanwhile, back on earth, as scholars continued their search for the elusive documents, they began to incorporate Konetzke’s findings into subsequent analysis.

w hitening: t he 1960s a nd 1970s Among the first to contextualize the new whitening cases was Swedish historian Magnus Mörner. He foreshadowed a series of publications concerning whitening in the late 1960s and 1970s.38 In his influential Race Mixture in the History of Latin America (1967), he suggested that whitening was consis-



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tent with an increased intervention of the Bourbon monarchy in American affairs. He considered that the end of the eighteenth century had marked rising prejudice against pardos and mulattos and that in response the crown had “launched a new policy” that permitted the purchase of whiteness to promote mobility. Using the documents from Konetzke, Mörner observed that while in 1783 a Bernardo Ramírez had applied for whiteness unsuccessfully, in 1796 a Julián Valenzuela had easily received a whitening decree. However, a look back reveals that Mörner had missed a critical hint. There was yet another gracias al sacar mystery: Why, in 1783, would a mulatto apply for whitening when the option to purchase whiteness only appeared officially in 1795? Even though Mörner considered that whitening might provide mobility, he had doubts concerning its effectiveness. He noted that even though pardo Diego Mexias Bejarano had purchased whiteness, the University of Caracas in 1805 had still refused to permit his son Diego Lorenzo to attend classes. In a comment that revealed how the concept of whitening remained compelling not only to past but more current issues, Mörner compared this standoff in Caracas to one that had occurred in his recent past—just five years before the publication of Race Mixture in 1967. He remembered 1962, when Attorney General Robert Kennedy had to call out federal troops resulting in a violent confrontation that eventually led to the admission of James Meredith and the forced integration of the University of Mississippi. Wondering if Diego Lorenzo had ever graduated, Mörner speculated that “more than words would probably have been needed in this Spanish American ‘Ole Miss.’”39 He remained dubious that the University of Caracas would have admitted pardos, even if officially whitened. Yet, the evidence also suggested that even while the crown, pardos and mulattos, and local elites had been debating and arguing, they had also been dealing openly and peacefully concerning the issue in 1805, rather than in 1962. Another historian who doubted the efficacy of the whitening gracias al sacar, and who also pointedly compared U.S. and Latin America practice was Edgar Love. In a 1967 article, he relied on legislation and secondary sources to explore “Negro Resistance to Spanish Rule.” Love not only described informal processes of mulatto passing but also noted that the gracias al sacar provided “legal whitewashing.”40 He doubted, given their “economic circumstances and inferior social status,” that many could have purchased

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such dispensations. He concluded with a comparison: while the “lot of the Negro of colonial Mexico was not a happy one,” it was also evident that he had “greater social mobility” and that he “was in a better position to defy the white man than his counterpart, the American Negro.”41 Writing the next year, in 1968, Spanish historian Juan Bautista Oleachea Labayen was also struck by Hispanic and Anglo contrasts.42 He doubted whether the crown had issued the whitening gracias al sacar as a means to produce revenue. Rather, taking his cue from Lanning, he compared the “relatively small” sum charged for that favor with the much higher costs of other dispensations such as legitimations.43 He suggested that the crown might have had “other ends” including the “promotion of blacks in particular cases.” Oleachea Labayen’s discovery of many instances of informal mulatto mobility led him to speculate, contrary to Love, that the king might have issued “not a few” of the official whitening dispensations.44 As Mörner’s consideration of the whitening gracias al sacar had led him to evoke the forced integration of the University of Mississippi; as Love had pointedly contrasted the plight of the Mexican and American “Negro”; so Oleachea Labayen concluded his essay with “a present note.”45 He quoted a New York Times editorial from May 10, 1963. Titled “The Meaning of Birmingham,” it considered the tensions and the future implications of the standoff over integration of that city’s lunch counters and retail establishments. In an attempt to provide readers with some context, the editorial had cited Frank Tannenbaum’s analysis in Slave and Citizen of the “striking differences” between U.S. and Latin American histories and their contrasting attitudes toward slaves and free blacks. The New York Times had concluded: The Latin carrying on the tradition inherited from Spain and Portugal, treated the Negro slaves less as domestic animals and more as human beings whose inferiorities were legal and economic rather than moral . . . emancipation occurred peacefully in every Latin American nation, and the social adjustments, while far from perfect, have been made fairly smoothly and tolerantly.

What Oleachea Labayen did not quote is also worth a mention, for the 1963 editorial had ominously concluded: “A tidal wave hit the United States in 1860, and then subsided. Another one, a century later, is gather-



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ing force.”46 Throughout the next decades, as the United States grappled more openly with its racist demons, historians would follow the examples of Mörner, Love, and Oleachea Labayen. They would look south and they would find the whitening gracias al sacar. It would become a historical epithet, a comparison to summon as immediate and spectacular evidence of the historic differences between Anglo and Latin practices of race. While the concept of purchasing whiteness remained riveting, historians were still engaged in a fruitless search for actual cases: so far, they had found four, two by King (Ayarza, Rodríguez) and two by Konetzke (Mexias Bejarano, Valenzuela). When Magnus Mörner reviewed the historiography surrounding the “History of Race Relations” in the Latin American Research Review in 1966, he somewhat plaintively commented that “a systematic investigation of this matter would be of great interest.”47 In 1972, when Frederick P. Bowser explored current publications on “The African in Colonial Spanish America” in the same journal, he repeated Mörner’s call, noting that a “systematic investigation of the subject has yet to evoke scholarly response.”48 Bowser remained skeptical that a whitening decree would be effective, suggesting that the “practical value of such documents is open to dispute.” As historians before him, he evoked the importance of research into such themes: “In the last four decades, forces and events too obvious and too menacing for restatement here, have prompted a dramatic increase in scholarly investigation of all facets of the African experience in the Western Hemisphere.”49 When David W. Cohen and Jack P. Greene published an edited collection that same year (Neither Slave nor Free, 1972), comparing the experience of freedmen in Spanish, Portuguese, Anglo, French, and Dutch colonies, they also admitted that the “renewed urgency of racial issues in the Americas” had provided an “initial stimulus.”50 In Frederick P. Bowser’s essay in this collection, he again revisited the issue of the whitening gracias al sacar and seemed more optimistic concerning its impact. Still basing his conclusions on the four known cases, he observed that the crown “implemented” whitening “cautiously, even haphazardly,” given that the price list was “not issued until 1795” and there seemed little rationale in who received positive or negative decisions.51 Nonetheless, when Bowser presented a summation of variables that he considered key in facilitating mobility to “free persons of color” he included “wealth, influence, distinguished service, relatively light

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skin and gracias al sacar.”52 The presence of the option continued to have a powerful influence on interpretation. Not only historians but also anthropologists meditated on the ways that gracias al sacar provided insight into Anglo and Iberian differences. In Latin American Culture (1975), Emilio Willems suggested that “racial prejudice as we understand it” was different in colonial Spanish America, given that it was based on legislative discrimination against those defined as lacking “clean blood” (limpieza de sangre), which included Jews, Moors, or those of African ancestry.53 This contrasted to racism based on the concept of “biological inferiority,” which “cannot be altered.” Willems concluded that while “genuine racial prejudice” was “uncompromising,” in Latin America “the fabric of colonial society was shot through with compromises and glaring inconsistencies concerning race.”54 He questioned if “genuine” racism was prevalent in Latin America and cited as one proof the whitening gracias al sacar, given that “biological inferiority cannot be removed by legal processes.”55 Leslie B. Rout was another historian who linked the whitening gracias al sacar to the present and past in The African Experience in Spanish America (1976). In a section provocatively titled “Black ‘White Men,’” Rout cited the document published by Konetzke in which the Council of the Indies in 1805 had ordered that the University of Caracas admit Diego Lorenzo Mexias Bejarano, given that his father had purchased whiteness.56 Rout concluded that “for a change, it seemed that justice had triumphed over bigotry.”57 Rout then went on to question if Diego Lorenzo had ever matriculated and to suggest potential negative effects of the whitening option. Its central purpose, he concluded, was to divide “blacks, mulattos and zambos into contentious groups” given that only mulattos might purchase whitening. Using a baseball analogy, he proposed that gracias al sacar “may be characterized not as a pass to the reserved seats, but a ticket into the bleachers from where the black or mulatto bearer could sneer disdainfully at other Negroids unable to enter the stadium.”58 For Rout, the effects of the gracias al sacar were pernicious: it functioned to separate “potential leaders . . . from the Negroid masses” and to allow mulattos “a rationale for lording it over the blacks.”59 Even while Rout theorized, he also admitted that the “program was not in effect long enough” to judge if it provoked that divisive outcome given that “no figures are available citing how many of these documents were purchased.”60



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venezuel an connections: santos rodulfo cortés As scholars continued to be frustrated with the absence of whitening cases, a team of Venezuelans was already at work in the Archive of the Indies beginning to fill the void. In 1955, the Venezuelan government had commissioned a massive project that for the next thirty-one years would work to recover that country’s past. Distinguished historian, geographer, and priest Brother Nectario María would spend years supervising teams of paleographers and copiers who sometimes made full duplicates of relevant documents and other times prepared indexes to pertinent archival collections.61 By the time the project concluded in 1986, they had produced 1594 volumes of documents and guides. Given that vast sections of the Archive of the Indies remain essentially unindexed, their 22-volume index to the documents contained in the 976 volumes from the administrative division (audiencia) of Caracas would prove invaluable. It would be this resource that made it possible for Santos Rodulfo Cortés to write his dissertation on gracias al sacar in Venezuela, which he would publish in 1978 as a monograph, El régimen de las gracias del sacar. He added a valuable second volume with more than two hundred pages of transcribed documents concerning whitening petitions.62 He had discovered rich materials on the Venezuelan case (Mexias Bejarano) published by Konetzke, as well as seven additional petitions. He added relevant local documents such as the protests from the Caracas city council and additional materials in the Venezuelan national archive to the document collection. In a pre-Internet age, with these two volumes published in Spanish and in a limited edition, Rodulfo Cortés’s finds remained isolated with minimal impact on the whitening historiography for next two decades.63 Although he did not cite Magnus Mörner, he agreed with him that the crown had issued the whitening gracias al sacar to “reestablish the equilibrium” that “had broken due to the freezing of social mobility.”64 The goal was to reduce somewhat the “inequality of the population” given that “rigid politics” had privileged “hierarchy and discrimination.” Did gracias al sacar work? Rodulfo Cortés’s conclusion might have shocked U.S. scholars, for his judgment—repeated with the same word various times throughout the monograph—was that whitening was “a joke.”65 He concluded:

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In reality, nothing happened, all stayed the same. The Mantuanos [Caracas elite] continued enjoying the privileges that the king had wanted them to share with their former slaves. The castas of color did not massively hasten to buy dispensations for their condition. Those who obtained them never were recognized nor respected as such. It was a permanent joke relative to the question of petitioning for them, acquiring them or enjoying them.66

Rodulfo Cortés considered gracias al sacar to be but a “juridical fiction” as it failed to equal those who received it in “treatment, alternatives, dress, adornments, marriage, entrance to the priesthood or church positions, access to the universities or schools and possession or use of gentlemanly distinctions.”67 He concluded that the whitening gracias al sacar was a “joke against this humble population that for three centuries” had exhibited its loyalty to the crown.68 Even though Rodulfo Cortés considered the whitening gracias al sacar to be a failure in promoting mobility, he did not deny that it had a profound impact on Venezuelan history. It enraged the Caracas elite, precipitating its support for independence. The “immediate revolution,” he argued, was accelerated “not so much by European events proceeding from the Napoleonic wars, not by municipal motives or economic reasons.”69 Rather, he felt that the “urgency” of the Caracas elite to break from Spain derived from the gracias al sacar: “the ascendance of the castas that the ministers of the Bourbon court had forwarded.”70 As subsequent chapters will demonstrate, there was a deal of validity in Rodulfo Cortés’s pessimism, for Venezuela would prove to be a unique case. Caracas elites would send torrents of documents to Madrid protesting the whitening gracias al sacar. Significantly, there would hardly be a trickle from the rest of the Indies.71 Some of the Venezuelan pardos who petitioned for whiteness would face fierce and sustained opposition, justifying Rodulfo Cortés’s gloomy evaluation. However, there seem to have been others who benefited: perhaps he underestimated the potential for variability.72 Just as Mörner, Rodulfo Cortés also seems to have missed a temporal inconsistency: two pardos from Caracas had petitioned for whiteness prior to the 1795 gracias al sacar that made it an official option.73 What seemed evident was that the darkness of his conclusions and the richness of the documents from Venezuela needed to be evaluated within the context of whitening petitions throughout the Indies.



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the caste versus cl ass debate Since the whitening cases discovered by Rodulfo Cortés remained unknown outside of Venezuela, scholarly analysis elsewhere continued to rest on only four examples. As the pace of publications on the comparative history of slavery and race began to decline, whitening appeared less often in this literature, as did pointed references to contemporary racial or civil rights issues in the United States.74 However, the paucity of sources did not deter historians from evoking the whitening option to buttress both sides of what Ben Vinson has characterized as “one of the most important [debates] in Latin American history.”75 In the midcentury, as the focus turned to social history, scholars began to consider the relative weight to assign to variables such as caste and class in determining status in the complex colonial society. In a seminal article in the HAHR in 1963, Lyle McAlister suggested that as the colonial era drew to a close, class was becoming more key than caste as a determiner of status. One of his many examples of the blurring of ethnic status was that “the castes could achieve legal whiteness by the purchase of cédulas called gracias al sacar.”76 In effect, money might trump race and ethnicity. Another potential “implication” of this analysis, as Vinson later noted, was the misleading suggestion that “most Latin American countries were on the verge of transforming into racial paradises,” given that those with economic mobility might purchase whiteness, thereby escaping discrimination.77 When Magnus Mörner published Race Mixture in 1967, he had remained unconvinced. Rather, he concluded that the “Society of Castes . . . continued to form the basis of social stratification until the very end of the colonial era.”78 Just as McAlister had used the whitening gracias al sacar to support the prominence of class, so Mörner employed it to demonstrate the primacy of caste. Even though pardos had the “ability to purchase . . . a gracias al sacar,” the caste system still set limits as to what money might accomplish. Citing the presumably failed attempt of Diego Lorenzo Mexias Bejarano to matriculate at the University of Caracas, Mörner concluded that caste had triumphed over class given that “legal whitening did not ensure the admission of a qualified son to the university.” Not even “royal power” might “ensure social status in the case of individuals tainted by the stigma of having dark-skinned slave ancestors.”79

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In the next two decades, historians would employ colonial censuses and statistical analysis to weigh the comparative determinants of caste versus class.80 Perhaps due to the novelty of employing quantitative techniques, perhaps because there were only four known cases, whitening would seldom figure in this later literature. Subsequent debate would revolve as much around controversy over the appropriate statistical method as over differing conclusions. As historians developed more nuanced understandings of the messiness and complexity of those processes shaping Indies society, they began to bypass the “terminological cul de sac” of the caste versus class dichotomy, rejecting it as “too neat.”81 When R. Douglas Cope published The Limits of Racial Domination (1994), the interpretive successor to Mörner’s Race Mixture, he stressed that race was “extremely complex” as well as “full of ambiguities and crosscut meanings.”82 Cope concluded that “a person’s race might be described as a shorthand summation of his social network.”83 Since the chronological sweep of Cope’s study ended in 1720, decades before the appearance of the whitening option, he did not mention it, although he generally did not judge “passing” to be “an efficacious means of social mobility.”84

gr acias al sacar: identit y and l atin a mer ican r acism Even as social historians became more skeptical of the effectiveness of the whitening option, another group of scholars began to appropriate gracias al sacar, employing it as evidence of those flexible processes that created Mexican, Latino, and Chicano identities. The option to purchase whiteness became emblematic of the unique experiences of ancestors who had created distinctive non-Anglo images. In The Roots of Lo Mexicano (1978), Henry C. Schmidt speculated how the “foundling Mexican would buy certificates of gracias al sacar to simulate Spanish status.”85 Carlos B. Gil mentioned whitening as a variable to consider in An Essay Concerning Chicano Character (1982).86 The usual strategy of authors was simply to mention the gracias al sacar as a contributor to the distinctive evolution of identities be it The Mexican and Mexican American Experience (1989), Constructing Collective Identities (1998), The Language of Blood: The Making of Spanish-American Identity



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(2004), or Deconstructing Creole (2007).87 Whereas previously scholars had employed the gracias al sacar as a symbol of the difference between Anglo and Hispanic constructions of race, now the whitening option figured as part of a historic heritage that had created distinctive Mexican, Mexican American, Latino, and Chicano identities. Nine decades after Manoel de Oliveira Lima had evoked the whitening gracias al sacar as evidence of the chasm between Anglo and more benign Latin American practices of race, the tables began to turn. Some scholars no longer interpreted the potential to purchase whiteness as a positive reflection of Latin American flexibility but rather as a deleterious process that masked racism. In 1993, David M. Guss suggested that “perhaps no institution more clearly demonstrates the way in which this purportedly color-blind ideology has confounded the issues of race and class than the gracias al sacar.”88 Scholars such as Carlos Hasenbalg charged that elements that supposedly embodied a “Latin American racial myth” such as “ethnic intermarriage,” the absence of “disguised racism,” of “overt racial conflict,” or of “legal discrimination” still embedded racist elements.89 While belief in the existence of this presumed racial harmony might have permitted Latin Americans some “moral superiority over their economically powerful Anglo-Saxon neighbors of the north,” it had also led to “timid responses to disguised racism.” The “ideal,” even in Latin America, remained whiteness. Hasenbalg noted that this striving for inclusion in “dominant white groups” had a long heritage, exemplified in Spanish America by a “special certificate called cédulas de gracias al sacar, which were sold by the Spanish crown.” More recent scholarship has also traced conceptual linkages between the whitening gracias al sacar and later republican dialogues masking racism. As Aline Helg noted (2004), a key result of independence in Colombia was that blacks “immediately gained equality regardless of race.”90 Still discrimination remained, although now “disguised in a discourse of legal equality.”91 In 2007, Marixa Lasso revisited the case of Joseph Ponciano de Ayarza to suggest that the process underlying his whitening petition preshadowed this later republican myth of “racial harmony and equality.”92 She noted that his father, Pedro Antonio de Ayarza, had successfully argued that the particular “merit” and “education” of his son should “be officially used to counterbalance racial origins.”93 The result was to suggest the “radical notion that legal and social status should not be based on race but on merit.” As Aline Helg concluded, “In such a legal context, any discourse on equality

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required silence on the question of race, and demands for equality were not made on the grounds of one’s color, but of one’s personal value and services to society.”94 The result was that the gracias al sacar interchanges and the postindependence dialogue both failed directly to confront existing bigotry, obliterating racism as a defining category. The negative effect was to create situations where, as Lasso notes, even though “blacks would enjoy legal equality” they would face “great difficulty in fighting prejudice and informal discrimination.”95 The prevailing “cultural environment” would make “the denunciation of racism taboo and black organizations a sign of unpatriotic divisiveness.” Both the whitening gracias al sacar as well as the republican discourse on equality and harmony proved to be Janus-faced.96

common misconceptions This survey of the historiography on the whitening gracias al sacar exposes how the agendas of historians have influenced the topics considered and the questions asked. It additionally reveals that scholars had a pronounced tendency to stray. Over the decades, as historians had begun to move farther away from consulting the original four documents published by Lanning, King, and Konetzke, remained ignorant of Rodulfo Cortés, and instead began to quote each other on gracias al sacar, a number of contradictions and misconceptions began to enter the literature.97 Scholars continued to differ concerning the frequency and cost of whitenings. John Lynch concluded in 1973 that “few pardos invoked this law,” while the next year Stephen K. Stoan (1974) conjectured that “any free-born person of legitimate birth” with the necessary sum might “obtain the rights corresponding to whiteness.”98 Emilio Willems (1975) considered that “the institution was widely used during the eighteenth century” as did Tamar Herzog (1998) who assumed that the crown granted whitening “automatically, conditioned only by the need to apply.”99 Debate also continued as to the cost: Lanning had shown that the price of the whitening gracias al sacar was substantially lower than other favors. It remained unclear if this was still a sum that better-off pardos might pay. Some presumed it must be a “heavy expense” (Borah, Hardoy, and Stelter, 1980) so that only the “few” who were “wealthy” (Friedman, 1984) could



a century of historiogr aphy

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purchase it.100 Others (Lau, 1998) suggested that it would have been “relatively inexpensive for the elite [pardo] classes.”101 A misconception that would persist until today was that not only pardos and mulattos but also mestizos (Spanish/Native mix) could purchase whiteness. Such an inference began in C. H. Haring’s classic The Spanish Empire in America (1947), which noted that in the Indies there was a “dispensation  .  .  . from the quality of mestizo.”102 Venezuelan historian Rufino Blanco-Fombona (1981) also suggested that the crown “sold to pardos and mestizos” the opportunity for whiteness.103 In 1966, Charles Gibson repeated this refrain in his Spain in America, noting that gracias al sacar dispensed from “mestizo or mulatto status.”104 Since then until today, scholars would continue to repeat this error.105 Even though historians (other than Rodulfo Cortés) had still located only four whitening cases, two from Colombia and two from Venezuela, a natural conflation also began to proliferate in the historiography. Scholars implicitly assumed that since pardos and mulattos throughout the Americas had the opportunity to apply for whitening, that they must have done so. The result was that historians spread the unsubstantiated assumption that pardos and mulattos in Mexico, Nicaragua, Peru, Argentina, Puerto Rico, Cuba, the Philippines, California, New Mexico, Florida, and Louisiana might (italics mine) have benefited from the whitening option.106 Some assumed that “certificates of whiteness” were “common to many parts of the Americas.”107 Since it was the absence of whitening documents as much as their presence that fundamentally shaped the historiography, it seems appropriate to explain how they eventually surfaced and provide some first answers.

finding the gr acias al sacar: r everse engineering in the archives In the mid-1980s, when I first visited the Archive of the Indies, I had no idea how to find the gracias al sacar. Without knowledge of the pioneering indexes of the Venezuelans or the 1978 publication of Santos Rodulfo Cortés, the only leads were the documents published by Lanning, King, and Konetzke. The original idea was to investigate several gracias al sacar options available in the 1795 price list. These included the purchase of legitimations,

26

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Spanish citizenship (naturaleza), entail (mayorazgo), titles of nobility, as well as whiteness. The first strategy was to spread the net widely and to call up every reference to every gracias al sacar case in the Archive of the Indies previously located by King and Konetzke. The next step involved a rough archival version of reverse engineering: a search for spatial patterns by plotting the call numbers where the known gracias al sacar cases existed in the “indexes” of the Archive of the Indies. Since many of these guides referenced runs of thousands of volumes described only as “General Materials” (Indiferente General), or “Letters and Files” (Cartas y Expedientes), it was first necessary to discover where the already discovered gracias al sacar cases tended to fall in the Archive of the Indies catalogue. The answer was that the known call numbers of gracias al sacar documents mostly clustered in the eighteenth-century section titled “Letters and Files,” which ran approximately from the 1760s to 1819. The next problem was that each of the thirteen administrative divisions (audiencias) of the Indies (Buenos Aires, Caracas, Charcas, Chile, Cuzco, Guadalajara, Guatemala, Lima, Mexico, Panama, Quito, Santa Fe, Santo Domingo) had a section titled “Letters and Files.” Since there were usually 3 volumes of documents for each year, the “Letters and Files” section for each jurisdiction contained approximately 180 volumes. Multiplying 180 by the 13 audiencia divisions suggested that the gracias al sacar cases were likely located somewhere in 2300 or so unindexed volumes, each containing hundreds of pages. This was a start, given that the Archive of the Indies contains more than 38,000 legajos.108 Since it would be impractical to consult two thousand plus volumes, the bad news was that without some guide it would be impossible systematically to locate the gracias al sacar. The good news was that the Spanish bureaucracy loved precedent. When officials in the Council of the Indies made decisions on cases, particularly when they were confused on what to do, they would often consult earlier verdicts for guidance. This meant that administrative practice typically created internal handwritten guides— sometimes generated as the documents arrived, sometimes later—that permitted officials to search for precedents.109 The only hope to find the gracias al sacar cases was if such an index existed for the “Letters and Files” section for each of the thirteen audiencia divisions. Since at the beginning of the catalogue for each audiencia there was also a section with the vague title “indexes” that contained numerous volumes with unknown contents,



a century of historiogr aphy

27

the best chance was to call these up and see if any proved to be a locator to “Letters and Files.” A week or so of reading indexes led to the discovery of an internal listing of documents for the “Letters and Files” section for Buenos Aires. This proved to be a handwritten book of several hundred pages detailing every year that letters and files from Argentina had arrived at the Council of the Indies. The clerk had noted, for example, that in 1771, document 14 contained the petition of a Don Manuel de Escalada for the legitimation of his two sons; or that document 12 in 1790 was from Don Juan Ville, a Frenchman, asking for Spanish citizenship; or that in 1797, letter 24 was from Pedro de Olmedo seeking whiteness.110 In all, the handwritten index for the audiencia of Buenos Aires provided information on more than eighty requests for gracias al sacar favors, including letters of citizenship, titles of nobility, mayorazgos, legitimations, and whitening. The final step was to locate the documents. The internal handwritten index for Buenos Aires did not correlate directly with the Archive of the Indies catalogue. However, it was possible to look in the current catalogue and discover that there were three volumes for 1771 in Buenos Aires “Letters and Files” and the call numbers to consult them. If the handwritten internal index showed that a legitimation arrived as document 14, the chances were good that the document would be in the first volume of the three volumes for 1771 (AGI, Buenos Aires 183) and, if not, certainly in the next volume. There was therefore a close, although not always perfect, correlation between the internal handwritten index and the modern archival listing. The gracias al sacar could now be precisely located, given that it was possible to find similar indexes for each audiencia section and methodically collect the cases.111 Near the end of this research, an archivist beckoned me back to the private working area of the archive, where he revealed the twenty-two-volume index for the audiencia of Caracas. The result of such reverse engineering was the discovery of 244 petitions for legitimations, 182 requests for citizenship, 77 for Titles of Castile, 45 entails, and 19 requests for the title of Don. The whitening petitions proved harder to quantify. A final count identified forty applications. Of these, twenty-nine cases existed in Cartas y Expedientes while internal references within petitions identified seven other applications.112 Four additional applicants, two produced by Konetzke, one by Rodulfo Cortés, and one emanating from Guatemala also ­eventually

28

introductions

CUBA MEXICO

Havana

Puebla

EL SALVADOR

HONDURAS

NICARAGUA

ña lo bo spa acai abel oE t Maruerto C r P racas ná Pue TRINIDAD Ca Cuma

a

igua Ant a City r al o m e e t vad Gua Sal ndaim San Na

GUATEMALA

amo Bay

alp ucig Teg

lo tobe ity Por ama C Pan

Car

a

n tage

Coro

VENEZUELA

Antioquia COLOMBIA

PANAMA

PERU

Lima

Córdoba ARGENTINA

Map 1. Cities of the whitening petitioners

n o t e : The map shows the names of the modern nation-states where these cities are located.

surfaced. (See Appendix A for details.) Whitening cases largely originated from circum-Caribbean locales centering on Guatemala (four), Cuba (eight), Panama (nine), and Venezuela (thirteen) with a few outliers: Honduras (one), Mexico (one), Argentina (one), Peru (one), and Colombia (two). The earliest petitions tended to be from Cuba, Panama, and Venezuela, while later applications were scattered throughout the empire.



a century of historiogr aphy

29

The dates of the whitening petitions proved immediately provocative, given that 43 percent of applications (seventeen of forty) arrived prior to the publication of the 1795 gracias al sacar. Only six of these “precursor” applications asked for total whiteness. Rather, petitioners requested exemptions to enjoy occupations and privileges reserved for whites, including to practice as an apothecary (one), a surgeon (two), a notary (five), and to graduate from the university (three). The question remained: Why were pardos and mulattos applying for partial or full whiteness before the publication of the gracias al sacar? What was the linkage between these early applications and the issuance of the official price list? Those answers initially had to wait, for the discovery of the numerous and rich petitions for legitimation engaged many years of research and writing, leading to the publication of my book Public Lives, Private Secrets in 1999. That monograph concluded that the small number of whitening cases could never have served as a significant source of upward mobility for pardos and mulattos. Given those criteria, it was a “dead letter almost from the moment of its appearance” and the “least important” of late eighteenthcentury social reforms.113 Nonetheless, research can now resolve many of the first questions raised by almost a century of historiography. More importantly, it reveals why these answers opened up even more provocative paths for exploration.

first a nsw ers, a dditiona l questions Perhaps one reason the concept of purchasing whiteness has remained so compelling is that it has remained so elusive, permitting multiple and contradictory interpretations. One deceptively simple answer resolves many of the first questions posed about whitening: Why were there just two casta categories, why did darker pardos pay less than lighter quinterones, why was it so much less expensive than other gracias al sacar favors, why were pardos applying before the issuance of the 1795 price list? The answer is that the crown did not issue the whitening option as part of any considered policy to better the status of pardos and mulattos in the Indies. Rather, the whitening gracias al sacar appeared due to precedents and due to a fit of bureaucratic housekeeping. In this instance, Ann Laura Stoler and Frederick Cooper have it exactly right: too often historians have “assumed more coherence

30

introductions

to colonial enterprises than they warrant.”114 Everyone who wrote about whitening assumed—wrongly—that it originated as a considered policy of the Spanish state. How could whitening have appeared as much by accident than as the result of deliberate decision making? Evidence reveals that before 1795 pardos and mulattos had been applying to the Council of the Indies for partial or total remedy of their defect.115 Tracing these precursor cases reveals how internal decisions within the Council of Indies created a slippery bureaucratic slope that eventually led to the issuance of an official whitening option. The process began in the 1760s when imperial officials established the precedent of relieving pardos of defect, so that they might practice professions prohibited by law, in this case, mulatto surgeons in Cuba. In these instances, the Council of the Indies did not charge for the concession. From the 1760s to 1780s, ministers began to provide exemptions for pardos and quinterones who applied to become notaries in Panama. This time officials took a next step and commoditized the favor. Applicants not only had to pay the usual gracias al sacar cost of purchasing the title of a notary; they also had to provide an additional fee to rid them of their inferior caste status. The sums charged to terminate these specific two caste statuses—500 for pardos and 800 for quinterones—were those that would appear decades later in the 1795 gracias al sacar. The Council of the Indies never made any rational calculation that those who were darker or lighter should pay more or less: rather, case precedents set the prices for whitening. In a final set of precursor cases, pardos and mulattos applied for more than occupational exemptions: they simply, and at that point unsuccessfully, asked the Council of the Indies to make them white. When, in the early 1790s, officials in General Accounting received orders to compile a list of gracias al sacar favors for purchase in the Americas to enhance revenue for the crown, they followed their usual procedure: they searched for precedents. The preface to this 1795 compilation explains that financial officials based it on the 1773 gracias al sacar issued for Spain as well as the “practice” of the Indies.116 Ministers first relied on the Spanish gracias al sacar as a template for listing numerous purchasable options, including legitimations, mayorazgos, and titles of nobility—all which had long histories, given the crown had granted such favors since the fifteenth century. Officials also followed their usual procedure and searched the archives of the Council of the Indies for additional favors that might be special to



a century of historiogr aphy

31

the Americas. They found the precursor cases requesting occupational dispensations as well as petitions where pardos requested total whiteness. They might have even discovered a striking notation by one crown attorney (  fiscal ) that elimination of the “defect” of quinterón was a “gracias al sacar.”117 The result was that the final clauses of the 1795 gracias al sacar consisted of a list of additional purchasable favors that were specific to the “Indies.” These included the costs paid by foreigners who wanted to “reside in the Indies”; the price for a non-Spaniard who requested “letters of naturalization” to live in the Americas; permission for those who held encomiendas—the right to tribute from Native populations—to reside in Spain, rather than in the Indies.118 Another purchase unique to the Americas—one that would later be associated with whitening—was permission to purchase the title of Don, as that honorific designated the holder as a white, legitimate, member of the elite. Finally, the two last clauses tacked at the end were the gracias al sacar favors permitting pardos and quinterones to pay to eliminate their defect, acquiring whiteness. Unlike the Council of the Indies, which had turned down applications for full whiteness before 1795 and had only eliminated pardo-ness for occupational purposes, the General Accounting officials ignored these distinctions. Instead, they picked up these pieces of evidence of sporadic dispensations and indiscriminately listed “dispensation of the quality of pardo” and of the “quality of quinterón” for purchase without any qualifications or limitations. The result was grants of total whiteness. The casualness with which these bureaucratic housekeepers dumped these potentially explosive clauses into the hands of officials in the Council of the Indies still remains breathtaking. However, seen from the perspective of administrative precedent, officials had simply taken a next step: they had transformed already existing informal and partial processes of whitening into grants of official and full whiteness. Another theme debated in the gracias al sacar historiography also awaits consideration: the issue of frequency. Why were there so few petitioners? Was it the expense, another issue of contention in the literature? The latter seems unlikely, for conversations between royal officials, local elites, and pardo petitioners reveal that all agreed that the cost was far too low for the benefit. One Argentine applicant offered to pay quadruple the fee if he received the favor; some petitioners likely spent more on legal advisors and on repeated petitions than they would have paid for the gracias.119

32

introductions

Nor was whitening a moneymaker for the crown, as the total sums collected were only 8500 reales, slightly more than the price of two legitimations. These miniscule amounts—even considering the small number (forty) of petitioners—resulted because the Council of Indies sometimes provided exemptions for free, or it turned down cases or tabled them.120 Given that whitening petitions generated several thousand pages of exchanges between imperial officials, petitioners, and local elites, it only added to the deficit of the royal coffers. Were there few applications because whitening was, in Santos Rodulfo Cortés’s estimation—a “joke,” and this was why so few pardos and mulattos applied?121 Alternatively, could it be, as Aline Helg has hypothesized for Cartagena, that certain locales provided substantial mobility so those on the edge of whiteness felt less need to purchase a gracias al sacar as they already enjoyed more than a modicum of mobility?122 What other reasons might account for the paucity of applications? While subsequent chapters will explore this puzzling question, one intriguing possibility is that pardos and mulattos in some locales simply did not know that there was an option to purchase whiteness. Although the crown had granted many gracias al sacar favors for centuries—legitimations, naturalizations, titles of nobility—these were mostly of interest to elites. Those who possessed the resources and the motivation to benefit from such purchases were already aware of such options long before the appearance of any 1795 compilation. In contrast, imperial officials tacked the new favors reserved for the Indies on the price list due to a few sporadic precedents and without any ceremony. Besides the possible reading of the gracias al sacar fee schedule by local town criers, the crown had made no attempt to publicize the new options, nor were local elites likely eager to encourage such knowledge among the eligible mulatto population.123 These variables may begin to explain why so few applied for the newly added American favors such as titles of Don (19) or for ending the status of pardo and quinterón (40) compared to those purchasing longstanding gracias such as legitimations (244) or citizenship (182). Another indication that knowledge of whitening might not have been widespread is that a number proved to be cluster applications. These revealed familial or occupational linkages between petitioners, with one applicant acquiring knowledge of the gracias al sacar and inspiring another. Two Cubans proved to be brothers: one applied in the 1760s to practice as



a century of historiogr aphy

33

a surgeon, his sibling decades later requested full whiteness.124 Both of the 1760 petitions for partial whitening came from Cuban pardos working at the same hospital.125 Among the Panamanians petitioning so they might practice as notaries were a father and son and a master and an apprentice.126 In Argentina, the sole pardo petitioner was aware of the gracias al sacar options given that his adopted (and possibly his actual) son had purchased a legitimation. One royal official purchased whitening for a first and then for a second wife.127 Such connections suggest that knowledge of the whitening gracias al sacar might not have been that widespread among those elite pardo and mulatto cohorts who had the means and the motivation to benefit from it. The one notable exception to this supposition was Caracas, for there the protests of local elites against the whitening gracias al sacar spread knowledge of its existence throughout the general population. Even though more Venezuelans applied for whitening than from other locales, this opposition likely also discouraged a number of other eligibles to apply. While it seems likely that substantial numbers of additional pardos and mulattos might have had the means to apply, the cost likely proved prohibitive for the majority. Initial investigation has provided some first answers—why the crown issued the decrees, why the two categories, the variable costs, the number of cases. Still, other more compelling questions remain: Who were those pardos and mulattos in the 1760s who created the precedents that would ultimately lead to whitening in the gracias al sacar? How were they able to get to that point? Why did the Council of the Indies listen to them, much less grant some of their requests? Their applications suggest that the history of whitening must have deeper roots embedded in Spanish traditions, in those centuries of mixtures that produced the society of castes, and in the generations of pardo and mulatto efforts to achieve mobility. Equally murky is what happened after 1795. What was the response of the Council of the Indies when it discovered that officials in General Accounting had replaced some informal occupational whitenings from the 1760s and 1770s with an official price list that sanctioned the purchase of total whiteness? Did their policies change? How did pardos and mulattos and local elites respond to the publication of the whitening option? What were the aftermaths? Embedded in thousands of pages of gracias al sacar interchanges were exceptional conversations about norms and exceptions to norms. They

34

introductions

illuminate what Ann Laura Stoler and Frederick Cooper have identified as a “central . . . point of recent colonial scholarship,” the recognition that the “otherness of the colonized person was neither inherent nor stable” given that “difference had to be defined and maintained.”128 This social and racial ambiguity exposed the dynamics underlying the ever-present “tension” between a “domination” that embodied both “incorporation and distancing.”129 Central was the extent to which traditional prejudices embedded in Spanish concepts, practice, and law persisted, with pardos and mulattos excluded, or if avenues opened for mobility and enjoyment of the privileges of whiteness. Finally, what lies behind the chasm in a century of historiography produced by English-language and Spanish scholars concerning the purchase of whiteness? Why did the first group universally consider whitening to be a novel and even a radical option, while Hispanic historians typically accepted the concept as noncontroversial? To what extent does this disparity reflect both historic and prevailing attitudes—comparative differences in Anglo and Hispanic processes of organizing social and racial inclusion and exclusion? Answering these questions necessitates not only exploration of the petitions of the whitening gracias al sacar but also tracing those fundamental elements that made it possible and that undergirded centuries of casta mobility. What processes created the potential for Africans and their mixedblood descendants to move from slavery, to freedom, to status as vassals and citizens? This chapter has answered some of the original questions arising from a century of whitening historiography. Chapter 2 presents methodological approaches to explore the history of casta mobilities. Chapters 3 and 4 take a “long-time” approach, tracing pardo and mulatto efforts over the centuries to locate interstices to escape discrimination, to enjoy white perquisites, and to lighten succeeding generations. Chapters 5 to 11 tighten the chronology, following the exchanges as the castas petitioned, royal officials decided, and some elites protested both the whitening gracias al sacar in particular and pardo and mulatto mobility in general. Chapter 12 follows later conversations in the Cortes of Cádiz, for, as independence loomed, peninsular and overseas delegates again debated the fate of the castas as fundamental to the preservation of the empire. A conclusion follows the later histories of gracias al sacar petitioners locating their lives within the larger panorama of centuries of pardo and mulatto quests for mobility.

two

Introductions Alternative Approaches The king counts more than blood. luiz vélez de guevar a 1

In 1783—twelve years before whitening appeared as an option for purchase in the gracias al sacar—Bernardo Ramírez, a pardo from Guatemala, ap­ pealed to the Council of the Indies to make him white.2 There were many unique aspects to his request, but the most extraordinary proved to be a comment by Antonio de Porlier, the crown attorney who reviewed his case.3 He suggested that the favor Bernardo asked was “repugnant or at least ex­ cessive” because it was “evident” that he “can neither disguise nor dismiss his infected quality even if he tries.”4 Porlier’s seemingly straightforward conclusion—that since a pardo could not hide his “infected quality” he could not become white—proved extra­ ordinary because of its rarity. This was the sole instance where anyone in gracias al sacar documents ever questioned the concept that pardos and mulattos might achieve whiteness.5 Even though royal officials might reject such requests or local elites might protest the consequences, no one but Porlier ever challenged the fundamental proposition that whiteness was an attainable goal. 35

36

introductions

What is going on here? Why did no one ever challenge the idea that pardos and mulattos might become white? Such a resounding absence underscores that sometimes historical silence can be more revealing than historical sound. This chapter introduces methodologies—emic and etic ap­ proaches and processual analysis—that provide insight into such less obvious trends.

methodology: emic and etic; processual analysis The difference between emic and etic lies at the core of much of the his­ torical interpretation that follows. Originally developed by linguists such as Kenneth Pike, revised by anthropologists, including Marvin Harris, and adopted by scholars in numerous disciplines, an emic approach privileges description of the “intrinsic cultural distinctions that are meaningful to the members of a given society.”6 In contrast, etic analysis explores “the extrin­ sic concepts and categories that have meaning for scientific observers.” An emic interpretation privileges the sources, letting them suggest the themes to be studied; an etic focus utilizes themes developed by historians or social scientists to guide the research agenda. Consider the difference in how an emic or etic approach might operate when a linguist encounters a hidden Brazilian tribe with a previously un­ discovered language. Undertaking an emic analysis, the scholar would try to understand the new language from the perspective of those who spoke it, to consider how they divided the components of their speech, and how they assigned meaning. In an etic approach, the researcher might superimpose generally accepted categories of linguistic structures—perhaps relationships between nouns and verbs or prefixes and suffixes—and apply these already known categories to classify the new language and to compare it with others. Sometimes knowledge accumulated by an emic process can be later used in an etic fashion. For example, an emic approach of those underlying trends that surface from the legitimation petitions analyzed in Public Lives (Twinam, 1999) might later—indeed it will—become an etic analysis. Con­ clusions reached concerning gracias al sacar legitimations provide context to compare with whitening petitions and to gauge similar or different ways that the Council of the Indies shaped social policies.



a lter nati v e a pproaches

37

Both emic and etic approaches are essential, for it is imperative both to know how those at the time constructed their worlds and to contextualize such discoveries within the broader stream of comparative research. How­ ever, at least for historians, privileging an emic approach at the start seems to leave open more space for discovery of the unexpected. It permits, as Ward Goodenough has noted, “finding where something makes a differ­ ence for one’s informants.”7 Or, as Frederick Cooper challenges, the goal is not to “lose sight of the quest of people in the past to develop connections or ways of thinking that mattered to them, but not to us.”8 He concludes that “good historical practice should be sensitive to the disjunctures between the frameworks of past actors and present interpreters.” Such a self-conscious distinction between emic and etic proves particu­ larly useful when the focus of research is the purchase of whiteness. An emic approach will necessarily privilege the vocabulary, conceptualizations, and actions of the historical actors. The goal will be to determine how they intellectualized mulatto-ness and pardo-ness—how it originated, how it was passed down, what it signified, what discrimination it entailed, and if it might be altered. In contrast, an etic approach might introduce more contemporary historiography by comparing mobilities in Anglo or Franco­ phone or Spanish America, or considering variable constructions of race, even though these themes might not have figured as directly in eighteenthcentury discourses concerning the gracias al sacar. While emic and etic approaches initially derived from linguistic and an­ thropological attempts to differentiate enquiry by privileging knowledge from the inside out or from the outside in, processual methodology orig­ inated from sociological and business analysis. The original objective, as described by theorist Andrew M. Pettigrew, was “to explore the dynamic qualities of human conduct and organizational life and to embed such dy­ namic over time.”9 The processual approach proves invaluable, given its insistence on interactions—how a complex of variables might combine in differing ways to produce ranges of outcomes. Such forces prove to be at the heart of any historical project, given that studies of process “are preoccupied with describing, analyzing and explaining the what, why, and how of some sequence of individual and collective action.”10 Understanding the connectivity among three central variables—actors, context, and time—suggests how these factors might shape processual in­ teractions. Evaluation of actors asks who are “critical personalities” and “the

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introductions

winners and losers in the process, the doubters, the disengaged and the champions for change.”11 Even while actors may “drive processes” they also find themselves constrained by surrounding “contexts.” These can “limit their information, insight and influence” or be impacted by “events at other related levels” that alter “the core stream of activity.” Chronology also af­ fects interplays between historical actors and contexts as the “what,” “how,” or “why” something happens is also “dependent on when it happens, the location in the processual sequence, the place in the rhythm of events char­ acteristic for a given process” (italics mine).12 Pettigrew makes no promises that processual analysis will inevitably uncover “predetermined timetables” or “ordered and inevitable sequences.” Analysis might just as inevitably uncover processes that are “inherently dis­ continuous and open ended.” Such an approach parallels Ann Laura Stoler’s observation that is also useful to learn from the unfinished and the unsuc­ cessful, from what “was deemed possible but remained unrealized,” or from “aborted projects.”13 Even though the dynamics generated by interactions among actor, context, and chronology provide no guarantee of neat conclu­ sions, they do raise provocative questions concerning the interlinked dy­ namics, These often prove as productive as any “conclusion.” Since historical specificity concerning context, actors, and chronologies prove essential to any analysis of gracias al sacar and whitening, what fol­ lows employs emic, etic, and processual approaches to introduce pervasive themes. A first section provides contexts, probing the validity of compara­ tive methodology and suggesting approaches. It then introduces underlying variables that shaped the dynamics of exclusion and inclusion, including deep-rooted Spanish experiences and traditions that molded official and popular ideas concerning “race,” “color,” “class,” “caste,” the essences of pardo-ness and mulatto-ness as well as the potential for alteration. Also key were concepts of justice, reciprocity, and “inconveniences,” for these established the parameters within which pardos and mulattos petitioned for redress and within which royal officials decided outcomes. A second segment considers historical actors—pardos and mulattos, lo­ cal elites, and imperial officials. The goal is to understand their roles in promoting or obstructing status change. It introduces a revisionist method­ ology to identify decision makers. Finally, an attention to chronologies remains fundamental. Some events proceed in rhythm with more “traditional” historical benchmarks—for



a lter nati v e a pproaches

39

example, the mid-eighteenth-century Bourbon reforms. Other critical se­ quences flow in less familiar pathways: “long,” “linear,” “frozen,” and “At­ lantic” time. Central to the inquiry in this chapter and those that follow is understanding those dynamics promoted general casta mobility and also permitted an elite cohort to petition for whiteness.

gr acias al sacar: a c om pa r at i v e pe r spe c t i v e ? A preliminary, etic question awaits. While the query is simple, the answer is complex: To compare or not to compare? As the previous chapter has outlined, from its early appearance in the 1912 lecture of Manoel de Oliveira Lima until today, much of the historiography surrounding the gracias al sacar has appeared in a comparative perspective. Scholars portrayed the purchase of whiteness as a signal of exceptionalism. It not only reflected a superior po­ tential for mobility in Latin America, especially compared to its U.S. coun­ terpart, but marked dramatic differences in their respective racial regimes. Even when scholars have more recently portrayed the gracias al sacar as re­ flective of Latin American processes that privileged whiteness and masked racism, it still appeared contrasted to racial progress in the Anglo north. In the last few years, scholars have challenged the validity of constructing such broad and overarching contrasts. The arguments of both the deniers and the affirmers typically revolve around the virtues and failings of Frank Tannenbaum’s (1947) classic Slave and Citizen, which, more than six de­ cades after its publication, not only remains in print but continues to incite scholarly squabbling.14 In Slave and Citizen, Tannenbaum highlighted key variables that con­ trasted Spanish America with its Anglo counterpart: slaves had a moral and legal personality; they were Catholics with souls; they might appeal to slave laws that facilitated manumission; they could sue for mistreatment in court; they could purchase their freedom; and abolition proceeded peacefully.15 In contrast, he portrayed a United States in which slaves figured as property, enjoyed no rights under law, could not marry or purchase freedom, and where abolition produced civil war. While Spanish America developed a numerous mixed population of free persons with extensive rights, including the potential to purchase whiteness, in the north such populations remained

40

introductions

comparatively insignificant and subject to severe discriminations. Tannen­ baum argued that these differences in the slave systems formed the under­ lying core of the more contemporary distinctions between the treatment of race in Latin America and the United States. Ensuing years of scholarship have understandably complicated, nuanced, and demolished many of Tannenbaum’s conclusions. To name a few: his­ torians generally accept the significance of the law in ensuring slave access to the Spanish legal system, the role of Catholicism in providing moral status for the enslaved, the potential for mobilities given substantial mixed free populations. However, they question the frequency and ease of manu­ mission, much less that abolition proved universally peaceful.16 Nor was Tannenbaum correct when he asserted that “in Latin America, there was for legal and practical purposes no separate class of freedmen. The freed­ man was a free man.”17 As subsequent chapters will reveal, the free castas in Spanish America endured a brutal institutionalized discrimination. Neither was the United States as rigid in its treatment of those of mixed status as portrayed in Tannenbaum, as there was significantly more flexibility in the first, as opposed to the last half of the nineteenth century. Researchers not only critiqued Tannenbaum’s conclusions, but his meth­ odology. Slave and Citizen painted broad and rigid contrasts, failing to consider that slave regimes manifested in multiple and complex versions throughout the Americas and changed over time. There never was a typical slave, nor was citizenship an uncontested category.18 Tannenbaum also failed in tracking evolutions. While he laid out the dissimilarities between Spanish and Anglo America in deeply compelling if simplistic juxtapositions, he did not detail the intervening processes that shaped the transition from slave to citizen. As Alejandro de la Fuente con­ cludes: “Most of Slave and Citizen is devoted to analyzing those differ­ ences rather than the process through which they resulted in ‘contrasting’ patterns of race relations.”19 Frederick Cooper calls such methodologi­ cal jumps “leapfrogging legacies,” which assert that “something at time A caused something in time C without considering time B, which lies in between.”20 Another critique, leveled by Christopher Schmidt-Nowara, is that Slave and Citizen failed to contextualize. When historians compare, they need to do so within more expansive categories, adding the experiences of French and Dutch or Portuguese slave regimes to the Anglo-Spanish dichotomy.21



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Nor were imperial projects isolated, so scholars need to be alive to the ­minglings and “entangled histories” as masters, slaves, and freepersons moved across permeable barriers throughout the Americas, the Caribbean, and the Atlantic.22 Arlene Díaz (2004) insists that the field should now move “beyond Tannenbaum” given that its flawed agenda “haunts the . . . debate to this day.”23 In contrast to such denunciations, Alejandro de la Fuente (2004a, 2004b, 2010) remains more supportive concerning the utility of targeted contrasts. Still, as he wryly concedes, “Unless one does it in unabashedly critical terms, including ‘slavery’ and ‘Tannenbaum’ in the same sentence is an intellectual exercise fraught with perils.”24 This is because—at least to some critics: The sole mention of Tannenbaum elicits images of benevolent Spanish and Portuguese masters in contrast to cruel Anglo-Saxon slave owners, or of rigid dichotomies between racist North America and racially harmonious Latin America.

Still, Fuente concludes that “Tannenbaum’s ideas are part of the academic conversation today,” as historians “frequently refer to some of his argu­ ments, and not always too dismiss them.”25 As Frederick Cooper, Thomas Holt, and Rebecca Scott suggest in their introduction to a collection on slavery: “Tannenbaum did get the essential problem right. The fate of slaves after slavery had a great deal to do with the political, ideological and cultural evolution of the metropolitan societ­ ies which they were linked.”26 Fuente affirms another evident conclusion: that Anglo and Latin America “are different in at least some important ways is not really open to debate.”27 Since contrasts will inevitably occur, it behooves scholars to be sensitive to methodologies of comparison. So how does the history of casta mobility and of the whitening gracias al sacar fit within this ongoing dialogue? One focus addresses a vacuum decried by Tannenbaum’s critics—the failure to track intermediary stages. A persistent theme in subsequent chapters will be to explore the potential for mobilities for Africans and their descendants. It concludes that the key turning points were less in the abrupt movement from slave to citizen but rather the more gradual but distinct transitions from slave, to free person, to vassal, to citizen. The methodology will be to isolate those processual dynamics embed­ ded in contexts, actors, and chronologies that combined in distinct ways to

42

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produce varying outcomes. It privileges analysis of the dynamics, rather than focusing on specific case studies or endpoints. If variables influenc­ ing English, French, Dutch, or Portuguese colonialisms surface as perti­ nent, they will appear in the text or the footnotes, although eschewing Tannenbaum-like contrasts. Still, any understanding of the elements that structured such inclusions and exclusions first necessitates consideration of those historic vocabularies that provide contexts. It demands, for one, a ruthless ridding of preconceived stereotypes concerning “race.”

conte xts 1: voca bul ar ies of ch ange Race is a devilishly difficult topic. Each reader brings a different personal understanding of what constitutes “race,” parts of which may be simplistic and ahistoric and others complicated and nuanced. As David Hollinger notes, “racial” and “ethnic communities” whether white, mulatto, black, native, Anglo, Latino, or African American have often been “blind to their own agency in creating and preserving these boundaries, taking as primor­ dial the stuff of history that they themselves had helped to make.”28 Perhaps the simplest (and admittedly the more quixotic) way to consider varying approaches to race is to consider duck and quilt analogies. The duck focus embodies the essentialist view of race: if it looks like a duck and waddles like a duck and quacks like a duck—it is a duck. Every society has ducks; every society, race and racism. In contrast, the quilt, or the construc­ tionist approach, sees the concept of race as variously put together—it can have different shapes, varying colors, many patterns: it is a woven kaleido­ scope that can alter and change depending on a complex of variables. Ann Laura Stoler has productively outlined the tension and the synergy between the essentialist and constructionist approaches, with the first con­ sidering race as a universal component, the second as a varying concept.29 The result is a “system of social classification that appears fixed, perma­ nent, and commonsensical”—the essentialist (duck) argument—“while it remains porous and pliable”—the constructionist (quilt) approach. It is key to consider both the “fixity” of universal essences of racism and the “fluid­ ity” of cultural and historically constructed variations. Spanish America, for example, was universalist and racist in its assigna­ tion of blackness as an inferior category justifying discrimination. It was



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constructionist in that it recognized variable statuses between white and black and brown and Spanish and African and Native and permitted move­ ment among categories. For this reason, the common reference here will be not to “race” but to “socioracial” status, for this term better combines the constructionist concept of fluidity, resting on multiple changeable variables with the essentialist understanding that hierarchy remained.30 Even the deliberate use of socioracial is not sufficient to underline how late nineteenth-century theories of race obscure earlier historic construc­ tions. Anthropologist Audrey Smedley provides insight into that past by tracing a trajectory from the classical and medieval world where “‘ethnic’ identity was not perceived as ineluctably set in stone” to the development of later biological concepts of “race.”31 She suggests that it was only in the late nineteenth century that the Anglo world “made race . . . superseding all other aspects of identity.”32 The consequence was that “race” identity took priority over religion, ethnic origin, education and training, socioeconomic class, occupation, language, values, beliefs, mor­ als, lifestyles, geographical location, and all other human attributes that hitherto provided all groups and individuals with a sense of who they were.

The result was that “identity” became equated with “biology” and consid­ ered “permanent and immutable.”33 Such was not always the case, not only in the classical or medieval world but in the early nineteenth-century United States. Historians now recognize that there was more social construction and flexibility in the U.S. South than generally recognized. For example, Ariela Gross’s tracing of racial vo­ cabulary and identity at pre‒Civil War southern trials led her to conclude that an individual’s race was not necessarily fixed but rather depended on one’s “acceptance in society, others’ beliefs about one’s identity, and one’s social associations” as well as ones “acts.”34 Such a description is not that dis­ tant from R. Douglas Cope’s discussion of socioracial status in eighteenthcentury Mexico.35 Prior to the Civil War, many southern states—as in Spanish America— recognized gradients of whiteness. Some officially categorized those with one-fourth or one-eighth African ancestry as white.36 The infamous “one drop rule”—that one drop of African blood made an individual black— proved to be a late nineteenth-century development that only entered into legal state codes in the 1910s and 1920s.37

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Similar conclusions emerge from research into socioracial flexibilities in eighteenth-century Jamaica, which developed a variant of official whiten­ ing, although it was never for purchase nor codified as a royal decree. Start­ ing in 1708, an elite group of mulattos began to petition to enjoy privileges “as if born of white parents.”38 One such bill in 1733 provided “all the rights of Englishmen born of white ancestors,” although the wording limited the privilege to the individual.39 In Jamaica, there was also recognition of inbetween categories such as mulatto, sambo, quadroon, and mustee. The mix between mustee and white led to musteefino, a status that was equivalent to whiteness.40 It was only later, as in the United States, that extreme variants of biological racism began to emerge. The challenge is to look over this historic and cultural late nineteenthcentury divide. Such self-consciousness is mandatory since elements of ri­ gidity still exist. For example, any author writing about race must consider that readers with disparate backgrounds may comprehend the same words in distinct ways. Take the terms “pardo” and “mulato.” Although both are of Spanish ori­ gin, the former is not as well known in English, although the latter has its own borrowed English equivalent (mulatto). How, then, would a native lan­ guage Spanish or English reader envision a pardo or mulatto? One possibil­ ity, given historic differences in racial constructions, is that a Guatemalan or Peruvian might assume that a pardo and mulatto would appear somewhere in a continuum between white and black, with the possibility that he or she would be quite light-skinned. In contrast, someone with an Anglo view of race might be less sensitive to middle ranges and likely to describe everyone of mixed African and white background as “black.” Therefore, this work will deliberately pair the less familiar “pardo” with “mulatto” to remind readers that many who appear in these pages experienced an “in-between” status that encompassed as much “whiteness” as “blackness.” As Kathryn Burns challenges, readers need to “unfix race—to signal that the categories we recognize as racial are not stable or pan historic.”41 Rather, “the point of carefully historicizing racial usages is to understand better both early modern racism and those of our time.” The goal is to ex­ plore those variables that made it possible for some in the Spanish Indies to fashion their “premier identities on the basis of other characteristics” than a biological racial determinism, even within a regime that nonetheless ac­ corded superiority to whiteness.42



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First, the complex issue of color: To what extent did Spaniards view those of brown or black appearance as inferior? James Sweet has traced centuries in the development of Iberian practices that he characterizes as “racism without race.”43 Even though Spaniards expressed prejudice against those of darker color, they did not legitimize such discrimination with a “welldeveloped and articulated racist ideology.” Much of Iberian attitudes toward peoples of color originally derived from contact with infidels: brown and black Muslims from northern and central Africa. The result was that appearance often became messily intertwined with religion. Sweet also notes that as early as the ninth century, the Islamic world assigned hierarchy to colors, differentiating through language and assigned tasks between superior white, compared to inferior black, slaves. The conquered Christian population of the peninsula took up such dis­ criminatory practices and proved “well disposed to adopt the color prejudice of neighboring Muslims.”44 The result was that the “rhetoric of black Af­ rican sub humanity reflected a set of shared understandings by Christians and Muslims on the Iberian peninsula.”45 Even through there was no “fully developed ideology of race” at the time of the American conquest, “white Iberians made distinctions among peoples based on skin color and attrib­ uted less worth to human beings who had black or brown skins.”46 Comments in gracias al sacar documents reveal that royal officials, par­ dos and mulattos, and elites recognized a hierarchy of color, although it mattered whether they employed the word as an adjective or a noun. By far the most common usage attached to the individual was descriptive, for example, that someone was of the “color pardo,” or of the “color brown” or approached the “color white.”47 When used as a noun, “color” described more general groupings: “persons of color,” “families of color,” “people of color,” or “vassals of color.”48 Were there any popular differences in the designation of the common cat­ egories of pardo compared to mulatto? As with most terms, generalizations are challenging, given that usage is almost always situational, varying by region, time, and the perspective of the individual. However, a word search of those whitening cases where “pardo” or “mulatto” appears reveals them commonly used together, with only rare instances where those involved made explicit distinctions between the categories. One Cuban petitioner, for instance, explained that “mulatto” designated someone “immediately born of white and black.”49 In contrast, he added that his family was not

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“mulatto,” but rather “pardo,” given there had been six subsequent genera­ tions of mixtures with “white.” In Caracas, the city council attempted to distinguish between mulatto and pardo in a campaign to overturn a grant of whiteness, arguing that the candidate was not eligible, given that he was a “mulatto” rather than the category of “pardo” specified in the gracias al sacar.50 However, they imme­ diately negated their own argument, when in a subsequent letter to the king, they admitted that the difference between “pardos, mulattos or zambos” in “common acceptance is unknown or almost nothing.”51 Their attempt to nullify the whitening decree proved futile, given that later interchanges also revealed that they had officially recognized the same candidate as a pardo in other records.52 It is difficult to parse the “almost nothing” distinction that the Caracas cabildo conceded might exist between the designations of pardo and mu­ latto. Still, the categories often appear in tandem, suggesting some consen­ sus that they deserved separate mention. For example, baptismal records often had a section for “pardos and mulattos,” a crown attorney described a candidate as “mulatto or pardo,” while another minister described the social regime as composed of “pardos, mulattos and other allied castes.”53 Varia­ tions in usage might also depend on the speaker: in one case the petitioners called themselves pardos, while a member of elite described them as mulat­ tos.54 By the end of the eighteenth century, pardo seemed the more used and possibly the less discriminatory. Whitening petitioners commonly cited it, since the gracias al sacar specifically relieved the “quality of pardo.”55 Other complications also attached to popular usage of “Spaniard” (español) and “white” (blanco/blanca). Even when linked together, just as with pardo and mulatto, there were situational variations. For example, a Cuban might emphasize geography, noting that he descended “from the paternal line from white Spanish men”—that is, peninsulares, Spaniards born in Spain.56 Yet royal officials might link “Spanish” and white differently, as when ministers generalized that the title of Don was exclusive to “white Spaniards,” meaning, in this instance, everyone in the Americas who was white.57 In some localities, baptismal records used “Spanish” and “white” interchangeably as some parishes had a single category for “Spaniards”; in others, the sole category was for “white.”58 By far, the most common use for “Spaniard” was to distinguish those whites born in Spain from those born



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in the Americas as in “known Spaniards and Americans of distinction,” or “those of this province and Spanish residents.”59 When petitioners applied for whitening, they never—with one early exception—specifically requested the benefits of becoming “Spaniards.”60 Nor did they directly ask to become “white,” although with elimination of their defect they expected to enjoy the benefits of whiteness. One min­ ister clarified the ultimate effect: the successful applicant would obtain the “charges and employments of honor appropriate to whites (blancos).”61 Royal officials, local elites, and pardos and mulattos were adamant about another consequence: successful applicants should be able to marry “whites” (blancos/blancas). Petitioners expressed their expectations that they would be able to “marry with persons of white birth” or to “contract marriage with whites.”62 Even the Caracas cabildo, while vehemently protesting against the gracias al sacar, agreed that successful applicants would be able to “con­ tract marriage with white persons.”63 Discussion concerning the effects of the gracias al sacar, then, revolved around—if not a direct transformation to—certainly enjoyment of the privileges of those who were “white.” Another word often used to describe hierarchy was “class.” While the def­ inition expressed differential status, it did not necessarily denote economic difference or even ethnicity. As Fiscal Porlier expressed, society divided into “respective classes.”64 These could be based on color graduating from the “class of whites” to the “class of pardos.”65 Such reference to class did not always involve skin tone, as royal officials and petitioners also referred to the “class of nobles,” the “class of Spaniards,” the “inferior class,” and the “vassals of all classes.”66 The term “caste” (or “casta”) proved another concept associated with so­ cioracial status. Casta figured popularly as an adjective that describes the famous eighteenth-century series of casta paintings. These consisted of tra­ ditional sets of sixteen images naming and portraying the offspring ema­ nating from various mixtures of Spaniards, Natives, and Africans as well as combinations of those mixtures that led to whiteness.67 Presumably this art was a visual depiction of the Indies hierarchy characterized as the society of castes.68 Other times the term “casta” appeared separately as a noun. More recently, historians have challenged the interpretive value of some casta/caste constructs. For example, Joanne Rappaport and Pilar Gonzalbo Aizpuru have convincingly rejected the socioracial rigidities expressed in

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casta paintings. Rappaport doubts if the casta hierarchy portrayed in such art was “an overarching system that governed people’s lives as modern histo­ rians have imagined.”69 Gonzalbo Aizpuru agrees, describing Mexican casta paintings as providing a “picturesque nomenclature” that “never formally applied to the inhabitants of the viceroyalty and did not have the minimum probatory value as reflective of the viceregal society.”70 Rappaport agrees, wondering whether “classificatory practices such as caste” are “relevant as conceptual frameworks for scholarly interpretation.”71 Both Rappaport’s rejection of the “stability of casta categories” and Gonzalbo Aizpuru’s denial “that there existed an authentic system, that . . . included a hierarchical scale” provide a useful analytical corrective.72 How­ ever, it should come with caveats. Also evident is that some Indies inhab­ itants almost obsessively dissected their ancestries, although eschewing some of the more esoteric designations appearing in casta paintings. For example, successive chapters will demonstrate that it was not uncommon for pardos and mulattos to expropriate categories such as tercerón, quarterón, or quinterón (one-third, one-fourth, or one-fifth African) to calculate the ratio of their mixtures with whites, or for others to employ conven­ tional casta terminologies such as zambaigo or sambo.73 Even the gracias al sacar reflected such nomenclature as it differentiated between pardo and quinterón.74 Historians rightfully reject the detailed hierarchies and rigidities epito­ mized by the casta paintings or inherent in descriptions of an inflexible caste system. However, they must also recognize the existence of popular practices whereby those of mixed descent consciously engaged in forms of casta-like genealogical mathematics. Furthermore, an outright rejection of the term “casta” ignores its widespread historic use, although definitions might vary by chronology and geographical frequency of use.75 For that reason, Rappaport calls on historians to explore the meaning of casta gener­ ally and to ask “what terminologies did people use.”76 Dissecting references to casta in the whitening documents reveals the term seems to have had a more limited definition than expressed in the casta paintings or in references to the society of castes. Significantly, both of the latter included mixtures such as mestizo and castizo or other variants of Native-Spanish combinations. In contrast, the whitening documents suggest that a common eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century practice reserved the term “casta” more exclusively to those with some African an­



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cestry. Royal officials were particularly specific in this regard, identifying “mulattos, pardos, zambos, zambaigos and other castas” or “mulattos, blacks, coyotes and individuals of castes.”77 They noted the “great variety of castas that the introduction of blacks and the mixture of them with the Natives has produced.”78 Even more numerous references linking African ancestry to casta status occurred during the debates of the Cortes of Cádiz (1810–1814) concerning who the constitution would define as citizens. American delegates exclu­ sively used casta as an alternative expression for pardos and mulattos and other African mixtures, conceding that the “ancestors” of the castas were “born in Africa” or recognizing that “our castas” were “it is true, originally from Africa.”79 Given the ubiquity of such eighteenth- and nineteenthcentury usages, the more narrow reference to casta as a synonym that in­ cludes pardos and mulattos seems a historically appropriate convention, one followed in this text.80 It is telling that even though such references to color, class, or casta status might appear when imperial officials, Indies elites, or pardos and mulattos described individuals or groups, this was not the customary vocabulary they used to explain the process that facilitated any transition to whiteness. No one involved in the gracias al sacar petitions ever asserted that it brought “racial” change. Rather, historic Spanish traditions provided a shared vo­ cabulary that guided the discussion of everyone involved concerning the es­ sence of pardo-ness and mulatto-ness—its presence, transmission, absence, and alterability. Such language had not been invented for that purpose; rather, it derived from past experiences and customary ways that Spaniards constructed other positive or negative attributes that influenced inclusion and exclusion, including nobility, Jewishness, and illegitimacy. Whitening documents reveal a conceptual plane where all parties shared a language not only to explain how pardo-ness and mulatto-ness came into being (naturaleza), but how it might be passed on (naturaleza, limpieza), what it meant (limpieza, calidad/cualidad), and if it might be altered (defecto). Sometimes those involved used these words alone; other times they combined variants of this vocabulary. Understanding language from the perspective of pardos and mulattos, royal officials, and local elites explains why there seemed to be a mutual understanding that even though pardoness and mulatto-ness marked inferior conditions, they were not permanent and might be changed.

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introductions

How did pardo-ness come into being? One Havana mulatto expressed his understanding of the process when he asked the Cámara to “dispense all defect, stain, or imperfection” due to his “naturaleza.”81 Another explained that his problem originated because he was “of naturaleza, quinterón.”82 Early expressions of naturaleza trace back to the Siete Partidas, the law code of medieval Spain (1252–1284). The Partidas defined naturaleza as closely linked to nature: “Nature is a virtue that makes all things be in that state that God has ordered.”83 “Naturaleza,” the Partidas explained, “is some­ thing like nature, and that helps it to be and to keep all that descends from it.” “Nature” was the God-given essence that set what “was.” In contrast, “naturaleza” was the “was” that governed the flow of that positive or nega­ tive essence from father and mother to offspring. This distinction in transmission was key because Spaniards gen­ dered concepts of inheritance. For some characteristics—such as nobility (nobleza)—the Spanish considered that only paternal inheritance counted. For example, if a father were a noble and the mother were plebeian, any offspring still inherited the positive paternal trait.84 In contrast, in transmis­ sion through naturaleza if only one parent had a flaw such as illegitimacy, Jewishness, or mulatto-ness—the condition of that parent was sufficient to pass the stain to all descendants. If naturaleza governed the essences that flowed from mother and father to offspring, then what was the relationship between a person’s external appearance, their “color,” and their naturaleza? Royal officials specifically pondered this issue when they considered a vexing issue in 1802 concerning tax payments.85 While it was understood that if someone were white, they should pay the sales tax, or alcabala, or if they were pardo, mulatto, black, or Native they should pay tribute, the development of the society of castes had created a substantial in-between population. The problem of assigning tax status was only further exacerbated when the potential taxpayer was an expósito, or someone without known parents whose socioracial status was ambiguous. One official noted that “the signs of color, skin and appearance were very imperfect” and so it was often impossible to decide which tax an expósito should pay. Yet here as elsewhere bureaucrats directly rejected classification by color. The proper way, he suggested, was not to judge “by their color and aspects, but by their naturalezas.”86 Since the parents of expósitos were by definition unknown, it was impossible to ascertain their naturalezas and



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therefore what positive or negative characteristics they had transmitted to offspring. When they could not locate parents and determine their naturaleza, royal officials decided that the best practice was to refuse to categorize the status of an expósito. They concluded that the best procedure was to let them decide what tax they should pay. Key to that decision was the rec­ ognition that color was a superficial attribute that was not as determining as the inherited aspects of naturaleza.87 Such a distinction between color and naturaleza provides telling insight into the conceptual dynamics under­ lying the whitening process. Officials never deemed that official whitening changed a person’s color; rather, they considered that whitening eliminated an internal defect of naturaleza. The Spanish construct of limpieza de sangre or “clean blood” was also closely related to the concept of naturaleza. When one pardo asked for whit­ ening, he requested a “decree . . . that dispenses from now on the point of limpieza.”88 This simple word referenced a fundamental external “catego­ rization”—the Spanish state’s definition of the condition and the conse­ quences for those who did or did not possess “cleanliness.” Crystallized in the formative era of the late fifteenth century, the purity of blood edicts encouraged Spaniards to identify each other through shared discrimination against the despised “other.” In the peninsula, the primary targeted “other” proved to be religious: the non-Catholic—the Jew, Moor, heretic, or converso (converted Jew).89 More than three hundred years later, Spaniards everywhere still identified themselves in reference to the presence or absence of limpieza. Although a typical peninsular clean blood clause—in this instance from 1760—might use the Spanish word raza (race), its meaning was not strictly biological. Rather, raza signified a “defect in lineage” as those defined as “bad race” were the non-Catholic, given that heretics and those sentenced by the In­ quisition had flawed raza.90 Those with limpieza were Old Christians, free of all bad race (raza) of Jews, Moors, Heretics, Sects recently converted to Our Catholic Religion, penitents of the Holy Tribunal of the Inquisition.91

In the Indies, definition of the non-Catholic “other” became complicated with the addition of pardo and mulatto to the purity of blood definition, although it remains unclear precisely what precipitated the change or when

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it occurred.92 María Elena Martínez has traced a seventeenth-century dis­ course where legalists, the Inquisition, royal officials, and colonists debated whether Natives or Africans possessed limpieza.93 She concludes that reli­ gious origin remained a fundamental definer of who did or who did not possess clean blood throughout the seventeenth century. Martínez outlines two historically inaccurate interpretations that ratio­ nalized the divergence through which the state awarded Indians limpieza de sangre while denying clean blood to those of African ancestry.94 The first wrongly posited that Natives had—when given the opportunity—fully accepted Catholicism and therefore met limpieza standards. In contrast, Africans—according to this equally dubious historical rendering—had not embraced Catholicism when offered in the Old World, had been forcibly converted en route to the Americas, and therefore did not fit under the cleanliness guidelines. Another possible origin of the conviction that blacks, pardos, and mu­ lattos lacked limpieza might derive from earlier discrimination against the Moor. While originally prejudiced due to Islam, the Moor might have became a visual template to overlay the image of the dark Moor, thereby rationalizing the extension of clean blood discrimination to anyone with some African ancestry.95 While the temporal and conceptual origins of the limpieza definition still remain murky, by the eighteenth century, Spanish American creoles typically defined those with clean blood as having “al­ ways been known, held, and commonly reputed to be white persons, Old Christians of the nobility, clean of all bad blood and without any mixture of commoner, Jew, Moor, mulatto or converso in any degree, no matter how remote”96 (italics mine). In the Americas, the limpieza ordinances created a category of peninsular Spaniards and white creoles with full civil rights and privileges alongside inferior categories of others. Contradicting Tannenbaum’s conclusion, even when pardos and mulattos became free they did not become equal. Their absence of “clean blood” was equivalent to “civil death.” Both imperial and colonial laws forbade that they hold political office, practice prestigious professions (public notary, lawyer, surgeon, pharmacist, smelter), or enjoy equal social status with whites.97 Military orders, religious congregations, and universities issued similar discriminatory ordinances restricting pardo and mulatto military service, forbidding profession to the priesthood, or attendance or graduation from university.98



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Similar to the underlying dynamics of transmission associated with natu­ raleza, so too with limpieza, the negative characteristic of one parent proved sufficient to prejudice the clean blood of succeeding generations. There was, however, a time limit to such discrimination, as the state, church, university, and other institutions customarily demanded proof of three generations of limpieza back through the applicant, parents, and their parents. Those who could, customarily traced their clean blood even further on the family tree. Not all pardos accepted such categorizations, either the revised American definition or the accompanying discriminations. Whenever possible, they emphasized their white ancestry. For example, even though one petitioner conceded that his father had “pardo” ancestors, he also declared “they were offspring of sons of white Spanish men and held as Old Christians.”99 An­ other pardo asserted his limpieza, by turning the tables on the Indies clean blood definitions. His request to be whitened quoted the traditional Span­ ish version that did not refer to pardos and mulattos. While he left out a pardo great-grandmother, he correctly stated that his family was “neither descended from Moors, Jews, nor from those newly converted to the guild (gremio) of our Catholic faith, and from Old Christians.”100 Throughout the centuries and throughout the empire, upwardly mobile pardos and mulattos strategized to bypass these limpieza de sangre restric­ tions. Even though petitioners for whiteness acknowledged that they were subject to such discriminations—indeed this was why they were applying— this cohort had also proven quite successful in evading them. As subsequent chapters will demonstrate, many already informally enjoyed privileges re­ served for whites, such as graduation from university, the acquisition of skills to practice as notaries or surgeons, or—for parda females—marriage with white males. Innumerable numbers eventually became white due to the “one-eighth rule,” for if the African mixture fell below that marker, the individual automatically attained white status.101 Another common vocabulary shaping concepts of inclusion and ex­ clusion surrounded definitions of calidad (cualidad), which translated as “quality,” “state,” or “condition.”102 Pardos, mulattos, royal officials, and local elites employed calidad as a shorthand expression for the effects of naturaleza and limpieza and—just as these characteristics—it derived from both parents.103 Such assumptions underlay a Council of the Indies request that local officials in Panama check “the calidad of the birth status” of a petitioner.104 In the case of pardos and mulattos the term “calidad” usually

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carried with it adjectives describing their inferiority, given that they pos­ sessed “humble calidad” or suffered from a “notorious defect” of calidad.105 Reference to calidad also appeared in the wording of the 1795 gracias al sacar fee schedule, for the two relevant clauses dispensed “the calidad of pardo” and the “calidad of quinterón.”106 After 1795, petitioners employed the vocabulary of calidad more often, as they commonly quoted the gracias al sacar wording to request whiteness. One petitioner asked that the Cámara “dispense said calidad of pardo” so that “he be held and reputed and esteemed as a white person.”107 Another begged that the king remedy the “cualidad that now is lacking.”108 Royal of­ ficials also used the reference, as the viceroy of New Granada worried about the “inconveniences it might cause to open the door for everyone of equal calidad.”109 In 1806, officials debated a white father’s request to “dispense the calidad” of his parda wife and children.110 Not only did parties describing the essence of pardo-ness and mulattoness share mutual vocabulary as to how it originated (faults in naturaleza), how it was transmitted (by naturaleza or by limpieza), what prejudices it entailed (limpieza), and what inferior condition (calidad/cualidad) it pro­ duced—they also shared assumptions concerning its alterability. Since pardo-ness and mulatto-ness were defects, they could be erased. Or, as one Spanish historian put it: “The king counts more than blood.”111 Inherent in the whitening dialogue was the understanding that the mon­ arch had over the centuries intervened to eliminate various types of flaws in naturaleza, limpieza, or calidad. In Spain, in rare instances kings had even dispensed the status of those with Jewish ancestry. In the case of Pablo de Santa María a royal decree ordered that this ex-rabbi’s descendants might be eligible for “all the honors, offices, benefices and patronage” that would go to “gentlemen, nobles, [and] Old Christians free of taint.”112 As traced in Public Lives, more common erasures of defect occurred in the case of illegitimate birth. From 1475 to 1800, more than five thousand Spaniards applied for legitimation to the Council of Castile and several hundred from the Americas sought similar decrees from the Council of the Indies.113 The conceptual linkage that the redress of legitimation and whit­ ening shared a common dynamic was made even more explicit when both appeared as purchasable favors in the 1795 American gracias al sacar list. Centuries of Spanish tradition where the crown relieved imperfections in naturaleza, limpieza, and calidad rationalized a similar process. Just as some­



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one of Jewish background might be transformed into an Old Christian or an illegitimate into a legitimate, pardo and mulattos might become white. This was so, even though stains such as Jewishness, heresy, or illegitimacy might be more physically invisible while pardo-ness or mulatto-ness sometimes was not. Just as any other inherited imperfection deriving from naturaleza, de­ fects had a customary remedy, as a royal dispensation might remove them. As pardos and mulattos applied to be whitened and royal officials re­ viewed their cases, they did so within this historic context of mutability. Petitioners never questioned that what one pardo characterized as “these essential American defects” might be corrected just as any other.114 One pardo appealed to dispense “the defect of limpieza,” another for relief from the “defect of being descended from pardos through the maternal line,” another given his “almost extinguished defect of the calidad de pardo.”115 Council of the Indies officials responded in similar language, referencing their actions as a release from stain, conceptualizing it as an absence to be filled by royal favor. Thus, in response to one pardo’s request to be whit­ ened, the crown attorney suggested that he should be “free of the defect of limpieza de sangre.”116 Another suggested that the Cámara reprieve a pardo applicant from the “defect of quinterón” that he suffered.117 When local elites testified in favor of whitening, they used a similar language. One witness conceded that even though a parda wife suffered “the . . . defect of mulattos and other mixtures,” she was “admitted to com­ munication with the most decent.”118 Another testified that the “operation, mode and address” of one pardo petitioner “made up very well all defect that might be noted.”119 Whitening documents reveal that petitioners, imperial bureaucrats, and local elites engaged in a mainstream conversation about the essence of pardoness and mulatto-ness that revolved around constructs of naturaleza, lim­ pieza, calidad, and remedy of defect. Pardo-ness and mulatto-ness brought inferiority: it was a fault in naturaleza transmitted to offspring depriving them of limpieza and producing an absence of calidad. Still, given that pardo-ness and mulatto-ness was a defect, it might—just as descent from Jews, conversos, or illegitimacy—be altered by the king. Understanding how Spaniards over the centuries had conceptualized elimination of stain ex­ plains why even though imperial officials and elites might reject the whiten­ ing of a particular individual, no one but Fiscal Porlier ever questioned the general proposition that a mulatto might erase that defect becoming white.

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c on t e x t s 2: va s s a l s, j us t ic e , r e c i p r o c i t y, i n c o n v e n i e n c e s Even though there was a shared consensus that the king might eliminate de­ fects, there was less agreement concerning the specifics that governed such mobilities. When might the Council of Indies grant concessions to pardos and mulattos? When should they be rejected? Such uncertainties prompt yet another of those deceptively simple questions that are always the hardest to answer: What encouraged imperial officials to whiten pardos and mulattos in the first place? Why did they venture into that uncharted and potentially treacherous terrain that would eventually lead to the inclusion of whitening in the 1795 price list? After all, the Council of the Indies had options: when it received peti­ tions requesting partial or total whiteness, it might simply have ignored the requests or flatly turned them down. Prior to 1795, there was no published price list in any Spanish legislation that supported whitening, nor was there any urgent reason for imperial officials to grant it. To comprehend what motivated bureaucrats is to uncover their deeply felt commitment to honor some of the most profound concepts that held the empire together. Their fundamental mandate was to provide justice, balancing the positive of re­ wards against the negatives of inconveniences. Alejandro Cañeque has explored the dynamics of this “economy of fa­ vor,” which mandated that the monarch had the “inescapable obligation” to rule for “the benefit of the common good.”120 The sovereign “was to ad­ minister justice, procuring the security and well-being of his subjects.” He was to “reward good subjects and punish the bad ones.”121 The vehicle for such interchanges were “patron-client relationships” in which “the patron gave material benefits, advancement and protection in return for a client’s loyalty and service, demonstrations of respect and esteem, information and advice.”122 This “obligatory liberality” proved to be central to the concept of “distributive justice,” in which the king rewarded “those services rendered by his vassals, giving to each one according to his merits.”123 While Bour­ bon efforts to centralize the bureaucracy and introduce salaried administra­ tors somewhat lessened the intensity of the monarchical-vassal bonds, such linkages remained strong throughout the eighteenth century. Where did pardos and mulattos fit into these calculations? As the next chapter will detail, when Africans originally arrived in the Indies as slaves,



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or even as some negotiated first paths to freedom, royal officials did not in­ clude them under the rubric of vassals.124 Their situation contrasted sharply with that of Natives, for Queen Isabella had ordered in 1501 that Indians be “well treated” as they were “our subjects and our vassals.”125 Even when Spaniards debated if Natives might be slaves by nature, they never chal­ lenged their status as royal vassals.126 In contrast, Africans, who were not indigenous to Spain or the Americas, fell into a nebulous category.127 Imperial legislation early branded them as disruptive elements that corrupted the Natives and disturbed the peace of the cities.128 This restrictive and negative attitude began to change in the seventeenth century when free blacks, pardos, and mulattos—many now descended from generations who had lived in the Americas—began to serve the crown. They defended ports against foreign invaders and joined segre­ gated militia units. Military service proved to be a major turning point in how the monarchy viewed pardos and mulattos and how they viewed themselves. As Herbert Klein noted years ago, it “represented the basic right of citizens to defend their state.”129 David Sartorius observed that militia service permitted par­ dos to base their “demands to be further included as subjects of the empire in a language of allegiance to colonial rule.”130 The result, as Ben Vinson and Stewart R. King have concluded, is that militia service “became an expression of what it meant to be a colonial ‘citizen.’”131 Such a progression reverberates with a pervasive theme of this monograph: the complication of Frank Tannenbaum’s suggestion that the key stages in the movement from bondage to freedom were from “slave” to “citizen.” Rather, the transition from slave to free person and from free person to acknowledged vassal proved to be critical intermediary stages. By the early eighteenth cen­ tury, pardo militia members now figured as faithful subjects worthy of royal consideration. In 1714, Philip V tellingly noted that the blacks and mulattos serving in the Cuban militias were among “my vassals,” given the “entire satisfaction that they have always shown in my royal service.”132 He ordered that they “should be given the good treatment they deserve.” Generations of subsequent mobility and loyalty meant that pardos and mulattos who applied for whitening also self-identified as vassals, although they recognized that their status was inferior to others. One styled himself “your loyal vassal, even though of the color pardo,” and asked that he might be “equaled with the other vassals.”133 Another concluded that he “only

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wanted to be counted among the honored vassals of Your Majesty.”134 Al­ though one petitioner did “not want to offend the wisdom” that established “the difference between vassals of different colors,” he still hoped that his “particular services” and “his honored conduct” would lead him to be in­ cluded “among the white vassals of your majesty.”135 Another gloried in the “smooth and glorious rule of a monarch who is vigilant toward the good of his vassals.”136 In their responses to whitening petitions, royal officials acknowledged that pardos and mulattos were vassals. However, they made clear that these held an inferior status, belonging to the “different castes of vassals of color.”137 Even recognizing such hierarchies, bureaucrats agreed that it would be “very appropriate of the sovereign . . . to compliment vassals wher­ ever circumstances permit.”138 Ironically, it was Fiscal Porlier, in his negative review of Bernardo Ramírez’s whitening application, who provided some of the most eloquent statements of the shared responsibilities that underlay the relationship be­ tween the monarch and his pardo and mulatto vassals. Even while he re­ mained dubious concerning the practicality of whitening, he recognized that there was a fundamental mutuality of interactions that linked the king and casta petitioners. Porlier explained that “princes always have wealth to reward services. . . . A pension, a gift . . . or another similar liberality ought to be just recompense of a generous action.”139 Both the “piety and mag­ nificence” of the monarch demanded that he “attend to the merit, favor the virtue and stimulate vassals . . . to undertake actions that would make them worthy of the . . . benevolence of Your Majesty.” Even as Porlier recommended denial of the petition of Bernardo Ramírez, he also acknowledged that his “honorable work, care, zeal and love” were “worthy of remuneration and recompense.” In a later whitening case, Por­ lier added that “it seemed very compatible with the beneficent ideas of the sovereign, who through the method of such honors stimulates vassals, and in a certain way moves them to observe meritorious conduct and to be most useful to society.”140 The result was that with “the hope of reward they would strive to imitate others.” Fulfilling the requirements of this monarchicalvassal reciprocal arrangement was one of the principal functions of the Council of the Indies and its subgroup, the Cámara, which processed gracias al sacar applications. The latter’s full title, the Cámara of Gracias y Justicia, reflected its mandate to deliver both favors (gracias) and justice.



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The compulsion of imperial officials to provide largesse for loyal vassals should not be underestimated. It created its own dynamic, as it predisposed bureaucrats to consider pardo and mulatto petitions, including the first re­ quests for partial and full whitening. It is notable that even when officials might be inclined to refuse or to be reluctant to whiten petitioners, they still analyzed their applications and sometimes went out of their way to provide some type of compensation, even if it were not the desired grant of whiteness. The result was the creation, as Jane Landers has noted, of a rich “tradition that recognized loyal Africans . . . as imperial subjects with a legal personality, and therefore a voice, in Spanish records.”141 Such interchanges stretched across the Atlantic to bind the sovereign and surrogate royal of­ ficials in Spain and the Americas with every vassal—including those of African descent. While the obligation of justice and reciprocity might motivate officials to reward worthy vassals, there were limits to such generosity: the benefits had to be proportionate to the service. Or, as the eminently quotable Fiscal Porlier commented, it was important to “keep proportion between the merit of the person who performs [service] and the generosity of the prince who remunerates and rewards.”142 As officials reviewed whitening petitions, they constantly sought to balance their responsibility of providing favors to vas­ sals against any negatives that might occur if they granted petitions. If they anticipated problems, they invoked that quintessential negative of Spanish bureaucracy: that dreaded euphemistic “no” word: inconveniences. Whenever that expression appeared, petitioners had to worry. One of­ ficial, for example, pondered if whitening might lead to “inconveniences or any prejudicial results”; another wondered about the inconvenience in granting whitenings.143 From the Indies, a viceroy wrote about the incon­ venience of “opening the door to all of equal quality (calidad) that find themselves in the same situation.”144 A Council of the Indies minister wor­ ried about the “grave inconveniences that follow from the dispensations of the calidad of pardos.”145 When, starting in 1806, officials attempted to develop a policy toward whitening, they gathered all the “dispensations of color” to be “united in a file concerning the inconveniences that result from this favor.”146 Each whitening decision evolved as an ongoing process where royal officials consciously attempted to weigh benefit versus loss, as pardos and mulattos detailed the value of their services as well as the absence of any mitigating inconveniences.

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etic consider ations: pu bl ic, pr i vat e , pa s si ng, honor While the purchase of whiteness shared mutual vocabularies (naturaleza, limpieza, cualidad, defect) with legitimation petitions and similar processes of redemption (gracias al sacar, justice, reciprocity, inconveniences), there were significant differences as well. One way to contextualize such distinc­ tions is to revisit some key themes appearing in Public Lives—construction of the private and public, passing, honor—using etic analysis to determine if such common themes prove as powerful in the gracias al sacar whitenings as in the legitimation documents. Public Lives suggested that distinctions between public and private were fundamental to understanding familial and social interactions, as Spanish American elites divided their worlds by degrees of personal intimacy.147 This included the private sphere of family, kin, and intimate friends that shared confidences, provided mutual support, and promoted each other’s status to outsiders. Second was the public world inhabited by everyone else, where imperial and local elites validated the maintenance, enhancement, or loss of reputation (honor). The private-public bifurcation was sufficiently distinct that individuals could “pass” and literally construct public reputations that differed from their private persona: women might be privately pregnant and publicly vir­ gins; illegitimates might enjoy public reputations that they were legitimate; royal officials found it necessary to probe both the private and public status of petitioners.148 Passing succeeded when elites or the state made individual exceptions and informally or officially accepted such disparity between pri­ vate reality and public persona. It was when passing failed that illegitimates might apply for a gracias al sacar that formally eliminated their defect and restored honor. Given the ubiquity of how such dynamics played out in legitimation documents, a natural question would be if whitening petitions revealed a similar process. To what extent did those who figured in conversations concerning whitening utilize the public and private divide? Did pardo and mulatto petitioners attempt to pass, constructing public reputations that they were white in spite of their private reality? What did they say about honor? Understanding the different ways that Indies society responded to elimination of the defect of illegitimacy compared to that of pardo-ness,



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provides some first hints as to seminal similarities and differences between signifiers of birth and race. The concept of “public “most commonly appeared in whitening docu­ ments when pardos and mulattos asked elites to testify in their favor to validate that the information they provided was known to all and there­ fore certifiably valid. One witness commented that it was “public to all the town” that a particular pardo had provided an excellent education for his offspring, and that this “distinguished them from those of their color.”149 A professor praised his pardo students, noting that their “judgment and maturity” was “public and notorious.”150 Another mulatto asked witnesses to testify to the “regularity of his public and private life.”151 Less revealing was insight into the world that was secret. Did pardo petitioners attempt to use the two-sphere dichotomy to pass and construct public reputations that they were white? Surprisingly, there were only two applications where pardos and mulattos projected different reputations in public than in private.152 One applied as a mestizo (leopardo), even though the documents made clear the family was pardo; another as white, even though later investigation revealed he had been only later ad­ opted by a white family.153 While several petitioners provided baptismal certificates that named them or their offspring as white, none applied as whites. Instead, they acknowledged they were pardos or mulattos. Why were so few pardos and mulatto petitioners using the private and public dichotomy to pass as white, especially when documents suggest that such transformations might be widespread? One evident issue was appear­ ance, as it was easier for an illegitimate to pass as legitimate than for a mulatto or pardo to pass as white. Also, the social dynamics differed. The private circle of an illegitimate often included many legitimate relations who might facilitate passing to maintain the family’s public reputation.154 In contrast, even though a pardo attempting to pass might also have white rela­ tives, usually a white father, there might be less incentive for half-siblings or others in the extended family to further mobility. It may be that the private circle proved more willing to support a sexual sin that created illegitimacy than a linkage that crossed socioracial boundaries. Timing also mattered. When pardos passed as whites, it was more com­ mon for them to admit that such mobility had occurred significantly after the fact. As recent scholarship has suggested, if passing occurred, it did so over multiple generations.155 Even the Caracas elite, while fanatically

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determined to preserve its clean blood reputation, still acknowledged that mixing had happened among its members. The cabildo noted that “even though it is true that there is one or the other family with a doubtful origin” or someone who they “vulgarly say has [something] of mulatto,” they also recognized that it was possible given the “lapse of many years” to “erase the memory” of the mixing.156 Dr. Juan Germán Roscio, a lawyer in Caracas, provided an unusually explicit analysis of these dynamics of private and public and passing and the subsequent creation of socioracial ambiguities.157 He noted that formerly there had been “innumerable unequal marriages between persons of first distinction, and not only with free pardos and mulattos but also with their black slaves.” In his own ancestry, there had been mixtures with mestizos, although he argued that any negative repercussions should no longer be “public and notorious but private and secret.” Knowledge of such linkages should not be public because time had “erased, or removed” them from “being notorious.” Roscio charged that those who dug up such flaws “sin against justice or against charity” as they “took from the archives” proofs that should no longer be public knowledge. This was why he considered the “gracias al sacar” to be essential, for when “petitioners did not have all the necessary qualities (calidades)” or suffered some “defect,” the monarch would be able to provide remedy. Roscio pointed out that even the typical questionnaires developed to prove an individual’s limpieza de sangre explicitly recognized that there could be differences between public reputation and private reality. This was why, he noted, that the question asked was “Do you know if the candidate don N and his parents and grandparents have been held and reputed as white persons” rather than more directly querying if the “parents and grandparents are white persons” (italics his). Roscio’s conclusion highlighted the difference between private actuality and public reputations: “Even if in reality they are pardos and mulattos; if they are held and reputed as whites they ought to be so included” (italics his). His musings reveal that innumerable pardos and mulattos must have eventually constructed public reputations as whites, even though this seemed not to be the immediate strategy of gracias al sacar applicants.158 Rather, as subsequent chapters will suggest, whitening petitioners tended to use the private and public dichotomy in a subtler manner. Instead of en­ deavoring to pass as white in public, pardos and mulattos attempted to dem­ onstrate that whites accepted them as colleagues in public and mingled with



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them in intimate settings as confidents or friends.159 One goal of making this ubiquitous “proximity argument” was to establish that—since whites already interacted with them—a successful application would not cause in­ conveniences and disturb the status quo. One petitioner, for example, noted that he had “maintained and lived by the side” of “subjects of character and of the first distinction of this republic.”160 An elite witness in his favor agreed that for “more than thirty years” the petitioner had “with frequency entered into his house.” Another friend explained his excellent reputation “not only given public acceptance” but that he could vouch for his “good conduct” through “private and particular experience.” Such observations parallel what a new wave of historians have observed concerning the massive presence of informal passing in Indies populations, given the fluidity of classifications. The field has moved significantly beyond Magnus Mörner’s initial complications that ordered caste hierarchies into a more static “pigmentocracy” where skin color was the primary determinant of an individual’s status.161 Rather, R. Douglas Cope, among a number of historians, has demonstrated the situational status of classifications. An individual’s “reputational” caste status might vary as it rested on a range of moving variables, including appearance, clothing, occupation, wealth, and friends rather than strictly genealogy or ancestry.162 Recent research has further complicated understanding of the fluidity of such status changes, differentiating how an individual might either person­ ally identify or have others classify him or her according to a range of caste designations over a lifetime.163 As Marisol de la Cadena notes, “the dialogue is endless, as is the power negotiation it implies.”164 The result was that a category such as mulatto or pardo might vary not only by appearance but also by location, chronology, relative rank, and self-identification. The classification dynamic was processual: it might change depending whether someone lived in Venezuela or Panama or Peru, whether during the sixteenth or eighteenth centuries, whether the definer of status was a viceroy, a neighbor, a relative, an enemy, or a particular individual.165 As Joanne Rappaport notes: People migrated in the course of everyday life from one category to another, depending upon the context of interaction and the status of an individual relative to other participants in a given scenario . . . the kinds of adjectives used to describe the person’s aspect—were contingent upon the time and place of observation.166

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The result, as Matthew Restall concludes, was that “without concrete, con­ sistent categories there could be no real system—nor a coherent ideology of social rank that placed ‘race’ at its core.”167 Such fluidity had differential regulators: one possibility might be for par­ dos to attempt to enjoy mestizo rather than white status. Another option was for pardos and mulattos to attempt to prove their nearness to whiteness by intermingling with whites in familiar ways rather than by attempting to pass in public as white. This may have been a more practical strategy for an elite cohort that was usually whitish, but whose public reputation remained as being mostly pardo. Over the generations, as such interactions with white cohorts increased, and as subsequent generations looked whiter, time might eventually erase knowledge of any ancestral flaw. This dynamic may have more resembled the after-the-fact passing described by the Caracas cabildo and by the lawyer Juan Germán Roscio. As Joanne Rappaport concludes, socioracial passing was more a “movement across identities as part of an unfolding process of classification and identity construction and not an isolated moment of subterfuge.”168 While subsequent chapters will explore how pardos and mulattos uti­ lized the proximity argument to establish they comfortably interacted with whites, it might also function as a double-edged sword. Just as castas might use it to suggest they were approximating equality—given that many of their colleagues and social acquaintances were white—so elites might use it to discriminate against them. Whites employed the proximity argument against pardos and mulattos, forwarding that such nearness lowered their own reputations. They prophesied that if the Council of the Indies permit­ ted pardos and mulattos to enter the university or to become priests or to serve in municipal offices then whites would flee from such venues. They would not want to debase their own social status by mingling familiarly with inferiors. Just as illegitimates and pardos used the private and public dichotomy in distinctive fashions, so they engaged in different expectations concern­ ing any ultimate effect. Comparing the different consequences of legitima­ tions with whitenings suggests why the results of the latter remained so much more tenuous. In the case of legitimations, there were centuries of precedents concerning the legal and social effects. The Laws of Toro (1505) provided explicit legislation as to whether there might be any changes in inheritance potential.169 Illegitimates rightfully assumed that if a legitima­



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tion decree arrived it would restore their honor and make them eligible for the honorific title of Don.170 What of pardos and mulattos? What happened when their defect was eliminated? Did it make them, like the newly legitimated, eligible for the perquisites of white elites? Did they become persons of honor? Might they pass whiteness to their offspring?171 Given there were no comparable prec­ edents, imperial officials, pardos and mulattos, and elites would engage in contentious, contradictory, prolonged, and astonishingly illuminating de­ bates over any ultimate effects. The only consistency was that there was little consistency. The Council of the Indies might decide on one occasion that a whitened pardo who was a lawyer automatically deserved the title of Don.172 Another time a Council minister would deny that whitening pardos equaled them with elites.173 Par­ dos and mulattos ran the gamut from assuming that whitening made them equal with every privilege attached to those with honor, to assuming that it just rid them of their ancestral flaw with no other favorable consequences.174 Subsequent chapters will explore the very different answers that royal officials, pardos and mulattos, and local elites would give to this question throughout the decades. Understanding such historic frameworks—the problematics of comparison, how Spaniards conceptualized race, color, na­ turaleza, limpieza, calidad, and defect; how imperial officials recognized vassals and gauged the dynamics of justice, reciprocity, and inconveniences; how pardos and mulattos negotiated private and public spheres, employed the proximity argument, and debated the issue of honor—provides funda­ mental context for future analysis.

t h e ac tor s, pa pe r f l ow s, and chains of command A processual approach not only requires some first glimpses into contexts that underlay the historical dynamics governing inclusion and exclusion: it also necessitates identification of actors involved in whitening petitions. A first priority is to locate critical sites on the chain of governance that ran from the monarch to the most humble inhabitants in the Americas and discover who participated. A second step follows the resulting paper trail, highlighting the types of documents and information that emerge. A final

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section introduces a revisionist methodology to peer deeper into the deci­ sion making within the Council and Cámara of the Indies. Since during three centuries of Indies government there were numerous changes in who governed what region from where, who produced what type of documents, and who made decisions, the following provides but a basic overview. First, although it has become traditional and even comfortable to refer to Spanish America before independence as “colonial Spanish America,” this adjective proves to be misleading. Just as with the use of “race,” it is essential to historicize that simplistic and thorny word. As Anthony Pagden and Alejandro Cañeque rightly insist, the relationship between the Spanish peninsula and the Americas was never technically “colonial.”175 Rather, the overseas territories—including Naples, Mexico, Sicily, and Peru—even if not strictly equal to Castile—were technically “kingdoms” that were “gov­ erned as if it were the king’s only realm.”176 Such peninsular-overseas relationships evolved from seventeenthcentury Hapsburg constructions that more viewed the American kingdoms as equal, to later eighteenth-century Bourbon intentions of establishing more dominant-subordinate interactions.177 It is telling that in the thou­ sands of pages of gracias al sacar documents concerning whitening, the term “colonial” occurs only once—when the Pardo Guild of Caracas described Venezuela’s relationship with Spain.178 Such an absence of mention is stag­ gering, suggesting the mandate to provide more nuance when analyzing exchanges between Spaniards and Americans. Even though peninsular in­ tents to equalize or dominate the overseas kingdoms might alter over the centuries, the fundamental structures of governance maintained essential continuities. Just as citizens in the United States live in distinct if overlapping juris­ dictions—city, county, state, federal—so Spanish Americans belonged to four such divisions—city, province, audiencia, empire.179 Starting at the lowest level of government, residents of the Indies fell under the governance of the city council, or cabildo.180 Its jurisdiction extended beyond its im­ mediate urban environs, or marca, to encompass much larger hinterlands with boundaries usually detailed in the founding charter. For example, the town of Medellín, surrounded on all sides by the Andes and located in the Valley of Aburrá, defined its jurisdiction as from “peak to peak” of the sur­ rounding mountains.181 It was through cabildos that local elites might gov­ ern, holding permanent offices as regidores, or serving as annually elected



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officers, including alcaldes, procurador generales, or sheriffs (alcaldes de la hermandad). Combining the urban and rural jurisdictions of several city councils pro­ duced the next administrative unit, the province, headed by a governor. The jurisdiction encompassed by the population of Medellín, for example, joined with counterparts from Rionegro, Marinilla, and from the capital of Antioquia City to comprise the province of Antioquia.182 Appointed from Madrid, the governor’s responsibility was to supervise the execution of imperial legislation for the city council jurisdictions in his province. He oversaw the cabildo in the provincial capital as well as royal officials called corregidores who staffed the other town councils in the province. These made certain that locals opened official documents, publicized legislation through the town crier, and enforced the law. The merging of a varying number of provinces produced the next larg­ est administrative unit, the audiencia—which varied from four to seven­ teen members that exercised legislative, executive, and judicial functions within its jurisdiction.183 The numbers of provinces that combined to form an audiencia division might vary widely. The province of Antioquia, for example, along with the provinces of Cartagena, Santa Marta, Bogotá, Popayán, Pasto, Tunja, and Choco formed the audiencia jurisdiction of New Granada.184 Later, provinces from Quito and Venezuela also reported to this audiencia, with its capital in Bogotá. By the end of the eighteenth century, Spanish America included twelve such audiencias with capitals in Mexico City, Guadalajara, Guatemala City, Santo Domingo, Bogotá, Quito, Lima, Buenos Aires, Charcas (La Plata), Cuzco, Santiago, and Caracas.185 The members of the audiencia, called judges, or oidores, figured among the hardest-working and most prestigious officials in the Indies. Not surprisingly, they often received that final ac­ colade: promotion to serve as crown attorneys (fiscals) or as ministers of the Council of the Indies.186 Audiencias also included a number of other officials to handle business, including a fiscal who analyzed documents and suggested possible actions to the judges. Not all audiencias were equal. Presiding over each council was an execu­ tive officer appointed by the king and the Council of the Indies. The title of that official—president, captain general, or viceroy—gave that audien­ cia jurisdiction its relative status and its name.187 For example, a president headed the audiencias of Santo Domingo and Quito. Captains general,

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officials with military experience, supervised audiencias in regions marked by continuing Native resistance such as Chile (Mapuche), Guatemala (Maya), and Guadalajara (Chichimec/Pueblo/Apache). The viceroys were the highest-ranking officials in the Indies, superior to the presidents and captains general. Originally, the jurisdiction of the viceroy of Mexico extended from Central America northward and that of the viceroy of Peru from Panama southward.188 By the end of the eighteenth century, there were also viceroys in Bogotá (New Granada) and Buenos Aires (La Plata). Bourbon administrative reform later combined some func­ tions and in some audiencias replaced presidents, captains general, and gov­ ernors with intendants.189 Finally, presiding over the audiencias and their executives was the Coun­ cil of the Indies, the supreme judicial and administrative organ of imperial government.190 Beginning in the 1760s and especially after 1773, reforms had revived the prestige of the Council of the Indies, making it equal in status to the Council of Castile. Ministers on the Council of the Indies had also increased, ranging from six in 1750 to an expanded fourteen by 1776.191 A varying number of ministers also belonged to a subgroup, called the Cá­ mara that recommended appointments for civil and ecclesiastical offices in the Americas, on the Council of the Indies and handed out royal patronage, which included the gracias al sacar.192 The Council of the Indies also included two crown attorneys, or fiscals, who summarized documents and suggested possible action (consulta). Introducing these basic elements of the imperial bureaucratic chain permits exploration of the kinds of information concern­ ing whitening generated by those strung along it—pardos and mulattos, lo­ cal elites, city council officials, governors, oidores in audiencias, presidents, captains general, viceroys, and the Council and Cámara of the Indies. Unlike petitions for legitimations that had accumulated precedents over centuries as applicants had solicited favors from the crown, pardos and mu­ lattos essentially had to invent their own application process. Their ultimate goal was to articulate their present condition, to explain why they wanted it changed, and to justify why—given the demands of justice and reci­ procity—that the crown should intervene on their behalf. During the half century (1760–1816) that pardos sent in applications, they collected relevant documents concerning their birth and service, marshaled friends and local elites to testify on their behalf, and asked royal officials to support their cases. The result was that everyone on the imperial chain of command from



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the king downward might at one time or another participate in judging, supporting, or rejecting whitening petitions. What types of documents did pardos and mulattos collect to buttress their cases? If they were legitimate, especially if there were several married generations in the family, it was helpful to send in baptismal certificates to establish the family’s rectitude. Petitioners would approach their parish priest who would provide notarized copies.193 If pardos and mulattos or their ancestors had served in militia units, they might provide certifications of royal service, another considerable asset in their favor.194 Another common strategy was to prepare an interrogatory (interrogatorio), a customary format used to generate information in support of a petition. Pardos would, in consultation with a notary, develop a series of questions to ask witnesses that would elicit information favorable to their case.195 They might include queries concerning their background, education, occupation, good character, and social acceptability. The goal was to accu­ mulate the most favorable testimony using the most prestigious witnesses. The optimum was to prove that whites already accepted the petitioner, so that whitening would not disturb the status quo and lead to inconveniences. The result was that not only friends and neighbors, but workplace col­ leagues, city council officers, local royal officials, university faculty, and clergy might participate in such questionings. Witnesses might send enthusiastic, ambiguous, or negatively coded recommendations as they testified concern­ ing applicants.196 Pardos might also ask royal officials, including governors and captains general, to write letters of recommendation in their favor.197 In a final step, applicants would either themselves or through their legal represen­ tative (apoderado) supply a cover letter. This often provided further personal information and attempted to make the best case for a positive verdict.198 When a whitening application arrived at the Council of the Indies, it flowed to the desks of the crown attorneys for New Spain (Mexico) and Peru. These fiscals prepared one of the most vital documents in the process, the consulta, which summarized the petitions and often suggested a ratio­ nale for a favorable or unfavorable decision.199 The consulta then traveled to the Cámara, the subgroup of the Council of the Indies charged with dispensing patronage and gracias. No set number of Camaristas made deci­ sions, although when they identified themselves—which was rare—two to five ministers might participate.200 Their deliberations, their rationale for judgments, and any resulting vote remained secret.

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Even when it received a positive or negative recommendation from the crown attorney, the Cámara might still refuse to make a decision. Ministers might request that a viceroy develop another interrogatory to accumulate additional data, or command an oidor from an audiencia to investigate the background of applicants, or query a governor why certain data had not arrived.201 Such activism was particularly notable in whitening petitions— at least when compared to the Cámara’s handling of legitimation requests. In the latter cases ministers seem to have evolved fairly clear policy, which made those decisions more pro forma.202 Since the whitening gracias lacked precedents and might cause controversy, officials seemed more prone to de­ lay and to request additional information from the Indies. Unfortunately, the reasons why the Cámara might support or overrule the advice of the fiscal or how it weighted additional information remains unknown, as ministers seldom provided any justification or commentary concerning their actions. The Cámara would simply forward its yes or no judgment to the minister of the Indies and the monarch.203 These either gave final approval for the issuance of an official decree or asked for further information or concurred with the decision for denial. In a final step, the Council of the Indies prepared a response to the petitioner and either sent a physical copy of a royal whitening decree or a rejection down the admin­ istrative chain of command. Not only petitioners but witnesses and imperial officials participated in the whitening process. Others, not directly involved, but with a stake in the outcome might also forward their opinions. In Caracas, the whitening op­ tion unleashed a firestorm as the city council, royal officials, the university, and the bishop sent heated letters protesting the clauses while the Pardo Guild sent a lengthy letter manifesting its fervent support. Even after they received an official whitening decree, pardos and mulattos might return to the Council of the Indies asking ministers to enforce their new privileges as granted by law. While identifying most actors in gracias al sacar documents is rela­ tively straightforward given that petitioners, royal officials in the Indies, and representatives such as the bishop, the cabildo, or the university signed their documents, such specificity becomes more problematic after applica­ tions arrived at the Council of the Indies. As Public Lives notes, histori­ ans lack “insight into the . . . usually hidden process by which Bourbon



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decrees were—or were not—translated into social policy.”204 Nor, as Mark ­Burkholder has challenged, have scholars “systematically examined the Council’s place in the formation of policy for the New World during the Bourbon period.”205 The dilemma is how to get inside the heads of deci­ sion makers in the Council and Cámara of the Indies and explore how they shaped policy for the Americas. Such difficulties prove particularly acute in evaluations of the consulta, that premier document prepared by the crown attorney, given that it re­ viewed precedents, provided a rationale for action or inaction, initiated sub­ sequent discussion, and might eventually shape policy. It was through the consulta that the fiscal discharged “the mission of defending the interests of the king” through recommendations that either provided merited rewards to deserving vassals or denial if these produced inconveniences.206 It was possible in Public Lives to use the recommendations in consultas and the en­ suing approvals or rejections to trace broad alterations in legitimation policy over time.207 This revealed that by the late eighteenth century the fiscals and Cámara had developed stricter standards concerning who might be legiti­ mated as they first began to reject the sacrilegious, then the adulterous, and finally only reluctantly legitimated hijos naturales, the illegitimate offspring of single parents. Similar tracing of the stated rationales underlying trends in decision making is also possible for whitening petitions. Unhappily, another layer of policy formation in the Council of the Indies has remained opaque—until now. It was previously impossible to determine the identity of a particular crown attorney, to consider if his opinion con­ cerning cases changed over time, to compare the specific recommendation of one official with another, or to track changes in personnel due to promo­ tion, retirement, or death. Development of a novel methodology now permits identification of the fiscals by triangulating the date of the consulta and the geographical loca­ tion of the petition with known periods of crown attorney service. A first step was to determine the month and year of a particular consulta, which was always dated. The geographic origin of the petition established which fiscal took responsibility for it: the New Spain crown attorney handled doc­ uments arriving from Central America northward; his counterpart for Peru reviewed the paperwork emanating from Panama southward.208 If one fiscal post was vacant, then the remaining crown attorney handled all business

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from the Americas, receiving an extra stipend for that effort.209 The final key was to pinpoint which relevant crown attorneys held office during that specific period. Such analysis proves practicable, given that Mark Burkholder’s Biographical Dictionary of Councilors of the Indies not only contains capsule biog­ raphies of the ministers who served in the Council and Cámara but also counterpart studies of the twenty-six fiscals who had held the posts for New Spain and Peru throughout the eighteenth century. It was therefore possible to pinpoint by month and year when crown attorneys assumed their post and when they left it. (See Appendix B.) Triangulating the geographical origin of the petitions, the dates of the consultas, and the periods of service reveal the identities of the crown attorneys.210 For example, if a consulta ar­ rived from Mexico or the Caribbean between September 9, 1775, and July 8, 1787, it would customarily be the providence of Fiscal Antonio de Porlier.211 Fiscal José de Cistué y Coll was the longest serving crown attorney handling cases from Panama southward from June 15, 1775, through September 25, 1802.212 Sometimes is it impossible to identify the author, given that there were no serving fiscals during a particular period, and an unidentified min­ ister serving on the Council of the Indies would write the consulta. Appendix B provides a guide to probe deeper into policy making in the Council of the Indies through the identification of these key players. Still, the use of this methodology raises a question: If a fiscal did not sign a con­ sulta, how certain is it that he wrote it, even if it appeared during his time in office? The degree to which crown attorneys personally prepared these documents no doubt varied from case to case. They supervised a coterie of lower-ranking officials, “agents” who “looked and asked for whatever documents and information” were needed and who provided assistance in summarizing cases and in making recommendations.213 Still, one rare instance where the fiscals from New Spain and from Peru commented on the same petition suggests that crown attorneys took per­ sonal responsibility for their consultas. Since the whitening case originated from Bogotá, it first arrived at the desk of the fiscal for Peru, José de Cistué y Coll, who wrote the original consulta in July 23, 1795, recommending a denial of the request.214 However, in this instance the Cámara did not ac­ cept his advice and instead requested more information from the Americas. When the new set of documents finally arrived, Fiscal Cistué y Coll would normally have prepared another consulta, incorporating the new



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information into his recommendation. However, he seems to have taken some kind of a temporary leave from office, leaving his pending business with his colleague, New Spain fiscal Ramón de Posada y Soto. It was the latter who wrote the opinion for the second consulta a year later on Septem­ ber 15, 1796. However, Posada y Soto made it manifest—even though Cistué y Coll still held the post of fiscal for Peru—that in this particular instance, he was the author. The introduction of the consulta noted that “the fiscal for New Spain who for now dispatches the business of Peru” had written the judgment (italics mine). The underlying supposition that emerges from this example is that the normal procedure seems to have been that fiscals took responsibility for the consultas under their jurisdiction. Only when this was not the case, as occurred with Posada y Soto, did he comment specifically on the anomaly. Similar notations that a consulta did not originate from a designated fiscal also appeared when temporary vacancies left no crown attorneys serving. Then the consultas typically remarked that a “minister” of the Council of the Indies rather than a “crown attorney” wrote the opinion.215 It seems reasonable to assume in future analysis that—whatever his input—when a serving fiscal sent a consulta to the Cámara of the Indies it was—at the least—under his watch and his responsibility. Identification of those specific periods when eighteenth-century crown attorneys held office not only permits their identification, it also leads to some unexpected conclusions. Identifying which fiscals had previous expe­ rience in the Indies confirms Mark Burkholder’s first judgment that a major goal of mid-eighteenth-century administrative reform was to name seasoned officials to the Council of the Indies.216 After 1775 for Mexico and 1778 for Peru, every fiscal through independence would have previously held office in the Americas before he received an appointment. Burkholder concluded that the “Crown had realized its objectives of providing the Council with stable personnel and better knowledge of American affairs.”217 Rafael Gar­ cía Pérez agrees that the office of fiscal had become a “magnificent reserve of veterans and experts in affairs of the Indies, which logically translated into a better defense of the interests of the crown in those lands.”218 To what extent did bureaucrats with American experience make more informed decisions? Given the absence of research, Burkholder could only speculate that “future investigation” might “reveal whether the veterans of the Indies brought significant changes to the tribunal’s recommendations

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and decisions.” Later chapters will suggest that these seasoned crown attor­ neys made a difference: they demonstrated notable expertise in their scru­ tiny of whitening petitions. It was, however, the vacancies in Appendix B that provide a first hint that there might be need for a revisionist interpretation of Burkholder’s revi­ sionist interpretation. While Burkholder was right that officials with Indies experience added valuable expertise to Council decisions, this administra­ tive reform did not provide the hoped-for “stable personnel” to the office of the fiscal. The appointments of crown attorneys with Indies’ expertise came with a supreme price. Since there were only two fiscals for the Council of the Indies, they could become bottlenecks in the administrative chain if one or both were not analyzing and facilitating document flow—not just of whitening petitions but of all the business emanating from the Americas. Compared to the early eighteenth century when recently named fiscals usually tended to come from the peninsula and could assume the office fairly rapidly, when a newly appointed crown attorney was holding a post in the Indies, it took time to pack up a household and travel to Madrid.219 Determination of those days when the fiscal’s office remained empty dur­ ing such turnovers provides striking evidence of the negatives attached to these waits: the privileging of fiscals with American experience produced five times more days of vacancies. There were 9 changes of fiscals for Peru before the Bourbon reform, leading to interims of 441 total days without any crown attorney; after 1777 the appointment of three fiscals serving in the Americas occasioned 2252 unoccupied days before they took up their posts. In Mexico the 7 replacements of crown attorneys before 1775 pro­ duced 726 days without a fiscal; the 7 interims occasioned by fiscals arriving from the Americas totaled 3603 lost days. Even more dire for the efficient functioning of the Council were the 1246 days after 1777 when there was no fiscal for either Peru or New Spain.220 Some confirmation of the slowing capability of the Council of the In­ dies appears in Rafael García Pérez’s enumeration of the number of files dispatched by the Council and Cámara of the Indies from 1804 to 1807.221 These cases reached a peak of 2439 in 1803, declining to two-thirds that number, 784, by 1807. There was no year from 1802 to 1807 where both of­ fices were fully staffed. The Council of the Indies suffered simply appalling vacancies in 1806–1807: only one working crown attorney served for five months—there were no fiscals for the remaining nineteen months. It seems



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evident that while the appointment of fiscals with Indies experience left the Council of the Indies more competent, it also left it significantly less effi­ cient. Tracing the trajectories of the whitening documents not only provides insight into purchasing whiteness, it also becomes a case study as to how bureaucratic reform deteriorated the administrative system. These two sections have introduced some of the historical contexts shap­ ing the dynamics of inclusion and exclusion. They have identified critical actors up and down the bureaucratic chain who would participate in peti­ tioning, promoting, rejecting, denying, and approving whitening petitions. It now remains to consider that third variable shaping process: chronologies.

chronologies: line a r, frozen, atl antic, tr aditional One of the virtues of processual analysis is the constant reminder that chro­ nologies must be multiple and interconnected. A number of timelines— “long,” “linear” “frozen,” “Atlantic,” and “traditional” undergird what follows. The next two chapters take a “long-time” approach. Chapter 3 ex­ plores the paths of Africans brought as slaves to the Indies and how over the centuries they and their descendants negotiated freedom, mixing with Natives and whites to create the complex society of castas and eventually as­ suming status as royal vassals. Chapter 4 traces the family histories of gracias al sacar petitioners over multiple generations as some engaged in strategies to lighten their descendants through sexual liaisons and marriages with whites. Subsequent chapters focus on shorter time periods. Chapters 5 through 7 analyze trends in the precursor applications before 1795; Chapters 8 through 12 trace subsequent trajectories after the publication of the whitening gra­ cias al sacar; Chapter 13 explores aftermaths. One way to understand the necessity for multiple chronological approaches might be to consider how a whitening petition might fit into linear, frozen, Atlantic, and traditional timelines. Analysis using linear time might follow the history of an application from the start to the finish: from a pardo collecting first documents to the Council of the Indies issuance or denial of a whitening decree. While such an approach is valuable, it cannot explain the interactions of variables that produced outcomes. Years customarily passed from start to finish and

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many other factors—changes in fiscals, decisions on other petitions, pro­ tests, historical events—might shape ongoing decisions as well as impact any conclusion. Given the absence of precedents concerning whitening, the process of bureaucratic decision making proved unusually fluid, as officials innovated in distinctive and often contradictory ways. While understand­ ing the historical trajectory of each whitening petition is fundamental, it is equally imperative to consider other interfaces. Organizing chronology within frozen time permits location of intercon­ nections. This methodology arranges the documents from each case by day, month, and year. It then melds all the cases and well as other relevant docu­ ments into a similar master chronological database. It is therefore feasible to “freeze” a chunk of time—to isolate a key period and consider possible connections between petitioners, imperial officials, and local elites during a defined time. It is possible to know, for example, what was occurring in whitening documents during November 1796 or any other month—who was collecting information for petitions, what letters were in transit from Spain or the Americas, who was waiting for a decision, what fiscal was writing what consulta, what the Caracas cabildo was doing—and deter­ mine how those interactions might or might not affect outcome. Moving the frozen chunk of time forward—to December 1796 or January 1797— develops a dynamic chronology that reveals those processual interactions that promoted or impeded change. Adding the component of Atlantic time to frozen time provides another analytical level and widens the geographical focus. Atlantic time reminds that there was both simultaneity and ignorance on both sides of the ocean. Formative events might be occurring in Spain and in the Indies, and each side would be unaware of what was happening elsewhere. At the same mo­ ment that the Council of the Indies in Madrid might approve an application, the cabildo in Caracas might write a ferocious condemnation of whitening. A petitioner from Mexico might send in a request unaware that ministers in Madrid were no longer seriously considering applications. Atlantic time rec­ ognizes such concurrent ignorances, acknowledging the lag times in aware­ ness on both sides of the ocean, as well as possible repercussions. Finally, there is traditional time, or some of the more familiar bench­ marks of imperial history. How might the history of casta mobility and the particular trajectory of whitening petitions fit within nontraditional or traditional narratives? Developments substantially before the appearance of



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first petitions as well as both outside and inside the Spanish empire impor­ tantly influenced trends. The next chapter, which focuses from the conquest to the early eighteenth century, reveals two less acknowledged turning points: the 1620s and the 1700s. The first marked decades when heretofore almost universally nega­ tive comments and legislation against pardos and mulattos began to shift, and these began to detach some of the discrimination leveled at them due to their ancestry. The second whitening benchmark occurred at the start of the eighteenth century when, with the Hapsburg dynasty extinguished, the Bourbon monarchs (Philip V [1700–1746] and Ferdinand VI [1746–1759]) came to the Spanish throne. This period marked an even more active at­ tempt by some pardos and mulattos to attach limited perquisites of white­ ness. It would be their children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren who would send the early petitions requesting whiteness. Applications for partial and full whitening encompassed the decades from the 1760s to the 1810s and spanned particularly traumatic epochs in the history of empire and particularly in the Caribbean. As David P. Geg­ gus has noted, there were “two sets of conflicts” First, was an international vying for power between the British, Spanish, and French. These contests interacted with “domestic struggles” throughout the Caribbean as slaves rebelled for freedom, pardos and mulattos sought privileges of whiteness, and elites reacted to maintain domination.222 It seems no accident that the first whitening petitions originated from Cuba, from pardo surgeons ac­ tively serving during the defense of Havana against the British invasion in 1762. The last application arrived to a Spain engaged in a peninsular war against the French.223 The whitening petitions would affect and be affected by other turning points—the Haitian Revolution (1791–1804), the Coro Revolt as slaves sought freedom in Venezuela (1795), the precursor Miranda invasion (1806) promoting independence in Venezuela, and the Cortes of Cádiz (1810–1814), attempting to reshape and maintain the empire. The 1760s also brought significant changes in imperial governance, as these decades initiated the beginning of Bourbon reforms in the Indies un­ der the auspices of Charles III (1759–1788) and Charles IV (1788–1808). The main thrust of such efforts was to buttress national security, to protect the empire against foreign invaders, to generate more income from the Ameri­ cas through greater efficiencies and increased taxes, and to govern better through tighter controls and more professional administrators. Subsequent

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chapters will trace the innovativeness and responsiveness of the early de­ cades of Bourbon reform as well as chart its subsequent decadence. Where did whitening fit within these initiatives? As the previous chap­ ter has noted, the purchase of whiteness proved only coincidentally to be a Bourbon reform. It did not derive from any policy consensus either to provide flexibility to rigid social structures in the Indies or—at least initially—to win the loyalties of pardo and mulatto vassals. Rather, whiten­ ing appeared somewhat absentmindedly as royal officials encountered a few precedents in the course of collecting favors to be purchased through gracias al sacar. Officials tacked whitening at the end of the 1795 fee schedule as much due to the Enlightenment impetus to codify as to the ever-present Bourbon search for additional revenue streams. Even if not promulgated as a social reform, the potential to purchase whiteness did intersect with one Bourbon initiative, the Pragmatic Sanction on Marriages. Promulgated in 1778 in the Indies, it interposed the state be­ tween the Catholic Church and betrothed couples, even though the Catholic Council of Trent insisted that couples should have free choice of partners.224 Rather, with the Pragmatic Sanction on Marriages, the state now exercised a new form of regalism—it intervened by empowering white parents or guard­ ians to prevent marriages by petitioning to civil officials when they con­ sidered the prospective union to be unequal in class or caste status.225 The legislation limited such interventions to the elite, stipulating that “mulattos, negros, coyotes and individuals of the castes” were not eligible to protest unequal marriages, even though these groups still attempted to invoke the sanction.226 If upheld as a “rational” dissent (disenso), sons or daughters faced disinheritance if they married in spite of state and parental prohibition. Given that sexual relationships or marriages with whites proved to be a common strategy followed by pardos and mulattos to lighten succeeding generations, the Pragmatic Sanction on Marriages posed a serious challenge to mobility. Yet, even as the Spanish seemed to take opportunities away with the Pragmatic Sanction, they seemed to supply another option with the gracias al sacar for if pardos and mulattos purchased whiteness, there could be no objection to their marriage with whites. The time has now arrived to start at the beginning of this story, with the entrance of those great-great-grandfathers and -grandmothers from Africa who would mingle with Spaniards and Natives and whose descendants would become the first petitioners for whiteness.

three

Interstices Seeking Spaces for Mobility Servitude is the most vile thing in the world . . . liberty is the most dear and most esteemed. siete partidas, Partida 4, Título xxii, Ley viii (1252–1284)1

introduction In March 1795, a month after the Council of the Indies issued the gracias al sacar, Guatemalan Don Domingo Lucian wrote the Council of the Indies that he had recently purchased the prestigious local office of regidor in the city of San Salvador.2 Although he had five witnesses testify to his acceptability, cabildo members nonetheless objected, given the stain that he had inherited from his great-great-grandmother, who descended from mulattos. While it seems unlikely that news of the gracias al sacar had reached Don Domingo, he nonetheless asked for his own informal version of whitening. He petitioned the Council to approve his assumption of office. New Spain fiscal Ramón de Posada y Soto sanctioned his request, confirming his status as a member of the white elite. The minister concluded that the “distance in which the dubious defect occurred” had combined with his “good circumstances” to overcome any shadows from his past. This chapter focuses less on the effective whitening of Regidor Don Domingo than on his unnamed mulatta great-great-grandmother. Interest 81

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attaches not only to her descendants but also to her ancestors, some of whom were almost certainly slaves. What were the processes that had created opportunities for those in bondage and their offspring to maneuver to create sufficient “distance” and “good circumstances” so that, generations later, a royal official might declare a descendant white and eligible for public office? A survey of “long time”—tracing changes in laws and attitudes concerning slaves, free blacks, pardos, and mulattos through centuries of Spanish legislation—opens a window into that lost world. The goal is not primarily to explore the repressive apparatus surrounding the slave system or the society of castes writ large.3 Rather, the more narrow focus is to search for mobility—evidence of historic interstices, to locate those in-between places where slaves found opportunities to move to freedom, where their free sons and daughters might shed markers of their inferior status, or where their descendants might figure as vassals, attaching selected or full privileges of whiteness. What were those processes of exclusion and inclusion that opened up spaces for mobility? Given there is no comprehensive compendium of Spanish legislation, the gathering of as complete a collection as possible of laws, edicts, and royal decrees concerning slaves, free blacks, pardos, and mulattos from conquest through independence remains a challenge. Sources include the more readily available compilations issued by the crown (Recopilaciones) as well as collections of royal decrees (cedularios). Historians and archivists have issued an impressive number of such volumes, copied from documents in the Archive of the Indies or from local archives throughout the empire. Particularly relevant is Richard Konetzke’s five volumes containing 1450 documents focusing on the social history of Spanish America.4 Some collections remain in manuscript, including the Cedulario de Ayala, located in the Archivo Histórico Nacional, the legislative collection compiled by Benito Mata Linares preserved in the Real Academia, as well as scattered manuscripts from the Biblioteca Nacional in Madrid.5 Although this source base contains duplicate legislation and is not all inclusive, it provides rich and deep documentation concerning the repression, as well as the mobility of slaves, blacks, and castas during the ensuing centuries. What can such an accumulation of laws reveal concerning the quest of slaves, free blacks, pardos, and mulattos to better their status? Methodologically, legislation can be a tricky historical source, as there can be wide variation between the issuance of a law and its ultimate impact on discrete



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regions throughout the empire. When used with caution, it opens a window into the minds of those who promulgated it—at the least, it provides insight into what royal officials chose to reveal publicly about the particular intent of any decree. One example: early codifications on slavery reveal that Spaniards did not necessarily consider it to be a permanent condition. Laws also instruct when they prove to be reactive. Rather than setting an agenda, they respond to an existing situation. “Reading through” such legislation provides a marker to potential niches permitting mobility. When the crown issued ordinances forbidding pardos and mulattos to attend university, it provided an indirect acknowledgment that some may have successfully evaded this prohibition. Juxtaposed with case studies, the extent to which laws impacted or failed to effect change on the ground provides additional interpretative depth. In the last two decades successive waves of historiography have researched key issues concerning the African experience in the Indies: the transition from slave to free, the variability of manumission paths, the extent of AfricanNative-Spanish interactions, the degree of harmony or hostility between socioracial groups, as well as variations by region and over time. Addition of these case studies provides exceptionally valuable templates that confirm the continuity or challenge the distance between legislation and popular practices.6 An emic and processual analysis of collected legislation highlights thematic, chronological, and geographical variables that created spaces for slave, pardo, and mulatto mobility.7 The documents themselves create the trends. Certain concerns of royal officials—the effects of marriage on slave freedom—emerge in specific periods and then disappear. Other issues— tribute payment, which marked pardos and mulattos as inferior to whites— spanned the centuries. Time also sets benchmarks: patterns in legislation starting in the 1620s marked a positive transformation in royal attitudes toward free pardos and mulattos; trends from the 1700s revealed an acceleration in casta efforts to enjoy privileges customarily restricted to whites. Region also mattered; for while niches for mobility were usually more expansive in the peripheries, there were instances were there might be greater success in the urban cores. While the ultimate goal of slaves, free blacks, pardos, and mulattos was similar—mobility through subversion of colonial “categories of control”— their strategies differed over time.8 For slaves, whether they arrived in the

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1550s or the 1750s, the first aim must have remained freedom, although some, in spite of prohibitions, also found spaces where they might do “white things.” For free blacks, pardos, and mulattos a first goal was often to shed a specific discrimination attached to their caste status; later they would attempt to appropriate a limited privilege attached to whiteness. Such informal and even illegal subversions of discriminatory legislation might evolve into formal acceptance of such exceptions. It was not uncommon that dispensations first attached to exceptional individuals; as time passed, the crown might extend the benefit to designated groups. Even though written laws and traditions set overarching guidelines establishing customary agendas for discrimination, there were always wild cards: one official might facilitate a type of mobility; his successor might impede it. This chapter explores such messy interplays by consideration of those interstices that facilitated the transition from slavery to freedom. It then traces how blacks, pardos, and mulattos sought niches to erase their discriminatory status, eventually achieving standing as royal vassals. Even if they never anticipated it, the successes of these ancestors would open avenues for some of their descendants to seek official whiteness.

mov e m e n t f rom sl av e t o f r e e In the years immediately following the conquest, there were two particularly favored items that newly arrived Spaniards brought to the Indies: horses and slaves. It is notable that the formula used to request a license to import either was eerily similar. In 1529, early in the conquest of Peru, a Domingo Sorolate received permission “to carry to the province of Tumbes two black slaves for the service of your person and house.”9 Five years later, another conquistador, Juan de la Casas, received a similar license, this time “to pass . . . to the province of Peru a horse for the service of your person and house.”10 Slaves and horses seem to have been on a somewhat similar rhetorical plane—both were valued possessions serving individuals and their families.11 There was yet another ironic connection between horses and slaves in the Americas. Just as horses ran away from their masters and eventually formed free-ranging herds that roamed the plains, so, soon after the conquest, slaves found expansive opportunities to escape bondage and to set succeeding generations free.12 As Jane Landers and Matthew Restall have noted, “Spanish



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control over Africans was tenuous almost from the moment the first African touched American soil.”13 Particularly in the early decades, although not always later, Spanish America more resembled the traditional classification of “societies with slaves” rather than “slave societies.”14 Understanding the parameters set by the medieval law code the Siete Partidas (1256–1265), as well as how such legislation translated to the Indies, provides insights into how slaves negotiated some early paths to freedom.15 It is no accident that key clauses revealing Spanish views of slavery appear in the fourth of the Partidas, the section reserved for the creation of the family. Proceeding topics concern engagements, marriage, and the relationship between fathers and offspring before providing a section on servitude. Since slaves were members of the family, regulations regarding their bondage became part of family law.16 The Partidas did not consider slavery to be an inherent condition. Rather, it conceded that men “were naturally free.”17 Only certain circumstances created the state of bondage—capture in war, self-sale, or birth to a female slave. It was the reverse of that latter category that would open a gaping interstice fundamental to the movement from slave to free and the subsequent creation of the society of castes. Given the impossibility of substantiating paternity, the state of female wombs mattered. Just as the womb of a slave woman only nurtured slaves, so the womb of a free woman only birthed the free. The condition of the father was irrelevant, for the law agreed that “sons born of a free mother and a slave father will be free.” Even for those forced or born into slavery, the Partidas did not concede that their bondage was permanent. Rather, law encouraged slaves to seek freedom. It is notable that immediately following clauses establishing the relationships between masters and slaves appears a section titled “Of liberty.”18 The Partida conceded that “all the creatures of the earth love and desire liberty,” particularly “man, who has understanding above that of all the others.” It concluded that “servitude is the most vile thing in the world” while “liberty is the most dear and most esteemed.” At least in theory, fundamental Spanish law portrayed slavery as a despised state that the bonded naturally would and should try to alter.19 While the medieval Partidas did not detail specific legal or administrative paths to seek emancipation, it did describe certain situations where manumission might occur. Bondage ended if a slave became a priest, or was absent for ten years in the master’s country, or was distant for twenty

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years in another country with the master’s permission, or spent thirty years away from the master. It recognized that masters had options to free slaves through “good will,” “for the price they receive,” or if “the master by his will directed the heir . . . to emancipate.”20 More recently, scholars have noted that the specific right of a slave to self-purchase (coartación) did not appear “as slave rights” in legal codes. Rather, “these prerogatives emerged as a pragmatic response to the frequent litigation initiated by slaves themselves.”21 Even though the Partidas did not guarantee that a slave might demand that a court establish his or her worth, forcing the master to accept that sum and grant freedom, there was already a strong implication in the Partida that purchase remained a viable option. Such a “lenient attitude toward manumission” had created a class of freed persons in the peninsula.22 In the Americas, such historical precedents also generated opportunities, although there were wide variations throughout the empire and over time concerning the frequency and options available for slaves to move to free status.23 Whenever slaves sought, purchased, or received freedom, they would do so as Catholics.24 Fundamental to the forging of Spanish identity and nationhood in the late fifteenth century had been Ferdinand and Isabella’s insistence on religious uniformity, culminating in the expulsion of “others” such as Jews and Muslims from the peninsula.25 The Spanish monarchy was similarly determined that the Indies be exclusively Catholic. A particular concern was the fear that slave dealers might bring North Africans who were Muslims to the Americas. Royal decrees in 1543 ordered that if any “male or female slaves” from North Africa (berberiscos) landed in America that officials should put them back on “the first ships that arrive” for “in no case” were they to be left in the Indies.26 Also excluded were any slaves who had been “brought up with Moors.”27 A series of Spanish laws demanded that masters convert all slaves to Catholicism. It ordered them to send Africans daily to priests until they learned “Christian doctrine.”28 A royal decree in 1544 chastised masters in Santo Domingo as acting “against conscience” and setting a “bad example” when they forced slaves to work on Sundays and Catholic feast days. Rather, they were to make sure they attended mass and “kept the feast day as the rest of the Christians.”29 One result, as Herman Bennett has observed, was that Catholicism gave slaves “a social existence beyond the grasp of the masters” even if “limited in scope.”30



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The next year, in 1545, the Council of the Indies issued decrees that again emphasized the priority of slave baptism and knowledge of Catholicism.31 It commanded that masters give “good treatment to their slaves holding in consideration that they are . . . Christians.” Masters were to hire a “white man” as mayordomo who should designate a “house or hut as a church with an altar, with the cross and images.” Every morning before the slaves left for work they were to pray and “all Sundays and feast days” they were to assemble to hear mass, and after a meal to pray and be taught the “Christian doctrine.” Masters would have to pay a fine if royal officials visited and discovered that this was not the usual “custom.” The decrees provided a timeline for masters to convert slaves. They would have “six months” to teach them some Spanish and to help them understand “holy baptism.” Royal officials were optimistic as to the outcome. They perhaps naively posited that “all the blacks” were “easy to convert,” for they considered it of “value” to be “Christians like us.” Civil authorities also looked to religion to moderate the behavior of the slave population. In 1603, the viceroy of Peru condemned the “dances and drunkenness” of local slaves and felt the solution was to provide them with priests who would teach them Catholicism to improve their behavior.32 It remains difficult to determine the extent to which masters obeyed such orders to convert slaves, and it is equally evident that new arrivals maintained significant elements of African practices.33 It is telling that, as the generations passed, slaves and their free descendants identified themselves and were identified by others in the Indies as Catholics. A late seventeenthcentury ordinance recognized the ostensible success of such conversions, as it forbade “bad treatments” of black and mulatto slaves and ordered that masters be certain to provide “confession” to the dying as well as “spiritual sustenance” to their fellow Catholics.34 What was the response of slaves to the potential for freedom in the Siete Partidas and the imposition of Catholicism by their owners? Echoes of this medieval promise of liberty resonate in some of the earliest legislation on slavery in the Americas. One ever-present option was the opportunity for slaves to purchase their freedom. A decree in 1526, repeated in 1541, provided such an incentive to “blacks who passed to these parts” advising that if they did not rebel or run away and “they animated themselves to work and serve their masters” that after a “certain time” they would be able to end bondage through purchase.35

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Legislation in 1540 suggested that such transitions had occurred, as it attempted to protect those who had transitioned from slavery to freedom. It ordered that if someone challenged ex-slaves’ free status that local courts should hear their cases and “do justice.”36 With the passing of the centuries, uncounted thousands of slaves would become free, a process that contributed substantially to the casta population.37 As Herman Bennett concluded, “the possibility of freedom loomed in the consciousness of most Africans or that of their descendants.”38 Early legislation also revealed the persistence of an Indies version of an urban legend concerning liberty—the mistaken idea that a Catholic marriage ended slave status.39 Once baptized, slaves enjoyed—at least theoretically—the right of free choice of marriage partners without intervention by masters.40 If the popular understanding that marriage liberated was valid, freedom might be within easy reach. Although this proved false, the widespread prevalence of the myth suggests that masters and slaves considered such an outcome to be possible. One of the first to articulate this legend was Alvaro de Castro, a dean of the cathedral in Santo Domingo. When, in 1526, he requested the necessary license to transport two hundred slaves to the island, he promised to bring in half men and half women. The goal was to arrange marriages so that they “could live as Christians.”41 However, the dean eventually balked at performing the ceremonies. He feared that if he “married the said slaves” they would insist that they were “free.” He asked for a ruling on the issue. The Council of the Indies consulted the Partidas, which considered a number of possible marriage combinations: if a male slave married a free women, if a female slave married a free man, if slaves married each other.42 It noted that all such linkages were valid, as long as the contracting parties were aware of each other’s states of either bondage or freedom. Nor did slaves need permission from their masters to marry, although if a master sold the couple, the pair should be located near enough to each other to continue a married life. The urban legend, however, was false: marriage in these instances did not lead to freedom. The Council explained that the Partidas only provided one unique situation in which marriage ended bondage. If a slave married a free man or a free women and if the master “was knowing of it” and did not inform the free party that the bride or bridegroom was a slave, then that slave would become free. Nor would such a marriage be valid, given



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that the other party had been unaware of the partner’s slave status when the ceremony occurred.43 Although the Council of the Indies had clarified the matter, the urban legend that slave marriage brought freedom persisted. The next year, in 1527, the Council again brought up the issue suggesting it “would be a great remedy” to order the marriage of slaves brought to Santo Domingo. Officials believed that “the love they would have for their women and children” combined with the “order of marriage” would bring great “calm” to them.44 The Council also conceded that its previous attempts to disabuse both slaves and masters that marriage ended bondage had failed. Officials noted that even though “Spanish Christians had wanted to marry” their slaves that they had not done so from “fear,” as they were concerned that marriage would make them “free.” Even owners who did not believe the myth must have hesitated, knowing that it was commonplace among their slaves. The false popular belief that marriage liberated slaves had staying power, as it spread beyond the islands and persisted. In 1538, a Mexican official noted that since black males were having sexual affairs, “to end sin,” their masters had arranged marriages with female counterparts.45 In response, “the same slaves, without any other reason, said they were free.” The Council of the Indies ineffectually repeated its judgment that married slaves “could not ask for liberty.” Three years later in Lima, officials still felt it necessary to remind slave brides and grooms that they did “not leave from being slaves, just as they were before they married.”46 In 1553, officials in Guatemala complained that masters permitted their slaves to live in concubinage for they feared if slaves married that they “were then free.” As late as 1688 a Mexican freewoman found to her dismay that her planned marriage to a slave would not automatically end the bondage of her bridegroom.47 The insistence that slaves and their mixed descendants become Catholics had significant long-term consequences. Since the church encouraged slaves and free castas to marry, their children were born legitimate. The result was that Spanish inheritance law protected them, as it established regular criteria for the passing of property securely to sons and daughters. It is telling that the Laws of Toro (1505) made no distinctions as to the slave, free, white, mulatto, or black status of the bequeather or that of the inheritor. A white father could as surely guarantee the transfer of property to a mulatto son or daughter as to one who was white.48 While there were limits to generational property transmissions, these did not depend on socioracial status but rather on birth status. The Laws

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of Toro mandated the minimum and maximum that parents might leave to legitimate offspring as well as to various categories of illegitimates: hijos naturales (those with single unmarried parents), the incestuous, adulterous, or sacrilegious. In most cases, parents had some discretion, and could leave a minimum of at least one-fifth and often more of their estate to any illegitimate offspring.49 Spanish legal blindness as to socioracial status and the potential for differential inheritance given legitimate or illegitimate birth circumstance differed sharply from practices in Anglo colonies. In Jamaica, although white fathers did leave property to mixed lovers and illegitimate children, there were legislated limits.50 In many U.S. jurisdictions, the prohibition for whites to marry nonwhites made all offspring bastards, rending them ineligible for official inheritance.51 In contrast, in the Spanish Indies, the prodding of the Catholic Church that sexual partners marry combined with the color blindness of inheritance law to provide legal guarantees easing property transfers and facilitating mobility for succeeding mixed generations.52

fr ee wombs: ending bondage for the next gener ation Not only medieval law but Catholicism and protection for property transfers opened up potential interstices: when slaves landed and when they ended bondage mattered. Compared to mainland North America, slavery arrived early in the Spanish Indies. Statistics from data based on the transAtlantic slave trade reveal that, by 1650, some 263,234 slaves had survived the Middle Passage and landed in the Spanish Caribbean, Mexico, and Peru.53 By then, some of their descendants had been living in the Indies for generations. In contrast, by 1650, the registers report that only 141 slaves had arrived in British North America. No doubt, the opportunities for slaves who arrived in Lima or Mexico City in the sixteenth century proved radically different from those laboring in the sugar plantations of Cuba in the eighteenth century. Traditional qualifications pertain given that time, region, and function might combine with a multiplicity of variables to permit or detain movement toward freedom.



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What is known is that the early waves of slaves arriving on the Spanish mainland did not go unnoticed by royal officials. By 1549, it was not only evident in Lima that the number of slaves was multiplying but that many were moving at a noticeable pace toward freedom. The acting viceroy, Pedro de la Gasca (1546–1549), criticized the “evils and harms, robberies and deaths” attached to a “growing and each day increased number of blacks.”54 Such escalation in slave population was not confined to Peru. Four years later, a Guatemalan official observed that there was a “great quantity of blacks both in the towns and in the mines.”55 In 1554, a Lima official again complained, “the blacks in this City of the Kings are many.”56 Pedro de la Gasca called for a census for Lima in order to track “some of the male and female slaves of the city” and significantly noted that some of them “had become free.”57 It remains unknown how many slaves in the early decades after the conquest moved to freedom. What is manifest is that they understood that if they could not change their own status, the chances were good that some of their sons and daughters would never know bondage. While earlier historiography has tracked primarily the movement of individuals from slave to free status through self-purchase or grants of freedom by masters, it seems likely that the more common transformation occurred between generations, as slave fathers procreated a next generation that was free.58 As the number of Africans multiplied, and as they negotiated the transition of the next generation to freedom, men had a substantial advantage over their female counterparts. For slave women, marriage or sexual relationships with any male—Spanish, Native, black, or mulatto—did not free their children.59 While quasi-familial connections with Native or white lovers might be advantageous, their offspring would still be born slaves. Given their differing financial assets, it seems likely that female slaves who had sexual liaisons with Spaniards rather than Natives might be more likely to negotiate freedom for mutual offspring, although there were never any guarantees. The crown recognized the desires of fathers to purchase sons and daughters conceived with slave women in 1563, granting fathers preference in any such purchases.60 One such occasion occurred twenty years later, when officials decided to sell some slaves serving the fort in Havana. They acknowledged that soldiers had children with some of the fortress slave women, so the decree gave fathers a first option to free their children.61

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In contrast to such unique liberations, male slaves had a stupendous option: they could search for a free womb. While the urban legend that marriage brought immediate freedom to slave brides and grooms proved false, it was true that marriage or sexual relations with a woman with a free womb would end servitude for the next generation. The presence of millions of Native women and later of free casta females created an extraordinary environment that made it possible for slave men to guarantee freedom for their sons and daughters.62 If they could not secure manumission for themselves, they could provide it to their heirs. Some of the earliest comments of Spanish officials recognized that male slaves were deliberately seeking free partners. In 1538, Mexican regidor Bartolomé de Arate commented that the “black slaves” were “cohabiting with Indian women” both “in the house of their masters and outside of it.”63 Three years later, in 1541, Peruvian officials noted that “black slaves” had relationships with “a diversity of Indian women, some willingly and others against [their] will.”64 In 1551, Mexican officials also observed that male slaves targeted Native women. They charged that Africans “robbed the Indians and took their women and daughters from them.”65 Peruvian officials attempted to limit the sexual activities of male slaves to peers, ordering “the black slaves that are in this province, must marry with black [slave] women.”66 One of the more telling comments concerning the relationships between male slaves and female Natives originated from Mexican viceroy Martín Enríquez (1568–1580).67 He wrote Philip II in 1574 that while affairs of the kingdom were generally “going ahead” favorably, that there was an exception: “one thing that each day moved toward a worse state.”68 He prophesized that if there were no remedy, that the “increasingly great growth of the mulattos” would lead to the “perdition of this land.” Although the viceroy also commented on the rapid growth in mestizos, he was not as concerned about their impact. He explained that after four or five years they left their Native mothers, their Spanish fathers raised them, and so they identified with their paternal ancestry. Such was not true with mulattos, “that are offspring of blacks,” given that they lived “always with the [Native] mothers.”69 Viceroy Enríquez lamented his absence of control over this burgeoning “free” population. He only saw matters getting worse. If newly arrived slaves followed the strategy of their predecessors and visited Native women who are “a very weak people,” the result would be that “the blacks marry them in



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preference to black women in order to leave their offspring free.” The viceroy feared that Africans might corrupt the Natives, and since neither had any intrinsic loyalty to Spain, they might unite to revolt against the crown. If that happened, he confided, “I do not know who would be able to resist them.” In this concern, the viceroy anticipated a theme that would surface with particular force two hundred years later: Since the homeland of Africans was neither Spain nor the Indies, would they be loyal to the empire? Viceroy Martín Enríquez suggested that even though his solution was “rigorous,” it was necessary, given the “great danger” posed. He wanted to close the gaping interstice that permitted movement from slavery to freedom. Rather than the traditional legal privileges emanating from a free womb, the viceroy essentially wanted to create a slave penis. If a father were a slave, then the status of his reproductive organ rather than that of the mother would determine the outcome: their “children would not be free.” Instead, “all the offspring that Indian and mulatta women have with black [slaves] would be slaves.” Not content with tampering with the free-womb principle, Viceroy Enríquez also wanted the pope to take away the traditional Catholic prerogative of freedom in marriage choice. He wanted the church to “forbid the marriage of black [slave] men with Indian and mulatta women.” He believed that such changes would alter male strategies. If a father’s slave penis trumped a mother’s free womb, the viceroy felt that Native women “would not marry so much with the blacks.” Viceroy Martín Enríquez’s musings provide powerful evidence that crown officials recognized that slave males were using the interstice presented by the free-womb law and the presence of Native, free black, and casta women to emancipate the next generation. Even though it is impossible to delve into the minds of slaves to document the degree they were actively calculating, the logic of such a tactic was compelling. The viceroy concluded that the only way to prevent such an outcome was to overturn the fundamental codes of Spain, as well as to alter Catholic doctrine that there be free choice in matrimony. While the immediate response of the king and Council of Indies was unknown, the proposed alterations did not occur. No doubt, this radical challenge to both Spanish law and Catholic doctrine combined with the impracticality of determining paternity to doom his suggestion. A half century later, it was evident that crown attempts to prevent male slaves from producing a next generation of freeborn had failed.

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Equally notable was that even as the Spanish decried sexual relationships between male slaves and Native women, such linkages might prove advantageous to both sides. Just as African men negotiated for freedom for offspring, Native women bargained for escape from impositions on themselves and their children. As a decree from frustrated royal officials in Venezuela in 1592 makes evident, “mulattos” who had slave fathers and Native mothers not only “claim[ed] to enjoy the liberty that belongs to their mothers,” they also refused to place themselves under the domination of the tribute collectors, Spaniards (encomenderos) given the right to tax the Native population.70 Juan de Solórzano Pereira lamented in Politica Indiana (1647) how “many Indian women” had abandoned “their Indian husbands, or hate them and leave their children” given that these were “subject to tribute and personal services.”71 Instead, women engaged in sexual relationships with “Spaniards and even blacks” so their children would be “free and exempt” from tribute. Recent scholarship has tracked such gendered strategies. Norma Angélica Castillo Palma and Susan Kellogg have noted in early seventeenth-century Cholula that Mexican Native women married to “community outsiders” refused to pay tribute since they no longer dressed as Indians and were married to nontribute payers.72 Christopher Lutz, Matthew Restall, and Lolita Gutiérrez Brockington have traced similar alliances between African fathers and Native mothers in Yucatán, Guatemala, and Bolivia.73 Paul Lokken has described how Native women in Guatemala “sought to ‘boost’ their children” into the category of free mulatto, ensuring them a higher status—whatever the official crown propaganda—than that of Native.74 Herman Bennett notes that seventeenth-century marriages between Mexican male slaves and Natives were not that rare, although officials customarily asked the “routine question” if the free bride understood the potential liabilities of a slave husband.75 Although the Council of the Indies eventually taxed the free offspring of Natives and slaves and ordered them to pay tribute to the crown, many would find other avenues to evade the tax.76 Such African and Native gender strategies favored some and deprivileged others. Slave fathers saw their sons and daughters born free; Native mothers saw them escape the taxes of the tribute collector. In contrast, slave women could only pass bondage to the next generation; Native men remained with obligations to provide labor and pay tribute to the conquerors. As historians arrive at a deeper understanding of the frequency of intimate relationships between Native women and African men, they have



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challenged previous interpretations that suggested such contacts tended to be contentious. Such initial conclusions derived at least in part from the constant exclamations of Spanish officials that Africans, whether slave or free, were exploiters who entered Native towns robbing, raping, and abusing the indigenous population, producing conflict. This royal concern for Native welfare produced an impressive series of ordinances that attempted to keep Africans from visiting Indian towns: 1563, 1578, 1580, 1581, 1584, 1587, 1589, 1595.77 The frequency and repetition of such continuing legislation (1600, 1605, 1646, 1666, 1671, 1681, 1697, 1785) directly correlated with its inefficacy.78 Even as royal officials recognized that Africans and Natives might clash, they understood that the next generation, the offspring of such mixing, had legitimate emotional and economic ties to indigenous communities. The Recopilación recognized that children with African fathers typically stayed with their Native mothers. For that reason, it made an exception for such offspring—zambaigos—to remain in indigenous towns noting that it would be “a hard thing” to separate them from their parents as well as potential inheritances of native “houses” and “lands.”79 Rachel O’Toole has noted that local documents provide “a sharp contrast” between royal concerns that Africans might exploit Natives in northern Peru and “lived experiences of mutual coexistence.”80 Rather, “indigenous people were not estranged from Africans and their descendants, but aware and engaged in each other’s lives.” Matthew Restall concludes similarly for Yucatán, suggesting that the “Afro-Yucatecan community . . . was as much Maya as it was African, as much mestizo as it was mulatto.”81 Patrick Carroll points to a provocative division in document production given that imperial sources more commonly emphasize tension between Africans and Natives, while locally produced notary and baptismal records tend to chronicle harmony.82 He suggests that Indian communities provided African slaves with a “potential escape” from Spanish domination, as well as the possibility of female companionship and creation of “fictive family formation.”83 Of course, there remains the caveat that chronology, geography, and individual circumstances might produce variable outcomes depending on myriad variables. Robinson A. Herrera notes that while Africans and mulattos might interact “well” as individuals, relationships between communities might be less cordial, as Indians perceived the Africans as outsiders and as “so many more Spaniards.”84 It also seems likely that elite Natives

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(caciques) might be more likely to scorn alliances with Africans than Indian commoners. As the casta population grew, it created additional alternatives for male slaves to free offspring. An emerging literature—David Stark for Puerto Rico, Alejandro de la Fuente for Cuba, and Paul Lokken for Guatemala— has tracked how they might arrange sexual or marital relationships with free casta women.85 The latter’s case study of late seventeenth-century Guatemala marriage records reveals how male slaves employed such “reproductive strategies” to guarantee “free birth for their children.”86 Additionally, Lokken traces a multigenerational process of mixing revealed when free mulatto men and women provided testimony, decades later, identifying that they had black slave fathers and free Native or mulatta mothers.87 As Robert Schwaller noted, “Once acculturated to indigenous norms, Africans and their descendants demonstrated continued connections to indigenous persons over multiple generations.”88 It seems likely that historians continue to underestimate such African and Native interactions, given that the primary documentation of such linkages derives from marriage records, leaving other sexual liaisons not counted.89

sl av e s a n d t h e at tac h m e n t of w hite privileges Although the goal of male slaves no doubt concentrated primarily on achieving freedom for themselves or their sons and daughters, a limited number also squeezed through spaces forbidden by law and anticipated mobilities that would become the goals of their free descendants. Male slaves not only visited Native towns to find lovers, but some lived with the Indians, assuming the prerogatives of Spanish masters. A few enjoyed one of the whitest of Spanish prerogatives: they carried weapons. The Spanish crown jealously guarded its control over the Indian population. Although conquistadores and their successors received the right to collect tribute (encomienda) from designated Indian populations, such privileges were typically reserved for Spaniards. Neither free blacks nor mulattos, much less slaves, were permitted to “have Indians” for use as laborers (repartimiento) “nor any other manner” (1549).90 Blacks could not use Natives to transport items even when “there are no open roads or beasts of burden.”91



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Reading against the grain, another and darker story emerges. The presence of Indian towns created the opportunity for slaves to ill treat Natives and in the process—paradoxically—exercise the domination and the abuses usually attributed to whites. One Lima official complained in 1567 that encomenderos were placing their slaves as their representatives in the Native towns that paid them tribute. The result was the Natives treated the slaves with the same respect “as their masters” with the Indians suffering “notable grievance and harm” and with the “women and children” being particularly “injured.”92 One of the reasons Spanish officials attempted to keep slaves from Native towns was the perception and likely, at times, the reality that Indians suffered at their hands. As Native deaths due to imported diseases led to rapid depopulation, royal officials seemed ready to blame some of the loss on black cruelty. They were, ironically, creating their own mini version of the Black Legend. Originally proposed by Bartolomé de la Casas and propagated by the English to decry Spanish misdeeds, in this variant the Spanish wielded it against the misbehavior of their own slaves.93 In 1536, for example, a royal decree noted that slaves in Peru were mistreating Natives and ordered severe punishments for them as well as fines for owners who permitted such actions.94 By 1551, Mexican officials noted that Africans entered Native towns and “robbed the Indians.”95 Peruvian officials three years later echoed similar concerns, noting that Lima’s blacks stole from the Natives “in the country and in their houses and . . . in the other towns of this land.”96 Still, a counter theme also emerges from these decrees denouncing slave cruelty to Natives. It suggests that there might also have been occasions where the two groups found common ground to carve out spaces to drink, carouse, and worship their gods away from prying Spanish eyes. In 1541, one order from Peru noted that blacks were “very prejudicial” to the Natives, given that they “helped them in their drunkenness and other bad customs.”97 In 1586, another Peruvian official decried the “great vice” of slaves as well as free castas given that they “hold no job and they eat and drink without order.” Notably, official comments seemed to recognize that slaves and Natives shared the goal of escaping the burdens of servitude and conquest. As a result, they colluded in “drunkenness and witchcraft.”98 Repeated ordinances complained that slaves taught Natives their “idleness” as well as “errors and vices” that would “corrupt and pervert” their “salvation, growth and peace.”99

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More recent historical research has added more nuanced context to these official denunciations of slave penetration of Native towns and evaluation of these consequent exchanges. Leo Garofalo had traced a complex of interactions in which Afro-Peruvians exchanged their “ritual practices and skills” with Natives and then later transmitted variants of African and Andean practices to newly arrived Indians in the cities.100 As Matthew Restall has noted, the cultural interchanges between Indian and black populations were complex and changing: sometimes Natives borrowed from Africans or vice versa. Unlike the Spanish who aimed for cultural domination, neither Natives nor blacks systematically strategized to impose their culture on the other. However, as the centuries passed, there was a “blurring of divisions,” a persistence of “parallel elements,” and sometimes fusion making the “purity of the racial categories created and cherished by Europeans” very “difficult to impose.”101 Slaves not only served as white surrogates or Native corrupters, they also figured as trusted retainers. Masters seemed quite ready to permit them to carry weapons. This was one of the key distinctions between those who were white and those who were not: only Spaniards could legally carry arms. In both a conquest and a slave society, it made supreme sense to deprive both the conquered and the enslaved with any mechanism for rebellion. Nonetheless, from the early colony, masters chose selected slaves to participate in this whitest of white privileges, one that would foreshadow future decades when free pardos and mulattos would take up arms in defense of the empire. In only one instance, when sheriffs armed slaves to accompany them on their peacekeeping or law enforcement missions, did the law condone the provision of weapons to slaves. Fernando Barisno, an official in Zacatecas, received such permission in 1540 given that he was in charge of rounding up miscreants (alguacil mayor).102 Since he could not find Spaniards to help him in this dangerous task, he successfully requested permission to arm several slaves to help him carry out his responsibilities. A similar approval occurred in Peru as the crown regularly granted such exceptions for officials (1568, 1663) in other to “guard and defend your person to be able to execute justice.”103 The result was that slaves might use force against Spaniards, Natives, mestizos, and castas as well as against their peers. Even though masters supported laws forbidding the arming of slaves, they regularly petitioned for exceptions when it was “their” slaves. Having an armed entourage added security but also—and perhaps even more



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importantly—it brought prestige.104 In Peru, a 1609 decree forbade highranking individuals to arm either their slaves or free blacks to serve as bodyguards.105 Still, that same law provided an extensive list of public officials who might have slave footmen with weapons, including the judges of the audiencia and the Inquisition, the captain of the guard, alcaldes de la hermandad, the corregidor, and officials in Callao. When he proved not to be on the privileged list, the rector of the university in Lima complained, and asked for confirmation that he too might be accompanied by “black footmen with swords.” Not to be outdone, the rector of the university in Mexico City joined his Peruvian peer in 1618 as another official guarded by armed slaves.106 The ultimate visible effect was that weapons-bearing blacks attended high-status officials in the most prestigious of official spaces, perhaps accustoming the populace to visions of nonwhites with arms. While slaves wielding weapons on law enforcement missions or providing protection or prestige to owners presumably received elite supervision, legislation also hints that others had begun to carry arms on their own. No doubt, the presence of so many blacks carrying weapons with legal permission confused who might possess them illegally. A 1551 law ordered audiencias to forbid slaves to visit Native towns and linked such a ban to weapons, charging that blacks “robbed the Indians.”107 The repeat of the decree the next year suggests the inefficacy of the prohibition, for it forbade that blacks carry “sword,” “knife,” or “dagger” because such possessions had led to “deaths of Indians and other inconveniences.”108 Legislation banning arms not only failed in Peru but was unsuccessful in Mexico, where a 1612 law forbade merchants from selling “any type of offensive or defensive arms” to black or mulatto men or women whether they were “free or slave.”109 Even though outlawed, slaves found ways, either supervised by masters or not, to carry weapons. It would not be until the next generation that their freeborn descendants would open the door wider, seeking the privilege to carry arms as whites, opening the door to militia service and eventual status as royal vassals.110

fr eeborns: the societ y of castes It is somewhat odd that, in the midst of one of greatest demographic disasters in world history—the successive epidemics over more than a century

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that diminished America’s Native population in some regions by 80 percent or more from first contact— royal officials rarely commented directly on the catastrophe.111 They might decry the weakness of the Natives, explain the decrease in numbers to Indians fleeing towns, or blame slaves and free blacks for mistreatment of the indigenous population.112 Yet, they provided surprisingly few detailed observations as depopulation moved toward the nadir or demographic low point of the 1650s.113 This absence of notice contrasts sharply to the plethora of comments by bureaucrats starting in the 1550s that demonstrated their keen awareness that new and free socioracial groups were in rapid formation. While the earliest references to non-Native populations tended to concentrate on slaves, later descriptions mentioned free blacks and then included awareness of a variety of Spanish, African, and Native combinations.114 In some of the earliest comments on mixture, in the 1560s, officials tended to conflate their terminology and have less precise definitions than in later centuries.115 In 1568, for example, one Mexican official noted the existence of a next generation, who he lumped together as “mulattos,” and who he defined as the “offspring of black men and Indian women and of Spaniards and black women.”116 That same year Peruvian viceroy Francisco de Toledo commented that “mestizos and mulattos” in the region “are now many and grow more every day.”117 By the 1600s, officials not only agreed that new blends were occurring and that this segment of the population was fast growing, they became more strident in denouncing the negative consequences. In 1602, Peruvian viceroy Luis de Velasco (1596–1604) noted the presence of mestizos and mulattos but also added the definition of zambaigos to define the specific combination of Indian and black.118 These had so “increased their generation” that it was necessary to consider the “inconveniences” that such a burgeoning population might bring. He was not in favor of their growth. He wrote of the need to find a “remedy so that they do not multiply so much.” A royal official in the silver town of Potosi echoed his concerns, when, in 1607, he derided the “many numbers of mulattos and zambaigos and mestizos” and the “inconveniences and harms they might bring to the district.”119 The next year, the newly arrived viceroy, the Marqués de Montesclaros (1607–1615), wrote of the “great number of blacks, mulattos and



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mestizos that there are in these parts” and that “each day were multiplying.”120 Farther north, Mexican officials complained of the “many blacks and free mulattos and mestizos” who were “free,” and whose “women” were parading openly “with great disorder.”121 In 1604, when the crown sent instructions to officials to compile the Relaciones Geograficas, giving detailed information on the Indies, they specifically requested details on the number of men and women who were mulattos and zambaigos. They recognized “after approximately four generations of Spanish contact, new kinds or categories of people had appeared in the population.”122 In 1648, when Solórzano Pereira commented on the castas in Politica Indiana, he spoke of the official concern given that “men of such mixes” were “vicious in the greater part” and might cause “harm.”123 So how did these ex-slaves and free sons and daughters of slaves begin to discover openings that would move themselves and their descendants toward whiteness? Understanding the obstacles they faced provides clues to those niches where they might slip through, both detaching markers of inferiority and attaching prerogatives of whiteness. Even when free, blacks, pardos, and mulattos might have found it particularly depressing to live in the early Spanish Indies. With rare exceptions, the early imperial notice taken of their existence was negative and repressive. Imperial bureaucrats tended to characterize them as ad hominem problems, rather than differentiating among individuals or between groups. As Chapter 2 explored, some of the most extreme of discriminatory measures originated from the historic edicts encapsulated in the Spanish “clean blood” (limpieza de sangre) ordinances.124 These added pardo or mulatto to the traditional limpieza de sangre definitions that targeted “Jew, Moor, Mulatto or converso in any degree” as “bad blood.” Since both females and males passed this deficit to their offspring, any sexual or marital liaison affected the next generation, which inherited their inferior status. Not only did blacks, pardos, and mulattos lack clean blood, they complicated the original conceptualization established for governing—the Two Republics (Dos Republicas)—that only recognized Spaniards and Natives as Indies inhabitants. Where did Africans and their descendants fit into the Republic of Spaniards and the Republic of Indians, each with its own towns, local officials, distinct judicial systems, and differing prerogatives and responsibilities?125 Spaniards owned horses, carried arms, made legal

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contracts, and paid the traditional peninsular sales tax, the alcabala. Legislation forbade Indians to ride horses, carry weapons, or make contracts, relegating them to the status of legal minors, owing tribute either to a designated Spaniard (encomendero) or to the crown.126 As slaves moved to freedom and as the next generations of mixtures multiplied, it was unclear where this unanticipated population would fit. As the casta population swelled, the crown passed a series of laws confirming its inferior place. Blacks, pardos, and mulattos could not hold any public or royal offices (1549, 1584); practice most professions, including lawyer, “doctor, surgeon, pharmacist” (1535); or become notaries (1621).127 They could not attend the university.128 Nor were castas to dress like Spaniards. As early as 1571, officials singled out black women whether “free or slave” as well as mulattas by forbidding them to wear “gold, pearls or silk.”129 A Mexican decree of 1612 repeated the complaint that “blacks and mulattos, free people and slaves” were wearing “fine clothes” that were inappropriate for “such persons.”130 The law stipulated that no “black or mulatta woman, free or slave” might wear silver or gold jewelry, nor “pearls, nor clothing of silk from Castile, nor mantles of silk.” Even though sumptuary laws might sometimes be breached, they nonetheless set normative visual markers attempting to sustain hierarchy. Blacks and mulattos were to demonstrate continuing subservience after death. Lima officials complained in 1614 that these groups were imitating Spaniards and burying their dead in elaborate shrouds. They decried the “growing cost” of such elaborate funerals, which they felt challenged the “authority of Spaniards and principal people.”131 Still, the very presence of such sumptuary legislation restricting dress in both life and death suggests that some castas were experiencing more than a modicum of economic success. An early strategy of pardos and mulattos to create niches for mobility was to cast off negatives attached to their status, bypassing these repressive situations.132 Often individuals received the first exemptions, which later expanded to designated groups. Such a step occurred surrounding the payment of tribute, which located the castas on the social and ethnic plane of the Native, rather than that of the Spaniard. The issue of tribute was contentious, as the offspring of slave fathers and Indian mothers as well as newly liberated slaves did not fit neatly into the tax constructs of the Two Republics.133 As early as 1572, a decree from Guatemala acknowledged that there was some “doubt” if free blacks or if the offspring of slaves married



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with Indian women would be liable for tribute. The crown had no such uncertainty, decreeing “these are obligated to pay tribute as the Indians.”134 Two years later, in 1574, the crown reaffirmed that castas should pay tribute, observing that “many of the male and female slaves, mulattos and mulattas that have passed to the Indies and those that have been born” have accumulated “much richness” and have become “free.” Since they now enjoyed the “peace” of Spanish rule, they should pay taxes. The decree added that since most of this potential group of tribute payers had African ancestors, they descended from those already “accustomed to pay tribute and in great quantity to their kings.” The response of the casta population to rulings that they pay tribute was to look for myriad ways unofficially to avoid payment. A chain of royal legislation reflected ineffectual crown attempts to collect from mixed populations. A serious problem, detailed to the king in 1577, was that officials could not find potential payers, since many did not live in “known places.” The Council of the Indies ordered a census of “all the mulattos and free blacks” to determine where they resided. They ordered masters to deduct tribute from the wages that they paid servants.135 However, the mobility of the free casta population made such a plan difficult to carry out. Ten years later, Guatemalan officials complained of the “free life” and “bad inclination” of “mulattos and Negros” and the difficulty of collecting “the tribute that they owe.”136 Royal officials in Peru were also having difficulty with tax revenues. Noting the “great number of mulattos and zambaigos in these provinces” as well as “free blacks and mestizos,” royal officials suggested in 1609 that they be resettled in designated towns so it would be easier to collect taxes as well as coerce them into work in the mines.137 Ten years later, officials in Lima confessed that they had no idea how much tribute they had collected from mulattos, but apparently, no sum had entered the treasury in the last three years.138 Mexican officials fared no better: legislation in 1627 noted the existence of a “great number of black and free mulattos with estates sufficient to be able to pay . . . tribute.”139 Officials wondered why the sums had not been collected. While creative avoidance of tax payments might be personally cost effective, it did not move blacks, pardos, and mulattos in any direction toward whiteness. For that to happen, the crown had officially to agree that a petitioner was not of inferior status and thus exempt from paying tribute. One

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of the first documented cases where a free black officially took such a step by petitioning the crown to take him from the tribute rolls occurred in 1578. Although Sebastian de Toral lived in Yucatán, he was in Spain when he asked for remedy due to his merit.140 He noted that while he originally was the “son of blacks” and hailed from Portugal, he figured among the first settlers of Yucatán, where he had lived for forty years, serving as a guard performing sentry duty without salary. The decree granting exemption to him and his offspring agreed that the tribute imposition “had caused offense, because [Toral] was worthy of receiving much favor given he has served us greatly.”141 The recognition that Toral was meritorious and therefore deserving of royal “favor” (merced) illustrates another of those processes that permitted blacks, pardos, and mulattos to bypass discrimination. His was one of the first cases where the Council of the Indies acknowledged that the traditional reciprocity that existed between the king and his white vassals might also extend to the castas. If these performed services for the monarch, they might also request rewards in return. Such an opening was crucial. In future years, even when ministers were not inclined to whiten pardos and mulattos, they nonetheless considered it their responsibility to evaluate the merit in their petitions and seriously consider such requests. How could a concession not to pay tribute begin a process of whitening? With Toral removed from the tribute rolls, he and his descendants had officially detached the economic stain of inferiority that marked them as nonwhites. In the future, when the family paid taxes, they would do so as Spaniards, which was a first step in blurring ethnic identity over the generations. Toral’s experience set a template. After the 1620s, pardos and mulattos would begin to move away from tributary status by performing royal service and expanding this individual concession to apply to selected groups.142

1620s–1700: fir st mov ements towa r d w h i t e n e s s The 1620s marked a turning point. Trends in legislation reveal escalations in casta efforts—some successful, some unsuccessful—to detach markers of inferior status and add white privileges. Such evidence of attempts to bypass discriminatory barriers commonly emerges in decrees that prohibit



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such activities or denounce pardo efforts after the fact. As early as 1571, laws forbade that mulattos serve as receptores, minor bureaucrats who helped organize the day-to-day business of the audiencia. Presumably, the goal was to deprive them of any personal or public influence, a prohibition repeated in 1583 and 1584.143 Local elites cooperated to bar upwardly mobile aspirants from even the humblest of places. The only reason that Juan de Ochoa, the “son of a mulatta,” ever entered the official record in 1620 resulted from his attempt to serve as the doorkeeper of the audiencia in Lima. Officials reacted negatively to have their entrance guarded by someone who was not white. The ensuing decree reveals that they stripped him of the post, claiming he had lied concerning his origin. Another entry point where pardos and mulattos attempted to hold offices was the prohibited position of scribe or notary public (escribano, notario). As later chapters will explore, this was a profession where those interested might acquire the necessary skills through apprenticeship, and where, in some backwaters of empire, there were few with the required training. A decree issued in 1621 revealed that mulattos in Lima had applied to the Council of the Indies to receive official licenses to be notaries “without mention of their said states (naturalezas).” The crown attempted to close this opening, forbidding local officials to forward petitions from mulattos. If they perpetrated the “same fraud” in the future, bureaucrats were not to permit them to practice. While Lima possessed a numerous population with no doubt many whites capable of exercising the office of notary, Panama proved to be a more propitious location for mobility. Given the mandate to document the transit of goods and bullion across the isthmus, as well as the annual mercantile fair, scribes must have been in high demand. Yet, with the exception when the silver fleets moored off the isthmus, Panama was a hot and humid backwater. Even so, the same year (1621) that the crown stripped mulatto scribes in Peru of their status, it also proceeded against their counterparts in Panama. A decree ordered that if any pardo received such positions in the future, officials should take away their license to practice.144 A follow-up two years later (1623) conceded—perhaps due to scarcity—that “the mulattos who before this was published had attained said titles” would be able to keep them. The 1620s not only marked mostly unsuccessful attempts of pardos and mulattos to hold white offices, it also produced a notable attempt by Havana

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blacks to establish a respectable status for their women. In 1623, the “free blacks” complained that in the local “public festivals” such as Corpus Christi that someone—although it remained unclear exactly who did this and in what official capacity—had “ordered that the married women forcibly attend the dances.”145 Their husbands and male protectors complained that these were “honored women and not accustomed to such things.” Free blacks petitioned that the crown shield the “protected virgins that do not want to find themselves at such fiestas” so that they “are not obliged to this, nor should they be fined in any way.” Blacks thus put forth the claim that their women should enjoy the same honorable position accorded their white counterparts. After more than a century where the predominant comments of imperial officials were to condemn the growth of the free black, pardo, and mulatto populations, or to attempt to chastise, control, or tax them, the appearance of positive observations signals a turning point. Both longevity and vulnerability underlay this change. By the 1620s, there were pardos and mulattos born in the Americas who descended from multiple generations of freeborn. They were as determined as their white neighbors to defend their homeland against foreign attacks. As the generations passed, these free populations identified themselves as Catholics and were so identified by imperial officials. As early as 1569, mulattos appealed to the archbishop of Mexico City to provide them with priests, as their work in mines and cattle ranches made it difficult for them to attend services.146 A similar concern prompted a 1611 royal order to the bishop in Cartagena to establish “one or two separate parishes” for the black population.147 Blacks, pardos, and mulattos gradually began to belong to the larger Spanish Catholic “us.”148 As the empire became increasingly at risk from foreign and often Protestant attacks, officials began to realize that the casta population might figure not only as fellow Catholics and Indies residents but also as loyal supporters. In 1621, some first positive comments originated from Mexico, when pardo militia units from Puebla traveled to Vera Cruz to help defend the port.149 Two years later, the crown praised “free blacks” who lived in vulnerable seaside towns and who had acted with “valor” defending key positions at the “risk to their lives.” The order charged royal officials to award them for their diligence in defending “castles and forts.”150 In 1625, imperial officials singled out the “free blacks of Panama” who had helped in the building of “trenches,” had acted as sentries both “day and night,” and had “given help



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to the other soldiers.” The governor was to ensure that they received awards for their services and that “in everything he helps and favors them.”151 Another indication of the changed attitude of Madrid was royal intervention to protect casta interests.152 A 1623 decree noted that in “Cuba and other parts,” officials charged with rounding up escaped slaves (cimarrones) were disturbing the properties where freemen undertook their “quiet and peaceful labors.” The slave catchers were stealing their “horses, farm animals and other necessary items for their labors.” The Council of the Indies ordered local governors to provide “remedy . . . and do justice to the blacks” so they no longer suffered from such intrusions. The 1620s and 1630s also marked turning points in local acceptance. Earlier critiques turned into praise as Lima’s mulattos engaged “to present themselves to the king of Spain and the members of Lima’s elite as valuable subjects.”153 They established their own guild in the 1620s, which organized members into militia companies and began to take prominent part in the city’s religious and civic celebrations.154 In 1631, the guild staged an elaborate recreation in the main plaza of the fall of Troy in celebration of the birth of a royal heir. Elites praised their participation, noting that “both nobles and common folk celebrated the prosperous liberality of the loyal generosity of the mulattos, and considered it worthy of esteem by the king of Spain as a singular deed.”155 Pardos and mulattos engaged in similar elaborately staged public celebrations in Mexico.156 Free blacks and pardos moved from imperial officials providing generalized praise for their defense of the kingdom, to some protection for their interests, to civic participation in ceremonies, to more substantive awards. In 1627, the Dutch attacked Lima’s port of Callao, a key transshipment point for silver bullion. Companies of mulattos and pardos fought to repel the invader. The crown attorney of the audiencia of Lima subsequently praised the “free blacks” who “well and punctually followed the orders given them.” He recommended that the “companies of mulattos and blacks . . . of this city” be free of tribute. The king agreed.157 Thus, the individual grant of relief from tribute granted to Sebastian de Toral in 1578 had begun to evolve, four decades later, into a more expansive exemption to a selective group. Militia service opened up numerous avenues for castas to cast off markers of inferior status and to attach white prerogatives.158 The “mulattos and free blacks” of the city of Piura and port of Paita attempted to leverage the

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exemption given their counterparts in Callao in their petition in 1641.159 Even though officials “had attempted to collect” tribute from them, they considered themselves to be both “faithful vassals” and “free and exempt” from the onerous tax. As a number of historians have noted, there was a direct connection between militia service and royal recognition that pardos and mulattos were vassals.160 Participation in the militias “represented an act of supreme fealty and colonial citizenship.”161 It permitted blacks and pardos not only “to define their status as members of the religious and civil community” but to figure “as vassals of a monarch from whom they might expect protection or patronage in exchange for armed service.”162 As Matthew Restall concludes, “for many, the pardo militia was quite simply a way up.”163 It is notable, given the earlier and continuing preoccupation of royal officials that blacks and mulattos not bear arms, that it was precisely because they now wielded weapons in times of emergency that the castas might demand compensation. In this instance, Peruvian blacks and mulattos recalled that they had “served your majesty with their arms in all the occasions of enemies appearing in that port.” They were also responsible for transporting “all the silver” that officials sent to Lima “with great savings and less cost than others.” They asked for an official decree giving them the same tax exemption granted the black militias of Lima. Thirty years later, the free mulatto and black militia companies of Vera Cruz, Mexico, would also seek exemption from the despised tax.164 While militias constituted the fastest and most evident opening to detach inferior status, there were variations in progress throughout the empire. Cuban elites were not as supportive as their Limeño counterparts, even though the “free blacks” of Havana wrote in 1662 that they had organized “in military things just like the Spanish.”165 They went on to complain that the whites held them in such “little estimation” that they ordered them to “clean the streets,” even through the city had funds to pay for this necessity. They sarcastically requested—since they served without salary—that they at least receive the four reales a day allocated for such a menial task, given that this was the “same daily wage that masters give slaves.” Even though their treatment varied, the willingness of the castas to serve continued to have a positive effect on their reputation with Spanish officials. The next year, in 1663, Mexican viceroy Juan de Leyva de la Cerda (1660–1664) suggested that it would be of “great convenience” in “occasions



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of war” to permit “mulattos and free blacks” to form military companies to guard the coasts.166 The negativity that royal officials had expressed in earlier decades concerning the growth of the black and mulatto population began to translate into a positive. The viceroy approvingly noted that these formed a “great number in this kingdom.” Perhaps even more telling were Viceroy Leyva de la Cerda’s positive comments describing blacks and mulattos as “people of valor and accustomed to work and hardship.” He noted that they had fought with “spirit” in 1655 when the English had attacked the city of Santo Domingo. He felt that even though they were “modest people,” the promise of status through service in the militias might energize them to serve. When Viceroy Leyva de la Cerda’s comments arrived at the War Ministry (Junta de Guerra) in Madrid, officials were struck by the strategic advantages of free black and mulatto militias. Given the “accidents of war,” they felt that it would be useful to have armed companies in the Indies rather than have to await troops from Spain. They asked for further information on the possible “inconveniences” that might arise from forming such militias. The issue of castas carrying weapons emerged, as bureaucrats wondered about the long-term consequences of teaching them “the management of arms.” Another concern was if such militias should have white officers or those “from their same nation.” The Junta de Guerra was wresting with serious matters. It was one concession for blacks, pardos, and mulattos to carry arms and serve as common soldiers in times of emergency; it was quite another for them to hold officer rank. The latter would permit them to undertake leadership roles and after years of service to present compelling credentials equal to whites when they petitioned for reciprocal favors from the crown. As with relief from tribute, some of the first transitions to hold officer positions occurred with exceptional individuals, with such concessions only later expanded to groups. By 1657, the existence of pardo militia units meant that someone like Peruvian Juan de Valladolid Moboron, a free black (moreno), could present evidence of substantial service. He was of legitimate birth, so only his blackness was a barrier.167 Valladolid Moboron had accumulated an impressive record of royal service. He had begun his career as a soldier, then became the head of a squadron, later an ensign and an aide-de-camp to six companies of free blacks and mulattos. During these years, he had helped repel an invasion at Valdivia,

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contributed to the construction of the port of Callao, and served for eleven years in the Southern Armada. He asked to be appointed head (maestre de campo) of the pardo militia companies of Lima and Callao, although such a position was normally reserved for whites. Royal officials agreed that it would be “proportionate . . . to honor and favor him according to the merits.” One of the more unusual niches that opened up for mulattos was selective appointments to the regular Spanish army. These were positions—contrasted to the local militias where there were black and pardo regiments—reserved only for whites.168 The bishop of Havana explained the unique situation to the king in 1671. Whenever priests went to visit the houses of the sick and brought the “holy sacrament,” it was customary that four regular army soldiers accompany them.169 These played the chirimias, flute-like instruments, as a warning to the faithful that the host was in public spaces and that they should demonstrate respect. Although these soldiers carried arms like the rest, they primarily served as guards and performed sentry duty so they would be available to accompany the clergy. The problem, the bishop complained, was that “they could not find Spaniards nor white men who learned to play instruments” and it was only the “mulattos (who in these parts they call pardos)” who had the necessary skill. The bishop now had positive comments concerning the castas as a group, noting that there were a “considerable number of good background.” He asked the Council of the Indies to make an exception and permit four pardos or mulattos to receive military appointments. The Council of the Indies acknowledged the prohibition but also recognized the “very pious” needs of the bishop. They agreed that as long as there “were no white men” who could serve, that four musically talented mulattos might become regular army soldiers. Even though the presence of four mulattos dressed in uniforms of the Spanish army might not open up much of an interstice, it did underscore the process whereby training and skills in areas of scarcity might create spaces for mobility. While talented mulatto chirimia players might receive royal approval to bear arms to protect the host, in other arenas the crown attempted— albeit ineffectually—to prohibit the castas from appropriating this white prerogative.170 In 1647, Mexican officials complained of the “great laxity and disorder” that derived from blacks and mulattos with weapons.171 After noting that the “orders and decrees” that mandated that “slaves, mulattos



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and mestizos not carry arms” had been consistently violated, in 1663 Viceroy Leyva de la Cerda stripped everyone from the privilege of having armed black lackeys with the sole exception of “‘ministers of justice’ although, as before, such restrictions proved unsuccessful.”172 As occurred with the process whereby pardos and mulattos sought exemptions from tribute, it was individuals who first attempted to become exceptions with later extension of such privileges to designated groups. At least that seems to have been the goal of Agustín Rascon, a “free mulatto” from the city of Cholula, Mexico. He wrote the viceroy in 1668 that he was the son of a white “noble father” and therefore asked that they confirm his privileges, including the prerogative of “carrying sword and dagger for the defense and adornment of his person.”173 While the characteristics of male nobility might pass to the offspring in spite of maternal stains such as illegitimacy or African ancestry, in this instance, officials denied his petition without any explanation. Some, however, succeeded, as Robert Schwaller has tracked sixty-three petitions in which Mexican blacks, mulattoes and pardos successfully petitioned the viceroy for permission (1575–1669) to bear arms.174 By the late seventeenth century (1676), it appeared that the Council of the Indies was prepared to take the next step and permit a designated group—free mulattos who served as officers in the Lima militia—to attach the coveted white perquisite to carry arms. Such a privilege differed from slaves, who had borne weapons with or without their master’s approval, or castas who illegally carried daggers, or the militias who wielded arms in times of trouble. Rather, Lima’s militias received the royal concession that the “captains” as well as “sergeants” would be able “to carry their arms of sword and dagger” daily on their person.175 They might publicly display arms as whites. Such a privilege proved extremely controversial. Viceroy Melchor Liñán y Cisneros (1678–1681) suspended its execution with the rare formulaic: “I obey but I do not comply” (Obedezco pero no cumplo).176 Such a refusal to enforce the law risked an official’s career if the Council of Indies deemed it disobedience rather than a prudent judgment not to carry out an inappropriate order. The viceroy explained his fear that if the crown granted selected pardos and mulattos permission to carry arms, it might lead to “the prejudices and harms” of previous years and disturb the “common good and quiet.”177 The problem, given the large number of “free mulattos” in the city,

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would be to determine who did and who did not have the privilege. If too many took up arms, it would lead to further “deaths, atrocities, robberies and insults.” Upon consideration, Council of War agreed with the viceroy and rescinded the privilege. One of the consistencies of any processes of slipping through forbidden spaces was that extraordinary individuals might become exceptions to discriminatory norms. Panamanian Vicente Méndez proved to be such an anomaly, as he was a precursor, enjoying some of the privileges of whiteness. He achieved the office of governor of a frontier town in 1687.178 Méndez was at the cutting edge of a cohort of upwardly mobile blacks, as he served in the military, first as a soldier, then as the head of a squadron, a sergeant, a lieutenant, and a captain. In the relative backwater of Panama, he had distinguished himself by routing pirates and rounding up the Indians of Darién to found the town he eventually governed. The local bishop wrote to support his assumption of the governorship, praising Méndez’s “valor” and adding that the “pirates . . . know and fear him, and the Indians of Darién, rather than fear him, love him.” The letters of Panamanian elites did not employ a vocabulary that indicated—as would some counterpart endorsements in the eighteenth century—that they ever accepted Méndez as a peer.179 Rather, his advocates more commonly argued that he did not share in the defects of his caste status and he deserved reciprocity from the crown. The bishop proclaimed that Méndez had “contradict[ed] with his actions the color that in others that is disrespected.” The admiral in charge of the Tierra Firme galleons concluded that “if the works of this man had been done by a Spaniard, it would be worthy for Your Majesty to honor him greatly.” Royal officials agreed that “it is very just to reward him” and confirmed him in the government of the new town. After observing the “merits and services” of Méndez in his new post, the next year they awarded him a 200-peso increase in salary.180 While extraordinary, such mobility was typically more possible in hinterlands such as Panama where there were comparatively fewer talented individuals. In another respect, Méndez’s position did not directly challenge the status quo, for even though he held a position reserved for elites, he governed a town of Indians and did not have direct authority over whites. Still, his mobility proved characteristic of the process whereby Spanish traditions provided spaces where a talented few might bypass existing restrictions. The next half century would see black, pardo, and mulatto efforts to open



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spaces wider. It would be no accident that when future generations applied for full whiteness, many would present evidence that they, their fathers, and their grandfathers had served for decades as officers in the militias and were therefore worthy of royal favor.

continuities after 1700: tr ibute and militi as After 1700, blacks, pardos, and mulattos continued efforts to detach the stain of tribute payment and to enjoy further privileges due to their militia service. Trends in tax collection demonstrate how relief for selected individuals such as Sebastian de Toral in 1584, or exemptions for groups such as militia companies starting in the 1620s, might later expand to include the larger population. By the late eighteenth century, the majority of the castas had detached tribute payment, which they considered a marker of inferiority.181 At least this was the conclusion that emerged in a series of reports prepared more than a century later, when the Council of the Indies, as part of Bourbon reform efforts to increase revenues, requested information concerning the effectiveness of tribute payment. A lengthy response from Guatemala in 1782 revealed that officials had consulted “the most old and remote documents” in their archive, including decrees from 1585, 1682, 1702, and 1717, to explore the history of tribute.182 While they agreed that the law demanded that “free blacks, mulattos and mulattas” pay the tax, the current “practice” was that “in that kingdom the only tribute known is that of the miserable Indians, with the other castes considering themselves exempt.” How had this occurred? One reason was that most of the castas listed themselves as militia members. They enjoyed freedom from tribute even though the local Guatemala militia was essentially defunct, as it lacked “organization” and “merited little appreciation in the use of arms.” Apparently, the simple presence of a militia, even if not active, officially freed some castas from the inferior marker of tribute.183 Another reason for the dearth of tribute payments was the continuing sexual intercourse between Native women and blacks, pardos, and mulattos producing ambiguous status for offspring. Even though the crown had ruled that the children of Natives and castas should pay tribute, parents

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believed that their sons and daughters were “not tributaries nor obliged to any burden of the republic.” The official prophesized that “in a few years no tributary will remain in that kingdom.” While in the early decades sexual linkages with Native women proved key in moving slaves to freedom, a century later, similar connections informally liberated succeeding generations from the stigma of tribute. Four years after the Guatemalan review, in 1786, it was the turn of the Mexican audiencia to respond to inquiries concerning tribute collection.184 That year, as part of Bourbon reform, new ordinances had confirmed that “free pardos” serving in provincial militias should be free from tribute.185 However, when Mexican officials reviewed the history of such collection, they reached the striking conclusions that they could not find any “blacks or mulattos with estates or farms” who had paid the tax. Officials pointed out that “if there were someone well off, who arrived at being rich, they did not figure in the census” of blacks and mulattos. Instead, these “lived confused with the Spanish” and when they paid taxes, they did so as whites. Just as Sebastian de Toral had detached himself and his descendants from inferior status and from paying tribute in the sixteenth century, so later generations of blacks and mulattos had followed his path to figure in the tax rolls as Spaniards. The efforts of royal officials in 1788 to reinstate payments in Nicaragua confirm that castas not only refused to pay tribute because it was a tax but also because they considered that it marked them as inferior. Given the “exorbitant number of mulattos” in Nicaragua, the Council of the Indies had asked the governor to consider a revival of such collections.186 The official was willing but warned that mulattos would reject the word “tribute” and consider it “hateful,” for they were “falsely persuaded of the superiority of their class over that of the Indians who they consider debased by their status as tributaries.” He warned that blacks and mulattos would be “deeply offended” if the crown imposed any tax that would give “an appearance of equality” with the Natives. The governor somewhat sneakily suggested that if the Council of the Indies “changed the name of the tax without altering the substance” it might have a better reception. Instead, the Council of the Indies decided to back off. Ministers expressed their “thanks” to the governor given the sensitivity of the affair and the “touch with which he has managed this matter.” They charged him to “continue with the same prudence to win what is possible without disgusting those vassals.”187 By the 1800s, the pathways by which



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blacks, pardos, and mulattos might reject their status as tribute payers were so wide that imperial officials essentially gave up enforcement attempts.188 While casting off markers as tribute payers erased a symbol of inferior status, it did not permit blacks, pardos, and mulattos to attach privileges of whiteness. After 1700, the militias continued to be an institution that opened paths toward more substantial mobility. One such concession was that the castas might become officers. When the cuarterones and pardos of Panama City applied to the Junta de Guerra in 1708 for confirmation of this privilege, they noted that appointments to be militia officers were now common throughout the empire.189 The Panamanians declared that “after having cuarterones, mulattos, zambos and blacks serve terms as squadron corporals, sergeants and lieutenants, they pass to be captains of their companies.” The responses of the president of Panama and the crown attorney of the Council of the Indies to the militias provide another indication that the castas had changed royal attitudes in their favor. The president recalled that the “militia companies of color” had served with “valor and zeal in the service of your majesty.”190 The crown attorney in Madrid agreed, concluding that “the defect that proceeds from their nature (naturaleza) vanishes entirely with their honored operations.” He agreed that the militias did not need white officers as they had organized “the defense of those coasts” to the crown’s satisfaction. While some militias earned the respect of officials at both imperial and local levels, there were always exceptions. Cuba remained a venue where blacks and pardos faced significantly worse discrimination than other locations. While presumably the militias no longer had to clean the streets as in the seventeenth century, they still garnered little respect from local elites. Such disdain led José Sánchez, a captain in the Havana pardo militia in 1714, to petition the king to issue a royal decree ordering that no one “would dare to defame the soldiers of these companies, calling them dogs and mulattos.”191 Rather, he wanted them called by their own self-designation: “by their name of pardos, which is their color.” Bourbon reform, particularly military revisions in the 1760s, provided the castas with the opportunity to attach another white privilege: acquisition of the military fuero. Spaniards enjoyed more than thirty such exceptions that privileged corporate groups such as the clergy, merchants, miners, and the military.192 One of the most cherished rights was the permission to

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bypass regular civil and criminal courts and receive trials in their own corporate tribunals. The result was to place black and mulatto militia members under the jurisdiction of those of their own group where they might receive favored treatment. From the perspective of the pardos, the military fuero provided both the possibility of judgment by peers and a platform to remind elites that they enjoyed privileges usually reserved for whites.193 At least this was the conclusion reached by the Caracas elite in 1762, for they protested that the military fuero removed misbehaving pardos serving in the militias from the regulation of city council officials who enforced local ordinances.194 The immediate problem had arisen because many castas who served in the militias were butchers and small shopkeepers. City council members charged that they regularly cheated on weights, but since the military fuero protected them, the officials who normally regulated such matters found themselves powerless. Elites asked the Council of the Indies to limit the fuero to the “militia officers” and not “indiscriminately to everyone who enlists.” Such local activism would prefigure later, even more aggressive attempts by the Venezuelan elite to stifle pardo mobility. Caracas elites were upset not only by their loss of jurisdiction over black and pardo militia members but also by the ensuing absence of deference such freedom from white control might entail. When, for example, Pedro Nolasco Pantoja, the pardo militia representative, learned that Alcalde Don Antonio Xedler had thrown “black” militia member Juan Baptista in jail, he now had the right to ask why he was in prison. When the militia officer learned it was because Juan Baptista owed that same local official “a few reales” he was now able to respond with “indecorous and improper words” as he used the military fuero to free his fellow soldier. Further protests from the Caracas cabildo confirm that elites recognized that the military fuero provided an opening for pardos and mulattos to subvert white control and enjoy some comparable prerogatives. City council member Don Joseph Gabriel Solórzano disdainfully contrasted the “low status” of the officers of the pardo militias with their white counterparts who were “men of . . . distinction.” He protested that mulattos were “looking for ways to distinguish themselves more and confuse themselves in some way with white and noble persons.” Some had gone so far as to wear “wigs,” which had led to a reprimand from royal officials and “no small blush for them.” The pardo goal, he charged, was to “be confused with noble people, in spite of their low color.”



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Faced with Venezuelan protests, the Council of the Indies charged Joseph Solano, the governor of Caracas, to report on the situation.195 He reminded the ministers that they had sent out a general order in 1760 asking that militias form in Caracas and promising the benefit of the military fuero. In response, the pardos had organized into eight militia companies. The result was that the crown “with almost no expenditure (given they do not draw a salary)” had “fifteen hundred men outfitted and disciplined.” While Governor Solano conceded that the pardos had manifested “vanity,” given they now had access to the military fuero, he concluded that it was of “great utility” to the state to have a “troop” that served “without salary,” that provided their own uniforms and that was “ready for all military functions.” The resulting approval of the Council of the Indies as well as local officials provides yet another marker of the changed attitudes and mobilities experienced by pardos and mulattos by the mid-eighteenth century. It appeared even in Cuba that attitudes were changing. After pardo and mulatto units fought valiantly against the British capture of Havana in 1762, new militia regulations in 1769 recognized their contributions. While not equaling them with whites, the new code emphasized that the “battalions of pardos and blacks” should be “treated with estimation” and that “no one would be permitted to insult them by word or deed.”196 Rather, “among those of their respective classes” those serving in the militia units should be “distinguished and respected.” As the more radical provisions of Bourbon reform came into play in the 1770s, a select cohort of pardos and mulattos received special recognition from the crown, empowering them to act as whites. Remember that the Pragmatic Sanction on Marriages (1778) had interposed the state, reshaping traditional Catholic provisions regulating free choice in marriage partners. When a son or daughter attempted to “contract an unequal marriage against the will of the parents” a father or guardian could appeal to royal officials, who might order priests not to sanctify the union.197 The Pragmatic Sanction on Marriages explicitly noted that parents who were “mulattos, blacks, coyotes [mestizo/Native] and individuals of the castas and similar races” did not share the privilege to appeal to the state and control the marriages of their offspring. Nonetheless, it made a special concession: the decree singled out those pardos and mulattos who “serve me as officials in the militias” or who were “distinguished from the rest by their good reputation, proceedings and services.” The result was that an elite

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pardo cohort received the same concession as whites. Fathers might forbid offspring to marry spouses who would lower the family’s caste status.198 Such leverage to control admission of new members would complement the strategy of an emerging elite casta cohort, who would whiten succeeding generations through selective sexual and marital alliances.199 By the mid-eighteenth century, pardos and mulattos had detached the inferior marker that they figured as tribute payers. They now bore arms openly, even if restricted to the militias. Some enjoyed the military fuero and could document generations of service to the crown. The Pragmatic Sanction on Marriages recognized the existence of a pardo and mulatto elite, deserving of privileges typically reserved for whites. The stage was set for an escalation, as pardos and mulattos would attempt to attach sufficient whiteness to do “white things.”

1700: attaching w hite perquisites Unlike the benchmark of the 1620s, where enemy attacks on Spanish America resulted in growing crown appreciation of pardo and mulatto contributions, the turning points in the early 1700s had no obvious external triggers. Although the transition from Hapsburg to Bourbon dynasty was underway, it would not be until the mid-eighteenth century that reforms would significantly affect the Indies.200 Rather, a “reading through” of the official record reveals the emergence of a select group of castas with the credentials to secure some of the privileges of whiteness. As with breakthroughs concerning tribute and the militias, individuals spearheaded mobility efforts. Although these attempts to attend university, to hold public office, to practice occupations such as notary public, or to enter the priesthood proved mostly unsuccessful, they preshadowed eventual successes. One of the most desired goals of pardos and mulattos was to become university graduates, which almost immediately converted them into professionals and de facto members of the elite. Starting in the 1730s, a series of decrees attempted to reinforce existing discrimination, suggesting that some castas had squeezed through discriminatory cracks, attended university, and entered professions such as medicine, the law, or the church. That year, the University of Havana repeated its prohibition that “blacks, mulat-



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tos or any type of slave,” might enter the university, implying that some had previously succeeded.201 More than other regions, Peru remained an arena where pardos and mulattos might evade prohibitions. In 1737, Peruvian viceroy the Marqués de Villagarcia (1735–1745) invoked the proximity argument, as he lamented that whites had “retired from the study of medicine” so as not to be associated with the many pardos who had graduated from the university and set up practices.202 A 1752 decree from Lima was even more explicit, recounting continuous efforts to keep mulattos, zambos, and cuarterones from university admission. It conceded that “some of these castes through means of favor” had entered the university, particularly in the “faculty of medicine.” Since the problem of white flight continued, the university again forbade their entrance. In 1768, Peruvian viceroy Manuel de Amat y Juniet (1761–1776) voiced a new concern, complaining of the “pernicious consequences” resulting from so many “lawyers of obscure birth.”203 Finding such pardo mobility to be “shameful,” the viceroy decided to close any openings at the preparatory (colegio) and university levels by insisting that future students prove their “legitimacy and clean blood.” Although he decided not to prosecute those “who had now been admitted” he promised that in the future this leniency would not occur. Notaries were another profession where the reissue of decrees suggests that the castas were attempting to push through discriminatory barriers. In 1750, the crown ordered that if pardos and mulattos had lied to hold those posts, they would lose them.204 But one more generation would have to pass before their descendants would petition and receive official permission from the crown to serve. While pardos and mulattos seem to have experienced variable success in attending university and practicing medicine and law, there were arenas where their efforts mostly foundered. Among their highest aspirations was entrance into the priesthood. Anyone anointed with the sacred chrism essentially became white, for his status meant that elites had to treat him with respect. As a local cleric, he would participate in public ceremonies and receive a coveted place. Evidence suggests that at the beginning of the eighteenth century a few mulattos were beginning to bypass such prohibitions.

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Both scarcity and peripherality created openings for pardo ordination in the islands. In 1707, Archbishop Francisco de Rincón complained about the lack of priests on Santo Domingo. He noted that there were a few prospects whose “virtue and literature” qualified them for ordination, but they lacked limpieza de sangre given that they “had some of the two lines mixed with mulattos.”205 He asked the Council of the Indies if it would be possible to ordain such candidates. The Council reminded the bishop that he had all the powers conferred on him by papal bulls, and these included “conferring orders at your will dispensing all type of irregularity.” In effect, the state conceded the opportunity to whiten to the church. Later decrees suggest that the willingness of Archbishop Rincón to open the priesthood to pardos and mulattos might have been an anomaly. Just two years later, the bishop elect of Caracas, Dr. Don Juan de Jaúregui y Barcena complained that “many priests” had been ordained who were mulattos and that “none of them” exhibited the “merit of known virtue or letters.”206 Unlike his Santo Domingo colleague who supported selective ordination of mulattos, this Caracas bishop made clear that he would work to eliminate “such harm in the future.” Such a negative attitude also characterized Archbishop Antonio Claudio Álvarez de Quiñones, who in 1723, was outraged that his predecessor had ordained pardos in Santo Domingo.207 He complained that some of the priests “have a good part of mulattos” and charged that they had “hidden” caste status given their “progenitors had been slaves, and descendants of blacks that were introduced into this island from Guinea.” He ordered that in the future any priests should be of the “quality and qualifications” proper to their state. Local circumstances proved fundamental in determining if pardos and mulattos might to slip through and become priests. Some bishops seemed willing, and others not, to ordain them.208 Evidence suggests that pardo aspirations to the priesthood became more difficult to achieve by the end of the eighteenth century. In 1772, the Council of the Indies worried about the “great variety of castes that has developed with the introduction of blacks and the mixture of them with the Natives.”209 They ordered archbishops not to ordain any expósitos if “by their aspect and well known signs they appear to be mulattos or other castes.”210 As informal processes for mobility narrowed, the castas would begin to seek more official redress, petitioning for special exemptions or eventually applying to purchase whiteness.



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Service in public office proved, much like admission to the priesthood, another place where pathways remained mostly closed. Unlike the extraordinary achievement of black Panamanian governor Vicente Méndez, pardos and mulattos experienced significantly greater difficulty in holding offices reserved for whites. When it occurred, it was in the peripheries of the empire. In 1713, when word reached the Council of the Indies that “persons that have a part of mulattos” held public office in Campeche, Mexico, ministers ordered royal officials to investigate and remove persons lacking “all the circumstances necessary” to hold office.211 The Panama City council in 1737 received a similar warning. Officials declared that candidates for office had to demonstrate their own “quality” by providing the baptismal certificates of their parents and maternal and paternal grandparents, proving all were white.212 Even in Lima, the holding of the most modest of public positions remained closed.213 Such was the dilemma of mulatto Nicolas de Avendano who served in 1717 as an official dog chaser (caniculario), designated to chase canines away so that they did not enter the church. Although he had held the position for more than a year, he became ill and could not perform his dog-chasing responsibilities. In his absence, the viceroy asked the dean of the cathedral to appoint a slave, Julian Barces, to fill the vacancy and eventually take up the post when Nicolas died. The cathedral chapter revolted and requested a decree that guaranteed that the “office of dog chaser not be conferred on a black or mulatto but a Spanish subject, either born in Spain or in the Indies.” However and whenever pardos and mulattos attempted it, mobility would remain an untidy undertaking.

conclusions A survey of centuries of legislation provides another focus into those processes that created spaces for slaves, pardos, and mulattos to cast off inferior status and move toward whiteness. Slaves ended bondage by purchasing freedom, receiving it from masters, or by grants from the state. Even the unfree might do “white things,” when they acted in the stead of encomenderos or carried arms. The opportunities for service to the crown permitted first individuals and then groups to receive exemption from tribute payments that marked them as inferior. The militias proved a notable source

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for mobility: pardos and mulattos carried weapons, received appointments as officers, enjoyed the fuero, used the Pragmatic Sanction on Marriages, and accrued years of royal service. Attempts to attend university, practice professions, or hold offices reserved for whites proved a more difficult proposition, although there were instances where individuals slipped through the cracks. Probing beneath such specifics highlights how variables such as law, custom, religion, necessity, time, and region influenced mobility, creating potential interstices. The medieval legislation of the Siete Partidas remained a fundamental template for Spanish understandings concerning slavery: that humans naturally would and should seek to end servitude; that free babies always emerged from free wombs. The right of slaves to purchase freedom, for white masters or lovers to expedite it, or for the state to guarantee it proved natural corollaries. Spanish inheritance law proved color blind, facilitating transfers between white and mixed generations. Forcible conversion of slaves eventually led to identification of their descendants as members of the Spanish Catholic community of the Indies. Customary practice powerfully promoted mobility. Once the crown moved free blacks, pardos, and mulattos from the unwelcome category of “inconveniences” to the desired one of “vassals,” the mutual responsibilities of reciprocity took hold. Those who provided service to the state merited serious attention when they petitioned as well as meaningful rewards. It helped if there were need: scarcities whether of chirimia players or of trained soldiers opened pathways. The potential for mobility was always balanced against countervailing resistance, particularly when whites invoked the proximity argument. Time mattered, both in its length and as a turning point. It was precisely because blacks, pardos, and mulattos had been Americans for multiple generations that some might figure as loyal subjects and as fellow Catholics. There were historic crossroads: the 1620s changed royal attitudes toward the castas; the 1700s marked early attempts to attach privileges reserved to white elites. Region proved complicated, given that a multiplicity of variables might combine: pardos and mulattos in Lima seemed to experience fewer obstacles than those in Havana or Caracas; those in the peripheries such as Yucatán and Panama seemed even more favored.214 It would be from one of the most (Cuba) and one of the least (Panama) discriminatory areas of the empire that pardos and mulattos would take the



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next step. They would petition in the 1760s to attach sufficient whiteness to practice as surgeons and notaries. As the Council of the Indies considered their requests, as well as those that followed, they would factor in another long-term variable. A serious concern was the extent to which whitening might disturb the status quo. One answer provided by a privileged pardo and mulatto cohort was genealogical: they supplied rare information on those generations of mixtures that underlay their histories. In the process, they revealed long-term family strategies to whiten, providing unique insight into the evolution of the society of castes. Just as Guatemalan Don Domingo had petitioned to serve as regidor in spite of his mulatta great-great-grandmother, so applicants would attempt to demonstrate that their “good circumstances” should outweigh any “dubious defect” of their heritage.215

four

Connections Genealogical Mathematics These interested parties, even though whites, are reputed to be pardos. fiscal josé de cistué y coll, Council of the Indies, April 11, 1796 1

introduction In 1796, the Valenzuela brothers, wealthy merchants from the city of Antioquia, applied for whitening through gracias al sacar. When Fiscal Cistué y Coll reviewed their documents, he made a telling slip. He confusingly noted, “These interested parties, even though whites, are reputed to be pardos.”2 His befuddlement likely resulted from the testimony received from local royal officials. Even though these admitted that the brothers possessed the “quality of pardo” given their “ancestors,” they also insisted that “in their person and besides this, they are not considered such, given their absolutely white color, their manners as men of education, their virtue and good customs.” In short, imperial bureaucrats already considered the Valenzuelas, who were pardos, to be white. The history of the Valenzuelas was not unique. Just as pardos and mulattos found interstices over centuries to remove the stigma of caste and then attach perquisites of whites, so, over the generations, some formed intimate 124



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and familial connections that lessened their defect. Analysis of whitening in a “long-time” perspective explores how repeated sexual and marital relationships between whites, mulattos, and pardos over the generations created descendants who moved closer to whiteness. Never to be forgotten is that the pardos and mulattos who applied for whitening formed an atypical cohort. No doubt, in the real world, there were unknown others who had passed so successfully that they never needed to apply for such royal dispensations. Equally certain is that a majority of the mixed population experienced substantially lesser or no mobility. Others likely had no plan, whitening in some generations and darkening in others. Yet, even while their numbers are small, the generational histories of the gracias al sacar petitioners shed light on the largely undocumented processes that created and lightened the society of castas.3 It also reveals the outcomes of some who had not followed such a strategy, providing insight into the salience of physical appearance as a possible factor impacting mobility. While historians have customarily studied the demographic effects of mixing between whites and castas at the local or imperial levels, such linkages first influenced the sphere of the family, as manifested in sexual relationships between men and women and their relationships with their children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.4 The case stories of whitening provide insight into those intimate spaces where pardos and mulattos formed a new social cohort located at that permeable boundary where whiteness for succeeding generations might become achievable. Petitions for whitening include genealogies, baptismal certificates, marriage records, and witness testimony concerning appearance that reveal how, over the generations, families sought upward mobility by whitening. Genealogies trace long-term patterns of sexual and marital choice. They reveal the prevalence of informal lightening practices that predated any official, late eighteenth-century opportunity to purchase whiteness. Baptismal records gauge the results of such mixings, particularly if a succeeding generation remained in the section reserved for pardos or moved to that allocated for whites. Witness testimony provides another indication of white connections, specifically the extent to which locals considered that petitioners looked or could pass as white. Gracias al sacar documents reveal that such informal processes of mixing had been underway for generations. While it is impossible to determine precisely when a particular individual made a deliberate choice to whiten,

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the evidence of generations of such liaisons reveals common patterns. Even then, it seems unlikely that family members at any particular moment would have necessarily anticipated that their sexual or marital choices might figure—decades later—in petitions so that a son or daughter, a grandchild, or great-grandchild might purchase a decree that whitened. While similar patterns were likely prevalent in various degrees within casta populations throughout the Spanish Americas, only the after-the-fact necessity to document the ancestral past reveals such relationships. To what extent did pardos and mulattos engage in conscious and deliberate efforts to whiten succeeding generations?5 Petitioners rarely detailed why they or their ancestors had selected a particular lover or spouse of whatever caste. Certainly emotional affinity, family approval, and economic and social parity figured as key variables regulating choice. Still, supplicants customarily provided evidence of the presence of white relations when they applied for whitening, which suggests that they considered such connections relevant. While historians might not be able to track the rationale behind an individual’s thought processes concerning spousal selection, they may be able to identify socioracial patterns of selection of many couples over time. A common tactic was to choose partners who maintained caste status or who raised it.6 Such long-term strategies to eliminate defect reflected a Hispanic propensity to think generationally. For more than three centuries, Spaniards had obsessed if ancestors were, or were not, free of Moorish or of Jewish blood—or—in the Americas, of African ancestry. Such thinking proved to be a double-edged sword: it not only promoted a consciousness about acceptable candidates for the discriminator; it also encouraged strategies to eliminate those very stains by the discriminated. The result was that some Spanish Americans recreated in their own bodies and families versions of the famous casta paintings that detailed those progressive combinations of mixtures that led toward whiteness.7 Real people seem to have consciously played long-term games of genealogical mathematics. Just as gender proved to be a fundamental variable governing the movement from slavery to freedom, so women and men followed distinctive paths as they moved toward whiteness. In the early colony, the dynamics of intimacy had favored men rather than women. At least, the sexual linkages of male slaves with Native, free black, and mulatta women created free descendants who, in subsequent generations, intermingled to create



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the complexity of the society of castes. As those who were mixed and free moved toward whitening, the gender tables tipped: women began to enjoy significantly greater opportunities than men to lighten succeeding generations. Parda and mulatta women had three options: they could agree to have a sexual affair, or they could live in a consensual union, or—if possible— they could marry a white partner. In contrast, counterpart males essentially had one whitening option: marriage.8 The result was that the entry point at which casta women and men might have sexual relationships with whites differed greatly. It was much more difficult for pardo men to acquire the status and resources to marry white women than it was for parda women to choose sexual relationships that might or might not end in matrimony. Whatever liaisons occurred in previous generations, at the moment of petitions, pardo women and men were almost universally married or, at the least, engaged. After all, it would be impolitic to request royal favor when those applying had sinned, created local scandal, or had illegitimate offspring.9

m u l at ta a n d pa r da wom e n The gender equation that awarded white men the widest latitude of sexual choice placed parda and mulatta women at the starting point of most whitening processes.10 A common template seems to have been for mothers, their lighter daughters, and their even lighter granddaughters to engage in liaisons with white lovers. On one level, this is a most familiar strategy, best expressed in the popular Cuban saying, “rather mistress of a white man than the wife of a Negro.”11 However, the long-term family patterns revealed in gracias al sacar applications suggests that this Cuban aphorism needs modification. A possible revisionist alteration might be: Better the mistress of a white man than the wife of a Negro; better yet, the wife of a white. A rare genealogy of parda Petronila Peralta provides insight into how sexual alliances over generations might translate into matrimony and whiteness. Petronila was the wife of Don Joseph Briceño of Trujillo, Venezuela, who admitted that her pardo heritage and her illegitimacy meant that she was “of an inferior class and unequal.”12 In 1794, he attempted to leverage his own status to beg the Cámara to whiten her and their legitimate children.13

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The petition revealed that Petronila proceeded from at least two and likely even earlier generations of liaisons of female ancestors with white males. Her mother, mulatta Juana de la Cruz de la Parra, had engaged in a relationship with Sergeant Major Don Joseph Antonio Martínez, who recognized Petronila as his illegitimate daughter.14 Even though witnesses agreed that Petronila’s mother, Juana, was a “mulatta,” they also confirmed that she looked white: she “had never been subject to servitude, nor manifested it in her appearance.”15 The generation before that, Petronila’s mulatta grandmother, Lucia, had a similar affair with an unknown white male.16 Since their liaison had resulted in Petronila’s whitish-looking mother, Juana, it seems possible that this unknown grandmother was also the result of previous mixing. The outof-wedlock liaisons of Petronila’s parda mother and her parda grandmother and perhaps even more distant ancestors no doubt facilitated her potential to marry Don Joseph. The next generation, Petronila’s children, would be born legitimate and considered white.17 How common was this pattern? The small number of gracias al sacar whitenings makes it impossible to speculate: they bear no statistical correlation to the “real world” of the late colony. There were only four gracias al sacar petitions where white husbands requested whiteness for their parda wives and offspring. Significantly all originated from Venezuela, a region characterized both by enhanced mobility and virulent discrimination. In the three other cases—Aristimuño, Yañes, and Rodríguez—the petitioning husbands revealed they had migrated from the peninsula.18 Perhaps Spaniards found it more difficult to marry into the local elite and so they chose whitish wives. Since they were newcomers, the absence of local family pressure may have given them more latitude in spousal choice.19 Alternatively, newcomers might have not been as aware that the stigma of marriage to a parda, no matter how white she appeared, would pass to the next generation, relegating any offspring to the maternal status. Such circumstances did not apply to Petronila’s husband, Don Joseph, for he was a creole whose father had held the royal post of maestre de campo.20 Apparently, his union with Petronila had been controversial. A local genealogy remarks that the marriage “was of notable disgust to all the Briceño family, to the extent that it was necessary for D. José Lorenzo to take refuge in the Monastery of the Franciscans and Petronila Antonia in



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the house of Cleric D. Francisco Sierralta.”21 Given that the pair eventually had seventeen children, such separation must not have been that prolonged. Such intimate relationships between parda women and white men created inequalities within families that varied depending upon the eye of the beholder. Don Joseph’s choice of Petronila as his wife exemplified the traditional perquisites of white male superiority—he belonged to a substantial cohort of elite men in the Americas who choose parda women as lovers and sometimes as wives. Don Joseph eventually suffered distress when his choice created generational inequality, for it relegated his children to the status of pardos. Petronila won and lost as well. Her position rose with her marriage to a white male, although she experienced status inequality with her husband. Her defect in naturaleza and limpieza meant that she passed her pardoness to her sons and daughters. She and they had also benefited, for her marriage to Don Joseph raised her and her children to a higher status than they would have experienced if she had married a pardo of equal rank. Don Joseph’s children suffered from the ancestry of their parda mother, but benefited from the status of their white father. Not many cases resemble that of Petronila’s, permitting multigenerational charting of parda liaisons with whites. Sometimes oblique references hint at earlier linkages that might eventually combine to obliterate defect. For example, the petition of Panamanian Juan Evaristo de Jesús Borbúa, who applied to be a notary in 1767, revealed that his mother, María Francisca Barrero, was a quarterona (one-fourth African) who had a sexual relationship with a member of the white elite, Don Pedro Fernandez de Borbúa.22 María appeared alone on their baby’s baptismal certificate, which made no mention of his status, although noting that he was illegitimate. Don Pedro eventually went into the priesthood, although he recognized his son in his will. When Juan Evaristo grew up, he successfully applied to the Cámara in 1767 to remove his status as a quinterón and practice as a notary. The family story was not yet over. Juan Evaristo later married, and although the caste status of his wife remains unclear, his son, Matías Joseph, eventually applied for full whitening.23 By then, the fiscal noted that “neither in the baptismal certificate, nor that of confirmation, nor in witness testimony” was there any “expression of the quality of pardo” even though his application asked that “he be dispensed from it.” Ironically, the family’s generations of lightening had combined with the laxness of Panamanian

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clerics in specifying baptismal status to make it difficult for Matías Joseph to prove his pardo-ness so that he might receive a gracias al sacar. Few petitions provided detailed genealogies of pardos such as Petronila Peralta or Juan Evaristo de Jesús Borbúa. Most illustrate the last stage of the process where a white husband who loved his wife and children attempted to leverage his rank to better the position of his closest kin. Such was the goal of Basque-born Don Juan Martin de Aristimuño who applied for the whitening of his wife Agustina Albornoz and their offspring in 1806. He explained that when he had arrived in the Indies, he had met her in Puerto Cabello, been impressed by her “virtues,” and offered “honest marriage.” The couple had prospered, first “applying themselves to agriculture.” Don Juan Martin had eventually become a merchant and held public office. He lauded Agustina as a wife who had “helped him inspire in their sons and daughters noble thoughts [and] virtues full of religion and patriotism.” While Don Juan Martin was frank concerning the problems caused by Agustina’s “odious quality,” he also seemed genuinely appreciative of her worth. Don Juan Martin expressed his desire to restore the natural patriarchal order where his status as a white male—rather than the defect of his wife— determined the position of the next generation. He confessed that while the “Creator” had given him “the gift of being born white,” that “his wife . . . was born in the class of individuals marked with the name of pardos.”24 This “sad circumstance” had been “transmitted . . . to his offspring.” Don Juan Martin chronicled his distress about the inequality in his family that he wanted to remedy. His eldest son—“a good worker, a man of judgment, older than 25 years” would have been eligible for “whatever decent connection with the best families without . . . the quality of the mother.” His second son was particularly troubled, for he was “inclined to letters” but “had suffered the embarrassment and pain of not being admitted in the school of philosophy” even though “the same professors” had praised his “accomplishment, virtue and application.” This son “felt his soul shadowed by this impediment of his mother” even though his father was “noble.” Don Juan Martin was equally distraught for the future of his daughters, whom he described as “the honor of his white hair and the crown of his old age.” They too were “sad and disgraced” given their “lack of alternatives” of marriage partners. Don Juan Martin used his rank and service as an “honored vassal” and a “good servant” to appeal to the Cámara of the Indies with the hope to



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knock on “the doors of your mercy to better the fortune of his honest and virtuous family.” He asked that the Cámara take away the defect of pardo, so that his wife and children would be “reputed among the white vassals of your majesty.” Mixing was a family affair. Another such concerned husband and father was Don Nicolás Francisco Yañes, the administrator of mail, in Coro, Venezuela, whose petition resembled those of Don Joseph and Don Juan Martin. Don Nicolás was probably a Spanish newcomer to the Americas—at least he mentioned that while young he had served in the navy where he had specialized in artillery. He also aimed to eliminate “whatever defect” that his wife, María Nicolasa, “might have” so that she would “in no time be able to prejudice the children” that the couple had “procreated.”25 Royal official Don Pedro Rodríguez de Argumedo of Trinidad sent in a similar request referring to “an ancient tradition” held by the “vulgar” that his wife, Doña Angela Inés Rodríguez, descended from pardos.26 Even though he provided proof that his spouse and her parents were “without any stain of mixture and white persons,” he still wanted to erase “all scruple and doubt.” He wanted to be able to ‘live tranquilly” by eliminating any “obstacle” that would impede that his children be “placed with the decency that corresponds to the virtuous education that he has secured for them.” The propensity of white males to have affairs, live in consensual unions, and sometimes marry created the potential for significant caste mobility for parda women such as Petronila, Agustina, María Nicolasa, Doña Angela Inés, and their descendants. Sometimes patterns that do not appear in the whitening applications are as provocative as those that occur. Notably, there are no instances where white males attempted to leverage the superiority of their gender and social status to whiten their parda mistresses or their illegitimate children. Here a deadly trio: the defects of caste and of illegitimacy combined with the nonmarital state of the parents to be too much to overcome.

m u l at to a n d pa r d o m a l e s In contrast, the path that pardo males followed toward whitening differed from that of their female counterparts. Men lightened subsequent generations almost exclusively through marriage. Unlike Petronila’s mother and

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grandmother, they had little option of engaging in a generational succession of sexual affairs with white women. Applications from a cohort of pardo men reveal the alternative strategies of whitening either through marriage to parda women with white relatives or to white women who were often of plebeian or compromised status. The goal was to multiply such connections to promote a slower, if still inexorable, movement toward whitening. The Báez family from Cuba provides a classic pattern of efforts by pardo males to lighten subsequent generations through marriage with parda peers. The family history began with a common occurrence: Spaniard Don Joseph Báez, an official (maestro de plata) on the galleon San Francisco de Assisi, visited Cuba at the beginning of the eighteenth century. He had an affair with an unnamed parda woman and the couple had an illegitimate son named Ignacio.27 Witnesses recalled that Don Joseph recognized his son as his own, gave him the family name, treated him with “love and tenderness,” and placed him for his first seven years to be raised by a white friend, Don Thomas Calderón Varea, in Havana.28 When Don Joseph returned to Cuba he carried his son off to Spain both for education and to travel “at his side on different trips” between the peninsula and the Americas. Since observers later commented that Ignacio looked white, his mother may have been, like Petronila, the product of previous generations of mixing between parda females and white males. Paternal influence may have helped Ignacio secure a position as a notary on the frigate San Felipe, an occupation customarily reserved for whites. However, unlike pardo daughters of white fathers who had direct options to whiten through affairs or marriage, pardo men faced greater obstacles. One alternative was to connect to whiteness through marriage with their caste equivalents—that is, parda women who also had fathers who were white. The result would be that the couple would continue to move toward whiteness and they would share white fathers-in-laws and their children white grandfathers.29 Ignacio Báez followed this strategy when, in 1722, he married parda María Raphaela Guerrero. Since Raphaela was the illegitimate daughter of Spaniard Domingo Guerrero and parda Manuela Polanco, both husband and wife were the product of relations between their single white fathers and parda mothers. Raphaela made a choice as well, for even though her marriage to Ignacio did not whiten as much as a sexual liaison or matrimony with a white male, it still bettered the status of her children who added



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white relations. With marriage, Ignacio and Raphaela eliminated another defect in the next generation, given that their sons, Joseph Francisco and Manuel, were legitimate. Although the matrimonial choice of Raphaela and Ignacio’s first son, Joseph Francisco, remains unknown, their younger son, Manuel, continued his parent’s spousal choice pattern. He also married a parda woman whose father was white. His wife, María Gertrudis, was the illegitimate daughter of Regidor Don Joseph Agustin de Arrate and parda Manuela Blanco. Witnesses recalled that even though the regidor later married someone else, he cared for his parda daughter María “in his house until she married the said Manuel.”30 The regidor recognized María “all her life” and when he died “he left her a finca [property].” Her white father, just as Ignacio Báez’s father, had both recognized and protected illegitimate parda offspring who assumed the family name. It is telling that when Manuel later applied for a gracias al sacar, he confirmed a self-conscious pattern whereby pardos with white fathers chose parda brides who also had white fathers. Manuel assumed that if the Cámara awarded him a whitening decree that the next generation would be white and able to marry whites. However, since he had some concern that not all his offspring might be able to find white partners, he asked for a special guarantee. He wanted assurance that if the newly whitened Báezes wed brides or grooms “whose fathers [are white] even though the mothers are parda” that any descendants would “enjoy the same entitlement, nobility, and circumstances.” The genealogy of the Cuban Báez family illustrates that pardo males with white fathers or grandfathers might make conscious choices to marry parda brides who also had white fathers providing an alternative strategy to lighten. By the next generation, Manuel and María’s three children— Raphaela María Evarista, Francisco de Paula, and María de la Luz—came from two generations of legitimate marriages and both paternal and maternal grandfathers and great-grandfathers were white. Such strategies likely moved the Báezes not only in appearance but in social interactions away from pardo-ness and closer to whiteness. What happened to pardo men who lacked or who could not document white ancestors? One option followed by pardo Francisco de la Cruz Marqués was to marry a parda wife with white ancestry, thereby beginning the process of lightening. When he applied for a gracias al sacar, he was

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rather suspiciously silent concerning his own background and provided no genealogy. In contrast, he emphasized that his wife, Petronila Fuentes, was the “legitimate daughter of a white European father” who had married a parda.31 Since Francisco was a merchant with “sufficient fortune” to possess an “abundance of material goods,” he was able to attract a wife whose white connections might better the status of the next generation. Commandant of a pardo infantry battalion in Havana, Antonio Flores, seems to have followed a similar strategy, given that his wife was the legitimate daughter of a Don Alvaro Vaso. The status of his bride’s mother was less certain, given that her marriage certificate did not list her as a doña. Whatever the rank of his mother-in-law, the addition of this white fatherin-law permitted Flores to proclaim that the couple’s son could trace— presumably back through this maternal grandfather—to a “sixth generation” of white ancestry.32 The alternative for pardo men to lighten was through marriage with white women. Perhaps it was because Juan de la Cruz y Mena had a profession usually reserved for whites—he was a surgeon in Bayamo—that he won the hand of Rosa de Tamayo Durán y Puerra. His application provided a numbingly detailed genealogy of her ancestry—as if to make up for the absence of his own. He praised her “limpieza” and the “merits of her ancestors” detailing them from her parents through her great-grandparents.33 Juan admitted some uncertainty concerning his own background. He speculated that he was the grandson of Don Pedro de Mena who had died in an enemy invasion of Santo Domingo in 1666, leaving his children as poor orphans. He thought his great-grandfather from his mother’s side was Bartolomé Gallardo, a surgeon from Galicia. However, he also admitted he had no “proof” of such linkages with whites or of his “limpieza.” Local records suggest that Juan also had pardo ancestors, given that his application to practice as a surgeon described him as “dark-skinned” with a “frizzy black beard.” The generational history of the Caballero Carranza family provides an example of one family that played a brilliant game of genealogical math approaching whiteness through four generations of marriages to plebeian white women.34 The family’s odyssey began in the early eighteenth century when Don Juan Caballero Carranza, a Spaniard from Plasencia, arrived in Puebla, Mexico, and married María Carmona, a free parda. Documents never re-



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vealed if María Carmona was legitimate or illegitimate or if she had a white father or grandfather. The inequality created by this marriage meant that the couple’s son, Felipe, descended to the status of pardo. Official documents do not refer to him as Don and when he served as a captain in the provincial infantry in Puebla, it was in the company reserved for pardos.35 Still, Felipe’s status was sufficient to leverage his marriage to a “Spaniard,” María Guadalupe Crespo de Bolanos, although nothing else is known of her rank. In the next generation, Felipe and María’s son, Joaquín, still suffered from the prejudicial status of his pardo father that had been passed on from his pardo grandmother. Joaquín also served as a captain and commanded a battalion of infantry in Puebla, but still in the company of pardos. Just as his father, Joaquín married a “Spaniard,” Isabel Josefa Cortés, who although not listed as Doña in official records, claimed descent from the conquistadors. Details of this family history finally reached the Cámara of the Indies in the fourth and fifth generations, when Joaquín and Isabel’s son, Manuel, applied for whitening for himself and his four children. His application demands careful reading of details, for he rewrote his family history. When he testified about his ancestors—with the sole exception of his parda greatgrandmother—he gave them all the title of Don or Doña. In contrast, the official records tell a different tale, for neither the entrance of his father (1747) nor grandfather (1728) into the pardo militia nor his own baptismal record awarded his ancestors and parents the honorific prefix of Don or Doña, suggesting nonelite status. Born in 1754, Manuel still suffered from the ancestry of his greatgrandmother, for he appeared in the pardo section of the baptismal records as a “legitimate son of Capitán Joaquín José Carranza free pardo and of Isabel Josefa Cortés, Spaniard.” Just as his father Joaquín and his grandfather Felipe, Manuel followed the family strategy of marrying a white legitimate woman, María Montero y Española. Since the priest did not designate that María’s parents were Don and Doña on her baptismal certificate, she was also likely of plebeian origin. When Manuel submitted his petition to be whitened, he never directly referred to these generations of intermarriages with white women. However, the success of the family strategy over four generations meant that he found “himself with the almost extinguished defect of pardo.”

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w h i t e f e m a l e s w i t h pa r d o m a l e s While most pardo men married white women of plebeian status, there were two whitening applications where the prospective brides belonged, even if peripherally, to the local elite, for they enjoyed the honorific title of Doña. Doña María del Carmen Correa and Doña Francisca del Cerro shared much in common. Both lived in Caracas; both applied to whiten their pardo fiancés between 1804 and 1806; both were responding to ferocious attempts of Caracas elites to prohibit mixed marriages. Central to their applications were the prescriptions of the Pragmatic Sanction on Marriages issued in 1778 and revised in 1803 that gave fathers power to forbid the marriages of sons and daughters with inferiors if their offspring were under the age of twenty-five.36 However, as Doña María noted, the audiencia in Caracas wanted to forbid all mixtures: “that royal audience declared that whites cannot marry with pardos.”37 This, at least, was the dilemma as well as the solution that Doña María and Doña Francisca presented to the Cámara. Since Caracas officials forbade them to marry unequals, they begged the crown to whiten their pardo fiancés so the resulting marriages would be between peers. These female requests are provocative when compared to white male petitioners who applied on behalf of their parda wives and children. While husbands such as Don Joseph Briceño or Don Juan Martin de Aristimuño admitted that they had freely chosen women of inferior status as brides, they never supplied any hint they had suffered any disgrace that had restricted their matrimonial choices. In sharp contrast, both Doña Francisca and Doña María provided graphic tales of their personal downfalls, which had  left each so seriously disgraced that marriage with pardo males appeared as their only option. These white female requests are also unique in that the prospective pardo husbands remained in the background. In other instances where pardo husbands of white women such as Juan de la Cruz y Mena or Manuel Caballero Carranza petitioned to be whitened, they did so on their own behalf. Even though their wives were of higher status, these women neither wrote the letters requesting the royal favor nor testified for their spouses. Perhaps due to their rank as Doña, perhaps because they needed to make the case for their marriages, Doña Francisca and Doña María played much more active roles as they petitioned on behalf of their pardo fiancés.



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In her application, Doña Francisca del Cerro, a widow who wanted to marry pardo Blas Gallegos, chronicled how the two had “united their wills” with an “innocent love” and “friendship” that had become somewhat less guiltless when they “progressed to the extreme of having had a daughter.”38 Doña Francisca took the couple’s illegitimate baby and raised her with her two legitimate children. The couple decided to marry and thought—in a novel but legally accurate interpretation—that the Pragmatic Sanction on Marriages might work to their favor. Since they were both over twenty-five, they relied on the legislation to guarantee their marriage, since it promised “that those over twenty-five can marry at their will.” However, they found to “our discontent, our desperation and the unease of our spirits and conscience” that local officials still refused to marry them given their inequality. Doña Francisca begged the Cámara to dispense the “quality of pardo” of her lover so they might sanctify their union as she found herself “advanced in age, burdened with children, ashamed of her fragility.” She added that it would be “difficult to find another person to marry,” an argument commonly used to pressure to royal officials to eliminate the presence of an unmarried mother in the community.39 Doña Francisca not only emphasized her status as a shamed white woman to encourage officials to support her petition; she provided evidence of her fiancé’s closeness to whiteness. Blas was the product of ancestral mixing for at least two generations, for his pardo father, Andres, had married a Juana Rosalia Acosta who was white, but not a Doña. His grandfather was white and had been married to Rosa, a free parda. Consequently, Blas came from two generations of mixed marriages, and his mother as well as three grandparents were white.40 While the inequality between Blas and Doña Francisca might have been sufficient to arouse the ire of the Venezuelan audiencia, their mutual attraction, their shared daughter, and his many white connections made him an attractive husband for this unhappy widow. In contrast, the documents concerning another prospective pardo husband, Juan Joseph Ximénez, provided no hint that he had any white connections. The situation of his potential wife, Doña María del Carmen Correa, was particularly dire. Her 1804 letter to the Cámara chronicled the “fragility” of her “weak sex,” which she had apparently demonstrated quite convincingly through her own scandalous actions.41 She had, she admitted, given way to the “seductions and pleas” of a person who “given his state could not marry me.” This was code that she had a sexual relationship with

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a close relative, a married man, or a priest. Since she was an orphan, her relatives had become so alarmed with her behavior that they had deposited her in the “shameful prison of the orphanage” in Caracas where she had languished for almost two years. Doña María admitted that she feared she had become “one of those women who had no hope of taking state [marrying].” Doña María recounted how she had met pardo Juan Joseph Ximénez, a surgeon who was “honorable” and “virtuous” and who practiced at the orphanage. The couple eventually became engaged, only to have the Caracas audiencia intervene and cite the Pragmatic Sanction on Marriages and their unequal status as reason to prohibit their union. They did so even though Doña María had no parents to protest her marriage and Juan’s parents were “quick to provide their assent and approval.” Although Juan was legitimate, documents do not indicate he had any white connections, which petitioners customarily cited if they existed. Yet, since Juan was a surgeon, he practiced an occupation customarily reserved for whites. Doña María simply seemed desperate to leverage her fragility as a woman and the scandal of her past to convince the Cámara to whiten her fiancé. The unspoken corollary was that if marriage to Juan Joseph did not occur, she would be without support, without reputation, and without spouse. Gender importantly affected when men and women applied for whitening: white men were more likely to appeal so that wives and children would be equals in a family; white women petitioned to secure pardo husbands as a last opportunity for matrimony and material support.

r esults: ba ptism a l certific ates While the status of a parda like Petronila Peralta or pardo like Juan Joseph Ximénez might rise with a sexual or marital connection with whites, the greatest potential for mobility attached to the next generation. One of the first places where such connections became manifest were in baptismal certificates. One linkage commonly happened when white relatives became godparents to newborn pardo kin. Such likely occurred in November 1770 when a Portobelo city council officer named Don Pedro de Ayarza appeared at the baptismal font to act as godfather to the infant Joseph. The baby was “of the color pardo” and the legitimate son of pardos Pedro Antonio de Ayarza and Leonor Rendon.42 Since the new father, pardo Pedro Antonio de



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Ayarza, later declared that his father was a Spaniard named Don Pedro de Ayarza Gutiérrez de Bocanegra, it suggests that the baby’s white grandfather may have appeared to extend his protection to the newborn.43 Transformations that are even more dramatic occurred when pardo parents were able to place their children in baptismal registers as white. In theory, most parishes had sections, or partidas, of baptismal books with separate listings for whites and then other caste designations—pardos and mulattos, mestizos, Natives—depending upon the demography of the region.44 At baptism, the presiding cleric had the responsibility to note whether the infant was legitimate or illegitimate and enter the newly baptized into the proper caste section. Such theory gave way to wildly varying practice throughout the Spanish empire. In Panama, some clerics did not even separate newborns into caste categories; in Venezuela, elites bitterly complained that such listings were inaccurate.45 In every locale the physical appearance of the infant, family status, wealth, friendship, or pressure might lead clerics to locate infants in the category of whites rather than the “proper” designation. Opportunities for obfuscation abounded. If baptismal documents did not list one or both parents, then clerics might deliberately or mistakenly place the infant in the category of whites. Even when parish priests located an infant of pardo parentage in the white category, such official recognition was but a step toward any transition to whiteness. Local custom proved even more crucial than baptismal listing in determining the day-to-day caste status of any individual. Even so, the documents provided by gracias al sacar petitioners provide ample evidence that baptismal certificate mobility was a notable result of connections with whites. Such transformations from pardo to white or from plebian to Don and Doña in baptismal certificates over the generations were not rare. At the births of the Báez brothers, local clerics placed first son, Joseph Francisco, under the designation of “pardo” while his brother, Manuel, ascended to the section reserved for “Spanish,” even though the brothers shared the same parents.46 Perhaps both his profession as a surgeon and his marriage to a white bride contributed to the original placement of Don Juan de la Cruz y Mena’s sons in the baptismal section reserved for “Spanish persons.”47 As a bonus, both he and his wife also enjoyed the honorific title of Don and Doña. Even though his sons appeared as white on their baptismal documents, and he and his wife were Don and Doña, Juan’s darker hue

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combined with local knowledge to mark his sons as pardos. When his eldest attempted to register at the University of Havana, the registrar refused to take his application due to the “notorious defect of his calidad, because he is mulatto.” Evidence of successful baptismal certificate transformations marked the family history of Manuel Caballero Carranza from Puebla, Mexico. Remember that his petition had included a genealogy that traced the marriage of his great-grandfather to a parda bride and the subsequent marriages of his grandfather, his father, and himself to white women. The success of this generational strategy became evident in the baptismal certificates of Ma­ nuel’s children. Although he did not point out the anomalies listed there, these documents supplied stunning proof of the family’s whitening. In 1792, the couple’s first son, Mariano, followed the status of his pardo father, Manuel, his pardo grandfather, Joaquín, his pardo great-grandfather, Felipe, and his parda great-grandmother, María. The local cleric recorded his baptism in the section reserved for pardos as the legitimate child of “Manuel Carranza y Cortés, free pardo” and of “Doña María Guadalupe Montero, española.”48 Still, this listing began a path of upward mobility for the family, for the priest had enhanced María’s rank, awarding her the previously omitted honorific of “Doña.” It took Manuel and the newly titled Doña María two more years and one more son to improve the family position yet again. When newborn José María appeared in 1794, the officiating priest entered his baptismal information in the record reserved for “Spanish.” This was significant family mobility to the category of whites, even though the cleric paradoxically continued to list father Manuel as a “free mulatto.” Three years later, a third son, Manuel María, maintained the family promotion to the baptismal book of “Spanish.” However, this time upward mobility attached directly to father Manuel—he became both white and a don. The certificate listed the parents as “Don Manuel Caballero Carranza and Doña María Montero, Spaniards.” The 1799 baptismal record of the couple’s fourth son, Francisco Mariano Miguel, provided confirmation that all familial stain been erased, for he appeared as the “legitimate son of Don Manuel Caballero Carranza and of Doña María Guadalupe Montero, Spanish.” In just five years in the Puebla baptismal records María had added the prefix of Doña, Manuel had moved from being a free mulatto to status as a Spaniard and a don, and three of



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his four children now appeared as Spaniards. Even so, Manuel still felt the need to apply to the Cámara of the Indies for official dispensation of the family defect. If connections with white relatives might not achieve the goal of transferring the next generation to the baptismal category assigned to whites, other strategies might still prevent that priests identify babies as pardos. When widow Doña Francisca del Cerro sent her baby daughter, Belén, to be baptized, she did not provide the information that the father was her fiancé, pardo Blas Gallegos.49 Rather, the couple wisely baptized her as the illegitimate daughter of Doña Francisca and hid the name of her father. As a result, the baby followed her mother’s status and appeared in the baptismal record reserved for whites. Similar obfuscation occurred with use of the expósito, or unknown parentage designation. Even though many in Portobelo knew that Luis Joseph de Paz was publicly suckled “at the breast” of his parda mother, María del Carmen Masso, she eventually “exposed”—in effect, deposited the twentytwo-day-old baby at the house of a Doña Crisanta de Paz.50 The only name that appeared on Luis’s baptismal certificate was that of his elite godmother, and so he passed as white for many years. The absence of any connection of Luis with his pardo ancestry was also furthered given that in Portobelo—where mixing between whites and pardos was common—local clerics seem to have given up trying to classify newborns according to caste categories in baptismal registers.51 No doubt given the desire of many Panamanians to move toward whiteness, it was controversial—indeed, it might be dangerous—for a priest to identify a baby as a pardo when its parents wanted it to be white. Whether petitioners or their sons and daughters appeared in white sections of the baptismal record or whether they enjoyed ambiguous entries, all eventually considered that such notations were but a first step in confirming their status as whites. Such transformations suggest that families were not using the private and public divide to pass, attempting to hide their pardo-ness and construct public reputations that they were white. Rather, they were using both their light appearance and family connections with whites to transform the status of descendants. Generations of linkages and intermarriages meant that when some petitioners applied for a gracias al sacar they looked white and many had already informally passed as white, even though knowledge of their pardo ancestry remained public. Thus, even while observers confirmed

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“the note of mulatta” in Petronila Peralta—the granddaughter and daughter of parda liaisons with white males—they also acknowledged that she had an “appearance . . . that is proper for white people.”52 If there were some “division against her background” it had now become “confused,” another suggested, given that “other families with the same note enjoyed similar estimation.” Such acceptance extended to the couple’s sons and daughters who “persons of class” treated with “equality.”53 Petronila and her family were not the only petitioners who looked white. Witnesses agreed that “many people “considered Ignacio, the father of Joseph Francisco and Manuel Báez, to be a “white man,” which might explain why at least one of his sons appeared in the baptismal designation of “Spanish.”54 A Puebla witness noted that the sons of Mexican Manuel Caba­ llero Carranza should “be able to obtain whatever honorific employment as much by their circumstances as their appearance.”55 Both imperial and local royal officials considered that the Valenzuela brothers of Antioquia “appeared and were accepted as white.”56 Nonetheless, even after generations of mixing, petitioners sought the security of official whitening when it became available.

a lt e r n at i v e pat h s To what extent did pardo efforts to lighten subsequent generations affect the final step, the issuance of a formal whitening decree? As later chapters will explore, timing and politics weighed heavily and influenced more than the appearance or even the worthiness of the applicant. However, the fate of petitioner Bernardo Ramírez reveals pardo self-awareness that generational patterns of lightening were common casta strategies that might positively influence decisions. His case also demonstrates that when royal officials read applications, they looked for family trajectories that evidenced multiple generations of lightening. At the least, a demonstrated progression toward whiteness meant that a gracias al sacar might be less likely to disrupt the status quo, particularly if petitioners were almost, or already, passing as white in their localities. It may be that one reason Bernardo failed to receive a positive response was that he had failed to further the whitening of the next generation. As in most mixes, by the mid-eighteenth century, the defect in Bernardo Ramírez’s family came from ancestral connections of white males with parda



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females.57 Bernardo admitted that over the generations his paternal ancestors “had different encounters with mulatta females and with others born of illegitimate commerce.” He then engaged in a conscious calculation of casta mathematics by plotting the family’s ancestral sexual linkages. He arrived at the conclusion that he was now a tercerón, or one-third African mix. He acknowledged that a further connection with “white” would produce a “quarterón” and another linkage would put the family under the one-eighth mixture that would locate them “in the class of Spanish.” He was not the only applicant who intimated that some families seemed to be consciously working out versions of the casta paintings in their own bodies.58 What distinguished Bernardo Ramírez from a number of applicants was that the whitening process was not demonstrable on his baptismal certificate, nor had he furthered the lightening of the next generation. His chosen bride, Albina, was a mulatta, and so the next generation would not move from tercerones to quarterones. Bernardo himself admitted that “when mixing with blackness [one] loses the direction (rumbo) that carries to whiteness.”59 When Fiscal Antonio de Porlier read Bernardo’s application, he demonstrated his familiarity with the typical processes accompanying casta mobility. For example, he commented negatively on the absence of any whitening progress as demonstrated by the Guatemalan’s baptismal certificate and his marriage listings. Porlier noted disapprovingly that “the certificates of baptism and marriage of his progenitors and ascendants are placed in the books where they place those of ordinary parishioners.” Equally damning was that in the “certificate of marriage of the said Bernardo with Albina de Rivera . . . they gave each other the title of free mulattos.” Not only had Bernardo’s marriage to Albina not furthered the whiteness of the next generation, but he and his bride had self-identified as mulattos. Given that Bernardo had attempted to stress the closeness of his white connections, the fiscal concluded that “the testimony produced . . . is a document that prejudices [him].” Did pardos and mulattos have to demonstrate generations of linkages with whites before the Council of the Indies would approve a gracias al sacar? The intimate histories of the Mexias Bejaranos and the Landaetas reveal an alternative strategy, as members intermarried between themselves creating an elite pardo cohort. Since the petitions of these two families would enrage the Caracas cabildo, leading to years of standoffs between local elites and the Council of the Indies, exploration of their marital

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alliances provides some first insight into the advantages and pitfalls of this alternative path.60 To some extent, the linkages between the Mexias Bejaranos and the Landaetas mirrored intermarriages between the Caracas elite, which was notorious for its own endogamous relationships. The documents sent by both pardo families chronicled four generations of legitimate connections. The patriarch of the family, Basilio Landaeta, established the family in the pardo elite through his service as a captain in the militia.61 His marriage produced three daughters and a son—all would figure in the whitening petitions of his grandsons, Diego Mexias Bejarano and Juan Gabriel Landaeta, who petitioned on their own behalf as well as for the next generation. It is intriguing to speculate if one of Don Basilio’s daughters, María Raphaela Landaeta, might have precipitated the family’s quest for whitening. The Landaetas were notably religious, participating actively in the mostly pardo parish of Altagracia where they funded a daily mass, a special Sunday mass with a procession, as well as contributed generously to the costs of festivals and the adornment of the church. It appears that María Raphaela never married, which may explain why she had the resources to fund a 1500-peso capellanía, or chaplaincy, to support a priest attached to the parish.62 Perhaps the family hoped that since they had the wealth to maintain a capellanía they might, as did white elite families, appoint a relative to fill the position. It is suggestive when in 1787 Diego Mexias Bejarano began to collect documents for his eventual whitening petition, he mentioned the chaplaincy founded by his aunt. Six years later, he would petition that his son be permitted to enter the priesthood so that he might assume it. It was the marriages of María Raphaela’s two sisters and brother that continued the family pattern of elite pardo connections. Her sister Antonia married another member of the pardo militia, Captain Francisco Bejarano; her sister Juana María married a Felipe Mexias, while her brother, Miguel, who would retire as a captain with fifty-two years of militia service, married María Paula Cordero, the daughter of another prominent militia family.63 The marital alliances of the sons and daughter of these unions would further entwine the families. Two of the daughters proceeding from the marriage of Antonia with Captain Francisco Bejarano—Juana Antonia and María Gracia—would marry sons of Antonia’s sister and brother—in effect marry their first cousins. Juana Antonia would marry her first cousin Diego Mexias Bejarano, the son of Juana María and Felipe Mexias; María Gracia

Juan Gabriel Landaeta 1

Antonio José Landaeta Saturino Mexias Bejarano

Figure 1. Genealogy of the Mexias Bejarano and Landaeta families

José Vicente Mexias Bejarano

María Graciela Bejarano

Francisco Bejarano

Diego Mexias Bejarano 2

Antonia Landaeta

Juana Antonia Bejarano

Diego Lorenzo Mexias Bejarano

María Paula Cordero

Miguel Landaeta

Basilio Landaeta

Juan Gabriel Landaeta 1

Felipe Mexias Diego Mexias Bejarano 2

Juana María Landaeta

María Raphaela Landaeta

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would marry first cousin Juan Gabriel Landaeta, the son of Miguel Landaeta and María Paula Cordero. The result was that the two family petitioners for whiteness—Diego Mexias Bejarano and Juan Gabriel Landaeta—were first cousins who married first cousins and also brothers-in-law. As if these connections were not close enough, the 1788 Altagracia parish census revealed that Diego and Juan Gabriel lived in the same house as their widowed father-in-law, Captain Francisco. Their combined families included twenty-four persons as well as forty-seven slaves of various ages and thirteen other servants (agregados).64 Such patterns no doubt maintained the family status in the pardo militia as well as preserved wealth. What was the response of the fiscal and the Cámara to this pattern of intermarriage, which did not whiten, but rather tightened connections within the family and within the pardo elite? The simple answer is that officials never put the totality of these liaisons together, given that Juan Gabriel Landaeta and Diego Mexias Bejarano applied separately, the first in 1788 and the latter in 1793 and 1796.65 The only commentator on the Landaeta–Mexias Bejarano family marital patterns was Don Joseph Antonio Cornejo, who was the secretary heading the Mexico desk (Secretaria de la Nueva Espana). When he replied to Diego Mexias Bejarano’s 1793 petition to seek permission to ask Rome for a dispensation so that his son might enter the priesthood, Cornejo seemed impressed with the family’s genealogy. He approvingly commented that they could prove legitimate marriages in both lines of parents and grandparents. As subsequent events would prove, the Mexias Bejaranos and the Landaetas would face a firestorm of protest at their attempts to whiten and have a son enter the priesthood. Perhaps one factor in fueling such remonstrations was their absence of white connections. Changing the socioracial status of these two Caracas families, even if they were wealthy, would pose more of a challenge to the status quo than ending the defect of a parda daughter of a white elite father.66

conclusions The lives of Petronila, who closed the gap to look and receive acceptance as a white, or of Bernardo who failed, or of Diego and Manuel who did not even try, form the tip of a vast pyramid of generations of mixtures of Native,



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African, and whites that over the centuries composed the society of castes. Gender profoundly affected the ensuing dynamics of intimacy, promoting or impeding movement toward whiteness. While black and pardo men experienced an initial advantage in the transition from slave to free—given their ability to liberate the next generation through free wombs—once this occurred, women had more expansive opportunities. Black and parda women had multiple options: they might engage in sexual affairs, live in concubinage, or marry lighter males or whites. In contrast, black and pardo males tended to whiten solely through matrimony: either to parda women with white fathers or, if they had sufficient status, to plebeian or discredited white females. The only white women who appeared in petitions seeking matrimony with pardo males were disgraced, unable to find equal partners. The success or failure of such mobility appeared in official documents that chronicled whether petitioners had maintained their pardo or mulatto status or if they eventually transformed themselves or the next generation into Spaniards or dons. Those petitioners who had not sought lightening through intimate alliances faced additional challenges. The absence of such mobility may have prompted Fiscal Porlier to deny Bernardo Ramírez’s application. While the strategy of the Mexias Bejarano and Landaeta families to engage in generations of intermarriage within their extended family and with pardo militia counterparts seems not to have prejudiced their applications, it foreclosed connections with whites. The intensity of local protests against them suggests that this absence of familial linkages posed a particularly acute challenge to the establishment. Starting in the 1760s, a tiny cohort of pardos and mulattos would leverage Spanish traditions concerning transformation, utilize multiple connections with whites, and search for further interstices to bypass discrimination. They would attempt to practice white professions, including that of surgeon and notary. Success in those efforts would inspire others to take the next step: to request total whiteness. The next three chapters trace the lives of such precursors, and how they, imperial officials, and local elites negotiated the dynamics of inclusion and exclusion and in the process laid a bureaucratic trail that eventually led to the whitening gracias al sacar.

five

Benchmarks Commoditizing Whiteness, Cuba and Panama Since this is a gracias al sacar, there seems no difficulty in dispensing Luis Joseph del Paz of the defect of quinterón that he suffers. fiscal josé de cistué y coll, Council of the Indies, July 23, 1786 1

introduction In 1743, Matías Perez Grageda sent a second letter to the Council of the Indies. Although he had already successfully applied to Madrid and received a title to practice as an apothecary in Havana, he now felt the need to request “another” decree, as he sought relief “from the defect that he suffered in limpieza.”2 He feared he would not be able to exercise his new profession, one legally reserved to whites, given that his mother was “a fourth part mulatta.” While the response of imperial officials remains unknown, his request proved to be a precursor. It foreshadowed a cluster of petitions concerning occupational exemptions that would be directly responsible for the eventual issuance of the whitening clauses of gracias al sacar. Starting in the 1760s, pardos and mulattos would follow this Cuban apothecary’s example and request personal dispensations to practice professions legally reserved for whites. Their petitions marked a significant escalation. They contrasted to earlier efforts where pardos had asked to remove 151

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a negative aspect such as tribute that designated their inferior status, or where they had requested a specific white privilege, such as choosing their own militia officers or enjoying the military fuero. Now individuals asked to eliminate their personal stain and officially attach sufficient whiteness to practice professions forbidden to the castas.3 Benchmark cases originated in two clusters: from Cubans asking exemptions to practice as surgeons and from Panamanians seeking permission to serve as notaries. As occurred with breakthroughs in the 1620s, petitioners benefited from crises in the empire, in this case, the Seven Years War (1756–1763), as well as from occupational scarcities that opened additional paths for mobility.4 This and succeeding chapters track such whitening cases in linear and in “frozen” time. The goal is not only to follow the trajectory of each petition from first instance to final decision but also to “freeze” periods identifying interactions among imperial officials, petitioners, and local elites that affected outcome. Such a methodology reveals how a combination of bureaucratic ambiguity, precedent, and innovation would lead imperial officials down a slippery slope that would ultimately lead to the incorporation of whitening into Indies legislation.

cuban surgeons: first pr ecedents, 1750s a nd 1760s In the late 1750s and 1760s, a cluster of Cubans petitioned for exemptions for themselves or their sons to practice surgery. As John Tate Lanning and John Jay TePaske have masterfully shown in their research on colonial medicine, hierarchical categories defined who was able to practice as physicians and surgeons. “Latin physicians” composed the superior category. They had to know Latin since they had to obtain a university degree in the arts, an additional degree in medicine, serve an internship of two years, and pass an examination given by a physician officially designated to verify competence (protomedicato).5 Surgeons divided into two categories: Latin surgeons also had to graduate from the university with a bachelor of arts, complete three courses in medicine, and serve a two-year internship.6 In contrast, Romance surgeons “had never loitered in a university.” Rather they had “taken . . . instruction secondhand, and not in Latin.” 7 After they served a four- or five-



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year apprenticeship, they had to document their clean blood and legitimacy as well as pass a test before receiving approval to practice.8 Given that royal laws forbade that pardos and mulattos attend university, only if they somehow bypassed such proscriptions might they obtain the education necessary to become Latin physicians or surgeons. Legislation also prohibited that they practice as Romance surgeons, since they lacked limpieza de sangre. However, just as the castas found interstices to acquire elements of whiteness in other arenas, they found niches where they might serve. As in the case of pardo chirimia players whose musical skills created spaces for them to serve in the regular Spanish army, so expertise and need might create opportunities.9 White physicians and surgeons did not seem as eager to minister to the casta populations who were usually poorer or to set up practices in rural venues. Such a vacuum opened up possibilities for pardos and mulattos to apprentice and acquire sufficient expertise that they might become an exception to the discriminatory norm.10 Understanding both the differences between the elite Latin, compared to the lesser status Romance surgeons, as well as the general prohibition against pardos and mulattos entering either profession provides insight into the ambitions and high hopes of Habanero Antonio Flores. His 1759 petition revealed a pardo cohort that was not only developing a viable platform of public service, facilitating appeals for royal favor, but also pressing for even greater mobility for the next generation.11 Antonio Flores had followed a traditional pathway, given that he served in the pardo militia where he rose from the rank of common soldier to that of commander of the Havana Battalion. Flores was an “Atlantic creole” with experiences and visions that extended beyond his home city of Havana.12 In his fifty years of military service, he had fought against the English, helped capture two French ships, battled pirates, defended Pensacola, been a prisoner for eighteen months in France, and burned a fort off the coast of Georgia. He maintained that his pardo-ness should not be held against him, but rather that his command of the battalion had “exalted and ennobled” him. He observed “that in Havana, not only the nobility and the whites are professors of letters, but even the pardos . . . are cultured men.” He felt this added a “special timber” to the city. Even though his military service made him a serious candidate to receive royal favor, Antonio Flores would be typical of many petitioners. He did not request benefits for himself but for his sons. He wrote that even though they

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“were not embarrassed by reason of their birth” as they were legitimate, that university statutes forbade mulattos to “study and practice medicine and surgery” so they were unable “to take classes in the designated courses.” He asked that the king issue a royal decree to permit his talented son, Joseph Ignacio, “as well as his brothers” to take classes at the University of Havana. He added the rather unusual comment that if there were “literary acts or events” concerning the subjects studied, that there would be no “obstacle” for his sons to participate. Underlying this worry about “literary acts” was a nasty and public episode that had embarrassed Captain Flores and his son. He provided the essential background in his cover letter, recalling that when Joseph Ignacio was just nine and “small,” he had begun to teach his son his own occupation of carpentry. He had also paid for private grammar lessons where Joseph Ignacio proved to be “the best of all.” His teacher had noted “a special talent and genius” and told the proud father that “it would be a shame that such an excellent intellect should be dedicated to work with wood.” Given such encouragement, Flores sent his son for advanced study at the local Jesuit school, where his teacher, Padre Nicolás, praised him as “the best student [in] grammar, philosophy and theology within the patios of the colegio.” The immediate incident that occasioned Captain Flores’s petition occurred when the school decided to sponsor a public demonstration where Joseph Ignacio would answer questions posed by local professors concerning “ten theological subjects” that he had studied that year. Such intellectual performances served as customary forums for public education and entertainment and, when staged at a higher level, determined who gained professorships at the university. The Jesuits printed the handbills, distributed them, and invited “a multitude of persons.” The day before the event, two graduates from the University of Havana decided to protest. They “walked from door to door, begging signatures” from other graduates and then presented a petition asking that the rector forbid that anyone from their university participate in the Jesuit event. While their ostensible reason was that university members should not attend the occasion because it was “a private . . . event of the Colegio of the Company of Jesus,” everyone knew their objective was to foreclose any demonstration of Joseph Ignacio’s expertise. Even though the dissidents could only find eight graduates to sign their petition, the brouhaha still led to rulings by the rector of the University of Havana and the provincial of the local



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monastery. The first said he had no jurisdiction in the matter; the second, that pardos had previously participated in such occasions.13 The naysayers still had their way, as the ensuing “noise and uproar” finally convinced the rector to cancel the performance. Such a public insult left Captain Flores “embarrassed” and his son “snubbed.” The rebuff was particularly hurtful, given the family could identify “many others . . . of the same quality” who had “participated in functions in the colegio and other schools” in Havana. The plight of Captain Flores and his son illustrates a common obstacle faced by those seeking mobility: it was unpredictable. What might be possible for one individual would be impossible for the next; what might occur in one location would be unattainable elsewhere; status enhancement might happen in one time period but not in another. This was the reason that Flores’s petition contained the special provision about “literary acts.” If a future occasion arose where Joseph Ignacio might demonstrate his excellence, his father wanted to assure that the family would not suffer public humiliation.14 While Captain Flores was very blunt about the incident that had mortified his family, his petition contained several subtle messages that he recognized there were limits to attainable mobility. In that respect, what he did not ask may be as important as his ultimate requests. It might have been logical, for example, given that Joseph Ignacio had demonstrated brilliance in philosophy and theology, for the captain to petition that his son study for a career in the priesthood or in law, rather than to enter the much less prestigious, although still professional, occupation of surgeon. This ecclesiastical option was clearly on Captain Flores’s mind. His cover letter pointed out that there was no legislation that said, “those who study philosophy and theology have to be white.” Quoting Juan de Solórzano Pereira’s Politica Indiana, he arrived at a precise calculation of his family’s approximation to whiteness. As noted with many pardo applicants, Flores had close relatives: his own father as well as his wife’s father was white. The result, he concluded, was that his son “should not have any impediment to study theology.” Captain Flores’s connections, no doubt due to his militia service, had also made him keenly aware of the mobility of others in Mexico and the Caribbean. He pointed out that “the son of a Colonel of pardos in Mexico, another from Puebla . . . and another from a Captain of pardos from Cuba”

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had “been exalted to greater honors and nobility,” including the coveted “priesthood.” The implication was that his son might be equally meritorious. Even though Antonio Flores insinuated that Joseph Ignacio should be able to study theology, he did not press for permission for him to do so. It may be his son did not want to become a priest. Or, since the captain asked for blanket dispensations for all his sons to study surgery at the University of Havana, he decided not to petition for this additional favor. Ordination would remain one of the toughest obstacles for the castas to overcome. Also telling is that Captain Flores conspicuously failed to ask for another obvious favor. Even though he appealed that his sons might attend classes in “medicine and surgery,” he never explicitly requested that they graduate from the University of Havana. The linkage between presence at classes and graduation was not inevitable. As the case of Joseph Ponciano de Ayarza illustrated, it was not unknown for pardos to attend classes and acquire the necessary knowledge and skills and then have the registrar deny them permission to graduate.15 Perhaps the captain limited his aspirations to providing the best medical education for his sons, or he may simply have assumed that if they attended classes they would receive degrees. In either case, they would still face the obstacles of demonstrating their competence to the supervising physician (protomedicato) and somehow bypassing the limpieza de sangre requirements. Antonio Flores’s reticence about pressing for too much for mobility for the next generation proved justified. Since the crown attorney for Mexico took responsibility for petitions arriving from Cuba, Tomás de Maldonado, a Canary Islander who had never served in the Indies, evaluated the petition.16 As was customary, Fiscal Maldonado first reviewed the pertinent facts of the case. He described how the two university graduates had used “their influence and that of others who followed their opinion” to force the Jesuit rector to cancel the event with “grave embarrassment and offense” to the petitioner and his son. He examined documents detailing the captain’s extensive military service, proof of his marriage, as well as the baptismal certificate of Joseph Ignacio. Maldonado proved to be actively hostile to Captain Flores’s petition. He considered the file weak, given the absence of “any document that validates the achievements of the said Joseph Ignacio Flores in grammar, philosophy and theology.” His subsequent comments revealed that even proven brilliance would have been unlikely to move him to sanction pardo attendance



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at any university. Instead, he took a strictly legalistic position, quoting the Recopilación that dictated that universities should not admit “mestizos, zambos, mulattos nor quarterones.”17 Fiscal Maldonado forwarded a common rationale—the proximity argument—used by royal officials and local elites as a reason to exclude pardos from white privileges. He argued that if pardos sat in university classes that whites would fear their own status would be lowered given their physical nearness to those of inferior position. The result would be white flight. Maldonado feared that elites would “abandon and desert” the university so they “would not have to rub shoulders with people of such low quality, in grave prejudice of the public cause.” Such reasoning underscored that a fundamental component of status in the Indies, as the historian R. Douglas Cope has noted, not only derived from color or inheritance but also from social associations.18 Even though Fiscal Maldonado did not have to take a side in the imbroglio, he chose to do so, supporting the protestors from the University of Havana. He added the rather gratuitous comment that he failed to see any “rebuff” in what had happened to Captain Flores and his son, as there had been “just motive” for the doctors “not to attend and to oppose” the youth’s participation in such an event. His disdain was such that he never even bothered to reject the captain’s request that his sons study at the university. He had no interest in making any exceptions. In February 1760, the Council of the Indies agreed with his recommendation. In the early 1760s, a half century of military service might not tip the balance so a son might attend the University of Havana and eventually become a surgeon. As an earlier chapter has suggested, and as events would later prove, Captain Flores had tried to surmount one of the highest discriminatory hurdles to pardo mobility. Even though it was not impossible for pardos to attend universities, as demonstrated in the more benign climate of the early 1700s in Lima, it was also common for faculties and local elites vigorously to protest their presence, particularly later in the century. There was also a small step forward for pardos: even though the crown attorney had ultimately rejected the petition, he had not ignored it: he had analyzed the documents, written a consulta, and forwarded it to his superiors for review. Nor did the denial of Captain Flores’s case mean that imperial officials were totally opposed to attaching whiteness so that deserving petitioners might become surgeons. Only six months after Fiscal Maldonado scornfully

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rejected the captain’s petition, he recommended that the Cámara permit a pardo from Cuba to practice as a surgeon. Understanding what variables contributed to this positive decision provides insight into those factors that might move royal officials to condone whitening. It was a crisis of empire—the internecine warfare raging throughout the Caribbean due to the Seven Years War (1756–1763)—that provided pardo Joseph Francisco Báez with the opportunity to become a surgeon in spite of royal prohibitions. In his petition, he noted that the “war with England” had prompted the protomedicato to grant him a temporary license.19 Unlike Flores, who pressed that his son attend university to acquire the requisite skills, Joseph Francisco did not need to beg for admission to the University of Havana. Rather, he had followed the alternative route and became a Romance surgeon. At the time of his petition, in November 1759, he had apprenticed with a certified Cuban surgeon for five years, assisted at the hospital of San Juan de Dios for three years, and had practiced for thirteen years. He asked for a “royal decree” dispensing the point of “limpieza” so the protomedicato would lack “any pretense” to forbid his medical practice. In effect, he asked for confirmation of a fait accompli rather than leave to begin a course of study. What other variables, besides his accredited expertise, did Joseph Francisco Báez think would influence a favorable decision? Just as Captain Flores, he reminded officials of his white relatives, including his grandfather and father-in-law. Joseph Francisco also made clear that he was not socially aggressive—he knew his place. Just as Captain Flores likely curbed his ambitions for his sons, so Joseph Francisco emphasized that he “handled himself generally in a humble and obsequious manner” and tried to “please everyone as far as possible.” While his request seemed limited to the attachment of sufficient whiteness to practice as a surgeon, the response of the Cámara was ambiguous and ultimately provocative. The same fiscal, Tomás de Maldonado, who six months before had gone out of his way to refuse Captain Flores, recommended that the Cámara dispense the surgeon from “the defect that he suffers in his birth.” Attention to the language of the resulting decree revealed a stunning opening for pardos and mulattos: there was a provocative disparity between what Joseph Francisco asked and what the Cámara delivered. Although the Cuban had simply requested permission to practice surgery, the wording of the decree left substantial ambiguity as to the ultimate effect. It unmistak-



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ably provided the desired occupational clearance, as it permitted Joseph Francisco to use his “competence in surgery” and to enjoy “all the exemptions, privileges and prerogatives that correspond to that medical practice in the same manner as the rest of the island without any difference.” It was less certain if the erasure of Joseph Francisco’s pardo-ness spilled over into other arenas where he might enjoy additional benefits of whiteness. This was because after the clause providing the specific occupational exemption, the decree had gone on to erase “the defect that you suffer from birth and leave you able and capable as if you did not have it, repealing this time in your favor whatever laws, ordinances or constitutions speak otherwise.” It remained unknown if the Cámara had whitened Joseph Francisco only to practice surgery, or if it had made him generally exempt from discriminatory regulations directed at pardos. If the latter, could he enjoy the privileges of whites? It is intriguing to speculate if the newness of such dispensations contributed to the ambiguity as to whether this was a limited occupational or a more comprehensive exemption. It may be that Fiscal Maldonado’s lack of expertise with American matters made him less sensitive to the implications of even suggesting an avenue toward ending discrimination against pardos and mulattos, even if only for individuals. Whatever the reason, this hazy ruling began a process whereby Cámara officials began to facilitate an official path toward whitening. Subsequent petitions reveal that it also raised the expectations of other pardos that full whitening might be possible. The favorable outcome of surgeon Báez’s petition revealed another trend that would emerge in gracias al sacar applications, as some formed discernable “clusters,” where the success of one applicant directly linked with another. It seems no accident that the next petitioner, surgeon Miguel Joseph Avilés, practiced in the same hospital as Joseph Francisco Báez in Havana. The former used the Cámara’s ruling concerning his colleague to support his own application in 1763.20 The ensuing years had been perilous times for Habaneros. The British had landed in Cuba in June 1762, taken Havana in August, and only returned the city to Spanish control in July 1763.21 One month after the British invasion, the Cuban protomedicato had given permission for Avilés to practice. As the surgeon later explained, his “aptitude and ability to cure” had meant that “during the war” he could perform surgeries “in spite of being a pardo.” However, now that the crisis had passed, he found that the

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licensing physician would not issue him a permit “only because he is a free pardo, even though his [medical] procedures are excellent.” Unlike his surgeon colleague, Miguel Joseph Avilés pushed for more than just an occupational exemption. Perhaps he was aware of the ambiguities and the potential for mobility contained in the decree granted to Joseph Francisco Báez. When he wrote his Madrid lawyer concerning the details of his petition, Miguel Joseph suggested that he “ask his majesty to extend . . . this gracias to the sons of the recipient in case they grow up with the same ability.” This was a key escalation: a pardo was not only following the traditional strategy of attempting to attach an element of whiteness to himself to practice a forbidden profession, he was now trying to stretch that benefit to the next generation. It is unclear if Miguel Joseph’s lawyer included the request for generational whitening in the petition he forwarded to the Cámara. When Fiscal Luis Francisco Mosquera y Pimentel reviewed the application, he may have ignored it; he certainly did not comment on it. Unlike his predecessor, who had ruled on the cases of Antonio Flores and Joseph Francisco Báez, and who had subsequently received a promotion to the Council of Castile, Mosquera y Pimentel had experience in the Americas. He had served six years as a crown attorney (fiscal de crimen) on the criminal high court of Mexico City.22 This Indies experience seems to have influenced Fiscal Mosquera y Pimentel’s approach to whitening, for he made finer distinctions than his predecessor. He explained that such occupational exemptions were not necessarily permanent, nor were they comprehensive. Even though the Cuban protomedicato had relieved Miguel Joseph Avilés of his pardo-ness to practice surgery during the war, “it does not prove that he absolutely dispensed that defect.” Rather, such a favor had been only temporary and “dictated by necessity.” This crown attorney apparently conceptualized the attachment of whiteness as a fluctuating attribute that might be granted but that might also be withdrawn. Since surgeon Avilés had referred to the case of his Cuban colleague Joseph Francisco Báez in his petition, Mosquera y Pimentel looked in the archive for the precedent. He found the “minutes of the decree” that detailed the particulars of the Báez decision and concluded that there was “an almost total sameness in the competence as in the service of these subjects.” He recommended that the Cámara permit Avilés to take the examination



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to be qualified and if he had the “necessary proficiency” to permit him to practice as a surgeon. Fiscal Mosquera y Pimentel not only supported Miguel Joseph Avilés’s petition, he went a step further on his behalf. After the Cámara had agreed to grant the dispensation, he cautioned the Cuban protomedicato that the only valid reason to turn the pardo surgeon down would be if he lacked the skill to practice. If there were “another cause” to deny Avilés, the crown attorney demanded “a report with supporting documents” to justify why the protomedicato had not given the required permission. Even though Fiscal Mosquera y Pimentel seemed willing to pressure the licensing physician in Cuba to issue the necessary authorization, in the end he provided a much more limited dispensation. His declaration, in contrast to the decree for Joseph Francisco Báez, contained no ambiguous clauses that hinted that whitening might bring more than just a professional exemption. His sole recommendation was that the Cámara should permit Avilés, once the protomedicato vetted him as competent, to practice as a surgeon. Internal documents tracing this Cámara decision reveal another small victory for pardos: Mosquera y Pimentel took into account the precedent established by his predecessor as a reason to permit surgeon Avilés to practice. The development of such bureaucratic protocol was fundamental to the institutionalization of an official whitening process. Whenever the Camaristas were unsure how to proceed, they typically combed the archives for precedents. Such successive validations of previous decisions would eventually establish its own momentum, making it progressively easier for officials to approve whitening applications. A final, even more revealing case emanating from the cluster of petitions concerning surgery began in June 1761 when Bayamo resident Juan de la Cruz y Mena sent a letter to the governor of Santiago, Cuba.23 Understanding how he described his plight provides unique insight into his own thoughts. The personal wording of the letter strongly suggests that he, rather than any legal representative, was the author. It appears that even though Juan de la Cruz y Mena was a pardo, he may have succeeded in becoming either a Latin physician or surgeon. At least, he recalled that he had “usefully practiced surgery and studied medicine and had registered in the Royal and Pontifical University of San Gerónimo of Havana.” The protomedicato had approved his practice in Bayamo, the

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governor had later appointed him to the local hospital of San Roque, and he served the religious of the Convent of the Pure and Holy Conception. He had married Doña Rosa de Tamayo Durán Guerra who was white and who could trace her ancestry back to one of the earliest founders of Bayamo. Given that Juan de la Cruz y Mena had spent years studying medicine in Havana around the same time as pardo surgeons Joseph Francisco Báez and Miguel Joseph Avilés, it seems extremely likely that he not only knew them but was aware of their applications. Since Juan already had a title to practice as a surgeon, he was not concerned for himself. Rather, as his colleague Miguel Joseph Avilés had intimated in his application, he fretted concerning the mobility of the next generation. Juan’s two eldest sons, Juan Antonio and Fernando Joseph, had spent four years learning “the practice of surgery” in the hospital in Havana as well as “studying the arts” and were now ready “to take the degree of bachelor.” This, their father added, was a “necessary route given the royal statutes to study classes in medicine.” Such details suggest that the Cuban’s sons were trying to become the higher-status Latin surgeons who first needed a degree in arts before they studied surgery. It was at this point that university professors “stopped this path.” Juan suggested that this was particularly unfair, given that there were others in their classes with even “inferior” caste status. His frustration in facing such unevenness in discrimination paralleled that of militia captain Flores, who had also complained of such unpredictable variations. Apparently, while one pardo might exhibit his intellectual talents in public or another attend university, there were others, including the sons of Captain Flores and surgeon Cruz y Mena, who might not. For this reason, Juan concluded with the plea that the very “necessity of the Indies” required officials to enforce the law “with moderation.” What was this “necessity” that required “moderation?” Juan based his argument on the larger history of the Americas, as well as his own family history, particularly the difficulty in tracing his own ancestry. He suggested that “the gathering of various peoples from remote locations and even from various regions makes American inhabitants of inscrutable birth and little and doubtful limpieza.” These uncertainties, he suggested, had created a unique problem because “one finds almost everyone without that purity and limpieza” that universities as well as “honorable employments” demanded. Such ambiguous origins also led to unfair discrimination, as “riches” or “allies” or “lack of funds” variably determined who passed to be included



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and who did not. In a telling phrase, Juan asked the monarch to erase these “essential American defects” so that his sons would be able “to be admitted to liberal arts and science classes.” The governor of Cuba forwarded the material to Spain with a positive recommendation concerning the request of this “Professor of Medicine and Surgery.” When Fiscal Mosquera y Pimentel reviewed the documents for the Cámara, his summary did not accurately reproduce the particulars of the petition. Juan de la Cruz y Mena had asked that his sons receive a liberal arts degree and be permitted to take the necessary medical classes at the university. Instead, the crown attorney concluded mistakenly that the “rector and cloister of the University of Havana had denied the degree of Bachelor of Surgery to the two sons.” This was so “even though they had studied and interned the established time in that city.” He suggested that the Council of the Indies order that university officials justify their reasons “for denying the said degree.” This disparity between what Juan de la Cruz y Mena asked and what Fiscal Mosquera y Pimentel summarized provided an opening for University of Havana officials to attack. The rector wrote back the next year that the petition had “the vices of obreption and subreption.” These were legal ecclesiastical terms meaning that the Cuban surgeon’s petition not only contained material that was false but also left out information essential to understanding the case. It was untrue, the rector proclaimed, that the university “had denied the degree of surgery, for it had not happened.” What was missing, the rector argued, was that Cruz y Mena’s petition had “silenced” that this father and his sons were mulattos. University officials took depositions to justify how they had proceeded. The secretary remembered that “a lad named Mena, from the villa of Ba­ yamo on this island came to register.” Since university regulations demanded he provide “information on his calidad and limpieza,” the secretary had preemptively intervened. The official revealed that since he was “absolutely certain that the said Mena is mulatto, I advised him not to set out to produce the information. Given that his inferior calidad was evident (notorio), it was not possible to admit him.” The secretary remembered that the youth never returned: “He did not register and consequently he was not able to be admitted into classes.” When the response of the university officials arrived at the Council of the Indies, Fiscal Mosquera y Pimentel noted that the faculty had not officially

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denied admission to Cruz y Mena’s son. Rather, the secretary had dissuaded him. He agreed that there were “just and legal motives” to prohibit his entrance, and he recommended that the Cámara reject the Cuban surgeon’s petition for a waiver for his sons to attend the university. The university’s treatment of Juan de la Cruz y Mena and his sons underscores the eclectic way that local elites discriminated against pardos who attempted to pass. Region and timing mattered: what might be possible in Lima or even in Havana at the beginning of the eighteenth century might not be possible decades later. It is informative that this Bayamo physician and father had not only been able to attend classes, but the strong presumption is that he had graduated from the University of Havana. At least he submitted a letter from a Dr. Don Joseph Arango, a faculty member in medicine of the University of San Gerónimo in Havana, which certified that in 1731 a Juan de la Cruz y Mena “had attended daily and punctually at the evening medical lessons.” It would seem logical, given that Don Juan’s wife, Doña Rosa, was white, that their sons would be even lighter, and presumably even more able to attend university. At least the family seems to have passed sufficiently that the sons’ baptismal records listed them in the book of “Spaniards.” So why did university officials refuse them admission? One possible answer underscores Juan de la Cruz y Mena’s complaints about the variability of discrimination. What seems clear is that Juan did not look white. A certificate issued by the protomedicato described him as having a “good body” although he was “darkish (moreno) somewhat pockmarked with scars, with a frizzy black beard and two other scars on his shoulders.” Apparently, even though his wife was white, the couple’s sons were still sufficiently noticeable that the secretary could look at them and be “absolutely certain” that they did not meet admission requirements. The result was that this father and his sons passed as white in Bayamo but not in Havana or Madrid.24 Beyond Cuba, pardos did receive degrees from American universities, although such honors did not eliminate discrimination against them. Such was the experience of Don Christobal Polo, who had graduated from the University of Santa Fe in Bogotá with a law degree.25 When he tried to set up a legal practice in Cartagena, local elites protested. Royal officials validated his informal passing after the fact, accepting his university degree and permitting him to practice. In his case, the signal services ren-



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dered by his military father during the defense of Cartagena proved an important factor. Even while the Council of the Indies agreed to this exception, they still refused to open university doors to others. They issued a 1765 decree insisting that Polo’s privilege was unique, and that no other mulattos should be permitted to matriculate in Bogotá. After 1795, whitening for university entrance would remain one of the most sought-after and one of the most controversial benefits of the gracias al sacar. Why did Council of the Indies ministers deny the petitions of some Cuban pardos and rule favorably on others? Underlying their decisions were some typical patterns of bureaucratic decision making: royal officials preferred to approve the fait accompli. Those who received favorable rulings— Joseph Francisco Báez and Miguel Joseph Avilés—were already surgeons and Christobal Polo had already graduated from the university with a law degree. Officials remained reluctant to expand the potential mobility of a next generation as Captain Flores, surgeon Juan de la Cruz y Mena, and their sons discovered. At this point, Council of the Indies ministers adamantly refused to interfere with elite control of local universities or to override legislation prohibiting pardo entrance to institutions of higher education. Nor was there much innovation in bureaucratic processes, given that officials did not initiate a regularized procedure for relieving stain and conferring whiteness. They did not charge successful applicants. Rather, they dispensed defect as a royal favor and on an ad hoc basis. To what extent might the presence or absence of overseas experience influence fiscal decisions, moving the Council of the Indies closer to sanctioning a whitening gracias al sacar? Maldonado, with no time served in the Americas, delivered both conservative and radical opinions on whitening. He followed precedent citing the Laws of the Indies as sufficient reason why the pardo son of Antonio Flores could not enter the university. In the case of Joseph Francisco Báez, Maldonado not only supported his practice as a surgeon, he went significantly beyond any occupational exemption. He erased his defect and left him “able and capable as if you did not have it.” The result was a breakthrough: it created the radical possibility that there might be grants of total whiteness. In contrast, Fiscal Luis Francisco Mosquera y Pimentel, with time served in Mexico, seemed more conservative when evaluating whitening petitions.

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Although he approved the application of pardo surgeon Miguel Joseph Avilés to practice, he strictly limited the benefits to an occupational dispensation. He rejected the hopes of Juan de la Cruz y Mena that his sons might enter the university to train as surgeons. Embedded in this cluster of cases was also progress for pardos. There was the benchmark that two Cubans had attached sufficient whiteness to practice surgery and possibly—given the vague wording on the cédula for Joseph Francisco Báez—may have even ended their caste status for more than strictly occupational purposes. Pardos had also attempted—even if they failed—to extend the privileges of whiteness to succeeding generations. In this, as in other instances, it was not uncommon that rejection by the imperial bureaucracy of first attempts might translate into later successes. The next step, revealed through the Cámara’s response to petitions from Panamanian pardos, would move even closer to establish whitening as a purchasable option.

pa n a m a n i a n no ta r i e s: f u rt h e r pr ecedents, 1760s and 1770s Starting in the 1760s, a second cluster of petitions began to arrive in Madrid from Panamanian pardos seeking occupational exemptions to become notaries. These requests shared underlying similarities with those of the Cuban surgeons: royal legislation also prohibited pardos and mulattos from serving in these professions; imperial crises created a demand for practi­ tioners and thus opened paths for mobility. Just as with the Cubans, some of whom served in the same hospital and almost certainly knew each other, the Panamanians were cluster applicants: they had trained each other, worked together, and some were relatives.26 As with surgeons, it was also possible for pardos to learn the necessary skills—in this case to write a neat hand and master the requisite documentary forms—through apprenticeship. Just as the protomedicato had to approve the expertise of pardo surgeons, so potential notaries had to pass a test administered by the audiencia. They then had to petition the Cámara of the Indies to purchase the title of escribano or notary, which was one of the many other favors sold through gracias al sacar.



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In the legalistic culture of the Hispanic world, notaries played a key role.27 They were masters of the proper forms for preparing official documents such as testaments and royal decrees. As a result, they were knowledgeable concerning intimate family secrets and confidential state business. Starting with the Statute of Toledo in 1449, a series of Spanish laws demanded that notaries prove their limpieza de sangre and legitimacy and be persons of trust.28 Since the peninsular legislation concerning notary qualifications did not mention pardos and mulattos, the Laws of the Indies added specific discriminations against them. Decrees ordered that viceroys and judges on audiencias, who vetted applications for public notaries and scribes, be sure to “put a special question” to ascertain that aspirants were not mulattos.29 It added that if pardos and mulattos had engaged in “fraud” and received approval to practice that officials should “take [the commission] back.” However, just as warfare in the Caribbean had created a demand for surgeons, even if pardos, yet another crisis of empire opened a path for their notarial counterparts in Caribbean fringes. A dearth of white professionals in selected locales provided the opportunity for pardos and mulattos to take advantage of scarcity and practice a prohibited occupation.30 Royal officials conceded the difficulty of finding qualified—that is skilled, white, and legitimate—personnel to keep the government paper moving in isolated locations. Particularly hard hit were the notarial offices in Panama, where pardos made early and historic breakthroughs significantly before the eighteenth century. As with the militias, the decade of the 1620s seems to have been a first turning point. Panamanian historian Alfredo Castillero Calvo has noted how one notarial candidate obscured his defect by arranging for someone else to take his qualifying examination while another hid that he had a black grandmother.31 The fiscal of the audiencia in 1620 had protested such mobility, complaining to the Council of the Indies that it had unknowingly given titles to “some persons of little satisfaction as they are mulattos and mestizos.”32 Even as a few slipped through the cracks to practice, the Council of the Indies attempted to close the opportunity with a 1623 decree that barred pardos assuming the title of notary. Nevertheless, scarcity still trumped discrimination, given that the cabildo in Panama City complained concerning the lack of notaries.33 Such shortage seems to have facilitated the petition of

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Panamanian pardo Manuel Botacio Grillo who applied to the Council of the Indies in 1646. Also supporting his petition was evidence of precedents elsewhere—at least he forwarded that there were now “many mulattos in Peru and other places” that served as notaries. Manuel Botacio Grillo’s eventual approval to practice seems to have opened the door for other pardos—Juan Martínez de Leguízamo, Alonso de Alarcón, Silvestre Botacio Grillo—to begin serving on the isthmus. When these applied for the necessary titles, they paid only the usual fee charged to become a notary; they offered no additional fee given their pardo-ness.34 By the 1760s, Panamanian pardos were following a long-established tradition when they petitioned the Council of the Indies to make an exception in their favor.35 Unlike the mid-eighteenth-century Cuban cases where pardo surgeons pressed to acquire attributes of whiteness beyond a limited occupational exemption—such as passing privileges to the next generation or attempting to enter the university—Panama petitioners only asked for the title of notary or escribano. What proved striking was that imperial officials became the innovators. Their judgments would move the Cámara nearer to an institutionalization of the whitening option. The 1767 application of Juan Evaristo de Jesús Borbúa of Portobelo, Panama, led to the establishment of one such bureaucratic benchmark, for this is the earliest case—at least as found in the Council of the Indies archive— where crown officials explicitly began to link the grant of whiteness with purchase.36 A letter of recommendation sent in his favor by Don Gerardo Joseph de la Sobreria, an official of the Royal Exchequer, revealed that Juan Evaristo had acquired the necessary notarial skills given that he had apprenticed under three notaries—Manuel Joseph López, Bartolomé de Salazar, and Captain Pedro Joseph Masso. Later applications from Panama revealed that the latter two were pardos, suggesting the existence of a network where pardos trained pardos in the profession.37 As with the cases of the Cuban surgeons, Panamanian pardos stood the best chance to receive a favorable verdict if Cámara officials were confirming someone who already possessed the necessary skills. Royal Accountant Sobreria verified that this Panamanian pardo not only regularly helped Notary Salazar dispatch documents, but when that official was “absent,” the “business of the government, city council and royal hacienda” experienced not even a “minor delay.”38 He praised Juan Evaristo’s “intelligence” and



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his “application.” Sobreria added that the church curia in Panama City had given Juan Evaristo the title of notary public so he might prepare ecclesiastical documents—this was a position that did not need the approval of the Cámara of the Indies. Since petitions from Panama arrived at the desk of the fiscal for Peru, the case reached the desk of Pedro Gonzáles de Mena y Villegas, who had never served in the Indies and who had only held the post for two months.39 He first took a strictly legalistic stance quoting the Laws of the Indies and observing that it was “beyond controversy” that pardos and mulattos should not be notaries.40 Yet, he conceded that even though this “very just law” had its “punctual observance in most of the provinces of America” that there were locales—Cartagena, Panama, and Portobelo— where the crown permitted quarterones or quinterones” to purchase the title of escribano. Fiscal Pedro Gonzáles de Mena y Villegas then consulted the Cámara’s archive for precedents. Although he commented that there were “many examples of such dispensations,” he only referred to a 1758 decree granted to Bartolomé de Salazar from Portobelo, who was one of the notaries who had trained Juan Evaristo de Jesús Borbúa. He wrote approvingly of Juan Evaristo’s “fitness” and concluded that his petition “did not substantially differ in any way” from that of his mentor. As in the successful decisions concerning Cuban surgeons, the Panamanian’s application satisfied the inclinations of Cámara officials to look for precedents to validate a later decision. It also affirmed a fait accompli, for by the time Borbúa applied, he had apprenticed for fifteen years as a scribe in the royal offices and worked for the cabildo and the church court. While Fiscal Gonzáles de Mena y Villegas’s evaluation of Borbúa’s petition, his citation of existing law, and his search for precedents followed regular procedures, his subsequent comments took the Cámara another step closer to the bureaucratization of a whitening process. Like Maldonado who had also not served in the Indies and whose grant to Joseph Francisco Báez suggested more than an occupational whitening, Gonzáles de Mena y Villegas also proved to be an innovator. He introduced the conceptual precedent that quinterón-ness was a flaw that could be remedied by purchase. Writing in the third person, he concluded, “it seems to the fiscal that dispensing him from the defect of quinterón that he suffers, it would be possible to grant him the title of royal notary of the Indies.”

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Fiscal Gonzáles de Mena y Villegas then went on to suggest that the Council of Indies should determine the “sum” to charge for “both gracias” (italics mine). This was another slide down the slippery slope. The crown attorney had now separated the concept of ending quinterón-ness from granting the title of notary. He proposed that Borbúa not only pay to acquire the title of notary but that he also buy a gracias to eliminate his status as quinterón. There was no novelty in the purchase of notarial status, as there was a customary fee charged for such a title. In 1795, the gracias al sacar would specify 2200 reales—that same amount—to obtain the office of notary.41 This case stands as a benchmark since it marks the first time that a royal official provided a price for the elimination of quinterón-ness. It is provocative—indeed, it is striking—that this was exactly the same caste status (quinterón) and same sum (800 reales) that twenty-eight years later would appear as one of the two whitening clauses in the 1795 gracias al sacar. Official scribbling at the end of Juan Evaristo de Jesús Borbúa’s packet of documents confirms that the Cámara decided to separate the favor of acquiring the title of notary from that of ending quinterón-ness. Juan Evaristo paid twice: “2200 reales” for the title of notary and “40 pesos fuertes” (800 reales) for ending the defect of quinterón.42 When the Council of the Indies sent him a royal decree it specifically confirmed, “we dispense you, as you have asked, from the defect of quinterón.” The fiscal’s recommendation and the Cámara’s actions stand in sharp contrast to their treatment of the successful Cuban surgeons. In those instances, officials had waived pardo-ness to practice a profession, but they had levied no fees. The Cámara’s decision to collect a fee was a fundamental step in the institutionalization of the whitening process. The Borbúa case began to approximate the usual bureaucratic path of other gracias al sacar petitions such as legitimations, where there was an application and a decision, which, if favorable, resulted in the payment of a stipulated amount. The demand for money began a critical shift. It moved dispensation of the defect of pardo-ness from being a gracias awarded occasionally without expense, as in the case of the Cuban surgeons, to a regularized favor that might be purchased—at least, at this point—for notaries. Left ambiguous was if such redress was only available to castas who applied to become notaries or if anyone might provide the stipulated sum.



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t h e smok i ng gu n c a se: pa n a m a, 17 86 The Cámara’s decision to charge Juan Evaristo de Jesús Borbúa to eliminate his quinterón-ness so he might practice as a notary set a precedent, encouraging other applications from the isthmus. It seems inconceivable, even if it is difficult to confirm, that subsequent pardo applicants did not personally know each other, given they practiced around the same time in either Portobelo or Panama City. In 1778, the Cámara collected 1000 reales from Panamanian quarterón Ciriaco Hipólito Correoso; in 1785, they exacted a similar amount from Portobelo pardo Francisco Homboni.43 It was not until the next year that royal officials crossed the whitening Rubicon. The case of Don Luis Joseph de Paz was likely the documentary smoking gun that eventually produced the whitening clauses of the American gracias al sacar. There was no hint of any of these consequences in July 1783, when a Don Luis Joseph de Paz applied for a title of notary in Portobelo. Just his use of the honorific title of Don carried with it the presumption that he was white. Although the fiscal for Peru, José de Cistué y Coll, approved his application, on the side of the document where officials typically made comments, he ordered that there should be “an examination . . . of this subject . . . to verify . . . the quality (calidad) of his birth, to see if there is some stain that prohibits the exercise of notary.” He took this initiative because the baptismal certificate identified Don Luis as an expósito, born of unknown parents, a status commonly obscuring defects such as illegitimacy and pardo-ness. Since Fiscal Cistué y Coll had extensive experience in the Americas, he would have been well aware that an expósito baptismal listing might not only obscure illegitimacy but also mixture.44 He had served as crown attorney on the Quito audiencia and as high court judge in Guatemala and in Mexico City. He had already anchored the Peru desk for five years when he ordered the investigation of Don Luis’s application. He would, for the next nineteen years, prepare the consultas from Panama south and sometimes, when there was no crown attorney for Mexico, he would handle all the business from the Americas.45 José de Cistué y Coll’s long tenure as fiscal meant that he played a key role in shaping whitening policy, including this benchmark case. Since the status of Don Luis Joseph de Paz’s birth was ambiguous, he sent an order to the lieutenant governor of Panama, Don Joaquín Cabrejo, to investigate.

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It is somewhat ironic that Don Joaquín headed this inquiry, for he had his own personal reasons to be sensitive to such issues. He also had gracias al sacar on his mind. Although he had passed to hold royal office, Don Joaquín was illegitimate. His frustration with his lack of promotion would motivate him within a few months to send to Madrid, and to Cistué y Coll, his own, eventually successful, application for legitimation.46 In the case of Don Luis Joseph de Paz, Lieutenant Governor Cabrejo easily found witnesses to testify that the prospective notary was passing as white and legitimate, although he was a quinterón and illegitimate. He was the baby who had been “publicly suckled at the breast of María del Carmen Masso, his mother, a quarterona.”47 Maria had an affair with a white male, and, since she was almost white herself, she had effectively negotiated whiteness for this son by “exposing” him at the door of a Doña Crisanta de Paz. Don Luis had also benefited because Portobelo priests—unlike those in other locales—did not place the baptismal certificates of infants within specific caste categories such as white, mulatto, or Native. His baptismal certificate did not identify any birth status but simply noted that when he was twenty-two days old he had been “exposed” in the house of Doña Crisanta de Paz, his godmother. Don Luis assumed her family name and later commented that since he had been raised and educated by those who “he held as parents,” since they were white, he assumed that he was white. When he grew older, Don Luis went to apprentice with a Don Pedro Joseph Masso, who, although a “pardo,” had received a “dispensation” to serve as notary of the cabildo of Portobelo. Perhaps this was why he had also attached the honorific title of Don, the signifier of white status. Don Pedro has appeared earlier, for he figured among the coterie of pardos who trained other pardos to be notaries: he had served as a mentor for quinterón Juan Evaristo de Jesús Borbúa, the first to pay the special fee to eliminate his defect. Later investigation revealed that this Don Pedro was also the brother of the María who had breastfed the baby Luis, and therefore his uncle. This mother and uncle still seemed to be looking out for their now adult son and nephew, even when he passed as an adopted member of the Paz family, as white and as a don. When Cámara officials encountered any evidence of fraud in documents arriving from the Americas, their usual response was to deny the petition.48 The measure of their desperation to find notaries may have promoted them to accept Don Luis’s explanation that he had not known of his origins, and



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that since the crown had dispensed others of such stain that he deserved exemption. Although white notaries also had to demonstrate their legitimacy, apparently the demand in Panama led officials to ignore this additional issue. It was when the report on Don Luis’s origins arrived back at the Cámara for further review, in 1786, that Fiscal Cistué y Coll provided a benchmark decision. He observed that Panama needed notaries, and that the Cámara had given similar dispensations. He concluded: “Since this is a gracias al sacar, there seems no difficulty in dispensing Luis Joseph del Paz of the defect of quinterón that he suffers” (italics mine).49 Cistué y Coll’s comments nine years before the crown would issue the 1795 American gracias al sacar proved critical. When, in the early 1790s, officials in General Accounting would look for precedents to draw up a list of purchasable favors, they would not only include examples from the 1773 Spanish gracias al sacar, they would look through the documents in the Council of the Indies archive to find instances of Indies “practice.” It would now be possible for them to find Cistué y Coll’s explicit linkage that purchase to end the defect of quinterón belonged to the favors of the gracias al sacar. Why would Fiscal Cistué y Coll make this connection between dispensation of defect and gracias al sacar? While he provided no rationale, there was a precedent concerning notaries that might have influenced his decision. Since legislation demanded that notaries establish their limpieza de sangre, it meant that those who were illegitimate and unable to prove their parentage could not practice. However, the 1773 gracias al sacar written for Spain included a separate provision that allowed those “of unknown parentage” to pay an extra fee to bypass that proscription.50 Royal officials were therefore familiar with providing job-related dispensations through gracias al sacar to potential notaries suffering the stain of illegitimate birth. It would be but a parallel and logical process to use gracias al sacar to grant similar exemptions to those with the “defect” of quinterón.51 Whatever the reason for Cistué y Coll’s association of gracias al sacar with whitening, he then proceeded to search the archive for precedents to charge Luis Joseph de Paz for the dispensation. Internal scribbling on documents suggests that he consulted with three members of the Council of the Indies concerning both his decision and any subsequent price. This is telling, given that all of these ministers had served decades in the Americas: Manuel Ignacio Fernández Sarmiento y Ballón in Argentina, José Antonio Areche Sornoza in Mexico and Peru, and Manuel Romero Alsesón in New

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Granada.52 Although they would have been well aware of the potential societal impact if pardos and mulattos might receive any kind of official approval from Madrid to purchase whiteness, they agreed with Fiscal Cistué y Coll’s decision. It was only on the issue of price that the ministers overruled Cistué y Coll. They reduced the amount charged for the elimination of the defect to 40 pesos, the same amount previously paid by Juan Evaristo de Jesús Borbúa. However, this time they asked for even less, as they designated the payment to be in pesos sencillos (simple), where each peso was worth 15 reales. Multiplying 15 reales per peso by 40 meant that Paz owed 600 reales. Although officials had charged Borbúa 40 pesos as well, he had paid in pesos fuertes (strong), or 20 reales a peso, so his cost was 800 reales. This was the sum that eventually entered the gracias al sacar price schedule as the fee to eliminate the status of quinterón. Understanding the differential between pesos sencillos and pesos fuertes provides some tantalizing clues that this was not only the case that financial officials had consulted but also the one that convinced them to include whitening in the gracias al sacar. A first hint comes from a comment by Fiscal Cistué y Coll that he had searched in the Council of the Indies archive for precedents to decide what price to charge Paz and had found three previous cases. These were the decrees of September 3, 1767, December 13, 1778 and September 1, 1785. The first [eliminated the defect] of quinterón of Juan Evaristo de Borbúa, vecino of Portobelo for the service of forty pesos fuertes, the second of quarterón Ciriaco Hipólito Correoso, vecino of Panama for fifty pesos fuertes and the third of the color pardo of Francisco Homboni, vecino of Portobelo for twenty-five pesos of fifteen reales [sencillos].53

As noted previously, the payment by quinterón Borbúa of 40 pesos fuertes (20 reales a peso) or 800 reales likely was the precedent for the appearance of that category and that price in the 1795 fee list. Either the officials in General Accounting had read the documents from the Borbúa case or they consulted this one, which also mentioned his caste status and his payment of that specific fee. There is no explanation why, if the officials in Contaduría relied on Cistué y Coll’s mention concerning previous cases, they did not include the category of quarterón and the price paid by Ciriaco Hipólito Correoso of



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50 pesos fuertes (1000 reales) as yet another gracias al sacar option. However, it might be logical to speculate that bureaucrats considered that quinterón and quarterón were essentially so similar (one-fifth, one-fourth mixtures) and so difficult to identify separately that they decided against distinct categories. Such would not have been true with the third precedent, and Cistué y Coll’s remark that Francisco Homboni, who was of “the color pardo” had also purchased relief. The caste category of pardo was not only much more common but generally denoted a darker appearance than either quinterón or quarterón. So, was there, as in the instance of Borbúa, a correlation between precedent and the eventual price in the fee schedule? Unlike Borbúa, there seems to be no direct linkage between what Homboni paid—25 pesos of 15 reales (sencillos) or 375 reales—and the eventual gracias al sacar price for pardos of 500 reales. The mathematically gifted may already foresee what might have occurred. If finance officials used the number 25 from the Homboni pardo precedent, but multiplied the reales as coming from pesos fuertes (20), rather than pesos sencillos (15), then the cost for the whitening of a pardo would be 500 reales, the exact price that eventually appeared in the gracias al sacar fee schedule. It seems likely that it was the precedents from the numbers from the Borbúa (40) and Homboni (25) cases expressed in pesos fuertes— 800 and 500, respectively—that determined the 1795 prices. The reliance of Contaduría officials on specific numbers from case precedents rather than any calculation of relative differences in caste status also explains the anomaly as to why darker pardos paid less than lighter quinterones.54 The combination of Cistué y Coll’s quote that ending the “defect” of quinterón was a gracias al sacar, the precedents of the two categories of quinterón and pardo, and likely even the prices suggest that it was the Paz case that eventually would convince imperial bookkeepers that whitening was an Indies “practice,” meriting inclusion in the gracias al sacar.55

conclusions In the course of twenty years from the 1760s to the 1780s, the crown attorneys of New Spain and Peru dealt with cases where pardos, mulattos, and quinterones applied for elimination of their defect to practice the

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occupations of surgeon and notary. Fiscals with or without Indies experience typically relied on case precedents and existing legislation. They strongly favored petitioners who already had acquired the necessary skills. Three decisions proved to be benchmarks, providing precedents for official whitening. Two originated from crown attorneys with no experience in the Indies—Maldonado and Gonzáles de Mena y Villegas—the final emerged from old Indies hand, Cistué y Coll. Maldonado innovated when he provided an expansive definition of the effects of erasure of defect for Joseph Francisco Báez, implying that he might achieve total whiteness. In a next step, Gonzáles de Mena y Villegas created a separate purchasable “gracias” that ended the status of quinterón-ness. Finally, Cistué y Coll put these decisions together and went a step further. He officially linked the ending the defect of pardo-ness as done for Cuban surgeons, the doing so by purchase as for Panamanian notaries with institutionalizing such practice by denominating it as part of the gracias al sacar. When, in the early 1790s, officials from Contaduría reviewed past cases to compile the 1795 fee schedule, they almost certainly found the comments from Fiscal Cistué y Coll and the case precedents for fees paid. They added the whitening clauses as the last two purchasable favors listed in the 1795 gracias al sacar as Indies practice. Since Cistué y Coll would continue to serve as crown attorney until 1802, he would, in future years, have to deal with the almost certainly unanticipated consequences of his decisions. Yet, across the Atlantic and years before the issuance of the gracias al sacar, other forces influenced the future besides officials in the Council of the Indies. A small cohort of pardos and mulattos had already begun to prepare petitions requesting total whiteness.

six

Balances Weighing the Prices of Full Whiteness It is certain that the king, generously or for just motives can take a vassal from obscurity, graciously placing him in a distinguished sphere. fiscal antonio de porlier, August 9, 17831

introduction Just as the petition of a Cuban surgeon or of a Panamanian notary might inspire peer applications, so the first pardo to request for total whiteness proved to be another cluster applicant—a Cuban named Manuel Báez. His request proved to be a family affair, as his brother was Joseph Francisco, the Havana surgeon who had received permission to practice in 1760, and whose whitening decree may have given him more than just occupational mobility.2 There was thus a direct connection between pardo petitions to attach sufficient whiteness to practice as surgeons and the first application for total whitening. Twelve years after his sibling’s successful request (1772), Manuel wrote the Cámara admitting that he had “the same fault.” His petition not only marked a significant escalation from that of his brother but a logical next step. Unlike Joseph Francisco, Manuel had no occupational reason to need a whitening dispensation; rather than requesting a limited favor, he ­petitioned 177

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for total whiteness. Just as the Cámara had first mitigated the “defect” of pardo for surgeons, then commoditized it as a favor for notaries, then tied it to gracias al sacar, now a small group of pardos and mulattos would attempt to expand their horizons. They would request more than occupational enablement: they would ask for the status of whites. Manuel’s application began what would be a provocative discourse among imperial officials, pardos and mulattos, and elites on what full whitening might entail. Whether petitioners received bad or good news, these decisions—just as the benchmark cases of the surgeons and notaries— further established whitening as an American “practice.” They provide rare insight into ongoing debates concerning processes of inclusion and exclusion as imperial officials, local elites, and pardos and mulattos considered the merits of five such requests in the twenty-three years preceding the official publication of the whitening option in 1795. The first two set early benchmarks, explored in this chapter; the next three originated from Venezuela, the epicenter of whitening petitions, and will appear in the next chapter. On one level, an immediate rejection of petitions for full whiteness might seem the safest choice for the Council of the Indies. Ministers might simply have consigned such requests into the Bourbon equivalent of a manuscript shredder. Alternatively, they could simply have decided “no.” After all, there was a substantive difference between circumscribed whitenings to surgeons or notaries that were of manifest utility to the state and total dispensations that might threaten the status quo and occasion discord. Yet, seen from another perspective, generations of mobility and of service to the state meant that royal officials identified pardo and mulatto petitioners as loyal vassals. As such, their requests were worthy of consideration and possible fulfillment. Since petitions for total whitening were without precedent, everyone entered an unknown terrain. The Council and Cámara of the Indies as well as officials in the Americas had to decide if they should sanction total whitening, what it might accomplish, and what their ensuing responsibilities would be if the state issued such a favor. Pardos and mulattos not only detailed what they thought it meant; they initiated a dialogue with the Cámara concerning what they needed to do to achieve it and to enjoy it. Some local elites supported whitening applications; others ferociously opposed them.



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Embedded within each whitening decision was a process whereby royal officials consciously balanced benefit versus loss. Both application and decision processes proved particularly fluid. What a Cámara fiscal might decide in one instance another might contradict in the next; the materials sent by one petitioner might differ dramatically from those of another. Such calculations were particularly complicated before 1795 when officials had no precedent for whitening and were only beginning to consider such balances. It was into such uncertainty that Manuel Báez sent the first application for total whitening to the Council of the Indies in 1772.

first petitions for total w hiteness A rare copy of a letter of instructions that Manuel Báez mailed to Don Pedro Jorgan y Domingo, his legal representative (apoderado) in Madrid, provides insight into how the Cuban planned to present his case for full whitening. Since Manuel must have known that his petition was unusual, he sent possible precedents for his agent to include in the application packet. He also detailed specific benefits that he expected Don Pedro to enumerate when he prepared the official cover letter for the enclosed documents. One obvious prototype, which Manuel included, was a copy of the 1760 royal decree that whitened his surgeon brother, Joseph Francisco. He also included documents where a Don Francisco, Don Manuel, and Don Sebastian Muñoz of Bayamo, Cuba, had applied for a gracias al sacar, not to be whitened but to be legitimated. These brothers had been born adulterous and sacrilegious given that their mother was married and their father was a priest. Their 1766 legitimations proved to be among the most extreme remediation of illegitimate birth—given the violation of both vows of marriage and of chastity—granted by the Cámara of the Indies in the eighteenth century.3 After this case, officials proved increasingly reluctant to legitimate the sacrilegious or the adulterous, and they never again granted decrees to petitioners who combined both characteristics. Why might Manuel send copies of the Muñoz’s legitimations as evidence to promote his whitening petition? On one level, these decrees were evidence that Camaristas had stretched to accommodate controversial requests to provide relief for worthy vassals. Even more telling was Manuel’s implicit

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linkage of the concept of ending stain, since both illegitimacy and pardoness figured as defects of birth that the crown might eliminate. The message Manuel wanted to send to the Cámara was suggestive: since gracias al sacar had for centuries been a customary process to eliminate the defect of illegitimacy, it might prove equally efficacious to eradicate the stain of pardo-ness. It would be fourteen years in the future—in 1786— before Fiscal José de Cistué y Coll would make the explicit connection that quinterones desiring to be notaries might pay to eliminate their ancestry through the process of gracias al sacar. Nonetheless, the documents sent by Manuel suggest that popular understanding of such a potential was already manifest in 1772. If gracias al sacar might be the instrument to eliminate pardo-ness, what specifically would this accomplish? Manuel left little to chance, as he attempted to blast open those interstices that earlier generations of pardos and mulattos had attempted to squeeze through to attach aspects of whiteness. He dictated an ambitious list of what he thought whitening entailed, including many of the favors that the Cámara had previously rejected. He introduced issues that everyone involved would debate throughout the history of the whitening gracias al sacar. Included among these were concerns over the dynamics of transference, parity, and enforcement. If the Cámara whitened a pardo, did the termination of the defect attach only to the grantee or could he or she transfer whiteness to the next generation? Manuel’s answer to this question was an unequivocal “yes,” for he made clear that he wanted the “same grace” not only for himself, but also for his “three children” and any future offspring.4 Manuel seemed to assume that ending the status of pardo would function similarly to termination of the stain of illegitimacy. When a petitioner purchased a legitimation through gracias al sacar, it not only erased the defect of birth, but it restored honor. Once the newly legitimated acquired honor, he or she could directly transmit that quality to potential offspring, and even retroactively to those already born.5 Manuel presumed that whitening would operate in a similar fashion: once gracias al sacar terminated his pardo-ness, he became effectively white and thus able to pass the absence of stigma to his existing and future offspring. Whiteness also meant occupational and civic parity. Manuel expected that his legitimate descendants would be “admitted to classes and the university.”6 He wanted to ensure that eligible members of his family would



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be able to enter the priesthood and be able to hold available chaplaincies. Members should be able to hold “whatever public office.” Whitening should bring equality in intimacy—Manuel expected that every member of his family might marry with whites. In this request, he anticipated another gracias al sacar benefit, for in six years the Pragmatic Sanction on Marriages (1778) would provide elites with legal processes to prohibit “unequal” linkages between pardos and whites. Pardos would see official whitening as one sure path to marry whites without opposition. Although this battle was in the future, Manuel’s petition foreshadowed the controversy, as he tried to arrange such marital insurance in advance. He asked his whitening decree to guarantee that “in case my wife or I are widowed” or if “any of our children desire to marry with persons of white birth,” there would be no “obstacle . . . due to inequality.” It is perhaps no surprise that Manuel’s petition only hinted at what would become a major stumbling block for everyone involved in the whitening process: the possibility of “inconveniences.” It was not to his advantage to remind royal officials that local elites might not welcome newly whitened pardos and mulattos into their midst and that the state might have to intervene to enforce their enhanced status. What did concern Manuel was that there be official recognition of whitening in public records. Anticipating that his application would succeed, Manuel counseled the Cámara that it would have to instruct local officials that they would have to coordinate with the local bishop. The latter would have to inform parish priests that when they entered the Báez family’s “baptismal certificates” in “the future,” they should place his descendants “in the books where they put those of Spanish [birth].” This request institutionalized the informal strategies followed by pardos and mulattos when intimate connections with whites over the generations eventually led clerics to list their offspring as white.7 Pardos receiving a gracias al sacar would have to verify their status in official documents such as baptismal, marriage, and death certificates. As if whitening were not sufficient mobility, Manuel then tried to erase every other family defect as well as move up the social ladder. Even though legitimation was a purchasable gracias al sacar favor, he tried to include it without paying within his overall package of requests. He asked that the crown legitimate his parda wife, María Gertrudis, the natural daughter (hija natural) of a member of the Havana city council. He wanted guarantees that their offspring should be able to display the regidor’s “shield of arms”

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and enjoy elite status, being “treated with the distinctive of Don.” His representative, Don Pedro, faithfully included every one of the Cuban’s requests in the letter he sent to the Cámara in 1772. This first petition for full whiteness proved to be spectacular in scope. It was a laundry list of pardo aspirations: a grant of whiteness for itself alone, transference to succeeding generations, admission to the university, entrance to the priesthood, ability to hold public offices, equal marriage with whites, with the additional favors of legitimation and holding the title of Don. Given the centuries of tradition where the crown might intervene to remedy defect, given the centuries where free pardo and mulattos had sought mobility through interstices, given the generations who had forged intimate connections with whites, and given the benchmark cases that granted occupational whiteness—it appeared as a logical next step. Why, according to Manuel Báez, did he and his family merit whiteness? How he presented his case to royal officials merits serious consideration. After all, his application necessarily differed from petitioners whose objective was to document their skill as surgeons or notaries so they might receive sufficient whiteness to practice those occupations. Manuel desired whiteness for personal reasons, and so he had to justify why his family’s service to the king and his acceptance by members of the local elite should tip the balance in his favor. Manuel reminded the Cámara that generations of his family had connections with whiteness and had assisted the crown. His grandfather had been a Spaniard, and his pardo father had performed multiple duties usually reserved for whites.8 Even more striking were details Manuel provided concerning his own loyalty and bravery during the British siege of Havana in 1762, when he had “supplied the troops and other people occupied in the service of war.”9 These contributions included the distribution of fresh pork for the “hospitals and the rest of the townspeople” and the provision of “beef fat . . . to the bulwarks and forts to grease the cannons to fire.” He had brought “powder” to the “forts and bulwarks of the bay” after the British took El Morro, Havana’s massive fort. He carried out such duties “in various sites and places of the city with danger and evident risk of life given the closeness of the enemy batteries,” He had done so without “salary or stipend.” Manuel attempted to leverage precedent in his favor, suggesting that he had the same merits and services as his surgeon brother, Joseph Francisco,



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who the Cámara had already whitened. As a result, he had “gained among the first subjects and decorated persons of Havana a very commendable reputation and estimation.” He supplied notarized testimonies from a regidor, a lawyer, a fiscal serving on the audiencia, and a military captain. All praised his “application” and “his satisfactory customs.” Regidor Gabriel Beltrán de Santa Cruz noted that his conduct had “given him a place among the first subjects of this city who esteem and attend him as a man of good and of very rare intelligence.” Another packet of documents verified Manuel’s and his children’s legitimacy and that his wife was the offspring, even if illegitimate and parda, of a father who was a member of the elite, who had served on the city council. Given there was no precedent and given the ambitious scale of Manuel Báez’s petition, it might be understandable if the Cámara simply tabled or refused to consider his request. Instead, Fiscal Manuel Miguel Lanz de Casafonda, a lawyer and writer of legal treatises who had never held office in the Americas, but who had served as fiscal for seven years, took the application seriously.10 He did not reject out of hand the concept that the Cámara might fully whiten pardos. It is telling what topics he chose to address and those that he ignored. Not surprisingly, the issue of balance—the weighing of the monarchical duty of reciprocity against possible inconveniences—structured at least part of Lanz de Casafonda’s analysis. He started negatively, commenting that Manuel’s petition was “strange” and “out of proportion.”11 Even though he recognized that the Cuban and his ancestors “had shed blood in defense of the country and the royal crown,” he judged the list of desired privileges to be “excessive.” He concluded that the “merits of the petitioner” essentially encompassed “the execution of certain orders that perhaps he did for money and [his own] interest.” Fiscal Lanz de Casafonda next commented on Manuel pardo-ness, what its termination might bring, and how, if granted, it should appear in official records. He first made the somewhat surprising observation that since Manuel’s pardo-ness came from the female side of the family that it was not that negative a defect. As already noted, Spaniards generally, and this crown attorney specifically, viewed inheritance in gendered ways. He explained, “in the quality of naturaleza,” which in this case would be the stain of pardo-ness, “the sons follow that of the mother.” However, nobleza passed differently, for fathers could successfully transfer it to offspring, even if the

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mother lacked it. The fiscal concluded somewhat illogically that since “distinctions and honors attach from the father,” “the defect of the applicant is not so much that of pardo.” Such reasoning did not support the facts submitted in Manuel’s application. Presumably, Fiscal Lanz de Casafonda assumed that since Manuel’s grandfather had been “a clear and clean Spaniard occupied in honorable commissions” and his father had been a notary on a galleon, an occupation reserved for whites, the status of the ancestral males outweighed that of the parda females. Such reasoning notwithstanding, Manuel’s father was not white, but the son of a parda mother. Although Manuel’s baptismal certificate listed him in the book of “Spanish,” his status was ambiguous, given that his marriage documents and the baptismal records of his children classified him as a “pardo.” Perhaps the crown attorney was trying to make the best case so that he might recommend that the Cámara whiten Manuel. Fiscal Lanz de Casafonda then introduced another theme that would reoccur in discussions over whitening—to what extent should pardos, either as individuals or groups, enjoy upward mobility and high rank? This time his decision seemed to rest less on Manuel’s merit and services than on a more general conviction that it would be beneficial to enhance the status of the castas in the Americas. He “did not find it repugnant” that the Cuban and his offspring should hold “office and public posts and to dedicate themselves to sciences in the universities.” Indeed, Fiscal Lanz de Casafonda made a curious offhand remark. He wondered if the Cámara may have “had this [idea] present” when they granted Manuel’s brother, the “permission [to practice] as surgeon.” This was because, he concluded, “science and its study should not be limited (especially in America) to the predetermined fate of subjects.” He agreed that the Báezes should be able to hold “offices and public posts corresponding to honored persons” and that they could attend university “to be and profess in whatever faculty, to graduate from it and to exercise it in spite of the note of infection.” Lanz de Casafonda’s comments provide a hint that at least some peninsular officials might have been sympathetic to the mitigation of a “predetermined fate” such as pardo-ness, which limited mobility. It also suggests striking naiveté about the tensions in Havana concerning pardo attendance at the university, as the sons of Captain Antonio Flores and physician Juan de la Cruz y Mena had already discovered.



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Lanz de Casafonda then provided some first commentary on another issue that would continually surface in the debate over whitening—did it transfer to the next generation? Not only was his answer “yes,” but he agreed with Manuel’s reminder that the new status should appear in official documents. He concluded that “from now on” it would be appropriate to assign the baptismal certificates of the Cuban’s offspring “in the books of Spaniards.” He added that this was essential “to remove all hindrance for the future,” and this would not be so if offspring “continue with listings in the books of pardos and mulattos.” The rest of Manuel’s petition Lanz de Casafonda dismissed as “pure absurdity.” He rejected the automatic legitimation of Manuel’s wife advising her to “use the rights that the laws provide” but providing no special concessions. He made no comment concerning any possible payment for whitening, although five years earlier, in 1767, the Cámara had already begun to charge for the dispensation of defect to practice as a notary. The answer of the Cámara to Lanz de Casafonda’s recommendation was almost instantaneous. Four days later members issued the dreaded judgment of No ha lugar—there was “No place” for such a recommendation (April 26, 1773). This would not be the first time that imperial officials would disagree over the politics of whiteness. Although it was rare for Cámara members to overrule such a positive recommendation from a fiscal, they were more likely to do so in cases like this that lacked precedents and necessitated bureaucratic innovation. This ruling began a pattern of internal dissention within the Council of the Indies. In these early years, the crown attorneys were more likely to support whitening and the Cámara to reject it; in later years, this pattern would inexplicably reverse.

guatemal an efforts: bernardo r amír ez If pardos or mulattos in Cuba or elsewhere in the Americas learned of the fate of Manuel’s petition, the Cámara’s decisive refusal to provide full whitening must have been discouraging. For the next nine years, that body received no such applications, not even requests for professional exemptions for surgeons and notaries. Given this gap, the question arises why Bernardo Ramírez even bothered to apply in December 1782. At least in

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the case of the Báez brothers, it seems logical to presume that the success of his surgeon brother had inspired Manuel’s petition. What motivated the Guatemalan? The only hint as to why Bernardo thought he had a possibility for success comes from the president of Guatemala, Don Matías de Gálvez (1779–1783).12 He confirmed Bernardo’s extraordinary service to the crown and commented that “this has contributed greatly to his hope of obtaining from the royal piety of your majesty the favor he asks.”13 Given that there was no established body of information that petitioners regularly included in their applications, it is particularly useful to consider those aspects of Bernardo Ramírez’s petition that resembles that of Cuban Manuel Báez and where they differed. Every application shared the petitioner’s attempt to detail service to the crown and suggest that a suitable reward would be whiteness. Comments by royal officials prove equally insightful, as they also had to spell out their reasoning, given the absence of earlier examples or established patterns for decision making. Bernardo Ramírez provided a long list of his father’s, his uncle’s, and his own efforts that seriously impressed royal officials. The family had built local fortifications, developed a machine to make gunpowder, and served as officers (lieutenant, captain) in the pardo militias. Bernardo was a master mason (maestro mayor de obras) as well as a waterworks engineer. When an unexpected crisis—three devastating earthquakes—ravaged the capital of Santiago (now Antigua) from July to December 1773, it prompted the crown and locals to begin a torturous process of moving the city to the site of present-day Guatemala City.14 Bernardo Ramírez had been instrumental in evaluating the devastation of the old city and in the building of the new capital. At the time of his application, he was constructing an aqueduct to bring water to the chosen location. This engineering feat saved the crown the staggering sum of 82,799 pesos.15 Bernardo Ramírez’s petition differed from its predecessor’s in that it lacked any comments as to what whitening might bring; it did not try to prove his social acceptability; it was vague concerning his genealogy. While Manuel Báez had provided a comprehensive list detailing the presumed benefits of whitening, Bernardo made only a general request. He simply asked that “himself, his children and descendants” be eligible for those “posts, employments and other favors” that were appropriate for “Spaniards” as well as “honored artisans.”16 With the exception of the letter from the president of Guatemala, he provided no positive testimony from members of the local



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elite concerning his public reputation. Nor did he provide much information about his relatives, as he vaguely noted that, although he descended from “legitimate Spaniards,” there were also “mulatto females and others born of illegitimate relationships” in his ancestry. Another striking difference between the Cuban and Guatemalan petitions is that the latter struck a political and even a critical tone. Manuel Báez had portrayed whitening as a strictly personal or at most a family matter. In contrast, although Bernardo Ramírez made clear that he desired similar favors, he contextualized his mobility within the discriminatory regime of the caste system. He hinted that not only he, but other pardos, might deserve whitening in the future. Differing answers to the question if whitening should be a benefit for a few pardos and mulattos or if it might provide mobility for selected groups or even for the many would be another recurring issue debated by everyone concerned.17 In his cover letter, Bernardo Ramírez contrasted his individual desire for betterment with the existing hierarchical order that excluded him. He, as every man, entered the world with the “insuperable desire to better his condition” and “to form societies to obtain more comfort and convenience.” He complained that those “not born with the name of Spaniards” were unable to achieve this goal in the Americas. Bernardo implied that his personal situation was particularly unjust, given that the “illegitimate characters” that tarnished his ancestry were “so distant from the petitioner.” He suffered discrimination given that pardos and mulattos “were not respected as vecinos or republicans or as members of society.” He asked the Cámara to remove the “infamous note” that the “vain estimation of the Europeans” held against “mulattos, their descendants, and even those that approach whiteness.” His letter closed with the suggestion that his mobility might not only be an individual reward “in consideration of his merit” but that it might “stimulate the class of pardos.” Presumably, others might be inspired to imitate his loyalty and service to the crown in the hopes of similar reward. His was the first petition to suggest that whitening might be more than an individual favor, that it might extend to a selected cohort or perhaps even to pardos as a whole. Bernardo supplemented his application with a letter of recommendation from the president of the Guatemala audiencia, Don Matías de Gálvez, who praised his support in aiding the government after the earthquake and assisting during the move and the construction of the new capital. Apparently

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Bernardo had set such an example that it had “attracted [the attention] of other subalterns (‘subalternos’) of his class” who had also contributed to the effort. This help, the president concluded, had proven particularly essential given the “poverty” of those in the region, even of “white persons.” Just as Manuel Báez, Bernardo did not offer to pay. Perhaps he considered whitening a favor justly granted to a deserving vassal. Even as Bernardo sought whitening for himself and his family, and as he suggested the crown might extend it to other deserving petitioners, he never directly challenged the complex of discriminations directed against the castas. While he commented on such prejudicial legislation, he did not call for its abolishment or for the crown to mandate equality between whites and pardos and mulattos. Instead, he and later petitioners would suggest that the principle of reciprocity justified their individual mobility, which was the result of their personal service to the crown and a deserving reward granted to loyal vassals. Both precedent and pragmatism no doubt contributed to such initial cautious stances. If gracias al sacar legitimations provided a template for the process of whitening, the former were personal, only providing relief to individuals rather than general exceptions to designated groups. Since grants of whiteness would prove controversial, attempts to extend such benefits to all the castas must have seemed premature. Only decades later would some petitioners, royal officials, and local elites consider a more sweeping abolition of the imperial discriminatory regime. When Bernardo Ramírez’s documents arrived in Madrid, they rested on the desk of the fiscal for New Spain, Antonio de Porlier. He was an old Indies hand, with a distinguished career as a high court judge in Charcas and on the criminal court (alcalde de crimen) in Lima.18 After a stint as crown attorney, he would move to even more prominent posts: Secretary of State for Gracias y Justicia, the Council of State, and Governor of the Council of the Indies. He would achieve noble status as the Marqués de Bajamar. Given Porlier’s later and rapid ascent to the heights of Bourbon administration, his judgment concerning Bernardo Ramírez’s petition and his opinions on the concept of whitening prove particularly instructive. Unlike previous crown attorneys such as Luis Francisco Mosquera y Pimentel or Pedro Gonzáles de Mena y Villegas who had limited their rulings to occupational exemptions for whitening, or Manuel Miguel Lanz de Casafonda who had seemed mildly supportive of pardo admission to the



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university, Antonio de Porlier asked both theoretical and practical questions. Was whitening legal? This, he concluded, was not debatable, given monarchical authority and the demands of reciprocity: “It is certain that the king, generously or for just motives can take a vassal from obscurity, graciously placing him in a distinguished sphere.”19 Porlier also raised a second, pragmatic issue. If the monarch whitened someone, would it work? He judged the answer, at least in this instance, to be “no”: “Bernardo Ramírez cannot disguise or hide his infected quality even if he tries.” Remember, this was the only instance when anyone in any whitening documents had ever questioned the feasibility that pardos and mulattos might transform into whites.20 Everyone else either ignored the issue or, if they considered it, provided the answer compatible with historic Spanish traditions that the elimination of such a defect was achievable. Intriguing differences as to how Cámara fiscals analyzed these first whitening petitions from Cuba and Guatemala emerge, revealing the absence of any policy consensus. When Manuel Miguel Lanz de Casafonda wrote his consulta concerning Manuel Báez’s application, he had not considered the contradictions or the consequences of the case. Rather, even though the Cuban’s marriage certificate listed him as a pardo, the fiscal decided that the whiteness of Manuel’s grandfather outweighed the pardoness of the female side of the family. Nor, perhaps given his absence of Indies service, did he seem to understand the furor that might arise if the Council of the Indies empowered a mulatto family to attend the University of Havana. In contrast, Fiscal Porlier disagreed concerning the benefits of whitening, looked for nuances and inconsistencies in the Bernardo Ramírez case, and seemed more attuned to the complexities of the Americas. Porlier had a much more restricted view of the benefits of whitening. He did not support the conclusion of Lanz de Casafonda who had agreed with Manuel Báez that, if he received a favorable ruling, clerics should list subsequently his offspring in the book of “Spaniards.” Rather, Porlier concluded that if the Cámara granted such a “gracias” it should be purely “personal . . . and without consequences for succession.”21 Nor was Porlier impressed with the recommendation from President Gálvez of Guatemala. He felt that he could read through the contents. He concluded that even though it seemed on the surface to be favorable, “one can understand it [negative] in the clauses and style of the letter.”

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Fiscal Porlier’s scrutiny of the documents struck an even worse blow to Bernardo’s hopes. He pointed out the discrepancy between the Guatemalan’s declaration, which stated that neither he, “his parents nor grandparents were of the color and name of blacks or pardos,” and the marriage documents that described Bernardo and his wife as “free mulattos.” This not only confirmed that Bernardo’s union had not furthered the whiteness of the next generation, but that official documents—contrary to what Bernardo declared—listed him as a pardo. Porlier’s familiarity with the caste system led him to conclude that if there had been a “mistake” and the “certificates  .  . . wrongfully placed in the corresponding books” of pardos and mulattos rather than whites, that the family would have protested the error. Since Bernardo had maintained his “own silence” concerning this listing, Porlier concluded that the Guatemalan had tried to mislead the Cámara, which “totally prejudiced” his case. The Indies experience of Porlier not only affected his understanding of casta designations on official documents but also informed his broader consideration of the inconveniences that might arise if newly whitened pardos encountered difficulties in establishing their status. Bernardo Ramírez’s petition arrived but two years after the 1781 American uprisings of the Comuneros in Colombia and José Gabriel Tupac Amaru in Peru and at a critical moment in the rethinking of imperial policy.22 Since Antonio de Porlier had served as crown attorney during these great revolts, he proved particularly sensitive to local responses to imperial innovation. He openly worried about elite reaction to the whitening option, for he feared that if the Cámara freed the Guatemalan “from the infection he suffers” that it might “produce bad consequences and worse results among the Spanish and Americans of distinction.” Fiscal Porlier was the first seriously to consider how whitening might work in the real world. He speculated what officials might do if Bernardo Ramírez received the coveted decree, continued to face local discrimination, and was not able to obtain the “honors and employments of other vecinos and families.”23 He anticipated that the Guatemalan would return to the Council of the Indies and “complain that the orders of the king are not obeyed.” Porlier concluded that the only response that the Cámara could make would be to intervene locally and enforce the effects of the whitening decree. This intrusion would be mandatory, not because discrimination



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was wrong but because disobedience to any royal decree would undermine crown authority. Antonio de Porlier’s apprehensions would prove prescient, at least for Caracas. There, post-1795 whitenings would lead to “appeals, dissent, and complaints” from elites infuriated with pardo mobilities and from some mulattos and pardos unable to enjoy the benefits of their new status. Given Porlier’s criticism of Bernardo’s conflicting documentation, and his fears of negative consequences, his conclusion that the petition was “repugnant or at least excessive” was not surprising. Even as Porlier recommended that the Cámara reject the whitening of Bernardo Ramírez, he still recognized the legitimacy of the Guatemalan’s request for royal favor. The intriguing possibility arises that Porlier might have consulted concerning Bernardo’s reputation with the crown attorney for Peru, José de Cistué y Coll, as the pair had now been colleagues for five years. Cistué y Coll knew Guatemala well, as he had served on the audiencia and had survived the 1773 earthquake.24 Even after he moved to a posting in Mexico City in 1775, he had remained involved in the construction of the new capital of Guatemala City and had developed a plan for earthquakeresistant buildings. Given Cistué y Coll’s years in Guatemala and his interest in construction, he likely knew Bernardo Ramírez personally. At the least, he had to be familiar with the mason and builder’s contributions to the move to the new capital. Whatever conversations might or might not have taken place across the desks of the fiscals, whatever personal knowledge influenced Porlier, he judged that even though the Cámara should not whiten Bernardo Ramírez, it should reward him for his services to the state. He praised “the zeal and love of this vassal” and agreed that he was “worthy of attention and some recompense.”25 Reciprocity mattered, for “outstanding subjects ought to experience reward for actions so that they remain satisfied and stimulate others to undertake equal actions in service of the king and country.” Porlier suggested that the Cámara should award some “purely personal distinction” that would not “pass to others.” He provided the Cámara with a list of possible rewards. Notably these included some of the favors previously sought by pardos, including an “exemption from some charge or tribute” or an “officership in the Guatemalan pardo militia.” Porlier also added the option of “some monetary recompense or one of the medals that the Royal

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Academy . . . distributes among students of merit,” although he specified that Bernardo should not receive the “honors of the academy.” Although Camaristas rejected Bernardo Ramírez’s petition, they agreed with Porlier that the Guatemalan merited royal favor and so they offered him a position as an officer in the pardo militia. The Guatemalan rejected their reward, complaining that this was “of no estimation in that kingdom and absolutely offensive to the object of his aspirations, the quality of a Spaniard.” Even though rebuffed, the Camaristas did not relent in their determination to reward him. They finally sent him a medal from the Royal Academy of San Fernando, a favor that his family eventually used to its advantage.26

r eapplications Bernardo Ramírez had sent his whitening application to the Cámara in 1782 only to find his hopes crushed in 1785. A year before the Guatemalan’s petition reached Spain, in 1781, another pardo had begun the process of collecting testimony; his petition arrived in 1786, the year after Bernardo’s rejection. The name of the applicant should be familiar, for eight years after the Cámara initially denied him whitening, Cuban Manuel Báez dispatched yet another application.27 The differences between his first and second appeals provide clues as to what information he thought might better his chances to obtain a favorable verdict. Unfortunately, surviving documents do not include Manuel’s personal orders to his representative in Madrid. Only the official letter to the Cámara remains. As was customary in reapplications, Manuel’s second request repeated much of the information provided in his first attempt. He mentioned his whitened surgeon brother, their father’s and grandfather’s services to the crown, and his wife and her prominent regidor father. He detailed how he had provisioned the populace and troops with pig meat, cow fat, and gunpowder during the British siege of Havana. Equally significant is what Manuel’s second cover letter did not include. There was no reference to the presumed benefits of whitening that he had spelled out in excruciating detail in his first attempt. Perhaps he feared such specifics had prejudiced his case. Nor did the second petition ask for



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legitimation for his wife and other additional favors; it simply requested whiteness for himself and his posterity. Manuel Báez’s second application began the process of introducing the kinds of information that pardos would document in their search for whiteness, including personal comments concerning his achievements. He confided that “from a tender age” he had “dedicated himself to handling papers and serving in legal offices” in Havana. As time passed, “the principles of that city” had trusted him with “matters of the greatest gravity and weight.” Manuel then provided, as often occurred in legitimation petitions, more than eighty pages of witness testimony in his favor. He drew up a series of traditional questions (interrogatorio) for witnesses to answer. Some simply parroted a rote answer of “yes” or “no,” while others provided more nuanced and substantive comments. His goal was to establish that he was responsible and respected, that Cuban elites accepted him, that he was not arrogant, and that his whitening would not cause problems. Cuban elites who testified also had an agenda. They sent both implicit and explicit messages that conveyed their enthusiasm or their absence of enthusiasm concerning Manuel’s whitening. Much as Fiscal Porlier had read beneath the surface and challenged the import of the letter sent by the president of Guatemala concerning Bernardo Ramírez, so later crown attorneys would attempt to decode messages that witnesses provided concerning whitening applicants. So, what did the Cuban elites who testified convey to the Cámara? A number of the notaries, who no doubt worked with Manuel on legal matters, confirmed that he was a “good man with modest and regular behaviors.” Lawyer Don Andrés Vicente Ferreguert affirmed the “great estimation” that Manuel “had won from the principal subjects of this city.” Another agreed that he had earned “the acceptance of persons of polish” while a third remarked that he was “esteemed, applauded and recommended by the principal gentlemen of this city at all times.” Sometimes witnesses went beyond the expected responses to provide details of their relationship. Coronel Don Gerónimo de Contreras remembered that during the two times he had served on the Havana city council that he had “confided matters of the greatest gravity” to Manuel who had helped resolve the difficulties to his “approval.” One of the more telling issues that Manuel asked witnesses to substantiate was that he had been at the “side” of a “growing number of subjects of

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character and first distinction.” The goal was to provide evidence to Madrid that elites accepted Manuel socially, permitting him to interact with them not only at work but also in private and intimate spaces. This was that vital evidence—the proximity argument—that would surface in numerous whitening cases. It was crucial to prove that elites did not feel that social closeness with Manuel demeaned their status. Lawyer Don Juan Solloso sent such a positive signal when he confided that he had known Manuel “more than thirty years” and that he had “frequently entered” into his home. Sixty-year-old Doña Beatriz Sollojo y Urrea also confirmed that she also felt comfortable and “frequently” visited his house. Although Manuel wanted to establish that he moved in elite circles, he also tried to send the message that he was not socially aggressive. His questionnaire asked witnesses to verify his “affability, modesty, [and] meekness” as well as his “propensity to serve with unselfishness, purity and correctness.” He also asked for comments on his propensity not “to cause prejudice to anyone” for he was a “lover of peace and humble of heart.” Several confirmed, as did Don Lope Joseph Blanco, that he “never” took advantage and that he was “moderate in all his actions.” Doña Theresa María Brito concluded that she had known the petitioner for twenty-five years and he exhibited a “purity, formality and exactness” worthy of the best of gentlemen and he had earned “a place of high merit.” No doubt, Manuel hoped that such sentiments would convince the Council of the Indies that issuance of a whitening decree would not produce protests from local elites nor any inconveniences. While most witnesses sent positives messages concerning Manuel, not everyone testified so affirmatively in his favor. Perhaps Manuel reached too high when he asked Marqués Don Juan Clemente Nuñez del Castillo y Sucre to contribute, as this noble provided a more tepid endorsement. The marqués seemed not to know Manuel well, for he said that through a “report of persons of distinguished character” he had learned that the petitioner was “well instructed in whatever matter of [legal] papers.” He added that he knew Manuel worked in the offices of a number of lawyers as well as the governor. Overall, while the testimony provided strong confirmation that certain members of Havana’s elite respected Manuel, it remained less convincing that most accepted him as an equal. In contrast to his first attempt, where Manuel did not offer to pay for whitening, he now offered to purchase the



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favor. He volunteered that he was “ready to contribute with the same fee” as his brother. Apparently, he had the mistaken notion that his brother had paid for his exemption to practice surgery. It was not until February 1787 that Fiscal Porlier reviewed Manuel Báez’s second application. Given the misgivings that he had detailed when he evaluated the case of Bernardo Ramírez, his judgment proved somewhat of a surprise. Porlier recommended that the Cámara whiten the Cuban, as he considered that the depositions had “sufficiently” proven his “merits and qualities.” The torrent of testimony seems to have convinced the fiscal that there would be no “inconveniences or prejudicial results” in removing Ma­ nuel’s pardo-ness. Instead, Porlier justified his decision on the grounds of the reciprocal ties between monarch and vassal. He concluded that whitening was compatible with the “beneficial ideas of the sovereign, who through the means of such honors stimulates vassals and in a certain way compels them to observe meritorious conduct and to be more useful to society.” It is notable that when Fiscal Porlier rejected Bernardo Ramírez he had worried about negative elite reaction if the crown whitened pardos and mulattos; this time he attached greater weight to the potential for positive results. He now seemed to agree with the Guatemalan, who had suggested that his own whitening might provide a model for other castas to emulate. Porlier concluded with the suggestion that a favorable ruling for Manuel Báez might serve as an “incentive” for others “to try to imitate” his achievements.” This was further progress for the aspirations of pardos and mulattos. For the first time a crown attorney had approved the policy of whitening, suggesting that it might become a regular favor that the Cámara might award to the deserving. Fiscal Porlier then moved another step toward the institutionalization of the full whitening option. For the first time, money entered into the equation. He suggested that the Cámara should consider “the amount that ought to be paid for this favor.” The comment is telling. It had only been two years earlier that Cistué y Coll had recommended, and the Cámara had agreed, that Luis Joseph de Paz might pay to end the defect of quinterón to serve as a notary and that this favor was a gracias al sacar.28 This was the first time that a royal official went a step further and suggested that pardos could purchase total whiteness, not attached to any occupational dispensation. Porlier’s comments also reveal that he had consulted earlier precedents for guidance. At least, he approvingly noted that Manuel had offered “to

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contribute the same as his brother.” However, the fiscal then added, “it does not appear that . . . [the surgeon] paid anything.” In this instance, Porlier never had to suggest a possible price for a pardo to pay for full whitening. A few weeks later Camaristas denied the petition with the dreaded “No ha lugar.”

conclusions Starting in the 1770s, pardos took the logical next step—they petitioned for total whiteness. This escalation directly connected with previous, more limited mobility efforts: the first such request originated from Manuel Báez, whose brother Joseph Francisco had received an exemption the previous decade to practice as a surgeon. This escalation led both pardos and royal officials to engage in informative exchanges concerning the balances between benefit and loss. Castas presented their services to the crown as evidence that they were deserving vassals who merited royal favor; they provided both detailed and ambiguous reflections on the potential effect of total whitening. Royal officials took the obligations of reciprocity seriously, as they analyzed petitioners’ service to the state and considered the implications of a whitening decree. These early exchanges produced few policy decisions or emerging trends. Since the first two petitions arrived from Cuba and Guatemala, the two fiscals for New Spain—Lanz de Casafonda and Porlier—evaluated the first petitions. As had occurred in earlier decisions, crown attorneys with no experience in the Indies, such as Lanz de Casafonda, seemed more willing to experiment. He accepted Manuel Báez’s declaration that a positive decision would lead to full equality with whites and pass to the next generation. Although he recommended whitening, the Cámara overturned his decision. In these first cases, crown attorneys were more likely to approve and Camaristas to deny petitioners. In contrast, Antonio de Porlier, with substantial American experience, provided a more measured analysis of Bernardo Ramírez’s application. He considered whitening to be limited to the individual, dismissed the letter of recommendation from the president of the Guatemalan audiencia, and cited contradictions between the proffered documents and Bernardo’s application letter. He speculated if whitening might be effective and



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contemplated the potential negative impact on elites in the Indies. Still, even as he rejected the petition, Porlier acknowledged the royal responsibility of reciprocity and sought rewards for the Guatemalan. When Porlier analyzed Manuel Báez’s second whitening application, he seemed more open to a positive outcome, for he judged the balance between merit and inconvenience to be in favor of the Cuban. He now seems to have agreed that such rewards might stimulate pardos and mulattos to greater service. Even as the Cámara rejected Porlier’s positive recommendation, his musings concerning the proper price to charge for such a favor moved the Council of the Indies a step further toward establishing the purchase of whiteness as an American “practice.” The comments of the fiscals, the rejections of the Cámara, and the petitions from Manuel Báez and Bernardo Ramírez reveal substantial indecision and confusion concerning grants of full whiteness. While imperial bureaucrats instinctively sought balances, they were unsure what weights to place in favor and what against. Perhaps the only early consensus was that the state had the power to grant it. Critical questions remained unanswered, perhaps contributing to the Cámara’s rejection of these first applications. Was service to the monarch the primary variable in favor of a positive decision or were there others? Why had Manuel Báez received two positive recommendations from two different crown attorneys while Bernardo Ramírez had not? To what extent did the recommendations of imperial officials or local elites figure into the equation? Did whitening pass to subsequent generations or was it a favor granted only to the individual? Would the Cámara continue to reject positive recommendations from the crown attorneys? The political and social implications of whitening remained even less resolved. Was it an acceptable reward for deserving pardo and mulatto vassals, or would that cause too many inconveniences with local elites? Might it become—much like legitimations—a favor that those with the proper credentials and cash might routinely purchase? Should the crown use the reward of whitening to stimulate the general casta population to greater service and loyalty? There would soon be opportunity for the fiscals to consider, and for the Cámara to rule on these issues, as a cluster of four petitions arrived from what would become the hot bed of protest against whitening: Venezuela.

seven

Exceptions The Venezuelan Cluster Free pardos, or some of them, have alleged that Your Majesty . . . among other things would grant the privilege that they might be admitted to holy orders and permit them to contract marriage with white persons, which would result in very notable public prejudice. car acas city council, October 6, 17881

introduction Five months after the Cámara rejected Cuban Manuel Báez for the second time, on the other side of the Atlantic Diego Mexias Bejarano of Caracas began his quest for whiteness. He visited his local priest to collect copies of the baptismal certificates that he would eventually include in his application to verify the legitimacy of himself, his wife, and his son.2 Although Diego began to put his case together in September 1787, it would be six years before he sent any documents to the Cámara. Meanwhile his first cousin and brother-in-law Juan Gabriel Landaeta dispatched his petition to Madrid in February 1788, providing yet another example of linked applications.3 In the ensuing two years, a member of the Maracaibo elite, Don Joseph Briceño, would request whitening for his wife Petronila and their seventeen children, and the Almeyda sisters of Caracas would seek Cámara confirmation of their family’s elite standing.4 Eight years before the issuance of the 1795 gracias al sacar Venezuelans were regular petitioners to the Cámara concerning whitening. 198



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This chapter not only explores the continued quest of pardos for whiteness and ensuing royal responses, but also introduces the special role of the Venezuelan cluster. Previous chapters have traced provocative personal and occupational linkages between whitening petitioners: the application of Joseph Francisco Báez to practice surgery inspired the petition of his brother Manuel for full whiteness. It also likely precipitated those of his medical colleagues Miguel Joseph Avilés and Juan de la Cruz y Mena. The whitening of notary Bartolomé de Salazar led to a similar request from his trainee, Juan Evaristo de Jesús Borbúa.5 Still, the most notable geographical cluster of petitioners would originate from Venezuela. There, more than any other locality in the Indies, the Caracas establishment would mount vigorous protests, publicizing the whitening option, making it widely known to the general population. Tracing the pre-1795 petitions from Venezuela and contextualizing them within imperial trends introduces the unique role of this region. Even as Venezuelans would begin to send petitions in the 1780s and 1790s and as local elites would protest, an imperial variable would begin to affect the disposition of whitening petitions. Bourbon administrative reforms, particularly the mandate to staff the Council of the Indies with officials who had served in the Americas, would start to have an impact. As previously noted in Chapter 2, such change radically affected the office of fiscal, starting with the appointments of Antonio de Porlier in 1775 for New Spain and José de Cistué y Coll in 1778 for Peru.6 Every crown attorney from then until independence would have spent years in the Indies. On one level, this change significantly improved governance, as officials read petitions with greater understanding. Ministers and fiscals demonstrated a new activism: they were more likely to defer judgment and to request further information from petitioners or from bureaucrats serving throughout the Americas. They seemed more aware of the impact of their decisions across the Atlantic.7 Although the appointment of experienced crown attorneys provided more understanding of Indies affairs, this reform came with a substantial price. Unlike the more numerous Council of the Indies ministers who might not be as burdened by vacancies if an official or two would be traveling from the Indies to assume a post—there was only one fiscal for New Spain and one for Peru.8 Months and sometimes years might pass between notification of a newly appointed crown attorney in the Americas and his eventual arrival

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in Madrid. During these periods, the remaining fiscal had to respond to all the business from the Americas, taking responsibility for every consulta presented to the Cámara and supervising officials and clerks in both secretariats.9 Since, from the perspective of the Council and Cámara, requests for whitening were not particularly high on any agenda, the absence of crown attorneys combined with other business to delay responses to petitions. Such turnover turned out not to be an immediate problem with the Peru desk, as there was stability given the twenty-four-year tenure of José de Cistué y Coll, who assumed office in 1778 and did not retire until 1802. However, the departure of Antonio de Porlier in July 1787 would introduce years of vacancies for the New Spain fiscal. This problem was not immediately apparent in the first turnover, given that his immediate successor was already on the peninsula. Cistué y Coll had to manage the flow of business for both desks for only three months before Ramón Rivera y Peña took up that post.10 One year and seven months later, Rivera y Peña was dead, and Cistué y Coll found that he had to perform double duty for nineteen months before Juan Antonio Uruñuela Aransay made his way from Guatemala.11 Two years and two months later, Uruñuela Aransay was also dead and Cistué y Coll labored alone for an additional seventeen months until Ramón de Posada y Soto finally arrived from Mexico and restored some stability to the New Spain desk.12 During more than half of the six years following the promotion of Porlier, there was no fiscal for New Spain.

first applications Those problems were still in the future, when, on February 14, 1788, Juan Gabriel Landaeta sent a letter to the Council of the Indies requesting whiteness. From the start, matters became confusing because he did not identify himself as a pardo. Rather, he wrote that he was of the “mestizo caste” which, he explained, “those in the province call leopards (leopardos).”13 He further complicated the issue when he noted that “in all his ancestors one cannot find slavery, illegitimacy nor other blemish that would serve as an obstacle for his offspring to mix in marriage with white citizens, enter into the religious state, [or] ascend to sacred orders.”



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Juan Gabriel Landaeta’s terminology was misleading and his petition puzzling. Since the issuance of the 1795 gracias al sacar was still in the future, there were as yet no guidelines for what caste categories might be eligible to purchase whiteness. While “mestizo” had various meanings that changed over time, by the eighteenth century it usually applied to Native, white mixtures, although it was true, given early mixings, that many pardos and mulattos had indigenous ancestors.14 Since the crown had ruled that mestizos possessed clean blood (limpieza de sangre), Spanish law did not customarily bar them from public service, professions such as the clergy, or intermarriage with whites as it did those with African ancestry. If Juan Gabriel really was a mestizo, he had no need to purchase whiteness. Juan Gabriel’s use of the term “leopard,” or “leopardo,” is also perplexing. It does not appear in official guidelines for priests to enter as a local caste category in baptismal certificates or in indexes of Venezuelan matrimonial dissents concerning caste inequality.15 It may be that leopardo was a term of self-identification used by the elite pardo families connected with the militias. At least those ancestors whom Juan Gabriel designated as leopards included his father and maternal and paternal grandfathers—all who had served in such units.16 Equally baffling, was Juan Gabriel’s declaration that his family had no blemish of slavery or African ancestry. If the family were pardos, they almost certainly had some ancestors who had been African slaves.17 Such contradictions raised an immediate question: If, as Juan Gabriel indicated, his family was mestizo or leopard and not descended from slaves— then why were they suffering the discriminations typically directed against pardos? His ambiguous answer was that even though the laws said that mestizos who were “free and legitimate” might serve in public offices and become priests, they still experienced prejudice. This was because “ordinarily they are born adulterous or of other illicit and punishable couplings which makes then infamous and ineligible.” This was not true of his family, as the Landaetas could demonstrate three generations of legitimate births. Even though Juan Gabriel suggested he was a mestizo, he did not identify with others of that caste. Rather, he considered that mestizos suffered from “bad upbringing, vicious and dreadful customs.” This combination of illegitimate birth and improper actions meant that even “well-informed persons” uniformly considered that “everyone of color” was “unworthy of

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society and participation in public honors.” Juan Gabriel’s petition resembled that of Guatemalan Bernardo Ramírez in that it critiqued the caste system that automatically deprived him of worth. The “vulgar preoccupation that prevails against persons of color” had unfairly denied him the “decorous establishment” of which he was “worthy.” Was there a strategy in Juan Gabriel’s attempts to appropriate mestizo status and to deny African slave ancestors? This would not be the only time that pardo and mulatto petitioners would try to blur caste categories in attempts to fit into the more favored grouping of mestizos. Since he petitioned prior to 1795, before the gracias al sacar specifically mentioned the categories of pardo and quinterón as eligible for exemption, he may have strategized that royal confirmation of his status as a mestizo was the most viable path to achieve whiteness. The question remains, if Juan Gabriel had some African blood, how could he disavow any slave origins? What he likely meant was that he could prove that no Landaetas had been slaves for three generations. He seems to have appropriated the three-generation standard traditionally used by Spaniards, as they counted back to prove their limpieza de sangre when they applied for entrance into the military or the university. Although he admitted that his family was “mixed,” he asserted that after three free generations they had erased both slave origins and African ancestry. The issue as to whether the castas might ever erase the stigma of descent from African slaves or if the traditional three-generation rule might serve as a standard would continue to be a debated topic. It is somewhat ironic, given Juan Gabriel Landaeta’s denial of any African blood, that it was his family’s long-term participation in the pardo militias that gave him considerable credentials to request royal favor. His paternal and maternal grandfathers, Basilio Landaeta and Juan Gabriel Cordero, have appeared earlier, as they had served, respectively, as captain and as lieutenant in the Caracas Battalion. His father, Miguel, had been active in the militia for fifty-two years, rising from regular soldier to the rank of captain. He had distinguished service, defending Caracas’s port of La Guaira against an English attack in 1743, pacifying an uprising in León in 1750, raising a second company of pardos in 1758 at the request of the governor, and guarding rebels before their transport back to Spain. Three of Juan Gabriel’s brothers had followed their father and grandfathers into the ranks. Even his wife, María Graciela, was the legitimate daughter of a



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Bejarano who had held the militia rank of captain. As noted in Chapter 4, these families had chosen to intermarry among themselves rather than form alliances with whites. Juan Gabriel’s refusal to admit that his family was pardo meant that he could not directly petition that officials make the family white, for if they were mestizos, they did not need such a dispensation. Instead, he asked royal officials to consider the merits of his father, father-in-law, and grand­fathers so that his “children, grandchildren and the rest of the family” would be able to marry whites and study for the priesthood. In effect, he asked for the privileges of whites, not to become white. Juan Gabriel apparently hoped that if the Cámara agreed that he was a mestizo, that they would simply confirm that he and his family should enjoy white perquisites. He did hedge his petition a bit, vaguely conceding that he wanted the family freed from “whatever defect that could be objectionable.” Such circumlocutions would only confuse royal officials and delay any decision on the case. While the documents that accompanied Juan Gabriel’s letter to the Cámara seem to be lost, his cover letter noted that he had supplied proof of his ancestry and the military service of his relatives. Also unknown is if the crown attorney who reviewed the file provided any consulta to the Cámara. By then, New Spain fiscal Antonio de Porlier had received his promotion, and his replacement, Ramón Rivera y Peña, who had served in the audiencias of Charcas and Lima, had been in the post for four months.18 It could be that he simply summarized the Venezuelan’s application without a recommendation. If he consulted the archive for precedents, he might have been particularly cautious, given that the Cámara had consistently rejected full whitenings. Whatever Fiscal Rivera y Peña wrote in his consulta, this time the Council of the Indies decided to intervene. Only two months after Juan Gabriel Landaeta applied, in April 1788, it “commanded” that the president and judges of the audiencia of Caracas investigate and provide information concerning the “content” of the petition.19 Whether the contradictory information in Juan Gabriel’s file confused the Council ministers and they needed clarification, or whether they wanted further information as they were seriously considering granting his request remained unknown. What is evident is that on the other side of the Atlantic, word had begun to spread on the streets of Caracas that a local pardo had petitioned for whitening. This information could have become public either when Diego

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Mexias Bejarano or Juan Gabriel Landaeta went to their parish to collect copies of the family baptismal certificates, or when Juan Gabriel took witness testimony to send with his application. The knowledge might also have filtered through the two families themselves, since they had intermarried and lived in the same patriarchal house in Altagracia. Possibly, they talked to friends about their hopes for whitening. It is intriguing to note that in their first reactions to public rumor, the elites on the Caracas city council seemed to have only a vague idea what might be happening. Even so, by late 1788, the cabildo had decided on a preemptive strike. It dispatched two lengthy letters, one on October 6 and another on October 13, to King Charles IV. It is imperative to contextualize these protests, as well as future outbursts from the Caracas establishment within the larger American response. Until this point, the only testimony that local elites had sent to Madrid ranged from lukewarm to enthusiastic, but they had generally been supportive of specific individuals. This was not unexpected, for it was logical that pardos would ask friends and colleagues to give evidence in their favor. From the 1780s until independence, this absence of protest from American elites remained the dominant pattern: the Caracas establishment would be alone in its complaints concerning whitening.20 Even the remonstrations of the Venezuelan elite—numerous and vigorous as they were—would not extend to all cases. Although Mantuanos complained specifically and repeatedly about the applications of the two related pardo families—the Landaetas and the Mexias Bejaranos—they did not protest when other Venezuelans applied and received whitening decrees. So how should historians weigh literally tens of pounds of documents protesting whitening from Caracas against less than an ounce from the rest of the Indies? Several scales need calibration. Given the frequency of whitening applications from Venezuela and the wails from local elites, the resultant impact on imperial policy remains a fundamental component of the whitening story. Still, the absence of protest from Venezuelan elites concerning some whitenings contrasted to vigorous complaints against others suggests there is a more complex regional tale. The even greater silence from the rest of the Americas—both in number of applications and protests against petitioners—remains an even more striking conundrum. Only by contextualizing such trends within local and imperial patterns might an outline eventually begin to emerge.21



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venezuel an exceptionalism What was happening in Venezuela? It is striking how scholars differ in their interpretation of two key issues: the presence or absence of political and socioracial tensions and the particular role played by the Caracas elite. P. Michael McKinley concluded that “late colonial Caracas” had a “relatively stable society with few simmering social or political tensions.”22 In contrast, Arlene Díaz counted fourteen riots and uprisings in the eighteenth century in the province, either against the cacao monopoly of the Caracas Company or combinations of Native, casta, and slave rebellions against elite domination.23 Venezuelan sociologist Laureano Vallenilla Lanz characterized the “intimate history of the urban centers” as epitomized by a “constant fight, a daily clash . . . of the castas” against the “profound and implacable hatred” of the elites.24 Historians also differ in their evaluation of the role of the Caracas elite. Those at the top were, according to Frédérique Langue, a self-aware cohort composed of thirteen extended “family clans.”25 To McKinley, the Mantuanos were the epitome of strength and cohesiveness. Far from being “on the defensive,” they exhibited a “new assertiveness borne of economic success, social pre-eminence and awareness of political strength.”26 Could this be the same elite described by Alí Enrique López Bohórquez who traced the “permanent conflict and tensions” in which the cabildo regularly rebelled against its “oppressive governors?”27 Alternatively, was this an elite whose “loss of autonomy and power” through Bourbon reforms deprived them, according to Arlene Díaz, of patriarchal control, particularly the ability to foreclose any upward mobility of the castas through marriage or the purchase of whiteness?28 One of the continuing challenges in understanding what was happening in Caracas is negotiating among such different interpretations. There may be one clue: the topic studied seems to affect the conclusion. McKinley explores economic trends and elite wills and sees growth, cohesiveness, and stability; López Bohórquez studies Bourbon political reforms and charts tension and conflict; Vallenilla Lanz analyzes casta-white relations and chronicles oppression and resistance; and Díaz probes gender roles and patriarchy and portrays an elite challenged. Elements of all of these interpretations could be contradictory and could be occurring. In contrast, Santos Rodulfo Cortés seldom focuses on any of these themes—rather, he

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concentrates on whitening cases. As a result, he also misses a larger framework, for it remains unclear the extent that protests against the gracias al sacar might be related to other economic, political, and socioracial trends occurring in the late colony.29 To attempt to understand Caracas, context is all. If, as those pounds of petitions and protest documents against whitening suggest, conditions in Caracas and coastal Venezuela formed the vortex to create a perfect storm, what made this region unique? A first answer might be that fundamental patterns marking two key variables—socioracial tensions and elite maintenance of local political control—were not particularly distinctive. In Caracas, as throughout the Indies, there were always blacks, pardos, and mulattos who defied discriminatory legislation and local repression, who sought upward mobility by whitening through intimate connections, who achieved economic success, and who performed royal service. Urban elites not only in Caracas but everywhere in the Americas organized their municipal councils to promote their own economic and social status and discriminated against everyone else. What seems to have differed in Caracas was that such trends became extreme: there was substantial pardo presence; there had been significant mobility; and there existed intense repression. Such a combination created an atmosphere where not only whites but every casta category—pardos, mulattos, tercerones, quarterones, quinterones, mestizos, zambos, slaves, and Natives—engaged in exquisite calibrations of those genealogical linkages that created their distinctive designations. The local elite complicated social and racial hypersensitivities when it engaged in preemptive and aggressive measures, using its control of the city council to further its interests and maintain hierarchy. Tracing some telling incidents surrounding issues of caste status and elite interventions provides some insight into the world inhabited by first cousins Diego Mexias Bejarano and Juan Gabriel Landaeta, as they began their quest for whiteness in the late 1780s and early 1790s. Caracas was—first of all—a city and a region of freedmen. As French traveler François Raymond Joseph de Pons noted (1801–1803): “It is probable that there is not in the whole West Indies a city where there are so many freed persons or descendants of them, in proportion to the other classes, as in Caracas.”30 While he and Alexander von Humboldt (1799–1804) differed somewhat in their calculations of the total population of the captaincy



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general ranging from 728,000 (Pons) to 800,000 (Humboldt), both agreed that the free casta population at 40 percent (Pons) or 50 percent (Humboldt) significantly outweighed the whites.31 Pardos posed a challenge to elites not only because of their numbers but because they had developed their own hierarchy and identification. As Luis Pellicer has noted, although there was tension at all levels, the most pointed clashes occurred between the Mantuanos and elite pardos, including the Landaetas and Mexias Bejaranos.32 This cohort coalesced around the parish church of Altagracia, originally built by mulattos in the seventeenth century.33 The result, although the city’s churches were not segregated, was a “stratification of society by places of worship.”34 Altagracia became a center where the castas might celebrate their achievements and hold positions denied them elsewhere in Caracas: the pardo militias participated in an annual march that ended in the church at Altagracia; pardos could become mayordomos, or parish officers, in Altagracia.35 When María Raphaela Landaeta established a chaplaincy (capellanía), she did so in Altagracia, a position that the Landaetas and Mexias Bejaranos hoped a relative might eventually fill.36 It was no accident that when both families petitioned for whitening, they mentioned their hope that members might someday become priests. Two incidents in 1774, one over militia participation and another over dress, reveal the intensity of both pardo and white self-identity. Both groups engaged in scrupulous parsing of casta categories as they identified those they considered inferior. Typical was the experience of Juan Bautista Arias who sought to enter a Caracas pardo battalion and who eventually appealed to royal officials when officers refused to accept him. It is telling that pardos used similar language and rationale in rejecting him that white elites employed to discriminate against them. Pardos used the proximity argument to justify their refusal to enroll Juan Bautista Arias in the militia. They argued that if they accepted him it would debase their own standing.37 Reminding the captain general of their “vigilance in the service of your majesty,” the officers explained that it would be wrong to ask them to include “in their military exercises a subject who in all times we have denied our side in all our public and domestic meetings.” It is striking that some official had not only underlined the text but also marked a “look at this” (ojo) at the side of the document, suggesting that the potency

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of the assertion impressed the reader. The proximity argument proved as meaningful a justification for pardos to discriminate against other castas as for whites to discriminate against them. Militia members underscored their rejection by invoking the public-private duality, suggesting that Arias was not someone with whom they would socialize in either sphere. What had Arias done to arouse the wrath of the militia? The officers’ answer was that he was not a pardo. Rather, they provided a genealogy that noted that his paternal grandparents included a “mulatto” married with “negra” while his maternal grandparents were an “Indian” married with “mulatto.” Given these combinations, the militia representatives calculated that Juan Bautista was a “sambo,” or a mixture of “mulatto and negro” with “Indian.” They considered this combination inferior, given that those who served in their battalion proceeded from the mixture of “white and black or at least of tercerón with quarterón or quinterón.” Unlike Juan Bautista, those in the pardo militia were becoming lighter, as they were “growing closer each time more to the whites, while they were distancing themselves from the blacks.” Since they concluded that Juan Bautista “was not legitimately pardo, he could not be enrolled in the battalion.” Just as whites rejected them, so the pardos used casta categories and the proximity argument to exclude a “subject” who they deemed “repugnant.”38 Such willingness to discriminate against anyone considered of inferior status permeated every layer of society. Battles over caste categories not only occurred in the militias; another common ground for conflict was at church. The same year, in 1774, a scandal occurred in Coro after the audiencia ruled that a María Francisca de la Peña and her daughters would be able to wear lace on their veils.39 While sumptuary legislation was common throughout the Indies, in Venezuela even informal practices reached extremes. It is no accident that lace-laden veils, or mantas, were the distinctive signature that named the elite—the Mantuanos.40 In this case, the ruling proved noteworthy, for it meant much more than that this mother and daughter might wear decorated head coverings. Rather, it exempted them from laws that forbade “sambas, mulattos, and freed women” to wear such dress.41 The result was that they and their descendants would—since they could wear clothes reserved for whites—become closer to whiteness. Local elites railed against this judgment decrying the “scandals, seditions and disturbances typical of mulatto-ness (mulatismo).”



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Venezuelans fought not only over veils but also over pillows and rugs. Only elite women might command a slave or servant to carry such items on which they would kneel, a privilege denied to others. François Raymond Joseph de Pons noted that white women . . . have always asserted the exclusive privilege of using in church carpets, which are, carried there by their servants. She who has one drop of African blood flowing in her veins must not pretend to this piece of convenience. The petticoats of those women whose complexions are tinged by the slightest shade of black are condemned to be soiled by the dusty floor of the church.42

The goal was to differentiate elites from the castas, depriving the latter of wearing “sumptuous profane outfits.”43 As Alejandro Cañeque noted, it is essential not to dismiss what seem petty squabbles, but rather to understand the significance of “the rituals of power and the power of rituals.”44 Such confrontations were “much more than quaint aspects . . . lacking in importance and meaning.” Rather, they “were clear indicators of the existence of different political views and of the struggles that went on among the members of the ruling elite in an effort to impose a particular political vision.”45 Into this already smoldering fire of caste sensibility and contention, the crown tossed further fireworks—the Pragmatic Sanction on Marriages—in 1778, providing whites and pardo militia officers with the power to petition the state to prohibit the marriage of their offspring with those of unequal class or caste.46 Venezuelans, already obsessed with the intricacies of socioracial designations, ignored these restricting guidelines. Castas of all varieties, including slaves, became involved in calculating the status of the engaged. Luis Pellicer counted a remarkable 781 cases of matrimonial dissent filed between 1778 and 1820.47 Venezuelan priests not only found themselves on the front lines of enforcing the Pragmatic Sanction on Marriages, they appeared quite willing to do so. In 1789, clerics queried the audiencia: what should they do if a prospective couple of unequal caste status appeared to be wed and if there was no family protest?48 Should they perform the ceremony or should they notify local officials who might look for other relatives to forbid the marriage? The next year, the Council of the Indies responded that priests might proceed with the ceremony if parents approved, although after 1805 they gave the audiencia permission to intervene and halt unequal marriages.49

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As the Pragmatic Sanction went into effect and fanned Venezuelans’ obsession with caste categories, the partidas, or sections, where priests listed the status of the newborn became sites for combat. The problem was that such records proved to be contradictory, inconsistent, and, in some places, fraudulent. If a parent or guardian filed a dissent (disenso), the first official documents consulted were the baptismal certificates of the engaged, as well as those of their ancestors so as to gauge quality (calidad). This led to a notable run on the ecclesiastical court as Venezuelans presented themselves to church judges appealing their placement in the partidas, asking that they be moved from one book to another and producing, as the audiencia complained, “lawsuits and dissentions.”50 In 1789, the audiencia summarized some of the problems surrounding casta designations and attempted to find solutions. It noted that in one parish, a Joseph Antonio Naranjo had appeared as the pardo father of a baby girl in 1772, and years later he resurfaced as her white father when he led her as a bride to the altar. While, as Chapter 4 has noted, such upward mobility was not necessarily rare, in Venezuela where it was customary to scrutinize caste status meticulously, such contradictions were more likely to lead to challenges and end in litigation. The solution of the audiencia was to order that parish priests henceforth maintain strict divisions in the parish registers. They were to locate slaves in a separate category rather than include them, as had occurred in some places, among the castas. “Mulattos, zambos and other castes” should also have their special section. In those instances, clerics were to provide detailed listings: “if they are offspring of white and pardos of the first order or quarterones or of an Indian woman and mulatto or black.” The goal was to “distinguish the quality of each one.” The audiencia recognized that differentiating among categories would be a tricky task. Their concern was that “among the castas” there was “much difference not only in their birth, but in their good bearing and conduct.” They feared that “true zambos or mulattos” would be lumped with “those that only have a slight stain in some of their remote ancestors and perhaps through the maternal line.” It is notable that those with such “slight stain” were the product of those multigenerational intimate relationships with whites that produced informal mobilities. Also evident was that elites did not view white male connections with parda females in the same negative light as descent from a casta male.



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In order to avoid problems in the future, the audiencia ordered local priests to make their placements in the partidas and their descriptions of caste status “known to the parents and the godparents of the baptized and the married.” That way, if there were some mistake, the parties could appeal before church judges or, if necessary, the audiencia. Officials also commanded the bishop to inform his parish priests that under “no pretext, cause or motive” were they permitted to move listings without a civil process. The interested parties had to file a “declaration concerning the quality of the petitioners” with cabildo officials charged to defend the elite’s interests. What was the reaction of the Caracas elite and particularly the municipal council to this heightened sensitivity to socioracial status? On one hand, the Pragmatic Sanction worked to its advantage, for it provided white parents and guardians with leverage to prevent rebellious offspring from marrying those considered unequal. Yet, from another perspective, the measure seemed only to contribute to an already well-developed elite suspicion against the pretensions of the castas, an apprehension only compounded by its matching distrust of local royal officials. Understanding the unique roles played by the Mantuano elite, the cabildo, and the audiencia is also essential in understanding those protest documents from Caracas. An incident from 1790, as the audiencia tried to solve the problematic baptismal and marriage entries and particularly to impede attempts by Venezuelans to effect post hoc alterations in such listings, provides insight into the attitude of Caracas elites.51 After all, in essence the city council had won. The audiencia had sided with local elites and had empowered the cabildo: they had ordered the bishop and his clerics not to move plaintiffs from one caste category to another without the knowledge and approval of the “ordinary justice”—that is, the municipal council. Even so, the response of elites was to denounce the bishop and priests and charge that they were continuing to move entries without their approval. The cabildo asked for additional powers so that its members might appear before the audiencia “to protest the movement of whatever listing.” In response, audiencia fiscal Julián Díaz de Saravia reproved the cabildo. He pointed out that the bishops and priests had vowed that they would obey and not alter listings. Since officials had not provided proof—names and dates of persons moved illegally—he could not take their charges seriously. The city council then pushed for even further control: they wanted their procurador general to be present whenever applicants for public posts or

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admission to the university or to the priesthood presented proof of their clean blood (limpieza de sangre). The goal was to monitor such declarations, thereby preventing any subterfuge that might promote pardo or mulatto mobility. Specifically, the cabildo charged that university professors had complained that some had violated the clean blood ordinances given that “in their classes there were mulattos.” What was going on here? Was the cabildo paranoid? This would not be the only time that elites would charge that other members of the Caracas establishment, be it the university, the church, or the audiencia, were not to be trusted in maintaining the existing hierarchy. Such belligerence underscores McKinley’s characterization that the “almost collective leadership” of the elite, including its “cohesiveness,” was “perhaps unique in the empire.”52 The Mantuanos were “prepared to defend their interests actively and politically as social classes and as individuals.”53 While cabildos throughout the Indies reflected elite concerns, it would be difficult to find a municipal council that did so as aggressively and single-mindedly as Caracas. What had produced such intense self-identification and willingness to act? Ironically, negligence might be the first answer. For the first two colonial centuries, Venezuela was a periphery. Lacking substantial indigenous population or mineral resources, it was not until the eighteenth century that the region assumed economic importance. As elites imported a later wave of slaves and as small producers diversified into cacao, coffee, and indigo, the colony developed a “truly remarkable” variety of exports.54 This general economic upturn in coastal Venezuela combined with diversification to make it possible for elite families to conserve and build wealth, passing it to succeeding generations. The three-generation cycle characteristic of the “rise and fall of family fortunes visible in other Spanish colonies” proved to be “markedly less prevalent in Caracas.”55 Such longevity combined with family intermarriages to promote a distinctive elite identity. The two centuries where Caracas figured as an imperial backwater also left a distinctive legacy concerning governance. Unlike other regions, Caraqueños experienced Spanish administration—“light.” That is, the only visible imperial presence was the governor, as the crown relegated higher judicial and administrative functions to audiencias either in Santo Domingo or in Colombia (New Granada), depending on the jurisdictional epoch.56 Given the distances, the result was substantially lesser intrusion by higher administrative bodies in local affairs.



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Instead, the crown empowered Caracas elites, for if the governor was absent or deceased, the municipal council assumed authority. This had given the “creole Venezuelan aristocracy” as López Bohórquez notes, “a certain autonomy and authority.”57 It was not until the 1730s that the crown appointed the bishop (1733) and later a lieutenant governor (1736) to substitute in the absence of the governor rather than the Caracas cabildo.58 Even though it no longer acted in the governor’s stead, the Caracas city council proved more than ready to play power games and attempt to undermine his authority. In 1769, the cabildo bypassed the regular administrative chain, which included the governor, and took its case directly to the Council of the Indies.59 Noting the population growth of the province, and the difficulties that occurred given the nearest court for judicial appeal was currently in Santo Domingo, the cabildo asked the king to upgrade provincial government and to establish an audiencia. While this rationale was valid, it appears the cabildo had an underlying motivation. Their hope was that the arrival of the audiencia would divide authority, permitting them to play each body against each other, and particularly limiting “the excessive power of the governors.”60 The Council of the Indies was not amused at the aggressiveness of a municipal council that had bypassed regular administrative channels. It denounced the cabildo, describing its petition as “unfounded, unreasonable and lacking support.” Ministers reminded city officials that the governor was “superior” to them and they should not have “promoted such projects without the notice, consent and approval of the said governor.” It condemned the cabildo’s actions as “disturbing and seditious.” Even though rebuffed by the Council of the Indies, Caracas elites continued assertively to forward their own interests. They led the fight against the cacao monopoly of the Caracas Company until its abolition in 1784.61 They elected relatives repeatedly to local posts, discriminating against the incorporation of newly arrived Spaniards. This eventually led to a royal order forcing them to rotate cabildo positions among creoles and peninsulares. The elite response was to demand documentation of limpieza de sangre from Spaniards to make it more difficult for them to prove their eligibility for positions.62 When, with Bourbon reform, the crown finally established an audiencia in Caracas in 1786, the city council found further cause for discontent. Even though the local audiencia did not intervene in ways that were unusual

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elsewhere in the empire, such attention was new and unwelcome to the Caracas elite.63 Given the daily prestige battles over veils and pillows that took place in church, one order from audiencia fiscal Saravia had to be particularly galling. In 1787, he informed local officials that they would no longer be able to attend mass sitting on special chairs with pillows, as the “legislation of the Indies” only permitted them assigned seats on “benches.”64 As López Bohórquez noted, even though this was a “trivial confrontation” it did have a “notable social repercussion.”65 Audiencia ministers had made clear that they would not tolerate the “smallest contravention” of laws by the municipal council. While previously the Caracas cabildo had planned to use the newly arrived audiencia to undermine the powers of the governor, they now they reversed course and attempted to manipulate the governor against the audiencia. As was customary elsewhere in the Americas, the audiencia ordered the city council to report to them in early January with the names of their annually elected officers. The cabildo refused, pointing out that such a practice would contradict their tradition of reporting to the governor. In 1790, the Council of the Indies ordered local officials to make a formal visit to receive the audiencia’s approval of election results, thereby thwarting their “desire to not feel inferior.”66 In the next years, the municipal council would fight with the audiencia over trivial and serious issues. Not surprisingly, the petitions of pardos for whitening would figure among such confrontations.

protest letters to the king Understanding these intense Venezuelan sensitivities concerning caste status, the anxiety brought by the Pragmatic Sanction on Marriages, and the suspicions of the cabildo concerning fraudulent designations on official documents provides a deeper context to revisit the 1787 petition of Juan Gabriel Landaeta and consider the elite’s response. On the issue of fraud or—at the least—improper certification, the distrust of the city council might have had some justification. It remains unknown, given the documents are lost, how Juan Gabriel Landaeta had been able to obtain any local authorization to inform the Council of the Indies that he was a leopard or a mestizo rather than a pardo. Given that the Landaetas served in the pardo militias, it seems impossible that local officials would have approved any other des-



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ignation. Although this issue would eventually appear, it was not destined to surface immediately. Rather, on October 6 and October 13, 1788, in its preemptive strike, the Caracas cabildo council dispatched lengthy letters to Charles IV. Evidence from the cabildo’s petitions suggests that members were unaware who had requested whiteness, much less that he termed himself a leopard. Instead, the municipal council revealed that it was publicly spoken in the city that free pardos, or some of them, have alleged that Your Majesty . . . among other things would grant the privilege that they might be admitted to holy orders and permit them to contract marriage with white persons, which would result in very notable public prejudice.67

The cabildo then laid out its first arguments against the whitening option. Read against its historic assertiveness and aggressiveness—against caste mobility, the governor, the Caracas Company, the audiencia—the letter appears less an anomaly. It seems more characteristic for the Caracas cabildo to be proactive and to react, rather than to retreat. What the city council did not protest appears as significant as any complaints. Given Hispanic traditions concerning transformation of defect, it should not surprise that elites did not challenge the monarch’s authority to relieve such deficits of birth.68 Nor did it question that the transformation from pardo to white might be possible. Rather, members focused their arguments to underscore why pardos should not become priests, marry whites, and why such mobility threatened the class structure. While the Caracas elite did not directly refer to previous decrees that permitted mulattos to practice occupations reserved to whites, they attacked any similarities in rationale that would condone them becoming priests. In the case of surgeons and notaries, scarcity had created a demand, and mulattos had found informal paths to acquire the necessary skills. The city council pointedly reminded the Cámara that there was no shortage of clergy and therefore “certainly was no need of them.”69 Nor could pardos receive sufficient education to take holy orders, given that imperial ordinances barred them from the university and from monastery schools. As a result, they received only the “little education that their parents can give them” due to their “poverty” as well as the “absence of public schools.” It is telling that the cabildo had failed to make the connection that if mulattos became white, they would be able to attend the University

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of Caracas. Nor did they acknowledge that there existed an elite pardo cohort that might easily afford private tutors and university fees.70 The high status of the priesthood was another reason to deny pardo entrance to the profession. The city council predicted that whites would look with “horror” and “contempt” if nonwhites held positions that were “holy” and “distinguished.” The presence of pardo clerics at public ceremonies and processions would demean the “most solemn and most visible gatherings.” Since every priest merited deference, elites would have to show respect to ordained mulattos who currently were “not offered seats in our houses nor our arms on the streets.”71 Not surprisingly, the cabildo also rejected the marriage of pardos with whites as this would result in “confusion in families” given the impossibility of determining who had mixed and who had not. The result would be lawsuits and “pernicious discords.” Even if parents or relatives gave permission for such a ceremony to occur, “matrimony with a person of the class of pardos would never lead to good.” The city council pointed out that intermarriage would also mean that there would be fewer men who would be white, and therefore qualified to serve in public office. Members seemed not to comprehend that if pardos received whitening decrees that they would be eligible for such positions. Municipal officials concluded with what would become another recurring theme: the whitening of pardos would undermine the established class structure. The cabildo noted that the Laws of the Indies determined the status of pardos through denial of public office and through sumptuary regulations forbidding they wear “silk, gold and silver.” The cabildo begged the king not to undermine such distinctions, as it was “prejudicial to the public good.” On October 13, the Caracas cabildo penned its second letter to Charles IV. In the interim members had determined that it was no longer rumor but “certain” that a pardo had petitioned for whiteness.72 Apparently, members still had only hazy information on the specifics of what must have been street gossip concerning Juan Gabriel Landaeta’s application for whitening. The city council also seemed confused on a larger issue: they wondered whether these privileges would accrue to “all or some of them.” As Guatemalan petitioner Bernardo Ramírez had suggested and as Fiscal Antonio de Porlier had considered, the question was still open if the crown should



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award whitening as a favor to a rare few, or to some designated cohorts, or if it preshadowed expansive mobility for the masses. The cabildo’s second, much longer letter (October 13, 1788) followed the themes of the first, but added supporting details and new accusations. It first repeated the “no need” for additional priests theme. The city council’s letter made clear that there were “growing numbers” of “young whites” to enter the clergy.” Since “every day” the number of eligible families increased in Caracas, there would be no lack of those who can “carry out the offices of the Church.” As in their previous letter, the Caracas elite tried to parlay the absence of educational opportunities for pardos as another reason why they should not enter the priesthood. The cabildo reemphasized that neither the “seminary” nor the “university” nor the “religious convents” accepted pardos and mulattos as students, and so they had only a “coarse” schooling. How could those who were so uneducated understand the “sacred canons” much less enforce the edicts of the Council of Trent? What city council members did not seem to consider was that there were imperial officials who might be less impressed with this line of reasoning. After all, Fiscal Manuel Miguel Lanz de Casafonda had commented sympathetically about pardo admission to American universities when he reviewed the petition of Manuel Báez.73 The low social status of the castas was another reason the cabildo opposed their entrance into the priesthood, as such clerics would naturally participate in public and solemn gatherings. “How many whites,” they asked, “would want to suffer this embarrassment?”74 Local elites cringed at the possibility of attending such festivities with “the very same who were slaves . . . or that descended from them.” They invoked the proximity argument, concluding that if pardos took holy orders that even whites with a vocation would no longer enter the priesthood, given the necessity to mingle with inferiors. The second attempt of the Caracas city council to prevent the castas from marrying whites proved even more scorching. They pointed out that there were sufficient of each group to marry “within their own sphere” and therefore no need for mixing. Nor did whites—with the exception of a few with “little talent and disorderly conduct” choose to marry mulattos. Rather, it was the pardos who “court alliance with the whites.” Mixed marriages

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would produce “an internecine war” within families leading to “disagreements” between “parents, children, siblings and relatives.” More than in their first letter, cabildo officials emphasized the low status of pardos within the community. Elites viewed them with “highest contempt” due to their “origin” to the “tributes that your royal laws impose on them” and the “honors” deprived them. The city council reminded the king that pardos “had to descend precisely from slaves, of illegitimate offspring, because those called mulattos or pardos are those that carry their origin from the union of whites with blacks.” The cabildo concluded that pardos were deliberately attempting to undermine the social order. While this would become a common refrain, at this point elites feared casta mobility within the imperial system; in later years, they would challenge pardo loyalty to the crown. The cabildo railed against the “abundance of pardos that there are in this province, their arrogant and haughty nature, the determination that one notes in them to equal themselves with whites.” If the monarch failed to act, the municipal council feared that mulattos would become “insufferable in their arrogance and in a short time they will want to dominate those who in the beginning had been their masters.”75 Officials concluded somewhat lamely that if it was not the entire class of pardos but only “certain families” that sought “singularity,” this was also “detestable” and “not worthy” of a favorable opinion. This final comment seems to confirm that elites still did not have much information on who had submitted a petition.

the audiencia in vestigates Matters simmered from October 1788 through May 1789 until the Caracas audiencia finally sent the report requested by the Council of the Indies concerning Juan Gabriel Landaeta’s petition. The delay of more than a year since the Council had asked for the information seems significant, for the turnaround time from Caracas to Madrid took months—perhaps the audiencia delayed a difficult task.76 It dispatched a recommendation based on the report of Oidor Don Francisco Ignacio Cortines who had conducted the background investigation of the Landaetas. Since Cortines did not seem to have access to the documents that Juan Gabriel Landaeta had sent to the



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Council of the Indies, declaring himself a “leopard” and a “mestizo,” he instead relied on local sources. Oidor Cortines began his report with the comment that he had served in the province for ten years and knew the Landaetas and Mexias Bejaranos. He had copied the marriage certificates of the paternal and maternal grandparents of Juan Gabriel Landaeta and his wife. He had also received “trustworthy and impartial information” from “elderly persons.” He rather surprisingly confirmed that neither family had backgrounds with “slavery, illegitimacy nor other birth defect.” Since both families were pardos, this must have meant that Cortines counted back only three generations concerning slavery, ignoring the issue of pardo-ness, as had Juan Gabriel in his application. The official reported that the families had conserved their “honor,” been “quiet residents,” and had “honest habits.” Their service in the pardo militias had been distinguished and merited “particular appreciation.” Audiencia officials then added to the oidor’s comments. They reported that an official from the Caracas city council had presented them with a copy of its letter to the king protesting the “prejudices and inconveniences” of whitening pardos.77 The audiencia strongly agreed with the arguments of the cabildo, for they feared that the petition of Landaeta would have “the gravest consequences.” It observed that “there were many other families of his color awaiting the outcome of his aspiration to put forward this precedent in their own favor, to marry with white persons . . . and to participate in the duties, employment and public appointments” reserved for whites. The audiencia concluded that the province would fall into “decay” if the Landaetas obtained royal favor “against the fundamental laws of the government of these kingdoms.” It is notable that even while royal officials sided with the Caracas city council, there is no evidence that they informed them, much less even hinted that they sympathized with them. It seems likely that the continued tension between the municipal council and the audiencia led to this substantive failure to communicate. Such disjunction became manifest the next month, for in June 1789 the municipal council, never a shrinking violet, complained directly and bitterly to the Council of the Indies concerning the audiencia and the governor. They explained that after they had learned that the audiencia was investigating the pardo issue, they had provided judges with a copy of their protests to the king. At the meeting, cabildo members had also requested to see the documents collected by Oidor Don Francisco Ignacio Cortines when he

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had gathered information for the Council of the Indies. Twice the audiencia had refused to reveal this data—properly so—since their mandate was to report to Madrid not to local officials. Nor were audiencia officials likely to be sympathetic—-even informally—to a cabildo that regularly challenged its authority. This refusal of the audiencia to disclose the results of Cortines’s investigation of the Landaetas would have long-term consequences. It left the cabildo suspicious and outraged and unaware that the audiencia strongly supported its position. In later years, elites would assert that Oidor Cortines had sent misleading information to Madrid, that he favored the whitening of pardos and the mingling of whites and castas.78 Even Captain General Pedro Carbonell would suggest that Cortines was pro-pardo.79 Although some historians, including Rodulfo Cortés, concluded that this was so, the evidence is not compelling.80 Cortines had reported accurately but with little enthusiasm concerning the petition of the Landaetas. He had joined with the rest of the audiencia to condemn pardo whitening. Even as the cabildo continued to rail against Cortines, their protest letter to the Council of the Indies revealed that members still had only a hazy and mistaken idea of what was happening. They remained unsure if it were “free pardos” as a group or “some families of them” that had petitioned. Local officials guessed—wrongly at this point—that Diego Mexias Bejarano, not his cousin, Juan Gabriel Landaeta, had sent documents to Spain. The confusion seems to have resulted because cabildo members had learned that Diego Mexias Bejarano had received permission from the governor to collect testimony on his behalf. This was a sensitive issue, given the city council’s determination that only they had the right to validate casta designations in official documents to prevent any obfuscation. Apparently, Diego had bypassed the local official who typically supervised such depositions. The municipal council therefore concluded that he was the one who had submitted a whitening petition, even though he was yet to do so. Members complained against the “injustice” of the audiencia and railed against the governor for taking testimony without the presence of the appropriate local official. They appealed to the Council of the Indies “to deny the pretensions of the pardo [Mexias] Bejaranos.” This must have confused officials in Madrid who had only received the petition of the Landaetas and had not yet heard from the other family.



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w hite petitions Given the hypersensitivity concerning caste status, given the tension occasioned by the Pragmatic Sanction on Marriages, given the rumors swirling in the streets of Caracas concerning pardo aspirations, it is not surprising that others must have been thinking, talking, and worrying about whitening. During the next few months, from September 1789 to February 1790, the Cámara received petitions from Don Joseph Briceño concerning his parda wife and children and from sisters Doña Ana Dalmasia Almeyda and Doña Juliana María Almeyda regarding the hazy status of their mother. In contrast to the requests from pardo males, these applications involved white attempts to leverage status for pardo family members. These cases provide a unique opportunity to explore if the Cámara handled petitions from whites differently than petitions from pardos and to gauge the response of local elites to these types of requests. They arrived at a time when—with the death of Fiscal Ramón Rivera y Peña in July 1789—the Council of the Indies would begin to feel the full brunt of the delays occasioned by the Bourbon policy to appoint officials currently serving in the Americas as crown attorneys.81 Fiscal Cistué y Coll would have to handle all the business from the Americas by himself for the next year. The first letter to arrive at Cistué y Coll’s desk was from Don Joseph Briceño from Maracaibo, who wrote in September 1789 asking that the Cámara whiten his parda wife Petronila and their offspring. Her story has appeared earlier, for the liaisons of her mother and grandmother with white males led to upward mobility for Petronila, culminating in her marriage to Don Joseph.82 He cited his and his brothers’ “services in the last uprisings” in Colombia, where he fought against the Revolt of the Comuneros (1781), as a reason why the monarch might grant this favor.83 He asked that his wife and offspring “be reputed as individuals of the class of whites in spite of any contrary rumor.” Five months later, in February 1790, the Almeyda sisters of Caracas sent a letter to Madrid asking that the Council of the Indies confirm that they, as well as their five brothers and sisters, were white. The problem, the sisters admitted, was the baptismal certificate of their mother, Rosalia Solórzano. While the listing showed “no defect in her quality,” it remained “indifferent” as to whether she was white.84 In the oversensitive environment of Caracas, such an absence could create problems. The result, the sisters

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admitted, was that even though the family used the honorific titles of Don and Doña, “many of the lower orders deny them the legitimate inheritance of their quality” given that “their mother does not appear [listed as white] as their father.” The sisters pleaded that royal officials rule that the limpieza of their father was paramount, and that the ambiguous status of their mother should be ignored. While the Almeyda sisters sent thirty-eight pages of proof concerning the ancestry of their Canary Island father, they rather suspiciously included nothing concerning their mother. The sisters argued that the noble status of their male ancestors should overpower any ambiguity concerning maternal inheritance. Their case would languish for two years without a decision until the newly appointed crown attorney for New Spain arrived and began to catch up with the accumulated paperwork. Compared to the Almeydas, the Briceños had somewhat better luck, for ten months after their application, in July 1790, Fiscal Cistué y Coll considered their petition. His consulta took the Cámara further down the path toward granting whiteness, for he did not reject the petition out of hand. Rather, he introduced a set of variables—caste status, local impact, appearance, and passing—to consider in any whitening decision. He wondered openly if Petronila was “black or mulatta, slave or free,” noting that this absence of specificity made it difficult to evaluate if her “defect” was open to “dispensation.”85 The impact of whitening on the local community was also a concern, in this case because Don Joseph and Petronila had been notably prolific, producing six sons and eleven daughters. Fiscal Cistué y Coll feared that if the Briceños’ seventeen offspring became white, they would “want to enjoy all the distinctions pertaining to their class,” including marrying into “the most distinguished families of that district.” He saw this as a problem given that there were “such a copious number of said offspring,” a situation made even worse given that all seventeen were single. Such an infusion of newly whitened Briceños into the local marriage market made him reluctant “to concede a favor that would redound in grave prejudice to third parties” and—here he wrote those fatal words—“produce many other inconveniences.” The implication seemed to be that if there had been fewer Briceños that the crown might have been more willing to grant the favor. Although Fiscal Cistué y Coll recognized the “merits and circumstances” of the case—Don Joseph’s right to invoke reciprocity—his first recommen-



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dation was that the Cámara reject the petition. However, just as in the case of Guatemalan Bernardo Ramírez, where bureaucrats had tried to find some suitable alternative reward, he did not seem willing to exclude a happy conclusion. Cistué y Coll left an opening, suggesting that if Briceño clarified “the true quality of his wife,” the Cámara might reconsider. When the Council of the Indies received this recommendation, they decided to be proactive and seek further information, just as they had in the case of Juan Gabriel Landaeta. Even before the issuance of the 1795 gracias al sacar, ministers of the Council seemed willing to consider alternative options rather than take the simplest solution of quickly denying a petition. Two weeks after they received the consulta, the Council wrote the governor of Maracaibo (July 14, 1790) and asked him “to inform specifically” concerning the “calidad” of Petronila. Events were on the move in Maracaibo as well, for in December 1790, Don Joseph Briceño had begun to round up witnesses to strengthen his case. Perhaps his representative in Madrid suggested this strategy, given the comments of the Council. His aim was to establish a critical point in the family’s favor—that Petronila and their offspring passed as white in local society. Don Joseph gathered testimony concerning Petronila’s history, her appearance, the occupation of a nephew, and her acceptance as a social peer. Witness Diego de Gallegos confirmed the first three variables when he gave evidence that Petronila had never been subjected to “servitude,” nor did “her aspect manifest it.” He added that she had a nephew who was a cleric. Given the opposition in Venezuela to admit pardos to the priesthood, evidence that Petronila’s nephew was passing sufficiently to be ordained was further proof of the whiteness of relatives on her side of the family. Gallegos added that Petronila had received “equal treatment” by “persons of the first rank in all the gatherings of civil society.” A series of witnesses testified that even though Petronila and her offspring were pardos, they mingled easily in elite society. Don Francisco Xavier del Rosario agreed that he not only knew Petronila “well” but could vouch for the “equality” of her treatment “among persons of the first class.” He noted that even if there had been some question of her ancestry, “it was now confused,” due to the “estimation” accorded her. This, he concluded, meant that elites considered her “clean as other families that formerly were marked with equal defect.” Such strong recommendations from the Maracaibo elite

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stood in stark contrast to the cries of protest of the Caracas cabildo, or the still unresolved petition of Juan Gabriel Landaeta who had provided no whites to testify in his favor. Two months later, in February 1791, Don Antonio Ventura de Taranco, the governor of Maracaibo, finally reported to the Council of the Indies concerning the whitening of Petronila. He had consulted “persons knowledgeable and zealous in the service of God and Your Majesty.” These had confirmed the “good services” that Don Joseph had provided during the Revolt of the Comuneros, as he had “gathered neighbors for this action, maintained them at his cost and commanded them with valor.” As for the “note of mulatta” of Petronila, the governor admitted that “he had not seen a juridical document that confirms it” although he was inclined to believe it, given that Don Joseph “has confessed to have married with inequality.” Governor Taranco then provided his own somewhat quirky insight into the vagaries of the caste system in Venezuela. He emphasized not the tension but rather suggested that its flexibility might be conducive to a favorable outcome for Petronila. He noted “in spite of long experience . . . in the lands of America” that he had observed a “certain caprice” given that locals only recognized “whites, mulattos and blacks.” The result was that sometimes “many persons of the first” or white classification, either due to poverty or malice, descended in status and became “confused” with those of lower rank. Governor Taranco suggested that such lowering of caste status need not necessarily be permanent. Some who “suffer that note for a long time” eventually produced documents “to find themselves not only placed in the class of whites, but in that of nobles.” Given that movement in and out of whiteness was not unusual, the governor’s implication was that a favorable verdict for Petronila would not be socially disruptive since it would but officially confirm what was already happening informally. Compared to the outrage of the Caracas establishment, the support of the Maracaibo governor for the whitening option is notable, providing an alternative view of caste mobility. Even in Venezuela, that hotbed of protest, there was no uniform resistance. Equally striking is what Governor Taranco did not say. When he explained how whites might become “confused” with the castas, he only suggested that poverty and malice might produce such outcomes. He ignored the primary cause of caste confusion, amply demonstrated in Petronila’s case, where generations of sexual linkages of white



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males with parda lovers and wives had produced ambiguities. Although he did not condemn, the governor also tacitly acknowledged that document tampering might accompany eventual alterations in status. Governor’s Taranco’s support for Petronila also underscores how gender might temper elite reactions. The whitening of the parda wives of Spanish males and any resulting restoration of status for mutual offspring might— even in Venezuela—be an acceptable use of gracias al sacar. It would never compare with the negative consequences attached to the whitening and the empowerment of pardo males. To that extent, Rodulfo Cortés’s comment that whitening proved to be a “joke” needs to be tempered with a more nuanced approach.86 That same February 1791 that Governor Taranco’s letter was en route to Madrid, Juan Antonio Uruñuela Aransay was also traveling across the Atlantic to take up his new position as fiscal for New Spain. As was now customary with Council of Indies appointments, the new crown attorney had extensive experience, as he had served as a judge on the audiencia of Manila, as a judge on the criminal court in Mexico, and as senior judge of the audiencia of Guatemala.87 Perhaps due to the backlog of work—Peru fiscal Cistué y Coll had been attempting to process the business for all the Americas for nineteen months—Uruñuela Aransay did not consider any of the pending whitening cases (Landaetas, Briceños, Almeydas) for a year. Compared to the other concerns of the Cámara, applications for whitening were not high priority. As Fiscal Uruñuela Aransay plowed through the backlog of untended files in Madrid, on the other side of the Atlantic, caste tensions continued to simmer in Caracas. It was a happy occasion—the marriage of a daughter of Juan Gabriel Landaeta in 1791—that revealed how closely Mantuanos were observing pardos who challenged boundaries and how quickly they were ready to move against them. Apparently, the transgression of Juan Gabriel Landaeta was to invite lawyer Dr. Pedro Domingo Gil to his daughter’s wedding reception and the offense of Gil was to attend. Such mingling led the president of the College of Lawyers to begin an investigation against Gil so they might suspend him. Subsequent investigation revealed that Gil was not only present, but he had committed what elite onlookers considered the reprehensible sin of openly “playing cards in the principal patio” of Landaeta’s house with family members and invited guests.88 He compounded the transgression, for he

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had done so publicly, given that “people of all classes” either “for diversion or curiosity” had gathered to observe the “mulatta dance.” The result was that the crowd had “observed Lawyer Gil in the game with mulattos in a site exposed to the view of all.” The lawyers’ guild concluded that such a “happening so rare or singular in subjects of [his] quality and profession” called for punishment. In response, Gil successfully appealed to the audiencia. He argued that he had broken no law and the only reasons for censure would be if he had acted in a manner “incompatible with his profession.” Left unknown was Juan Gabriel Landaeta’s response. While it remained unclear if Caracas elites knew by now of his pending application, it was evident that they were prepared to act with their usual alacrity if they considered casta boundaries under challenge. Unlike other regions of the Caribbean, such as Cartagena, described by Aline Helg, where vertical ties commonly existed between whites and pardos, in Venezuela elites discouraged such familiarity or contacts.89 Continued tensions were evident the next year, in 1792, when the evercontentious subject of dress again surfaced, this time in relation to the militias. The order had gone out that “all the troops” in the militia were to wear the same uniform, including not only whites but also the “battalions of pardos and the companies of blacks.”90 When the Caracas establishment refused to comply, they did not mention any particular concern about blacks; rather, they complained about pardos. Presumably, a number were so light in complexion that elites feared that identical dress might lead to a “confusion between whites and pardos that would bring disturbing consequences.” Elites feared that if pardos wore “the same uniform,” their “haughty and arrogant character” would lead them to consider themselves “now equal to the whites.”

cá m ar a indecisions As whites and pardos fought over uniforms in Caracas, back in Madrid, Fiscal Uruñuela Aransay seems finally to have worked his way through the backlog of unfinished business. In February 1792, he reviewed the case of the Almeyda sisters, sufferers because their mother’s baptismal certificate had not clearly stated that she was white. Crown Attorney Uruñuela Aran-



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say followed the lead of his colleague Cistué y Coll, who in the Briceño case had felt it imperative to determine the precise caste and social status of Petronila. The fiscal asked the same question about the Almeydas. He wondered if in the “maternal” line the Almeydas descended from “blacks, mulattos or mestizos” and whether their ancestors had been “free or slave.”91 He was concerned that there not be any “grave inconvenience” in relieving any “defect.” As was becoming customary in whitening cases, Fiscal Uruñuela Aransay recommended that the Cámara send the sisters’ petition to the governor and Caracas city council to request more specific information on the “quality and condition of the said family through both lines and especially of the maternal.” He also asked for comments on the “occupation and way of living” of the sisters. The next month the Cámara rejected his advice to investigate, thereby foreclosing any possibility of a favorable decision. Although Camaristas provided no explanation for their refusal to query the governor and Caracas municipal council, there were several reasons why they might have exercised such caution. Perhaps they feared that raising the question of whitening with Caracas elites would set off another explosion of protests. Unlike the Briceños from Maracaibo who had local support, the Almeydas had included no letters from Caracas elites in support of their petition, possibly another mark against them. The result was that Camaristas continued to be more conservative than the crown attorneys. They wrote the sisters that they should “use the right that they believe they have wherever and how it corresponds.” In other words, the Almeydas might attempt to maintain their public reputations as whites, but there would be no royal intervention on their behalf. Don Joseph Briceño fared somewhat better than the Almeydas, although it had now been almost three years that he had waited for a response from the Cámara. Even though no one had yet purchased full whitening, Fiscal Uruñuela Aransay seemed ready to consider its commodification. When he reviewed the petition in August 1792, he reported to the Council of the Indies that when Don Joseph had first written in September 1789, he had not offered to pay any “monetary service for this gracias.”92 Fiscal Uruñuela Aransay also seemed acutely aware of the harmful effects of a Bourbon reform that had resulted in months and years where his position remained unfilled and documents became backlogged. He openly wondered why Don Joseph had not continued to “agitate” for a judgment

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that was “without a doubt delayed.” His comments reflected both his awareness that the Council of the Indies was not handling business with dispatch, and that those waiting would not take such inaction lightly. Apparently, royal officials expected if they deferred decisions, petitioners would not meekly submit but would continue to press for the desired end. Uruñuela Aransay speculated if the absence of pressure from Don Joseph meant that perhaps he “had died . . . or given up his request or some other accident.” Given their hesitation to help the Almeyda sisters, it seems significant that Cámara officials did not take advantage of this absence of pressure from Don Joseph to avoid having to make a controversial decision. Instead, the next month (September 12, 1792) the Council of the Indies took a proactive stance and sent an order to Venezuela asking if Don Joseph was still interested and, if so, to “return to give an account.” Although activity languished, as usual, over the Christmas and New Year holidays, by May 1793 the governor of Maracaibo reported back to the Council of the Indies that Don Joseph “appeared before me” with further documents. The governor felt that “justice and equity” demanded that he agree to his request and forward these documents to the Council. However, the pernicious effects of Bourbon administrative reform would strike again. Since Fiscal Uruñuela Aransay had died the month before, his post would remain vacant for more than one year until Ramón de Posada y Soto traveled from Mexico, arriving in October 1794.93 As the Cámara continued to ignore Juan Gabriel Landaeta’s request for whitening and waited for the arrival of the New Spain fiscal to rule on the Briceños, another case appeared for consideration. In July 1793, Diego Mexias Bejarano, who six years earlier had begun to assemble family baptismal and marriage certificates for a petition, finally sent his letter to Spain. His strategy differed from that of his first cousin and brother-in-law, Juan Gabriel Landaeta, for he did not—at least at this point—portray himself as a leopard or mestizo. Rather, his legal representative wrote a simple cover letter that admitted that Diego had “the disgrace of being pardo.”94 Nor did he ask for total whiteness for his family. Instead, he sought Cámara permission to approach Rome to ask papal officials to remove the “inferior quality” of his son Diego Lorenzo so that he might become a priest and “to possess the chaplaincy that his aunt has founded” in Altagracia. This time, the response of the Council of the Indies was swift. Just thirtyfour days later, Don Joseph Antonio Cornejo—who had never served in the



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Americas, but who was the ranking official (secretary) of the New Spain desk given the continuing absence of a crown attorney—responded.95 He summarized the application approvingly, noting that the Mexias Bejaranos could substantiate three generations of legitimate birth given that Diego, his parents, his wife and her parents, and the couple’s son Diego Lorenzo were all legitimate. The family members were generous contributors to the church in Altagracia. Diego’s aunt María Raphaela had not only founded a chaplaincy but also donated a sacrarium (sink) of hammered silver worth 5000 pesos.96 The prospective priest, Diego Lorenzo, was twenty-four years old, of “good conduct,” and “very attentive to the divine offices.” His father had received approval from the protomedicato to practice as doctor (médico), and he paid out of his own pocket to provide medicine for the poor. Family members had distinguished service as officers in the pardo militias. Secretary Joseph Antonio Cornejo then considered the extent that the family’s pardo status should factor into any decision. He strongly rejected the argument that black or slave origins passed with equal discriminatory force through the generations. He did not consider that the Mexias Bejaranos were “neophytes” (neófitos), that is, “those taken from the barbarism of the country of their birth and converted to our holy faith.” Diego Lorenzo was “now beyond a fourth generation” of such origins and the family “even through pardas [were] free and of distinction.” Just as in the case of Juan Gabriel Landaeta, royal officials seemed willing to accept the threegeneration limpieza de sangre rule, conceding that there might be limits after which negative traits such as African ancestry or slavery should no longer occasion discrimination. It is tantalizing to speculate if Cornejo’s absence of Indies experience made him less appreciative of the social cauldron that boiled in Caracas and that might overflow if the Council of the Indies began to whiten members of the pardo elite. Even though Secretary Cornejo commented favorably on the petition, he did not recommend that the Cámara whiten the aspirant priest. The speed of his response was likely due to a Bourbon sore spot concerning relationships between Rome and Madrid.97 Cornejo wrote disparagingly of the “grave prejudice” that the “vassals of the kingdoms of the Indies” suffered if they had to appeal “from such a large distance to the Roman Curia.” He told Diego Mexias Bejarano that there was “no need to appeal to Rome” given that “in his own diocese there resides authorities for the dispensation of all these types of irregularities” so that he might “receive holy orders and

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to be able to obtain ecclesiastical benefices.” In consultation with the Cámara, Cornejo sent a letter that granted Diego Mexias Bejarano permission to approach the bishop in Caracas. He was to request a dispensation so that his son might become a priest and take possession of the family chaplaincy. Pardo aspirations for whiteness thus became entangled in Bourbon attempts to lessen the power of Rome appointments. Since neither the Cámara nor Cornejo referred to the two letters that the Caracas cabildo had sent in October 1788 protesting the ordination of pardos as priests, it remains unclear if their remonstrations figured into any decision. Perhaps the Cámara saw Diego Mexias Bejarano’s petition as exemplary more of the conflict between state and papal jurisdiction or perhaps as a simple occupational exemption. What seems equally clear—although it is unknown if the officials on the Cámara understood this—was that chances were extremely remote that the bishop of Caracas would grant the desired exemption to a pardo. Although some historians, including Rodulfo Cortés, have assumed the bishop acquiesced, there is no evidence that he did so.98 Rather, subsequent events suggest that the bishop had refused. Diego Mexias Bejarano had just begun years of petitions. From August 1793 to February 1794, the Cámara of the Indies conducted its business without any consideration of whitening issues. In February, someone—almost certainly the endurable fiscal for Peru, José de Cistué y Coll, given the New Spain office had been absent for ten months— supervised a review of the five years of documents that had moved back and forth across the Atlantic concerning Don Joseph Briceño’s petition to whiten his wife Petronila and their seventeen offspring. The consulta noted the whiteness of Petronila, recalled that her nephew was a priest, and documented her acceptance in local society. The report then commented on those variables in Don Joseph’s application that favored a positive decision. Fiscal Cistué y Coll had no scruple about altering Petronila’s status and making her white. He repeated the gendered argument that maternal inheritance was not as damning as transmission through the paternal line. Since the “defect in calidad . . . comes from her mother,” he did not consider it to be “serious.”99 It was a point in the family’s favor that the crown might grant whitening to “offspring procreated from . . . legitimate marriage.” The result would be that the Briceños would be both white and legitimate, which meant that no one could “throw in . . . [the] face [of the offspring]



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that note or lack of clarity and purity of blood resulting from their maternal grandmother.” The report also emphasized that a significant aspect in favor of the Briceños was that local notables socially acknowledged their status. It concluded that whitening would only “conserve even more the estimation and concept that it appears that they are already enjoying in that city.” Such an observation was particularly significant, for at the side of the document either Cistué y Coll or some other unknown reader added a rare additional scribble. Someone marked the passage with “it seems so” (parecer), suggesting that this evidence of acceptance was a particular mark in the Briceños’ favor. Cistué y Coll concluded that “he would not be opposed” if the Council assigned a “monetary service” so that, “in spite of the indicated defect,” the “offspring of Briceño would be reputed as white, honored and decent persons.” Although the Council of the Indies had been collecting sums to whiten pardos to practice as notaries since 1767, they had never granted or charged for total whiteness, so there was uncertainty how to execute it. The fiscal suggested that perhaps a royal decree (real cédula) would be the proper path, which made sense, as this paralleled crown practice in granting legitimations. In three hundred years, this was as close as pardos had come to purchasing whiteness. Even with a favorable recommendation, the Cámara was still not prepared to issue an official document with a royal seal. Unlike the case of the Almeyda sisters, where the Cámara had told them to manage as best they could, without royal involvement, this time there was a modest intervention. The Cámara decided to send a letter in February 1794 that would “protect this interested [party] and his family in the good concept in which they are held.” The goal was “to distinguish . . . them . . . so that they would maintain the conservation of their credit.” Notably, there was no charge for the letter. The implication was that since whites already accepted the Briceños, it would provide some backup for Petronila and the couple’s offspring. It did not, however, constitute an official decree that guaranteed whiteness. This Cámara decision suggested that not all petitions from Venezuela were equal. It remained undecided if the Cámara would provide remedies for a pardo male as opposed to the whitish wife of a member of the Maracaibo elite. Equally unclear was the reaction of local elites and particularly

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the Caracas cabildo: Might there be occasions where it protested and others where it failed to complain, implicitly accepting certain categories of whitening?

conclusions Two decades had now passed in which pardos and mulattos had tried to expand limited grants of whiteness for occupational purposes to obtain total whitening. By early 1794, the Cámara had twice turned down the petition of Manuel Báez and equally rejected Bernardo Ramírez. They had refused to provide backup for the presumably whitish Almeyda sisters, although they sent a letter of support for the possibly whiter Briceños. The application of “leopard” Juan Gabriel Landaeta languished without resolution. The Cámara had sent Diego Mexias Bejarano to the bishop of Caracas for a remedy that was unlikely to be approved. While Venezuelan elites and pardos emerged as central actors in the debates concerning whitening, it is mandatory to keep both their aggressive protests against it and their growing number of petitions for it, in context. Even before whitening became a possibility, coastal Venezuela was a land of extremes with a substantial free pardo and mulatto population with significant mobility and a cohesive white elite determined to maintain its hierarchy. Both groups engaged in acute parsing of caste categories and discriminated using the proximity argument against those of lesser status. As Venezuelans fought over who might sew lace on veils, use pillows in church, or join which militia, the state tossed the Pragmatic Sanction on Marriages (1778) into the explosive mix, further exacerbating tensions. Baptismal and marriage listings turned into disputed sites with elites suspicious of manipulations that might enhance caste status. The preemptive strike of the Caracas city council in 1788, when it sent two blistering letters to the crown protesting the whitening of pardos, also fits within the particularities of this Venezuelan setting. Long a back­ water, with higher administration shifting between distant Santo Domingo and Bogotá, local elites had historically experienced greater independence and a lesser imperial hand. The Caracas cabildo exhibited special self|identification and aggressiveness as it sought to assert its interests with the Council of the Indies, the governor, the captain general, and the audien-



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cia. The ferociousness with which elites protested against pardos becoming priests, attending university, marrying whites, or holding public office fits within this already established paradigm. Elite outbursts also extended knowledge of the whitening option to the general population. Had much changed in the two decades since Manuel Báez had submitted the first request for total whitening? Although the Council and Cámara of the Indies had not whitened one pardo, they had seriously considered the option. As fiscals with Indies experience assumed office, they read petitions with deeper appreciation of local repercussions. Vacancies also raised the first intimations that the Bourbon reform that placed officials with American expertise in the office of crown attorney would backfire. Cistué y Coll found he would have to process paperwork from the Indies by himself for three years, given sudden deaths and delays in replacements. Even when they were behind on paperwork, imperial ministers had investigated families in the Americas, debating whether they should grant whitening and considering guidelines for decision making. They never foreclosed it as a possibility. The constant recourse of the councilors of the Indies to request further information from officials in the field underscores their uncertainty how to proceed. More importantly, every consulta, even if it did not lead to whitening, created another piece in a documentary trail suggesting that requests for whiteness formed an Indies “practice.” In other offices of the imperial bureaucracy, officials in Contaduría (General Accounting), tasked to prepare a price list of gracias al sacar favors, had begun to rummage through the archives of the Council and Cámara of the Indies. They would find the exemptions for surgeons, the sums charged to end the defect in pardo notaries; they would likely discover Fiscal Cistué y Coll’s comment that occupational whitening was a gracias al sacar. Perhaps they read the crown attorneys’ opinions and Cámara rulings concerning petitions for full whitening, as well as Fiscal Porlier’s musings over the proper price to charge for such a favor. In their preface to the 1795 arancel, Contaduría officials would explain that they based it not only on the 1773 precedent from Spain but also on what they had discovered concerning Indies “practice.”100 They would then add a last section of favors unique to the Indies, including purchase of the honorific title of Don and options for quinterones and pardos to end their defect. In a radical extension of existing practice, given that the Cámara had only approved occupational whitening, Contaduría officials would

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provide the option to purchase full whiteness. They would tack the relevant clauses—almost as an afterthought—at the end of the price list. On September 10, 1794, accounting officials would present the Cámara with the American gracias al sacar, which the Council of the Indies would issue as a royal decree on February 10, 1795. On the other side of the Atlantic, in March 1794, a pardo university student named Joseph Ponciano de Ayarza had already begun collecting testimony from Bogotá elites concerning his reputation. Although he had finished classes, the praise of local notables was not sufficient to persuade university officials that they should permit him to graduate. On February 2, 1795, his distraught father Pedro Antonio would write the king asking for a solution.101 His letter would move east across the ocean at the same time as the gracias al sacar—issued eight days later—moved west. Once officially publicized as an option throughout the Americas, pardos and mulattos, local elites, and royal officials would confront the issue of whitening from some familiar and some altered perspectives. The Ayarzas would be among the first to test if anything had changed.

eight

Opportunities Whitening, the First Year, 1795–1796 The king “holds and has dispensed from the calidad of pardo the aforesaid Julián Valenzuela, as that is my will.” royal cédula, May 11, 1796 1

introduction Centuries had now transpired since the first arrivals of Africans as slaves to the Indies, their movement into freedom, their mingling with Spanish and native populations, their search to detach defect and to seek upward mobility through interstices, and their acceptance as vassals of the crown. The strategies of a mid-eighteenth-century cohort of their pardo descendants to obtain royal permission to practice as surgeons and notaries had produced benchmark cases of occupational whitening. Even though some had applied, no pardo or mulatto had yet to receive a decree that fully whitened. When, on February 2, 1795, Pedro Antonio de Ayarza of Portobelo, Panama, sent a letter to the Cámara of the Indies requesting that they permit his pardo son to graduate from the university in Bogotá, he could not know that in just eight days whitening would appear as an option in the newly issued gracias al sacar. This chapter explores the responses of royal officials, pardos and mulattos, and local elites to his petition, as well as its immediate 237

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successors. Since the journey of the Ayarzas reflected both the successes and failures of this ongoing pardo quest for whiteness, it seems appropriate to follow the concerns of this troubled father from Portobelo.

the ayarzas: a test case As with previous pardo petitioners, Pedro Antonio de Ayarza’s main preoccupation was the future of the next generation; as with many earlier, his application had been decades in the making. In his letter to the Cámara, this Portobelo merchant reminisced concerning the early years of his three sons, Joseph Ponciano, Pedro Crisólogo, and Antonio Nicanor. As the boys grew up this solicitous father had “observed . . . [their] great inclination toward a literary career,” and so he had decided to provide them with the best education possible.2 He first sent them to a boarding school in Cartagena. When his eldest son reached the age of twenty-one, he traveled with his twelve- and nine-year-old brothers to Bogotá. Somehow, in spite of his pardo-ness, Joseph Ponciano attended classes at the university, while his brothers studied at the Colegio de San Bartolomé. After three years, even though Joseph Ponciano had finished the necessary classes, first the university registrar and then the viceroy refused to let him graduate. Both cited the Laws of the Indies prohibition that pardos graduate from universities. Officials also remembered a local precedent, for when the Council of the Indies had issued a decree permitting pardo Christobal Polo to graduate in 1765 they forbade that pardos receive university degrees in the future.3 Pedro Antonio strategized to turn the Polo decision in his family’s favor. Rather than challenge the decision of the university or the viceroy, he conceded that “neither the laws nor the decree [1765] permit those of this calidad the honor of being admitted to graduate in any university.” He then attempted to turn the decision on its head, citing precedent, suggesting that since the crown had made an exception in Polo’s case, it might also make one for his sons. Pedro Antonio provided extensive documentation concerning Joseph Ponciano’s unsuccessful attempt to receive a degree, as well as testimony concerning his own status and service to the state and church. Apparently, months before his graduation date, Joseph Ponciano had intimations that the registrar might refuse to certify his degree. In March



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1794, he began to prepare a questionnaire (interrogatorio) to collect testimony proving his father’s acceptance by Portobelo elites as well as confirming his own sterling character. While a number of those who participated were in their twenties and likely fellow students, Joseph Ponciano also marshaled endorsements from high-ranking officials concerning the family’s acceptability in Bogotá society. Compared to letters of recommendation submitted in previous whitening petitions, the testimony in favor of the Ayarzas was notable for the elite standing of the witnesses, for their enthusiastic support of the family, and for their explicit confirmation that they accepted the Ayarzas in their social circles. Don Joseph Antonio Berrio, the fiscal of the audiencia in Bogotá, was among many who not only admitted that he knew both Pedro Antonio and Joseph Ponciano but also vouched that “first subjects” treated Pedro Antonio with “distinction” not only in Bogotá but also in Cartagena and Panama. He remembered that the governor of Portobelo, Brigadier General Don Antonio Narváez, had sent him his “warmest recommendations” concerning Joseph Ponciano, who was a “youth of irreprehensible conduct and very commendable talents.” Friar Manuel de Soto, the head of the religious order of San Juan de Dios in Panama and Colombia, also praised the Ayarzas. He remembered that the “two times” that he stayed in Portobelo he had met Pedro Antonio, who was a “subject of the most honored conduct.” Such praise was in vain, for university officials informed Joseph Ponciano with the disappointing news that he would not graduate. By the end of August 1794, word had also reached Pedro Antonio in Portobelo that his son would not receive his degree, and so this distraught father began to collect testimony to mount an appeal to the Council of the Indies. Pedro Antonio “superabundantly” validated his achievements: he was a captain and had served in the pardo militias for twenty years; he had personally subsidized his militia company and had never collected any of the salary due him; he had managed the finances of the local parish church as well as those of the Franciscan monastery. He was a man of means, an important landowner, one of the city’s most prominent merchants. His businesses stretched from Portobelo to Cartagena to Cádiz. While he provided little concerning his personal background, he sent baptismal certificates proving that his sons were legitimate. He asked that the crown “distinguish him and all his family” and permit that all three graduate from the university.

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Pedro Antonio also included glowing testimony from prominent officials in the Portobelo elite who validated his status and acceptability. Don Lorenzo Corbacho, the administrator of the royal accounts, noted that the merchant enjoyed the “general applause” of “all persons of distinction in this city.” Other witnesses sent the coded message that Pedro Antonio passed the “proximity” test, given that members of the elite did not consider their status demeaned by his presence. Don Pedro de Arizpe, the administrator of the mail, confirmed that he had known Pedro Antonio for twenty years and mingled with him not only in public but in private settings as well. He confided that not only “governors” but “all subjects of the first order” recognize him and “without the least qualm visit and frequent his house.” Just the year before, in 1793, Governor Ramón de Anguiano (1793–1795) had written to Viceroy José de Ezpeleta praising Pedro Antonio as “a man who merits all the thanks of the king for the combination of good qualities that he possesses, the greatest being that he does not comprehend the difference that there is between him and the rest.”4 An incident the year before Governor Anguiano arrived emphasizes the strikingly different status of pardos such as Pedro Antonio de Ayarza in Panama compared to counterparts in Venezuela. Unlike Caracas, where white elites strictly enforced regulations restricting pardo dress, in Portobelo, their counterparts ignored sumptuary legislation. Yet in 1792, the vexing question arose if parda women might wear velvet petticoats, although the question does tempt as to why anyone would insist on such attire in the heat and humidity of the isthmus. Nonetheless, a recently arrived Spanish lady had introduced the style, and the current governor, Don Vicente de Emparan (1789–1792), had forbidden casta women to follow the new fashion. In response, the pardo elite had written in protest to Viceroy Ezpeleta in Bogotá, complaining about the governor’s actions. The viceroy, not pleased at the contretemps, ordered the governor to collect testimony and justify his actions. In response, Governor Emparan called three prominent pardos to his house, including two—Pedro Antonio de Ayarza and Manuel Antonio Gutiérrez—who would later apply for whiteness. Conspicuously it was the governor, not the pardos, who was on the defensive, as he railed against their “false petition.” He demanded that the three testify as to what kinds of dresses and jewels that their wives and daughters wore to church. All confirmed that their women wore silk, as well as gold and pearl jewelry. Then



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why, he complained, had they written to the viceroy that he was enforcing the sumptuary laws? Their answer was that the governor had justified his prohibition on wearing velvet petticoats on the existing discriminatory legislation. Since wearing velvet petticoats was “of less value than wearing gold, silver and jewels,” they feared it marked a first step to restrict female dress. It is notable that the Portobelo pardo elite felt sufficient confidence in their standing with the viceroy to engage in a preemptive strike to challenge the governor. Unlike Caracas, where elites compulsively monitored dress or reacted punitively when one of their members played cards in the house of a prominent pardo, Pedro Antonio de Ayarza commonly interacted not only with local but with visiting notables as well. He entertained prominent clerics and military officials when they traveled across the isthmus. These included Dr. Don Baltasar Martínez de Compañón, the archbishop of Santa Fe (Bogotá); Dr. Don Juan Feliz de Villegas, the bishop of Nicaragua; and Brigadier General Don Antonio Narváez. Pedro Antonio received respect not only from elites and prominent visitors but also from the general populace. His “outstanding morals, reliability and good faith in his dealings and business” meant that locals “especially love him.” Pedro Antonio not only garnered the respect of inhabitants of all ranks in Portobelo, but he was a loyal supporter and staunch contributor to the crown. Don Juan Manuel de Fromesta, a Portobelo city council officer, remembered when there was shortage of money in the royal treasury that the merchant had contributed “some supplements to help the troops.” Another official testified to a “gracious donation” from Pedro Antonio to support the war with France. The militia company that Pedro Antonio commanded was “in the best state.” In sum, the Ayarzas assembled a strong case that permitting Joseph Ponciano to graduate would not upset local elites in Bogotá or in Portobelo. Almost a year had passed since Joseph Ponciano had received word that he could not graduate (August 1794) before his case arrived for consideration by the Cámara of the Indies. Since Panama documents flowed through the fiscal for Peru, José de Cistué y Coll first commented in late July 1795. Either he or someone in his office immediately identified the request as the first to fall under the new provisions detailed in the February 10, 1795, gracias al sacar. A handwritten comment on the side of the document noted that the price list charged 1000 reales to become a don and 500 reales for the

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dispensation of pardo-ness. Unbeknownst to the Ayarzas—since they sent their petition in days before the issuance of the gracias al sacar—they had become the first test case for official whitening. Even though Fiscal Cistué y Coll recognized that ending the defect of pardo was now a purchasable favor, he was not eager to grant it. He had to confront what he almost certainly considered to be the unwelcome expansion of whitening options wrought by the officials in Contaduría who composed the 1795 price list. It was one matter to provide, as Cistué y Coll had supported, a limited grant of whiteness so that a quinterón in Panama could practice the needed profession of notary. It was quite another matter to publish gracias al sacar clauses that granted whiteness unconditionally, without any occupational necessity and contrary to the discriminations against pardos and mulattos embedded in Indies law. Fiscal Cistué y Coll showed his antipathy to the whitening provisions by refusing to consider a positive outcome for Joseph Ponciano. Rather, he followed the strict legal interpretation of those crown attorneys in the 1750s and 1760s who had rejected the efforts of Cuban pardos, including Captain Antonio Flores and the surgeons Juan de la Cruz y Mena and Miguel Joseph Avilés, to enroll at the University of Havana. Echoing the same language used by his predecessors, Cistué y Coll applauded the “just opposition” of the Bogotá faculty for refusing to permit graduation. He concluded there was “no place” for the petition of Pedro Antonio de Ayarza. It was not only “opposed to the spirit of the law,” given that pardos could not attend university, but also violated the Polo precedent, “the express disposition of the decree of 1765” that forbade any exceptions in the future. Cistué y Coll’s response to the Ayarza petition is noteworthy, given that his rejection of pardo graduation from a university was unconditional. He did not bother to consider Ayarza’s merits, nor the impressive support of the family by local elites. Such a reaction was somewhat ironic, given that he was likely responsible for the whitening clauses. His comments in the Borbúa case that ending the defect of pardo for notaries belonged to the favors of the gracias al sacar may well have prompted officials in Contaduría to include whitening in the price list as Indies “practice.” Equally clear is that General Accounting officials had gone beyond the mandate of Cistué y Coll’s remarks. They had radically expanded the scope of whitening to a larger pardo cohort, given they had not limited it to occupational exemptions to meet imperial scarcities. Nor had they restricted



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the effect, given that the gracias al sacar clauses provided total whitening to any pardo or quinterón who could convince the Council and Cámara of the Indies to grant it. What was the Cámara’s response to Cistué y Coll’s recommendation to reject the Ayarza petition? Unlike the usual bureaucratic process, where that body customarily responded to a fiscal’s advice with some dispatch, in this instance members delayed. It was not until three months later, in October 1795, that the Cámara finally overruled Cistué y Coll’s recommendation to deny the Ayarzas. Instead, as their predecessors had done when confronted with earlier pardo petitions for whiteness, the Cámara decided it needed more information. Ministers sent an order to Viceroy Ezpeleta in Bogotá, asking him to collect additional testimony from local elites and from university professors concerning the situation.5 This desire for information from the Americas likely reflected the Cámara’s uncertainty in how to proceed. Perhaps the prominence of those who testified for the Ayarzas or the enthusiasm of their statements had so impressed the Cámara that they overruled Cistué y Coll’s recommendation to reject the petition out of hand. This would be the first, but it would not be the last time after the 1795 gracias al sacar appeared, that the fiscal and the Cámara would not agree on whitening decisions. Now their respective positions inexplicably changed: while previously crown attorneys wrote positive consultas that recommended whitening and that the Cámara denied; in the future they would be negative and the Cámara positive. Still, as copies of this newly issued list of gracias al sacar favors traveled west, imperial officials no longer had the luxury to speculate what whitening should or would bring. They had to confront the actuality of a decree publicized throughout the Indies, to consider how they would respond to pardos and mulattos eager to improve their status, and to attempt to manage a Caracas elite already on record in its opposition to such mobility. Across the Atlantic, and unknown to the Cámara, the first negative stirrings in response to the issuance of the whitening clauses began to surface. In November 1795, Don Juan Ignacio de Armada, the governor of the province of Maracaibo, wrote his superiors, the president and audiencia in Caracas. Since it would be treason to disobey a royal order, he proclaimed that he had “given it its due obedience.”6 He then admitted that he was concerned “if the publication of some of its articles, particularly those that

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deal with the dispensation of the quality of pardos” would result in “inconveniences.”7 He admitted that he had “suspended” the “promulgation” of the gracias al sacar as he wanted to consult. Although Governor Armada did not use the traditional phrasing, he was on the edge of, if not actually invoking, the “Obedezco pero no cumplo” (I obey but I do not comply). This was a serious action that could risk a career.8 Officials from the governor up had this option officially to obey but actually to suspend execution of decrees they deemed against the public good. Once a bureaucrat initiated this process, he had to explain his reasoning to the Council of the Indies, which might support or reject the decision. If the official had acted properly and rightfully refused to publish a law that would have caused conflict or that was inappropriate to the region, his standing rose. If he had refused to execute a decree the Council of the Indies considered appropriate, any future promotions might be in jeopardy. Here it appears that the governor was attempting to shift the responsibility whether or not to publicize the whitening options up the bureaucratic ladder to his superiors in Caracas. Governor Armada’s response underscored the new dilemma that imperial officials now had to confront, as royal decrees confirming whitening were no longer a theoretical but now a practical option. Just years before, his predecessor had written in favor of the whitening of Petronila, the wife of Don Joseph Briceño, who, although she had received no official decree, had obtained a letter from the Council of the Indies confirming her status. It remained unclear if whitening might be a rare favor enhancing the status of the wife of an elite male or if it might affect pardo populations more widely. Faced with a clause that possibly opened mobility to the many, as opposed to the one, the governor weighed his career against a refusal to publish the legislation and tried to coax a decision from his superiors.

the first applicants, r esponses, w hitenings While the Cámara prevaricated and officials in the Americas stalled, a special cohort of pardos and mulattos began to prepare applications for whitening. Since there were no established guidelines, petitioners sent in a wide variety of documents. Understanding what information they considered



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relevant, and what the fiscals and the Cámara deemed worthy, provides some first insight into changing attitudes toward whitening after 1795. These first applications and responses reveal that a variety of confusions reigned on both sides of the Atlantic. Although the Ayarzas had accidentally sent in a petition that the Cámara had decided to evaluate under the newly issued whitening clauses, it took a year—February 1796—before the first pardo applications in direct response to the gracias al sacar arrived in Madrid. The earliest to reply was no stranger to the Cámara. As in the case of the Ayarzas, whitening had been on the mind of Caracas surgeon Diego Mexias Bejarano for years. A previous chapter chronicled how, in 1787, he had begun to collect the baptismal certificates of his family so that his son Diego Lorenzo might be ordained and assume the family chaplaincy.9 In 1793, the secretary for New Spain had sent him permission to approach the bishop of Caracas, rather than appeal to Rome for the dispensation of his son’s pardo-ness to enter the clergy. The disposition of that permission remained unknown, as did the fate of the petition of his “leopard” cousin and brother-in-law, Juan Gabriel Landaeta, who had still not received any reply from the Cámara. The 1795 gracias al sacar changed Diego Mexias Bejarano’s strategy and widened his aspirations. Although the price list had still not been “published in Caracas,” he somehow knew of its existence.10 He altered tactics and asked for whitening for himself, rather than ordination for his son. Given the antipathy of the Caracas elite to pardo mobility, it is not surprising that Diego provided little evidence of their support for his whitening. While he suggested that he had the “confidence of principal subjects” and “ultimately of the Reverend Bishop,” he provided no testimony or letters on his behalf. Nor did he claim that the bishop had given his son Diego Lorenzo permission to become a priest, nor had his son yet attempted to enter the university to study for ordination. Instead, Diego simply asked the king to “dispense the petitioner from the calidad of pardo.” This should be valid for “all acts and occasions” and additionally include “his offspring, relatives and succession.” The publication of the gracias al sacar clauses significantly escalated Diego’s expectations: he moved from his early petition that his son take holy orders to request blanket whitening for himself, his offspring, and even some unspecified relatives. That same February 1796, brothers Joseph Antonio and Julián Valenzuela, prosperous merchants from the city of Antioquia, also dispatched

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their application to the Cámara. Although the pair admitted that they had ancestors who were pardos, they asserted that their “absolutely white color, their manners, education and good behavior” meant that those of the “first order” accepted them.11 Even with this favorable reception, their “stain, extremely afflicted them.” Unlike previous petitioners who cited decades and generations of service in the pardo militias, the Valenzuelas’ contributions to the crown proved solely financial. They had given “promptly and generously” to the donations requested by the king to help fund ongoing wars and paid annual taxes greater than a thousand pesos to the royal treasury. Accompanying their petition was a letter from Don Andres Pardo, an official of the royal treasury in Antioquia. He confirmed their appearance, manners, and financial contributions, concluding that they were among the “richest” and the “most honored” merchants worth 60,000 pesos “without owing anybody.” What did the Valenzuelas expect that whitening would accomplish? Their initial expectations proved to be modest, suggesting that there was no consensus among the castas concerning the ultimate impact of a positive decision. While they asked to be “dispensed from the quality of pardos,” they did so only so “they would not be held as such.” In essence, they asked the Cámara to relieve their pardo-ness for purely personal reasons. They added that if in the future they sought some “positions” where the laws discriminated against them, they would “seek the necessary permission.” They emphasized, “the grace that they request today is only for the end of erasing from their persons a mark from former times.” Comparison of the first applications submitted after 1795 reveals a number of unanswered questions concerning those qualifications of appearance, social acceptability, and royal service that pardos needed to demonstrate to become white. Should whitening be an official confirmation of a social and physical fait accompli as in the case of the Valenzuelas? Alternatively, should it provide mobility for wealthy pardos such as the Ayarzas who enjoyed acceptance by whites but who did not look white? Or might a larger cohort of pardos as represented by Diego Mexias Bejarano eliminate their defect? The issue of reciprocity between monarch and subject remained equally unresolved. Besides the whitening fee, what else did pardos need to do to receive a positive decision? Was it sufficient, as in the case of the Valenzuelas, to be rich, pay taxes, and contribute in times of war? Or did decades of Ayarza service in the militias, assistance to the church, and donations to



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the treasury make them eligible? If so, the Mexias Bejaranos might also be entitled. Equally unclear was what a royal decree might accomplish. Was whitening, as the Valenzuelas suggested, the end of a purely personal stain whose effects did not extend into the public sphere? Was the termination of pardoness a dispensation to do white things, such as in the case of the Ayarzas, to graduate from the university? Did whitening, as Diego Mexias Bejarano seems to have understood, pass to the next generation, removing any obstacles for his son to attend the university and to take holy orders? Even as these questions remained unresolved, either Diego Mexias Bejarano or his legal representative must had been rereading the gracias al sacar fee schedule. A month after his initial petition, in March 1796, Diego escalated his request: his representative in Madrid asked the Cámara to make his client a don.12 As previously noted, this was another indirect form of mobility, given that the honorific of Don automatically marked a person as white. Although he provided no proof, Diego confided that he enjoyed “the greatest estimation, acceptance and treatment with principal subjects” and stated that he was prepared to pay 1000 reales, double the cost of the other whitening provisions. From the first publication of the price list, the cost of the whitening gracias al sacar would not prove prohibitive to an elite pardo cohort. That same March 1796 as Diego Mexias Bejarano pressed the Cámara in Madrid to make him white and a don, on the American side of the Atlantic, President Pedro Carbonell of Caracas finally awakened a volcano that he had known for months would likely erupt.13 Even though Diego Mexias Bejarano was aware of the whitening provisions of the gracias al sacar— perhaps through his legal representative in Madrid—the city council of Caracas had remained in ignorance. Given the prevailing climate as well as their vociferous protests concerning the possibility of pardo whitening in 1788, audiencia officials must have wondered why local elites had remained silent. After all, the president had dispatched a copy of the gracias al sacar to the city council in early October 1795, even though royal officials had not made the decree known to the general public. Lacking any response, President Carbonell sent a second copy of the gracias al sacar to the Caracas cabildo in mid-March 1796, and asked it to consider “with corresponding reflection . . . the various points that it contains.” When the city council met on April 5, a notary informed them that

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the president had sent them the price list. Members acknowledged receipt of what they mistakenly called a “gracias to show” (gracias al exhibir), which strongly suggests they had no idea what it contained. Nor did members read it immediately, for they proceeded with business as usual and discussed the building of a slaughterhouse. Someone must have finally read the document. Two days later, the municipal council met again—this time they had the name right and they knew of the whitening clauses. With the permission of President Carbonell, they scheduled an “extraordinary” meeting for April 14 and threatened to fine city council members 100 pesos if they did not attend. Since pardos could purchase whiteness for 500 reales, or about 25 pesos, such a significant fine speaks both to the inexpensiveness of the cost of whitening as well as to the fury of the Mantuano elite.14 The cabildo immediately began an investigation into why they had not received notice of the 1795 decree. They followed a paper trail that suggested the president had sent the gracias al sacar price list to them on October 5, 1795, although no one could find it in the city archive.15 This series of events explains why President Carbonell finally forwarded a second copy to the city council in March the next year—he had likely been waiting for an angry outburst for months. At some point, he, just as the governor of Maracaibo, would still have to make a decision on whether to publicize it. At the special meeting on April 14, 1796, city council members recalled the duo of letters they had sent to the king and the Council of the Indies eight years before, in 1788, protesting the possibility of whitening pardos.16 Since then, tensions between slaves and masters as well as between pardos and mulattos and whites had risen throughout the Caribbean, given the overthrow of the French colonial regime and the continuing revolution in Haiti. Venezuela had felt repercussions the previous year (1795) when some free blacks and pardos had joined a slave uprising in the city of Coro demanding abolition.17 Although the revolt lasted but three days, the resulting tensions between the white elite and the castas were even more exacerbated. Elites argued that whitening would lead to “fatal results to the state” and protested not only those clauses dispensing defects in pardos and quinterones but also the potential to purchase the title of Don.18 They immediately understood that pardos might consider acquisition of such an honorific an even more secure method of becoming white. What they could not know, was that several days before the representative of Diego



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Mexias Bejarano had already submitted an application in Madrid for precisely that end.19 Members asked the president to issue an “Obedezco pero no cumplo” and not to publish the clauses. They also commissioned Alcalde Don José Ignacio Rengifo to prepare a detailed protest against the whitening of “these low types that compose the greatest part of the population and who are naturally haughty, ambitious for honors, and to equal themselves with whites.”20 While the Caracas local officials busied themselves in April 1796 to prepare another torrid protest against the whitening clauses, on the other side of the Atlantic, the Cámara and the crown attorneys, unaware of the escalating opposition, began to evaluate the arriving petitions. That same month Peru fiscal Cistué y Coll considered the application of the Valenzuela brothers.21 This time, perhaps because the Cámara had rejected his summary advice to deny the Ayarzas, he made no recommendation. He simply summarized the case and suggested that the Cámara would decide as it will. Such refusal to provide a clear recommendation was as close as Spanish bureaucrats ever came to an official pout. When policy was unclear, officials were less likely to provide a recommendation, as they did not want to be overruled. Since the guidelines for whitening decisions were nebulous given the absence of precedents, Cistué y Coll chose not to risk another overturned verdict. He left the ultimate decision to the Cámara. It said “yes.” Three months after the Valenzuela brothers submitted their petitions, they became the first pardos in the Indies to eliminate their defect. The original document in the Archive of the Indies contains an evocative and messy early draft of this first decree. Since there was no template for this type of grant, the composer crossed and re-crossed, deleted and added phrases. The final document for each brother summarized his case and then “dispensed the quality of pardo, only so that you do not have it as such, paying the fee for this favor.” This repetition of the phrase from the original Valenzuela application seemed to suggest that the Cámara had agreed that elimination of the stain of pardo did not mean that the brothers were white and could do white things—it just meant they were no longer pardos. However, the Cámara did not simply grant the brothers the limited whitening they had requested. Rather, the decree went on to provide a wider dispensation. It ordered that the viceroy and audiencia in Bogotá, the governor of Antioquia, and “the rest of my ministers” understand that the king “holds and has dispensed from the quality of pardo the aforesaid Julián Valenzuela, as that is my will.”

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The resulting order left ambiguous exactly what had happened. On one hand, it recognized the Valenzuelas’ claim that they only wanted their pardo-ness erased for private reasons rather than public perquisites. However, it left unclear—if they were not pardos—what were they? Centuries of pardo aspirations had come close, if not finally, to official fruition. The next week, the Cámara sent even better news to Diego Mexias Bejarano.22 The ensuing whitening decree referenced Diego’s 1793 petition concerning the priestly aspirations of his son, summarized his more recent application, but ignored his request to whiten his offspring and relatives as well as to become a don. Unlike the Valenzuelas’ official whitening document, Diego Mexias Bejarano’s version did not contain the first clause limiting public enjoyment of whiteness. His decree simply commanded, “the president and the audiencia of the city of Caracas and my other ministers . . . to hold and have as dispensed from the quality of pardo the said Diego Mexias Bejarano and this is my will.” This stronger statement suggested that the Cámara was willing to interpret the benefits of whitening to be more expansive than suggested in the Valenzuela decision. Left unanswered was if that privilege attached exclusively to Diego or if his changed status transferred to his offspring. Would they retroactively inherit his whiteness, thereby eliminating any ancestral defect? Could his sons now attend the university; could Diego Lorenzo take holy orders? Given that the Cámara had not totally approved anyone prior to 1795, the publication of the gracias al sacar clauses proved fundamental in establishing a commitment to whiten. Earlier applications had delayed for years, while the Valenzuelas and Mexias Bejaranos received positive results in three months. Unlike previous petitioners, the Valenzuelas had not provided lengthy documentation listing service to the state: they simply looked white, passed as white, and paid hefty taxes. While Diego Mexias Bejarano had sent earlier depositions documenting his family’s legitimacy, generosity to the local church, and service in the pardo militia, the Cámara had not rewarded these proofs of loyalty prior to 1795. Yet, officials now took a step further in widening the potential pool of successful applicants. They had approved his petition even though he had not attempted to substantiate that he passed as white. Whatever would follow, the whitenings of the Valenzuelas and Mexias Bejaranos fulfilled a goal sought for hundreds of years by generations of pardos and mulattos in the Americas.



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the ayarzas revisited Even though the Cámara had whitened the Valenzuelas and Mexias Bejaranos, there was neither bureaucratic unanimity nor much enthusiasm for granting such petitions. Internal divisions between the Cámara and the fiscals emerged four months later in September 1796, when Viceroy Ezpeleta’s report concerning the Ayarzas finally arrived from Bogotá.23 The viceroy noted that he had taken testimony from eleven prominent locals and had called a special meeting of the faculty of the university to hear their opinions as well. He included a packet of documents in which witnesses testified with enthusiasm concerning the accomplishments of Pedro Antonio and with warmth concerning the brilliance and character of his son Joseph Ponciano. Such local support for whitening contrasted sharply to Caracas, where elites had consistently and harshly deprecated applicants such as the Landaetas and Mexias Bejaranos in particular and pardos in general. In contrast, royal officials and notables in Bogotá testified positively, sending explicit and implicit messages concerning their acceptance of Joseph Ponciano. Don Luis de Chávez, the regent or highest-ranking oidor on the audiencia, verified that the university student had the “good concept and general estimation of all who observe him.” Several witnesses used the “in spite of” clause to send the coded message—the proximity argument— that whites did not consider that mingling with the Ayarzas threatened their own status. One audiencia oidor remarked that “in spite of his quality,” Joseph Ponciano enjoyed the “general estimation” of “gentlemen of superior class.” Lawyer Dr. Don Joaquín Rivera validated that Joseph Ponciano mingled with elites in private settings, given that he was “loved by every class of people and particularly by notable subjects” who “with enjoyment frequent his house.” Such interactions contrasted sharply to Caracas where playing cards in a pardo’s home might threaten an official rebuke. Joseph Ponciano’s professors also sent an unambiguous message. While the law demanded they not permit him to graduate, they hoped that his “good conduct and virtue would have its reward.” Dr. Don Frutos Joaquín Gutiérrez de Caviedes, a lawyer and professor, testified in favor of all three Ayarzas. He remarked that the younger two were studying Latin “whose teacher many times told me of their good bearing, application and achievements.” Such comments impressed the audiencia crown attorney in Bogotá who reviewed the testimony. He recommended that Viceroy Ezpeleta

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dispatch the packet with a letter suggesting that the Ayarzas might achieve “the grace to which they aspire.” When Viceroy Ezpeleta wrote the Cámara concerning the depositions, he admitted some hesitation in supporting the Ayarzas’ petition. He agreed that the documents proved the “honor and excellent conduct” of Pedro Antonio and of his older son Joseph Ponciano and conceded that university officials as well as his own audiencia attorney had no problem in whitening the sons. He was not as certain about the two younger Ayarzas, for he felt they were too young to ascertain how they would eventually turn out. Viceroy Ezpeleta then expanded the case beyond the personal situation of the Ayarzas and considered potential imperial consequences. Specifically using the metaphor of the gatekeeper, he noted the “inconveniences” that might result from “opening the door for all others of the same quality that are in the same situation.” These, if they also had “good conduct,” might apply for the “same dispensation” with the result that laws would be “without effect.” Such comments mirrored the concerns of Cistué y Coll given that specific legislation prohibited pardos from university attendance. Just as Fiscal Antonio de Porlier had wondered the decade before in the case of Bernardo Ramírez, so Viceroy Ezpeleta also questioned the ultimate effect of the whitening decree. He presumed that if the Cámara totally dispensed Joseph Ponciano from being a pardo, he could “aspire to the offices and occupations” of whites. If he could not do so, “the favor would be fruitless.” Ezpeleta only raised these issues and came down on neither side. He concluded that he had provided the requested information and left the making of higher policy decisions to his superiors. As noted in Chapter 2, for some unexplained reason, Cistué y Coll was not available to analyze and to provide a recommendation concerning Viceroy Ezpeleta’s report. Instead, Ramón de Posada y Soto, “the fiscal for New Spain [Mexico] who for now dispatches the business of Peru” provided the commentary (italics mine). Since it was rare for the crown attorneys for Mexico and Peru to consider the same case, his remarks provide unique comparative insight concerning the process of policy making within the Cámara. In spite of the strong support from Portobelo and Bogotá elites, the professors at the university, and audiencia officials, Posada y Soto concurred with Cistué y Coll’s previous recommendation that the Cámara should not whiten Joseph Ponciano. He agreed with his colleague’s opinion that the Laws of the Indies prohibiting pardos to attend universities should be



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upheld. He also took his cue from the larger social commentary of Viceroy Ezpeleta. He felt that “opening the doors to all of that quality in the same situation” would overturn the laws. Another reason for Posada y Soto’s negative decision might have been simple collegiality—it would have been impolitic for him to overrule his absent peer Cistué y Coll. Notably, he concluded his opinion by citing “the earlier negative response of the Señor Fiscal of Peru.”

first judgments and w hitening policy It is intriguing to speculate what considerations motivated both fiscals to rule against the Ayarzas while the Valenzuelas and Mexias Bejaranos received positive news. By most logical measures—local impact, passing, wealth, service to the state, the petitioner’s expectations—Diego Mexias Bejarano should have been the one with a rejection, not the Ayarzas. It seems incomprehensible that the Council of the Indies would have forgotten the 1788 remonstrances of the Caracas cabildo, given that fourteen ministers who served when that first protest arrived were still in office in 1796.24 They must have understood the intense sensitivities of that locale and recognized the potential for inconveniences if someone from Venezuela received a decree. In contrast, the Valenzuelas had already passed as white in Antioquia, and local elites had confirmed that the Ayarzas moved in the first circles of Portobelo and Bogotá. If wealth were an issue, the Valenzuelas and Ayarzas were notable merchants while Diego Mexias Bejarano had more modest resources as a surgeon. Pedro Antonio de Ayarza had captained and paid for his own militia company for decades, while Diego Mexias Bejarano, although related to serving members, was not himself an officer. Of the three, he had the least qualifications but desired the most from whitening, expecting to pass it to later generations and qualify sons for the priesthood. In contrast, the Valenzuelas requested whitening solely for personal reasons. Ayarza simply asked that Joseph Ponciano and his brothers graduate from the university. The first successful cases seemed to share certain variables in common: whitening bettered the status of the pardo applicants in some ambiguous way that did not overturn discriminatory laws. What may have worked in favor of Diego Mexias Bejarano and the Valenzuelas was the vagueness

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of their requests. Even though Diego mentioned that his son desired to become a priest, he did not—at this point—ask for permission for him to attend the University of Caracas or to be ordained. He only sought whiteness for himself, leaving the rest open to a nebulous future. Similarly, the Valenzuelas sought only personal whiteness, leaving unstated any specific benefits that such a favor might bring. In contrast, three imperial officials— Fiscals Cistué y Coll and Posada y Soto as well as Viceroy Ezpeleta—specifically expressed their concern that whitening of the Ayarza brothers would invalidate the existing law that prohibited pardo attendance at universities. Even though Cámara members had now received negative recommendations from both crown attorneys concerning the whitening of the Ayarzas, they still seemed reluctant to reject the petition. They resorted to an uncommon course, one only employed when they were genuinely confused what to do. They asked the secretaries of New Spain and Peru to comb their respective archives, looking for whitening precedents.25 They discovered two: one was from the Philippines where, in 1780, a Dr. Don Francisco Borla de los Santos, a mixture of Sangley (Chinese) and native ancestry, had successfully applied to graduate from the university in Manila even though he was an “Asian mestizo” (mestizo asiatico).26 The other was from Guatemalan Bernardo Ramírez, whose unsuccessful quest has appeared previously. Why officials did not uncover the other whitening requests is unclear, given they remain in the archive. As the Cámara explored these documents and postponed the Ayarza decision, other petitions began to arrive. Don Pedro Rodríguez de Argumedo, a mid-level royal official serving in Trinidad, sent a letter that detailed every post he had held since he had first landed in Cumaná, Venezuela, in 1773. There he had married a Doña Angela Inés, whose origins seem to have been a bit murky. Don Pedro wanted it both ways: while he swore that Doña Angela Inés and her parents were “without any stain or mixture,” he asked royal officials to whiten her in case she was a parda.27 The couple feared that there existed a “vague voice” concerning her possible ancestry that might “prejudice the offspring that they have procreated and would procreate during the marriage.” Consideration of petitions prior to 1795 reveals that Don Pedro and Doña Angela Inés faced a common dilemma. It resulted when elite males married women who looked white but had questionable ancestry that might harm the next generation. Remember that Don Joseph Briceño had applied simi-



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larly to remedy the situation of his wife Petronila in 1789.28 Even though the Almeyda sisters had insisted that they were not pardas in 1790, they had also faced discrimination due to the vague antecedents of their mother. In those cases, the Cámara had not issued whitening decrees. Officials had ultimately refused to intervene to help the Almeydas and sent a letter, not a royal decree, in support of the Briceños. What occurred internally between Fiscal Cistué y Coll and the Cámara concerning the Rodríguez petition remains unknown. Documents reveal only the outcome: the Cámara responded quickly and positively. They whitened Doña Angela Inés in November 1796, a month after her husband submitted the petition.29 Such a quick and favorable resolution suggested that gracias al sacar might be a favor more easily granted to the parda wives of white men, rather than to male applicants.30

car acas r eactions: the cabildo and audiencia r espond November 1796 proved to be noteworthy not only for the lucky Doña Angela Inés. In Caracas, it proved momentous both for those who supported and those who opposed the whitening option. Early that month Diego Mexias Bejarano finally received a physical copy of the royal decree that erased his pardo-ness.31 His representative, Antonio Viso, brought the document to the audiencia in Caracas on November 10, asked them to make a duplicate, to take notice of its contents if they needed to enforce it, and to return the original. During the next two weeks, word began to spread throughout town that the king had whitened Diego. When they met on November 21, cabildo members noted that they had “examined one of the different copies [of the whitening decree] that circulated in public.”32 More than any other region in the Americas, whitening captured the attention of not only elites and a small cohort of pardos and mulattos but also the mass of the population. The response of the Caracas city council to the arrival of Diego’s whitening decree was unequivocal: they rejected both the general concept of pardo whitening and specifically attacked his application. They filed a “most formal protest” to the president and the audiencia and remonstrated that the granting of his decree, “extremely insulted us in the extreme” given

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their previous communications explaining why the crown should reject the “monstrous requests” of pardos “to equal themselves with whites.” Elites feared that the whitening option would “destroy the value of the Royal Pragmatic on Marriages” as pardos who had purchased a gracias al sacar would be able to marry whites. This would lead to the “general disruption of the secular and ecclesiastical states,” the “subversion of the social order,” and the “ruin and loss of the American states.” Local officials also attempted to discredit Diego Mexias Bejarano’s application, charging that he had obtained whitening through fraud, given that he had concealed “his true quality of mulatto as prescribed by law calling himself a pardo.” Since the gracias al sacar clause whitened the casta category of pardos, but did not specifically mention mulattos, city council members hoped that this technicality might void the decree. They argued that Diego had exaggerated the “estimation” of his family. Even though the Council of the Indies had given Diego permission in 1793 to approach the bishop for a dispensation for his son to enter the priesthood, this concession had lacked any “value” or “legal effect.” The cabildo promised that “without any loss of time” they were soon to provide their official protest against the whitening clauses that they had commissioned the previous April when they had first learned of its existence. They asked that in the interim the president “take back and retain the effects” of the royal decree in favor of Diego, at least until they might respond to it. The physical presence of Diego Mexias Bejarano’s whitening decree in Caracas may well have led the cabildo to meet the next week to approve the lengthy report that Alcalde José Ignacio Rengifo had been laboring over for six months.33 It provides exceptional and sometimes surprising insight into the attitudes of the Caracas elite concerning their relationships with Spain, pardos and mulattos, and against whitening. Equally informative was the reaction of the Council of the Indies to the protest, for although ministers initially dismissed the report, it would eventually influence policy. While it merits analysis in detail, it is vital to keep the response in context—this was the only complaint sent from the Americas that rejected whitening. Although José Ignacio Rengifo was in charge of preparing the response, the final version reads more like the product of a mediocre committee, as it disjointedly and repetitively wandered from topic to topic. It emphasized the city council’s unhappiness with Bourbon administrative reforms in general and their audiencia in particular. Members revealed a shocking



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conspiracy theory concerning the origin of the whitening gracias al sacar, they detailed their view of the current state of Caracas society, and they predicted dire consequences if the king did not revoke the whitening clauses. They charged that the loyalty of pardos and mulattos was suspect. If there were any organizing principle in these diatribes, it was to provide groundwork for the city council’s conclusion and dual requests. Members asserted that Bourbon administrative reforms had led to incompetent government. They asked the king to remove officials from the audiencia and to suspend the whitening provisions of the gracias al sacar. “The province,” members proclaimed, “was not in a state to receive such a grave alternation in the public order.” It would cause a “very dangerous disruption” given this was a “departure of such weight and unimaginable consequences.” A contrast between the cabildo’s immediate protest the week before concerning the physical arrival of Diego Mexias Bejarano’s whitening decree with the denunciation they had been laboring over for months is suggestive. It demonstrates the lack of coordination between city council members, given they provided differing interpretations of the significance of casta categories. Just days previously, city officials had charged that Diego Mexias Bejarano had lied and said that he was a pardo when they considered him to be a mulatto. Since the latter category did not appear in the gracias al sacar, they argued that his whitening was unjustified. Yet notably, in this much longer description of the province, members conflated the categories of “pardos, mulattos or zambos,” concluding that any “difference in common acceptance is unknown, or almost nothing.” This was not the only declaration in the cabildo’s remonstrance that undermined, rather than supported, its arguments. Comparison between Caracas protests in the 1788 letters to the king and renewed complaints in 1796 reveals an evolution in elite views concerning whitening. Throughout, the city council never challenged the proposition that the monarch might transform pardos into whites, even while it consistently opposed the option. What had changed was elite understanding of what whitening might occasion. In contrast with imperial officials, who seemed undecided if whitening might vaguely or decisively improve status, the Caracas elites had reached unambiguous conclusions. Their letter conceded that “a pardo dispensed from his quality” would be eligible for “all those [functions] that up until now had been appropriate for a white man.” Such a recognition reflected

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a transformation in local attitudes from 1788 when elites seemed not to understand that whitening would permit pardos to hold public office and enter the university.34 Now the cabildo explicitly detailed what they saw as pernicious consequences: “Classes will swarm with mulatto students, they will expect to enter the seminary, possess municipal offices, they will serve in public offices and royal treasury; they will become knowledgeable of all public and private affairs.”35 The ultimate effect of such integration would be the “discouragement and retirement of white and decent persons” from public affairs. Underlying such white flight were those social mores supporting the “proximity argument,” the deep-seated conviction that a key component of personal status derived from the individual’s social circle. Just as his association with whites enhanced the status of a pardo such as Pedro Antonio de Ayarza, so whites feared that similar contact with Diego Lorenzo Mexias Bejarano in university classrooms or pulpits would lower their own status. If the crown whitened pardos, Caracas elites threatened to opt out, leading to the disintegration of governance, education, and religion. New to protests after 1795 were complaints about specifics in the gracias al sacar clauses. Members objected repeatedly that the fee schedule charged “a small quantity of money” given the “immense distance” between the “privilege and superiority” of whites and the “lowness and subordination” of pardos.36 They felt it a “hard thing” that pardos and mulattos might pay a “contemptible sum” to gain what “others have conserved with zeal and conduct for so many centuries.” Given the cost was relatively modest, they feared numerous pardos might apply. Speculation as to the origin of the whitening clauses was another theme running throughout the cabildo’s report. While members admitted that it might be “difficult and hazardous” to understand why the sovereign passed laws, they conceded that subjects should “always presume them meditated and just.” Such a comment might have jolted officials in Madrid who had to be aware that the whitening clauses originated more by accident than due to any thought-out policy. Since the Caracas city council had no idea how or why the whitening option appeared, they speculated as to its origin. They believed it the product of Bourbon administrative reform in general and—this was far-reaching indeed—a conspiracy of their audiencia in particular. Significantly, members never blamed the monarch for signing the gracias al sacar, nor the Council



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of the Indies for approving it. Rather, they saw the whitening option as the outcome of Bourbon measures that provided preferential treatment in imperial offices to the peninsulares, Spaniards born in Spain.37 The municipal council argued that the appointment of officials from Spain caused numerous problems, as their “lack of knowledge” gave them “false and contrary ideas” that they passed on to Madrid.38 Royal officials failed to enforce the laws, as they looked at the province as travelers viewed an “inn, contenting themselves to suffer the bad for the short time that they have to endure it.” Since they did not plan to stay in the Americas, their only goal was “to acquire sufficient goods to finish their career in their own country or somewhere else.” Given the constant tensions between the Caracas city council and the audiencia, it was no surprise that the Bourbon reform that established the audiencia in Caracas in 1786 was as unpopular as the officials who served in it. The cabildo charged that the city had become a “seedbed of quarrels, griefs, and shocks.” The audiencia did not respect local elites. Rather, “low class” types offered “indecent and blind adulation to the oidores who pander to them in everything.” Audiencia officials especially favored “mulattos, pardos and inferior people who serve them without price, who skillfully praise and flatter them in terms that it would not be possible for white, distinguished and honored persons to do.” Local officials expressed their suspicion that audiencia officials were sending inaccurate information: “How is it possible that the reports given to your majesty concerning this province do not conform to the true circumstances?” The cabildo’s answer was the astonishing and paranoid charge that officials on the Caracas audiencia—“some secret influence full of poison”—had provided false reports on the state of the province. This manipulation had directly produced the “mentioned royal decree.” Members openly speculated what the audiencia might have reported to Madrid that persuaded the Council of the Indies to include the whitening clauses in the gracias al sacar. The city council’s improbable answer was that Caracas royal officials had recommended that the only way to bring peace to the province and to avoid lawsuits between pardos and whites was to eliminate the distinction between the groups. If pardos could marry whites, it would blend the population into one. Elites speculated that audiencia had reported “that there are many pardos that enjoy whiteness: that there are innumerable lawsuits concerning limpieza: and that it is not advisable to favor ­distinctions

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in America.” The result, the cabildo concluded, was that the monarch had decided “to open the door to such [whitening] dispensations in order to cut off lawsuits and to avoid evils.” If, in the future, a white family tried to prohibit the marriage of a son or daughter by citing the Pragmatic Sanction on Marriages, the rejected casta spouse would be able to purchase whiteness through gracias al sacar, thereby eliminating any barriers to matrimony. Why would the Caracas elites arrive at the preposterous charge that the audiencia had precipitated the whitening clauses and wanted to encourage sexual liaisons between whites and pardos? Elite suspicion was likely due not only to the constant tensions between the city council and the audiencia but also to a specific contretemps in 1789. Remember that the Caracas audiencia, at the bequest of the Council of the Indies, had investigated the background surrounding the whitening request of “leopard” Juan Gabriel Landaeta, whose petition still remained unresolved in Madrid. The city council was still furious that the audiencia had twice refused to provide them with any details, even though that body had no authority to inform municipal officers concerning their report. The audiencia had not only declined to reveal who they were investigating, but they had not leaked to local elites that they supported their denunciation of whitening. The result was that the city council suspected that the audiencia had provided information that led to the issuance of the whitening gracias al sacar. Further evidence emerged to suggest that cabildo members saw a connection between the audiencia’s 1789 investigation of Juan Gabriel Landaeta and the later appearance of the whitening clauses. Their 1796 report directly attacked Oidor Don Francisco Ignacio Cortines, the official who had undertaken the original investigation of his petition. The city council charged that Cortines had become the “protector” of the pardos and had “seduced” other audiencia ministers to support his position. The result was that the audiencia showed in “its decrees and judgments such adhesion to the mulattos” that they had the “injustice and rashness to declare them white.” Since the city council did not mention names, it is unclear if they referred only to the Landaetas or the Mexias Bejaranos or if they were even aware of the petitions of the Briceños, Almeydas, and Rodríguezes. Was there any justification for suspicion of Cortines? On one hand, Santos Rodulfo Cortés acknowledged the general tendency of the city council unfairly “to attribute all the social and economic problems of the time to



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the ‘inferior castes’” and to the “audiencia.”39 Still, he felt there was some basis to their charges that Cortines was “directly guilty for all the mulatto conspiracy to break the social order of the time.”40 Rodulfo Cortés added that it was “publicly said” that Cortines was “playing with his career” given the “love that he had toward one of the most sought after young pardas of the moment.” However, he provides no footnote to document this tantalizing comment.41 The documentary evidence does not support the cabildo’s accusation against Oidor Cortines. The Caracas city council did not know that in 1789 he had reported accurately but without enthusiasm concerning the Landaetas. His individual vote in the audiencia concerning the report sent to Cámara about the Landaetas remained, by law, a secret. Unknown to local elites, the audiencia as a group had not only forwarded a strong message to Madrid advising against the whitening option, but its members had steadfastly endorsed their written protests. Just as in Spain where whitening proceeded from myriad unplanned steps, so in Caracas the issue exposed dysfunctionality given the lack of communication between imperial and local officials.42 The Caracas cabildo was likely accurate that some of this conflict was the result of Bourbon administrative reforms, although its recommendation of how to remedy the situation was not likely to receive a favorable reception from Madrid. The city council suggested that the best way to provide correct information was to divide imperial offices among three groups: local elites, “American Spaniards” who had emigrated and now made their home in the Indies, and “European Spaniards” who came solely to govern. If Madrid continued to favor “European” bureaucrats, it would only continue the “now not secret but public fight . . . between locals and officials.”43 How effective were the elite’s arguments? Since the Cámara knew that the Caracas audiencia had not colluded to promote pardo whitening, the municipal council’s conspiracy theory fell flat. Nor had the cabildo likely considered that their complaints and recommendations for reform would be arriving at the desks of the very same “Europeans” who, after years of service in the Americas, might return to positions on the Council and Cámara of the Indies. Even Oidor Cortines, the target of their particular scorn, would eventually receive an appointment to the Council, although he would die before he could take up the post.44

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The second major theme of the 1796 protest against the whitening clauses explained why they would be a disaster for the province, and suggested reforms aimed to diminish casta status. Just as the audiencia conspiracy theory, some of these arguments proved surprising and many counterproductive. Notably, even as elites provided a litany of negative comments concerning pardos and mulattos, it is telling that members never argued that they were innately inferior beings and that was why they should not become white. Rather, the city council provided a historical explanation as to why different hierarchies had developed in the province and why separation between whites and the castas needed to continue. Their answer was slavery, for the “rigor” and “harshness” of the slave system meant there had to be “separation” to maintain “subordination.”45 Even while the cabildo explicitly acknowledged the necessity for harsh laws to keep slaves in servitude, it also acknowledged that they had a natural desire for freedom. They conceded that no “man would subject himself as a slave, if he did not fear that the desire to recover his liberty would be punished as a crime.” While the cabildo saw the conditions of slavery and pardo-ness to be blemishes, even the Caracas elite did not characterize these as innate and permanent human defects. A significant weakness of the report was that it lambasted pardos and mulattos in an ad hominem fashion. This did not necessarily further its position, given that the majority of whitening applications originated from a distinctive cohort of professionals and military officers. The end result was that when the city council commented on pardos generally, it inadvertently made the opposite case that applicants such as Diego Mexias Bejarano were exceptional. For example, the cabildo noted that it was “rare” that pardos were legitimate—however, the Landaetas and Mexias Bejaranos had sent proof of three generations of legitimate births to the Cámara.46 Even the Caracas city council, that sole and vociferous protester against the gracias al sacar clauses, did not totally rule out the possibility of whitening transformations. Members conceded that the state might, in the future, “indicate to them [pardos] that they could be elevated some day to the class of whites in reward for some great service, either in agriculture or the military.47 This suggestion may have also proved counterproductive, given that many applicants had already presented proof of substantial achievements. At least some petitioners and at times some Cámara ministers seem to have felt that the “someday” had arrived.



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The rest of the city council’s report detailed the “sad constitution” of the province. In Venezuela, the three distinct social groups each went their different ways: No white man applies himself to the [artisan] arts so as not to be confused with the pardos; these refuse to work in the fields so as not be confused with slaves; and that in a word, all want to be gentlemen in America, to occupy posts and to live from the public rents at the cost of society without contributing to it.

How could the crown remedy such a dire situation? The city council proposed a Mephisto-like bargain: they were ready to accept the arrival of a “considerable number” of Spanish troops. These would not only reduce their own military responsibilities, but make it possible to disband the pardo militias who they prophesized would be the “ruin of America.” The cabildo explained that in Venezuela, the white and pardo militias performed separate functions. Whites had to “contain slavery and maintain the interior peace of the country,” including revolts such as had occurred in Coro the previous year (1795). The pardo militias—presumably not as trusted to put down uprisings of slaves, free blacks, and mulattos—customarily dealt with exterior threats such as smuggling or piracy. Elites complained that this division had only abetted the “haughtiness of the pardos giving them organization, leaders, and arms to facilitate a revolution.” Equally problematic was that these militias enjoyed the military fuero, which put them outside the jurisdiction of the city council officers as pardo officers protected their soldiers in “every difficult situation.” This only increased the “insolent presumption of the mulattos.” Most likely, the Caracas elite thought to achieve multiple goals with this proposal: to rid themselves of their dangerous responsibilities to police freedmen and slaves, to decrease the influence and status of the pardo militias, and to increase white control over the castas. It is somewhat ironic, given their bitter complaints against bureaucrats from Spain, that municipal officials would now request the presence of regular military from the peninsula. It seemed they would rather pay the price of submission to other “Europeans” than allow the pardo militias to serve the crown and become eligible for royal reciprocity. Who would pay for the Spanish troops sent to Venezuela? The report proposed that the crown encourage pardos—it was unclear if by incentives

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or by force—to go to the countryside and work land that “in this province is uncultivated and solitary given the . . . idleness of so many hands.” This increased production would create taxes to pay for the influx of the regular military. An additional advantage if pardos relocated to the countryside was that “whites in the cities” might then be willing to take up the “mechanical arts,” including occupations—“blacksmiths, carpenters, silversmiths, tailors, bricklayers, shoemakers, butchers, meat slaughterers”—currently dominated by pardos. The cabildo concluded with a statement of its fealty to the monarchy: the “natives of this province and Spanish residents that are in it, simply love their monarchs . . . they think of nothing but living with honor beneath the Laws of Spain to which they have sworn and swear vassalage.” However, elites warned the king not to expect such loyalty from his pardo and mulatto subjects: “Far from looking toward Spain as the center of their felicity they have to fix their view on the dark inhabitants of Africa, where they originated.” While previously elites had cautioned that casta mobility threatened the internal stability of the monarchy, now, after the revolution in Haiti and revolts throughout the Caribbean, they directly questioned pardo loyalty to the crown. The municipal council doubted that even official whitening would buy pardo and mulatto loyalty. They cynically wondered, “Could the new whites perhaps be more faithful than the old?” They pondered what “offence” they had done, so that the crown would “create other new [vassals] whose fidelity always has to be doubtful.” These problems would not be resolved until Madrid removed incompetent and biased officials, reorganized a local audiencia that was “incapable of any favorable enterprise,” and suspended the gracias al sacar clauses that whitened pardos and mulattos. Although the cabildo sent this lengthy and critical report to the Council of the Indies, it apparently did not provide a copy to the Caracas audiencia. This was typical of the aggressiveness of the city council and also understandable, given the levels of antagonism and critique directed against the audiencia in the document. A few weeks later, in mid-December (1796) when the audiencia finally began to consider its response to the whitening provisions, royal officials did not mention it, although they did refer to the protests the decade before (1788) and the more recent outburst against the whitening of Diego Mexias Bejarano.



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Audiencia crown attorney Julián Díaz de Saravia reported that the president had called the group together given the need for “wisdom in a matter of such gravity.”48 They had not yet considered the pleas from the cabildo that they “suspend publication” of the gracias al sacar and “inform his majesty of the inconveniences that would follow from it.” Nor had the audiencia answered, even though they still “had in view,” the letter that the governor of Maracaibo had sent them more than a year before, informing them of his temporary decision not to publish the whitening clauses and asking for advice. It seems that officials on the Caracas audiencia, just as in Maracaibo, felt it might be wiser to do nothing than to take action on such a contentious issue. Given its suspicions of imperial officials, Caracas elites would have been in for a surprise if they had attended the private meetings of the audiencia. Fiscal Saravia concurred with the Maracaibo governor concerning possible “inconveniences” attached to whitening, given that the number of “free pardos, blacks and mulattos” in the province was “more than double” that of whites and Indians. He agreed that mulattos could not be trusted, since some had joined with slaves in the 1795 Coro Revolt the previous year, where they had demanded the end of slavery as had occurred on “nearby islands and colonies.” He recommended that the president and audiencia not publish the gracias al sacar publicly, given the whitening clauses. Still, Saravia remained concerned that there were other gracias al sacar provisions besides whitening that might benefit the populace. He suggested that the audiencia “pass copies to the cabildos of the cities and villas as had been done with this capital.” That way it would limit distribution, presumably to the elites, so that those “who have need” of specific provisions might have “notice” of it. He suggested that the president, the audiencia, and the governor of Maracaibo should “consult with his majesty” concerning what might bring “public quiet and calm to these provinces.” The audiencia, including Oidor Cortines, agreed.

conclusions By December 1796, the Landaetas and the Ayarzas still awaited word from Madrid. Four pardos—the two Valenzuela brothers, Diego Mexias

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Bejarano, and Angela Inés Rodríguez—had received the best news from the Council of the Indies. They had finally broken through centuries of discrimination; they had purchased a gracias al sacar that made them officially white. Given the newness of this option, what trends emerged during these formative two years? Most evident was that the promulgation of the gracias al sacar had created administrative distress on both sides of the Atlantic. In Madrid, there was discord between the fiscals and the Cámara. Cistué y Coll’s first responses were negative: he denied the petition of the Ayarzas and refused to provide an opinion for the Valenzuelas. The Cámara promptly overruled him in both instances, sending to Bogotá for further information on the Ayarzas and issuing the first whitening gracias al sacar to the Valenzuelas. It remains unknown if Cistué y Coll provided a recommendation concerning the petition for Angela Inés Rodríguez or simply presented the case without an opinion to Camaristas: in any case they quickly approved it. The fiscals began to share information on cases and to cooperate to reject petitioners. With Cistué y Coll absent, Posada y Soto reaffirmed his colleague’s previous negative ruling on the Ayarzas when further information arrived from Bogotá. As the Cámara hesitated, members began to search for precedents and delayed any decision. Given that the appearance of the whitening clauses was not the product of a deeply considered crown policy to promote whitening, it is not surprising that both the crown attorneys and the Cámara floundered, uncertain how to proceed. Imperial officials on the other side of the Atlantic also evidenced hesitancy and dismay concerning the gracias al sacar. The governor of Maracaibo refused to publish the whitening clauses, sending pleas to his superiors in Caracas for further guidance. In Bogotá, Viceroy Ezpeleta worried that the whitening of pardos would overturn current law as well as open the gates for similar petitioners. When President Pedro Carbonell found that the Caracas city council seemed unaware of the gracias al sacar, even though he had sent them a copy, he provided another and awaited the inevitable explosion. The Caracas audiencia dithered on whether to publish the whitening clauses, fearing the consequences and decided to seek advice from higher officials. The responses of the Caracas cabildo were in context and symptomatic of its traditional bellicose and ferocious defense of elite privilege. In April 1796, members scheduled a special meeting to protest, demanded that the governor suspend the clauses, and commissioned members to prepare a pro-



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test to send to Madrid. In November of that year, members denounced the whitening of Diego Mexias Bejarano and posted their voluminous complaints to Madrid. Although the protests of the Caracas elites would eventually influence policy, some of their assertions only weakened their case. Particularly shocking was their unsubstantiated accusation that royal officials had added the whitening clauses to the gracias al sacar at the suggestion of the Caracas audiencia. The presumed goal was to make it possible for newly whitened pardos to marry with whites, thereby promoting a mixed population that would no longer engage in numerous lawsuits over caste status. While city council officials acknowledged that pardo petitioners who received a gracias al sacar would have the full privileges of whites, they rejected the minimal cost. Elites proposed the disbandment of both white and pardo militias and the imposition of peninsular troops as another way to reduce pardo influence, as they would no longer take up arms in service to the crown. They questioned casta loyalty to the crown. With the exception of Venezuela, elites elsewhere in the Indies proved supportive of the whitening gracias al sacar. The Ayarzas assembled positive, even enthusiastic recommendations from university, imperial, and ecclesiastical officials in Bogotá and Portobelo. Royal administrators testified to the wealth, taxpaying contributions, white appearance, and accredited status of the Valenzuelas. Notably, there was also absence: the two Venezuelan petitioners—Diego Mexias Bejarano and Angela Inés Rodríguez—had provided no testimony or letters from elites in their favor. Petitions from pardos who had applied before the 1795 decree—Diego Mexias Bejarano and Pedro Antonio de Ayarza—provided continuity with an earlier cohort that had unsuccessfully sought full whiteness before the issuance of the gracias al sacar. They demonstrate that the appearance of the price list escalated pardo expectations. Diego no longer asked for a dispensation for his son to become a priest; instead, he petitioned for whitening for himself and, later, for the title of Don. When Pedro Antonio de Ayarza first applied, it was for permission for his son to graduate from the university; later he would seek whiteness for himself and his offspring. The first applicants after 1795 had more modest expectations: the Valenzuelas asked for personal rather than public elimination of their defect; the decree to Angela Inés Rodríguez provided that least controversial of relief, as it guaranteed the status of the whitish wife of an elite male.

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Decisions on the first four cases left numerous issues undecided. To what extent might appearance, social acceptability, or service to the crown influence a positive outcome? Were royal officials more likely to sanction vague petitions such as those of the Valenzuelas and Rodríguezes that did not require any overturning of discriminatory Indies law or would specific ambitions as espoused by the Mexias Bejaranos and Ayarzas such as admission to the priesthood or university also receive approval? What did whitening really do? Were the benefits confined to the individual or did they extend to later generations? Equally unknown was if the silence from pardos and mulattos throughout the Americas would continue. Was whitening to be reserved to a rare few, or did these decrees presage more numerous applications and more expansive mobility? There would be no guarantee, even as imperial officials, local elites, and pardos and mulattos continued their conversations over whitening, that any clear-cut policy would emerge.

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Dissentions and Discords: 1796–1803 The Council of the Indies would henceforth expect “circumspection and maturity from the Cámara, which should not agree to dispensations or exemptions that are not the result of services and just and worthy motives and under terms in which there should be no fear of inconveniences.” council of the indies, March 2, 17991

introduction As the whitening gracias al sacar approached its second anniversary, it not only produced continued sparring between Madrid and Caracas but eventually a rare confrontation among the fiscals, the ministers of the Cámara, and their colleagues on the Council of the Indies. Officials in Contaduría would also intervene, suddenly raising the prices of gracias al sacar favors. Yet another historical actor would appear: Franciscan provincial José Antonio Goicoechea would write an impassioned letter pleading that the Council of the Indies consider expanded mobility for the castas. These complications would unfold as everyone involved debated specifics, supporting or opposing both the particular applications that began to arrive in Madrid as well as the general proposition that pardos and mulattos might purchase whiteness.

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m adr id: conflict over w hitenings A first manifestation of such conflict occurred in December 1796 when the Cámara ruled on the whitening of university student Joseph Ponciano de Ayarza. Even though Fiscals José de Cistué y Coll and Ramón de Posada y Soto had advised the Cámara to reject the petition, ministers decided instead to “extinguish the quality of pardo” so that he might graduate from the university.2 They did include the caveat that ending this defect should not “serve as an example.” Internal Cámara documents show some confusion concerning the decision, given that a first draft whitened all three of the brothers who applied, although the final version limited the favor to Joseph Ponciano. Even though the Cámara had overruled them—and crown attorneys did not like to have their advice spurned—that same December Fiscal Ramón de Posada y Soto sent yet another negative recommendation to the Cámara. Apparently, Cuban Joseph María Cowley was in Madrid when he had submitted his whitening application in person.3 At least, Fiscal Posada y Soto seems to have met him, for he remarked that “nothing appears . . . of either his calidad or the origin of pardo.” While Cowley admitted that he “descended from pardos through the maternal line,” he also pointed out that he had held offices “that had always been held by white persons,” including handling marine provisions and employment in the tobacco bureaucracy.4 The only other service Cowley mentioned in his favor was that he had taught religion to the “Negros from Africa (bozales).” Nor did he provide any letters from elites in his favor. By now, Fiscal Posada y Soto had reached a number of conclusions concerning whitening. His initial negativity had only deepened. He decided that it was too inexpensive; it should be for a specific purpose; it should be limited to the individual. Whether influenced by the Caracas cabildo or no, Posada y Soto agreed with their complaint that the fee for whitening was too low. It was not “plausible,” he concluded, “to concede for such a small price a perpetual dispensation to a family to be able to obtain whatever posts and positions of honor that are suitable for whites.” He felt that only pardos and mulattos who had particular reasons—for example, to hold an office or employment—should seek the necessary exemption and then only for themselves. Although he did not make an explicit comparison, his comments suggest that he considered that whitening should more resemble the



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occupational exemptions originally granted to Panamanian notaries, rather than any absolute and total transformation. Posada y Soto’s years in the Indies no doubt also influenced his deeper concerns about the “inconveniences” that whitening might occasion. As he and Cistué y Coll had previously expressed in their evaluation of the Ayarzas, he feared that if such dispensations became common, it would result in “a general revocation of the laws and statutes that require limpieza de sangre to serve in certain positions.” These included entry into “churches, cathedrals, universities, schools and city councils.” He suggested that if Cowley had a specific reason why he needed to be white, he should submit another petition. Disagreement between the fiscals and the Cámara continued to ferment, for in January 1797, when Camaristas reviewed Posada y Soto’s rejection of Cowley’s petition, they refused to accept it. Rather, they “passed to the royal hands of your majesty” their own suggestion that “in spite of” what the fiscal said, Cowley should receive whitening. They agreed that the scope should be limited, for they restricted the favor “only to his person.” Left unknown was the ultimate disposition of the case and why the Cámara proved more ready to whiten. On the other side of the Atlantic, the Christmas and New Year holidays had passed quietly in Caracas, without further outbursts from any of the concerned. It was not until early February 1797 that Fiscal Julián Díaz de Saravia returned to the audiencia with further concerns about publication of the gracias al sacar.5 He still worried that numerous beneficial clauses not connected with whitening remained unknown to the public. Saravia recommended that the audiencia should deal with the whitening contretemps more openly and publish all the gracias al sacar provisions. They should inform Diego Mexias Bejarano of the cabildo’s objections to his whitening, so that he might have an opportunity to respond. The president and the oidores supported his plan, which would eventually lead to further outbursts from the Caracas city council and pleas from Diego Mexias Bejarano. On the other side of the Atlantic, that February 1797 saw the arrival of new applications. “Free pardos” Pedro de Olmedo and his son-in-law Manuel Garay wrote from Córdoba, Argentina, referring to the “decree just published” that permitted the purchase of whiteness.6 Given these petitioners lived in the interior of Argentina, this petition might suggest that knowledge of the whitening option was spreading more widely beyond the Caribbean to pardos throughout the Americas.

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Such a conclusion is less certain, however, given that Olmedo likely petitioned because he had firsthand knowledge of the benefits of gracias al sacar. In 1791, either his illegitimate son or an orphan he charitably sheltered—witnesses disagreed concerning the origin of Don Joseph Ramón de Olmedo—had applied for legitimation through gracias al sacar and received his decree in 1796.7 It may be that the success of this real or adopted son made Olmedo more conscious than other pardos of the whitening clauses. Since Pedro was unaware of the unhappiness of imperial officials concerning both the price and the effect of the whitening decree, he tried to get a bargain. He requested whitenings for himself, his son-in-law, and their eight offspring for the 500-real fee. Compared with the wealth of the Valenzuela merchant brothers or the praise that Bogotá and Portobelo elites lavished on the Ayarzas, the Olmedo application was not competitive. Pedro was a local merchant, and Manuel a painter and gilder. Both proved that they were legitimate and educated and supplied letters of recommendation from Córdoba locals, although these were notable for their tepid support. It did not much help Olmedo’s case when Don Joseph Alvino Fernández testified that he knew Pedro, Manuel, and their wives who were “of notorious and good conduct distinguished by those of their class.”8 The underlying message was that they were notable pardos, but not accepted by whites. Merchant Juan Troncoso, who admitted that he had business dealings with Pedro, damned with faint praise when he noted that the merchant’s offspring had “an education that is usually missing in those of their class.” When the application arrived at the desk of Fiscal Cistué y Coll, in late March 1797, he was not impressed. He wrote a cryptic comment that might well refer to the growing split between the crown attorneys and the Cámara. He pointedly noted that the Cámara should not “cede said gracias to everyone who asks for it as various others have expected ” (italics mine). Perhaps he was stung because the Cámara had now repeatedly overruled both himself and Posada y Soto. Cistué y Coll made evident that he supported the reasoning behind Posada y Soto’s recent opinion to deny the Cowley petition. He agreed that whitening should only be granted “to obtain offices or employment” that could not be achieved “without the dispensation of the said quality.” He felt that it was inappropriate to whiten Pedro de Olmedo, his son-in-law, and their offspring for such a “skimpy charge.” He recommended that the



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Cámara reject their petition and this time, perhaps because the application was weak, ministers agreed. As was customary in the Spanish imperial system, a negative decision did not necessarily mean that petitioners accepted a rejection. The next month, Don Thomas Salustiano Gallardo, the Olmedos’ Madrid representative, was back petitioning the Cámara. He complained that his clients “would not be able to achieve the favor permitted by your royal liberality.” Don Thomas must have talked to Fiscal Cistué y Coll or others who supported the position that the effects of whitening should be limited. He admitted that he now had a different appreciation of what whitening might bring. He “understood” that whitening attached solely to the individual. It did not pass to succeeding generations as offspring would “remain as they were before the dispensation, not being able to inherit either the honor or the result of the [whitening].” The consequences were that a “pardo son” might have a recently whitened “father.” What Don Thomas likely did not know was that while the fiscals favored such restrictions, the issue remained undecided. Later petitioners would still expect to pass whitening to their offspring. There was one issue on which the Council, Cámara, crown attorneys, and petitioners now agreed: the cost of whitening was seriously disproportionate to the benefit. Don Thomas went on to “appreciate” why the Cámara could not make whitening “hereditary and perpetual,” given the “small fixed payment.” He also admitted that this created a dilemma for fathers Pedro and Manuel. They “did not want for themselves” something that they would not be able to pass to their “offspring and posterity.” To solve this problem, Don Thomas came up with an ingenious suggestion so that his clients might pay more and achieve whitening for themselves and their descendants. He borrowed the concept of “lives” [vidas] traditionally used in the passing of encomiendas, the early institution that apportioned Native tribute to the conquistadors and their descendants. Encomiendas were not perpetual grants, but counted by the number of generations—“lives”—that passed from the original holder to descendants. For example, an encomienda based on three ‘lives” passed from the original holder to two more before it reverted to the crown.9 Pedro and Manuel creatively borrowed this idea, as each offered to pay the 500-real whitening price for four lives, or 2000 reales apiece. The result would be that they, as well as their children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, would

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become white. Since to prove their “clean blood” the family would only have to substantiate that three generations were without stain, the ultimate effect would be that even after the “lives” ran out, Pedro and Manuel’s descendants would still enjoy whiteness. Unfortunately, the ultimate disposition of this case remains unknown, although the absence of a whitening decree suggests that these creative petitioners were unsuccessful.

f r e e pa r d os s t r i k e b ack : t h e pa r d o gu i l d of c a r ac a s While the fiscals and the Cámara spent the early part of 1797 in disagreement over whitening policy, on the other side of the Atlantic, pardos prepared to go on the offensive. In June, the Free Pardo Guild of Caracas responded to the extensive cabildo protest of the previous November.10 Since whites excluded pardos and mulattos from artisan guilds, the latter had formed an organization of their own. As with their white counterparts, the Pardo Guild provided resources and manpower for their segregated militia units.11 Just as the only protests concerning the whitening gracias al sacar derived from the Caracas establishment, so too the only response in support came from that city’s pardos. The comments of the guild provide telling insight into how some Caracas castas conceptualized the intent of the whitening clauses, viewed their status compared to whites, and gauged their relationship with the crown. Not surprisingly, the Pardo Guild applauded the “royal intention” of the gracias al sacar to “raise themselves to the class of useful and honored vassals.”12 They were equally aware that the city council was “determined” to maintain them in “humble dependency,” had questioned their loyalty to the crown, and had asked for revocation of the whitening clauses. Just as the city council might have weakened its case by unfounded charges that the audiencia conspired against them to promote whitening, so the Pardo Guild may also have undermined its arguments through mistaken assumptions. The first was logical, if incorrect. As the cabildo, the guild presumed that the king and the Council of the Indies “before the issuance of the royal cédula” had seriously considered the ramifications of a whitening policy. After all, the guild confided, “a tribunal charged by your majesty for the government of America” must have had “in view . . . the



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prejudices and advantages” that whitening would produce. Pardos were particularly heartened that officials had nonetheless proceeded to publish the gracias al sacar. Given the absentminded process that had actually produced the whitening clauses, both Caracas elites and pardos gave more credit to the deliberativeness of imperial government than warranted. The Pardo Guild also speculated, much as the Caracas cabildo in its lengthy November 1796 missive, why the whitening clauses had appeared in the first place. Unlike the city council, which suspected conspiracy, the guild hoped for utopia. They put forth the completely mistaken interpretation that the goal of the whitening legislation was to encourage whites, pardos, and mulattos “to link and unite, arriving to form and constitute with time a single and unique family.” How could the guild possibly conclude that the crown’s ultimate objective might be the physical convergence of white and pardo populations into one? One possible answer is that the paranoid charges of the Caracas cabildo—that the crown supported such merging to avoid lawsuits—had leaked to the public. The Pardo Guild never acknowledged that it had knowledge of the cabildo’s mistaken conclusions. Instead, it offered its own rationale as to why the crown might encourage mixtures between pardo and white populations. Attention to wording is critical in understanding the guild’s argument—it is notable that in the thousands of pages of documents surrounding the gracias al sacar, this is the only text that ever uses the word “colonies” applied to Spanish settlements in the Americas. Pardos described their connection to Spain in terms of hierarchy rather than equality, identifying Spain as a dominant nation, rather than envisioning a Spanish empire composed of equal kingdoms. They considered the Americas to be in a “colonial” relationship. While the guild admitted that it was “true” that “there should be some distinction in favor of the dominant Nation” (nación dominante), they also felt there should not be an “immense distance” between it and its “colonies” (colonias).13 One way to achieve this “laudable object” would be for differences to be muted and for families to be “united and interlinked.” This reasoning led the guild to venture why the crown had issued the whitening clauses: if pardos became white, they might marry whites. This would promote a more uniform population and discourage conflict. The Pardo Guild also believed that royal largesse and reciprocity might underlie whitening policy. While guild members admitted that they “had

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the disgrace, it is true, of not being European,” justice demanded if “their conduct had been equal to that of whites” that they should be recompensed for their “merit.” They also should be able to enjoy the “favors and benefits with which the king rightly knows to provide and recompense the merit of the most humble vassal.” Another objective of the guild was to dispel the charges raised by the Caracas cabildo that pardos were not loyal to Spain, although here they sent a mixed message. While they provided evidence of their fealty, they also threatened absence of support if the crown repealed the whitening clauses.14 After rooting in the “Archives of the Province of Caracas,” the guild turned up decrees (1694, 1780) that lauded pardos for their “zeal” for “royal service.” They produced a 1749 document that had “equaled the troop of this guild” with the white militias, “not only granting them the use of offensive and defensive arms but distinguishing them.” They underlined that such trust was but “just reward” for the loyalty pardos had exhibited, given some had “sacrificed their lives.” The Pardo Guild then raised a pertinent question: If the pardos remain separated from the whites, without hope of linking themselves with them, nor of arriving to enjoy the same honors: What incentive or stimulus would be powerful enough to offer them that they embrace [white] interests and defend them as their own?

What would happen, the guild asked, if pardos became “convinced that they would never leave their despondency?” Why should they “provide services from which they know they would not derive the least utility?” This was why, they concluded, the royal decree was a “wise means . . . to reunite in one body those that up until now have been divided by difference in color so that they become a one and single interest.” They asked the king to keep the whitening clauses intact. Unfortunately, royal officials in Madrid never commented on this letter from the Pardo Guild in gracias al sacar deliberations, as they would—later on—concerning the protests from the Caracas cabildo. Given the ongoing differences between the fiscals and the Cámara and the continuing ambiguities about the consequences of whitening, such a mistaken and exaggerated interpretation of imperial goals must not have helped the pardo cause. Yet, seen from another perspective, pardos had fired a warning shot that if the crown abolished the whitening clauses they would have little reason to



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remain loyal. It is notable, even when crown officials effectively eliminated whitening as an option by refusing to rule on petitions, the Council of the Indies never rescinded these gracias al sacar clauses. In a strange twist, both the Caracas cabildo and the Pardo Guild had agreed—both wrongly and both for different reasons—that the crown had issued the whitening clauses to promote intermingling between whites and pardos. According to the cabildo’s conspiracy theory, the clauses empowered pardos to purchase whiteness, thereby eliminating lawsuits occasioned by the 1778 Pragmatic Sanction on Marriages and permitting them to marry whites. According to the idealistic theory of the guild, pardos expected to purchase whiteness to enjoy justly deserved benefits—including marriage with whites—that they had earned as loyal vassals and without which they had little incentive to serve the monarchy. Also deafening was the silence from the rest of the Americas: Did elites and pardos elsewhere even know that the whitening option existed and if they did, did they care?

m adr id: first enforcements and car acas complications While institutional responses such as sent by the Caracas cabildo and the Pardo Guild may have affected the opinions of the fiscals and the Cámara, complications from cases may have ultimately had more impact on subsequent policy changes. That same June 1797 on the other side of the Atlantic, the Cámara began to confront the difficulties anticipated years earlier by Fiscal Antonio de Porlier and Viceroy José de Ezpeleta.15 What would happen, these officials had asked, if the crown issued a whitening decree and locals refused to honor it? The answer was that the state had to force obedience to royal decrees. Ironically, just as the crown attorneys and even Camaristas were becoming increasingly reluctant to grant petitions, they became even more proactive in their demands that the newly whitened benefit from their altered status. As time passed, the inconveniences of such constant affirmative action may have encouraged the Cámara to back down from such confrontational responsibilities. Tracing the complaints of successful petitioners not only reveals imperial determination to enforce the whitening decrees but also provides insight into those processes that influenced whether a gracias al sacar might or

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might not improve status. Given the resistance raised by the Caracas elite to whitening, it is not surprising that the first to return for additional support was Diego Mexias Bejarano. That same June 1797 that the Pardo Guild had written to Madrid, he informed the Council of the Indies that he had presented his whitening decree to the audiencia in Caracas, but they had refused to enforce it because of the “unjust resistance” of the city council.16 Mexias Bejarano disputed the cabildo charge that he had lied in his petition, portraying himself as a pardo when he was a mulatto. He provided proof that when he received permission to practice medicine, the city council had classified him as pardo, so their charge was unfounded. What he did not know was that the cabildo’s contradictory statements about the interchangeability between mulatto and pardo categories in their November 1796 letter had already weakened its case. His petition mirrored phrases from the report of the Pardo Guild, as it concluded: “Whether mulatto or black, his actions had accredited that he had received a soul that makes him approximate to a white.” He asked the Council to provide him with a document “that immediately executes the favor that he has been conceded.” Mexias Bejarano had to wait three months, until fall 1797, before the Cámara returned to consider issues surrounding whitening. Inexplicably, after a ten-year delay, ministers sent a royal decree to the president and audiencia of Caracas concerning the case of “mestizo” and “leopard” Juan Gabriel Landaeta, Diego’s first cousin and brother-in-law. They also provided some first comments on their reaction to the vehement protests sent by the Caracas cabildo the previous November. Finally, they responded to Diego Mexias Bejarano’s plea for execution of his whitening decree. The order with which the Cámara dealt with Landaeta, the Caracas cabildo, and Mexias Bejarano is unusual. Given their determination to avoid inconveniences, it would seem reasonable that the Cámara would first consider the policy and pragmatic issues surrounding whitening and its response to the city council, before ruling on the individual petitions of Landaeta and Mexias Bejarano. The decisions do not appear to have occurred in this order, as the Council of the Indies issued a decree on Friday, September 15, concerning Landaeta. Given the time lag to prepare the documents, this meant the Cámara likely made a decision on this petition days or even weeks earlier for it to appear on that date. The next Wednesday, the Cámara consulted concerning their response to the Caracas city council.



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Here there is direct linkage between their comments concerning the cabildo and their decision on Mexias Bejarano two days later. Why, after almost ten years, the Cámara finally issued a decision concerning Juan Gabriel Landaeta’s petition remains a mystery. Given the continual protests from the Caracas city council and the reluctance of the audiencia to enforce the gracias al sacar, it seems particularly deaf to local sensibilities. It may be that Fiscal Cistué y Coll was simply trying to settle long-standing matters that had piled up on his desk, as the Laws of the Indies required that ministers handle cases with some dispatch.17 Perhaps he concluded that since his ruling did not officially whiten Landaeta, it would not be controversial. If so, future events would prove him wrong. The Cámara’s decree summarized what had gone before, including Juan Gabriel Landaeta’s original 1788 application that recounted his family’s militia service and asked that his offspring might marry whites and become priests, the letters of protest sent by the Caracas city council in 1788, and the 1789 report that the Caracas audiencia had sent concerning the Landaeta family.18 Although the ruling ostensibly supported Landaeta, the ultimate effect was not in his favor, for his attempt to manipulate caste designations and classify his family as mestizo rather than pardo had backfired. Remember that he had insisted he was a “leopard” and a “mestizo” even though his genealogy and evidence of his family’s militia service marked them as pardos. Cistué y Coll simply took him at his word, and pointed out that if his offspring were mestizos, there were no laws that forbade that they become priests, and therefore no action by the Council of the Indies was necessary. Landaeta received similar treatment concerning his plea that his family be able to marry with whites. The decree informed the audiencia that if they were mestizos there was no “just and rational challenge”—presumably through the Pragmatic Sanction on Marriages—that would prohibit the Landaetas to “link themselves with any other family.” If there were a protest, the assumption—since they insisted that they were mestizos—was that they could prove this status and use “their respective right in the courts.” Although the Cámara did not state it explicitly, it was condoning the status quo. If the Landaetas attempted to marry whites and there were no parental opposition that resorted to the Pragmatic Sanction on Marriages, the wedding could proceed. If white parents protested, and the Landaetas could substantiate that they were mestizos, then the dissenters could not use the Pragmatic Sanction to stop any marriage. If, however, the protesting

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family could establish that the Landaetas were pardos, this “leopard” family had received no official protection from the Cámara. Even though—given that they really were pardos—the substance of the decision went against them, the Landaetas would eventually attempt to use this decision to their advantage. The next Wednesday (September 20, 1797) elicited the Cámara’s first comments concerning the lengthy protests against whitening forwarded the previous November by the Caracas city council. The Cámara was not impressed. Ministers concluded, not surprisingly given the cabildo’s paranoid conspiracy theory, that “the principal foundation” of the protests of the Caracas city council rested on “poor understanding.” However, they agreed to consider the matter further in “a full Council.”19 Two days later (September 22, 1797), the Cámara began to demand that those whitened in the Americas enjoy their new status. Members responded to the letter sent by Diego Mexias Bejarano the previous June, complaining that the cabildo and audiencia were not honoring his whitening decree. The Cámara rejected the “unfounded pretext” of the city council that it had awarded whitening “supposing that he was pardo and silencing that he was mulatto.”20 It ordered that as long as there was no “new legal objection,” the audiencia should enforce the whitening decree. This decision was the first of a series where the Cámara would intervene to demand that officials in the Americas and local elites permit successful petitioners to enjoy the benefits of whitening. What if anything do these three judgments on whitening within a September week in 1797 suggest concerning the development of a Council of the Indies policy? In two instances, the Cámara followed bureaucratic precedent. The Landaeta decision did not innovate, as ministers followed traditional guidelines given that the petitioner had not asked to be transformed from a pardo to white. The Cámara simply followed the law and agreed that if he were a mestizo, family members could become priests and marry whites. Similarly, with the complaints of Diego Mexias Bejarano, the Cámara only insisted that locals obey royal decrees. Their response to the complaints of the Caracas cabildo was more ambiguous: it opened the possibility that ministers might go beyond their immediate rejection of the cabildo’s conspiracy theory and consider the impact of local inconveniences.



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the car acas establishment strikes again On the American side of the Atlantic, events were quiet through the holidays and for seven months, although discontent over whitening must have continued to smolder. It was not until April (1798) that a Caracas “extraordinary cabildo” met to respond to the royal decrees issued in favor of Diego Mexias Bejarano and Juan Gabriel Landaeta. The issues surrounding whitening must have been topics of conversation in every strata of Caracas society. At least, reproductions of Diego’s whitening decree as well as the judgment concerning his cousin and brother-in-law Juan Gabriel’s rights as a mestizo had circulated in public. Cabildo members commented that they had reviewed unofficial “copies” of the whitening documents that were “in the hands of many.” Even though the cabildo offered its usual “profound and blind obedience to sovereign decision,” it rejected the “false monstrosity” of Juan Gabriel Landaeta’s suggestion that his family were mestizos “not finding in all their ancestry slavery, illegitimacy or other vileness.”21 The city council still seemed hopeful that its protests would bear fruit. Members remained unaware that the Cámara had initially rejected the lengthy complaints they had sent more than a year and a half previously against Bourbon administrative reform, the ineffectiveness of the audiencia, and the dire consequences of whitening. Instead, city council members begged the Cámara not to enforce the decrees in favor of Diego and Juan Gabriel until ministers had reviewed its report as to why whitening would be disruptive.

m adr id: applications, tensions With the exception of Venezuela, the whitening clauses had occasioned neither a rush of pardo or mulatto applications nor community protests throughout the empire. Rather, more striking are the number of “cluster” petitions that begin to emerge both before and after 1795 where knowledge of one petition inspired another. Included among these would be the earlier applications from the Cuban Báez brothers Joseph Francisco and Manuel; from Cuban surgeons Báez, Avilés, and Cruz y Mena; from Panamanian

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notary Masso and his protégées Paz and Borbúa; from the Venezuelan cousins and brothers-in-law Diego Mexias Bejarano and Juan Gabriel Landaeta; and from the Argentine father Olmedo and his son/adoptee.22 Similar connections also precipitated the petition of Portobelo resident Manuel Antonio Gutiérrez in May 1797 for he moved in the same circles as the Ayarzas.23 The whitening of the new university graduate Joseph Ponciano de Ayarza must have raised the hopes of Manuel Antonio Gutiérrez who confessed that “since puberty” he had strove for “fitting conduct.”24 As Pedro Antonio de Ayarza, he had first dedicated himself to “commerce” and then to the development of a cacao plantation. He had gained the “common appreciation and estimation principally of the elite of that city and the subjects of the greatest distinction.” However, he still suffered the “blush” that his dual defect caused his “wife and children” as he was both illegitimate and a pardo. He summoned a phalanx of elite witnesses that included two cabildo officers, the head of religious order of San Juan de Dios, a lieutenant colonel, the lieutenant governor, the interim governor, as well as numerous royal officials to testify in his favor. Just as occurred with the Ayarzas, the letters sent in Manuel Antonio’s favor reflected the radically more favorable climate in Panama for pardo mobility, particularly when compared with Venezuela. Portobelo city council officer Don Juan Manuel de Fromesta wrote enthusiastically of Manuel Antonio’s “great decency and Christianity,” noting that he had given his children a “good education and upbringing” and that he frequented the sacraments. Fromesta then used code words confirming that it was “public and notorious” that “superior” subjects and those “of the greatest distinction” accepted Gutiérrez as a peer. The alcalde added that when there was a shortage in the royal treasury to support the troops and pay officials, Gutiérrez had supplied “various supplements” to ease the difficulty. Don Pedro de Arizpe, the administrator of the mail—who had also testified on behalf of the Ayarzas—was equally enthusiastic concerning Manuel Antonio Gutiérrez. He had known him for twenty-eight years and he praised his “polished and scrupulous conduct.” As the Ayarzas, Manuel Antonio socialized with local elites given that “persons of the greatest distinction” visited his house; as the Ayarzas, he customarily entertained “those that transit” through the isthmus. His activities as a merchant and a cacao planter made him one of the “most useful” residents.



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Since Manuel Antonio applied both to erase his illegitimacy and his pardo-ness, his application had to meet the increasingly strict standards of the Cámara to erase his defect in birth and their still fluctuating guidelines to eliminate his caste status.25 He provided a baptismal certificate that revealed that forty-nine years ago his parish priest had listed him in the section reserved for “people of color” and as an hijo natural, the illegitimate son of single parents without impediments to marry.26 While his mother recognized him at birth, his father remained unknown. When Manuel Antonio was fourteen, a Don Bartolomé Gutiérrez Castañeda returned officially to acknowledge him. Since Manuel Antonio had taken his father’s name, it seems likely that there had been at least some informal contact since his birth. When Fiscal Cistué y Coll reviewed Manuel Antonio’s application the next month, in June 1798, he approvingly noted that the application met the standards for legitimation, given that his parents were unmarried and that his father had subsequently recognized him. In an inexplicable shift from his usual negative stance, he suggested that the “particular circumstances and merits” of the petitioner also justified ending the “quality of pardo,” although he would have to pay separately for each favor. A few days later, the Cámara accepted Cistué y Coll’s recommendation concerning legitimation. However, now these ministers had become skittish: they decided to separate out the request for whitening to consider “if it would be a good idea or not to open the hand easily in these instances.” This was a first indication that the attitude of the Cámara was changing, and ministers might be retreating from their propensity to approve whitening petitions. Such policy uncertainties may explain why Manuel Antonio Gutiérrez’s application sat without action in the Cámara’s offices throughout the summer. By September 1798, officials were following traditional procedures when they were at a loss, by rooting again in the archives for guidance. The secretary for Peru somewhat strangely reported, “there was no file either in this secretariat or in that of New Spain that deals with this issue.” Such an absence may have occurred because officials had already gathered earlier whitening petitions to review, for the Cámara then ordered the secretary “to add” this file to others for the “consult.” Meanwhile, although now legitimated, Gutiérrez waited vainly for a whitening decision. The alacrity with which officials had whitened early applicants such as the Valenzuelas, approving their petition in several months, had begun to give way to stalling.

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It took another six months (March 1799) before the Cámara and the fiscals met with the full Council of the Indies to discuss how to respond to whitening petitions. Only hints of what occurred exist in enigmatic references in a later document.27 It appears that the divisions between the crown attorneys and the Cámara had continued. Fiscals Cistué y Coll and Posada y Soto remained dissatisfied with the Cámara’s readiness to overrule them and approve whitening. The Council of the Indies sided with the crown attorneys and issued a rare rebuff to its own colleagues who served on the Cámara. The Council would henceforth expect “circumspection and maturity from the Cámara, which should not agree to dispensations or exemptions that are not the result of services and just and worthy motives and under terms in which there should be no fear of inconveniences.” Only future cases would reveal if this rebuke would quell the propensity of Cámara ministers to support grants of whiteness.

the don issue That same March 1799 some familiar names reappeared, seemingly confirming the concern of the fiscals and the Council of the Indies that whitenings might lead to further inconveniences. The Valenzuela brothers—the first pardos officially whitened—reapplied, this time to purchase the title of Don.28 While they provided no details concerning their situation, their second petition suggests they were not satisfied with their status. Even though there had been no outcries from Colombian elites protesting the brothers’ whitening, an official confirmation that they were dons would erase any doubt as to their standing as whites. Their request combined with the earlier cries from Diego Mexias Bejarano to raise the specter that petitioners might return repeatedly to Madrid requesting further decrees or interventions. The Valenzuelas were not alone in their desire to become dons.29 Earlier applicants, including Manuel Báez and Pedro Antonio de Ayarza had also included acquisition of the title of Don on their wish list, although the Cámara had simply ignored their requests. Although the 1795 gracias al sacar included this option, the Valenzuela application would be the first time that Madrid ruled on whether the addition of this honorific might provide another route for pardos to become white.



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The gracias al sacar clause that permitted the purchase of the title of Don posed an awkward dilemma for the Cámara, as there was a trans-Atlantic disconnect in how Spaniards viewed the title in Spain, and how Americans employed it in the Indies. As Fiscal Cistué y Coll explained, on the peninsula, “Don” was “an honorific title that in antiquity gentlemen enjoyed . . . and is now used by nobles.” Given that he had “just finished dispensing the quality of pardos” from the Valenzuelas, he was strongly reluctant “to equal them with nobles.” He recommended that the Cámara reject their petition.30 While the final decision is unknown, it was likely negative. The Spanish and American differential use of Don appeared in an even more conspicuous form when Venezuelan Don Nicolás Francisco Yañes applied that same March 1799, so that his parda wife María Nicolasa and their six offspring might become doñas and dons. It is striking that his wife was already conspicuously passing, as she consistently appeared in the documents as a Doña. Even so, the petition then went on to ask that she receive official permission to use the very title she was already enjoying in print! Unlike most applications where white males attempted to leverage their status and royal service to whiten their parda wives, Doña María Nicolasa was—at least from an elite perspective—somewhat of a heroine worthy of favor in her own right. She had shown her loyalty to the crown in time of crisis. Her husband had been absent at the start of the 1795 Coro uprising where slaves, free blacks, and mulattos fought for the end of slavery. She had actively helped to put down the rebellion, providing “gunpowder” and “bullets” for the defense of the city, as well as “three rifles, a shotgun, a sword and a cutlass” to “various unarmed men.”31 She supplied a house to jail the rebels as well as “light, tobacco, water and other help” to the guards. She had illuminated the street for twenty days in front of the armory in order to “banish suspicious shadows.” When Don Nicolás returned home, he also contributed to the end of the rebellion. He helped construct a gun carriage, paid for a canon, and provided “gunpowder, bullets, grape-shot, wads, ramrods and other support.” Although he volunteered to operate the canons since he had been a gunner in the navy, the Coro commander sent him instead to erect and eventually command a fort. The couple’s petition included a particularly impressive recommendation sent to the Council of the Indies that requested, “the expressed Doña María Nicolasa be . . . given the treatment of Doñ[a] considering her white.”

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The Council of the Indies supported Doña María Nicolasa’s reward, for in June 1798 it had issued a royal order requesting that the Cámara “attend to her pretensions.” Yet, when husband Don Nicolás finally applied, he escalated the request so that not only his wife but also their six legitimate children might become dons and doñas. Reviewing the case in October 1799, Cistué y Coll remained cautious: he recommended that the Cámara delay any decision, as he had not received the documents supporting the petition. Not only Cistué y Coll but also the Cámara now seemed more ready to proceed with greater discretion. Internal comments reveal that the next month, on November 18, 1799, when the Cámara reviewed the documents confirming Doña María Nicolasa’s service, they also included “the report . . . of the cabildo of Caracas concerning the prejudices that favors of this type cause in those provinces.” Even though the Cámara had originally dismissed the protests of the city council as arising from “poor intelligence,” they now seemed more responsive to the accompanying inconveniences. It may be that the rebuff by the full Council of the Indies seven months before now prompted the Cámara to proceed more guardedly. Fiscal Cistué y Coll was in a difficult position. He had to balance the Council of the Indies ruling in 1798 that the Cámara should provide Doña María Nicolasa with the title of Doña against the March 1799 meeting where the Council had rebuked the Cámara for granting easy whitenings. This may explain why he delayed eight months before ruling in early August 1800. For the first time he explicitly factored the protests of the Caracas cabildo into whitening decisions, quoting their 1796 report concerning the “grave inconveniences” brought by the gracias al sacar. He concluded that neither Doña María Nicolasa nor her children should receive a whitening decree. Cistué y Coll next addressed if providing the “distinctive of Don offered equal obstacles.” He recalled that the title in “antiquity” referred to “kings, princes and prelates” although as time passed “nobles of Aragon,” as well as “gentlemen” and “hijos-dalgo,” also enjoyed the honorific. No doubt due to his service in the Americas, he recognized that Don had a different meaning there, as it “came to be the distinction of the white Spaniards” compared to “the different castes of vassals of color.” It was for that reason, combined with the royal order “to attend to Yañes,” that he finally recommended that the Cámara make Doña María Nicolasa a Doña, although he ignored the request that the couple’s offspring receive the titles of Don and Doña.



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It is intriguing to consider why Fiscal Cistué y Coll rejected awarding Doña María Nicolasa the lesser favor, refusing to make her white, but agreeing to title her a Doña. Perhaps he did not want to create any further precedents where pardos had their defect removed; perhaps it was politic to follow the specific recommendation of the Council of the Indies to make her a Doña. Since Doña María Nicolasa was already enjoying the title—at least in print—he may have ruled this way given that his recommendation but confirmed the status quo. Even though the Cámara agreed with Cistué y Coll, it never issued the official decree. A handwritten scribble on the side of the document noted that after ministers approved the petition “the interested party had not asked for it.” Perhaps Doña María Nicolasa failed to follow through because of personal circumstances, because the decree did not effectively better her status, or because the Cámara had refused to extend the favor and confirm the couple’s offspring as dons and doñas.

gr acias al sacar: 1801 version The Council and Cámara of the Indies and the fiscals enjoyed almost a year without new petitions, re-petitions, or pleas from pardos already whitened requesting royal intervention to enjoy their status. Still, the continued absence of coordination between the money and the policy-making arenas of imperial government again became manifest on August 3, 1801, when officials in General Accounting struck again. They issued a new gracias al sacar with higher prices.32 Since the introduction to the 1801 version notes that Contaduría administrators had consulted with the Cámara of the Indies concerning the new pricing, it might seem logical that administrators discussed revisions concerning whitening. The most radical change, given the almost accidental origin of the clauses and the resulting inconveniences, might have been to eliminate them. This would have likely precipitated further disturbances, as the Pardo Guild of Caracas had already warned that taking away options of mobility would cause pardos and mulattos to question their fealty to the crown.33 Another option, one Fiscals Cistué y Coll and Posada y Soto would have no doubt favored, given the opinions expressed in their consultas, would

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have been to rewrite the clauses. A new price list might have limited whitening, converting it into an individual exemption for pardos to practice certain occupations, such as surgeon or notary, and not extending the benefits to succeeding generations. Another possibility would have been to streamline, by eliminating the clause that whitened quinterones for 800 reales. No one would ever apply under that provision, given that it was less expensive to purchase whiteness for 500 reales, claiming to be a pardo. Nor were royal officials enthusiastic about the purchase of the title of Don, another option possibly worth elimination. An even more obvious reform would have been a dramatic increase in the fee schedule so that whitenings more approximated the price to eliminate other defects such as legitimations, making the cost more appropriate to the benefit. Was there any logic in how officials in General Accounting revised the gracias al sacar? Comparison of fees reveals that bureaucrats essentially took the 1795 price list and adjusted it by an average of 37 percent rounded upward for the 1801 successor.34 For example, the percentage increases for various types of legitimations (hijo natural to practice as a notary, hijo natural, sacrilegious/adulterous) ranged between 30 and 36 percent.35 Whitenings increased slightly more as the new schedule charged pardos 700 rather than 500 reales, up 40 percent, and quinterones 1100 reales rather than 800, or an increase of 38 percent. Given that a simple legitimation under the new fee schedule was 5400 reales, the revised price for pardo whitening at 700 reales remained exceptionally inexpensive. So why, when the crown attorneys, the Cámara, Caracas elites, and even pardo petitioners admitted that the whitening fees were disproportionate to other gracias al sacar prices, much less to the benefit offered, did Contaduría at least not increase the cost? One explanation might be that officials planned a uniform increase of gracias al sacar fees and so they mechanically arrived at prices. However, this surmise does not appear valid for, in at least one instance, bureaucrats substantially increased fees. They used the weapon of cost to discourage the formation of entails (mayorazgos) in the Americas. Purchase of the right to establish mayorazgos, which allowed elites to bypass Spanish inheritance law, was another of the gracias al sacar favors. Rather than dividing estates fairly evenly among eligible heirs, an entail permitted the donor to bundle property and strongly favor a designated successor.36 While the 1795 gracias al sacar charged 8800 reales for the privilege to evade inheritance law, the 1801 revision substantially increased the fee to



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20,000 reales (127 percent). It remains unknown why, if officials were willing to use price to mold policy concerning mayorazgos, that they ignored the complaints concerning whitening. Perhaps the fiscals or the Cámara had neglected to mention the problem to Contaduría. This might have occurred through either incompetence or even indifference given that no one had applied for whitening for a year. Even though the Council and Cámara may have disengaged from the formulation of whitening prices for the 1801 gracias al sacar, they still found themselves actively engaged in affirmative action efforts to enforce it. Two months after the issuance of the price list, on October 24, 1801, the Cámara heard again from cousins Diego Mexias Bejarano and Juan Gabriel Landaeta that the Caracas cabildo would still not accept their new status. The Council issued separate decrees that reviewed the men’s cases and ordered that both local officials and vassals in the Americas “guard, fulfill and carry out that provided in said royal decrees.”37

lima is not car acas Council ministers not only insisted that “vassals” obey royal orders concerning whitening, they fiercely guarded their own prerogatives. They were not shy in chastising royal officials if they thought they had usurped their prerogatives. Information concerning such a possible attempt emerges from Peru, where—contrary to other cases in which individuals applied on their own behalf—Viceroy Gabriel de Avilés (1801–1806) seems to have taken the initiative to whiten pardo surgeon José Manuel Valdés so that he might obtain the degree of doctor from the University of San Marcos. Unfortunately, the documents themselves are lost; what remains is a descriptive index listing what arrived from Peru, complemented by secondary sources.38 The records tell two stories. The archival index reveals that the Council of the Indies received a document in 1802 “concerning the dispensation of the calidad of pardo granted by the viceroy of Lima to José Manuel Valdés, professor of surgery of that city.” Unfortunately, given the absence of the document, it is unclear if the viceroy had actually declared that José Manuel was white or whether, as some secondary sources suggest, that he had dispatched a resolution in which he, the audiencia, and the city council had asked that the Cámara declare the surgeon white.

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Whatever the reality, the Council of the Indies was jealous of its privileges and steadfastly refused to permit imperial officials to meddle with gracias al sacar. As early as August 1797 the Cámara had observed that administrators in the Indies and the Philippines had attempted to use the 1795 price list as a guide for them to charge and grant some of the indicated favors. The Council had immediately reined them back, pointing out that the fee schedule was “only to give notice” of the different costs of concessions as only the Cámara could hand out such favors.39 Only they could “measure the merit and circumstances of the applicants.” Therefore, it is not surprising that a handwritten comment on the index of the Valdés case noted that the right “to grant or to deny the gracias al sacar is exclusive to the Cámara.”40 So, what was going on here? Understanding the background of this famous pardo physician explains why the viceroy and local elites might have taken the extraordinary step of supporting his whitening. Additionally, it provides insight into those processes that produced radically different responses to the whitening option throughout the Indies. While the president, the audiencia, and the city council of Caracas vehemently opposed the whitening of Diego Mexias Bejarano, or while the viceroy of Bogotá, José de Ezpeleta, feared the inconveniences of granting such a favor to Joseph Ponciano de Ayarza, in Lima, the viceroy, the audiencia, and the cabildo proactively promoted the whitening of José Manuel Valdés. In later years, the biography of this esteemed Lima physician would resemble that of other prodigies from the Indies, such as Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, who early in their life manifested extraordinary gifts.41 Such did not appear the immediate fate of the infant José Manuel, born illegitimate in 1767, the son of a mulatta named María and an Indian named Baltasar. Placed in a primary school at the age of three, by the time José Manuel was five his teacher concluded that he was so precocious that he needed advanced education. He had the good fortune to receive support from a childless couple that subsidized his learning, including his attendance at the Colegio de San Ildefonso. José Manuel’s occupational prospects proved limited, since “he carried on the color of his face the stigma of slavery.”42 Learning Latin, he apprenticed to become a Latin surgeon, for even though his talents would have permitted him to become a physician and receive a doctorate from the university, royal legislation prohibited that he receive these degrees. Instead,



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at age twenty-five he received a special license from the protomedicato to practice. It was another mentor, the distinguished Lima physician Hipólito Unanue, who promoted the young José Manuel’s career. Although Unanue practiced in “all the great houses” of the capital, he apparently did not have “great liking” for attending patients.43 He introduced José Manuel into elite circles, famously proclaiming, when faced with a difficult case, that his patients should “call José Manuel to come so he can ‘do his witchcraft here.’” As his practice flourished, José Manuel supported his mother and sister and, eventually, the ancient widow of the couple that had paid for his education. He taught himself to read French, Italian, and English while collecting a notable medical library. Residents of Lima were accustomed to see him on his way to medical calls with the windows of his carriage drawn, so he might read and not be distracted. This was how a water colorist (costumbrista) of the time portrayed him, and how he appears in the frontispiece of this monograph, the only whitening petitioner with a traceable portrait.44 It was because José Manuel was “so esteemed in Lima” that the viceroy, the audiencia, and the city council had either—as the index suggested— proactively whitened him, or—as secondary sources suggest—signed a resolution requesting that the Cámara issue such a decree. Since the documents are unavailable, it is difficult to know the immediate response of Fiscal Cistué y Coll or the Cámara. Most likely, given that José Manuel would appear again, the Cámara requested an official petition with accompanying documents before they responded. José Manuel’s situation underscores that not only imperial officials but local elites throughout the Indies might manifest dramatically different attitudes toward whitening. The climate in Lima made it possible for a talented young pardo not only to receive sufficient education to practice as a physician, to obtain patronage from a prominent white mentor but—once his skill became manifest—to develop an elite clientele. The Lima establishment proactively and enthusiastically supported his whitening. The fate of José Manuel Valdés in Lima contrasts sharply to that faced by Diego Mexias Bejarano in Caracas. There the cabildo directed its outbursts against whitening almost exclusively against him and his cousin Juan Gabriel Landaeta, ignoring other Venezuelans who had petitioned or received whitening decrees. While Diego also practiced as a surgeon, elites denigrated his skill and attempted to curtail his practice, suggesting there were

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now sufficient white practitioners not to license pardos.45 Perhaps one of the few things that pardo surgeons José Manuel Valdés and Diego Mexias Bejarano had in common was that their cases would reappear before ministers in Madrid. Not only from Peru, but also from Guatemala, establishment voices began to emerge in support of pardo mobility. In October 1802, José Antonio Goicoechea, a provincial of the Franciscan order, sent a cover letter and accompanying report that would—in later years—encourage the Council of the Indies to clarify whitening policy. Directed to the powerful Don Joseph Antonio Caballero, the secretary of state, Provincial Goicoechea wrote concerning the “need to ennoble to a certain grade the mulattos and zambos of these kingdoms.”46 He confided that since he was “touching . . . seventy years and on the edge of his tomb,” he had no temptation to ask for favors for himself. Rather, “the motive that impels and animates me is no other than the urgent necessity of so many unhappy ones who clamor for remedy and who cannot find someone to carry their laments to the throne.” He confided that since he had “exact notice” of Secretary of State Caballero’s “integrity, zeal and religion,” that it would have been a “great sorrow if he had not taken advantage of such an opportune occasion.” Goicoechea provided a detailed account of a discriminatory landscape in Guatemala that bore striking resemblances to Venezuela. Elites considered “mulattos and zambos” to be “vile and despicable” even when they “had the most excellent talents.”47 Even though there was no “clerical impediment” for them to enter the priesthood and monasteries, those institutions denied them permission, as did the university. The Franciscan provided a more contemporary interpretation as to why the castas suffered such despised status. Unlike royal officials and elites, who constantly affirmed that the inferior status of pardos and mulattos derived from a defect of naturaleza, he concluded, “in the greatest part, color here decides worth.”48 Goicoechea movingly described the pernicious effects of such discrimination on two young pardo acquaintances. Benito Sáez was a “stupendous organist” who desired to take religious vows but faced rejection given the presumed “infamy . . . to see a mulatto at the altars.”49 Jose María Cabrejo had found that after three years of university study a “secret inquiry” into his antecedents denied him graduation. It was in response to the latter’s “bitterness” that the Franciscan “promised him to make a petition to Your Majesty, speaking in his favor.”



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While Goicoechea hoped to advance the careers of his two young protégées, he did not request their whitening. Although he did not directly name the gracias al sacar, he dismissed the practice of providing individual exemptions from discrimination. He explained that if a mulatto “at the cost of repeated efforts” succeeded so that the king “habilitated and distinguished him,” the only result was that the “favored one would feel even heavier the weight of the infamy that the vulgar attribute to him, because they ridicule this type of favor.”50 He concluded that such “exceptions” only “strengthened the contrary rule and authorized the ignominy of all the mulattos.” Instead, Goicoechea proposed the Council promote a more radical and sweeping transformation: the king should issue a decree that permitted pardos and mulattos “to contract marriage with the Spanish people of common nobility,” to be “eligible to obtain degrees in the royal university, and to be admitted to the clergy, and religious communities.”51 He promised if they had “the option to distinguish themselves,” that they would be worthy of “better employments and honors,” leading to “the settlement of their habits.” As the Franciscan’s letter traveled across the Atlantic in late 1802, he could not know what he had begun. The next year, Secretary of State Caba­ llero would order the Council of the Indies to investigate Goicoechea’s recommendations, eventually leading to sweeping consultas in 1806 and 1808 that would reconsider the status of pardos and mulattos within the empire.

conclusions From 1796 to 1802, the Council of the Indies whitened Bogotá university student Joseph Ponciano de Ayarza and Cuban Joseph María Cowley, rejected Córdoba applicant Pedro de Olmedo, agreed with the petition of Caracas “leopard” Juan Gabriel Landaeta, stalled a decision concerning Panamanian Manuel Antonio Gutiérrez, provided Venezuelan matron María Nicolasa Yañes with the title of Doña, and requested further information concerning the case of surgeon José Manuel Valdés of Lima. If there were a period where ministers of the Council of the Indies might have developed a coherent whitening policy, this might have been the moment. Added to the mix was the stability and continuity in the office of fiscal as José de Cistué y Coll and Ramón de Posada y Soto manned the respective desks for Peru and New Spain.

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Outsiders with an interest might have made the positive observation that the Council of the Indies seemed to be formulating a clear policy and moving with dispatch to decide whitening cases. However, an insider’s view suggests a different story. Rather, the continuing disagreements between the fiscals and the Cámara over policy, the sustained opposition from Venezuela, and the failure of whitening petitioners to enjoy their desired benefits continued to cause inconveniences. As Fiscals Posada y Soto and Cistué y Coll wrote consultas on whitening petitions, they began to express similar opinions. Both agreed that such favors should not overturn Indies legislation, for example, as in the Ayarza case, permitting pardos to graduate from the university. In his comments on Cowley, Posada y Soto suggested that the Council should only whiten to provide a specific, as opposed to a universal, exemption. He complained that the price of whitening was too inexpensive, and added that the benefits should only accrue to the individual. Fiscal Cistué y Coll seconded his colleague when he observed in the Olmedo application that the cost was inexpensive compared to the benefit. The response of the Cámara was to ignore the crown attorneys’ comments and overturn their suggestions, whitening Ayarza and Cowley, although they accepted the negative recommendation concerning the Olmedos. The fiscals and the Cámara seemed unable to find grounds for agreement. When Cistué y Coll inexplicably suggested that the whitening of Manuel Antonio Gutiérrez might be an appropriate ending, the Cámara then proceeded to overrule him and instead refused to make a decision. Such discord resulted in a rare confrontation in 1799 when the full Council of the Indies sided with the fiscals and reproved the judgment of Cámara members. Given such a contretemps, neither the crown attorneys nor the Cámara evidenced much interest in risking their reputations through bureaucratic innovation. Although Cistué y Coll and the Cámara confirmed María Nicolasa Yañes with the coveted title, they did so on the direct recommendation of the Council of the Indies. When documents forwarded from Peru for the whitening of José Manuel Valdés did not follow procedure, ministers stalled. Perhaps even more chilling for the future hopes of whitening petitioners was that the multiple complaints of the Caracas city council finally began to figure in decision making. Even though the Council of the Indies had roundly rejected their arguments, starting with the Yañes petition, the



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Cámara acknowledged for the first time the particular difficulties associated with whitening petitioners from Venezuela. Subsequent pleas from successful recipients put a further brake on any inclination of imperial officials to promote the gracias al sacar. Given the mandate that vassals obey the law, the Council of the Indies felt compelled to issue additional orders and command obedience when Diego Mexias Bejarano complained in 1797 and again in 1801—the second time in conjunction with his “leopard” cousin Juan Gabriel Landaeta—that the Caracas cabildo would not accept their changed status. Equally troubling was a new petition from the Valenzuelas, the first to receive whitening, who now returned to request the title of Don. As the whitening gracias al sacar entered its seventh year, the inconveniences of deciding cases, of responding to protests, and of enforcement began to take a toll. Nor did the reissue of the gracias al sacar price list in 1801 resolve contentious issues. Although the revised schedule raised the price of whitening in conjunction with other favors, it did not increase the fee in proportion to the presumed benefit. As might be expected, the inhabitants of Caracas did not remain silent. The letter of the Pardo Guild exhibited similar levels of misconceptions as the earlier missive from the Caracas cabildo. Even as the castas emphasized their loyalty to the crown, they implicitly threatened loss of support without the promised mobility of the whitening clauses. The Caracas city council continued to express both its general opposition as well as its particular refusal to accept royal decrees whitening Diego Mexias Bejarano and confirming the privileges of his “leopard” cousin Juan Gabriel Landaeta. The last months of 1802 proved significant. In October, Guatemalan provincial José Antonio Goicoechea mailed his report pleading for reforms to Secretary of State Joseph Antonio Caballero, who would pass it to the Council of the Indies. That same month, José de Cistué y Coll retired after serving twenty-four years as crown attorney for Peru.52 His departure ended a significant period of stability in the office of fiscal as well as in the procedures jointly worked out with his colleague Ramón de Posada y Soto. As the Cámara awaited Cistué y Coll’s successor, Posada y Soto carried out the whitening policy worked out by the pair that limited the favor to the individual, and only for occupational exemptions. At least this is what Domingo Arévalo, a pardo surgeon in the military hospital in Caracas, learned

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when his whitening decree arrived from Madrid. Although he thought he had applied for total whitening, he found the decree limited this favor “only for the effect that you can practice surgery.”53 Given the alacrity with which petitioners commonly responded when the Cámara did not fulfill their requests, he would reappear in the future. When Arévalo reapplied, Posada y Soto would no longer be serving as fiscal, for in February 1803 he received a promotion and appointment as minister to the Council of the Indies.54 For the first time since 1717, there were no crown attorneys to read the documents arriving from the Americas and to prepare recommendations for the Cámara.55 The Bourbon reform that placed ministers with Indies experience on the Council and Cámara of the Indies would begin seriously to backfire, leading to delays in policy making and effectiveness in government. Included among the potential victims was the whitening gracias al sacar.

ten

Denouements: 1803–1806 If the dispensation of calidad of mulattos became widespread it would not be long before the political order would be confused and disordered . . . but denying them all hope of advancement and estimation carries with it equally disastrous consequences.1 manuel de guevar a y vasconcelos, governor and captain general of Caracas, December 18032

introduction The years from 1803 to 1806 brought denouements for the Council of the Indies, for Venezuelan elites and for pardos and mulattos. With the retirement of José de Cistué y Coll and the promotion of Ramón de Posada y Soto, the Council would never again be fully staffed with two fiscals, one to handle the business of Peru, the other of New Spain. Bourbon reform would lead to delays in response and continued confusion in policy. Although the Council of the Indies would continue to insist that those whitened enjoy the accompanying privileges, ministers would vacillate and become even more cautious in issuing new decrees. Venezuelan elites would continue their selective opposition to whitening, railing against Diego Mexias Bejarano and Juan Gabriel Landaeta, although conspicuously silent on others who had received gracias al sacar. The Caracas establishment—the audiencia, the university, and the bishop—would come together and form a united front to protest whitening. The Council of 297

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the Indies would forcefully condemn their remonstrances and demand immediate and full obedience to royal decrees. Later, ministers would somewhat soften their censure, suggesting that whitening might be limited to a few individuals and not equal mulattos to whites. These years would bring frustration to pardos and mulattos. Those already whitened would struggle to enjoy the privileges of whites; those now applying would face delays and uncertainties. Still, there would be some momentum in their favor. In response to the report of Guatemalan Franciscan José Antonio Goicoechea, Secretary of State Joseph Antonio Caballero would order the Council of the Indies to rethink the policy of institutionalized discrimination against the castas. The complaints and pleas of those who opposed and those who supported whitening would continue to provide exceptional insight into ongoing debates over processes of inclusion and exclusion within the empire.

the office of fiscal under str ess Most of these conflicts were in the future, when newly appointed Ambrosio Cerdán y Pontero traveled from Guatemala to Vera Cruz in 1803 to board a ship for Spain so he might replace José de Cistué y Coll as fiscal for Peru. In his case, tragedy struck.3 He succumbed to a yellow fever epidemic that wracked the port. For six months, from March to September 1803, the Council of the Indies vainly waited for his arrival as there were no crown attorneys to analyze documents from the Americas. This was the start of a new and ominous trend: between sudden deaths and delays in arrival of new appointments, the Council of the Indies would never again be fully staffed with two fiscals dividing the business between New Spain and Peru.4 Instead, Council ministers had to perform double duty and take up the added responsibilities of the crown attorneys. It was not until September 1803 that Lorenzo Serapio Hernández de Alva Alonso safely navigated those same pestilence-filled Vera Cruz streets and arrived to take up the New Spain desk.5 Two and a half years later, he died suddenly of a stroke. Ministers again found themselves serving as crown attorneys for twenty months before José Lucas de Gorvea y Vadillo made his way from Buenos Aires to become the fiscal for Peru.6 A year and eight months later, he died, leaving ministers with five more months of double duties before Manuel del Castillo



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y Negrete made his way across the war-torn Atlantic to become the fiscal for New Spain.7 He arrived in March 1810, just as southern Spain fell to the invading Napoleonic troops. Vacancies in the office of the fiscal no doubt affected the functioning of imperial government in every arena. Since, to royal officials, the issuance of whitening decrees was a minor aspect of their responsibilities, the tracing of whitening policy after 1803 continues as a case study in governance, or, more accurately, as a failure in governance. In the waning years of the Spanish empire, the Bourbon reform that placed ministers with Indies experience on the Council of the Indies disrupted the competence and efficiency of government, failing to provide for continuity in personnel and prompt dispatch of the business of empire. Even when prodded, the Council of the Indies failed to act. In spring 1803, Secretary of State Don Joseph Antonio Caballero responded positively to the letter sent the previous fall from Franciscan provincial Goicoechea lamenting the discriminations directed against talented Guatemalan pardos in particular and the castas in general.8 When Don Joseph wrote the Council he specifically expanded the geographical coverage, raising the possibility “of honoring to a certain degree the mulattos and zambos of that kingdom and of all the Indies.” Don Joseph agreed that the current situation was “very lamentable to the state” as well as to the “perfection of the arts and education and customs” of the castas. He endorsed Goicoechea’s proposal to equal pardos and mulattos “with the common class of Spaniards,” including “permitting them to contract marriage” with whites, “to obtain degrees in the universities, to aspire to the priesthood, to enter into cloisters and to have the option to distinguish themselves, making them eligible for employments and honors.” He forwarded a royal order on April 3, 1803, that commanded the Council of the Indies to meet in full session to consider “such a grave matter” and “to consult.” His response signaled that influential officials might be willing to consider significant casta mobility. The answer of the Council of the Indies was bureaucratic prevarication. Although ministers met the next month, on May 24, 1803, and ordered a consulta on pardo and mulatto status, the process stalled, possibly because the offices of both fiscals were vacant.9 Official scribbling on documents reveals that the Council eventually sent both the Guatemalan’s letter and the secretary of state’s order to the Peru desk in General Accounting. They

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ordered officials to analyze the potential financial repercussions on the exchequer if the castas no longer had to pay tribute.10 More than a year later, the documents languished without action. On September 4, 1804, the secretary for Peru made a provocative addition. He “united the file” that dealt with the opposition of the University of Caracas “to admit in class a son of Diego Mexias Bejarano, of the calidad pardo” with the Goicoechea correspondence and the secretary of state’s order to rethink casta policies. A side comment noted that the Mexias Bejarano document was “very voluminous,” and that he had sent the total packet to the office of the secretary of New Spain. A subsequent scribble revealed a game of administrative ping-pong in which officials later reshipped the growing pile back to the secretary of Peru. At some point, the Council of the Indies must have finally appointed a minister to review the materials and to write a consulta. However, given the secretary of Peru’s addition of the Diego Mexias Bejarano papers to the Goicoechea letter and the secretary of state’s order, the ensuing report would now have an altered and dual focus. It would not only contemplate the Guatemalan’s original proposition to promote pardo and mulatto mobility, it would also examine whitening files reconsidering the gracias al sacar. Meanwhile, officials awaited the ordered consulta that was supposedly “forthcoming,” but that would only appear in July 1806.

local r esponses to w hitening decr ees Back in America, the declining competency of imperial government influenced not only the lives of those who hoped to attain whitening but also those who had already received it. This tension became particularly evident as the newly whitened attempted to determine if their decrees might be more than just embellished documents to flourish before their families, friends, and neighbors. Local elites also had decisions to make—would they accept such upward mobility? Royal officials had to consider what to do if gracias al sacar recipients faced local resistance. One of the first to test what a whitening decree might accomplish was Diego Mexias Bejarano. It had now been sixteen years since that September in 1787 when he had first visited his local church in Altagracia to collect copies of his family’s baptismal certificates for inclusion in his whitening



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petition. By March 1803, he was finally ready to fulfill the family dream— that his son Diego Lorenzo Mexias Bejarano might study at the university and become a priest. He sent his legal representative, Antonio Viso, to remind the Caracas audiencia that the king had “dispensed . . . the calidad of pardo” from his client.11 Viso cited not only the original whitening decree of July 1796 but the follow-up of October 1801 that dismissed the complaints of the Caracas cabildo and confirmed Diego’s new status. He asked the audiencia to pass copies of these documents to the Caracas city council, the bishop, and the rector of the university. Presumably, Diego hoped that this preemptive strike might smooth the path so his son might attend classes without difficulty. Even if in Madrid the fiscals and the Cámara had wobbled back and forth and had not decisively ruled if whitening passed from father to son, in Caracas Diego had no such uncertainty. Nor did Captain Antonio Landaeta, Diego’s nephew and the son of “leopard” Juan Gabriel Landaeta. A few months later, he also asked the audiencia to confirm that the decree issued to his father also passed to his “descendants.”12 In Bogotá, the newly whitened Joseph Ponciano de Ayarza also began to test the efficacy of the gracias al sacar. He had graduated from the university and was in his second year of apprenticeship to be a lawyer when, in spring 1802, a controversy arose within the legal community. The “two most senior lawyers” in Bogotá were in disagreement concerning the effect of his whitening.13 Did it only permit him to graduate from the university, or did it also empower him to become a lawyer? One side argued that it was not a “necessary consequence” that those with university degrees pursued “the career of lawyer when many graduate and do not practice,” while others supported his aspiration. The crown attorney of the audiencia ruled in favor of the Ayarzas. He judged that the “proper conduct” of Joseph Ponciano, the “merit of his father” as well as the “royal clemency” that had permitted him to graduate were likely sufficient for him to become a lawyer. However, he added that since it would be at least two more years before Joseph Ponciano would take the necessary examinations, it would be best if “his majesty clarifies his royal intention.” This mild questioning was—with the major exceptions of the multiple Venezuelan outbursts—the only other time that local elites ever questioned the effects of whitening with the Council of the Indies.

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Joseph Ponciano was not the only Ayarza whose letters crossed the Atlantic in 1802. In October, his father, Pedro Antonio, had penned another petition to the Cámara of the Indies. He admitted that his two younger sons, Pedro Crisólogo and Antonio Nicanor, had now finished the “course of philosophy” in the university, although they had not been able to graduate “lacking the royal favor of your majesty.” Apparently, after the Cámara denied their whitening in 1797, Pedro Antonio had continued to send further petitions on behalf of himself and his two younger sons. He rather dejectedly noted that even though he had “directed my petition in duplicate . . . it seems that all have appeared in the hands of the enemies.” Pedro Antonio’s second application detailed his additional services to the king, including his now more than twenty-eight years as captain of the pardo militia. Twice he had subsidized Portobelo troops when supplies had failed to arrive and there was no money in the royal treasury since English pirates had held up the subsidy from Lima. He was yet to collect any salary from the state. Pedro Antonio included a special father-to-father pleading to the monarch evoking their shared roles as patriarchs. His sons, he rhapsodized, had “known how to honor the white hair of their father,” and so they deserved his “paternal love.” He asked the king to sympathize with “the feelings of a father reproached by his two younger sons.” Since he had successfully “asked for the royal grace of your majesty for the eldest,” he pleaded that his “two youngest” receive equal favor, given that they “have filled the desires of their father.” This time the crown attorney and viceroy in Bogotá forwarded the packet to Spain without any comments. Since there were no fiscals for either New Spain or Peru on July 9, 1803, it is impossible to determine who evaluated the petitions of the Ayarzas. The consulta included the unusual comment that it was a “minister,” rather than the usual notation that a “fiscal” wrote it. The recommendation to the Cámara divided the Ayarza case into three parts: the Bogotá problems of Joseph Ponciano, graduation for the two younger sons, and Pedro Antonio’s plea to become a don. The Ayarzas received the best news concerning Joseph Ponciano. The minister agreed that the decree ending his pardo-ness should carry the full force of law. He recommended that the Cámara order that Joseph Ponciano receive permission to practice as a lawyer and that if he paid the “service . . . in the last price list,” he could purchase the title of Don. Such a decision was



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consistent with the Cámara’s insistence that those who erased their defect should enjoy the full perquisites of whiteness. The generosity of this anonymous minister did not extend to the remaining Ayarzas. Although he approvingly noted the “conduct” and “progress” of students Pedro Crisólogo and Antonio Nicanor, he did not recommend they receive university degrees. Instead, he concluded that they were of an “age [where] they could begin another career and the knowledge they had accumulated could serve them in whatever employment.” He then expanded this particular decision on the Ayarzas to include all pardos, arguing that they should not become lawyers, given that occupations in agriculture and commerce were “more analogous to their condition and of the greater private and public utility.” The minister’s negativity also encompassed Pedro Antonio de Ayarza, for although he acknowledged the mandate of reciprocity, he did not find the merchant’s additional service to the state impressive. Even if he deserved some accolade, the official concluded that he should be “rewarded in [some] other way.” He was especially disapproving of Pedro Antonio’s desire to purchase the title of Don, complaining that such requests “confused the castes with the whites.” When the Cámara met in late July 1803 to consider the minister’s recommendations, they continued to suggest more generous policies than recommended in the opinion. They not only agreed that Joseph Ponciano had the right to become a lawyer, but went further and decided that he did not have to purchase the title of Don. Once he passed his legal examination members felt that as a lawyer he would merit the title automatically, for it would be a logical “consequence that he would be able to use the distinctive of Don.” Camaristas also were concerned about the familial repercussions of whitening: the “dissonance” that might result given that the Ayarza “brothers find themselves in such different states of quality.” They recommended that the crown permit the two brothers to pay the 700 reales apiece and receive whitening. The next month the Cámara received a rebuke, for while the king supported the ruling concerning Joseph Ponciano, he did “not go along in the rest that is proposed.” Not only the previously serving fiscals but the monarch as well now seemed ready to put a break on any approval of whitening petitions. It was not until September 1803 that the new fiscal for Mexico, Lorenzo Serapio Hernández de Alva Alonso, finally arrived in Madrid and began to

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clear the backlog of documents that had piled up for six months given the absence of any crown attorneys.14 At the end of the month, he supplied an opinion to the Cámara concerning the reapplication of Domingo Arévalo, a surgeon in the military hospital in Caracas. The previous year outgoing fiscal Posada y Soto had whitened him solely for occupational reasons following the policy developed with his colleague Fiscal Cistué y Coll. Arévalo’s representative in Madrid protested the wording of the decree, pointing out that his client already enjoyed a dispensation from the protomedicato to practice in Caracas.15 He had not applied for whitening for occupational reasons. Rather, he wanted to enjoy the same privileges granted to Diego Mexias Bejarano and Juan Gabriel Landaeta that permitted their families to take religious vows and marry whites. The petition specified that Arévalo desired such a “personal dispensation” not only for himself but also for his four sisters.16 It confided that it was particularly important that María de la Concepción and Petronila receive whiteness, as they were still “single.” Presumably, a favorable ruling would permit them to marry whites, bypassing the prohibitions of the Pragmatic Sanction on Marriages. Arévalo’s reapplication also included the military record of his father, who had served in the pardo militias, as well as a copy of a royal order that had awarded him a medal of distinction. The newly arrived fiscal Hernández de Alva Alonso must have reviewed previous whitening cases, as well as protests against them, before he issued an opinion, for he reminded the Cámara of relevant precedents. He commented that the father of Juan Gabriel Landaeta had held offices for fifty-two years in the Caracas pardo militia while Domingo Arévalo’s father had served only thirty-five years. He concluded that if these many years of militia service counted as “entitlement” for such favors that “innumerable pardos” would be eligible for whitening. This would lead to “confusion of classes” as well as the “prejudices that the city council of Caracas has protested with such vigor and determination.” He concluded that there was “no reason” to rule favorably on Arévalo’s second petition. Even though imperial officials had initially rejected the protests of the Caracas cabildo as unfounded, as time passed they had begun to factor its remonstrances into whitening decisions. The fear of “inconveniences” now began to outweigh the mandate of reciprocity. Uncharacteristic details from the Arévalo case reveal that only two members of the Cámara, the Count of Pozos Dulces and Minister Fernando



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José Mangino, pondered the recommendation of Fiscal Hernández de Alva Alonso. Both Camaristas had served in the Americas, the count more than a decade in Peru and Mangino two decades in Mexico.17 Apparently, this Indies experience did not lead them to assume a conservative attitude toward whitening. They continued the more liberal inclinations of their Cámara colleagues as they decided, yet again, to reject the opinion of the fiscal. Instead, they decided to give Arévalo the “same grace” as Landaeta as long as he paid the “corresponding price.”18 Such a decision demonstrated that the Cámara officials had not consulted precedents nor were they familiar with the particulars of the Landaeta case. Fiscal Cistué y Coll had essentially given Landaeta nothing and charged him nothing. Remember that Landaeta had identified himself as a “leopard” and falsely as a “mestizo” with no slave origins.19 If the family were mestizo, they already had the right to become priests and marry whites and needed no dispensation. Fiscal Cistué y Coll had essentially told Landaeta to try to enforce his rights, as he was able. Nor had Landaeta paid for the ensuing decree. Still, the crown seems to have upheld the decision of the Cámara to provide equal favor to Arévalo—at least he would later reappear and claim his privilege as a white.

putting w hitening to the test Even as the Council ministers disagreed over whitening and what it meant, across the Atlantic, those who had received decrees tried to enforce their rights. For some, this included automatic appropriation of that coveted title of Don. That same September in 1803, a “Don” Diego Lorenzo Mexias Bejarano wrote the rector of the University of Caracas.20 He referred to the whitening decree issued to his father Diego and “all his family” and noted that the audiencia had sent copies to the cabildo, the bishop, and the university. He observed that university classes were soon to begin, and he asked permission to take the necessary qualifying examinations so that he might register. Ten days later, Diego Lorenzo no longer titled himself a Don when he wrote again to the university rector. No doubt, his greater reticence arose because, in the interim, the faculty had met and decided not to permit him to register for classes. While Diego Lorenzo expressed his hope that they

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would reconsider, he now exercised his “option” to ask for “testimony” of what had occurred at this meeting so that he might respond. October 1803 found both Diego Mexias Bejarano and the University of Caracas composing letters to the crown concerning Diego Lorenzo’s potential matriculation. Ironically, both Diego and the university professors based their cases on the mandate to obey royal decrees. Diego referred to his whitening cédula; professors cited ordinances prohibiting mulattos and pardos from entrance into higher education. Diego’s letter reminded the king that he had issued royal decrees in July 1796, September 1797, and October 1801 relieving him of all “civil effects” of being a pardo and extending the favor to his offspring. He pointed out the decree had “clear and categorical expressions” that permitted his sons to “enter into religion, wear clerical habits and ascend to the priesthood.” Nonetheless, when he had petitioned the university to permit his son Diego Lorenzo to take the qualifying examination in Latin and register, the rector had refused. Diego confessed that the “unexpected rejection” had been “deeply felt,” given the “shameful humiliation,” it had caused, particularly given his son’s “honest and intense goal” to enter the priesthood. Diego admitted that he did not know what information the university planned to send to Madrid, or why it had “failed to recognize this time the supreme authority of Your Majesty.” His only remedy was “to throw himself again at the feet of Your Majesty” protesting there was no reason for the university to “reject the studies of his son.” He asked for an order that permitted Diego Lorenzo to take the qualifying examination and enter the university. This was particularly important, he reminded, because “there are no other places to study in this country than the university.” Embedded in Diego’s petition is a tantalizing hint that some Caracas pardos had begun to coordinate their strategies. The goal was to conflate the status of pardo with that of mestizo to enjoy the superior benefits of the latter. At least, Diego pointed out that his family was not the only one in Caracas to receive royal favor, given that Domingo Arévalo “had just declared” that he “and the rest of his class of mestizos had express dispensation from the laws of these Indies to receive holy orders” (italics mine). Diego added that the crown had issued an “equal declaration” in 1801 to the “petition of Juan Gabriel Landaeta” who had also styled himself a mestizo, although he failed to mention that Landaeta was his first cousin and brother-in-law. His concluded that since he was in the “same grade and circumstances” as



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Arévalo and Landaeta there was even more reason for his son to “enjoy a benefit that the august predecessors of your majesty wanted to extend to all vassals of such circumstances.” Diego’s letter also evidenced a new concern about whitening, no doubt given the vituperative protests of the Caracas cabildo against the gracias al sacar as well as the pain suffered by his son’s rejection at the hands of the university faculty. It was no longer sufficient to have a royal decree that made a person white; it now became important not to suffer discrimination when doing white things. For that reason, Diego asked the king to order that professors should treat his sons “as the other scholars without insulting them, slandering them or offending them for the accidental difference of their color.” Given that Diego, as well as the professors of the University of Caracas signed their letters on October 20, 1803, their responses may have sailed together on the same ship back to Spain. It appears that numerous professors had worked on the university’s reply to the Council of the Indies, since a more passionate, belligerent, and lengthy version remains unsent in the archive of the university. Instead, the rector and professors posted a more legalistic response.21 The university refused to accept the consequences of the whitening decree, as the faculty still described Diego Mexias Bejarano as a “free pardo.” His son’s first letter seeking university admission had enraged them even further, since they charged that Diego Lorenzo had “falsely” given “himself the treatment of Don that is customary among white persons of estimation.” The faculty pointed out that both law and social custom prohibited pardo entry into the university. Numerous royal statutes and decrees demanded that students demonstrate “legitimacy and limpieza” and “repeated commands” from the king insisted on their “punctilious observance.” A key argument of the university professors, one previously espoused by the members of the cabildo, was the issue of social proximity. Faculty pointed out that whites would not demean their status by physical nearness and association with pardos. Students would not tolerate the admission of castas as they would “have at the least to mingle with them” particularly at “the hours of study.” Rather than suffer potential loss of their own status, white students would “abandon classes.” The faculty pointedly noted that the consequences of such white flight had already led to the dismal state of medical studies at the university

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because “students do not want to apply to study it.” This decline was due to the number of “mulattos and blacks” who, although not graduated from the university, practiced as surgeons and healers. They concluded with a plea that the king “reproach” Diego Lorenzo not only for his false use of the title of Don but also his pretense that he was no longer a pardo. They asked with “all submission, veneration and respect” that the king “save this university.” As the letters of Diego Mexias Bejarano and the University of Caracas were moving east, in Madrid, Fiscal Hernández de Alva Alonso and the Cámara began to consider another application for whitening (November 23, 1803). As in a number of other cases, there was a specific linkage between the petitioner and previous requests. In 1767, Panamanian Juan Evaristo de Jesús Borbúa had applied for dispensation to practice as a notary in spite of his pardo-ness. As previously noted, his application proved to be a benchmark, as this was the first time that Fiscal Cistué y Coll linked the ending of the defect of pardo-ness with the purchase of whiteness and named it as a gracias al sacar.22 Now thirty-six years later, the Panamanian’s son, Matías Joseph, applied for full whiteness.23 By then his father was dead, although the son’s occupation as a scribe suggests that he had received tutoring from his notary father. Matías Joseph’s petition reveals how acquisition of coveted skills as well as transferal to another locale might promote social and occupational mobility. He confided that when he was nineteen he had moved from the family home in Portobelo to Panama City, where he had become a scribe in the office of the governor. He had received numerous promotions until he now worked as an official of the “first office” in the royal customs house. Even though he acknowledged that this was an employment that “carried some distinction,” neither his “conduct and polished dealings, nor the posts of which he has been worthy” had been able to erase his “quality of pardo.” This was so, even though the priest had not officially designed him as a pardo on his baptismal certificate. He asked that he “be dispensed of the said quality of pardo . . . and reputed and estimated as a white person.” Fiscal Hernández de Alva Alonso proved openly hostile to the discrepancies in Matías Joseph’s application. He somewhat sarcastically observed that the Panamanian could not even establish that he was a pardo, given that this designation did not appear on his baptismal certificate. Nor did witnesses who testified concerning his “good customs” mention that status. Since Matías Joseph had not explained in his petition that his pardo father



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had applied to the Cámara decades before and received an exemption to practice as a notary, the fiscal openly wondered how “his father [had] entered the office of escribano.” He openly questioned why the “royal officials of Panama” had permitted the son to serve in the local bureaucracy. He recommended that the Cámara send an order to the governor of Panama and ask him to inform “concerning the true quality of the said Borbua” so as to proceed with “perfect understanding.” While in previous decades, Cámara members had regularly asked officials in the Indies for further information concerning cases such as the Landaetas and Ayarzas, they now seemed indifferent. They decided “there is no place for this now.” Even if the Cámara lacked a coherent policy in approving some applications and denying others, it remained steadfast in its readiness to overrule the recommendations of its fiscals.

a lter nati v e inter pr etations: bishop and governor The next week, on the American side of the Atlantic, one of the last members of the Caracas establishment who had not protested the whitening option entered the fray.24 On December 1, 1803, Francisco de Ibarra y Herrera, the bishop of Caracas, wrote to the Council of the Indies that he had seen the royal decrees granted to Diego Mexias Bejarano and Domingo Arévalo that permitted their descendants to become priests. He admitted that if they met the qualifications established by law and had the proper education and customs, there should be no difficulty. While proffering this “blind obedience” to royal orders, Bishop Ibarra y Herrera then hastened to submit—in an ecclesiastical variant of the “Obedezco pero no cumplo”—numerous pages that detailed the inconveniences that would result if pardos took holy orders.25 His letter not only mirrored the objections that the cabildo and the university had already raised concerning the ordination of pardos but specifically commented on the aspirations of the Mexias Bejaranos and Arévalos. The bishop spoke with some authority concerning the local scene, for he reminded the Council that he had lived “more than seventy-seven years in this Caracas.”26 Bishop Ibarra y Herrera supported the proximity argument espoused by both the cabildo and the university that if royal decrees permitted pardos

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to participate in activities previously associated with whites, there would be a “diminution of the clergy” and a resulting “grave danger for souls.” He was certain of such consequences: “These events are not only terrible and seen as probable, but morally certain given all the past circumstances.” He seconded the concern that if pardos became priests, they would have to participate in “the most solemn functions.” This would lead to awkward situations, as the white clergy would not want to “come together with equality with those descended from slaves” much less to “sit publicly with them” or “to serve on the same altar.” Given that many mulattos, including Diego Mexias Bejarano, still maintained the name of the family that held their ancestors in slavery, it would be particularly awkward to have their descendants preach to elites “from the pulpits.” The attempts of the Mexias Bejarano and Arévalo families to depict themselves as mestizos rather than pardos also received criticism from the bishop. He advised that “never in these provinces have mulattos been reputed to be mestizos, nor have they been confused.” Mestizos, the product of “Indian and white” were “as apt” as whites or at least “very near this class.” The laws clearly distinguished between “mulattos, Negros and mestizos as three persons and different classes.” Not only were pardos not mestizos, they were not ready to enter the priesthood. Bishop Ibarra y Herrera was unequivocal on this point: “There are no mulattos capable of the sanctuary.” He suggested it would be “fifty or more years” before “this lineage of mulattos” might have “subjects instructed for the altar.” He ridiculed the efforts of the Mexias Bejarano family to prepare their son for the priesthood, suggesting that Diego Lorenzo only had “some short beginnings of Latin learned outside the University.” Even though Bishop Ibarra y Herrera felt that pardos might need two or three generations to be prepared to take holy orders, he conceded that progress had occurred. He agreed that the pardo militia “had acquired a certain grade of reputation.” and there were some “subjects” notable for their “services and recommendable qualities.” He specifically included the Mexias Bejaranos and Arévalos in this category, although he emphasized that even these families “had never gone beyond the limits of their sphere and lineage.” Bishop Ibarra y Herrera’s specific attacks against the Mexias Bejaranos and Arévalos are telling in that he concentrated his diatribe only against



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these two families, just as in previous years the city council had solely attacked the Landaetas and Mexias Bejaranos. The lengthy and strident protests of the Caracas establishment remained confined to these three families. By now, a pattern of local protest was becoming manifest: elites did not object when the whitening of parda females such as Angela Inés Rodríguez or Doña María Nicolasa Yañes permitted their husbands to pass limpieza de sangre to mutual offspring.27 However, they were ready to defy the monarch before they would concede that pardo males might whiten offspring or that mulattos might become priests. Bishop Ibarra y Herrera concluded his letter to the Council of the Indies with a strange plea. While he seemed perfectly ready to side with the Caracas elite, he hypocritically did not want pardos and mulattos to know his position. He asked the Council to keep his letter confidential, desiring that “the mulattos not understand that he was the author of the diminution of their class.” He feared this would lead to “disaffection” and would “impede the fruit of his pastoral ministry,” given the need for “the love of his sheep.” Such an admission explicitly speaks both to the numerical importance of Catholic pardos and mulattos as well as their status, particularly in the parish of Altagracia, where Diego Lorenzo Mexias Bejarano had hoped to assume a chaplaincy. That same December 1803 that the Council of the Indies received the letter from Bishop Ibarra y Herrera, they read a strikingly different interpretation of events from Manuel de Guevara y Vasconcelos, the governor of Caracas. He began with a blunt comment, providing revealing insight into how another imperial official on the scene viewed the contretemps created by the conflict between pardo aspirations and elite reactions: In the multitude of very grave affairs that have occurred in the almost five years that I have governed these provinces, none is more delicate nor ought to be [more] considered than that which involves the case of Diego Mexias Bejarano.28

He feared “if the dispensation of calidad of mulattos became widespread, it would not be long before the political order would be confused and disordered.” However, he cautioned that “denying them all hope of advancement and estimation carries with it equally disastrous consequences.” He worried that failure to promote pardo mobility would “weaken thoughts of

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faithfulness and attention to royal service” in those who were “indispensable to count on for the conservation of these kingdoms.” Governor Guevara y Vasconcelos suggested that “the best in my concept” would be to provide “some distinctions” for deserving cases, giving designated pardos and mulattos “some preference to those of their class.” However, he would not recommend providing “absolute equality to whites in politics.” Only if candidates had “very extraordinary services and singular circumstances” might the crown grant “civil effects in the same terms as if they were truly white.”29 Governor Guevara y Vasconcelos then turned to the case of Diego Mexias Bejarano and his son Diego Lorenzo. He weighed the “expressed inconveniences”—the vociferous opposition of the local establishment— with the “good circumstances of the interested party and his family.” He added another critical variable, given that knowledge of the “royal cédulas” was “notorious in this city and perhaps in all the province,” necessitating obedience to imperial commands. Having parsed between the fury of the Caracas elite, the worthiness of the Mexias Bejaranos, and the mandate to obey orders, the governor left the king and the Council to “resolve what will be to your royal pleasure.”

car acas r esistance When the Council of the Indies returned from its holidays in January 1804, they confronted not only letters from Bishop Ibarra y Herrera and Governor Guevara y Vasconcelos but also a plea from Diego Mexias Bejarano who now—significantly—titled himself a Don.30 Diego still seemed a bit ambiguous concerning his identity, for although he used the title he also admitted that he was “a free pardo.” He apologized for the need “to trouble . . . your majesty” given the resistance of the Caracas establishment to enforce “repeated royal resolutions.” These included the original decree whitening him in July 1796, its confirmation of September 1797, and another of October 1801. He explained that he had sent the decrees to the bishop, city council, and the university and petitioned that his son might take the Latin examination. However, the university had refused to admit him. Diego begged that the king would “continue to favor him” and resolve the impasse.



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Back in Caracas, the Landaeta family was also experiencing setbacks that January 1804 in enforcing their “mestizo” status and enjoying any potential whitening benefits. Retired militia captain Antonio José, the brother of “leopard” Juan Gabriel, reminded the audiencia that the family had received a decree that “accredited our descendance from the mestizo caste without having in all our respective ancestry slavery, illegitimacy or other vice.”31 However, when one of his “legitimate sons tried to marry,” he encountered problems with the local parish priest who, since he was “uncertain” how to proceed, had listed the bridegroom not as mestizo or as white but “in the same way as practiced with the other pardos.” In other words, the priest had listed him as a pardo. Since changing official designations such as marriage certificates had always been fundamental in establishing alterations in calidad, Antonio José asked the audiencia to issue some guidelines.32 They needed to inform local clerics “how to designate my actual sons at the time they want to marry that would serve as a rule.” Caracas audiencia fiscal Julián Díaz de Saravia was not sympathetic. He refused to intervene, ruling that parish priests should follow the “ordinary and accustomed” practice and designate the Landaeta offspring as would be appropriate “for individuals in their condition and class.” The audiencia ruling was significant, for it suggested that the Landaeta strategy to attempt to pass as mestizos was failing. While the family might have been able to coax a royal decree from the Council of the Indies acknowledging that if they were mestizos they could enjoy that status, real power rested locally, in this case with a parish priest who established the family’s casta category according to popular perceptions. Equally notable is that the audiencia, although repeatedly charged by the city council as being pro pardo, had again refused—as in the earlier Cortines investigation of the Landaetas—to intervene to support pardo mobility. The Caracas audiencia not only rejected the efforts of newly whitened pardos to enhance their status but proved increasing hostile to that other, informal path of pardo mobility—sexual relationships and marriages with whites. Its strict interpretation of the Pragmatic Sanction on Marriages led the next month (February 1804) to the first of two cases where white women petitioned to whiten their pardo fiancés. Their stories have appeared earlier. Doña Francisca del Cerro and Blas Gallegos recalled their “innocent love”

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that had progressed to an affair and an illegitimate baby daughter.33 The couple planned to wed, and since the Pragmatic Sanction on Marriages in 1778 declared that those “older than twenty five years could marry at will,” they hoped to “purify . . . their affection and mutual love.” However, they found that the twenty-five-year age exemption had “been badly received in these provinces.” The audiencia had interpreted the phrase “at will” to apply only to those “equal in condition” prohibiting their marriage even though they were legal adults. Five months later (July 30, 1804), Doña María del Carmen Correa and pardo Juan Joseph Ximénez took a cue from Doña Francisca and Blas and submitted a similar request.34 Even though the pair were twenty-three years old, they could still make the case that they met the guidelines of the Pragmatic Sanction on Marriages, since revisions in 1803 had lowered the age for free matrimonial choice to twenty-three for women. Since Juan Joseph’s parents supported the marriage of their pardo son to his white fiancée, the couple faced no obstacle but that of local officials. In an ironic twist, both couples were attempting to leverage the obstreperousness of the Caracas audiencia against pardo marriages with whites to provide a rationale as to why these potential spouses needed to purchase whiteness. It took four months before Fiscal Hernández de Alva Alonso reviewed the two cases for the Cámara. He simply noted that it was the “royal audiencia that declared that whites cannot marry pardos,” but he made no recommendation at the time whether to intervene or support their petitions. As in other years, the Christmas and New Year holidays led to a lull in petitions and protests on both sides of the Atlantic. It was not until midFebruary 1805 that Viceroy Antonio Amar in Bogotá prepared to forward another petition for whitening to Madrid. He was dealing with a familiar name, for Pedro Antonio de Ayarza continued what was now a ten-year crusade and returned to seek whiteness for his two younger sons.35 The rejections of his previous petitions had now lowered Pedro Antonio’s expectations. He asked for nothing for himself but pleaded that Pedro Crisólogo and Antonio Nicanor receive whiteness and permission to graduate from the university. Viceroy Amar somewhat resignedly noted the “same circumstances” were prevailing as when his predecessor Viceroy José de Ezpeleta had sent the case of eldest son Joseph Ponciano to Madrid in 1795. This time the viceroy dispatched the petition with no recommendation but with the sole comment that the Cámara would do what it deemed “just.”



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the council of the indies: r ebuk es and r etr e ats Just three days after Pedro Antonio de Ayarza’s petition began to make its way to Madrid, on the other side of the Atlantic, the Council of the Indies finally responded in separate decrees dated February 22, 1805, to the protests of Caracas royal officials, the university, and the bishop.36 The stakes remained high, as the Mexias Bejarano, Landaeta, and Arévalo families waited for the state to enforce royal decrees so they might enjoy their new status, while elites hoped for attention to their complaints and a return to the status quo. The Council of the Indies hurled stunning blows of condemnation against the Caracas establishment’s opposition to whitening and demanded obedience to royal orders. The decree sent to the captain general and audiencia reviewed the past nine years of correspondence and orders that had passed between that body, Diego Mexias Bejarano, and the Cámara. It concluded, “there has been no just motive not to observe and fulfill the favor conceded to [Mexias] Bejarano” nor should the faculty have the right “to suspend the examination” so as to prevent Diego Lorenzo from attending the university. The decree to the rector and the faculty of the University of Caracas ordered them to permit Diego Lorenzo to take the Latin exam and, if he passed, to admit him “right away without excuse in obedience to my sovereign decision.” It was not sufficient that he attend classes; he should not suffer discrimination. Faculty should treat him with “love and attention as the other students” and he should not be “humiliated” or “insulted” due to his “different color.” Not just royal officials and the university but also Bishop Ibarra y Herrera received a rebuke from the Council of the Indies. The resulting decree ignored the bishop’s concerns for the future of the priesthood if pardos took holy orders and his conclusion that pardos generally and Diego Lorenzo specifically were not prepared to become priests. While conceding his “accredited love and zeal” for royal service, the decree ordered the bishop not only to obey the “particular dispensations of quality conceded” but also to comply with “those that in the future” might subsequently occur. The king reminded the bishop that these “favors” derived from “my sovereign authority and in exercise of my Supreme Rights” when “I consider it opportune” to reward “merit and services.”

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The Council of the Indies triple renunciation of the positions of royal officials, the university, and the bishop confirmed the previously expressed fears of Fiscal Antonio de Porlier and Viceroy José de Ezpeleta that if pardos became white, the state would have to intervene to enforce their new status. The Council of the Indies understood that it had to demand that the newly whitened enjoy the full privileges of whites. This was not because discrimination against pardos and mulattos was wrong—indeed, as the Caracas establishment repeatedly pointed out, Spanish legislation institutionalized such discrimination. However, it was imperative that vassals obey royal orders. If the king had transformed a pardo into a white, then the Council had to act affirmatively to compel obedience. It remained uncertain what this trio of royal orders might accomplish when previous efforts had failed. What seemed significant was that the Council of the Indies was moving toward dual policies concerning whitening. On one hand, it was increasingly likely to deny or to table any decision on future applications; on the other hand, it intervened to enforce the effects of the whitening clauses for those lucky few who had already received decrees. The determination of the Council of the Indies to enforce whitening and of the Caracas establishment to resist it was tested the next month. In March 1805, the Madrid representative of the University of Caracas submitted a second petition concerning the entrance of Diego Lorenzo Mexias Bejarano into the university. While the agent did not specifically refer to the orders from the Council of the Indies demanding obedience, he directly responded to the contents. He insisted that it had “never been” the intention of the university “to oppose the favors that spring from Your Royal Person.” Rather, that body “always” paid the “respect and obedience due to the Sovereign.” He tried—if a bit speciously—to suggest that the faculty had not disobeyed the royal decree, given that the university had not prevented family members from taking holy orders. What he failed to mention was that faculty had refused Diego Lorenzo admission to the university to study for the priesthood. The faculty then tried a new strategy, conceding even though “the grace of your Majesty” had dispensed the inferior calidad of the Mexias Bejaranos, that such mobility had boundaries. Professors tried to define exactly what the whitening decree might have accomplished. It had, they agreed, made the family superior to pardos, as they would be “preferred among



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those of their class.” This elevated status meant they would not be rebuffed but “also looked at and attended by whites.” Such mobility did not mean, however, that family members were eligible for the “distinctions” and “preeminences” attached to a “literary career.” Professors suggested that Diego Lorenzo need not attend the university to become a priest. Mestizos who received holy orders had “never stepped in the University,” nor had clerics belonging to the regular orders as they studied in their monasteries. Since these two groups could acquire outside the university the necessary “knowledge . . . to carry out the appropriate functions of the posts they occupy,” so, the faculty suggested, could Diego Lorenzo. Even though the faculty declared that it was not their goal “to injure nor bring down in any way the Mexias [Bejaranos]: nor any other pardos who exhibited ‘moderation,’” it insisted that the education of the castas was dangerous, given that “all of their class” had a “declared opposition to whites.” Although Caracas elites had previously complained about pardo arrogance or questioned their loyalty to the crown, now university officials made these charges with even greater stridency, reflecting the heightened tension of a post-Haiti Caribbean.37 The faculty feared that if pardos attended the university, it would nurture the “pernicious seed of their ideas of dominance.” They would read the “evil, infamous and seditious” works of “foreigners.” This would remind them of their “past slavery” as well as their “actual debasement.” Educated pardos would “communicate this contagion to their brothers.” Such conclusions, the faculty emphasized, were not “captious objections produced by the heat of passion” but conclusions that were the result of “the experience of three centuries.” Although the faculty did not question the specific loyalty of the Mexias Bejaranos, Landaetas, and Arévalos—many of whom served in the militias—they feared that an educated mulatto elite might incite the casta masses. The Council of the Indies seems to have considered both the pleas of Diego Mexias Bejarano as well as those of the University of Caracas when the next month, on April 7, 1805, it issued a response to both parties.38 The royal decree sent to Mexias Bejarano revisited his original grant of whiteness as well as his multiple subsequent appeals as he encountered opposition from the city council, bishop, and the university. The Council of the Indies remained firm: “There is no reason not to observe and fulfill the favor conceded to [Mexias] Bejarano in the terms expressed in the accompanying

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decree.” In the name of the king it demanded that the university fulfill the royal order “and this is my will.” Even though the Council of the Indies insisted on obedience in recognizing the whiteness of individuals who had received a gracias al sacar, there was good news for the Caracas establishment as well. There seems to have been a royal order issued the same day—at least later documents quote such a decree—that qualified the effects of whitening. Pardos or mulattos were not to consider themselves entitled to numerous “posts and employments” be it in “ecclesiastical, military, civil and political careers.” There was no intention that they would be able to “link themselves with any legitimate family clean of mixture.” The minister feared that if “such idea propagated among them” it would necessitate the “continuous and increased attention of the Council and it would produce disputes, altercations and other consequences that it is necessary that a monarchy avoid.” The absence of future appeals suggests that these unequivocal pronouncements of the Council of the Indies had accomplished one goal. It had silenced the Caracas cabildo, the bishop, and the audiencia, as these would send no further protests to Madrid. Yet unclear was if the Venezuelan establishment would continue to block pardo mobility on a day-to-day basis, where they had more definitive control. For nine months, the Council of the Indies had some relief from petitioning pardos and importuning Caracas elites. Not until January 1806 did a pair of petitions arrive from Cumaná, Venezuela. The plight of Don Juan Martin de Aristimuño has appeared elsewhere, typifying the pattern whereby peninsulares settled in the Americas, married parda women, and then worried concerning the future of their offspring. Don Juan Martin had arrived in Venezuela as a carpenter, later worked on fortifications, headed logging expeditions, opened up lands for agriculture, and finally settled in Cumaná where he became active in commerce. His marriage to parda Agustina Albornoz had produced two sons and three daughters. Agustina must have had a number of white ancestors given that the couple’s eldest son had passed sufficiently to serve in a white militia company. However, Don Juan Martin was distressed that the “note of calidad of his wife damaged the future of his sons and daughters.”39 He provided more than fifty pages of testimony in which prominent witnesses testified to the “regularity of his public and private life” as well as the “noble and Christian sentiments, virtue and honor” that he “had known to inspire in his family.”



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Also included in Don Juan Martin’s petition was a letter of recommendation from Don Juan Manuel de Cagigal, the governor of Cumaná. He asked that the king “dispense in the indicated woman and all her descendants the calidad of pardo.” Since Cagigal had previously held royal office in Caracas, he had to be knowledgeable of the ongoing confrontations caused by the Mexias Bejarano, Landaeta, and Arévalo whitenings.40 Perhaps he was willing to support Agustina since there had been no protests against the whitening of the parda wives of elite males, but only protests against these three Caracas families. Such a rationale does not, however, support the identical letter that Governor Cagigal sent three months later, in March 1806, in favor of pardo petitioner, Francisco de la Cruz Marqués. Perhaps the governor felt the uproar over whitening in Caracas was unique and would not occasion similar protests in Cumaná. What is evident is that this was another cluster petition for it seems inconceivable that this pardo did not know Don Juan Martin de Aristimuño. Both had worked in the logging industry, both were merchants, and both lived in Cumaná. Francisco de la Cruz Marqués exemplified the pattern where pardo males married parda women with white fathers, for he confessed that Petronila Fuentes was the “legitimate daughter of a white European father who married a parda.”41 He feared for the future of their eight children and so he asked that the king “dispense the calidad of the color pardo” so his offspring would not suffer discrimination if they chose to enter the religious life or become physicians. The question remained open if the fiscal and Cámara would consider any cases from Venezuela given the inconveniences, if they would continue to favor parda wives of white males, or if a pardo couple with white relations might be more likely to receive a positive response. By the time these Cumaná petitions reached Spain, a backlog of decisions concerning whitening had begun to build up on Fiscal Hernández de Alva Alonso’s desk. The first month he had arrived in Madrid, in September 1803, he had advised against the full as opposed to the occupational whitening of Caracas surgeon Domingo Arévalo, although the Cámara had overruled him. Later he had suggested that the Cámara investigate the petition of Panamanian scribe Matías Joseph Borbúa, but ministers had chosen to table the case. Still awaiting his opinion were the two petitions from Caracas (Doña Francisca del Cerro and Doña María del Carmen Correa) where white women wanted to marry pardo men, the seemingly perpetual

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­ leadings of Panamanian Pedro Antonio de Ayarza, and the two latest arp rivals from Cumaná. It is uncertain if Fiscal Hernández de Alva Alonso’s procrastination derived from reluctance to whiten, given the protests of the Caracas establishment, from dissatisfaction that the Cámara had twice overruled his counsel, or from overwork—he was the only fiscal for the Americas. The issue became moot when he collapsed and died on May 20, 1806.42 Lacking a fiscal for either New Spain or Peru, ministers of the Council and Cámara of the Indies would have to take up extra duties for twenty months until José Lucas de Gorvea y Vadillo finally arrived from Buenos Aires.43 Sometime early in 1806, before Fiscal Hernández de Alva Alonso’s death, another whitening petition had landed on his desk. Archival indexes reveal that the fifth document that arrived that year was “a file concerning the dispensation of the calidad of pardo of José Manuel Valdés, surgeon of Lima.”44 Given the Peru documents are missing, it is impossible to know exactly what happened. Perhaps the viceroy and the Lima establishment, perhaps Valdés himself, sent in a proper application demonstrating his expertise and acceptance in elite circles. Nor is it possible to determine if Fiscal Hernández de Alva Alonso provided an opinion on the Valdés case before his death. What is unmistakable is that the Council of the Indies issued a whitening decree for the Lima surgeon on June 11, 1806.45 The next month, in July 1806, the consulta ordered by Secretary of State Caballero and the Council of the Indies three years previously would finally appear. It seems appropriate to assign it the title of “mystery” consulta, given that the only available copy remains unsigned and anonymous. It would provide striking insight into the thinking of at least one minister on the Council of the Indies and eventually precipitate an 1808 successor. Both consultas would review the histories of the gracias al sacar particularly and of pardo and mulatto mobility generally, suggesting future policies to resolve the contentious issue of the castas.

conclusions From 1803 to 1806, the Council of Indies received more petitions from familiar names than from new applicants. Now granted a royal decree that confirmed his whitening, Diego Mexias Bejarano returned to ask for official



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support so that his son Diego Lorenzo might attend the University of Caracas and study for the priesthood. The Ayarzas sought assurance that Joseph Ponciano might become a lawyer and assume the title of Don. Father Pedro Antonio as well as sons Pedro Crisólogo and Antonio Nicanor would seek favorable verdicts. Domingo Arévalo sent a new letter to the Cámara reminding them that he needed no exemption to practice as a surgeon; instead, he requested full whitening for himself and his sisters. Matías Joseph, the son of Panamanian pardo Juan Evaristo de Jesús Borbúa, returned to plead for total whiteness for his generation. The brother of “leopard” Juan Gabriel Landaeta appeared to complain when Caracas officials had insisted on listing his son as a pardo on his marriage certificate. Limeño José Manuel Valdés forwarded a second petition, hoping for whiteness and graduation from university. These continuing petitions, reapplications, and requests for enforcement likely began to signal the Council of the Indies that whitening brought with it as many inconveniences as potential benefits. A new cohort of Venezuelans also appeared, some due to desperation given the Caracas audiencia’s strict enforcement of the Pragmatic Sanction on Marriages; others now aware of the whitening option given elite protests against it. Doña Francisca del Cerro and Doña María del Carmen Correa pleaded for the whitening for their pardo fiancés, given the refusal of the Caracas audiencia to provide an exemption so they might marry. Outside of the capital, co-workers from Cumaná Juan Martin de Aristimuño and Francisco de la Cruz Marqués begged for the whitening of their numerous offspring. Only two petitioners—Domingo Arévalo and José Manuel Valdés—received whitening decrees during these years. Instead, the Council and Cámara spent most of its time responding to the newly whitened seeking imperial enforcement of their decrees or pardos returning to repetition in the hopes of an ultimately favorable decision. It continued to make case-by-case decisions rather than developing overarching policy. The Council of the Indies suffered both from Bourbon reforms and from internal tensions over whitening policy. The mandate that only fiscals with American experience might serve meant that office had at most one, and often no, crown attorney to evaluate documents arriving from the Indies. Disagreements between the Cámara and the fiscals also continued, as the Camaristas remained more willing to whiten. They supported a positive decision for the two younger Ayarza brothers and for Domingo Arévalo,

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contrary to the recommendations of an unknown minster and newly arrived fiscal Lorenzo Serapio Hernández de Alva Alonso. When the latter suggested that the Cámara request further information from the Americas concerning the petition of Matías Joseph Borbúa, the Camaristas overruled him. Faced with voluminous protests from the University of Caracas and Bishop Ibarra y Herrera, as well as the failure of that audiencia to enforce the whitening decrees, the Council of the Indies sent thundering condemnations to civil and ecclesiastical elites demanding obedience to royal orders. Yet, even as the Council insisted on benefits for those newly whitened, it now proved more likely to deny or table undecided cases. It also backtracked, intimating that whitening would not necessarily equal pardos to whites. What did not happen during these years also proved relevant. The Caracas city council was uncharacteristically silent, sending no further diatribes against whitening to the Council, although no doubt the University of Caracas and Bishop Ibarra y Herrera ably expressed its sentiments. After the Council of the Indies’ ferocious censure of local royal officials, the university, and the bishop, the Venezuelan elite would henceforth remain mute, although its obedience to royal orders remained uncertain. What was clear was that the repercussions of its many protests would continue to reverberate and influence whitening decisions. Included among these was the 1806 “mystery” consulta, as well as its 1808 successor, the next attempts to shape whitening policy for the Indies.

eleven

Recalibrations The 1806 “Mystery” Consulta; the 1808 Viaña Consulta; and the Cortes, 1806–1810 And regarding those blacks and pardos that prove in all form and solemnity with authentic documents and not by information of witnesses, their free and legitimate descent through four generations, they are capable of every office and charge held by the common people of Spain. unknown minister, Council of the Indies, “Mystery” Consulta, July 18061

Even though General Accounting believes that because of various political reasons it is not convenient to equal them with the whites . . . if they refrain absolutely from conceding such favors it would result perhaps in other dismal consequences, weakening consequently the fidelity and care in royal service of those who not only can be as useful as the whites in whatever profession that they dedicate themselves to, but who are absolutely necessary for the preservation and fostering of those kingdoms. don fr ancisco josé viaña, minister, Council of the Indies, Consulta, January 1808 2

introduction From 1806 to 1810, not only royal officials but also peninsulares and creoles would attempt to recalibrate the status of pardos and mulattos within the empire. After years of dithering between the fiscals and the Cámara 323

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concerning the whitening gracias al sacar, some unknown minister in July 1806 would endeavor to forge a consensus. He would prepare a lengthy “mystery” consulta, which reviewed the past and provided recommendations for the future status of the castas. Two years later, in 1808, Minister Francisco José Viaña would summarize subsequent Council of the Indies attempts to formulate whitening policy, review the recommendations of officials in General Accounting, and suggest revisions. Exploring the origin, proposals, and ultimate outcome of the mystery and Viaña consultas discloses continuing deterioration in the efficacy of imperial governance. It also underlines the extreme difficulties in arriving at decisions concerning casta mobility. These were profoundly challenging issues. It would take, in comparison, more than another century before the U.S. establishment would finally begin to confront the institutionalized prejudices and thwarted mobilities of its African American population. Nonetheless, during the closing years of the Spanish empire, royal officials, local elites, pardos, and mulattos would openly debate the consequences of such inequalities and—at the least—consider possible solutions. Even while the Council of the Indies struggled to determine the controversial status of the castas, the unexpected blow of the Napoleonic invasion of the peninsula in 1808, the abdication of Charles IV, the exile of Ferdinand VII, and the establishment of a Council of Regency would relegate policies concerning pardo and mulatto mobility to the administrative background. It is somewhat ironic, as delegates from the peninsula and the Americas gathered in Cádiz in fall 1810 to write a constitution for the empire, that questions concerning the status of the castas would surface as a central and contentious theme. This chapter explores both ends and beginnings: the last attempts of the Council of the Indies to develop whitening policy through two final consultas, and the first steps that produced a Cortes where European and American Spaniards would meet to locate pardos and mulattos within a refashioned empire.

m ystery consulta: the background An unsigned opinion dated July 1806 deserves a contemporary designation—“mystery” consulta—because much is unknown about it, including the possible author. Its beginning is perhaps the least nebulous



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aspect. It seems directly linked to the October 1802 letter from Franciscan José Antonio Goicoechea pleading for change, the April 1803 directive from Secretary of State Joseph Antonio Caballero suggesting a reconsideration of policy, the Council of the Indies May 1803 order for a consulta, and the September 1804 addition of the Diego Mexias Bejarano documents to the file. The mystery consulta evolved with a dual mandate: to report not only on the potential for generalized pardo mobility but also on the viability of the whitening gracias al sacar. Yet another mystery surrounds the 1806 consulta: no historian has ever found a copy in the Archive of the Indies. On one level, this may not be surprising, for even though it may survive, it is difficult precisely to locate documents chronicling the internal workings of the Council of the Indies. The only reason that historians know this policy review occurred is that a copy remains in the private collection of a member of the Council of the Indies at the time. Understanding the imperial career of Minister Benito Mata Linares and his passion for collecting documents provides a tantalizing hint that he might possibly have authored the opinion. Benito Mata Linares had a distinguished career in the Americas, starting in 1777 as an oidor in Santiago and then Lima, intendant in Cuzco, and finally regent, the highest-ranking judge in Buenos Aires.3 He became a minister of the Council of the Indies in 1803. He was not yet a member of the Cámara when someone wrote the 1806 mystery consulta, although he would receive such an appointment the next year. What distinguishes Mata Linares, and endears him to historians, was his obsession in making copies of documents. By the end of his career, he had accumulated an astonishing portfolio of more than 10,000 royal decrees, orders, and reports from throughout the Americas, although the focus tended to concentrate in the audiencias where he had served.4 Apparently, he gathered these documents to provide precedents and context to help him make decisions on a wide range of issues.5 Since a number of the decrees he had copied are now lost or embedded in unindexed portions of the Archive of the Indies, his collection remains a fundamental source for historians and the only known location of the unsigned mystery consulta. There is no way to prove that Benito Mata Linares wrote the 1806 opinion. However, an offhand comment within the text provides a subtle hint that he might have been responsible. The remark occurred when the author discussed the issue of mulatto loyalty to the crown. He admits that some par-

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dos “have been and are little attached to our government and nation.”6 Still, the unknown minister’s first example of such infidelity is ­chronologically and geographically strange. He did not first consider the familiar charges forwarded by the Caracas city council and university concerning potential pardo disloyalty, as these typically referred to rebellion in Venezuela or in the Caribbean, although the unknown minister would later comment on these as well. Instead, this anonymous official first referenced an incident of pardo infidelity that had occurred in the 1780s in the Andes, in “the interior of Peru” during the rebellion of Diego Tupac Amaru, a cousin of the betterknown José Gabriel Tupac Amaru. The author pointed out that there was “clear proof” of disloyalty during that revolt, given that the “companies of riflemen” that supported the uprising were “pardos and those [pardos] inappropriately titled mestizos.” If such a reference proceeded from the author’s firsthand knowledge of the event, then Mata Linares was a likely candidate. While serving as an oidor in Lima, he had not only been deeply involved in suppression of the José Gabriel Tupac Amaru revolt but later in Cuzco had prosecuted the Diego Tupac Amaru rebellion. He was intimately familiar with both Andean events. Another hint that Mata Linares might have authored the mystery consulta is that it does not follow the usual format. Typically, when crown attorneys evaluated cases, they referenced the Laws of the Indies or noted that they had consulted specific earlier judgments as precedents. While the mystery consulta begins with similar types of comments concerning Diego Mexias Bejarano and the problems associated with whitening, it then— perhaps given the additional mandate to consider general mobility for the castas—drew on more than twenty references to a wide range of legislation concerning mestizos, pardos, and the Pragmatic Sanction on Marriages. It is notable that many, although not all, of these references are documents contained in Mata Linares’s personal collection. Mata Linares not only evidenced an interest in legislation concerning casta mobility generally, he also showed particular attention to documents generated by the whitening gracias al sacar. His files contain the only available version of the 1805 decree ordering the university to admit Diego Mexias Bejarano’s son Diego Lorenzo to the university, as well as the only known copy of the 1806 mystery consulta. Attribution of authorship to compulsive collector Mata Linares is extremely tempting but must ultimately remain speculative.



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the 1806 m ystery consulta a nd the establishment Whoever wrote it, the 1806 report provides striking insight into the thinking of one minister of the Council of the Indies concerning casta mobility. It focused on familiar themes that had arisen repeatedly in the discussions surrounding the whitening gracias al sacar. Even after decades of debate, questions concerning issues of inclusion and exclusion remained largely unanswered. Should the crown restrict whitening to individuals or should grants of mobility pass to succeeding generations? Should they preshadow opportunities for a larger number of pardos? What would the state have to grant them so they had a stake in its future and would remain faithful? The 1806 opinion not only addressed these issues but also concluded with some surprising policy recommendations. The unknown “minister who acts as fiscal” (ministro que hace de fiscal ) began the mystery consulta with consideration of the most recent response of the University of Caracas, begging that the whitening of Diego Mexias Bejarano should not pass to his sons and that university statutes should not be violated. The minister had no sympathy for professorial protests. He declared that “the Council had been well aware of all the foundations, reflections and discourses produced in support of this pretension,” when it produced the triple decrees of February 22, 1805, that condemned imperial bureaucrats, the university, and the bishop and ordered that they obey the whitening decree. Whatever councilors might privately think concerning the repercussions of whitening Diego Mexias Bejarano, once they issued a royal order they were unwavering that it demanded obedience. The minister suggested that Caracas elites had overreacted to the whitening of Diego Mexias Bejarano, given this was an individual dispensation rather than a wider opening to pardos generally. Nor did gracias al sacar innovate, given that it did not “lead to general or new law.” It provided but a narrow favor and “ought to be restricted and limited to the precise and literal statement of the concession.” The minister noted that even pardos who received a whitening decree were not to consider themselves equal to elites.7 He did not support further mobility, concluding that the separation of “classes” between whites and pardos was fundamental to “order, security and good government.”8 Although the minister mandated that the Caracas elite had to accept the consequences of the whitening of the Mexias Bejaranos, including the ad-

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mission of Diego Lorenzo to the university, he empathized with their complaints.9 At least in internal documents, bureaucrats seemed more cognizant of Venezuelan unhappiness than when they issued public statements concerning the situation. He recognized the “identical way of thinking” of the bishop, governor, city council, and the university and agreed that “inconveniences and prejudices” might arise if pardos became “spoiled and proud.”10 Even so, the minister also insisted that “humanity and religion” demanded that pardos receive respectful treatment as “vassals and men,” even while maintaining caste and class distinctions. He trod a fine line demanding obedience to royal decrees, supporting the traditional hierarchy, but also recognizing that pardos and mulattos were vassals worthy of royal beneficence. The goal was to find balance within the overall system so that a certain “justice should not be lacking.” Given the minister’s support for the established hierarchy of the caste system, it is no surprise that the opinion condemned efforts by pardos to blur boundaries and pass as white. He could not condone a situation where the “descendants of slaves known as such” socialized with “noble families” who were “legitimate, white and free from all ugly stain.” This was why, the minister argued, the Pragmatic Sanction on Marriages was fundamental. By excluding anyone of African ancestry from uniting with whites or mestizos, the “foul castes” would remain in “notable inferiority.” Maintaining such separation was not easy. The minister traced a series of royal decrees that had attempted to negotiate the messy categories of the caste system by preventing those with mixtures of African ancestry from linking with whites, mestizos, or Native Americans. In Chile, the audiencia had declared that those designated as “mestizos” solely derived from a mixture of Spanish and indigenous or from pure mestizo origins but did not include “other diverse mixes or castes.”11 In Mexico, the audiencia had ordered local priests to try to prevent Indians from marrying pardos and mulattos, warning them of the “prejudices” of such mixtures given that offspring would be deprived “of the honorable positions that only pure Indians can hold.”12 While parents might use the Pragmatic Sanction on Marriages to prohibit the marriage of those who had not reached their majority, the minister noted that the law was less clear once they became adults. When a revision to the Pragmatic Sanction on Marriages in 1803 permitted men and women who were of age to wed without paternal permission, the viceroy



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of Buenos Aires had complained of “the prejudices that might follow that absolute liberty in those countries where blacks and mulattos of all classes abound.”13 As a result, in 1805 the Council of the Indies had declared that when an adult of “known nobility or notorious clean blood” attempted to marry with someone from the “castas,” the viceroy, president, or audiencia might “concede or deny permission” depending upon the facts of the case.14 Given the minster’s negative attitudes toward mulattos, it seems surprising that he might have any sympathy for their movement toward whiteness through gracias al sacar. Although he did not rule out such mobility, he suggested that such “dispensations of quality” should be “rare” and only given after proof of “proper conduct, fidelity to the sovereign and love to the country.” Those whitened should have “outstanding merits and extraordinary services.” Nor should such favors be open-ended. Rather, grants should limit the benefits to the “strict terms of the concession.” Such sentiments supported the earlier, more conservative policies worked out by Fiscals José de Cistué y Coll and Ramón de Posada y Soto compared to the more liberal stance often taken by the Cámara.15 Another fundamental theme addressed in the mystery consulta was the touchy question of pardo loyalty to the crown. The minister agreed that given their “depraved nature, their pride and inclination to liberty” mulattos “have little affection for our government and nation.” After citing the aforementioned incident of pardo disloyalty in the revolt of Diego Tupac Amaru, he referred to more recent evidence of possible treachery. He was writing—in July 1806—at a critical time. He commented that it was “public” knowledge that Francisco de Miranda was at that moment organizing an expedition “against the provinces and coast of Caracas” and that it included “two thousand pardos taken from those parts.”16 What the minister could not know was that the Miranda expedition— which did not include such local casta support and only involved several hundred participants—was already in trouble.17 Even though Miranda was able to land a small force in Coro the next month, in August 1806, the absence of local backing would force him to depart within several weeks. Still, the unknown minister seemed to accept the rumor that pardos and mulattos were disloyal and might compose a significant portion of the invading force. Until this point, although the minister had strongly supported the insistence of the Council of the Indies that Diego Mexias Bejarano and his

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son should enjoy the privileges of whites, the remainder of his analysis had been sympathetic to the concerns of the Caracas elite. He had supported the legal distinctions between whites and castas, defended the intent of the Pragmatic Sanction on Marriages to prohibit mixing, and raised questions concerning pardo and mulatto loyalty to the crown.

m y s t e ry c onsu lta a n d p ol ic y towa r d pa r d os a n d m u l at tos Given the minister’s defense of existing hierarchies and his skeptical view of casta loyalties, it seems counterintuitive that the next topic covered in the opinion was the possibility of eliminating discrimination against pardos and mulattos. However, the other mandate of the consulta had been to consider the issues raised in the fervently argued letter that Franciscan provincial José Antonio Goicoechea had sent in October 1802 that rejected the discriminatory caste system and that Secretary of State Caballero had ordered the Council of the Indies to evaluate.18 The “minister fiscal” reported that he had examined with “sufficient meditation” the proposal by Friar Goicoechea urging that the monarch “honor to a certain degree the zambos and mulattos of that kingdom and of all the Indies and equal them to the common class of Spaniards.”19 He concluded, however, that the provincial had made a “manifest mistake” when he had suggested that it was “vulgar prejudice”—actually Goicoechea had said that it was intolerance due to “color”—that led to the degraded status of the castas.20 Rather, the unknown minister attributed their inferior state to “law,” for it institutionalized discrimination against them and led to the “miserable state of contempt and despondency that they suffer.” He raised a provocative question: If the logical inference was that unequal legal treatment had produced the sad condition of pardos and mulattos, should the state consider a remedy? Apparently, the answer was “yes,” for the mystery consulta then took a radical turn. The minister conceded the need for a recalibration of reciprocity between the monarch and castas. He suggested that if pardos and mulattos were “destitute of all hope to better their fate and to include themselves in the general sphere of the other vassals,” they would become discouraged and naturally fall into their “natural disorders and bad inclinations.”



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The minister’s conclusion was striking: since pardos and mulattos were “men” just like others—even if some were currently treasonous and depraved—the best governmental policy would be to encourage their upward mobility. Even as he veered back and forth between traditional and extreme options concerning the treatment of pardos, he also remained cautious. Referring to the recurring image of the state as doorkeeper, he feared that if the crown were “to open this door freely and equally to the pardos, mulattos and the rest of the associated castes” it would lead to “general harms” that might be “irremediable” and that would outweigh the “contingent and partial advantages” of permitting such mobility. In a thoughtful interjection, the minister commented that he had been struck by a note that appeared on the margin of a document that Diego Mexias Bejarano had sent to the Council of the Indies in December 1803. On it, as previously noted, Caracas governor Manuel de Guevara y Vasconcelos had neatly captured the crown’s dilemma. He had scribbled that “if the dispensations of quality of mulattos begin to spread, it would not be long in which the political order would be confused and disorganized.”21 Still, he also concluded that “to deny them all hope of advancement and estimation carried with it equally terrible consequences.” Rejection would “weaken” pardo “thoughts of loyalty and effort for royal service” and it was “indispensable to count on them . . . for the conservation of those lands.” The minister then tried to weave a path between what he admitted were these “two opposite extremes,” either “not admitting them absolutely to favors or to make them indiscriminately capable of all the honors that whites enjoy in America.” Given his previous comments, his first policy suggestions were not surprising. He would not curtail the whitening gracias al sacar. He recommended that pardos be able to petition the king for rewards for “their merits and singular and extraordinary services.” The minister then proposed a startling change of policy. He suggested that those “blacks and pardos” who could prove with convincing documents that they could trace “free and legitimate descent in four generations” would be eligible for “every office or post” held by the “common people in Spain.”22 The latter suggestion was particularly extreme, given that those who figured as “common people” in Spain enjoyed greater opportunities for enhanced status in the Americas. Even more substantive was the minister’s continued rejection of color as a defining variable. Instead, he privileged the number of generations from slavery and legitimacy as the key markers.

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What the anonymous minister proposed was a multigenerational variant of a womb policy—those who could document four generations of births from free, married wombs would have the privileges of whites, at least of whites who were plebeians. Presumably, it might take the majority of pardos multiple generations to move toward whiteness. However, this minister must have known that there were families who met or were already close to that standard: not Diego Mexias Bejarano, but his son the prospective priest, Diego Lorenzo, could count back three free and legitimate generations.23 Why would the anonymous minister suggest that a four-generation rule might be a viable policy? He may have taken seriously the comment of Bishop Francisco de Ibarra y Herrera of Caracas that pardos might be ready for the priesthood in fifty years, and so he assumed this was an appropriate timeline. At least he somewhat naively noted that he thought the timetable would overcome the “inconveniences” expressed by the “governor, the bishop, city council and University of Caracas.” The minister considered that this guarantee of future mobility would motivate pardos “to legitimate marriages, to better educate their children and to reform their disordered customs.” They would have the “hope of distinguishing themselves . . . and the government would obtain useful, faithful and ordered people” who were currently distinguished by their “abandon and vices.” No doubt he realized that if pardos had to wait through four generations of free and legitimate births that they would be beyond any popular memory of their contact with slavery. Even more telling, was the assumption that no inherent deficiency prevented the castas from achieving superior status. The final paragraph of the mystery consulta contained some bureaucratic hints at what happened next. Remember that in 1804 the Council of the Indies had originally sent Guatemalan Goicoechea’s letter concerning casta mobility to General Accounting to evaluate the potential impact on tribute collection if pardos and mulattos became exempt.24 Apparently, the Council had yet to receive a response, for the unknown minister tried again. He concluded with a suggestion that the accumulated files “relative to the point” be passed to both the Peru and Mexico desks of Contaduría for evaluation of the financial consequences if the “petition of the Provincial” was successful. As for his other recommendations, he concluded that the Council of the Indies would no doubt resolve what was “most appropriate.”



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m ystery consulta a nd influence on w hitening policy Since the mystery consulta surfaced only as a copy in the archives of Mata Linares, it remained a pristine and therefore a less informative document. Unlike paper that traveled through the administrative chain of command, it lacked the official scrawls of relevant officials or pages where bureaucrats commented on, approved, or denied it. While the Council of the Indies detailed reaction to these recommendations remains part of the “mystery,” tracing the fate of pending and future whitening applications provides some first clues as to how the 1806 consulta affected policy. One trend became immediately evident: the Council began to search for past cases on whitening and route them to General Accounting. A first indication of this process appears within the documents of the Valenzuela brothers, the first to receive whiteness in 1796. In late July 1806, an official penned an additional note on their documents, noting that he had sent their papers to be “united with the general file concerning inconveniences that might result from this favor.”25 While the mystery consulta had suggested that the Council of the Indies was sending the cases to General Accounting primarily to examine tax implications, this offhanded note hinted that additional complications arising from whitening might also be behind the review. At the end of the next month, in August 1806, the Ayarza papers received similar treatment and further confirmation that local protests as well as finances promoted such reconsideration. A note added to the documents explained that these had been united with a file from Caracas concerning the opposition made by that university to admit Lorenzo María [Mexias] Bejarano, son of Diego who has received a dispensation of pardo, to courses of philosophy.26

It added that the Ayarza papers could now be found in “General Accounting.” The 1806 opinion not only led officials to move past whitening files to Contaduría; it also resulted in a freeze in current decisions, as the Council of the Indies also began to send pending cases to the same office. Such a pattern became apparent the same month, in August 1806, when, after a two-year delay, some unknown “minister who acts as fiscal” reviewed the petitions of Doña María del Carmen Correa and Doña Francisca del Cerro

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that they be permitted to marry their pardo fiancés, Juan Joseph Ximénez and Blas Gallegos.27 He noted the Caracas couples had asked for “two favors,” that is, royal permission to marry and whitening of their potential husbands through gracias al sacar. The minister’s answer to the first was negative. Even though the couples were adults and technically free from the strictures of the Pragmatic Sanction on Marriages, subsequent rulings—as the writer of the mystery consulta had noted—had vested power in local officials to approve or deny marriages. Since the Caracas audiencia was no friend to such unions, this was a path unlikely to lead to any desired result. The unknown minister then foreclosed the couples’ second option, the purchase of whiteness for Juan Joseph and Blas, which would have permitted them to bypass the prohibitions of the Pragmatic Sanction. He commented that such decisions “ought to be reserved for later,” given that the question was pending in the “Council concerning if this brings inconveniences or not.” His observation additionally insinuated it was not only uncertainties concerning tribute revenue but also complaints from Venezuela that prompted delays. Even as the Council of the Indies demanded in public that Caracas elites accept the consequences of royal decrees and dismissed their arguments against whitening, internally ministers had become more attentive to local concerns.28 This was so even though the only complaints primarily concerned the whitening of selected males: the Mexias Bejaranos, the Landaetas, and the Arévalos. The rest of the empire—and this included Venezuelan elites—seemed either to be indifferent or to accept the option that others might purchase whiteness. Denial of the petitions from these desperate women from Caracas was the first, although it would not be the last, time when ministers would refuse to rule on current petitions, delaying decisions with the excuse that the Council of the Indies was in the process of developing policy. Two months later, in October 1806, another unknown minister attempted to send another whitening request to the pile of cases in Contaduría. The petitioner was certainly not unknown to the Council, for Panamanian Pedro Antonio de Ayarza returned for a third time to plead for the whitening of his two youngest sons, Pedro Crisólogo and Antonio Nicanor. Pedro Antonio must have received the unwelcome news that the king had refused to whiten his younger sons in late 1803, and so he began a new application, penning a



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letter to the Council of the Indies in March 1804. He conceded that at the time of his first two applications his two younger sons were “in their youth” and “continuing their studies at the side of their older brother.”29 However, now “they had finished” and their “progresses” were such “to make them worthy of his paternal love.” It seems likely that Pedro Antonio forwarded his cover letter to his lawyer son, Don Joseph Ponciano, who from April to July 1804 arranged for witness testimony. As before, members of the Bogotá elite rallied to support the whitening of the Ayarzas, revealing that they not only acquiesced to equal mobility for his two brothers but also fully accepted the new status of Joseph Ponciano. City council member Don Juan de Urivochea confirmed that the younger Ayarzas manifested “irreproachable and Christian conduct” and that they received the “general appreciation and estimation of the most recognized and distinguished subjects of this capital.” His colleague, Don José Joaquin Álvares, remembered that he had known the Ayarza sons since 1795. He not only confirmed their excellent conduct but also commented favorably on the mobility of their brother: “I am equally aware that they are legitimate brothers of Dr. Don José [Joseph] Ponciano de Ayarza, a lawyer of this royal audiencia.” Unlike Caracas, where the rector and professors of the university fought tenaciously to prohibit the admission of Diego Lorenzo Mexias Bejarano, in Bogotá, faculty had not only admitted the Ayarzas to the university but also praised them. The rector of San Bartolomé, Gregorio Domínguez, confirmed they had discharged their “obligations with exactitude,” done well in their examinations, and “merited the general appreciation that they enjoy in this capital.” Another professor remembered that the two were not only “worthy of the estimation of the superiors of the college” but also enjoyed the “general appreciation even of the most decorated and distinguished persons of this capital.” When Viceroy Don Antonio Amar forwarded the third Ayarza application from Bogotá to Madrid, he commented that “for his part” it seemed these were the “same circumstances” as occurred in 1795 when his predecessor Viceroy José de Ezpeleta had commented on the first Ayarza petition and expressed some “reservations” about whitening. Since the Council of the Indies remained without fiscals, it took eight months, until October 1807, before some unknown minister evaluated the application. He noted that the king had denied the whitening of the younger Ayarzas in 1803.

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The minister then provided some rare insight concerning ongoing debates in the Council of the Indies as to whether there should be individual dispensations through the gracias al sacar, general provisions for the mobility of pardos as a group, or neither of the above. He noted that a forthcoming review of past and present whitening applications had several goals. First was to decide on the “general point” if it was “advisable or not to dispense those gracias and distinctions to the pardos.” The Council needed to work out the “rules” to be applied whether “subjecting the pardos to a common system” or “detailing the requirements and terms for such dispensations.” He recommended that the Cámara forward the latest Ayarza petition to Contaduría to be “united with the others.” It took two months, until December 1807, for the Cámara to respond to the minister’s recommendation concerning the Ayarzas. Rather than follow the easy route and simply send the petition to administrative stasis, the Cámara continued to demonstrate its willingness to favor whitening applications. Members decided to send the file to the king: “to make it all present to your majesty so that it can be resolved according to your royal pleasure.” This decision gave the Ayarzas another opportunity for a favorable decision. When the Cámara received a response in mid-December, it was decidedly enigmatic: the reply was only “as it seems” (como parece). Since the Cámara had sent the Ayarza petition without any suggestion for or against, the only recommendation contained in the packet was the minister’s advice to send the petition to General Accounting. The Cámara obeyed and informed the Ayarzas’ legal representative in January 1807 that they had tabled the petition. Don Manuel Antonio de Echevarria, the Ayarzas’ attorney in Madrid, refused to accept the Cámara’s ruling. He argued in mid-February 1807 that since it had not made a recommendation, but only sent the documents forward, the decision “is not decisive of the matter contained in the consult.” For that reason, he insisted on the need “to repeat his previous petition,” now the fourth Ayarza request for whitening. Echevarria detailed the “complex of circumstances” that qualified Pedro Crisólogo and Antonio Nicanor for whiteness. He argued that precedent should work in favor of the Ayarzas. The situation of the two younger brothers—their “common estimation and appreciation, their continued application to their studies and known progress” was “identical in all circumstances” with that of their elder sibling. He concluded that it would be a



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“sorrowful thing to see all their work lost,” forcing them “to look for posts in nothing equal to [their] merit.” The demands of familial harmony as well as precedent, Echevarria argued, should lead to whitening the younger Ayarzas. Without a positive verdict the family would be divided and suffer “dissonance and deformity” given the “brothers see themselves in such different states of calidad.” The eldest was white, a don, and a lawyer, while the younger two were pardos still awaiting permission to receive university degrees. Since the situation was “so identical” the lawyer asked that the king whiten them “in the same terms” as their brother. He begged the Cámara to “consult with his majesty” as to what would be his “royal pleasure.” This time the Cámara took its cue from the monarch’s refusal to consider the case. The next month (March 1807), it ordered that the Ayarza petition “be united with the general file.” It took the Ayarzas’ lawyer only three months (June 1807) to return to petition the Cámara on behalf of the family for a fifth and what would prove to be the last time. He complained that the action of the Cámara was “arbitrary,” since it had refused to pass the case to the monarch for a final judgment. After repeating all the reasons that the brothers deserved whitening, he concluded that even though the Cámara had consigned the documents to Contaduría, the monarch still had “supreme authority” and he could always concede such favors. He worried about further delays given that not only had “much time” passed but also “there was no person,” no fiscal, to “dispatch the file.” His would not be the only complaint about the inefficiencies wrought by Bourbon reform. This time, the Council of the Indies passed the Ayarza appeal to the Cámara in mid-July. Perhaps minsters took Echevarria’s critique concerning delays to heart, for it took them only five days to send this last petition directly to the accumulating piles of similar documents in General Accounting. Pedro Antonio’s twelve-year quest had produced more than three hundred pages of documents, but his hopes of achieving official whiteness for himself and his two younger sons ended in defeat. The ultimate result rested less on the merits of the case than on timing. The protests from Caracas, the difficulty of enforcement, the complications surrounding pricing, and uncertainties concerning the ultimate effects had taken a toll. What the Cámara of the Indies had deemed possible for elder brother Joseph Ponciano in 1797 was no longer a viable option for his father, Pedro Antonio, or for his younger siblings, Antonio Nicanor and Pedro Crisólogo, ten years later.

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While news of this rejection in 1807 must have brought despair to the Ayarza household in Panama, there was rejoicing that year in Peru, for José Manuel Valdés’s whitening decree had finally arrived from Madrid. How the local establishment responded to his changed status could not present a sharper contrast with the frosty reception earlier accorded to Diego Mexias Bejarano when he presented his whitening documents to the audiencia in Caracas. The Limeño elite moved rapidly to confirm José Manuel’s changed status: now that he was officially white, he could graduate with a medical degree from the university. Even in the more benign social climate of Lima, acceptance of the newly whitened José Manuel Valdés was not unanimous. At least one physician who attended the February 1807 festivities where the medical establishment celebrated his inclusion in their ranks resented the favors granted the new practitioner.30 Apparently, a Dr. Manuel Dávalos had rather snidely remarked that “without the favor of the sovereign, the zambo José Manuel Valdés, Latin surgeon of this city, would have always been denied entrance to these doors.” Valdés’s biographer José Antonio Lavalle suggests that physician Dávalos was perhaps jealous, given that he was “of the same caste” as José Manuel. Since laws had also prohibited his attendance at the university, he had traveled to France, where he had received a medical degree from the University of Montpellier. Equally clear is that others in the Lima medical establishment did not share physician Dávalos’s scorn. Instead, José Manuel’s medical colleagues waived the usual two-year waiting period of apprenticeship after university graduation to permit him to take the examination for the advanced degree of doctor, which he received that same year. For most whitening petitioners the news was not as positive as for Limeño José Manuel Valdés: the Ayarzas were not the only family who found their hopes dashed when the Cámara decided to table pending cases. Cumaná applicants Don Juan Martin de Aristimuño and Francisco de la Cruz Marqués had sent in their applications in January and March 1806 and been fruitlessly awaiting a Cámara decision. They wrote in September 1807 still hoping for a favorable verdict. It is unclear if they composed their own letters or if their Madrid lawyer created them solely on his own. Such a distinction takes on importance since the documents suggest that Lawyer Martínez Colmenares had some inside information concerning ­ongoing



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discussions about whitening in the Council of the Indies. He used that knowledge to try to wring a positive decision for his clients. The letter on behalf of Don Juan Martin de Aristimuño suggested that his lawyer had some internal knowledge, given it acknowledged that ministers had decided not to rule on cases but rather had forwarded them to Contaduría where they were compiling a “general file” concerning whitening.31 It noted that the Cámara had tabled petitions—not, as suggested by the mystery consulta, to explore financial implications if the castas no longer paid tribute but in response to the complaints of the “cabildo” and the “University of Caracas.” The letter also suggested that the Council of the Indies was actively considering some version of the most radical proposal forwarded in the 1806 recommendation: gradually erasing the distinctions between whites and castas. Don Juan Martin’s missive built on the supposition that the Council of the Indies was considering the equalization of whites with pardos to beg for special action concerning his case. He argued that there was a substantive difference between an “individual dispensation” and the development of an “absolute” policy that abolished “the difference observed until now between whites and pardos.” The “public” he argued, would not consider a decision on his petition to be “so important” given that there was little “danger in erring in that case.” However, he understood that any formulation of a more sweeping “plan or reform” carried with it “profound” consequences with any final decision “very delayed and slowed” given the legislation was “so important.” The lengthy postponements as petitioners waited for ministers and the Cámara to dispatch cases also figured into Don Juan Martin’s request for immediate action. His letter pointedly observed that the time for his sons to receive an education was passing, and they had “lost in inaction the best years to learn.” The family had suffered “almost two years” of “uncertainty” since they had first sent in the petition. He complained that if he had to wait for the Council of the Indies to arrive at some “general resolution” that this would take “many years” so that not only “his sons but perhaps his grandsons” would have to give up any hope of “being able to serve the state as [their] compatriots, the whites.” He begged the Council to separate his petition from the rest and provide a judgment. It seems no accident that fellow Cumaná petitioner Francisco de la Cruz Marqués registered a similar complaint the same day, observing that “more

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than nineteen months had passed” since he had sent in his whitening petition.32 He was, he confessed, “oppressed . . . with the uncertainty of success, regretting the time that his sons are losing.” He was concerned that “in a little more time . . . they will pass the appropriate age for study.” He worried that “political reasons that might obstruct or delay the general establishment [of policy] for all the pardos” might complicate the whitening petition for his family. He concluded that there was “much difference between the petitioner and the rest of the pardos or [those] of other colors” given that they “had not served the public nor offered . . . the sum designated by your majesty for such cases.” The extent to which Lawyer Martínez Colmenares obtained specific knowledge to forward the cases of his Cumaná clients’ cases remains unknown. Yet, in a comment written on the petition of Cruz Marqués, the lawyer provided another explanation why he considered it imperative to try to separate his clients’ petitions from the general pool. He observed that any decision of the issues surrounding pardo mobility “would delay much time because there is no one to resolve it.” Just as Pedro Antonio de Ayarza’s lawyer, he worried that the Council lacked both the personnel as well as the resolution to develop policy. Lawyer Martínez Colmenares not only strategized to move the documents of his clients out of Contaduría, he expressed interest in organizing with other lawyers to push the whitening cases forward. He observed that there was a “similar application from Pedro [Antonio] de Ayarza,” but that the Council had tabled it. He proposed that petitioners and their lawyers cooperate and “agitate” as a group to expedite decisions from the Council of the Indies. The ongoing inefficiencies, delays, and vacancies characteristic of these waning years of imperial government frustrated both lawyers in Madrid as well as petitioners in the Americas. His call to arouse the Council of Indies to action seems to have had little effect, as the letters from his Cumaná clients remained in the growing mound of whitening cases in General Accounting.

the v i a ña consulta, 1808 Since the Council of the Indies had relegated past and unresolved whitening petitions to General Accounting, it seems appropriate that the next to



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suggest policy options had served in that office for decades and now headed it.33 Although Minister Francisco José Viaña had never held a position in the Americas, he came from a family with close contacts, given that his brother was a trans-Atlantic merchant. After serving as chief clerk in the office of Secretary of State and Treasury for the Indies, Viaña had ascended in July 1806 to be contador general, chief accountant, a position that also made him a minister in the Council of the Indies. Viaña’s consulta, signed in January 1808, provided the long-awaited analysis concerning the financial implications of individual or generalized whitening.34 It reviewed the series of documents that antedated the report, revealed that additional whitening petitions had recently arrived at the Council, and summarized the recommendations from officials in Contaduría. After noting the familiar causation chain of Franciscan Goicoechea’s 1802 letter, the 1803 order of Secretary of State Caballero, and the 1804 addition of the Diego Mexias Bejarano documents, Minister Viaña provided some insider knowledge concerning the Council of the Indies’ immediate reaction to the 1806 mystery consulta. The Council had not acted on the policy recommendations either to continue the whitening gracias al sacar or to concede equality to castas descended from four generations of free married wombs. Instead, on September 6, 1806, ministers had only vaguely conceded the need to address not only the general “fate of the pardos, mulattos and other castes of America, but also the particular dispensations or favors that might be conceded in the future.” The Council had agreed with the author of the mystery consulta that they needed to delay: they could not proceed without the report assessing the financial consequences of ending tribute for the castas. Minister Viaña’s 1808 consulta not only reviewed the past but also provided insight into his administrative present. He revealed that four additional whitening petitions had arrived and that subsequent “agreements” of the Council of the Indies had added them to the “general file.” Since these cases cannot be located, his report provides the only mention of these two petitioners from Central America, one from Venezuela, and one from Cuba.35 These included Juan Antonio de Figueroa, a “free mulatto,” who had nonetheless held public office on the Tegucigalpa city council. He asked that his two sons be permitted to enter the university. Guatemala widow Francisca Gertrudis de Sandoval hoped that once the Council relieved her five sons of the “defect of free mulattos” that they would be able to “obtain

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positions.” Joseph María Gallegos, who belonged to a prominent family of Caracas surgeons, asked that he and his wife be dispensed from “the quality of pardos in order to hold employments in the same destinations as whites.”36 Cuban José Salas applied for an occupational exemption to become a notary. Minister Viaña seemed inclined to support both pending and new applications, for he approvingly noted that petitioners came highly recommended by royal officials or had sent in convincing dossiers. He observed that the governor of Cumaná had dispatched letters in support of the earlier petitions of Francisco de la Cruz Marqués and Don Juan Martin de Aristimuño, the captain general of Caracas had praised surgeon Ga­ llegos, and the governor of Cuba had remarked on José Salas’s knowledge of “French and English.” He noted that the “same circumstances” applied to the “testimonies” in favor of Honduran Figueroa and Guatemalan widow Sandoval. He even—although the Ayarzas would likely never know this— commented favorably on the “good conduct, constant application and public reputation” of the “other two sons of the Captain of pardos of Portobelo.” He seemed ready to rescue these petitioners from the limbo of Contaduría and grant them whiteness, although he made no specific recommendation. The final third of Minister Viaña’s report summarized the long-awaited opinions of officials concerning the financial impacts of casta mobility. However, the consulta had a broader focus than simply revenue, for it considered three controversial issues that had dominated the history of the whitening gracias al sacar. These included the objections of the Venezuelan establishment, the absence of guidelines in awarding and specifying the consequences of whitening, and the prospective for a policy granting general mobility to the castas. Not surprisingly, officials in General Accounting had no consideration for Venezuelan elites who disobeyed royal orders. They concluded that “neither the University, nor the Reverend Bishop nor any other body of Caracas ought to have resisted the fulfillment of the decrees issued in favor of Mexias [Bejarano] and Landaeta.” They recommended that the Council reissue the orders, reminding those opposing them that traditions of reciprocity linked the monarch with all his vassals: Even though it is certain that through various laws of those kingdom the blacks, mulattos and other castas are deprived of the mentioned favors, it



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is also undeniable that the king through his supreme faculties can dispense the particular dispositions of the laws and the statutes of civil bodies when vassals make themselves worthy of his royal piety through their services and unique circumstances.

Even as the Contaduría report condemned Venezuelan elites, it supported continuation of the whitening gracias al sacar and praised the qualifications of pending petitioners. Officials concluded that they were “truly worthy of the royal piety for the dispensation that they request.” The only caveat—not surprising from imperial money men—was that they would have to pay “the sum established in the price list” issued in 1801. General Accounting officials also suggested norms for the benefits and limits of the gracias al sacar. They agreed that whitening should be absolute, overcoming any discriminatory provisions directed against the castas in law. However, they limited such benefits to the individual, “nor should it be understood to be passed to families.” Such favors should be restricted to “purely personal merit and circumstances.” The report conceded that one reason for such a limitation was financial, for there “would be incalculable prejudice” to the royal exchequer if such exemptions descended down the generations through families. Finally, the Contaduría report considered the prospect of supporting general casta mobility as championed by Franciscan Goicoechea. Officials concluded that “because of various political reasons” it would not be “convenient to equal them with the whites.” Whether officials based the “political reasons” to deny widespread pardo and mulatto mobility solely on revenue collection or if they also considered potential opposition from elites remains unstated. What is evident is that they recognized that the issue was larger than simply financial: If they refrain absolutely from conceding such favors it would result perhaps in other dismal consequences, weakening consequently the fidelity and care in royal service of people who not only can be as useful as the whites in whatever profession that they dedicate themselves to, but who are absolutely necessary for the preservation and fostering of those kingdoms.

As in the 1806 consulta, its Viaña successor recognized casta merit, given they could be “as useful as the whites.” It also rejected discrimination based on the rationale of mixed blood. Instead, the report concluded that it would

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“not be just” due only to their “accidental color” that the castas suffered “an absolute restriction in the dispensation of quality and habilitation for civil effects.” Minister Viaña suggested a “prudent way” might be to mediate between some “consideration toward these people” balanced against “the difficulties they represent if one expands these favors.” The consulta recommended the establishment of a two-part mobility system. Pardos and mulattos who could prove their “personal merit” might with “little work and difficulties” receive “some distinction that would elevate them from those of their class, without entirely equaling them to the whites for political objectives.” Left vague was how this was to be accomplished. A second group who performed “extraordinary services” might obtain “civil effects in the same terms as the whites,” presumably through the gracias al sacar. Minister Viaña concluded with the observation that the Council of the Indies would have to “consult on such a delicate matter” to decide what was “convenient.”

subsequent ev ents To those Madrid lawyers and American petitioners awaiting decisions on whitening, some recommendations of the 1808 consulta might have seemed positive. Although Contaduría officials had limited the favor to the individual, they had declared that purchase of a gracias al sacar brought full legal whiteness and they had approved its continuation. Also promising was that the Cámara might rule on pending cases, for after twenty months of vacancy, a fiscal finally arrived. It had been three years since his appointment, when, in February 1808, José Lucas de Gorvea y Vadillo made his way from Buenos Aires to take up the Peru desk.37 At the end of that month, Don Manuel Caballero Carranza of Puebla, Mexico, would send in a whitening petition, testing if the Council of the Indies would no longer table cases.38 Don Manuel’s story has appeared earlier. He recalled that the family’s problems began when his great-grandfather, Don Juan Caballero Carranza, had traveled from Plasencia, Spain, to Mexico where he married a María Carmona, a “free parda.” Don Juan had provided financial support for the pardo militia in Puebla where the couple’s son, Don Felipe, had served for twenty-six years holding the rank of captain. Don Felipe’s son, Don Joaquín, had followed in his father’s footsteps, rising from lieutenant, to



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captain, and finally, after forty-five years, commanding the pardo infantry battalion, which he often subsidized “from his own pocket.” It was his son, Don Manuel, now a merchant in Puebla—who also continued to support the pardo militia financially—who had forwarded his request for whitening. Don Manuel’s petition documented not only the marriage of his greatgrandfather to a parda but also the subsequent marriages of his grandfather, father, and himself with white women. By the time he applied, the local priest had officially listed three of his four sons in the baptismal book reserved for “Spanish” and additionally awarded their father the title of Don. Witnesses agreed that father and sons were eligible for “whatever honorific position” not only due to their “circumstances” but also due to an “appearance” that reflected their “good birth.” In other words, they looked white. Don Manuel simply asked that he and his sons might obtain those “honorific offices that the piety of Your Majesty” might award him. On February 28, 1808, Don Manuel’s Madrid lawyer submitted his client’s petition to the Council of the Indies. This time, someone acted with dispatch, penning eleven days later a revealing observation on the documents. It noted concerning “the settling of this matter of pardos” that there was now “a general file” in the office of the “Secretary of Peru,” which contained “various examples” of such petitions. Apparently, the Council of the Indies had moved the accumulated cases from General Accounting to the desk of the newly arrived fiscal Gorvea y Vadillo. Three days later, on March 14, 1808, someone penned another comment on the petition observing that the Peru desk was now “in charge of this.” Even if the Council of Indies had now been willing to act, even though there was a fiscal to review his case, Don Manuel Caballero Carranza would never receive a judgment. Time had run out. French troops had already begun to invade Spanish territory. The Council of the Indies would now have more ominous events to ponder.

conclusions Much had changed concerning Council of the Indies’ activism when—even before whitening figured in the gracias al sacar—ministers had provided an exemption for Miguel Joseph Avilés to practice surgery in the 1760s, or had pondered what favor to award Guatemalan Bernardo Ramírez in the

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1780s, or debated in the 1790s if Petronila Peralta and her seventeen offspring should receive whitening. The absence of fiscals to consider petitions, the dissention between crown attorneys and the Cámara combined with continuing protests from Venezuela, and the impediments faced by whitening recipients took their toll. The result was to cast doubts on the efficacy of the gracias al sacar and to discourage state intervention. Even so, the letter of Franciscan provincial Goicoechea and elite resistance to the whitening of Diego Mexias Bejarano in Caracas became touchstones for the agendas of the 1806 mystery consulta and its 1808 successor. Both considered the future of the whitening gracias al sacar as well as reforms to enhance the status of pardos and mulattos in the empire. The unknown minister who wrote the 1806 opinion attempted to parse between differing constituencies. He went to the heart of the issue: the mandate to maintain traditional hierarchical divisions of caste and class balanced against the imperative that pardos and mulattos enjoy the mobility and status of vassals commensurate with their achievements. The minister condemned the Caracas establishment for its rejection of the whitening of Diego Mexias Bejarano, for obedience to royal decrees remained paramount. He consoled them with the reminder that such whitenings were limited to the specific favors cited in the decree and did not equal recipients with elites. He supported both the hierarchical divisions of empire and the role of the Pragmatic Sanction on Marriages, condemning casta attempts to mix with whites. Nor did the 1806 opinion praise pardos and mulattos generally, as the minister described some as flawed, proud, and not necessarily loyal to the Spanish state. Nonetheless, when the king spoke, as in whitening Diego Mexias Bejarano, the minister agreed that deserving subjects should have full crown support. The mandate of reciprocity also applied generally to pardos and mulattos who also deserved “justice” within the system. Since existing laws rather than prejudice relegated pardos to their current debased status, there was need to reconsider their legislated position within the empire. Pardos and mulattos were “men” just like any others. The ultimate goal was to encourage their needed service to the crown and to provide such vassals with commensurate mobility. The conclusion to the 1806 mystery consulta confirmed the status quo in that it recommended maintenance of the whitening option through gracias al sacar. It innovated in its promise of substantial mobility for pardos and



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mulattos who could prove four generations of free and legitimate births. The ultimate effect would have been a gradual equalization of the castas with whites. Still, the report concluded with uncertainty as to the financial implications of such reforms, necessitating analysis from Contaduría as well as consideration of the proposed reforms by the Council of the Indies. The immediate, chilling effect of the recommendations of the 1806 mystery consulta was to send not only already decided cases but also pending ones into an administrative stasis. The result was that the Ayarza, Aristimuño, and Cruz Marqués families waited vainly for responses to their petitions. Even worse news arrived for Doña María del Carmen Correa and Doña Francisca del Cerro, for they learned that Council of the Indies would not intervene to sanction marriage to their Caracas fiancés. The appearance of the long-awaited report from Contaduría in 1808 provided another opportunity to clarify policy toward whitening in particular and casta mobility generally. Minister Viaña supported, modified, and rejected some of the provisions of the mystery consulta. Both the 1806 and 1808 reports demanded there be obedience to royal orders, condemning the Caracas elite for its continued discrimination against Diego Mexias Bejarano; both rejected the rationalization of prejudice due to “color”; both recognized the royal mandate of reciprocity to reward all vassals who performed service; both hesitated in proposing any sweeping enhancement of casta status, fearing negative consequences. The key distinctions between the 1806 and 1808 consulta were in policy specifics. Although both reports recommended retention of the whitening gracias al sacar, they differed concerning the frequency of its use and its effect. While the unknown minister considered whitening to be a “rare” option, Minister Viaña seemed more willing to expand the number of whitenings.39 He not only commented favorably on the possible outcome of pending cases but also suggested institutionalizing such individual exemptions as one of the two paths whereby deserving pardos might seek mobility. Even though both ministers limited the benefits of the whitening gracias al sacar, they did so differently. In the 1806 mystery consulta, the official agreed that the decree eliminated defect but did not equal the recipient to white elites. He implied that the presumed benefits—for example, the potential to pass to the next generation—might differ from case to case depending on the specific language of the document. In contrast, Minister Viaña provided general guidelines that both expanded and limited grants

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of whiteness: the gracias al sacar fully eliminated legislated discrimination. However, he restricted the benefits of the grant to the individual, forbidding transmission to succeeding generations. Both ministers wrestled with the second policy mandate of their consultas, the response to Provincial Goicoechea’s call to end institutionalized prejudice against pardos and mulattos. Here the 1806 mystery consulta proved the more explicit and radical, promising eventual equality with whites for pardos descended from four generations of legitimate free wombs. While Minister Viaña also acknowledged the necessity for enhanced casta mobility, he provided no details, although he suggested that the state might provide some unspecified benefits to a tier of castas located between the masses and the few who might purchase whiteness. It is also notable that while the 1806 consulta was frank in its acknowledgment that not all pardos and mulattos were loyal to the crown, the 1808 successor was silent, perhaps reflecting the precariousness of that current situation.

the w hitening gr acias al sacar: overtaken by events That same February 1808 that Mexican Manuel Caballero Carranza’s petition had arrived in Madrid, French troops had already begun to move into Spanish territory. By May, Napoleon Bonaparte would force the resignation of Charles IV, exile his heir Ferdinand to Bayonne, and place his own brother Joseph on the Spanish throne.40 Spaniards throughout the peninsula would rise in protest on May 2, including the citizens of Madrid who would attack and kill more than a hundred French soldiers. The next day, the French army would retaliate, shooting hundreds of Madrileños in response, and guerrilla wars would spring up throughout the peninsula. Local juntas would form throughout the peninsula, joining first into a Supreme Junta and eventually into a Council of Regency to govern the empire and to direct the war against the French. The profound events of spring 1808 go far to explain why Fiscal José Lucas de Gorvea y Vadillo never evaluated the pending whitening cases. He died the next year, on October 18, 1809, without any action on the files.41 The Council of the Indies again lacked a crown attorney for five months until Manuel del Castillo y Negrete made his way across the war-torn



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Atlantic to take up the desk for Mexico. He arrived in March 1810, as most of southern Spain fell to the invading Napoleonic troops. As the French pushed the Regency to the island of León and the contiguous city of Cádiz, royal officials attempted to maintain a functioning government. They called on January 1, 1810, for the convening of an “extraordinary” Spanish parliament, or Cortes, to assume sovereignty and to write a constitution for the empire.42 Those peninsular provinces not occupied by the French held popular votes that sent one delegate for every 50,000 in population to the Cortes. As Spanish and later British armies gradually reclaimed territory from the French armies, the newly liberated areas would continue to send delegates. The call on February 14, 1810, was different to the Americas, for although the Regency proclaimed overseas equality with the peninsula, it did not establish similar proportional representation. Rather, it directed each city council that was also the capital of a province to elect a representative. Recognizing that the American delegates might not arrive with dispatch, and that the number of their representatives would be significantly fewer than from the peninsula, the council set up a process to elect additional overseas “substitutes.” It dispatched Fiscal Castillo y Negrete to supervise the election of thirty Americans currently residing in the besieged city of Cádiz who might provide further and immediate representation for the Indies.43 Meanwhile, across the Atlantic, as cabildos learned of the French invasion and the royal abdications, they declared their own sovereignty and ambiguous loyalty—the “masque of Ferdinand” proclaiming—as had the Regency and Cortes—ultimate allegiance to the future Ferdinand VII, the monarch in exile. Caracas initiated this first wave in April 1810 followed by Buenos Aires and Upper Peru in May, Bogotá in July, Quito in August, and Santiago and Mexico City in September.44 Many of these American juntas would ultimately send representatives to the Cortes. Others, including Caracas and Buenos Aires, would eventually refuse to acknowledge the legitimacy of the Spanish parliament and would begin paths toward independence. During these tumultuous years, no one could predict what would happen. A measure passed by the Regency in April 1810 crystallized the dire situation that tore the bonds of reciprocity that formally linked the monarch with his vassals and that had always been at the heart of gracias al sacar.45 The “Council of Regency of the Kingdoms of Spain and the Indies” asked

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that while the “country was in danger” that the “only objective” was “to throw the enemy from Spanish soil.” It requested that individuals not send any petitions for any reason unless they were “to propose plans or resources to wage war.” The document complained that too many had continued “to molest” the government with their “particular requests.” Even with the king in exile, Napoleon dominating the peninsula, and the Americas in potential revolt, the debate over the status of the castas would continue. One day proved instantly historic. On September 24, 1810, for the first time in more than three hundred years, elected representatives from the peninsula and the Americas would face each other in the Cortes and began to debate the future of their empire.46 Included among the most controversial topics was the status of pardos and mulattos. Two parallel institutions now existed. The traditional administrative infrastructure ran through the Regency acting for the king to the Council of the Indies through royal officials to the populations of the Indies. It continued to function in areas loyal to the crown as decrees, reports, appointments, and petitions still flowed back and forth along this chain of command. Among these would be the last two requests for whitening, yet to arrive. Some of the most crucial interchanges concerning the future of empire took place in the alternative universe of the Cortes. Peninsular and American bureaucrats, priests, lawyers, merchants, and military officers— representatives from both sides of the Atlantic—would attempt to reshape imperial bonds, forging a constitution that limited monarchical power and that tied the hemispheres together. It remains supremely paradoxical that, even while they did not participate directly in these wide-ranging interchanges, decisions concerning the status of pardos and mulattos would prove central to any ultimate outcome. Many questions remained open. To what extent would pervasive themes embodied in decades of ongoing conversations between royal officials and the castas influence the constitutional debate? Would pardos and mulattos transition from the status of vassals of the king to that of equal citizens under a constitution? Alternatively, would they reject their place within the empire, joining the movements for independence? Few involved in these excruciating and lengthy debates—the records of the Cortes fill twenty-three volumes—would likely have predicted that its efforts would be so quickly nullified. Eventually ratified on March 19, 1812, the constitution remained in effect for only two years. The defeat of the



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French and the restoration of Ferdinand VII to the throne led to its abolishment on March 28, 1814, although it would be reinstated from 1820 to 1823 and eventually serve as a model for liberal constitutions throughout Europe.47 Even while the deliberations over the Constitution of 1812 did not necessarily yield a template for the imperial future, they provide stunning insight into that particular present. They offer, as the next chapter will reveal, an unparalleled entry into the attitudes of peninsular and American elites as they debated the status of pardos and mulattos at a deepening moment of the twilight of empire.

t w elv e

Evolutions Vassals to Citizens? Those Spanish subjects who through whatever line traced their origin from Africa . . . should be admitted to attendance and graduation from universities, to be students in seminaries, to take the habit of religious communities and to receive holy orders. cortes of cádiz, January 31, 18121

introduction From the first day the Cortes of Cádiz met, two stark facts were clear. The overseas delegates were adamant that the Spanish empire would not survive if the parliament did not immediately and fully recognize equality between the peninsula and the Americas. Also obvious was that if the Cortes provided such parity, particularly if it assigned similar guidelines for representation—one delegate per 50,000 free inhabitants—the American representatives might eventually outnumber their peninsular counterparts, perhaps by as much as a third.2 Embedded, either directly or implicitly, in every debate between peninsulars and Americans were these issues of relative power. Would there be equality between the kingdoms of both sides of the Atlantic rather than an uneven relationship? If the Americas had greater population than Spain, would it receive proportional representation? Since the castas composed a substantial part of the American populace, they necessarily figured as a vital element in the ensuing deliberations. 352



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This chapter explores linkages, dislocations, and new directions through a focus on four critical moments when the Cortes considered the future of the castas. The first debate began on the second day of the parliament, September 25, 1810, and concluded with a resolution on October 15. Not satisfied with this outcome, the American delegation revisited the issue starting on December 16, insisting that the Cortes engage in twice-weekly debates, resulting in another vote on February 7, 1811, published two days later. That fall, from August 25 through September 20, 1811, the Cortes considered those articles of the constitution that defined Spanishness, citizenship, and representation, including the status of the castas. Finally, in January 1812, parliament issued a special decree directly aimed at pardos and mulattos. Reactions to the Cortes from Mexico City and Lima provide some expected and unexpected responses. Exploring these Cortes debates as well as reactions provides an alternative focus to the conversations between the crown, local elites, and pardos and mulattos on the status of the castas generally and on whitening in particular. The Cortes of Cádiz would set an exhaustive schedule. Members would meet not only in daylong sessions but also in secret night gatherings. They additionally participated in commissions tasked to write special legislation, including the constitution. In the early years the situation of delegates was desperate, as they raced to orchestrate an offense against the French, to maintain order in the peninsula and overseas, and to write a constitution for the future. Particularly in the first critical months, from September 1810 to January 1811, the official record of Cortes discussions and of resolutions remains incomplete and sketchy. The parliament had not yet hired experts in shorthand to reproduce speeches, interchanges, and record resolutions. Reports from local newspapers and from eyewitnesses who later wrote accounts such as Mexican observer Fray Servando de Mier help fill in details of what happened in these early meetings. Even after January 1811 when the shorthand experts took down debates word by word for official publication and dissemination throughout the empire, it remains difficult to reproduce the pace and tone of the meetings. Usually, a delegate or a commission proposed a resolution and then representatives responded to it. The resulting speeches could be short or run for pages and followed by another speaker who introduced new themes, not directly answering the previous speaker. Later participants might

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accept or reject the topics introduced by earlier delegates or ignore them and introduce their own ideas. Eventually, the chair would call for a vote on the proposition and the Cortes would move to the next topic. Sometimes representatives from the peninsula supported the positions of their peers from the Americas, sometimes they opposed them. Nor did the American delegates consistently unite on every issue, including, significantly, that of the pardos.

sep t e m ber 2 4 to oc tober 15, 1810: a r e spa i n a n d a m e r ic a e qua l ? a r e spa n i a r ds a n d a m e r ic a ns e qua l ? Concerns about equality and representation, including that of the castas, were foremost on the minds of the American delegates who attended the first days of the Cortes. A reading of the official record compared to eyewitness and newspaper accounts provides radically different versions of these first confrontations. The parliamentary bulletin—which, given the absence of stenographers, was reconstructed more than a year after the events— provides both a bland and a partial recounting.3 This official record reveals that the second day of the Cortes, September 25, the American delegates brought up the issue of parity. They felt it imperative that the parliament not only send notice across the Atlantic that it was now in session, but that the body should “speak at the same time to America of the equality of rights with the European Spaniards.” Since the Indies were “an integral part of the monarchy” their population should enjoy similar “national representation” accorded to those on the peninsula.4 The Americans additionally asked for “amnesty” for those overseas who had still not recognized the legitimacy of the parliament. The bulletin reveals that during the next two weeks the peninsular delegates to the Cortes protested such resolutions, saying that such issues “could not be decided in the moment.” It noted that on October 1, New Granadan delegate José Mexia “reintroduced the proposition,” as did another American representative on October 3.5 It concludes with a cryptic comment: on October 16 the Cortes “opened the session with the reading of the decree issued in the secret session of the previous day in favor of the Americas,” although it does not reproduce this legislation.6 What was happening?



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This bland official narrative concealed some of the most explosive outbursts that occurred in the Cortes. It obscures that questions concerning the status of the castas were present from the first days of the parliament and proved contentious from the start. It also disguises a first defeat for those Americans supporting equal rights for pardos and mulattos. Additional sources—from secret sessions, newspaper accounts, and the eyewitness testimony of Fray Servando de Mier—provide a substantially different account of tensions concerning the issue of equality generally and of the status of the castas specifically. It was perhaps understandable given the ceremonies, official masses, and taking of oaths that occupied the opening day of parliament that the Americans waited—but just for the next day—to bring up issues surrounding parity. The Cádiz newspaper, El Conciso, reported that during the night session of September 25 the Americans had asked that there be a general amnesty for those in the Indies that had not recognized the legitimacy of the parliament. They explained that their fellow Americans had been “mistaken,” given that word had arrived overseas that the peninsula “was not free and had been dominated by enemies.”7 The Americans also asked that they receive similar representation to that given the peninsula: “a deputy for every 50,000 souls.” Significantly, El Conciso elaborated that such numbers also included “the castas, given that they were free.” This newspaper account, contrasted with the official version, underscores that from the start, members of the American delegation fought to include pardos and mulattos in counts of the overseas population. For some, this was almost certainly a tactic to provide the greatest possible representation and resulting influence in shaping legislation. Others—as later comments reflect—also believed that the castas had earned citizenship. While the official record had only briefly noted that José Mexia had raised the issue of equality again on October 1, El Conciso published pages of his speech that day. It asked that the Cortes affirm that “the overseas kingdoms and provinces of America and Asia” were “integral parts of the Spanish monarchy.” The resolution also declared that the American “natives and free inhabitants are equal in rights and prerogatives to those of this peninsula.”8 Even though the proposed decree did not directly mention pardos and mulattos, it made clear that not only “natives” but also “free inhabitants”—clearly the castas—should count in any calculation of the American population.

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Although the official record did not record the turbulent debates of the next day, Cádiz newspaper El Observador provided details. It noted that on October 2 the Cortes discussed “the motion made in favor of the Americans concerning equality of rights with the Europeans” and it pointedly remarked that included among the overseas population “without distinction” were the “free castes.”9 The most quoted speech was that of José Mexia, who “returned again to the podium and proclaimed in a most florid style.” Mexia directly addressed the pardo issue, pleading with the deputies to “extend equality to all the free castes.” He suggested that the mixing of ethnicities had produced positive consequences: “As plants are bettered by grafting, so are the castas crossed in America.” He praised the “genius” and “valor” of mulattos and questioned why some considered their blood to be “impure.” Mexia also issued a warning. The juntas that had sprung up in the Americas in response to the Napoleonic invasion had given pardos “the equality for which they aspire.” It was imperative for the Cortes to provide an “equal declaration.” He reached for even greater oratorical heights as he attempted to provide the Cortes with some guidelines on how to win pardo support. Using the second person familiar—as if speaking to a child—Mexia rather condescendingly cajoled: Come here pardo, don’t lose your way looking for the sweet pasture for which you hunger; do not flee (they are very humble and like to be so treated) do not flee from your house in seeking . . . take, you have it here.

The newspaper then reported that Mexia was so “full of enthusiasm” that he fell on his knees “appealing for the miserable ones, imploring the piety of the judges.” The delegates were “moved.” Cádiz representative Vicente Terrero complained that the still-kneeling Mexia was trying to use his “arts . . . to move the heart, abusing with the magic of his eloquence.”10 He declared that it was impossible to respond immediately to the Americans’ demands. He noted that there were a “greater number of Americans than Europeans, exceeding in a third of the population those to these.” The overseas provinces, Delegate Terrero noted, were not the only ones underrepresented in delegates, as the French occupation meant that many Spanish regions had not been able to hold the necessary elections. Those disenfranchised Spaniards were not complaining, nor should the Americans. The issue of equality should be decided while writing the constitution.



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There were also practical problems, given the absence of American censuses and uncertainties concerning the “disturbances” in Caracas.11 The president ended the session, noting that “business of this importance should not be proposed and determined in a single [day].” Adding the eyewitness account of Fray Servando de Mier to both the bland official and the spicier newspaper accounts of these first confrontations over equality and the castas adds another layer of analysis. It appears that the events that brought New Granadan delegate Mexia to his knees were more than just enthusiasm for the cause—it was also deep frustration. Writing of these interchanges, Mier commented that it was “odious” to remember these “most tempestuous debates.”12 He railed that the newspapers had “badly treated America and her deputies” and provided further details. The exchanges that had preceded Mexia’s dramatic kneeling and pleading for justice had been vitriolic, revealing the anti-American prejudice of some delegates as well as their ignorance of the Indies. One peninsular representative had wondered “what type of animal” were Americans; another revived the Aristotelian trope wondering if Indians were “slaves by nature”; another had questioned “if the Americans were white” and if they “espoused the Catholic religion.” A further proclaimed that he would rather “lose all of America or give it into the hands of Napoleon, rather than concede equal rights to those of Spaniards.” It was apparently in response to these outbursts that Mexia had dramatically fallen on his knees, eloquently pleading for parity. The next day of the debate, October 3, the official record simply noted that the delegates “largely discussed these propositions” but provided no specifics.13 More significantly, that night the Cortes began to meet in a series of secret sessions. Delegates had decided that it would not be “convenient to expose to the public” what had already proven to be polemical discussions.14 The immediate result was that the Cortes created no public record of subsequent closed nocturnal discussions (October 9–11, 14) concerning equality between Spain and the Americas and the status of the castas, nor did any details surface in local papers. Only a few tantalizing comments provide some hints of what happened: the Americans had insisted on declarations of equality, complained they were seriously underrepresented in delegates, and demanded amnesty for those “points of America” that had still not recognized the Cortes.15 While the “European delegates” seemed willing to concede there should be equivalence between Spain and the Indies, they rejected equality

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between themselves and all Americans. They argued that the presence of “different castes and people of color” raised “very grave inconveniences that might result against the interests of Spain and the same overseas kingdoms.” The record simply noted that “this point of the castas gave way to lively debates for and against.” The closed session of October 11 proved decisive when the American delegation divided. New Granadan deputy Mexia asked for equality between Spain and the Americas and between the natives and freeborn of both hemispheres. In contrast, Vicente Morales Durárez from Peru spoke against casta inclusion.16 He “proposed that the decree erase all those words that were directed to equal the parda castes with the other subjects of America.”17 He feared the “grave inconveniences that an equality of this nature would bring, particularly in Peru.” The session ended with members unable to resolve the issue but opened the door for negotiation. On the night of October 14, the Cortes eventually approved a proposal advanced by Ramón Power, the deputy from Puerto Rico.18 It rather opaquely asserted that the Spanish kingdoms in both hemispheres form the same and single monarchy, the same and single nation and the same family and therefore the natives that are originated (originarios) from said European or overseas kingdoms are equal in rights to those of this peninsula.19

It went on to confirm that this population that would constitute “the number and form that in the future the national representation in both hemispheres ought to have.” The resolution also offered forgiveness to those overseas kingdoms where there had been “commotions” if these offered “recognition to the legitimate sovereign authority that was established in the mother country.” Parsing these ambiguous phrases reveals that both peninsulars and Americans had compromised and that pardos and mulattos had lost. The Spaniards had now finally conceded the equality of the peninsular and the overseas kingdoms, as they were the “same and single family.” The Americans implicitly, if not explicitly, agreed to exclude the castas from counting as part of the American population. They did so by accepting the concept of “originario,” a word difficult to translate but that carries the concept of “originating from” or being “indigenous to” a particular locale.



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So who were these originarios “from said European or overseas kingdoms” that were “equal in rights to those of this peninsula?” The European originarios were peninsular Spaniards and their creole descendants who now lived in the Americas. Their counterparts from the “overseas kingdoms” were the Indians, the indigenous people of that continent. The Spanish and Indian mixes of both originarios—mestizos—were also equal to peninsulares. Such a definition of originario excluded pardos and mulattos, for the castas were indigenous neither to the Spanish peninsula nor to the Americas but to Africa. Such an agreement benefited European Spaniards, as the American population count would exclude those of African mix and therefore be more equal to that of the peninsula. It conciliated those Spanish and American delegates who did not want to concede civil equality to the castas. It was notice of—although not the resolution itself—that the official record had published on October 15, 1810, as “the decree issued in the secret session of the previous day in favor of the Americas.”20 As Fray Servando de Mier scornfully noted, the Cortes had used “ambiguous and obscure terms” to mask the exclusion “and seduce the pardos or castas of America” that they might eventually be included in the “equality of rights” even though the purpose of the resolution was to exclude them. He bitterly noted that even while many “applauded the generosity of the decree in respect to the creoles and Indians,” the ultimate effect was to deny equality to the castas.21 This compromise would not go unchallenged. Both peninsulars and Americans would rethink declarations of equality between the hemispheres, debate when “equality” of American delegates would become effective, as well as reconsider the exclusion of the castas. As delegates learned from each other, as more elected representatives arrived from overseas, as the movements for independence radicalized, the Cortes would revisit this momentous compromise forged in the early weeks when peninsular and American delegates had first faced each other and confronted the complexities of their empire.

d e c e m b e r 1 6 , 1 8 1 0 t o f e b r u a r y 7, 1 8 1 1 : the lurking problem of the castas Even though the Cortes had acknowledged the equality between the hemispheres, the question remained when such balance might occur. The

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American delegation prepared eleven propositions that detailed pressing inequities that needed immediate action, which Peruvian delegate Dionisio Uchu Inca Yupanqui, speaking as an “Inca Indian and American” introduced on December 16, 1810. The Americans’ first priority was immediate and increased representation in the current Cortes.22 Even while there were other goals: an end to monopolies in agriculture, elimination of trading and mining restrictions, greater equality for obtaining “ecclesiastical, political or military careers,” the majority of the debate again concentrated on issues of equality and the castas.23 The Americans first demand, equivalence of representatives in the current parliament, proved an obvious first objective, occupying debate from December 1810 through February 1811. Delegates felt it was essential to confirm the legitimacy of the Cortes to populations in the Americas through proof that it recognized equality between the hemispheres. Nor were the Americans unaware that more votes would also give the delegation greater advantage in satisfying its objectives. Even though the resolution of October 15, 1810, had presumably eliminated pardos and mulattos from counting toward representation, the controversy over parity between Spain and the Americas would continue to turn on the issue of the castas. The ensuing debate would run to more than 150 pages.24 Spaniards would point to the difficulty of counting and classifying such mixtures as a rationale to postpone immediate equality between the hemispheres. Some Americans would try to bypass the October 15 compromise and attempt to include pardos and mulattos in the overseas count; others would continue to insist on their exclusion. Although the American delegates waited without complaining for weeks after the introduction of their eleven proposals in December 1810, by January 1811 their patience had worn thin. They began to press the Cortes, insisting that their concerns were “much more urgent” than other business.25 In response, the Cortes decided to set aside Wednesdays and Fridays for discussion of overseas affairs after they had handled daily matters. The parliament’s reservation of debate time to consider American issues was not without controversy. From the European Spanish perspective the situation was dire: the French occupied the peninsula with the parliamentary representatives sometimes literally hearing the battle raging outside besieged Cádiz. Peninsular delegates pressed to delay consideration of American matters, urging the Cortes to “deal with other things of more



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transcendence for the present.”26 They complained that the parliament was “wasting precious time,” which would be better spent “in liberating Ferdinand and in forming a constitution worthy of the Spanish nation.”27 Most wanted to postpone the discussion of such issues until “the time of the constitution.”28 Members of the American delegation threatened the loss of their hemisphere if the Cortes failed to address their concerns with dispatch. Tlaxcalan delegate José Miguel Guridi y Alcocer responded that if the Cortes did not address key issues “the Americas would be lost.”29 Ramón Power from Puerto Rico reiterated that the Cortes must seriously address the issues for these were the “only means . . . to tranquilize the Americas.”30 The first topic that the Cortes discussed during its Wednesday and Friday sessions in January and February 1811 was the immediate increase in members of the overseas delegation. While the Spanish delegates almost unanimously agreed that the Americans should have eventual parity, many argued that it should arrive with the next Cortes, not the current one. Spanish delegate from Guadalajara, Andrés Esteban, tried to pacify the Americans, explaining that when the delegates wrote the constitution they would “work out” the “representation from America” and “we will all be content.”31 Left unsaid, was that if the overseas delegates continued their current numbers they would be seriously outvoted as the Cortes wrote and ratified the articles of the constitution. As previously, the status of the castas proved contentious. Spanish delegate from Santiago de Compostela, Bishop Manuel Ros, complained that the Cortes had no time “to calculate the number of souls of Indians, creoles, Europeans and mixes that populate America and Asia.”32 Catalan delegate Ramón Utgés commented, “according to what he had heard” that there was even disagreement in the American delegation given that some delegates “admit . . . certain castas that others exclude” making it difficult to arrive at an overseas delegate count.33 In response, the Americans both reiterated that it was urgent that the peninsula grant equality and challenged what it perceived as an inequitable process. Lima delegate Ramón Feliú declared that the “pacification of the Americas is very probable” if the Cortes acceded to overseas concerns “but if they are denied it is hopeless.”34 Blas Ostoloza, from Trujillo, Peru, complained that the process was unfair, as the Cortes was still admitting new representatives from the peninsula “who are coming and will be admitted

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without this scruple.”35 In contrast, the parliament had told the American delegation that they must “wait for the constitution” to receive “equal representation of the Americas.” Not surprisingly, it was José Mexia, from New Granada, who delivered the most powerful and controversial speech in favor of the Americas.36 He wondered how it could be that “equal men” did not have “equal rights” and “why we would leave for tomorrow what we might do today?” Even then, enemies of the Spanish empire were “taking advantage” and taunting: “Look how the metropolis now weak and robbed ignores you—what will happen tomorrow if it recovers and becomes powerful?” Mexia challenged the Spanish deputies, wondering “what wrongs would come to Spain if America has more representatives? Who would be prejudiced with this?” He declared that the Cortes had to give the Americas “equality” immediately as guaranteed in the decree of October 15. He threatened: “Say yes or no. If the decision is yes . . . there will be just representation; if no . . . we cannot be here.” Mexia concluded with a pointed observation concerning the sad state of the peninsula: “All of Spain is today reduced to Cádiz and this plaza, which is no more than a bridge and the customs house where the foreigners pay the taxes as they go and come from America.” He thundered, “If we are brothers for sacrifices, let the Americans above all be equal in representation and declare this today.” Just as the castas appeared in Spanish rationalizations as to why equality could not immediately accrue to the overseas kingdoms, so they also figured in American attempts to revise the originario basis of the October 15 agreement. While there was no unified approach, a common theme emerging from ongoing discussion was both peninsular and American dissatisfaction with elements of the compromise. The contentious issue was not that of equality between the hemispheres, but how to execute such parity, given the controversial status of the mixed populations. Both Spanish and American delegates proposed various solutions. One suggestion was that pardos and mulattos might count in assigning overseas delegates per 50,000 inhabitants but might not vote for representatives nor hold office.37 Others raised new issues, questioning why the Cortes counted the Native population equally with the Spanish or proposing that such contentious topics could only be solved during the writing of the constitution.38 As the delegates argued back and forth, Asturias representative Agustín Argüelles—who had worked with the Regency in establishing the original



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process for choosing delegates—provided some background on why he felt the “equality of rights between European and Americans” could not be resolved with this “actual Cortes.”39 He based the difficulties squarely on the issue of the castas. He also blamed the American delegation. Argüelles recalled that when the representatives “discussed the decree of October 15 that they excluded various parts of the population of America from participation of rights.” He charged that the Americans had created the problem with their insistence on excluding “blacks and others.” He then questioned how any “prudent person” could go about naming representatives from America “without taking commensurate measures to avoid the resentments and the commotions of those excluded castes.” Acknowledging that many of the castas “believe themselves degraded by our laws,” Argüelles feared they would now “with more reason” hold that view when they discovered the originario compromise excluded them from “equality.” He felt it better to leave “this most grave business” of casta inclusion or exclusion for the writers of the constitution, rather than rushing to an early decision. He observed that the “commission” writing the constitution included “many Americans,” and he hoped that they would provide the necessary guidance. Francisco Borrull, a representative from Valencia, supported the American position, pointing out that times were changing, as “discord and independence” had spread throughout the Indies.40 He felt it would be disastrous if the Cortes promulgated a declaration “that excluded the rest of the castas from the honorific ranks of deputies.” It would create opportunities for other factions to “attract them to their party and fight beneath their flags offering them the fullest privileges.” The result would be “a fire that it would be difficult to extinguish.” He argued “to concede now the fullest privileges to some and to deny them to others” would only lead to “new revolutions.” After months of debates, both the peninsular and American deputies had developed more nuanced understandings of the diversity of attitudes and practical difficulties attached to citizenship for the castas. As Tlaxcalan delegate Guridi y Alcocer confessed, “The point about the castas is very difficult.”41 While the descendants of slaves were “alien to America,” they still deserved “at least some right” to representation. Many also no doubt agreed with Extremaduran representative Manuel Mateo Luxan, who felt that the Congress “has spoken now of this matter almost to disgust.”42 On February 7,

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the Cortes decided that the measure had been “sufficiently discussed” and they proceeded to a narrow vote on two issues.43 There was now almost unanimous agreement that there should be “equality of representation” between the hemispheres, for 123 supported and only 4 rejected that proposition. The second vote was if parity between Spanish and American delegates should occur “in the current Cortes.” Here the Americans lost, although not by much, as 79 voted against immediate change while 71 had been willing to add additional representatives to the overseas delegation. What seemed evident was that these discussions might influence the commission currently engaged in writing the constitution, the next occasion for debate on the fate of the castas. It would also influence events in the Americas. Even while the Cortes considered the future of empire, the parallel government of the Council of the Indies was attempting to preserve the status quo, including responses to petitions requesting whiteness. Somehow, a request from Francisco Fernández, a pardo from Santiago (Antigua), Guatemala, asking for an occupational dispensation to practice as a pharmacist made its way across the war-torn Atlantic to the Spanish government cowering in the island fortress of León.44 From there, Fiscal Manuel del Castillo y Negrete wrote approvingly of Francisco’s “judgment, talent and progress” and his “zeal, work and care in conserving the public health” of his Guatemalan town.45 Collecting the 700 reales assigned in the gracias al sacar, the Council of the Indies issued another whitening decree on February 7, 1811, the same day the Cortes voted to postpone a decision on the fate of the castas. The inability of the Cortes to agree on details concerning American equality and its failure to clarify the status of the pardos and mulattos would begin to bear bitter fruit. Four months later, in June 1811, a coalition of white and casta elites in Cartagena would prepare a declaration of independence. Significantly, one of the rationales for the break was that “the Spanish Cortes had failed to recognize full equality between Americans and peninsulars.”46 On July 5, 1811, Caracas would declare its first independence from Spain. The lawyer Juan Germán Roscio—who has appeared earlier commenting on the nuances of the castas passing as white—would co-write the constitution for this First Republic.47 In print, the constitution provided full equality for the castas as it “revoked and annulled, in every sense, the ancient



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laws that imposed a civil degradation on that part of the free population of Venezuela, known until now under the denomination of pardos.” Rather, these were now to enjoy the same “rights . . . as the rest of the citizens.”48 Equality in print, however, was not equality in daily life. Instead, as the Caracas elite passed property requirements for voting and continued to segregate the black and pardo militias from the whites, they began to lose casta support, particularly in the provinces. This first independence movement would last but a year.49 Still, even though the Venezuelan constitution of 1811 provided but paper equality, it established a challenging marker. From now on, those in favor either of independence or of the maintenance of empire would have to confront the issues of peninsular-American parity and the aspirations of the castas for equality. It was in this context of war on the peninsula and uncertainties across the Atlantic that the Cortes would turn to write a constitution and attempt to preserve the empire.

the constitution of 1812: w ho ar e spa n i a r ds? w ho a r e c i t i z e ns? The next month, on August 25, the special commission began to introduce constitutional articles for the approval of the Cortes, including those affecting pardos and mulattos. After the parliament had transacted critical business for the day, the committee would introduce article after article, the delegates would debate them, sending some back for revisions, each culminating in an eventual vote. Those sections defining the status of the castas included Articles 1 and 6, which determined who were Spaniards; Article 18, which established citizenship; Articles 19 to 21, which provided paths to citizenship; Article 22, which specially focused on the castas; and Articles 28 and 29; which clarified the election of representatives for future Cortes.50 It is arresting how much time the Cortes devoted to issues surrounding the castas. While debates over definitions of who was a Spaniard, a citizen, or a foreigner occupied 135 pages of the official record, the large majority, 82 percent or 111 of those pages, centered on controversy concerning pardos and mulattos. Understanding how the Cortes revisited earlier decisions, the strategies of peninsulars and the responses of the American delegation provides insight into changing dynamics concerning inclusion and exclusion.

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Articles 1 and 6 Article 1 of the constitution simply defined the “Spanish nation” as the “reunion of all the Spaniards of both hemispheres.”51 Such an opening left open the obvious question: Who were Spaniards? Article 6 provided the answer: Spaniards were all “free men” born in the Spanish kingdoms and their offspring.52 Also included, were slaves who became free and foreigners who had obtained a letter of naturalization (carta de naturaleza) from the Cortes. These articles were not controversial, as the Cortes quickly approved them during the first two days of discussion with minimal debate. On the surface, such a definition seemed a victory for pardos and mulattos who the Cortes now recognized as Spaniards. Even though the delegates did not discuss the ramifications, Articles 1 and 6 proved to be a radical transformation of traditional definitions. Throughout the centuries, “Spaniard” had referred to someone who was white and in full possession of civil rights. Yet, such definitions no longer applied, for what the Cortes granted with one article, it took away with another. Although now included in the desired category of “Spaniard,” the constitution then relegated pardos and mulattos to inferior status in Article 18, which created the additional and superior category of “citizen.” The only Spaniards automatically “citizens” were those earlier defined as originarios: who “through both lines trace their origin from the Spanish Kingdoms of both hemispheres and who are domiciled in whatever town of the same kingdoms.”53

Article 18 The intent of Article 18 directly paralleled that of the October 15, 1810, originario compromise that only privileged Spaniards in the peninsula and the Americas as well as Natives, excluding those of African origin.54 The effect was to define the castas as Spaniards, but not as citizens, and therefore as foreigners. Articles 19 to 21 then considered how “real” noncitizens might acquire full civil rights, while Article 22 focused specifically on how the castas, now technically defined as alien, might become citizens. From the first moment of the debate over these citizenship articles, the American delegation challenged the exclusion of the castas. After the commission read Article 18, newly arrived Costa Rican delegate Florencio José Castillo asked the members of the constitutional commission to explain



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if the “origin by both lines of the Spanish kingdoms” had some temporal limit.55 Was it restricted to the “first generation” or how far did it extend?56 Even though he did not directly mention pardos and mulattos, later discussion revealed that Castillo’s goal was to attempt to identify some specific generational cutoff where those of African descent who had lived in the Americas for centuries might automatically count as citizens. The response of commission member Chilean Joaquin Lucas Fernández de Leiva makes evident that he understood that Castillo’s oblique question directly concerned pardo citizenship.57 He admitted that the status of the castas had remained controversial when the commission had drafted the articles. He noted that the “spirit of the commission” was to include as citizens only those who were “natural” to the peninsula and America, “excluding those that traced their origin even remotely from the foreign countries of Africa.”58 Leiva acknowledged that the committee had divided on the issue, no doubt reflecting the months of debate concerning the castas that had already occurred, as well as the growing dissatisfaction with the October 15 compromise defining originarios. He admitted that his personal opinion was that the constitution should grant “citizenship” to all free men, even those of African origin if the subject had sufficient occupation and resources to figure among the “good men of the general population.” He promised that further articles would “examine this issue separately.” The Cortes approved Article 18 with almost no debate, although the official record did not record the vote.

Articles 19 to 21 The next discussion concerned Articles 19, 20, and 21, which defined how “real” foreigners could become citizens. Although these articles did not directly concern the castas, in later exchanges some delegates would contrast the prerequisites for foreigners compared with requirements for casta citizenship. The constitution established a two-step process for foreigners to obtain full civil rights. First, they had to apply to the Cortes for naturalization (carta de naturaleza) to become Spaniards. Articles 19 and 20 then detailed how they could request a “special letter of citizenship” from the Cortes.59 Petitioners had to be married to a Spaniard, have introduced some valued “invention or industry,” acquired substantial capital, or provided “signal

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services” to the nation. Article 21 permitted transmission to future generations, to the adult children of parents who had acquired Spanish citizenship if they exercised “some useful profession, office or industry.” The discussion was not controversial and the articles quickly passed.

Article 22 Such was not the case with Article 22 concerning casta citizenship, which consumed a week of debate, filling eighty pages of the official minutes. It addressed those “Spaniards who through whatever line traced origins from Africa.”60 The Cortes promised that it would “open the door of virtue and merit” by granting a “letter of citizenship” to those applicants who met the qualifications. They should have performed “eminent services to the country,” or be “distinguished by their talents, application and conduct.” They also had to be legitimate, the offspring of free parents, married to a free woman, and live in Spanish kingdoms. They needed to practice some useful “profession, office or industry” and have sufficient resources to “maintain their house and educate their children honorably.” Left vague were the precise qualifications to meet these standards, or if the Cortes planned to award these rarely or widely. Still, it is notable that the standards for pardo and mulatto citizenship proved higher than that for foreigners, given the castas had to prove “eminent” compared to “signal” services, as well as document legitimate descendant from free parents. Equally evident is that significant numbers of the American delegation would continue to press for greater casta mobility, although their comments would begin to differ from earlier efforts. In the interim between the debates of February 1811 and the discussion of constitutional articles in August, a new wave of delegates had arrived from the Americas. They proved even more strident in supporting citizenship for the castas. The tone of the conversation began to shift. While previously the American delegates had seemed more focused on the castas and the issue of numbers—whether in counting population in both the hemispheres or in assigning representatives—now the debate evolved. The American representatives spoke with greater familiarity concerning the worthiness of pardos and mulattos and supported their equality with even greater fervor. There were some exceptions, as the Caribbean delegates remained mostly



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silent, reflecting both anxieties concerning their slave populations as well as greater prejudices toward free castas.61 Such familiarity with the Americas was evident in the comments of Delegate José Simeón de Uría. He had arrived in Cádiz some six months earlier from Guadalajara, Mexico, carrying news of the Hidalgo uprising the previous fall.62 He was the first commentator after the constitutional commission introduced Article 22 for discussion. He strongly supported pardo citizenship. Notably, he read his speech, rather than spoke extemporaneously, suggesting advanced thought and preparation. Uría’s judgment was severe. He prophesied that Article 22 would “tarnish the great work of the constitution.”63 While he conceded that “our castas” originated from Africa, he noted that “the blood that they carry from their ancestors” was only “some drops, given the mixtures of different generations.” He begged the Cortes to “raise them to the class of citizens” given this was “the place that corresponds to the good men that they are.” Uría then proceeded to enumerate the contributions of the castas to the Americas, calling them the “origin of all our good and happiness.” They provided “the arms that cultivate the earth that produce its abundant fruits.” It was the castas who mined the silver that “enlivens commerce.” They were the artisans contributing to both “public and private work.” They were soldiers, the “robust column” that was fighting against the “insurrection of some of our brothers.” He proposed a revised article: “They are also citizens, those Spaniards native from Africa, offspring of free parents that exercise some useful profession or industry or have some property with which they can honorably subsist.” The next speaker, Tlaxcalan Guridi y Alcocer, strongly insisted “that justice requires and politics demand that those originating from Africa be citizens.”64 He feared that the “fate of some millions of souls, the general well being of America and perhaps that of the monarchy” rested on that decision. He wondered why after having “done to the castas the injustice of enslaving their ancestors,” that the Cortes would now consent to “another injustice of denying them the right of citizenship?” He provided a list that would have been familiar to royal officials and to gracias al sacar petitioners as to why “the right of citizenship” should apply to the castas. Pardos and mulattos deserved inclusion due to “birth, vassalage, upbringing, service in arms, marriage, inheritance, residence” as well as shared Catholicism.

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For these reasons, a “rigorous justice” demanded that pardos and mulattos obtain citizenship. Guridi y Alcocer’s practical knowledge of the Americas also led him to explain that the exclusion of the castas from citizenship would not be practicable. He pointed out that intermixtures over centuries meant that those of African descent “always confused themselves with the Indians or with the Spanish, calling themselves such, according to their color.” A parallel process would certainly occur concerning voting rights, as those with distant African ancestors would also claim the “quality of citizenship.” Since many with such mixture had already blended into white and Native groups, the only ones currently called castas were “those born in Africa” or “blacks whose face does not permit them to hide their quality.” Asturian Agustín Argüelles provided a first peninsular response to the vehement American rejection of Article 22. He pointed out that the distinctions between originarios and foreigners now embedded in the constitutional articles were “precisely” what the Americans had agreed upon in the decree of October 15, 1810, even though he admitted that they remained “very discussed and controversial.”65 He tried to turn the tables on Article 22, arguing that it did not deprive the castas of citizenship—presumably because they had never enjoyed equal civil status—but rather that it marked “the way to acquire it.” He suggested that the Cortes might be generous in its grant of letters of citizenship “not only to a few individuals at a time, but to many according to their merits.” Argüelles declared that the committee had listened to the American delegates with “all the deference and attention that they merited.” However, those writing the articles essentially found themselves between “Scylla and Charybdis.” Although some representatives were strongly in favor, there was also “a numerous class of Spaniards” that rejected the dispensation of “all the rights of citizenship” to the castas. For that reason, the commission felt the “prudent and just” path was to provide a process so that pardos and mulattos might “progressively and gradually” acquire citizenship. During the ensuing five days of debates, representatives continued to argue for and against Article 22 and the denial of citizenship to the castas. Several themes emerged. The peninsulars complained that American indecision had left them with no other alternative but the proposed articles. They questioned if the castas were ready for citizenship and if the Americans were prepared to grant it. They reminded the overseas delegates



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that no European country had offered such civil status to a comparable population. In response, the Americans attempted to prove that their delegation generally favored casta citizenship. They contested the constitutional treatment of “real” foreigners compared to pardos and mulattos whom they considered fellow Americans. They provided personal reminiscences to support their assertions. The exclusion of the castas, they charged, proceeded primarily from peninsular desire to lessen the number of American representatives and the influence of their delegation, rather than from any substantive reasons. Finally, emerging from these debates was somewhat of a consensus. Both European Spaniards and Americans agreed that discriminations against the castas must end. Pardos and mulattos who already met the qualifications of Article 22 should become citizens. The Cortes should provide the castas access to resources that would facilitate their continued upward mobility. Understanding the richness of these conversations provides alternative voices to the gracias al sacar conversations. It lends insight as to why—with the obvious exception of Venezuela—elites had not protested when pardos and mulattos applied for whitening. A number of American delegates revealed that they were not only intimately aware of, but that they were supportive of casta mobility. Their declarations remind that the whitening gracias al sacar had functioned as but an official variant paralleling longstanding informal processes enhancing status. A first stage in the contentious debate over citizenship occurred when the European Spaniards somewhat incongruously blamed the Americans, charging that their lack of consensus had directly produced the constitutional articles discriminating against pardos and mulattos. Extremaduran representative Antonio Oliveros concluded that the Cortes had not given the castas equal rights “because some American delegates did not believe it convenient.”66 A wide “variety of opinions” had convinced the constitutional commission that there were no “sure rules to determine how many and who ought to be those that enjoy the rights of citizenship.” In response, members of the American delegation reexplained their positions of the previous fall and winter, providing further insight into past and current attitudes. Peruvian delegate Dionisio Uchu Inca Yupanqui remembered that in September when he had “asked for all free men” to count for representation that the Cortes was “scandalized.”67 The American delegation therefore had “prudently” decided to “consider the resistance without

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giving up on the justice of the proposition.” He recalled the nights in October 1810 when the Cortes had met in secret session: “I insisted that the present Cortes declare the equality of representation comprehensive to all free men.” He noted that while the compromise concerning originarios had included only Spaniards and Natives, it did not mention the castas “and consequently did not exclude them.” For that reason he rejected using the “fixed bases” of the October 15 decree in establishing citizenship. Several delegates noted there had been an evolution in American attitudes toward the castas. While in September some had opposed their inclusion, by December the delegation had mostly united in their favor. José Miguel Ramos Arizpe, a delegate from Coahuila, noted that “in general” the American delegation was “in favor of the castas, that is, to liberate them from infamy, debasement and misery . . . making them capable of being anything, even deputies, bishops and popes.”68 Chilean delegate Leiva agreed that “almost all the American representation” had exerted their “greatest effort to provide civil existence to those originating from Africa, but it was not possible to obtain it.”69 The American response was that the peninsular charges were not valid and there was an overseas consensus that castas should be citizens. Spaniards also challenged American praise of the castas, questioning their willingness to treat them as equal citizens. Catalan delegate Ramón Lázaro de Dou wondered if the Americas would “open the door of the city councils,” so pardos and mulattos could be “regidores and alcaldes,” whether they could be “ministers, oidores, regents and viceroys . . . curates, parish priests, canons, bishops and archbishops?”70 Catalan José de Espiga pointedly noted that the Indies’ custom of providing separate baptismal registers for whites and for castas was proof of the latter’s inferiority. He asked, “Well, Señor, when the Americans will not permit that their names be written in the same book, will they in good faith unite in the same civil or political body?”71 More than one peninsular representative questioned the readiness of the castas for citizenship. There was a “great difference” in providing citizenship to pardos and mulattos compared to other foreigners. Catalan delegate Jaime Creus explained that “we know that all of Europe receives almost the  same education,” and so if they were also Catholics, there was “very little to overcome so that they are equal to the Spaniards.”72 Soria representative García Herreros worried about the “abandon with which [the



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castas] have been educated and the bad customs that are an inevitable consequences of such circumstances.”73 Catalan representative José de Espiga concluded that the commission had undertaken a “thorough examination and a long discussion” and decided that the castas needed “to form new inclinations, new habits, new affections, to prepare them for public education.”74 He suggested that there might be “two thirds parts of the castas” that lacked the “education and customs . . . that is proper for civilized peoples.” Eventually, however, he felt they might become “worthy citizens of the Spanish nation.”75 Spanish delegates pointed out that freedmen elsewhere did not enjoy equal civil status, for in the United States they were “excluded from civil and military employments.” Nor had Great Britain “dared to incorporate the castas among their citizens.” If those two countries refused to do so, how could Spain make such a leap, given that it was emerging from “three centuries of arbitrariness and despotism and we scarcely see the dawn of political liberty.” Extremaduran delegate Antonio Oliveros pointed out that “no other nation of Europe until now had treated them with such consideration.”76 The Americans responded that the castas had been part of their hemisphere for centuries, it was unjust to treat them worse than “real” aliens, and they were more than ready to consider them as equals. Zacatecas delegate José Miguel Gordoa evoked the longevity trope, asking how the constitution could place the “castas in inferior position to foreigners” when they had “passed twenty or more generations” in the Indies.77 Costa Rican delegate Florencio José Castillo compared the privileges granted to the sons of foreigners with that of the castas. When a parent who was an alien became a citizen, his offspring would automatically inherit citizenship and full civil privileges. How, Castillo questioned, could “the son of a Hispanicized foreigner become a citizen” while “the Spaniards descended from Africa that can count among their descendants four or five generations . . . be excluded from this honor?”78 He concluded, “Truly Señor, I do not understand the cause of this inequality.” Lima delegate Ramón Feliú suggested that the castas would be more loyal than foreigners, as they were an integral part of the empire.79 Non-Spanish emigrants might “always conserve for their native country a predilection that might on occasion be opposed to the interests of Spain.”80 In contrast, the castas were “Spanish by birth and they have sucked from the cradle the religion, the language, the customs and the preoccupations of Spain.”

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The American representatives also hastened to assure the Cortes that they were more than willing to grant pardos and mulattos full civil rights. Chilean representative Leiva provided some unusual insight into ongoing processes of passing. He explained: “I have known mulattos who have been marquises, oidores, canons, coronels and gentlemen” although he admitted that it was not uncommon that they used “bribery . . . false perjuries and fixing of the books or public registers” to obtain such status. Even so, the ultimate result was acceptance by local elites, who “in spite of knowing their mix” accorded them the “corresponding honors,” considered them “free of infamy” and intermarried with them. Leiva suggested that if casta mobility through such “illicit and disapproved means could produce equal effects,” then a “reintegration made by the law, restoring them to the class of citizens ought to result the same.” Peruvian representative Dionisio Uchu Inca Yupanqui asked the Cortes to “stop a bit” and consider the status of the castas in Lima, “where the number of people of color constitutes a third of all the kingdom.”81 He felt the castas were “capable of everything” and prophesied that if they sent representatives to the Cortes “the nation would palpably feel this truth.” Their militias customarily participated in ceremonies with their white counterparts and their current “military campaigns” on behalf of the crown certainly entitled them to “rewards.” A notable cohort of pardos practiced the usually white occupation of surgery. Delegate Inca Yupanqui then made a striking observation that demonstrated that the world of Lima’s elite was a small place. He pointed out that there were two pardos in the capital who were physicians: “two doctors, the one graduated from Montpellier.” Given that the only two casta physicians in Lima at the time were Montpellier graduate Dr. Manuel Dávalos and Dr. José Manuel Valdés, such a comment is provocative. It suggests that at least one American delegate was likely knowledgeable concerning the whitening option and the gracias al sacar that had permitted Valdés to graduate as a physician from the local university rather than having to study abroad. Representative Inca Yupanqui’s opaque reference to José Manuel Valdés provides some possible insight into a perplexing question—raised by James  F. King in the early historiography on whitening—as to why the gracias al sacar never appeared as a precedent in the Cortes debates over the castas.82 One answer might be that the peninsular delegates never mentioned it because they were unaware of the option, as the crown had issued



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the 1795 gracias al sacar solely for the overseas kingdoms, not for Spain. Even in the Americas, the potential to purchase whiteness had not garnered much publicity nor enjoyed widespread distribution.83 The tantalizing hint still remains: given that Delegate Inca Yupanqui knew that pardo José Manuel Valdés was a medical doctor who had graduated locally, he almost certainly was aware that he had received a whitening dispensation. Would there have been a reason for him not to mention it? Perhaps the Peruvian deliberately chose not to comment because it was impolitic, possibly bolstering the peninsulars’ position. They might have cited the historic example of the gracias al sacar as a precedent, providing some legitimacy to the compromise of Article 22, given that both established processes for individual pardos and mulattos to seek civil equality.84 While the peninsulars and the Americans disagreed on most issues concerning the castas, they did concur on one: pardos and mulattos should not suffer the discriminations of the past. In this, they confirmed the opinions of the 1806 and 1808 consultas that the state should enact measures enhancing the general mobility of the castas. Mexican delegate Ramos Arizpe particularly railed against those “barbarous laws that had closed the doors of the colegios and universities,” forbidden pardos and mulattos to enter “houses of education” and even “religious communities of both sexes.”85 He considered such discrimination to be an “unheard of scandal” that might only exist in “barbarous centuries but not continue in the present.” Costa Rican delegate Castillo agreed, recalling personal memories of the pernicious effects of such prejudice. He remembered “various youths” that wanted to pursue an education “but having closed the door to honors, they had to abandon their efforts and they remain as mutilated plants, without bearing fruit.”86 Not just Americans but also peninsular delegates such as Catalan representative Jaime Creus agreed that “one ought not deprive them of education.”87 He affirmed that the state should ensure that castas “be admitted in every place where they might be received and take all measures that can give them inclination to work and adversity to idleness.” The goal was that they might “enter into the enjoyment of rights that Your Majesty desires to concede to them.” Even while the peninsulars fought conceding citizenship to the castas generally, they admitted that there was a deserving group that already merited inclusion. Valladolid representative Evaristo Pérez de Castro promised that the “future Cortes would concede the letters of citizenship without

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costs, without agents, without litigation” to those that deserved them.88 To prove the Cortes’s good faith, he suggested that the first to receive citizenship should be those in the militias, given that they “had put down the rebellious and restored the order and tranquility in those vast countries.”89 With such a potential concession, the Cortes went significantly beyond the mobilities promised in the 1806 and 1808 consultas, instead promising gracias al sacar-like perquisites to a substantial casta cohort. Unlike the 1808 report, which had limited whitening benefits strictly to the life of the individual, once a pardo father became a citizen, he could pass full civil rights to succeeding generations. During the course of the debate, the delegates had sent a number of possible revisions back to the constitutional commission before the final votes. The Americans succeeded in modifying the requirement that the castas make “eminent” contributions, replacing it with the more modest requirement for “notable” service.90 They also removed the clause that demanded that petitioners had sufficient resources to “maintain their house and educate their children honorably.” After five days of debates on Article 22, the current president of the Cortes, Asturian Agustín Argüelles, suggested that they had “delayed now too much” and it was time to vote on the issue.91 Even though some of the Americans still asked to speak, he called for a vote. The Cortes approved Article 22 by 108 to 36 votes.92 While peninsulars might support some American positions, in this instance the hemispheres sharply divided. There would be no automatic citizenship for the castas.

a mer ican delegates continue support for casta citizenship Even though defeated, the American delegation refused to surrender. Coahuila representative Ramos Arizpe introduced a revised motion that attempted to include pardos and mulattos who had free parents or grandparents among the originarios, thus conferring citizenship. He argued that Article 22 would unleash social dissention as “mere opinion” might determine who voted and who did not.93 He eloquently pleaded that the castas were deserving of citizenship:



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I know descendants from Africa worthily decorated with the priesthood, I have seen many employed in all professions and I have seen them be just judges and zealous regidores in the city councils, especially in the modern places that they themselves have founded. I have seen their families cross with very distinguished Spaniards. I know an infinity of these castas married with women full of moral and domestic virtue and their most beautiful and honest daughters adorned with all the graces and gifts as those beautiful women of Andalucía.

Ramos Arizpe begged the Cortes not to “sow dissention and discord in these innumerable families.” His tone suggests that the concern of American delegates was not simply to count the castas as citizens to increase the number of overseas representatives nor solely to pacify incipient independence movements. Rather, this Coahuila delegate confirmed his familiarity with historic and ongoing processes of pardo attempts to enjoy white perquisites, as well as meaningful elite acquiescence to such mobility. In contrast, the peninsulars were fixated on the numbers: Zamora representative Juan Nicasio Gallego curtly responded that the proposition was “contrary to what has been agreed.”94 September 11, 1811, the last day of debate over Article 22, led to attempts to grant immediate citizenship to pardo and mulatto soldiers and priests. Soria delegate García Herreros proposed that “those ordained” and “those enlisted . . . in the national army” become citizens as long as they lived in “the kingdoms of Spain and exercised some profession or industry with their own capital and maintain a house.”95 They also needed to be “legitimate offspring of free parents.” García Herreros confided that he had proposed the alteration given that Article 22 had promised citizenship to those who could prove their “merit.” He considered that the “best way to make this truth patent” was to identify “those that have such qualities or requirements.” Additionally, he wanted to assuage the Americans who had apparently charged that because the peninsular representatives had outnumbered the overseas representatives that the Cortes had approved an “unjust” article. A number of delegates supported similar revisions, suggesting that some peninsulars recognized the justice of the American arguments and that the overseas delegates felt alienated by the outcome.96 The Cortes then moved to later constitutional articles, including the last two, 28 and 29, which directly affected the castas.

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Even though the American delegation had given ground in the compromise of October 15, 1810, and failed to defeat the constitutional articles establishing citizenship in September 1811, they continued to press for casta inclusion. Other opportunities arose in Article 28 that established the “national representation” as being the “same in both hemispheres” and Article 29 that defined the base of the population that counted for representation.97 While the Cortes had debated these topics since its inception, it had not officially approved the articles, opening a small avenue for American protests. Article 28 simply noted, “The base for national representation is the same for both hemispheres.” Tlaxcalan Guridi y Alcocer immediately hit to the heart of the issue. While he admitted that he did not want to “add a tilde or change a letter” he did have a question.98 Did the “equality of rights between the provinces of the peninsula and overseas” mean there would be equal representation, that is, each hemisphere had an equal number of delegates? Alternatively, would there be equality through an equal process of apportioning representatives according to the designated population? The members of the constitutional commission suggested that Article 29 would deal with these specifics and so the Cortes voted a quick approval. The details surrounding Article 29 set off another three days and thirty pages of debates. It defined the “base of the population” to count for representation as “originarios”—that is, European and American Spaniards and Natives—as well as those who obtained a “letter of citizenship” from the Cortes. Chilean delegate Leiva, who was a member of the constitutional commission, noted that “all the Americans with the exception of one” disagreed with the article, given its exclusion of the castas.99 He questioned how the Cortes could suppose that it provided a voice to the overseas kingdoms when “a considerable part of it is neither represented nor counted.” Leiva then provided a list of those who could not vote or hold office but who, by these definitions, nonetheless figured in the count for representation. These included women, children, and those without reason. He argued that everyone “without distinction ought to be represented,” including “those originating from Africa.” Coahuila delegate Ramos Arizpe maintained that the castas would feel “degraded” given their treatment by the Cortes. Even though the constitution had refused the right of citizenship to the “mad,” “the demented,” and the “criminal,” these would still count in the census for representation.100 How, he wondered, “would it be possible to conceive that millions of



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Americans would bear with patience to be held less than a crazy, a robber . . . a criminal?” The castas were not “savage wanderers” or “tribes of mere hunters” but had been “civilized Spaniards for centuries.” He wondered why the Cortes would demonstrate “such cruelty” and in the process “destroy this fraternal union that the Europeans and Americans so appreciate.” Extremaduran delegate Oliveros defended the commission, explaining that “the principles” that they used to write the articles derived from the fall and winter debates.101 The Cortes furthermore had guaranteed that “all the free inhabitants” would “enjoy civil rights.” This was why delegates had proposed that the commission should issue a decree that admitted the castas into educational and religious institutions, a privilege they had never enjoyed. The constitution had also “opened the door to citizenship.” The goal was to “prepare these families to neutralize contrary opinion and to arrive finally at civil and political equality.” The issue ultimately came back to that of numbers. Guatemalan Antonio Larrazabal pointed out that “America has double the inhabitants of the peninsula and lands without limits.”102 How, he wondered, could “thirty or forty deputies from America” compete “with one hundred and forty or more from the peninsula” when “approval or rejection depended upon plurality?” Furthermore, the delegates from the peninsula exhibited “much conformity” given their shared “uses and customs.” In contrast, the representatives from “overseas are very diverse” and sometimes even “contrary with each other.”

intervention of the mexican consul ado At that point, with the Spaniards frustrated with having spent so much time on American issues and the Americans dissatisfied with the outcomes, a bombshell hit the Cortes. It was not a literal armament directed from the French lines, but a report sent by peninsulars from the merchant guild (consulado) from Mexico City. Since, as President Argüelles later recalled, he had learned that the lengthy missive dealt with the issue of representation, he had decided to have it read aloud “as it might be able to lead to greater understanding of article 29 of the constitution.” However, he had not been—at least so he admitted later—aware of its contents. The reading produced “very heated responses” as members of the American delegation

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saw it as “subversive, calumnious and incendiary” and an attack on their “good reputation and fame.” There was such an uproar that the Cortes hastily adjourned. Delegates then spent the next four days and forty pages of speeches debating the content and the disposition of the letter. So, what had the Mexican consulado sent to the Cortes that caused such a commotion?103 Merchants had forwarded a shocking and lengthy commentary on the ““state of the diverse castes of the inhabitants of New Spain.”104 It provided scathing criticism of creole, Native, and casta populations and posited the “bitter truth” that the American kingdoms “are not yet ready to be equaled to that of the metropolis” in terms of “national representation.” Such a conclusion no doubt reflected the agenda of the mostly Spanish merchants in Mexico, who had benefited greatly from peninsular control over politics and commerce, a domination that would substantially lessen with the promulgation of the constitution. The consulado held back no punches: it viciously condemned the castas who proceeded from the “reciprocal and forced communication between Spaniards, Indians and Blacks and the mixtures of their offspring” and an “extraordinary diversity” of mixes.105 This population worked in “peonage, domestic service, artisanal offices and the militia.” They “existed in the outskirts of the cities where they formed a ruined class of the populace.” They were “lost and miserable, drunk, incontinent, weak,” lacking “honor, gratitude, fidelity, notions of religion and of morality.” They lived “without luxury, cleanliness, or decency.” The consulado judged them “even more marginal and intemperate than the Indian.” The consequence was certain: “The castas do not possess any of the characteristic qualities of the dignity of citizen, none of the properties that qualify as vassal . . . none of the attributes that honor a civil and religious man.” After more pages of insults, the letter concluded that only 100,000 of the 4 million Mexican population deserved full citizenship.106 Such diminution reflected both the consulado’s contempt for the American population and its determination to maintain the overseas kingdoms in an inferior status to the metropolis. When the Cortes met the next day, on September 17, 1811, President Argüelles apologized for permitting the letter to be made public, confessing of his “imprudence proposing the reading of this paper without informing myself.”107 He begged the Cortes to act with “decorum” and particularly that the “American delegates be persuaded of our affection and union.”108



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The response of Peruvian Morales Durárez was typical. He asked the Regency to proceed with the “rigor of the laws” against “such seditious and calumnious libel” for “America had suffered yesterday the greatest insult.”109 Delegates finally decided to “seal and archive” the letter so that “it cannot be returned to open without the mandate of the Cortes.”110 It was not until September 21 that the Cortes returned to consideration of Article 29, the population to be counted for apportionment of delegates. By now, the arguments of the peninsular and American delegates were well known, nor had the commotion over the letter from the Mexican consulado appeared to change any minds. The peninsulars insisted that Article 29 logically proceeded from agreements in October over who were originarios and from February that there would be an equal process of apportionment. The Americans returned repeatedly to plead for the inclusion of all Spaniards, including the castas.111 The Cortes voted affirmatively on Article 29, thereby excluding pardos and mulattos from the census count, although the official record did not publish the numbers.

casta compromise For the next months, the Cortes continued with its daily business, working its way methodically through approval of the articles of the constitution. Members had moved from Article 29 to Article 283 by January 26, 1812, when the commission returned with a proposal. It responded to the rare peninsular and American consensus that the castas should no longer suffer certain discriminations of the past.112 It declared that the Cortes’s goal was “to facilitate for those Spanish subjects who through whatever line carry their origin from Africa the study of the sciences and access to ecclesiastical careers.” In the future they should “be admitted to graduation and degrees of the universities, to be students of the seminaries, to take the habit in religious communities, and to receive the holy orders” as long as they demonstrated “the remaining requirements and circumstances” dictated by the “laws of the kingdom and the particular constitutions of the different corporations.” The official record recorded no voting totals, but simply that it was “approved.” No doubt, one aim of this legislation was to win the uncertain allegiances of pardos and mulattos given the disturbances in the Americas.113

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Yet, the difficult question remains, to what extent had immediate events or decades of debates over whitening or centuries of casta mobility influenced such openings? On one level, such legislation proceeded as the direct byproduct of shared liberal views forged by both peninsular and American representatives in the Cortes. Still, for such changes not to be radical and to be possible, there had to exist a historic and deeper consensus supportive of change. Consider a shocking comparative: Why would it be possible for a Spanish Cortes but inconceivable for a U.S. Congress to order universities to admit those of African descent in 1812? Centuries of casta mobilities had facilitated such breakthroughs. Even though the Council of the Indies had failed to enact specific policies ending discrimination, ministers on the Cámara had overturned negative recommendations of the fiscals and granted whitening applications. High-ranking officials such as Secretary of State Joseph Antonio Caballero had not dismissed the report of Franciscan José Antonio Goicoechea concerning the pernicious effects of casta inequality but had instead ordered a reconsideration. The resulting 1806 and 1808 consultas proved to be forerunners in that they recommended that at least some of the legislated distinctions that prejudiced pardos and mulattos should end, and that the gracias al sacar should continue. Elites in the Americas and their delegates in the Cortes had validated and supported such transformations. Even so, the question remained: Had the Cortes gone far enough? With delegates still denying immediate and full citizenship to the castas, to what extent did these long sought concessions have any impact?114

lima r esponses An 1812 publication by Lima’s pardos and mulattos provides some rare insight into at least one group’s response. Apparently, an elite cohort had been closely following the debates. They decided to publish speeches from the September 1811 minutes where American delegates denounced Article 22, which limited casta citizenship to applicants approved by the Cortes.115 The Limeños annotated the quotations with their own footnotes in italics, revealing their reactions to key themes. Just as this publication was about to go to press in late July 1812, those involved received word of the Cortes decree issued on January 29 that had opened the doors of universities and profes-



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sions to the castas. Their reaction to this last-minute arrival therefore permits analysis not only of the immediate responses of Lima’s pardos and mulattos to the failed debate over their citizenship but to these later concessions. Their introduction spoke plainly, as it expressed the “bitter sorrow of the Spanish pardos of Peru.”116 They echoed the concerns of the American delegates who had prophesied that the castas would deeply resent their unequal treatment. Why, the Limeños wondered, would “the great Spanish nation shed with equal profusion its gifts . . . on foreigners and enemies” yet “close its liberal hands to the pardos born in its own bosom?”117 Several lengthy sections responded to statements by Cortes delegates concerning pardo service in the militias and as surgeons. Scattered footnotes also addressed observations concerning casta loyalty and discrimination in higher learning. The goal of such comments aimed to contradict those Cortes representatives who judged that the castas were not worthy of citizenship. It seems likely that pardos and mulattos with militia service prepared the section on their contributions. In response to remarks in the Cortes that the military was “very important to the country,” the Limeños provided a multipaged and detailed list of their campaigns from the 1660s onward, reflecting a century and a half of efforts in defense of the empire.118 They had protected “the coasts against enemy pirates,” they had “put out the insurrections provoked by the Indians,” and they had contributed to the “necessities of the exchequer.” They had done so even while facing unfair treatment by superiors, absence of pay, and preferential treatment compared to whites, which they also documented. They concluded with the aggrieved comment that even though they belonged to the “notable military of the country” that they were not “citizens.” In response to Peruvian Dionisio Uchu Inca Yupanqui’s comment concerning the predominance of castas in the medical profession, Lima’s pardos, likely this time the surgeons, also provided pages of comments.119 They included several paragraphs on physician Dr. José Manuel Valdés, who the king had “dispensed the defect of quality placing him in the class of Spanish citizen . . . with the general applause of this city.” They referred to Dr. Don Manuel Dávalos who had received his medical degree abroad from the University of Montpellier. They complained that existing laws restricted others from obtaining such medical degrees and confining them to the less prestigious and lucrative profession of surgeon.

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There, however, Lima’s pardo surgeons excelled, as they provided a list of difficult surgeries they had performed. Their skill was such that “the viceroys and archbishops and all the persons of the most sublime hierarchy have honored them with their table, familiarity, protection and confidence.”120 Given these practitioners enjoyed reputations for their “cultivation of letters” as well as their “moderation and honorability,” it was natural that they also resented that they “would not be citizens.” A trickier question, one raised by a number of American delegates in the Cortes, was if the castas would remain loyal if deprived of citizenship. Lima’s pardos responded with a decisive “yes.” Of course, it seems unlikely that the viceroy would have permitted them to publish if they had provided any other answer. Nonetheless, their footnotes acknowledge both their faithfulness and bitterness at their treatment. In response to a comment in the Cortes from Mexican representative José Simeón de Uría, that pardos were “good men” who should be citizens, the Lima pardos responded that “this astonishing fidelity has not diminished in the long space of two centuries without hope of reward.”121 Pardos affirmed their “burning love to the same country that ignores their virtue and services.” When, in a later speech, Tlaxcalan delegate Guridi y Alcocer had threatened that denial of citizenship would lose the Americas, the response of Lima’s pardos was negative: “Our fidelity is inviolate.”122 Their only response would be “to redouble our attempts to give successively new proofs of our virtue, honorableness and patriotism.” As predicted in numerous Cortes speeches, the differential treatment of foreigners and the castas aroused deep resentment. Lima’s pardos were quick to respond to the condemnation of Zacatecas delegate Gordoa who railed against the “harshness” of depriving equal status to castas who had passed “twenty or more generations” in the Americas.123 Pardos admitted their dismay that they received worse treatment than “the foreigners and even the enemies of the country.” They prophesied that once the war with France was over, that even the “inhumane French” would be able to settle in the Americas and their offspring enjoy “honorable careers and employments.” Meanwhile, castas “will not receive any prize for our inalterable fidelity than vexation and discouragement.” What of the comment, made by a number of representatives, including their own Peruvian delegate Feliú, that rebelling cities in the Americas had already given the castas equality? Lima’s pardos proved well aware of events



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elsewhere in the Americas: “We know that in Buenos Ayres and in Caracas they have declared the free castas equal in rights to the other Spaniards.” However, they concluded, “we do not envy their luck: for to us fidelity and virtue are more estimable than citizenship.”124 From the beginning of the gracias al sacar petitions when pardos and mulattos had sought mobility, pursuit of higher education had proved a primary goal. Remember that Mexican representative José Miguel Ramos Arizpe had seconded that aspiration in the Cortes, denouncing “barbarous laws” that “had closed the doors of the colleges and universities”125 Lima’s surgeons agreed, for they wanted their children to be able to enter “colleges” and take religious vows.126 They were particularly upset that local universities would admit students who were foreigners but not their sons. As this pardo cohort was “finishing the printing of this book,” a mail delivery arrived from Spain in late July 1812. Included in the packet was the Cortes decree of January 29 that opened up the universities, monasteries, and professions to the castas. The reaction of Lima’s pardos to this “unexpected favor” was ecstatic. They saw “now open for us the doors of enlightenment and of honor.” They could promise their children that “the talents with which the Sovereign has distinguished you” would no longer remain “buried,” but rather “your names will be written in the annals of the most illustrious academies and the most respectable societies.”127 Pardos described their “common and just rejoicing,” as well as their “tender tears,” and they sent “blessings” to the Cortes. Their publication ended with the announcement that the “Spanish pardos of this city” had decided to sponsor a “solemn mass in which they ask God for the triumph of our arms in all the Spanish monarchy.” They also planned to “renew” their “oath . . . to shed their blood in the necessary case of the defense of the country.” In the ensuing years, as the independence and royalist armies clashed, and alliances shifted and reshifted, pardos and mulattos would certainly participate in such “shedding” on both sides of the battlefield.

conclusions Over the centuries and the generations, elite cohorts of blacks, pardos, and mulattos had fought for mobility. They had moved from the status of slaves,

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to that of free persons, and eventually to that of royal vassals. Starting in the mid-eighteenth century, a small number had applied for exemptions to practice prohibited occupations; then they petitioned and re-petitioned for whitening so that the gracias al sacar eventually evolved into an institutionalized American “practice.” Ensuing dialogues with royal officials and local elites had produced significant agreements. Although they varied in specifics, the consultas of 1806 and 1808 and the Cortes resolution of January 29, 1812, conceded that some of the long-standing discriminations against pardos and mulattos should cease. While the Cortes denied immediate equality with whites, it did establish individual routes to citizenship. Such promises, even though they seldom bore lasting fruit, were not insubstantial. They revealed understandings forged in Spanish America over the centuries and held on both sides of the Atlantic that the future of the castas should include equality. Pardos and mulattos would leverage this consensus to their advantage when they transformed from vassals of a monarch to citizens of a republic.128 Yet, that July 1812, as Lima’s pardos published their responses to the Cortes, neither their future nor that of the Americas was yet settled. That same month, the first independence movement in Caracas would collapse, and the city would return again to royal control.129 The to-ing and fro-ing between royalist and independence forces had just begun. Peninsular politics would veer from the return of monarchical rule in the Indies with the establishment of Ferdinand VII in 1814, to the abolishment of the Constitution of Cádiz, to the epic battles eventually confirming the independence of the Spanish American mainland and citizenship for the castas. It also left an opening for a final application for whiteness. One of the first to petition after the publication of the 1795 price list returned to be the last. In 1796, royal official Pedro Rodríguez de Argumedo had written from Trinidad on behalf of his wife Doña Angela Inés and successfully requested a whitening decree that erased an “old tradition” held by the “vulgar” that his wife “descended from pardos.”130 Twenty years later, now a widower, Pedro appealed again to the Council of the Indies. Writing in 1816 from the Venezuelan coastal town of Puerto Cabello, still a royalist stronghold, he sought official approval for his retirement. He also requested a favor for his second wife, Doña Juana Josepha. Praising her “virtue and honesty” he worried that due to her “brownish color” (color trigueño) she “suffered unjustly” from the rumor of pardo



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a­ ncestry, and so he requested that royal officials declare her to be a “white person.”131 The ensuing royal decree, the last of the whitening gracias al sacar, “dispensed the quality of pardo” so that she might enjoy “the same honors as the rest of my honored vassals.” The couple then sailed to his retirement in royalist Cuba. When, in 1838, the Spanish crown would issue another list detailing the favors of gracias al sacar, the American mainland would be independent.132 There would be no provision for the purchase of whiteness. Pardos and mulattos would be following other paths.

thirteen

Retrospectives Tidbits, Chunks, and Conclusions Time—the long time—will draw a veil over the white and black in this hemisphere, and future generations will look back upon the record of strife as it stands revealed in the history of the people of this New World of ours with a wonder and incredulity. For they will not understand the issues that the quarrel was about. fr ank tannenbaum, Slave and Citizen1

introduction This chapter begins with stories that cannot—at least at this moment—be told.2 Too many whose names appear in whitening petitions vanish from the historical record, making it impossible to trace how the gracias al sacar did, or did not, affect their lives. Unknown are the fates of the Cuban Báezes, Joseph Francisco, who received permission to practice as a surgeon, or brother Manuel, the first to apply for full whitening. Nor is there any clue if Havana pardo and militia captain Antonio Flores negotiated university admission for his promising son, Joseph Ignacio. What of the Almeyda sisters, haunted by the ambiguity surrounding their mother’s origins—did they achieve full acceptance by their peers in Caracas? Did the arrival of whitening decrees alter the lives of the Valenzuela brothers from Antioquia? What happened to Venezuelans Juan Martin de Aristimuño and Francisco de la Cruz Marqués who, plagued by Cámara delays, worried that not only their children but even their grandchildren might never enjoy whiteness? 391

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These are just a sample of the life histories that do not emerge from available sources. Lost even deeper are the untold stories of unknown thousands who, even though they never applied for official whitening, informally enjoyed partial or full enhancement of status. This chapter focuses instead on the personal sagas of those whose stories—either in tidbits or in chunks—can be told. The goal is to highlight those processes that influenced whitening outcomes—the extent to which a positive, a negative, or even an ambiguous verdict might contribute to variable scenarios. A final section concludes by tracing those variables that shaped the history of whitening and of casta mobility in Spanish America.

methodologies: a lter nati v e digital str ategies Since the whitening petitioners were few in number and could not hold public office or practice many professions, they seldom created high profiles with multiple references in archival documents. They are particularly difficult to trace. Onsite archival research in Caracas yielded some morsels on Venezuelan applicants; some serendipitous finds in Guatemalan and Colombian archives filled out details.3 However, the large majority of data on the later lives of gracias al sacar petitioners derives from digital online sources. It relies on mentions of a name in a printed document collection, obscure nineteenth-century compendiums, online articles or monographs, or the searchable documents (Portal de Archivos Españoles [PARES]) in the Archive of the Indies. Methodologically, such an approach is distinctive from traditional searches. Consider, for example, the case of university student-turnedlawyer Joseph Ponciano de Ayarza. His ubiquitous presence throughout these pages dictated finding as much as possible about his later life. The Archive of the Indies contains the voluminous Ayarza case file of more than three hundred pages that includes information on his petition, his whitening decree, his graduation from the university, his apprenticeship, and his admission to practice law in Bogotá. He last appears in 1804 as he helped his father, Pedro Antonio, prepare another application in their ultimately failed attempt to whiten brothers Pedro Crisólogo and Antonio Nicanor.



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Joseph Ponciano then drops from the historical record. A typical research approach might consider some obvious leads: Did he stay in Bogotá; did he move to the family home in Portobelo; what kinds of documents might a lawyer—or someone in his position—have created? A search in local genealogies or histories initially yielded no information. Only with the power of digital searches did some first hints arise. What is striking is that these clues would never have been discovered using traditional methodology. There would have been no logical reason, for example, to consult a publication titled Annals of the Supreme Tribunal of Judicial Responsibility (Anales del Supremo Tribunal de Responsibilidad Judicial) published in Lima in 1880, where Joseph Ponciano first surfaced.4 However, an online exploration revealed that this arcane tome noted that the Peruvian congress in 1831 had elected a Dr. Don Joseph Ponciano de Ayarza to their newly formed supreme court. As more publications went online, it was possible to find further references concerning his career, as well as that of others. What follows, reveals both tidbits and sometimes more solid historical chunks providing insight into those ways that gracias al sacar might have promoted or failed to abet pardo mobility. The attempt to evaluate—usually with only small amounts of information—whether full or partial whitening decrees made a difference in the lives of those who received them remains a challenge. There is seldom a direct connection where a newly whitened petitioner waved his or her gracias al sacar and received a particular benefit. Rather, evaluation of outcomes falls roughly into three groupings. First were cases suggesting that the presence or absence of the gracias al sacar proved effective either for good or for ill. Such occasions occurred when a petitioner encountered a particular obstacle in reaching some goal and the receipt of a whitening decree unequivocally solved the problem. Alternatively, in at least one instance, the denial of whitening seemed likely tied to an unfavorable outcome. The last two groupings demand finer analysis, as it is more difficult directly to tie receipt, denial, or even the absence of a decision to what ultimately happened. Some petitioners received negative judgments or postponed decisions but still attained some or all of the privileges that they had vainly sought from the Council of the Indies. Others, granted whitening, experienced variable and ambiguous outcomes. Such a probe of the extent and limits of pardo mobility reveals those underlying variables that

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i­nteracted to produce such mixed results. As importantly, it reminds that the whitening gracias al sacar was just one of a multitude of strategies that abetted casta mobility in the Americas.

w hitening: dir ect outcomes Whitening proved most successful when its scope was explicit and limited as those pardos and mulattos relieved of their defect for occupational purposes typically enjoyed those benefits. For example, later documents reveal that Juan Evaristo de Jesús Borbúa and Ciriaco Hipólito Correoso functioned as notaries.5 In this, Fiscals José de Cistué y Coll and Ramón de Posada y Soto had proved prescient when they had argued that whitening would be most effective when granted for specific occupational reasons.6 Another dispensation, the admission of pardos to higher education, had a less secure conclusion. After-the-fact decrees prohibiting mobility in the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries suggest that some castas had previously been able to attend and graduate from universities without official whitening. Yet, by the late eighteenth century, prevailing legislation combined with local discrimination to foreclose such options, including graduations for Joseph Ponciano de Ayarza and José Manuel Valdés. Without receipt of the gracias al sacar, they would not have received degrees from universities in Bogotá and Lima. Equally notable is that the arrival of Diego Mexias Bejarano’s whitening decree was not sufficient to permit his son Diego Lorenzo to attend the university in Caracas. What seems evident is that variables such as location and timing proved as paramount as any official decree. Options possible in Lima and Bogotá proved impossible in Caracas; mobilities achievable in the first decades of the eighteenth century were not as likely in the last. At least one case suggests a direct cause and effect where the failure to obtain a gracias al sacar possibly led to an unhappy outcome. Such was the fate of widow Doña Francisca del Cerro who had applied to the Cámara on behalf of her pardo lover, Blas Gallegos. This Caracas couple had hoped to bypass the prohibitions of the Pragmatic Sanction on Marriages by whitening Blas and then legitimating their baby daughter, Belén, through a subsequent ceremony. Instead, imperial officials had refused to rule on the



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case and sent the couple back to the president and audiencia in Caracas to request permission to wed. Given the Venezuelan elite’s passionate opposition against such marriages, it seems likely that officials refused to permit the union. In 1806, two years after the birth of the couple’s daughter, Blas wrote a last testament in which he admitted that he had an illegitimate daughter named Belén, although he protected the name of the mother in deference to her “honor.” It may be that with marriage foreclosed, the couple had separated, for Blas noted that the infant lived with the two executors of his will: his mother and a brother. His testament left his possessions—190 pesos, a horse, a slave, his shop with goods, a tailoring store, and a house—to his two-year-old daughter.7 Once the Cámara refused to intervene, the local climate in Caracas doomed the hopes of this desperate couple to legitimize their union.

a lt e r n at i v e pat h s While success or failure with the Council of the Indies might directly affect outcomes, there were a striking number of cases where pardos who petitioned for whitening did not seem to need it. Even after ministers rejected or tabled their petitions, they achieved some or all of their goals. Their life stories demonstrate that centuries of mobility through interstices had created alternative paths and informal mechanisms that might lead to favorable aftermaths. The later history of one of the earliest rejected for whitening—Bernardo Ramírez of Guatemala—provides a case history of how pardos might search for pathways to achieve their ambitions. He eventually obtained his desired goal to be considered white and titled a Don. Bernardo’s 1782 petition had originally expressed hope that his contributions after the devastating 1773 earthquake in Santiago (Antigua) and particularly his building of an aqueduct to bring water to the new city might lead to royal largesse. Instead, Fiscal Antonio de Porlier had proved unimpressed given the number of mulattos in Bernardo’s ancestry. While he had recognized the justice in providing this deserving Guatemalan with some reward, he had refused to whiten him.8 Local documents not included in Bernardo’s application provide further details concerning those variables that eventually contributed to his changed status. An incident that occurred after horrific earthquakes struck

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the city in 1773 reveals how Bernardo’s expertise had promoted mobility. It also hints as to why he might have been optimistic when he applied in 1782 that the Council of the Indies would agree to his request. Surrounded by a city in ruins, Bernardo’s skill in evaluating damaged buildings and in constructing new ones provided him a stature usually denied to pardos. One indication of his standing was that the captain general included him among a prominent coterie of locals who investigated the existing 1773 earthquake damage.9 This group included the archbishop, a university professor, a city council officer, and an engineer, all who enjoyed the prefix of Doctor or Don before their names. The only other person named to this commission was the “Head of Public Works, Bernardo Ramírez,” who conspicuously did not boast any honorable title. One contemporary observer praised these members as “blessed with high comprehension, mature judgment,” and “accredited reason” although it remains unknown if he included this skilled pardo in his description. What this incident reveals is that in a period of crisis, those with competencies like Bernardo might find openings that permitted interaction with local notables, promoting mobility. After a third tremor hit in December 1773, the crown ordered the movement of the capital from its original site to a new location, present-day Guatemala City. Again, Bernardo Ramírez proved fundamental in this transfer, as he became a major contributor during the ensuing years of transition. He supervised the movement of the surrounding Indian towns, which remained fundamental as sources of labor; he built the customs house; and he constructed the Capuchin church. At the time of his whitening application in 1782, he was deep into a decade-long project to construct an aqueduct to bring water to the new city, a structure that would function until 1938.10 Bernardo was in the midst of these undertakings when he learned in February 1785 that the Council of the Indies had rejected his application. Even as Fiscal Porlier had dismissed the possibility of whitening, he had persisted in finding the Guatemalan some reward, given his outstanding service. After Bernardo had scornfully rejected the proffered post as officer in the pardo militia, Porlier had arranged for him to receive a medal from the Royal Academy of San Fernando. Established in the Enlightenment tradition, the academy promoted the development of the arts, including painting, sculpture, and—more appropriate for Bernardo—architecture. Although Porlier proposed that Bernardo receive some type of medal, he



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also limited the favor, as he stipulated he should not receive the “honors of the Academy.”11 The exact path whereby Bernardo parlayed the physical acquisition of this medal into his attachment of the title of Don and the accompanying assumption that he was white remains murky. It seemed accomplished by 1790, when he appears in a Franciscan document in which members of that order praised a “Don Bernardo Ramírez” and particularly the “efficacy, love and exactitude” that he had exhibited in the building of their monastery.12 The monks declared that “in the last two and a half years he has constructed so much and so extravagantly that not only do we admire it, but [so do] all persons.” So how did Bernardo become a don? One hint derives from a letter that the Ramírez offspring sent to local Guatemalan authorities in 1798, after he had died. Sisters “Doña” Vicenta, Gerónima, and Juana joined brother “Don” Juan to petition for confirmation of their elite status (calidad).13 They explained that their father had received “two royal orders,” the first granting him “a medal such as those that the Royal Academy of San Fernando awards to its students of merit.” This was evidently the reward that Fiscal Porlier arranged for Bernardo to receive after he rejected the militia position. Apparently, a second royal order seems to have emboldened Bernardo to claim the title of Don. His son and daughters were suspiciously ambiguous concerning the wording of this decree. They suggested that it declared that their father “might justly be able to title himself and be titled with the distinction of Don.” Since Porlier was certainly aware that bestowing this title was equivalent to a grant of whiteness, it seems unlikely that he would have directly awarded it. One possibility is that the decree from San Fernando had mistakenly listed Bernardo as a Don. He might have leveraged that reference in an official document as providing sufficient justification for him to assume the title. Such an appropriation would not have been uncommon, as other families had attached the honorific without whitening decrees, including the Yañeses in Venezuela and the Caballero Carranzas in Mexico.14 Apparently, Bernardo not only attained the coveted title of Don during his lifetime but also successfully preserved it long after his death. As late as 1847, a lawsuit over a house previously owned by the Guatemalan still listed him with his honorable title: “Don Bernardo Ramírez.”15 In his case, the dire situation wrought by the earthquake, his expertise, his manifest service

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to the crown—and likely his medal—produced the desired outcome even though royal officials denied his whitening petition. Another who failed to receive a positive response to a gracias al sacar application but at least partially accomplished his goal was Don Joseph Briceño of Trujillo, Venezuela. His petition on behalf of his parda wife Petronila had chronicled the sexual liaisons of her mulatta mother and grandmother that had left her with a white appearance and some acceptance in elite society. Don Joseph begged the Cámara to confirm the status of his spouse so that their seventeen offspring would not suffer any discrimination, particularly in contracting eligible marital alliances. Royal officials had hesitated, given concerns over the impact of seventeen single Briceños entering the marriage market. Their compromise was to reject the official whitening of Petronila but to send a letter in February 1794 that confirmed “this interested party and her family in their good reputation.” They guaranteed her “credit” if there were “instances”—presumably questions concerning her pardo ancestors—that might occur. To what extent did such actions foreclose later discrimination? Evidence from genealogies provides tantalizing hints that Petronila and Don Joseph not only had to overcome the initial disapproval of his relatives—hiding from their wrath immediately after their marriage ceremony—but also may have later encountered difficulties in finding grooms for their daughters. It seems provocative that the couples six eldest—all girls—never married. Rather, they remained single, and, as one genealoger speculated, they no doubt cooperated “with their mother” to educate “their younger sisters and brothers.”16 The remaining eleven Briceños all found spouses starting in 1794. The couple’s seventh child and first son, José Antonio, tied the knot in January 1794, a month before the family received the supportive letter from the Council of the Indies. Although genealogies do not supply the marriage dates of all of Don Joseph and Petronila’s younger sons and daughters, where they are available, the remaining ceremonies postdate the 1794 letter.17 There was one exception to this harmonious intermingling. In 1805, the couple’s ninth daughter, Juana Paula, was the object of a “voluminous dissent” by the family of her prospective groom and second cousin Don Domingo Uzcategui Briceño.18 His family attempted to use the Pragmatic Sanction on Marriages to impede the marriage, perhaps due to Petronila’s



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maternal ancestry. Notwithstanding the objections from the groom’s family, the couple eventually married. Given the spinsterhood of the six eldest Briceño sisters and the subsequent marriages of their eleven siblings after 1794, it appears that the Council of the Indies’ letter might have had some impact. While ministers had refused to whiten Petronila, her perceived whiteness and her marriage to an elite male had foreclosed many difficulties. Don Joseph and Petronila’s sons and daughters proved notably prolific, providing the couple with more than forty grandchildren and producing, as one genealoger noted, a “great quantity of Briceños.”19 Another who lacked positive news from the Council of the Indies but seemed to overcome potential discrimination was Manuel Caballero Carranza from Puebla, Mexico. By the time his documents arrived in Madrid in 1808, royal officials were tabling whitening requests and did not even consider the merit of his case. Although Manuel provided no specifics other than a vague desire to be white, later events suggest that concern for the future of his then fourteen-year-old son, Francisco, might have precipitated his petition. Even though Manuel, his father, and his grandfather had married white brides, the union of his great-grandfather with a parda spouse still threatened the family’s genealogy. At the time of Manuel’s petition, his family had already experienced notable mobility. While officiating clerics had initially listed him as a pardo on his own baptismal certificate as well as those of his first two offspring, by the birth of his last two sons, Manuel now appeared as white and a don. Even so, the existence of official documents declaring that he was a pardo threatened the future of his youngest son, Francisco. Given that he planned to attend the university in Mexico City, he would have to document the family’s limpieza de sangre, including generations of whiteness. Although the Council of the Indies had failed to erase their defect, the family’s repeated marriages with white women and movement from pardo to white on subsequent documents seems to have sufficed. Later records show that a Francisco Mariano Caballero Carranza from Puebla, the son of “Don Manuel Caballero y Carranza” and of “Doña Maria Guadalupe Montero” both “Spanish,” would graduate from the university in Mexico City in 1817, train as a physician, and serve his internship in the royal hospital of San Pedro.20 Even though the Council of the Indies refused to respond to

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Manuel’s petition for whitening, the family’s changed notations on official records worked to their advantage. Only nuggets appear concerning the later histories of two members of a family that have frequently appeared in these pages—the Ayarzas. What happened to Pedro Crisólogo and Antonio Nicanor, both denied whitening and graduation from the university in Bogotá even while their brother Joseph Ponciano received his degree and became a lawyer? His university education, particularly his knowledge of Latin, likely worked to the advantage of Pedro Crisólogo, for he became a priest. Such a path— always difficult for pardos—may have been smoothed in the more tolerant Panamanian environment. As early as 1775, the local bishop had admitted that due to the “absence of priestly vocations among the whites,” he had no “other remedy than to admit mulattos to cover the positions that remained vacant.”21 Locality always mattered—in Panama, unlike the vicious climate of Venezuela, an educated pardo might achieve ordination. Shortages of eligible priests may have additionally worked in Pedro Crisólogo’s favor, given that ecclesiastical officials did not relegate him to serve in a remote parish. Rather, he appears in 1809 as the “vicar” of his hometown of Portobelo, contributing to a collection to defeat Napoleon on the peninsula.22 In 1820, he surfaces again, leading a religious procession to the local icon of the “Black Christ,” as the town pleaded for intercession to halt an epidemic.23 By November 1821, Pedro Crisólogo’s sentiments toward Spain had shifted, as he joined fellow ecclesiastical and civil dignitaries in recognizing Panama’s independence.24 In his case, variables such as education, location, and scarcity no doubt complemented the family’s wealth and status. Pedro Crisólogo likely achieved some or all of his goals in spite of the Council of the Indies. The later history of Pedro Crisólogo’s brother Antonio Nicanor provides a first reminder how independence significantly altered pardo opportunities. He had followed his father, Pedro Antonio, and served in the militias. On February 12, 1821, when General Francisco de Paula Santander wrote to Simón Bolívar, he passed on the request of “patriot” and “Captain [Antonio Nicanor de] Ayarza” of Portobelo, who sent “documents justifying” his promotion to the rank of “lieutenant colonel,” a rank previously denied to pardos.25 Little is known of his later life, although he apparently remained in his hometown and enjoyed high status. When Panama attempted to se-



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cede from Colombia in 1841, the delegate representing the city of Portobelo was Antonio Nicanor de Ayarza.26 The later histories of Don Bernardo Ramírez, the multitude of married Briceños, and the brothers Ayarza reveal that the whitening gracias al sacar functioned primarily as an official variant paralleling long-standing informal processes. Denied a whitening decree, some petitioners successfully sought alternative avenues. Individual accomplishments—be it the acknowledged expertise of Bernardo Ramírez, the higher education of Pedro Crisólogo, or the military service of Antonio Nicanor—also affected outcome. Lightish parda women such as Petronila who married white husbands might see their sons and daughters accepted by local elites, or, like Manuel Caballero Carranza, his son attend university.

va r i a bl e a n d a m biguous ou t c om e s While it is possible to attach a direct cause and effect to Joseph Ponciano de Ayarza’s receipt of a whitening decree and his graduation, or to conclude that his brother Pedro Crisólogo’s knowledge of Latin almost certainly facilitated his entrance into the clergy, in other instances connections between a whitening decree and subsequent events remain more circumstantial. A case might be made that gracias al sacar resolved the anxieties of Don Pedro Rodríguez de Argumedo, the whitener of two wives. He had initially written the Cámara in 1796 in distress given the “ancient tradition” among the “vulgar” that his wife, Doña Angela Inés Rodríguez, descended from pardos.27 He was particularly concerned that such gossip would harm the marital prospects of the couple’s children. Unlike the Briceños, the Cámara responded immediately and positively, sending a whitening decree to his wife and confirming that “the children that you presently and in the future” would conceive would be officially white. Six years later, in 1802, the couple would become the object of unwelcome attention from royal officials. Doña Angela Inés’s brother, José Fermín Rodríguez Rendón, who was a “painter and student of the Academy of San Fernando,” had apparently sent some “seditious writings” to “his brotherin-law Pedro, then resident in Caracas.”28 Although the charges of potential treason never developed, it is notable that imperial officials variously described Doña Angela Inés’s brother as a “pardo” or a “mulatto.” Such refer-

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ences suggest there might have been some validity to the “ancient tradition” that had also stained her ancestry.29 In this case, the whitening gracias al sacar seemed to have been effective: at the least, it permitted one of Doña Angela Inés’s daughters to marry well. A list of unions in Cumaná—some that included elites with the titles of Don and Doña and others that omitted such honorifics—noted that a Don Cayetano Espersa, from Viscaya, had married a Doña Ana Rodríguez, the daughter of Don Pedro Rodríguez de Argumedo and a Doña Angela Inés Rodríguez.30 Don Pedro must have been satisfied with the ameliorative effects of the whitening gracias al sacar because twenty years later, in 1816, he petitioned for a second wife. Since Doña Juana Josepha also had the last name of Rodríguez, she may have been related to his first wife and faced similar discrimination. After receiving this last issued whitening decree, the couple would flee the ravages of the Venezuelan independence wars, eventually settling in royalist Cuba.31 Another who had initially applied for gracias al sacar to improve his and his sisters’ marital opportunities and who also left his Venezuelan home was army surgeon Domingo Arévalo. When his initial petition arrived in Madrid in 1802, Fiscal Cistué y Coll only provided Domingo with an occupational exemption to practice as a surgeon. Domingo reappealed, noting he already had such permission and that he sought a “personal dispensation” not only for himself but also for his four sisters, particularly the two who were “single.”32 Although Fiscal Lorenzo Serapio Hernández de Alva Alonso recommended that the Cámara reject Domingo, the Cámara approved his whitening the next year. Domingo seems to have prospered, although no further word ever surfaces concerning the fate of his sisters. In 1808, he bought a house in central Caracas near the Convent of San Jacinto.33 He continued his practice in the army, as the “universal guide” for Venezuela in 1810 listed him among the “pardo surgeons” of the city.34 His next appointment seemingly recognized his whitening, for in 1811 it provided a commission to a “Don Domingo Arévalo” to serve as a surgeon in the artillery corps.35 However, he was not destined to assume that post, for a horrific earthquake that destroyed 90 percent of Caracas struck on March 26, 1812.36 Although he was supposed to assume his new military post in May, the local hospital—perhaps still overwhelmed by the number of wounded—asked that he stay in the city.37



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Sometime that year or the next, possibly due to the devastation of the earthquake or the continuing chaos as royalist and republican armies fought back and forth, Domingo decided to leave Venezuela. He was not alone, as waves of emigrants fled Caracas to the mercantile entrepôt of St. Thomas in the Virgin Islands as well as to the more quiescent Spanish possessions of Cuba and Puerto Rico.38 By 1813, Domingo had presented his credentials to the city council of San Juan and accredited his “profession of surgeon.”39 As the fortunes of war shifted, Domingo found himself in flux: in 1814, he was back in Caracas acting as surgeon for the second battalion of La Guaira; he then canceled his plans to join the army in the interior and instead took up private practice. By 1816, Domingo had permanently joined a cohort of elite Venezuelan families who had left the turbulence of Caracas to settle in the southern Puerto Rican port of Ponce.40 He may have been influenced by a royal decree of 1815 that encouraged migration from the mainland to the still loyalist island by awarding grants of land.41 No doubt, some of these emigrants must have known that Domingo had received a gracias al sacar, given that the Caracas city council had bitterly opposed his whitening. To what extent did his removal from the scene and especially from Venezuela change his life? His expertise as a surgeon smoothed a path to acceptance in his new locale. Soon after his arrival in Ponce, he enjoyed honorific titles, as a “Dr. Don Domingo Arévalo” participated in local efforts to quell a yellow fever epidemic.42 This contribution may have accelerated his acceptance by local elites, as the next year he joined the local military commander, the parish priest, the captain of the port, and city council officials as a consultant. He figured as one of the “public employees, authorities and honored residents that assisted the junta.”43 By 1820, Domingo was an official member of the medical commission. He participated in meetings that dealt with a series of health issues: a noxious furnace within the town putting out dangerous gases, the need to quarantine a French ship as several of the crew had “grave and contagious” disease, the establishment of regular days to vaccinate children against smallpox.44 The city council in 1823 listed a “Don Domingo Arévalo” as their “titled doctor” and official “medical health officer.”45 In 1828, he served as the “protector of minors” guarding the inheritance of orphans, a position he likely never would have held in pre-independence Caracas.46

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Even though Domingo found positions of honor and responsibility, there are some hints that he was not totally accepted into elite Ponce society. Although he attended the meetings of the medical junta, he never participated in regular city council meetings, nor did he ever serve on that body. In 1820, even as the cabildo appointed him to the medical commission, they also questioned his credentials. They observed that he had presented “only some simple permissions” to practice that were not issued by the “competent tribunal or commission.” The city council decided to “consult . . . if the said documents were sufficient.”47 Although the cabildo eventually seemed satisfied with his competence, Domingo remained insecure. In 1838, he asked a fellow surgeon, José Vargas, who had also fled to Puerto Rico, but who had returned to the mainland, to approach the Caracas cabildo “in the name of his friend Don Domingo Arévalo, son of this city and now a resident of the town of Ponce in the Island of Puerto Rico.” Given that Vargas was by then an ex-president of Venezuela, Domingo had friends in high places. He requested that they issue official copies certifying his title in the “medical profession.”48 Little appears of Domingo’s personal life, although he makes a tantalizing appearance in a lawsuit that reveals he was married, owned a sugar plantation, and was a slaveholder.49 In 1823, he figures as an “immigrant from Venezuela” when he made provisions to free a five-year-old slave girl named María Concepción. However, there were strings to this emancipation: the terms stipulated that she would only be liberated when Domingo’s “wife died.” Two years later, when he apparently planned to sell the slave girl’s mother, she appealed to local officials that her daughter not remain with the Arévalos but rather be sold to the town.50 There must be an untold story here. Given the timing of Domingo’s arrived in Ponce in 1815 or 1816, and the birth of María in 1818, could the slave girl have been his daughter? In Domingo’s case, what did not happen is perhaps as telling as what occurred. Even though there was a substantial cohort of elite Venezuelan families that had migrated to Puerto Rico, he seems to have experienced no immediate challenges. Rather, his medical expertise and removal from that hotbed of discrimination produced substantial mobility. The extent to which the whitening gracias al sacar foreclosed any such challenges remains ambiguous. Others who have appeared throughout these pages were first cousins and brothers-in-law Juan Gabriel Landaeta and Diego Mexias Bejarano of Cara-



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cas. “Leopard” Juan Gabriel was sixty-eight when he wrote a will that might have been his final testament in 1803, including among his possessions three mercantile stores. His strategy to have the Cámara confirm the family as “leopards,” disowning any African ancestry, proved unsuccessful. At least, the next year, his brother, militia captain Antonio José, was unable to persuade the local priest that the Landaetas belonged to the “mestizo caste,” and that the cleric should list the marriage of his son in the section reserved for whites.51 Little is known about the later history of the family, although there remained a substantial clan with the Landaeta name in Caracas that produced numerous painters and musicians.52 There is contradictory evidence as to whether Diego Mexias Bejarano achieved his long-sought goal to enter son Diego Lorenzo at the University of Caracas so he might be ordained and take up the family chaplaincy. While the historian Santos Rodulfo Cortés supplies some tantalizing details concerning later developments, he fails to provide substantiating footnotes. Other documents seem to contradict some of his conclusions. Rodulfo Cortés suggests that Diego Lorenzo eventually became a priest and held the family benefice in Altagracia, although he renounced the position by April 1803, due to a doctor’s warning that he might “lose his vision” if he continued in the post.53 Yet how could Diego Lorenzo have received ordination and left the chaplaincy in April 1803 when five months later—in September 1803—he submitted his first application to attend the University of Caracas to study for the priesthood?54 Two more years would pass in which the Council of the Indies would still be issuing orders (February 1805) instructing the university to admit him to classes.55 What could be happening? One option might be that Diego Lorenzo’s eyes improved, and the family continued their efforts after 1803 to secure admission to the university and his eventual ordination. Or, perhaps he became a priest without attending the university. Or, Diego Lorenzo might have taken up the chaplaincy even though he was not a priest. It was possible, depending on the specific terms of the benefice, for a holder not to be ordained and to arrange with others to fulfill obligations attached to the position, such as the saying of masses.56 Rodulfo Cortés argues that the Mexias Bejarano family’s determination to place a son as priest in their local parish was not over.57 He asserts— although sans footnotes—that the month after Diego Lorenzo resigned, José Vicente Mexias Bejarano, his brother, applied to fill the position,

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f­orwarding a copy of the 1796 gracias al sacar that whitened his father.58 Apparently, the response of the church establishment was to prevaricate. At least Rodulfo Cortés quotes, again without attribution, a local official who replied that the church “will do what has to be done in justice.” This was a traditional circumlocution, much like “inconveniences,” which suggested that officials did not want to approve the application.59 The historical record remains inconclusive whether Diego Lorenzo maintained his eyesight or if he or his brother José Vicente ever entered the priesthood. Their father, Diego, filed his last testament four years later in 1807. It listed properties, including twenty-six houses and 8800 pesos in cash, marking him as one of the most prosperous pardos in Caracas.60 The next year he was gone. At least some of the Mexias Bejaranos, probably Diego’s wife and certainly another son, eventually joined thousands who fled the ensuing years of violence as vicious battles raged between royalist and independence armies. The remaining Mexias Bejaranos sought safe haven in St. Croix in the Virgin Islands. It was there an exiled Venezuelan priest posted notice in July 1815 of the marriage of Saturino Mexias Bejarano “legitimate son of the deceased Diego Mexias and Juana Antonia Bejarano” with a Melchora Pereira, both originally from “Caracas.”61 Unlike Pedro Crisólogo de Ayarza, who, without a gracias al sacar, became a vicar in Panama, it seems the Mexias Bejarano brothers, even with a “white” father, were unlikely to have taken up the chaplaincy in Altagracia. Another who has appeared often in these pages was José Manuel Valdés of Lima, although, unlike Diego Mexias Bejarano, he obtained many of his goals. His humble beginnings as the illegitimate child of Indian and parda parents, his intellectual accomplishments, his medical skill as a surgeon, had led to patronage by Lima’s premier physician Hipólito Unanue and a substantial practice of his own. The accolades of royal officials, including the viceroy, led to a petition for his whitening, so he might graduate from the university and become a physician. With his medical credentials secured, José Manuel embarked on an even more distinguished career. He became the chief medical officer for Lima (protomedicato) and held a chair in medicine at the University of San Marcos.62 His practice included local aristocrats, high clergy, Spanish imperial officials and—after independence—their republican counterparts, as well as the humble.63 His home became a magnet for intellectual and social



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gatherings of local elites. Observers remembered the many carriages parked outside as notables joined him in nightly get-togethers (tertulias). He published medical treatises, poetry, an ode to San Martín, and a biography of the mulatto saint Martín de Porres. He demonstrated his well-known humility in his dedication to the latter work, noting that Saint Martín was “of my inferior class and humble birth.”64 He served as a deputy in the republican Congress. From most perspectives, the whitening decree facilitated José Manuel’s success, furthering his high standing in his profession and his acceptance by local elites. Given that there are biographies, it is also possible—more than in most cases—to probe the limits of his whitening decree. Although the gracias al sacar had made him white, it had not eliminated his illegitimacy. Sometime in 1815 he either applied—or he somehow received—the details as who initiated the process is unclear—a papal bull that dispensed his illegitimacy and his color.65 His illegitimate birth had proven a problem, for José Manuel’s deepest aspiration was to receive holy orders. The ensuing papal document relieved him of any difficulty and authorized any bishop to consecrate him. After receiving this dispensation, José Manuel consulted with the archbishop of Lima concerning his possible ordination. However, that cleric warned that he would face opposition, given that the local canons would not agree to “sit in the choir with a black.”66 Even though the gracias al sacar made him officially white, rather than create a scandal, José Manuel retreated. He supposedly commented to his friends that “it was not the will of God that he became a priest, and this opposition of the ecclesiastical cabildo was a deserved punishment for his pride.” Throughout his life, José Manuel remained a devout Catholic who attended daily mass. After his death at age 76, his private papers revealed that when he was nineteen he had taken a vow of chastity, which he apparently maintained throughout his life.67 Such details of José Manuel Valdés’s life illustrate the limits that a whitening gracias al sacar—even combined with a dispensation from his illegitimacy—might occasion. Location and the variability of discrimination played a critical role. It is striking given the ease with which Pedro Crisólogo de Ayarza, denied whitening, still became a priest and vicar of Portobelo, that in Caracas and in Lima such mobility was forestalled. It seems appropriate, given that the first whitening case discovered by historians was that of Joseph Ponciano de Ayarza, that his story should

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be the last. After he received his gracias al sacar, graduated from the university, and served his apprenticeship as a lawyer, he was admitted to the bar on February 17, 1803.68 He seems to have been in Bogotá in 1804 when he helped his father assemble the last petitions in the failed applications for his brothers Pedro Crisólogo and Antonio Nicanor.69 Given that a guide for “foreigners” living in Bogotá published in 1810 noted that he currently lived in “Portobelo,” he must have returned home to stay with the family.70 As the independence wars began, Joseph Ponciano left Panama and sailed to Peru. Records from January 1812 show him engaged in commerce and sending money and goods back to Panama.71 Since he was in the capital at the time, he may have figured among the Limeño pardos who published their responses to the debates of the Cortes.72 By the next year, Joseph Ponciano had returned to Portobelo where he became one of the electors to select the Panamanian delegates in the Cortes. Even though Bishop Manuel González de Acuña was from Panama and therefore aware of the local stature of the Ayarza family—including that Pedro Crisólogo was the vicar of Portobelo—he nonetheless objected to Joseph Ponciano’s role. He charged that among those electors voting for the final two delegates were one who “originated from Africa” and another who was “of the color and quality of mulatto.”73 The first so charged was Joseph Ponciano. This incident reveals that even with his university and law degrees, his official whitening, and a hometown where his family was prominent, Joseph Ponciano might still face prejudice. On the other hand, locals had chosen him as an elector, an obvious honor. It remains unclear how Joseph Ponciano spent the next seven years, but he seems to have made his way back to Lima, for in 1821 he paid taxes on goods he was importing and exporting.74 The next year the “Guide” for that capital noted that he had set up a legal practice.75 No record appears of Joseph Ponciano’s activities during the next decade, but he must have found acceptance in Lima’s more tolerant atmosphere. Given the circles in which he moved, it is intriguing to speculate if he knew physician José Manuel Valdés, was his patient, or perhaps attended his nightly gatherings. Lima was not that large a place for those moving in elite circles. In 1831, Joseph Ponciano held governmental finance positions (Junta de Liquidación) while continuing his legal practice.76 That year confirmed what must have been his sterling reputation and standing in the city: the Congress elected him as one of seven lawyers to serve as justices on Peru’s first Supreme Court.77



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How long Joseph Ponciano remained in Lima after his court appointment remains unclear, but later events were to bring him back to Panama and no doubt to reunions with his family. The reorganizations of the former viceroyalty of New Granada, as it changed from Gran Colombia to New Granada, had left Panamanians falling under various judicial jurisdictions. Those on the isthmus were unhappy with the distance and delays in court procedures. Starting in 1834, they began to clamor for their own court, a process delayed by numerous complications but finally fulfilled in 1838 when the Congress in Bogotá voted to establish a separate juridical jurisdiction for Panama.78 One of the first judges to serve on the new tribunal was Joseph Ponciano. He almost certainly participated in the elaborate ceremonies in May 1839 when the governor swore in the judges and all the “corporations and public functionaries, the bishop of the dioceses, all the regular clergy and numerous citizens without any social distinctions” participated in the celebrations. One wonders if Joseph Ponciano might have remembered that protest years earlier when the bishop had questioned his right as an elector. It appears that the fears of the Cámara of the Indies that whitening one brother might split the Ayarza family did not occur. Rather, Joseph Ponciano spent his last years in Panama, possibly reunited with his brothers. If that happened, they would not be together long, as the official Bogotá newspaper in July 1842 noted the vacancy in a judicial post on the “isthmus” occasioned by the “death of Dr. José Ponceano Ayarza” sometime the previous year.79 The later histories of those who applied for whitening reveal the gracias al sacar as just one element in an arsenal developed over centuries as pardos and mulattos sought interstices and strategized, seeking advancement. It proved most efficacious when it was specific, providing occupational or educational mobility. Possession of a whitening decree was never a guarantee for a positive outcome, as numerous variables, including location, timing, expertise, wealth, and family status, might combine in unexpected ways to promote or inhibit success. As the nineteenth century progressed and as republication legislation replaced its imperial successor, pardos and mulattos found traditional discriminations officially abolished, although often replaced by alternative repressions. They would continue, as they had throughout the centuries, to search for openings that promoted success.

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conclusions and processes More than a century ago, Brazilian historian Manoel de Oliveira Lima lectured a Stanford University audience regarding striking differences in Anglo and Iberian constructions and practices concerning race. One proof he cited was the 1795 gracias al sacar, given that it permitted pardos and mulattos in Spanish America to purchase whiteness. Over the ensuing decades, this option served as a marker grounding historiographical debates over the distinctions between the racial regimes of the United States and Latin America, the significance of caste versus class in the Indies, the creation of Latino identities, and the potential racisms of the Latin south. Even as scholars debated its historical significance, discovery of gracias al sacar cases proved elusive. Systematic location of whitening documents in the Archive of the Indies provided some first answers. Only a small number applied and even fewer purchased whiteness; the categories and prices proceeded from earlier, pre-1795 applications. Nor had the whitening gracias al sacar appeared in the 1795 price list due to any considered policy of the imperial state. Rather, the royal officials who compiled a price list of purchasable favors included it due to earlier Indies precedents, even though none of these had previously granted total whiteness. Such immediate answers raised questions that proved even more provocative. Who were those pardos and mulattos whose precursor applications had given rise to the whitening gracias al sacar? What historic processes had encouraged them to request partial and then total whiteness? Why would the Council of Indies seriously consider their requests? What was the response, after 1795, of royal officials, local elites, and the castas to the publication of an official price list permitting the purchase of whiteness? What were the aftermaths? Tracing the history of the whitening gracias al sacar specifically and of casta mobility generally has understandably proven a complicated undertaking. Trends do not fall easily into “order and inevitable sequences.”80 Rather, a variety of interventions on both sides of the Atlantic in distinct locations and at differing moments shaped, failed to shape, or subsequently altered progressions that seem closer to being “inherently discontinuous” than easily discernible. Exploring such complexities through a processual methodology invites conclusions as to how three overarching foci— contexts, actors, and chronologies—interacted to shape developments.



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contexts: tr aditions, time, pa t t e r n s , g e n e a l o g y, l o c a l i t y Deep-rooted Spanish practices provided essential contexts to those progressions that facilitated mutability. Even as peninsulars acknowledged hierarchies of exclusion based on color and class, privileging whiteness and rank, they left open possibilities for inclusion. Both sides of the Spanish Atlantic shared a conceptual plane that recognized not only the origin (naturaleza) of pardo-ness and mulatto-ness but also its method of transmission (naturaleza, limpieza), its meaning (limpieza, calidad), and its potential for alteration by removal of defect (defecto). Peninsular traditions uniquely combined with the American environment to open interstices for newly arrived Africans to negotiate pathways from slavery to freedom to vassalage. The medieval Siete Partidas recognized that slaves would naturally seek freedom, establishing the potential for purchase or grant of liberty with the acquiescence of the state. The legal recognition that women with free wombs always gave birth to free babies had an incalculable impact in the Americas, given the potential motherhood of millions of indigenous women. It provided male slaves with the immediate option of automatically freeing sons and daughters borne by native and later by free casta partners. Slaves, free blacks, pardos, and mulattos could access the legal system, seeking remedy. Property laws proved color blind, permitting acquisition of possessions, as well as secure passage to succeeding generations. The passage of time mattered. Compared to Anglo America, first waves of Africans disembarked centuries earlier in the Indies. Their arrival combined with the royal insistence that slaves become Catholics to influence outcome profoundly, even though African beliefs persisted and blended. As the centuries passed, a shared religion united the inhabitants of the Indies forging them into a Spanish Catholic “us.” It was as coreligionaries that blacks, pardos, and mulattos received permission to take up arms with whites to defend their mutual homeland against foreign and often nonCatholic enemies. Such evidence of royal service moved participating castas from the category of inconveniences, to the status of vassals worthy of reciprocity and rewards. Free pardos and mulattos followed discernible patterns as they sought upward mobility. They first strove to detach markers of inferiority such as

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tribute payments; they then sought indicators of whiteness such as permission to bear arms or to serve in prohibited occupations. Typically, relief from such discriminations first accrued to the individual; later designated groups might be favored and finally the castas generally. While some white privileges—attendance at university or admission into the priesthood—proved particularly difficult to achieve—others—officer status in the militias, the professions of notary or surgeon—became possible. These occupational exemptions would establish the precedents leading to the promulgation of the whitening gracias al sacar. Genealogical mathematics influenced outcomes. The propensity of white males to unite with black and parda female partners led, over the generations, to the creation of intermediate cohorts moving toward whiteness. Gender influenced sexual strategies, given that parda and mulatta women experienced greater latitude in arranging temporary, longer term, or marital relationships with white males over the generations, lightening sons and daughters. In contrast, pardo males faced higher barriers to providing mobility to the next generation. They either formed relationships with peers whose fathers were white or with plebeian white women. Locality proved fundamental to mobility. Central American, Peruvian, and Mexican castas were more likely to experience success than counterparts from Cuba or Venezuela. Yet everywhere, there could be individual achievement, although pardos and mulattos who rejected such strategies likely experienced greater difficulty in establishing informal or official status as whites.

actors: castas, royal officials, local elites The castas, royal officials, and local elites figured as actors who composed the “critical personalities” whose interactions shaped the history of the gracias al sacar.81 Pardos and mulattos shaped the initial dynamics. Once they achieved status as loyal vassals, the odds were good that royal officials would not immediately dismiss but rather consider their petitions. Applicants attempted to detail the consequences of whitening, although they differed as to whether it was a personal favor or a total status alteration that passed to succeeding generations. Their increasingly comprehensive files provided



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the grist for royal officials to consider guidelines for approvals. Even when bureaucrats prevaricated, given that whitening was not an imperial priority or thought-out policy, pardos and mulattos applied and reapplied, often over the course of years. Cluster applications linked some petitions, as the successful relative, co-worker, or neighbor might inspire another. Pardos and mulattos never challenged the rationale that whiteness was a superior attribute while African ancestry was a defect. Rather, they argued that they should be exceptions to the general discriminatory rules, although some questioned the inequities embedded in Spanish traditions and legislation.82 Even as Caracas elites challenged the whitening gracias al sacar, castas reminded both local and imperial officials of the mandate of reciprocity, the imperial obligation to provide commensurate rewards for loyal services. While few pardos and mulattos received official whiteness, their case histories reveal evidence of informal passing, suggesting they were but the visible tip of larger numbers. Those pardos and mulattos denied and granted whiteness by the Council of the Indies followed contradictory paths. Success did not mean the individual would receive the perquisites of whites; failure did not mean that the sought-after mobility was precluded. The privileges sought, timing, locale, wealth, appearance, and personal connections variously influenced outcomes. As the empire collapsed, pardos and mulattos achieved some long-sought goals: permission to attend the university and to become priests, although the constitution of 1812 only provided an expedited gracias al sacar type of process to achieve citizenship. This would not be sufficient. Casta males would—at least in theory—achieve equality with whites after independence. Spanish imperial officials proved to be other crucial players in debates concerning the inclusion and exclusion of the castas. Early on, they enforced repressive codes against African slaves as they circumscribed their movements and fiercely prosecuted any violations. Bureaucrats also maintained a complicated discriminatory regime against the free castas, demanding payment of tribute, forbidding university admission, office holding, practice of professions, and the wearing of luxury garments. Many considered their growing number as inimitable to the empire, given their uncertain loyalty to Spain. Prejudice began to lessen in the 1620s, as officials at both the imperial and local levels began to appreciate casta loyalty, particularly their

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conclusions

contributions in defense against foreign attackers. Royal decrees shifted from almost uniform condemnation to more than occasional praise. Imperial officials approved the expansion of pardo and mulatto militias, freed them from tribute, granted the military fuero, and sanctioned appointment of their own officers. The Council of the Indies and local officials recognized that the castas were vassals, worthy of reciprocity, even if in an inferior status to whites. When, in the mid-eighteenth century, the Council of the Indies began to receive casta petitions for occupational or full whitening, they struggled to develop guidelines for evaluation. One problem was that the whitening clauses had appeared due to bureaucratic housekeeping rather than proceeding from any considered policy to further casta mobility. It also proved difficult to establish precedents when requests arrived sporadically, sometimes with gaps of months or years in between. Some trends do emerge. Officials without experience serving in the Americas were more likely to lack understanding, both of the information conveyed and the potential impact of decisions on local communities. Ministers proved most likely to provide exceptions to surgeons or notaries who possessed the required skills at the time of application. Whitening the parda wives of elite males proved less controversial than granting mobility to their masculine counterparts. Even old Indies hands veered back and forth, precluding the development of a coherent policy. Fiscal Antonio de Porlier raised wide-ranging questions concerning the potential difficulties in implementation. Longstanding Peruvian crown attorney José de Cistué y Coll had the greatest impact, as he commoditized whiteness as a favor to be purchased and named such exemptions as belonging to the gracias al sacar. When the 1795 price list surfaced with the option for full whitening, he cooperated with his colleague Fiscal Ramón de Posada y Soto as both vainly attempted to limit the favor to occupational exemptions. The response of royal officials in the Americas was mixed, as the personal worth of the petitioner combined with local circumstances to affect whether they supported or disapproved. In Spain, ongoing disagreements between the crown attorneys and the Cámara remained a consistent pattern. Before 1795, the Cámara tended to be negative and the fiscals more positive. After 1795, the pattern reversed, as the crown attorneys attempted to deny petitions with the Cámara



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overruling them. Such contretemps led to a showdown with the full Council of the Indies in 1799, which rebuked the liberality of the Cámara. Implementation breakdowns in Caracas only complicated the failure of the Council, the Cámara and the fiscals to agree on whitening policy. First cousins and brothers-in-law Diego Mexias Bejarano and Juan Gabriel Landaeta returned repeatedly to ask the Council of the Indies to force locals to accept their new status as whites. Ministers steadfastly defended them in public, demanding that elites obey royal decrees. Nonetheless, comments scribbled on documents reveal that the Caracas protests had a substantial impact. Although whitenings elsewhere proved uncontroversial, fear of local protests began to outweigh the merit of petitioners in official decision making. Even as ministers struggled with enforcement, they did not preclude easing or abolishing discrimination against pardos and mulattos. Secretary of State Joseph Antonio Caballero responded positively to Franciscan José Antonio Goicoechea’s impassioned plea (1802) for the advancement of Guatemala’s castas, ordering the Council of the Indies to consider an empirewide policy. The secretary for Peru’s subsequent merger of whitening cases with the Guatemalan’s letter led the Council of the Indies to charge the unknown writer of the mystery consulta of 1806 to consider the consequences of ending both individual and general discrimination. While his 1806 consulta was cognizant and even sympathetic to the protests of the Venezuelan elite, the unknown minister agreed that pardos and mulattos should be permitted to purchase whiteness. He condemned the legal distinctions that left the castas in a permanent inferior status and suggested a policy to end prejudice against those descended from four generations of free, legitimate wombs. The Council of the Indies ignored this specific recommendation, choosing instead to table whitening decisions and engage in further discussions. While one reason was uncertainty concerning the negative revenue implications if the castas did not pay tribute, another concern was to avoid further outbursts from Venezuela. As the empire was crumbling, Chief Accountant Francisco José Viaña attempted, in his long-awaited report on the financial implications of casta whitening, to resolve decades of uncertainty. His 1808 consulta strongly supported the continuation of the gracias al sacar, which he determined should provide the benefits of full whiteness although limiting the grant to

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the individual. He suggested the creation of some vague platform to raise a greater cohort of deserving pardos and mulattos above their current status, although not equaling them with whites. Whether such policy recommendations would have resolved the whitening controversies remains unknown, as time had run out. With the Napoleonic invasion of the peninsula in 1808, the debate over the future of casta mobility shifted from the Council of the Indies to the delegates of the Cortes of Cádiz, tasked with writing a constitution for the empire. Although gracias al sacar never figured in the numerous speeches concerning the status of pardos and mulattos, the resulting articles provided analogous solutions. Even though the constitution designated pardos and mulattos as Spaniards, they had to apply and prove their worth to become citizens. Still, the debates between peninsulars and Americans over casta status did lead to a consensus that the state had an obligation to diminish barriers and provide opportunities for mobility, including access to higher education and the priesthood. When Ferdinand VII returned in 1814, whitening decisions reverted to the Council of the Indies where ministers acquiesced to the least controversial of favors, providing a final whitening decree to the wife of a Spanish official. Not only the castas and royal officials but American elites also figured as key participants in the whitening process, although they impacted as much by their absence as their presence. The most evident trend was absolute silence from locations where pardos and mulattos received whitening decrees. When elites did appear, it was usually as witnesses, who testified with various degrees of enthusiasm in favor of casta friends and co-workers. The paramount exception was Caracas, where Mantuanos railed specifically against the petitions of the Mexias Bejaranos, Landaetas, and Arévalos and more generally against casta whitenings. Yet, even the Caracas establishment did not complain when elite husbands applied for whiteness for their parda wives. Debates in the Cortes of Cádiz over citizenship provide another lens on elite attitudes toward civil equality. The American delegation proved divided and conservative in the early months. It initially compromised equality for the castas in exchange for citizenship for themselves and the Native population. In later months, representatives attempted to reopen the issue of pardo and mulatto citizenship, both to increase the numbers of delegates and because they realized that the Americas might be lost if the Cortes denied parity.



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As the Cortes debated the articles of the constitution of 1812, Peruvian, Mexican, and Central American delegates fought passionately for equality for pardos and mulattos even though they knew they were outnumbered and almost certain to fail. They manifested their deep knowledge of the processes of upward mobility that shaped their own communities; they affirmed that the empire would not remain whole if the constitution excluded the castas. There never was unanimity in the American delegation as delegates from Cuba and Puerto Rico, who did not favor equality, remained silent. In the Indies, others with contradictory stakes—peninsular members of the Mexican consulado, Peruvian pardos—reacted negatively and positively to the legislation emanating from Cádiz. In a final irony, it would be Venezuelan elites—those most vehemently opposed to whitening—who would write a first constitution in 1811 promising equality to qualified castas.

chronologies: long, line a r, frozen, atl antic, tr aditional Attention to underlying contexts and identification of significant actors must also be complicated by appreciation of changing time spans. Long, linear, frozen, Atlantic, and traditional chronologies permit calculation of the absence and the presence of change. Long time mattered, for some historical processes—the movement from slave to free to vassal to citizen; the subsequent whitening of descendants; the creation of a coherent American Catholic “us”—might encompass successive generations and stretch over centuries. Pardo and mulatto mobilities figured in 1620s, 1700s, 1760s, and 1790s benchmarks as they, respectively, received respect for their defense of the empire, aspired to perquisites such as the priesthood and university, sought occupational exemptions to practice white professions, and first applied for the whitening gracias al sacar. Linear time tracked each whitening petition from first application to a final decision. In occupational whitenings, the fait accompli was most likely to lead to success, with dispensations accruing to petitioners already competent in the required skills. Status, wealth, relative whiteness, and the excellence of letters of application could be important in applications, but not necessarily the determinants of outcome.

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Rather, linear time revealed the most significant variable for success was the date the whitening petition arrived. The Council of the Indies proved more willing to grant applications appearing just after the issuance of the price list, in 1795 and 1796, before protests by Caracas elites and the difficulties faced by those whitened decreased ministers’ inclination to render a favorable verdict. Other variables—a repeated application, a recommendation by the Council of the Indies, an overruling by the Cámara, a particularly positive opinion by a fiscal—might lead to favorable decisions. Frozen time revealed both linkages and failed connections. There were defined periods when fiscals shared information on cases, or collaborated to shape policy, or used precedents from one case to influence the next. There were dysfunctional relationships, as crown attorneys and the Cámara disputed decisions or the Caracas cabildo and the local audiencia failed to communicate. Frozen time revealed static periods as decisions typically lagged at the end of year Christmas and New Year festivities, or stoppages when, with the office of one or both crown attorneys vacant, the business of the Council and Cámara significantly slowed. Atlantic time added geography to frozen time, recognizing that distance created simultaneous ignorances in the peninsula and the Americas. The Council of the Indies approved whitening cases in Madrid while a cabildo penned a blistering condemnation of gracias al sacar in Caracas. Ministers and fiscals disagreed over whitening cases in Spain while the Pardo Guild rejoiced over promulgation of the policy in Caracas. An unknown minister would write a mystery consulta in Madrid considering pathways for casta mobility during the same weeks that Francisco de Miranda would land in Venezuela attempting to raise pardos and mulattos against the empire. As the Council of the Indies gathered American delegates in Cádiz to write a constitution, cabildos throughout the Indies would take the first steps for independence from Spain. Appreciation of the lag times between actions in both hemispheres highlighted such immediate and longer-term discontinuities. Finally, traditional chronology located the gracias al sacar within existing historiographies. At the start, whitening seemed only peripherally a product of Bourbon social reform, given there was no coherent Council of the Indies policy in 1795 to provide mobility to the castas. If anything, the potential to purchase whiteness appeared more as a product of Bourbon tidying and codification. It proved a failure as a revenue enhancer, as it cost more to administer than the state received in fees from petitioners.



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In Caracas, where social tensions between whites and the castas were particularly exquisite, the gracias al sacar became entangled with another Bourbon measure, the Pragmatic Sanction on Marriages (1778), in which parents might appeal to the state to prevent the marriage of sons and daughters with unequals. The Council of the Indies refused to use the gracias al sacar to whiten pardo fiancés so they might bypass these prohibitions. Rather, officials left decisions on contested marriages to local audiencias who proved—particularly in Venezuela—to be unsympathetic to mixing. The history of the gracias al sacar suggests the need to revise interpretations of Bourbon administrative reform, particularly the effort to staff the Council of the Indies with officials with previous service in the Americas. A comparison of fiscals lacking Indies service with their counterparts after 1777—all who had spent time overseas—suggests that the policy met with some success. Personal knowledge of the Americas meant crown attorneys read files with deeper understanding. It gave them the confidence to demand obedience from querulous American elites and yet be sensitive to the imperial mandate not to alienate overseas populations. Less understood, until this study, was the dark side of Bourbon bureaucratic reform. The appointment of fiscals with American experience meant that months and years might pass while the office remained vacant due to delays as the newly appointed traveled from America to the peninsula. Given that there were only two crown attorneys, the absence of one or both created severe bottlenecks diminishing the effectiveness of the Council of the Indies and of imperial governance. Whitening, never a priority, foundered both in official responses to individual petitions and in the failure to formulate a clear policy concerning casta mobility. The changing fortunes of imperial enterprises in the Caribbean influenced the history of the whitening gracias al sacar. The British siege and capture of Havana in 1762 opened the door for Cuban pardos to perform royal service and request occupational exemptions and total whiteness. The Haitian Revolution (1791–1804) not only aroused fears concerning casta loyalties but provided them with ammunition to press for expanded mobility given their loyalty. Venezuelan elites moved from earlier rants where they denigrated pardos and mulattos as arrogant in their attempts to secure white privileges, to post-Haiti frenzied charges that those with education and military experience posed a fifth column given their potential disloyalty to the empire.

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The unknown minister who wrote the 1806 mystery consulta recognized these tensions between casta mobility and loyalty and the obligation of the state to maintain their allegiance. While the 1795 gracias al sacar might not have initially proceeded from such ministerial concerns, the 1802 letter of Franciscan Goicoechea condemning discrimination against the castas, the 1803 order of Secretary of State Caballero that the Council of the Indies evaluate whitening policy specifically and discrimination against the castas generally, signaled a change. Although ministers dismissed the radical four-generation free womb policy suggested by the mystery consulta, the unknown minister’s conclusion that imperial legislation unfairly prejudiced the castas would find resonance in its 1808 successor. Minister Viaña not only supported continuation of the whitening gracias al sacar but proposed additional mobility for deserving casta populations. He concluded that both expediency and justice demanded that there be reforms in discriminatory policies directed against pardos and mulattos. Similar sentiments emerged from the Cortes of Cádiz where debates over the status of the castas proved central in apportioning relative power between the peninsula and the Americas. With the exception of Caracas, local elites had proven mostly mute when castas applied for whitening. American representatives loudly broke such silence in parliamentary debates where they vehemently if unsuccessfully supported citizenship for pardos and mulattos. Cortes delegates confronted the reality that an American count that included the castas might eventually outweigh the representatives from Spain. The peninsular response was to deny immediate citizenship, insisting on a gracias al sacar–like pathway for eligible castas in the 1812 constitution. An additional decree provided long sought mobilities, abolishing barriers to university admission and entrance to the priesthood. The eventual response of pardos and mulattos, as well as the rest of the American mainland would be to reject imperial union, choosing independence.

conclusions A final location of the whitening gracias al sacar within a century of historiography suggests a possible answer to a question raised at the very beginning: Why did Spanish and Latin American scholars essentially take for granted that the purchase of whiteness was not particularly controversial,



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while their Anglo and U.S. counterparts characterized it as a novel and radical option? The answer should now be apparent: elements of different pasts remain rooted in their presents. Tracing the history of casta mobility and of the whitening gracias al sacar has exposed some uniquely characteristic and deeply embedded pathways through which the Hispanic world has typically negotiated processes of inclusion and exclusion—including whitening— over the centuries.83 A last historiographical paradox. Over the decades, so many scholars searched so intensely to discover evidence of whitening cases throughout Spanish America. Even when their hunt failed, they nonetheless somewhat obsessively—and in the majority of instances—wrongly—suggested that pardos and mulattos in their region still might have successfully applied for a whitening gracias al sacar. We now know that few petitioned, and even fewer obtained, royal decrees that granted whiteness. Yet, those who suggested that such mobility was possible were not wholly mistaken. The whitening gracias al sacar could only have existed because it rested on the real mobilities of unknown thousands of slaves, free blacks, castas, pardo, and mulatto vassals and soon-tobe citizens who leveraged those potentials inherent in their worlds to seek better lives for themselves and their children.

Appendixes

Appendix A: Archival/Printed References to Whitening Cases

Case

Archival/printed references

Type of dispensation Decision a Origin

Case 1, Grageda, 1743

Catálogo, T. 2, n. 797, 1743, p. 166 (Matías Perez Grageda), index to Cartas y Expedientes

Apothecary

Case 2, Salazar, 1758 Case 3, Flores, 1760

U

Havana, Cuba

AGI, Panamá 276, n. 3, 1767 (Juan Notary Evaristo de Jesús Borbúa), mentions 1758 petition of Bartolomé de Salazar

Y

Portobelo, Panama

AGI, Santo Domingo 1455, n. 4, 1760 (Antonio Flores for son)

Sons attend university / medicine

D

Havana, Cuba

Case 4, Báez y AGI, Santo Domingo 1455, n. 10, Llerena, 1760 1760 (Joseph Francisco Báez y Llerena)

Surgeon

Y

Havana, Cuba

Case 5, Avilés, 1763

AGI, Santo Domingo 1457, n. 7, 1763 (Miguel Joseph Avilés)

Surgeon

Y

Havana, Cuba

Case 6, Cruz y Mena, 1764

AGI, Santo Domingo 1357, no n., 1764 (Juan de la Cruz y Mena)

Sons attend D university / medicine

Bayamo, Cuba

Case 7, Polo, 1765

Konetzke, T. 3, Doc. 199, 1765; AGI, Panamá 293, n. 2, 1803 (Pedro Antonio de Ayarza for himself and sons), mentions Polo

Graduation university

Y

Cartagena, Colombia

Case 8, Borbúa, 1767

AGI, Panamá 276, n. 3, 1767 (Juan Evaristo de Jesús Borbúa)

Notary

Y

Portobelo, Panama

Whitening

D, D

Havana, Cuba

Notary

Y

Panama City, Panama

Case 9, Báez y AGI, Santo Domingo 1463, n. 8, Llerena, 1773 1773 (Manuel Francisco Báez y Llerena) Case 9, Báez y AGI, Santo Domingo 1471, n. 2, Llerena, 1787 1787 (Manuel Francisco Báez y Llerena) Case 10, Correoso, 1778

AGI, Panamá 286, n. 4, 1786 (Luis Joseph de Paz), mentions 1778, and mentions petition of Ciriaco Hipólito Correoso

(continued )

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appendix a

Case

Archival/printed references

Type of dispensation Decision a Origin

Case 11, Ramírez, 1783

AGI, Guatemala 411, n. 8, 1783 (Bernardo Ramírez)

Whitening

D

Guatemala City, Guatemala

Case 12, Homboni, 1785

AGI, Panamá 286, n. 4, 1786 (Luis Joseph de Paz), mentions 1785 petition of Francisco Homboni

Notary

Y

Portobelo, Panama

Case 13, Paz, 1786

AGI, Panamá 286, n. 4, 1786 (Luis Joseph de Paz)

Notary

Y

Portobelo, Panama

Case 14, Landaeta, 1798

RC, Doc. 10, 1798 (Juan Gabriel Landaeta)

Whitening

A

Caracas, Venezuela

Case 14, Landaeta, 1804

RC, Doc. 26, 1804 (Diego Mexias Bejarano, Antonio José Landaeta)

Case 15, Almeyda, 1792

AGI, Caracas 319, n. 69, 1792 (Doña Whitening Ana Dalmasia, Doña Juliana María Almeyda)

ND

Caracas, Venezuela

Case 16, AGI, Caracas 334, n. 61, 1794 (Don Whitening Briceño, 1794 Joseph Briceño for Petronila Antonia de la Parra Briceño and children)

A

Maracaibo, Venezuela

Case 17, AGI, Guatemala 676, n. 7, 1795 Tamayo, 1795 (Joseph Gil Tamayo)

Notary

U

? Guatemala

Case 18, Domingo Lucian, 1795

Konetzke, T. 3, Doc. 342, 1795

Office

Y

San Salvador, El Salvador

Case 19, Mexias Bejarano, 1789–1801

RC, Doc. 5, 1789–1801 (Diego Mexias Bejarano)

Whitening

Y

Caracas, Venezuela

Whitening

Y

Antioquia, Colombia

Case 19, RC, Doc. 12, 1796 (Diego Mexias Mexias Bejarano) Bejarano, RC, 1796 Case 19, Mexias Bejarano, AGI, 1796

AGI, Caracas 4, no n., 12 de julio de 1796 (Diego Mexias Bejarano)

Case 19, Mexias Bejarano, 1804

RC, Doc. 26, 1804 (Diego Mexias Bejarano, Antonio José Landaeta)

Case 19, Mexias Bejarano, 1805

RC, Doc. 25, 1805 (Diego Mexias Bejarano)

Case 20, Valenzuela, 1796

AGI, Santa Fe 721, n. 12, 1796 (Julián and Joseph Antonio Valenzuela)



a rc h i va l r e f e r e nc e s t o w h i t e n i ng c a se s

427

Case

Archival/printed references

Type of dispensation Decision a Origin

Case 21, Rodríguez, AGI, 1796

AGI, Caracas 4, no n., 26 de noviembre de 1796 (Angela Inés Rodríguez)

Whitening

Y

Puerto España, Trinidad

Case 21, Rodríguez, RC, 1796

RC, Doc. 15, 1796 (Angela Inés Rodríguez)

Case 22, Ayarza, 1797

AGI, Panamá 293, n. 2, 1803 (Pedro Antonio de Ayarza)

Whitening

Y, D, D, D

Portobelo, Panama

Case 22, Ayarza, 1803

AGI, Caracas 4, no n., 16 marzo 1797 (Pedro Antonio de Ayarza)

Case 23, Cowley, 1797

AGI, Santo Domingo 1493, n. 56, 1797 (Joseph María Cowley)

Whitening

Y

Havana, Cuba

Case 24, Olmedo, 1797

AGI, Buenos Aires 282, n. 24, 1797 (Pedro de Olmedo)

Whitening

D

Córdoba, Argentina

Case 25, Gutiérrez, 1798

AGI, Panamá 291, no n., 1798 (Manuel Antonio Gutiérrez)

Legitimation and whitening

Y, D

Portobelo, Panama

Case 26, Yañes, AGI, 1800

AGI, Caracas 378, n. 47, 1800 (Nicolás Francisco Yañes for María Nicolasa Garcés Yañes and children)

Don

Y

Coro, Venezuela

Case 26, Yañes, RC, 1800

RC, Doc. 20, 1800

Case 27, Valdés, 1802

AGI, Lima 982, 1802 (José Manuel Valdés)

Whitening

Y

Lima, Peru

Whitening

Y

Caracas, Venezuela

Case 28, AGI, Caracas 4, no n., 27 de Arévalo, 1802 diciembre de 1802 Case 28, Arévalo, 1802–1803

RC, Doc. 23, 1802–1803 (Domingo Arévalo)

Case 29, Borbúa, 1803

AGI, Panamá 293, n. 3, 1803 (Matías Joseph Borbúa)

Whitening

D

Panama City, Panama

Case 30, Gallegos, 1806

AGI, Caracas 404, 13 de septiembre de 1806 (Blas Gallegos)

Whitening

D

Caracas, Venezuela

Case 31, Ximénez, 1806

AGI, Caracas 404, 12 de septiembre de 1806 (Juan Joseph Ximénez)

Whitening

D

Caracas, Venezuela

Whitening

ND

Cumaná, Venezuela

Case 31, RC, Doc. 28, 1806 Ximénez, RC, 1806 Case 32, Aristimuño, AGI, 1806

AGI, Caracas 395, no n., 1806

(continued )

428

appendix a

Case

Archival/printed references

Case 32, Aristimuño, RC, 1806

RC, Doc. 29, 1806 (Juan Martin de Aristimuño for wife and children)

Case 33, Cruz AGI, Caracas 395, n. 5, 1806 Marqués, AGI, 1806

Type of dispensation Decision a Origin

Whitening

ND

Cumaná, Venezuela

Case 33, Cruz RC, Doc. 32, 1806 (Francisco de la Marqués, RC, Cruz Marqués for family) 1806 Case 34, Figueroa, 1808

AGI, Guatemala 743, no n., 1808, mentions Juan Antonio de Figueroa

Sons attend university

ND

Tegucigalpa, Honduras

Case 35, Sandoval, 1808

AGI, Guatemala 743, no n., 1808, mentions Francisca Gertrudis de Sandoval

Whitening

ND

Nandaime, Nicaragua

Case 36, Gallegos, 1808

AGI, Guatemala 743, no n., 1808, mentions Joseph María Gallegos, Caracas

Whitening

ND

Caracas, Venezuela

Case 37, Salas, 1808

AGI, Guatemala 743, no n., 1808, mentions José Salas

Notary

ND

Havana, Cuba

Case 38, Caballero Carranza, 1808

AGI, México 1909, no n., 1808 (Manuel Caballero Carranza)

Whitening

ND

Puebla, Mexico

Case 39, Fernández, 1808

AGC, SA1, L 49, E 1219, 1808 (Francisco Fernández)

Pharmacist

Y

Antigua, Guatemala

Case 39, Fernández, 1811

AGC, SSSA, L 1886, E 12291, 1811 (Francisco Fernández)

Case 40, Rodríguez, 1816

AGI, Caracas 4, no n., 22 de marzo de 1816 (Juana Josepha Rodríguez)

Whitening

Y

Puerto Cabello, Venezuela

n o t e : To expedite citation, the forty partial or full petitions for whitening appear in chronological order with a case number, name, and date. If there is more than one reference, the case also cites other dates. If the dates are the same, the reference additionally cites the sources, either the Archivo General de Indias (AGI), Rodulfo Cortés (RC), or Konetzke. Such abbreviated citations only apply to the forty cases; other archival references appear in regular form. While a few of these cases also appear in Konetzke, he rarely reproduces the full file; therefore archival references provide the best information. The numbers for whiteness count the cases of “precursor” applications for occupational and full whiteness before 1795 as well as after the publication of the price list. While the majority of cases (twenty-nine) derive from the process described using the indexes for Cartas y Expedientes, other petitions that met the criteria where pardos or mulattos requested partial or full whiteness also counted. This included two published documents in Konetzke (T. 3, Doc. 199, 1765, Polo; T. 3, Doc. 342, 1795, Lucian); the Rodulfo Cortés documents for Landaeta; three mentions of pardos receiving dispensations as examples in other cases (Case 13, Paz, 1786, Homboni, Correoso; Case 8, Borbúa, 1767, Salazar); the addition of four cases in the 1808 consulta (AGI, Guatemala 743, no n., 1808, Figueroa, Sandoval, Gallegos, Salas; I thank Laura Matthew for this document); and one from a Guatemalan archive (AGCA, SSSA, L 1886, E 12291, 1811, Fernández; I thank Mauricio Pajon for this document). While it seems quite possible that there may be other petitions not located in Cartas y Expedientes, given the newness of the process and document dislocations brought by wars, the majority likely followed this bureaucratic path. The number of individuals included in each case varied from a single individual to seventeen. a Y (yes), D (denied), U (unknown), ND (no decision), O (ambiguous).

Appendix B: Dates of Service, Vacancies, and Experience of Fiscals for Peru and New Spain (Mexico) Name

Date fiscal

Vacant

Days vacant

Indies experience

peru Juan Cavallero y Soto

3/9/1717 to 7/11/1720

7/12/1720 to 10/7/1720

88

No

Juan De Valcárcel y Formento

10/8/1720 to 4/21/1721

4/22/1721 to 7/10/1721

80

No

Pedro de Afán de Rivera

7/11/1721 to 7/27/1723

7/28/1723 to 9/22/1723

148

No

José de Laysequilla y Palacios y Aguilar

9/23/1723 to 2/8/1738

None

None

Santo Domingo, Quito, Santa Fe

Prudencio Antonio de Palacios

2/2/1738 to 3/3/1744

3/4/1744 to 3/27/1744

24

Santo Domingo, Guadalajara

José Manuel de Rojas

3/28/1744 to 11/22/1748

11/23/1748 to 2/1/1749

71

No

Manuel Pablo de Salcedo

2/2/1749 to 2/4/1764

None

None

No

Manuel Patiño

2/4/1764 to 6/1/1767

6/2/1767 to 6/15/1767

14

No

Pedro Gonzáles de Mena y Villegas

6/16/1767 to 5/10/1772

5/11/1772 to 8/25/1772

107

No

Pedro de Piña y Mazo

8/26/1772 to 5/21/1777

5/22/1777 to 6/14/1778

389

No

José de Cistué y Coll

6/15/1778 to 9/25/1802

9/26/1802 to 2/9/1808

1963

Guatemala, Mexico

Ambrosio Cerdán y Pontero

Died en route

Chile, Lima, Guatemala

José Lucas de Gorvea y Vadillo

2/10/1808 to 10/18/1809

Chile, Lima, Buenos Aires (continued )

429

430

appendix b mexico

Antonio Jacinto Valcárcel 8/5/1715 to y Formento 2/8/1718

No

None

No

Tomás de Sola y Soto

1/27/1718 to 3/28/1726

No

None

No

Manuel Martínez Carval

3/28/1726 to 2/27/1738

No

None

No

Jose Borrull y Ramón

3/26/1738 to 11/29/1750

2/28/1738 to 3/26/1738

26

No

Tomás de Maldonado Sánchez Romero

3/22/1752 to 12/18/1760

11/30/1750 to 3/22/1752

479

No

Luis Francisco Mosquera y Pimentel Quintanilla

7/19/1761 to 2/3/1765

12/19/1760 to 7/19/1761

212

Mexico

Bernardo Cavallero y Tineo

2/14/1765 to 8/23/1766

2/4/1765 to 2/14/1765

10

No

Manuel Miguel Lanz de Casafonda

8/23/1766 to 7/29/1773

No

None

No

Antonio de Porlier

9/9/1775 to 7/8/1787

7/30/1773 to 9/9/1775

771

Charcas, Lima

Ramón Rivera y Peña

10/4/1787 to 7/13/1789

7/9/1787 to 10/4/1787

87

Charcas, Lima

Juan Antonio Uruñuela Aransay

2/5/1791 to 4/7/1793

7/14/1789 to 2/5/1791

571

Manila, Mexico, Guatemala

Ramón de Posada y Soto

10/26/1794 to 4/8/1793 to 2/9/1803 10/26/1794

567

Guatemala, Mexico

Lorenzo Serapio Hernán- 9/5/1803 to dez de Alva Alonso 5/20/1806

2/10/1803 to 9/5/1803

207

Santo Domingo, Mexico

Manuel del Castillo y Negrete

5/21/1806 to 3/22/1810

1401

Manila, Mexico, Guadalajara, Guatemala

3/22/1810

s o u r c e : For Peru, Burkholder, Biographical, 25–26, 129–30, 2–3, 68–69, 91–92, 108, 114–15, 92, 51, 89, 29–31, 28– 29, 51–52. For Mexico, Burkholder, Biographical, 130, 118, 77, 18, 75, 83–84, 26, 67, 97–98, 107–8, 126–27, 100–102, 55–56, 23–25. n o t e : Dates calculated are when fiscals assumed the office, not when they received the appointment.

Notes

preface 1. Twinam, Miners. 2.  Testimony customarily contained terms such as “defect” or “stain” to describe African ancestry or illegitimacy. This created a dilemma how to remain faithful to eighteenth-century usage and understanding while cognizant that contemporary conceptualizations reject these as defects or stains. The resolution was to provide quotes when such terms derive from documents but also to use them as descriptors throughout the text in an emic fashion (see Chapter 2), with the understanding that these terms reflected the vocabulary and constructions of that (but certainly not of this) time. 3. Twinam, Public. 4.  See Chapter 2 for discussion of the similarities and differences between the terms “pardo” and “mulatto.” 5.  For varying usage of the term “casta,” see the discussion in Chapter 2.

chapter 1 Note: I have established the following procedures for citations, notes, spellings, geographical references, and italics. The references provide abbreviations to archival collections and cited materials. Complete references to the forty partial or full petitions for whitening appear in Appendix A. To expedite citation, these cases appear in chronological order with a case number, name, and date. If there is more than one reference, the case also cites other dates. If the dates are the same, the reference additionally cites the sources, either the Archivo General de Indias (AGI) or Rodulfo Cortés (RC). Such citations only apply to the forty cases. While a few of these documents also appear in Konetzke, he rarely reproduces the full file; therefore archival references provide the best information. Other archival references appear in regular form. In the text, I will provide a citation on first mention in an analysis and will not re-cite again if there are immediate following materials or quotations from the

431

432

notes to chapter 1

same archival document or from the same printed page. I will re-cite if there are different pages or intervening footnotes. I have also simplified spellings and locations. For example, José, can appear, even in the same document, as Josef and Joseph. I decided to use José when it appears and convert the rest to Joseph and Josepha; with a similar spelling for Raphaela (Rafaela). I have also eased Indies terminology for readers unfamiliar with New Spain (Mexico), New Granada (Colombia and Venezuela), and Santa Fe de Bogotá (Bogotá) using the more familiar contemporary designations. I only use italics for the first use of a foreign word; on repetition it appears in Roman. 1.  RC, Doc. 7, 1795. 2.  Oliveira Lima, “Evolution,” 22. 3. For discussion concerning the terms “pardo,” “mulatto,” and “casta,” see Chapter 2. Oliveira Lima, Evolution (1914) has recently been reprinted as Oliveira Lima, Evolution (2009). 4.  Other intellectuals in the 1920s and 1930s who promoted Latin America as a racial democracy include Gilberto Freyre, José Vasconcelos, and Fernando Ortiz. For a recent positive interpretation of this “myth of racial democracy,” see Bailey, 108–13. 5.  Vinson, “From,” 99. 6.  Chapman, 118. 7.  Crow, 260. 8.  King, “Case,” 641; Wauchope and Nash, 14; Shafer, 154; Fiehrer, 53; Domínguez, 37; Liss, 163; Flora and Torres-Rivas, “Central America,” 23; Haas, 31; Foster and Altamiranda, 287; Herzog, Defining, 263; Mirow, 292; Morrison, “Creating,” 61; López, 169; Reales, 20. 9.  Bermejo Cabrero, 369. 10.  Snow, 58; Davis, History, 142; Worcester and Schaeffer, 154; Burkholder and Johnson, 196; Keen, History, 154; Beezley and MacLachlan, 3; Chasteen, 86; Lynch, “Origins,” 30. 11.  Wauchope and Nash, 14; Willems, 42; Flora and Torres-Rivas, “Central America,” 23; Friedman, 81. 12.  Finkelman and Miller, 706; Heuman and Burnard, 235, 239; Levine, 31; Appiah and Gates, 657; Davies, 676. 13. Lanning, “Case,” 432–51. There are a number of spellings of Ponseano (Ponceano); the most used at the time was Ponciano. 14.  As Asunción Lavrin perceptively notes, “The terminology” that Lanning used at that time was also “evidence of the lack of understanding of the nuances of race since a mulatto is not a Negro.” However, such confluences were not uncommon, especially when U.S. authors wrote in English, given, as Lavrin notes, the propensity for “mistranslation due to American mental refusal to see the difference in shades” (personal communication, 2013). 15. Tannenbaum, Slave, 93. 16.  Tannenbaum, “Slavery,” 5.



notes to chapter 1

433

17.  Winn, 111, puts this succinctly. 18.  Case 22, Ayarza, 1797. 19.  King, “Case,” 641. 20. Oliveira Lima, “Evolution,” 22; Crow, 260; Blanco-Fombona and Ga­ baldón Márquez, 314, figure among a number of authors who assumed that those who were darker paid more. 21.  King, “Case,” 642. 22.  Ibid., 644. 23.  Ibid.; Blanco and Azupurú, 263–75. 24.  King, “Colored,” 57. 25.  Lanning, “Church,” 337. 26. Lanning, Eighteenth, 10. 27.  Vallenilla Lanz, 45, did note that the gracias al sacar list was “extremely curious.” 28.  Madariaga, 541. 29.  Ots Capdequi, “Sobre,” 12. 30.  Blanco-Fombona and Gabaldón Márquez, 314, criticized the Spanish monarchy as being “hurried [to collect] money and therefore ‘little scrupulous’ in selling the gracias al sacar,” thereby alienating white elites who acted against both the “inferior ethnic classes” and the “king” with “people of color” not being able to obtain any “social or political preponderance” during the colony. 31.  Mendoza, 382. 32.  Vallenilla Lanz, 62, 63. For analysis of his influence and views on race in Venezuela, see Von Vacaro, 91–100. 33.  Konetzke, T. 3, Doc. 349, 1797; Doc. 347, 1796; Doc. 367, 1805. 34.  Ibid., T. 3, Doc. 177, 1760; Doc. 178, 1760; Doc. 189, 1763; Doc. 191, 1764; Doc. 192, 1764. 35.  Ibid., T. 3, Doc. 272, 1783. 36.  Ibid., T. 3 (legitimations Doc. 222, 1771; Doc. 254, 1780; Doc. 257, 1780; Doc. 258, 1781; Doc. 324, 1791; Doc. 343, 1795) (nobility Doc. 228, 1774; Doc. 266, 1783; Doc. 287, 1785; Doc. 299, 1787; Doc. 295, 1786). 37.  Herbert, 695. 38. Mörner, Race, 45. 39.  Ibid., 64. 40.  Love, 93. 41.  Ibid., 103. 42. In Slavery, 247, Elkins built on Frank Tannenbaum’s comparisons to note that a freedman in the Spanish Indies might “purchase a ‘certificate of whiteness’ that allowed him access to the highest social and political circles.” 43.  Oleachea Labayen, 231. 44. Ibid., 240. Unfortunately, his research was not widely available to an English-reading audience. 45.  Ibid., 247.

434

notes to chapter 1

46.  New York Times, May 10, 1963. 47.  Mörner, “History,” 26. 48.  Bowser, “African,” 86. 49.  Ibid., 77. 50.  Cohen and Greene, 1. 51.  Bowser, “Colonial,” 46. 52.  Ibid., 47. 53.  Willems, 40. 54.  Ibid., 41. 55.  Ibid., 42. 56.  Rout, 156. 57.  Ibid., 158. 58.  Ibid., 159. 59.  Ibid., 319. 60.  Ibid., 159. 61. Rodríguez, Hoja. 62.  These published documents are essential. After Rodulfo Cortés’s research and the compilation of the twenty-two-volume index for Caracas, the Archive of the Indies subsequently consolidated the Caracas section. They moved many of the whitening cases that were in Caracas 976, the last legajo for Caracas, and scattered the documents in other volumes. Since then, they have lost the guide to where they put the cases. So the documents published by Rodulfo Cortés remain the most accessible given the unknown location of some cases. I thank Jesse Cromwell for helping me locate this history. 63. McKinley, Pre-revolutionary, provided a reference to the Rodulfo Cortés’s documents, but it was not picked up by scholars outside of Venezuelan history; Wright mentioned the collection in 1990 and a few quoted it; Twinam, Public, cited in 1999. Scholars have referenced it more frequently in recent years. 64.  RC, 1, 272. 65.  Ibid., 99. 66.  Ibid., 641. 67.  Ibid., 642. Rodulfo Cortés’s lack of access to documents likely affected his evaluation of the origins and ultimate impact of the whitening gracias al sacar. He did not have the Cuban, Panamanian, and Guatemalan cases prior to 1795, nor some of the later petitions from Venezuela, nor, with the exception of excerpts of one case from Colombia (Ayarza), petitions from the rest of the Americas. He could not track the internal discussions in the Council of the Indies over whitening nor gauge the potentially greater mobility for successful applicants outside of Venezuela. 68.  Ibid., 338. 69.  Ibid., 420. 70. This would become a standard view of Venezuelan independence. However, recent research has complicated both the roles of the Caracas elites and urban and provincial pardos and mulattos. For more recent interpretations, see Langue,



notes to chapter 1

435

“Pardos”; Gómez, “Revolución”; and Gómez, “‘Pardo Question,’” pars. 29–36, 51–60, 63–72. The Caracas pardo elites, particularly those associated with the militias, joined with the Mantuanos in the April 18, 1810, decision not to recognize the Regency after the fall of Andalucía but to declare their own quasi-independence under the “mask of Ferdinand” feigning loyalty to the king in exile. Pardo elites supported the declaration of independence on July 5, 1811, and the constitution in December that declared pardos citizens, although limiting suffrage according to worth. The pardo elite goal was not to achieve the end of slavery nor equality for lower-sector castas but rather their own equality with white creoles based on property requirements for voting. The result was that castas outside of Caracas eventually joined royalist armies, which promised greater benefits. As Salcedo-Bastardo and McDermott, 43, noted: “So far as the pardos were concerned, however, a distant monarch, if he was understanding, was preferable to a proud and arrogant local aristocracy, determined to maintain social distance.” For a comparison of the similar strategies and identities of pardo elites in Haiti and Venezuela, see Gómez, “Revoluciones,” par. 25. Also see Thibaud, 15, on how the fear of Haiti united the Mantuanos and the pardo elite. 71.  Case 22, Ayarza, 1803, elicited a question if, after being whitened, he might practice law, although even this query was not a complaint, as officials rightly assumed the answer was affirmative. 72.  Parda wives married to white husbands occasioned no protests from Caracas elites; they complained against pardo males—a surgeon and militia officers who sought whiteness. Case 21, Rodríguez, AGI, 1796; Case 21, Rodríguez, RC, 1796. Also see Case 19, Mexias Bejarano, AGI, 1796; Case 19, Mexias Bejarano, 1789–1801; Case 14, Landaeta, 1798; Case 28, Arévalo, 1802–1803. 73.  Case 19, Mexias Bejarano, 1789–1801; Case 14, Landaeta, 1798; Case 28, Arévalo, 1802–1803. 74.  Domínguez, 38, was an exception, as he characterized the whitening gracias al sacar as a form of “affirmative action.” 75.  Vinson, “Free,” 180. 76.  McAlister, “Social,” 369. 77.  Vinson, “Free,” 180. 78. Mörner, Race, 70. 79.  Mörner, “Economic,” 355. 80.  Chance and Taylor, “Estate and Class in a Colonial City,” 454–87; McCaa, Schwartz, and Grubessich, 421–33; Chance and Taylor, “Estate and Class: A Reply,” 434–42; Seed, 569–606; Seed and Rust, 703–10; Mörner, “Economic,” 335–69; Anderson, 209–43. 81.  Cohen and Greene, 11, mention the “terminological cul-de-sac”; Vinson, “Free,” 180, describes it as “too neat.” More recently Gates, 196, has revisited the issue to suggest that in the gracias al sacar “class . . . could trump race.” Lewis, 181, concludes that “race and class both took on an increasing importance” in Mexico, rather than class overtaking race as the key variable. 82.  Cope, 84.

436

notes to chapter 1

83.  Ibid., 83, 84. 84.  Ibid., 84. 85.  Schmidt, 6. 86.  Gil, 10. 87.  Rodríguez O., Mexican, 11; Roniger and Sznajder, 57; Nieto-Phillips, 28; Ansaldo, Matthews, and Lim, 245. 88.  Guss, 270. 89.  Hasenbalg, 165. Also see Cottrol, Long, 266–91. 90. Helg, Liberty, 148. 91.  Ibid., 257. 92. Lasso, Myths, 9. 93.  Ibid., 26, 27. 94. Helg, Liberty, 148. 95. Lasso, Myths, 158. 96.  Wright, 125, also discussed the Venezuelan “creed of racial democracy,” which meant that Venezuelans would “not admit that racial discrimination existed in their country, and as a corollary, they considered any expression of racial discrimination foreign in origin or un-Venezuelan.” 97.  Some, such as Glenn, 45, and Wade, 62, have the date wrong. This seems to have sprung from Rout’s comment, 156, that in 1783 the king had ruled that “a person of impure origin could be declared clean.” It is unclear where this reference came from, although it likely originated from Fiscal Antonio de Porlier’s comments concerning one of the first whitening cases, Bernardo Ramírez, which occurred in 1783. See Case 11, Ramírez, 1783. 98. Lynch, Simón, 11; Stoan, 17. 99.  Willems, 42; Herzog, “Stranger,” 57. 100.  Borah, Hardoy, and Stelter, 42; Friedman, 44. 101.  Lau, 431. 102.  Haring, 198. 103.  Blanco-Fombona, 158. 104. Gibson, Spain, 20. 105. Worcester and Schaeffer, 154; Salcedo-Bastardo and McDermott, 43; Blanco-Fombona, 158; Brown, 165; Gómez-Muller, 19; Lau, 436; Wickberg, 49; Herzog, Defining, 242; Montaner, 80; Urrieta, 159; Daniel, 111; Richmond, 208; Vázquez, 40; Wolfe, 179; Sloan, xvii. Martínez, Genealogical, 258–59, notes that natives were never considered impure, nor were mestizos. 106.  Mexico (Schmidt, 50; Booker, Veracruz, 14; Castillo Palma, 39; Swarthout, 42; González, 56), Nicaragua (Wolfe, 179), Ecuador (Phelan, Kingdom, 15), Peru (Brown, 107; Hünefeldt, 14; Cahill, 336), Argentina (Socolow, Bureaucrats, 106), Puerto Rico (Kinsbruner, 26; Guerra, 215), Cuba (Domínguez, 39; López Núñez, 55; Gates, 196), Philippines (Bankoff, 225; Wickberg, 34), California (Haas, 31; Moss, 224–25), New Mexico (Nieto-Phillips, 74), Florida (Landers, Black, 282; Sweet, Legal, 225), and Louisiana (Macdonald, Kemp, and Haas, 24; Frederick,

notes to chapter 2



437

“Blood,” 77). Wolfe names a possible applicant in 1815 in Nicaragua, 179, but the Council of the Indies seems not to have considered his petition. 107.  Burdick, 42; Guss, 270; Rodriguez, Slavery, 407, 432. 108. http://lanic.utexas.edu/project/tavera/espana/indias/indias.html. 109.  Álvarez-Coca González provides insight into the parallel process as to how the Cámara of Castilla internally organized its documents. 110.  AGI, Buenos Aires 300. 111.  The indexes to the Cartas y Expedientes sections of the AGI can be found in Buenos Aires 300; Charcas 455; Chile 231; Cuzco 14; Guadalajara 367; Guatemala 592; Lima 982; Mexico 1687; Panama 298; Quito 277; Santa Fe 731, 985, and 1184; Santo Domingo 1347. A printed index, Audiencia de Caracas, provides access to the Venezuelan documents. 112.  See discussion in Appendix A. 113. Twinam, Public, 310. 114.  Cooper and Stoler, “Between,” 6. 115.  Case 9, Báez y Llerena, 1773, provides an early example. 116.  RC, Doc. 7, 1795. García, Intendencia, 188, suggests that the 1773 Spanish arancel might have precipitated Juan Gabriel Landaeta’s requests for whiteness in 1788, but this seems unlikely, given the crown did not publish the price list in the Americas, nor did whitening appear in the peninsular version. 117.  Case 13, Paz, 1786. 118.  RC, Doc. 7, 1795. 119.  Case 24, Olmedo, 1797; Case 22, Ayarza, 1803. 120.  The crown collected 3400 reales before 1794 from Panamanian notaries. After 1795, officials received 5100 reales in payments. For the disposition of cases see Appendix A. 121.  RC, 1, 99. 122. Helg, Liberty, 94–95. 123.  RC, 1, xxvii, also questions if “a simple reading . . . in the corners of the cities . . . would awake such interest.” 124.  Case 4, Báez y Llerena, 1760; Case 9, Báez y Llerena, 1773. 125.  Case 5, Avilés, 1763; Case 6, Cruz y Mena, 1764. 126.  Case 8, Borbúa, 1767; Case 29, Borbúa, 1803. 127.  AGI, Buenos Aires 280, n. 14, 1796 (Don Joseph Ramón de Olmedo legitimation); Case 24, Olmedo, 1797; Case 21, Rodríguez, AGI, 1796; Case 40, Rodríguez, 1816. 128.  Cooper and Stoler, “Between,” 7. 129. Stoler, Carnal, 202.

chapter 2 1.  Maravall, 84. 2.  Elements of this chapter have appeared in Twinam, “Purchasing.”

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3.  See this chapter for the methodology to identify serving fiscals. Rípodas Ardanaz, Ilustrado, on the career of Porlier. 4.  Case 11, Ramírez, 1783. 5.  See the opening quote in Chapter 6 by Porlier. Even though he had no doubts the king had the power to whiten, the question was open if it would work. 6.  Lett, 382–83. 7.  Harris, 331. 8.  Cooper, 18–19. 9.  Pettigrew, 347. 10.  Ibid., 338. 11.  Ibid., 345. 12.  Ibid., 339. 13. Stoler, Along, 108. 14.  Winn, 112. 15. Such distinctions derive from Tannenbaum, Slave; and Fuente, “From Slaves,” 156–57. 16.  Fuente, “From Slaves,” 162–63. Also see Hünefeldt, 200–201. 17. Tannenbaum, Slave, 105. 18.  Schmidt-Nowara, 381. 19.  Fuente, “From Slaves,” 157. 20.  Cooper, 17. 21.  Schmidt-Nowara, 378–79. 22.  See Gould for the concept of “entangled” histories. 23.  Díaz, “Beyond,” 371–74. 24.  Fuente, “Slavery,” 383. 25.  Cottrol, “Clashing,” is also in agreement. 26.  Cooper, Holt, and Scott, 17. They also critique his conclusions on slave treatment, on the specific influence of legal and religious institutions, and on the intermediary linkages between slavery and citizenship. 27.  Fuente, “From Slaves,” 166. 28.  Hollinger, 1388. See Jones, ix–xvii, on the U.S. “myth of race.” 29.  Stoler, “On Political,” 102–4. Spickard sees this as a “racial moment” where one group attempts to “racialize,” “to exert power over the other.” 30. Restall, Black, 91, notes that “casta” and “socioracial” standing might alter given conversion, changed birth, or social status or public reputation. 31.  Smedley, 691. 32.  Ibid., 695. 33.  Ibid., 696. 34.  Gross, 132–33, cites a declaration from Thurman v. State (1850) in Alabama: “A mulatto is to be known, not solely by color, kinky hair, or slight admixture of negro blood, or by a greater admixture of it not amounting to one-half, but by reputation, by his reception into society, and by the exercise of certain privileges.” Hodes, 103, also notes the absence of rigid categories in the antebellum South.



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35.  Cope, 83–84. Restall, Black, 82, suggests there were similar attitudes in early 1900s Dallas. 36.  Gross, 118. Hodes, 97, remarks that when the District of Columbia abolished slavery in 1862 it described the former slaves on a range of classifications ranging from “dark black, quite black, light black, dark brown, light brown, chestnut, dark chestnut, copper-colored, dark copper, light copper, yellow, dark yellow, bright yellow, pale yellow, very light and nearly white.” Hoefte and Vrij, 157, note that in Dutch Suriname one-eighth African (octoroons) counted as white and onefourth African (quadroons) figured as white if they were legitimate but as “colored” if they were illegitimate. In contrast, Schafer, 78–85, traces the pre–Civil War (1820–1850s) establishment of white supremacy as Florida moved from Spanish to American control. Rebecca J. Scott, 261–62, reminds that even “multiple color terms” do not necessarily lead to socioracial “fluidity.” Rather, “racism need not be based on dichotomous categories imagined to be biological; it can be framed within a continuum whose content is construed as partially cultural, with a social ‘whiteness’ remaining at the top and a multiplicity of categories below.” 37.  Elliott, “Telling,” 617. Hodes, 157–58, tracks the transition from a pre–Civil War South that did not usually violently react against interracial sexual relations between black men and white women to post–Civil War responses of “threats and lethal violence.” Hodes concludes that “without the legal status of slavery and freedom as a dividing line, white southerners had to rely on the fickle categories of ‘black’ and ‘white’ to define white supremacy.” The result was the “one drop rule.” Such manipulation proved possible because there was no recognition of a substantial mixed population in the South, as compared to Spanish America where the castas had evolved into a major and recognized demographic. Wright, 7, quoting Carl Degler, notes that there was no “mulatto escape hatch.” 38.  Sturtz, 65; Gardner, 172, 206–7. Such early requests had limited scope: to enjoy white status so “negros and slaves” could not testify against them, or the right to trial by jury. Sturtz, 80; Heuman, 6. 39.  Newman, 174; Sturtz, 82, suggest there were between 120 and 500 such petitions. 40.  Heuman, 15. 41.  Burns, “Unfixing,” 189. 42.  Smedley, 696. 43.  Sweet, “Iberian,” 165. Also see Gómez, “Estigma,” which traces the “demystification of Africans” and the subsequent denigration of their image. 44.  Sweet, “Iberian,” 146–50. 45.  Ibid., 152. 46.  Ibid., 165. 47.  For use of “color pardo,” see examples in Case 4, Báez y Llerena, 1760; Case 13, Paz, 1786; Case 22, Ayarza, 1803; Case 33, Cruz Marqués, RC, 1806. For brown (trigueño), see Case 40, Rodríguez, 1816; for white, see Case 20, Valenzuela, 1796.

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48.  The Landaeta petitions contained the first three usages with nouns, Case 14, Landaeta, 1798; while Yañes made the remark about vassals, Case 26, Yañes, AGI, 1800. Also see Case 26, Yañes, RC, 1800. Sometimes the meaning was even more amorphous as in “dispensations of color” or “difference of color,” Case 20, Valenzuela, 1796; Case 14, Landaeta, 1798. 49.  Case 3, Flores, 1760. 50.  See Chapter 8. Case 19, Mexias Bejarano, 1789–1801. 51.  RC, Doc. 11, 1796. 52.  Case 19, Mexias Bejarano, 1789–1801. 53.  Case 9, Báez y Llerena, 1787; Case 11, Ramírez, 1783; RAH, Colección Mata Linares, T. 77 (reprinted in Konetzke, T. 3, n. 370, 1806, and RC, Doc. 31). 54.  Case 22, Ayarza, 1803. 55.  AHN-Madrid, Consejos lib. 1498, n. 4, 1795; RC, Doc. 7, 1795; RC, Doc. 22, 1801. 56.  Case 9, Báez y Llerena, 1773, “línea paterna de hombres blancos españoles.” 57.  RC, Doc. 18, 1797, “españoles blancos.” 58.  For example, of the use of Spaniards in baptismal records: Case 38, Caba­ llero Carranza, 1808; for whites, Case 31, Ximénez, 1806. 59.  Case 11, Ramírez, 1783, “españoles notorios y americanos de distinción”; RC, Doc. 11, 1796, “naturales de esta Provincia y vecinos españoles.” 60.  Bernardo Ramírez asked to obtain the “employments, honors and favors that are appropriate to Spaniards.” Case 11, Ramírez, 1783. 61.  Case 23, Cowley, 1797. 62.  Case 9, Báez y Llerena, 1773, “blancas de nacimiento”; Case 14, Landaeta, 1798, “contraer matrimonio con los blancos”; Case 28, Arévalo, 1802–1803, “contraer matrimonio con los blancos del estado llano.” 63.  Case 19, Mexias Bejarano, 1789–1801, “se le permita contraer matrimonio con personas blancas.” 64.  Case 9, Báez y Llerena, 1773. 65.  For whites, see Case 16, Briceño, 1794; Case 19, Mexias Bejarano, 1789–1801. For pardos, see Case 16, Briceño, 1794; Case 26, Yañes, AGI, 1800. 66.  Case 15, Almeyda, 1792; Case 11, Ramírez, 1783; Case 22, Ayarza, 1803; Case 26, Yañes, RC, 1800. Lasso, “Republican,” 8, equates “classes” with “races,” but the usage suggests there were nonethnic elements involved and the linkage was less uniform. Martínez, “Religion,” 20, in contrast sees “class” as denoting “socioeconomic factors, particularly occupation.” 67.  On casta paintings, see Katzew; Carrera, Imagining; Martínez, Genealogical; Deans-Smith, “Creating”; Deans-Smith, “Dishonor.” These authors agree that the casta paintings are not precise portraits of Indies society. 68.  Carrera, “Nuevo,” 59, suggests that the modern viewer of casta paintings might see them as “categories of twenty-first-century ‘race’” while eighteenthcentury observers would have looked at them differently. 69. Rappaport, Disappearing, 210.



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70.  Gonzalbo Aizpuru, 27. 71. Rappaport, Disappearing, 209. 72.  Ibid., 208; Gonzalbo Aizpuru, 42. 73.  See Chapters 3, 4, and 7 for examples. 74.  RC, Doc. 7, 1795. 75. Rappaport, Disappearing, 7, notes that casta “referred to lineage in a more general sense” in the sixteenth century and was “highly restricted,” 299, as to use in Colombia. Gonzalbo Aizpuru, 25, agrees concerning changing definitions over time although she sees it increasing in use, 149, in late eighteenth-century Mexico. 76. Rappaport, Disappearing, 225. 77.  RAH, Colección Mata Linares, T. 77 (reprinted in Konetzke, T. 3, n. 370, 1806, and RC, Doc. 31). A major distinction between pardos and mulattos compared to mestizos is that the latter possessed limpieza de sangre. See Chapter 3. 78.  Konetzke, T. 3, n. 225, 1772. 79.  DDAC, V. 8, 9/4, 1811, 148; ibid., 158. See Chapter 12. 80.  The inclusion of mestizos under the rubric of the castas seems to have varied considerably. Rappaport, Disappearing, 224, suggests that in Colombia casta referred to “all who were not Spaniards, Indians or slaves.” Gonzalbo Aizpuru, 62, suggests that the original group included in baptismal registers under the heading of castas were “blacks,” although by the late eighteenth century some mestizos “were considered forming part of the castas” in Mexico. 81.  Case 9, Báez y Llerena, 1773; Brubaker and Cooper have informed this discussion. 82.  Case 13, Paz, 1786. 83.  SP, P. iv, Tit. xxiii. 84.  Aubert, “Blood,” 453, 463, makes a similar gendered case for transmission in seventeenth-century France. 85.  Konetzke, T. 3, Doc. 358, 1802. 86.  While Vinson, “Studying,” 31, does not use the concept of naturaleza, he also notes that “caste categories” originated less from “phenotype as from parentage” with census takers evaluating the status of the parents and only then calculating the caste status of their offspring. 87.  Rappaport, “Asi,” 622–23, notes how color passed from parents to offspring complicated understanding of ethnoracial categories. For example, seventeenthcentury Jesuit Alonso de Sandoval suggested that “imagination” might “influence the color of human beings” so that if a “European mother” viewed “images of an Ethiopian during pregnancy,” the resulting child might be “born black.” Such doubts as to how color passed also influenced fascination with albinos, as their presence suggested that there was a “mutable character to skin color.” 88.  Case 4, Báez y Llerena, 1760. 89.  For limpieza de sangre in Spain, see Sicroff; Poole; Martínez, Genealogical, especially 265–75.

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90.  Hering Torres, 458, provides a discussion of the origin and use of raza. Burns, “Unfixing,” 188, traces a trajectory where early seventeenth-century definitions of raza (Covarrubias) referred to purebred breeds of horses or distinctive marks in cloth or to lineage such as descent from Jews or Moors. As Mignolo, 317–18, notes, “Animals were classified by ‘race’ and people by ‘ethnicity,’ for example, Spanish or Portuguese.” He sees the “slippage” by the subsequent use of “race” to describe Moorish or Jewish lineage or “blood,” meaning defect in “religion.” This juxtaposition of lineage and religion “planted the seed for the historical foundation of racism as a hierarchical classification of people.” In the late eighteenth- and nineteenthcentury reformulations, “skin color began to replace blood as a racial marker.” 91.  AHN-Madrid, Consejos Suprimidos, L. 4539, n. 128. 1760. 92.  Case 19, Mexias Bejarano, 1805. Bishop Francisco de Ibarra y Herrera noted that it was a “very ancient practice” to include in Venezuelan limpieza de sangre clauses that the individual had no “raza” of “mulatto.” 93. Martínez, Genealogical, 158. Also see Martínez, “Religion,” “Black,” and “Language.” Aubert, “Blood,” 460, also suggests that seventeenth-century French conceptualizations of clean blood were also “cultural rather than racial, with a special emphasis on religious differences.” Nazzari, 502, notes that in Brazil the “formulaic list” of those with unclean blood included Jews, Moors, mulattos, and Indians, with a local process to apply to ecclesiastical authorities for removal of the “tainted blood.” 94. Martínez, Genealogical, 168–69, 204–5. 95.  Branche, 71, notes an “important merging of specifically antiblack references with the general anti-Islamic images” in Baroque literature, suggesting the linkage of black with Moor. 96.  AGI, Santo Domingo 1474, n. 11, 1789, contains an American rendering. 97.  Sicroff, 293. 98.  Ibid., 119–20. 99.  Case 4, Báez y Llerena, 1760. 100.  Case 38, Caballero Carranza, 1808. Martínez, Genealogical, 222, provides similar examples from seventeenth-century Mexico. In Spain, American definitions also influenced limpieza de sangre variants. For example, a 1787 legitimation petition from Cádiz in 1787 included “mulattos” among the prohibited categories. AHN, L. 4605, n. 99, 1787. 101.  Katzew, 49, discusses theories of mixing; Jenks, 666–78, provides an early twentieth-century analysis of the impact of mixing percentages in the United States. 102.  Rappaport, “Asi,” 607, emphasizes the conditional nature of calidad, describing it as “the intersection of multiple axes that plotted individual status according to ethnicity or race, congregation, morality, privilege, and aspect.” 103.  While the references to calidad in gracias al sacar documents seem a conceptual shorthand for limpieza, in the real world, when observers evaluated calidad, they usually considered a range of qualities, including, as Rappaport, “Quién,” 46,



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notes, “color, ancestry of an individual, their state of legitimacy, religion, place of residence, office, gender, moral state, clothing and their status as noble, plebeian, free or slave.” 104.  Case 13, Paz, 1786. 105.  Case 6, Cruz y Mena, 1764; Case 16, Briceño, 1794. 106.  RC, Doc. 7, 1795. 107.  Case 22, Ayarza, 1803. 108.  Case 33, Cruz Marqués, AGI, 1806; Case 33, Cruz Marqués, RC, 1806. 109.  Case 22, Ayarza, 1803; Twinam, “Pedro,” 194–210. 110.  Case 32, Aristimuño, AGI, 1806; Case 32, Aristimuño, RC, 1806. 111.  Maravall, 84. 112.  Sicroff, 218. 113. Twinam, Public, explores the American legitimations and is currently researching the Spanish legitimations. 114.  Case 6, Cruz y Mena, 1764, contains this striking comment. 115.  Case 9, Báez y Llerena, 1773; Case 4, Báez y Llerena, 1760, contains a similar comment from his brother; Case 23, Cowley, 1797; Case 38, Caballero Carranza, 1808. Also see Case 13, Paz, 1786. 116.  Case 9, Báez y Llerena, 1787. 117.  Case 8, Borbúa, 1767. Also see Case 13, Paz, 1786, and Case 20, Valenzuela, 1796. 118.  Case 16, Briceño, 1794. 119.  Case 29, Borbúa, 1803. 120.  Cañeque, 157. 121.  Ibid., 160. 122.  Ibid., 159. Kettering, 18, makes the same statement for seventeenth-century France. 123.  Ibid., 161. 124.  Villella, 649, quotes mid-seventeenth-century Juan de Palafox, the bishop of Puebla, who denied university admission to blacks and mulattos but added that “the Indians, as vassals of His Majesty, can and should be admitted.” Bennett, Africans, 41, suggests that Africans “on arriving in Spanish America, became his [the monarch’s] vassals.” His support for this conclusion is that the king regulated the slave trade and mandated that there be licenses for importation of Africans. However, as Chapter 3 notes, since similar licenses were also necessary for horses, these did not seem a particular marker of vassal status. 125. Pagden, Fall, 33–34. 126.  Ibid., 36–37, 49, 59. 127. Martínez, Genealogical, 221. 128.  Historians need to track down the origin of the official use of vassal with more precision. While writers acknowledge that Africans were not automatically vassals, they fail to assign when the transformation to that status took place. For example, O’Toole, 4, 20, 22, 31, 33, 38, rightfully and constantly mentions Natives

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and Africans and the issue of vassalage and speaks of Africans as “Christian vassals,” 124, but provides little historic context for when or how there was a consensus that they had achieved it. 129.  Klein, “Free,” 26. 130.  Sartorius, “My Vassals,” par 2. 131.  Vinson and King, par. 2. Vinson, Bearing, 85–86, distinguishes between the attitudes of pardo officers, who might see service as mobility, and those of the rank and file. 132.  Klein, “Free,” 18. Also see Sartorius, “My Vassals,” par. 3. 133.  Case 33, Cruz Marqués, AGI, 1806; Case 33, Cruz Marqués, RC, 1806. 134.  Case 19, Mexias Bejarano, 1789–1801. 135.  Case 32, Aristimuño, AGI, 1806; Case 32, Aristimuño, RC, 1806. 136.  Case 22, Ayarza, 1803. 137.  Case 32, Aristimuño, AGI, 1806; Case 32, Aristimuño, RC, 1806. 138. AGI, Santo Domingo 1141, n. 9, 1786. Owensby, 79, emphasizes how “Spanish law, along with Catholicism, helped create and sustain a normative universe within which people were able to live together in inequality.” 139.  Case 11, Ramírez, 1783. 140.  Case 9, Báez y Llerena, 1787. 141. Landers, Atlantic, 7. 142.  Case 11, Ramírez, 1783. 143.  Case 9, Báez y Llerena, 1787; Case 31, Ximénez, 1806; Case 31, Ximénez, RC, 1806. 144.  Case 22, Ayarza, 1803. 145.  Case 26, Yañes, AGI, 1800; Case 26, Yañes, RC, 1800. 146.  Case 20, Valenzuela, 1796. 147. Twinam, Public, 26–30. Also see Bennett, Colonial, 48–49, which explores the private lives of Afro-Mexican plebeians. 148.  Fields, 1397–1405, suggests radically different attitudes toward passing in the United States. 149.  Case 33, Cruz Marqués, AGI, 1806; Case 33, Cruz Marqués, RC, 1806. 150.  Case 22, Ayarza, 1803. 151.  Case 32, Aristimuño, RC, 1806; Case 33, Cruz Marqués, AGI, 1806. References to the public sphere also figured when opponents complained that whitening would bring “very notable public harm,” “subversion,” “upheaval,” or “grave alteration in the public order.” Case 14, Landaeta, 1798; RC, Doc. 11, 1796. 152.  Rappaport, “Mischievous,” 8, also notes that her research in Bogotá and Seville turned up “only a handful” of cases of ethnoracial passing with sharp difference between private and public reputation. 153.  Case 14, Landaeta, 1798; Case 13, Paz, 1786. 154. Twinam, Public, Chapter 7. 155. Vinson, Bearing, 128–29. 156.  RC, Doc. 11, 1796.



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157.  RC, Doc. 19, 1798–1799. 158.  Gross, 113, notes a similar process for the nineteenth-century U.S. South where “the ‘laws’ of race could be subverted by people who followed all the rules of whiteness but ‘hid’ their intrinsic blackness.” 159.  Gross traces similar strategies in the pre–Civil War South. For example, Abby Guy (1855) argued she was white because of “her social identity, her associations with white people, and her having performed tasks that white people quin­ tessentially performed.” One witness recalled she “visited among white folks, and went to church, parties, etc.” 160.  Case 9, Báez y Llerena, 1773; Case 9, Báez y Llerena, 1787. 161. Mörner, Race, 60–77. 162.  Cope, 57, 83, 84. 163.  See Boyer. 164.  Cadena, 261. 165. What Rappaport, “Asi,” 608, notes for Natives seems equally valid for those of mixed caste categories: “The physiognomy of an Indian, for instance, was described differently depending upon the context of enunciation: whether the year was 1570 or 1685; whether the person being described was a man or a woman; whether the observer was a local-level town official in Spain drawing up a travel document, a crown-appointed visitador charged with investigating the administration of a native community in the Nuevo Reino, or an eyewitness to a crime in Santa Fe.” Graubart, “So Color,” 51, notes that Afro-Peruvian cofradias in sixteenth-century Lima distinguished between the status of “moreno” and “negro,” with the latter considered closer to slavery while Spanish elites used both terms interchangeably. Also see Graubart, “Creolization.” Matthew, Memories, 253–54, traces similar evolutions concerning the identity of ladino. 166.  Rappaport, “Asi,” 604. 167. Restall, Black, 109. 168.  Rappaport, “Mischievous,” 18. 169. Twinam, Public, Chapter 8 reviews how inheritance law affected different categories of illegitimacy. 170.  Ibid., 30–34, and Chapter 7 discusses issues surrounding honor. 171.  RC, 1, xxvii, did not think that whiteness passed down generations, however, Rodulfo Cortés seemed unaware that legitimations might postumously restore honor providing a precedent for pardo-ness also to be obliterated for heirs. He later concedes whitening might be multigenerational if specially noted in the decree. Royal officials and pardos and mulattos would arrive at different answers depending on the circumstances. 172.  Case 22, Ayarza, 1803. 173.  RAH-ML, T. 77 (reprinted in Konetzke, V. 3, n. 370, 1806, and RC, Doc. 31). 174.  Case 9, Báez y Llerena, 1773; Case 20, Valenzuela, 1796. 175.  Pagden, “Identity,” 63–64; Cañeque, 14–15. 176.  Pagden, “Identity,” 64.

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177.  Ibid. Both of these variants predate the nineteenth-century colonialisms of the British and Dutch. 178.  RC, Doc. 16, 1797. 179.  Parry, 197–202; Elliott, “Spain,” 50–111; and Brading, 112–62, inform the following discussion. 180.  Morse summarized the parallel development of the “Two Republics” that governed the establishment of Native towns. 181.  Parsons, 62, quotes it as from “cumbre de cumbre” or “peak to peak.” 182.  Restrepo, 63. 183.  Cunningham, 21. 184.  Henige, 114, details the changing configurations of New Granada (Colombia, Venezuela) over the centuries. 185.  Cunningham, 18, 19. There was also an audiencia in Manila and the audiencia for Panama had been suppressed. Also see Henige, 277–81. 186.  Burkholder, “Council,” 413, 415, notes that reform in 1776 created the position of senior oidor, or regent. This was often the final step before appointment to the Council of the Indies. See Burkholder, “Life,” for the histories of audiencia members after independence. 187.  Recopilación, Lib. iii, Tit. iii, Ley i–lxxiii. 188. McAlister, Spain, 424, summarizes the changing jurisdictions. 189.  Brading provides an overview. 190.  García Pérez provides invaluable details on the Council and Cámara, particularly 59–96, 283–98, and 415–78. 191.  Burkholder, “Council,” 423. 192.  García Pérez, 285, 287–89. The Cámara did not, according to García Pérez, hand out appointments to financial (hacienda) or military posts, 290. 193.  RC, Doc. 12, 1796 (Diego Mexias Bejarano). 194.  RC, Doc. 10, 1798 (Juan Gabriel Landaeta). 195.  Case 22, Ayarza, 1803, prepared several of the questionnaires. 196. Case 11, Ramírez, 1783, led to various interpretations of the letters of recommendation. 197.  Case 32, Aristimuño, AGI, 1806; Case 32, Aristimuño, RC, 1806. 198.  Case 6, Cruz y Mena, 1764, provides an example. 199.  García Pérez, 194. 200.  Ibid., 193–94, notes that sometimes fiscals also received appointments to vote as a Camarista if the case did not involve their consulta. This was true, for example, for long-serving fiscal José de Cistué y Coll. 201.  Ibid.; Case 14, Landaeta, 1798; Case 16, Briceño, 1794, provide examples. 202. Twinam, Public, 286. 203.  García Pérez, 447–51, discusses the extent that the decisions of the Council and Cámara ended up with final decisions by the monarch. He notes that those of a “certain type” did so, without specifying which kinds. It does appear at least in some cases, like the Ayarzas, that there was a definite monarchical intervention



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at certain points. Case 22, Ayarza, 1803. Since gracias al sacar were royal decrees, they necessarily had to carry the signature of the sovereign. On this background, see Real Díaz, 177–84. 204. Twinam, Public, 243. 205.  Burkholder, “Council,” 423. 206.  García Pérez, 192. 207. Twinam, Public, especially Chapters 9–11. 208.  García Pérez, 185. Although the crown divided the jurisdiction of Venezuela between the judiciary in Santo Domingo and audiencia in Bogotá, internal documents of the Council of the Indies suggest the fiscal for Peru handled business from that jurisdiction. See RC, 1, 542, 549, where Caracas documents went to the Peru fiscal when the New Spain fiscal was also an alternative. Similar comments concerning transmission in cabildo documents appear in Mago de Chopite, 387. 209.  Ibid., 195. However, they only received a quarter of the other fiscal’s salary. 210.  Ibid., 153–54. 211. Burkholder, Biographical, 98. 212.  Ibid., 30. 213.  García Pérez, 195–96. 214.  Case 22, Ayarza, 1803. 215. RAH-ML, T. 77 (reprinted in Konetzke, V. 3, n. 370, 1806, and RC, Doc. 31). 216. Burkholder, Biographical, xxvii–xxix. 217.  Ibid.; Burkholder, “Council,” 420–21. 218.  García Pérez, 191. 219.  Presumably the Bourbon reform that favored the appointment of Spanish judges (oidores) to Indies posts also increased vacancies and affected efficiency. See Burkholder, “From Creole.” 220.  This figure derives from calculation from 9/26/1802 with the retirement of José de Cistué y Coll to 6/6/1812 to the last will of Manuel del Castillo y Negrete (3542 days). Since after the first date there were never two fiscals serving, I added the days of service of Ramón de Posada y Soto (137), Lorenzo Serapio Hernández de Alva Alonso (989), Manuel del Castillo y Negrete (808) for Mexico, and José Lucas de Gorvea y Vadillo for Peru (362) for a total of 2296 days with a serving fiscal. Subtracting from 3452 leaves 1246 days where there was no crown attorney. García Pérez, 425, quotes Antonio de Porlier in 1788 complaining that there were not sufficient ministers, as only 12 appeared to handle business rather than the 19 the year before. 221.  García Pérez, 436–37. 222.  Geggus, “Slavery,” 5. For a series of excellent articles on revolution, slavery, and citizenship in the French and Spanish Caribbean, particularly Venezuela, see Gómez, “Revolución Haitiana,” “Estigma,” “Pardo,” “Revoluciones,” and “Ciudadanos.” 223.  Case 5, Avilés, 1763; Case 40, Rodríguez, 1816.

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224.  For historiography on the Pragmatic Sanction on Marriages, see Rípodas Ardanaz, Matrimonio; Twinam, Public, 308–13; Saether; for imperial overviews, see Socolow, “Acceptable,” for Buenos Aires; Ghirardi for Córdoba (Argentina); Premo, Children, 156–59, for Lima; Pellicer, Entre, for Caracas. The complexity of how the Pragmatic Sanction on Marriages played out in different venues throughout the Americas awaits deeper investigation, but the case studies suggest very distinctive reactions. 225.  Paquette, 7, describes this evolving regalism, although he does not apply it to social issues such as the Pragmatic Sanction on Marriages. 226.  AHN-Caracas, Diversos, T. LXIV, n. 28, 1790. It did permit pardo militia officers to use the Pragmatic Sanction on Marriages as well, although there is no study to suggest they did so.

chapter 3 1.  SP, P. 4, Tit. xxii, Ley viii. A much-abbreviated version of this chapter appeared in Twinam, “Etiology.” 2.  Konetzke, T. 3, Doc. 342, 1795. 3. See Bennett, Colonial, for development of seventeenth-century casta societies. 4.  One of the methodological problems in using Konetzke is that he does not inform if he provides the entire or only partial text of documents. Although I use the Konetzke references given they are more available to readers, I have checked the originals whenever possible. When Konetzke cites cédulas, which tend to be shorter, he usually produces the entire text. If he reproduces cases, such as legitimations or whitening, which often have numerous pages, he often reproduces a partial document. 5.  Ots Capdequi, “Don Manuel,” prints an index to the Ayala Collection. Also see Puga. 6.  See Premo, “Equity,” 499, for a case study that exemplifies the changed “historiography of Latin American law that places actual courtroom practice against a moving intellectual backdrop of Spanish American jurisprudence.” 7. Twinam, Public, 24–25; Tilly, 319–30; Hareven, ix–xxiii. 8. Stoler, Carnal, 225. 9.  Barrenechea, T. 1, 65; Pérez y López, T. 15, 87, discusses the slave licenses. 10.  Barrenechea, T. 1, 51. 11. Restall, Black, 17, 279, observes that Africans played similar service roles in sixteenth-century Yucatán. 12.  Crosby remains the classic statement. 13.  Restall and Landers, 169. Lokken, 182, suggests that “indigenous demographic dominance” permitted slaves “an unusual degree of social mobility” in Guatemala, Mexico, and Peru given that “local economies were so little dependent in the aggregate on their labor.”



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14.  Berlin, 8. In “societies with slaves,” those in bondage were “marginal to the central productive processes” and there were alternative forms of labor compared to “slave societies” where “slavery stood at the center of economic production.” Phillips, Slavery in Medieval, 155, notes the ancient distinction between domestic slaves and gang slavery. 15.  See Phillips, Slavery in Medieval, 127–40, on the history of manumission in Spain. 16. Cottrol, Long, 28–32, tracks Roman and Spanish traditions of domestic slavery. 17.  SP, P. 4, Tit. xxii, Ley viii. 18.  SP, P. 4, Tit. xxii, Ley viii. 19.  As Cottrol, Long, 45, notes, masters did not consider freeing a slave in Spanish America as a “challenge” either to the slave regime or “to the broader notions of hierarchy and subjugation.” 20.  SP, P. 4, Tit. xxii, Ley vi, vii, viii, ix. See Las Siete, 983–84, for an English version. 21.  Fuente, “Slaves and,” 661. Also see Salmoral; Premo, “Equity,” 502; Proctor, Damned. 22. Landers, Black, 8. 23.  There is a rich literature surrounding purchase of freedom and use of courts: for example, see Owensby; Bennett, Africans; Hünefeldt; Díaz, Virgin; McKinley, “Till Death”; McKinley, “Fractional”; Serna; Herrera, 123. Fuente, “Slave Law,” 358, traces sixteenth-century examples of coartación in Cuba and recognition of the process in seventeenth-century ordinances. Restall, Black, 185–90, suggests that women and children seemed more likely to receive freedom than men, and female owners often freed their domestic slaves. Proctor, “Gender,” 320–26, adds creole female slaves often benefited from “surrogate” mothers, as their mistresses considered them intimate household members and subsequently manumitted them. In Damned, 166, Proctor warns that manumission needs to be thought of not only as slaves exercising agency by purchasing their freedom but perhaps even more of masters choosing to relinquish their “dominion.” The current state of the research makes it impossible to generalize concerning manumission frequency and characteristics on an empire-wide level. Rather, historians can only consider key variables and trends emanating from micro and regional studies. 24.  See Klein, “Anglicanism,” 318, for the radically different outcome in the Anglo colonies where the established church had “little if any impact” and the “religious life of the slave remained wholly dependent on the will of the master, and this was determined almost exclusively by local custom.” Also see Bennett, Africans, especially Chapters 2 and 4. Allen, 196, traces early Anglo ambivalence if Africans who were Christians should be enslaved. Such absence of proselytism contrasts with Restall’s, Black, 83, observation that shared Catholicism between Spaniards and Africans “meant that the religion factor hindered, rather than helped, the evolution of old prejudices into modern antiblack racism.

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25.  Pérez y López, 34, 35. 26.  Recopilación, T. 2, Lib. vii, Tit. v, Ley xxix, 1543. 27.  Ibid., T. 4, Lib. ix, Tit. xxvi, Ley xix, 1543. Royal paranoia concerning Moors in the Americas continued to the early eighteenth century. See Konetzke, T. 3, Doc. 55, 1700. 28.  AHN, Códices, L. 742, Negros, 1540. 29.  AHN, Códices, L. 742, Negros, 1544. 30. Bennett, Colonial, 33. 31.  Konetzke, T. 1, Doc. 154, 1545. 32.  BN-Madrid, MS 2989, 1603. 33. Sweet, Recreating, provides numerous examples. 34.  Disposiciones, T. 1, n. 29, 1683. 35.  Konetzke, T. 1, Doc. 45, 1526; Zorita, 26 de octubre de 1541. 36.  Recopilación, T. 2, Lib. vii, Tit. v, Ley viii, 1540. 37. Landers, Black, 139–40, on Spanish manumission law. Klein, “Anglicanism,” 305–6, on the importance of manumission in Cuba and prohibitions in Anglo-America, 322–23; Meisel, 278, on purchasing freedom in Buenos Aires; Fuente, “Slaves and,” on the pesistence of coartación (purchasing freedom) in nineteenth-century Cuba; Johnson on slaves, courts, manumissions, and elite support in late colonial Buenos Aires. Sweet, “Manumission,” 55, concludes that “scholars have shown quite clearly that a finite group of slaves—women, children and the mixed-race offspring of slave owners—were the overwhelming beneficiaries of manumission.” Peabody, 58, notes that while the French colonies did not have the practice of coartación, they did allow slaves to accumulate capital and buy their freedom with the permission of their masters. 38. Bennett, Colonial, 165. 39.  Recopilación, T. 2, Lib. vii, Tit. v, Ley v, 1527, 1538, 1541. A number of historians, including Lewis, 21; Davidson, 240; Guitar, 51; and Forbes, 183, mistakenly thought that there was an existing decree that stipulated that when slaves married, they became free, and so the crown had to close the loophole. It could be these misconceptions originated from SP, P. 4, Tit. xxii, Ley v, as the title of the section read “How the slave by reason of marriage can become free.” However, the Partida then repeated that this would only occur if a master permitted a slave to marry a free spouse and knowingly hid the slave’s status from that party. Such protection may have been particularly necessary in medieval Spain given that slaves might be white. When the issue arose in the Americas, the Council of the Indies simply clarified the matter according to the Partidas. I thank Professor L. J. Andrew Villalon for his consultation on this matter. For the Fuero Real, see Alfonso X, 428–29. 40. AHN-Ayala, Códices, L. 742, Negros, 1540. Later decrees ordered that masters give “good treatment to slaves” making them “Christians.” Konetzke, T. 1, Doc. 154, 1545.



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41.  Konetzke, T. 1, Doc. 41, 1526. Klein, “Anglicanism,” 320, points out this was contrary to Anglo practice: “No matter how Christian, no master allowed his slaves to be married.” 42.  SP, P. 4, Tit. v, Ley i. 43.  Ibid., P. 4, Tit. xxii, Ley v. 44.  Konetzke, T. 1, Doc. 50, 1527. 45.  Ibid., T. 1, Doc. 109, 1538. 46.  Ibid., T. 1, Doc. 136, 1541; RAH-ML, T. 729, 1541. The Council of Trent (1545–1563) declared, as did the Spanish state in this decree, that slaves should have a free choice in their marriage partners. Since this decree predates Trent, it seems unlikely that slaves would have used a misunderstanding of the issue of free marriage choice coming from Trent as the reason why they believed the urban legend; Lavrin, 4–7. 47. Bennett, Colonial, 169–71. 48.  See Twinam, Public, 216–26, on Spanish inheritance law. 49.  Ibid., 239. The Laws of Soria prohibited leaving property to sacrilegious offspring, although priests often found informal ways to do so. 50.  Petley, 486, sees some Jamaican transfers to mixed sons and daughters, but there was no legal system that regularized the process. Similar attempts to limit transmission occurred in Trinidad, Mitchell, 28. 51.  Hollinger, 1379, also notes that in the United States the “one-drop” rule and the denial of legal marriage “ensured that the color line would long remain to a very large extent a property line.” The result was to merge “the dynamics of race formation” with “the dynamics of class formation.” Schafer, 79, traces a similar transformation from Spanish to Anglo Florida in the 1820s and 1830s that prohibited interracial marriages and mixed-race offspring from inheriting from their parents. Fischer, 122–25, outlines the different penalties for “interracial” relationships in eighteenth-century North Carolina, which included banning interracial marriage and thereby prohibiting the creation and the leaving of property to legitimate offspring. 52.  For example, ARCV, Registro de Ejecutorias, Caja 3685, 47, 1798–1801, includes a lawsuit by pardo petitioner for whiteness Pedro Antonio de Ayarza to inherit a peninsular entail (mayorazgo) from his Spanish-born father. I thank Sergio Paolo Solano for this reference. 53. http://www.slavevoyages.org/tast/index.faces. 54.  RAH-ML, T. 22, 1549. 55.  Konetzke, T. 1, Doc. 118, 1553. 56.  Ibid., T. 1, Doc. 231, 1554. 57.  RAH-ML, T. 22, 1549; Konetzke, T. 1, Doc. 239, 1560. 58.  Earlier historiography focused on relationships between Spaniards and Native women. See Martín; for more recent, see Townsend. 59.  However, Peabody, 57, notes that the French Code Noir freed a slave woman and legitimated her children if a white man married her in a Catholic ceremony.

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60.  Recopilación, T. 2, Lib. vii, Tit. v, Ley vi, 1563. 61.  Konetzke, T. 1, Doc. 413, 1583. 62.  Aguirre Beltrán, 257, so noted in his classic early work on Afro-Mexicans. Bennett, Colonial, 5, observes that historians have “overlooked a century of black births involving African men and Mexican women” that created the basis of free Afro-Mexican populations. It is notable that U.S. historians, e.g., Hollinger, 1369, emphasize the dynamic significance of the slave womb rather than the free womb, e.g., slave women having sexual offspring with white fathers resulting in slave children. Allen, 197, notes, in order to establish the slave regime in Anglo America there was a necessary transition, e.g., in Virginia in 1662, from the common law where the father traditionally established the status of offspring, to where the free or slave womb of the mother took precedent. Jones, 43, traces similarly in 1664 for Maryland. Aubert, “Colonial,” 14, also notes changes from the Code Noir that declared the mulatto child of a white father and slave mother free to a later (1680) edict that offspring followed the status of their slave mothers. 63.  Konetzke, T. 1, Doc. 109, 1538. 64.  Ibid., T. 1, Doc. 136, 1541. 65.  Zorita, 9 de septiembre de 1551. 66.  Konetzke, T. 1, Doc. 136, 1541. 67.  I thank Ran Segev for calling this source to my attention. 68.  Cartas, 298–300; Forbes, 129. As Forbes notes, the earliest use of the term “mulatto” commonly referred to mixtures of Africans with Natives. Only later did it more refer to white-African mixes. 69.  Recopilación, T. 2, Lib. vi, Tit. iii, Ley xxi. 70.  Konetzke, T. 1, Doc. 478, 1592. 71.  Solórzano Pereira, 219. 72.  Castillo Palma and Kellogg, 119, 73.  Lutz and Restall, 208–9, observe a lessening of such slave-Native relationships in the eighteenth century, perhaps due to the reduction of the mulatto slave population and a greater tendency toward endogamy. Motta Sánchez, 131, notes a similar pattern in Oaxaca where both male and female slaves married each other rather than free persons. Perhaps access to nonslaves was a factor. Proctor, Damned, 47, 54, finds that in Mexico City (through the 1650s) African-born slaves were more likely to marry Africans, but creole slaves were more likely to marry free persons. He concludes, 62, that slaves in the capital “rarely, if ever, married Indians and mestizos.” Gutiérrez Brockington, 159, tracks slave-Native marriages that also freed offspring but notes that the children born to yanaconas inherited their mother’s yanacona status and therefore remained bound to the land, 168–69. 74.  Lokken, 197. 75. Bennett, Colonial, 102, 123. 76.  Konetzke, T. 1, Doc. 478, 1592. Decisions of the Council of the Indies— either for economic or political reasons—might also emancipate slaves. These included a 1625 decree that ordered that any slaves illegally unloaded in the port



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of Buenos Aires “would be free” from any “obligation of captivity.” Ibid., T. 2, Doc. 182, 1625. Similar provisions granted freedom in 1750, 1753, and 1789 to slaves who escaped from Spain’s enemies and agreed to Catholic baptism. AHN-Ayala, Códices, L. 752, Negros, 1750; Konetzke, T. 3, Doc. 164, 1753; Pérez y López, T. 21, pp. 109–12. Landers and Robinson note that another passage to freedom was through slave runaway communities. 77.  Konetzke, T. 1, Doc. 392, 1580; Doc. 421, 1586; Doc. 442, 1587. Also Recopilación, T. 2, Lib. vi, Tit. iii, Ley xxi, 1563, 1578, 1581, 1589, 1600, 1646; Pérez y López, T. 28, 366. 78.  Konetzke, T. 2, Doc. 78, 1605; T. 2, Doc. 263, 1646; T. 2, Doc. 364, 1666; T. 2, Doc. 390, 1671; T. 2, Doc. 393, 1681; T. 3, Doc. 44, 1697; T. 3, Doc. 288, 1785; Recopilación, T. 2, Lib. vi, Tit. iii, Ley i, 1600, 1646. Every law prohibited blacks from visiting native towns. Sometimes they also excluded mestizos and mulattos (1578, 1584, 1666, 1681), sometimes mulattos (1785), and sometimes Spaniards, blacks, mestizos, and mulattos (1563, 1578, 1581, 1589, 1600, 1605, 1646, 1671, 1697). 79.  Recopilación, T. 2, Lib. vi, Tit. iii, Ley xxi. 80.  O’Toole, 24, 117. 81. Restall, Black, 259. 82.  Carroll, “Black-Native.” 83.  Ibid., “Black Aliens,” 71. 84.  Herrera, 131. 85.  Stark, 578; Lokken, 178–79; Fuente, “Slave Law,” 361. 86.  Lokken, 193. He tracks 41 petitions involving slave marriage in his sample of 407. Of these, 26, or two thirds, were between an enslaved male and free woman. Of course, tracing nonmarital unions might significantly change the numbers. 87.  Medina, 122, 129, notes that in Esmeraldas, Ecuador, the runaway maroons took multiple Native women as sexual partners, while the Natives often joined with the mulatta women, resulting over several generations in a homogenous community. 88.  Schwaller, “Mulata,” 906–7. The result of these “large number of unions over the course of the sixteenth century” was that “mulatto” might be used “to describe persons with three indio grandparents and only one negro.” Stolcke, “Mestizos,” 5, quotes statistics from Lima baptisms between 1538 and 1547 that demonstrate that African mixing was more likely with Native women than with Spanish men. There were twenty cases where the father was Spanish and the mother mulatto or black and seventy-four where the father was black and the mother Indian. Castillo Palma and Kellogg, 125, note that eighteenth-century baptismal registers in Cholula show that “on many occasions” the priest listed the children of African males and Nahua females as Indian, leading to the assimilation of those with African mixture into the indigenous community. Fisher,” pars. 5–7, traces similar Native-African mixing in the countryside in Guerrero, Mexico, although he sees deterioration in relationships by the mid-eighteenth century as Indians redefined themselves more narrowly.

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89.  Research on Native-African linkages either through forced or consensual sexual relationships or marriage is much better documented for Spanish than for Anglo America. Plane, 139, concludes for the New England colonies that the “sad truth was that few colonists cared whether Indian and African couples were lawfully married or not.” Rather, 180, the division was between “respectable” whites and “Indians, Africans and the very poor.” 90.  Konetzke, T. 1, Doc. 167, 1549. 91.  Ibid., T. 1, Doc. 171, 1549. 92.  Ibid., T. 1, Doc. 291, 1567; Recopilación, T. 2, Lib. vi, Tit. ix, Ley xiv, repeated this prohibition also forbidding encomenderos, their wives, offspring, as well as mestizos, mulattos, free blacks, and slaves, to enter Native towns (1550, 1555, 1563, 1569, 1572, 1590, 1596, 1597, 1609, 1618). Pérez y López, T. 20, 576, and T. 28, 184, provided serious penalties to blacks who mistreated Natives. 93.  The literature on the Black Legend is large. Samples include Hanke, 112–27; Keen, “Black,” 703–19; Keen, “White,” 336–55; Gibson, Black; Maltby; DeGuzmán; Greer, Mignolo, and Quilligan. 94.  AHN-Ayala, Códices, L. 42, Negros, 1536. 95.  Zorita, 9 de septiembre de 1551. 96.  Konetzke, T. 1, Doc. 231, 1554. 97.  Ibid., T. 1, Doc. 140, 1541; AHN- Ayala, Códices, L. 742, Negros, 1541. Ten years later, the situation had not changed. Konetzke, T. 1, Doc. 205, 1551. 98.  Konetzke, T. 1, Doc. 427, 1586. 99.  Recopilación, T. 2, Lib. vi, Tit. iii, Ley xxi. Repeats of this law occurred in 1563, 1578, 1581, 1589, 1600, and 1646, notably stopping around the low point of Native population in the mid-seventeenth century. Also see Simonsen on tracing culture and practices of the African diaspora. Bennett, Colonial, 68–69, parses the extremes of treating Africans as a “people without history” and an overemphasis on African traditions, rightly privileging the mandate to explore an evolving Afro-creole culture. 100.  Garofalo, 79. 101.  Restall, “Introduction,” 10. One key difference between Native and African interactions in Spanish and Anglo America was that a small number of eighteenthcentury Cherokees, Miles, 31, purchased African slaves, a practice seemingly even less common in the Spanish Indies. 102. Contreras, Cedulario, 473. 103.  Konetzke, T. 1, Doc. 302, 1568; Disposiciones, T. 2, n. 554, 1663; Konetzke, T. 1, Doc. 197, 1551; Recopilación, T. 2, Lib. vii, Tit. v, Ley xiv, 1568, 1573, that mulattos and zambaigos not carry arms, Ley xv, 1551, 1552, that provided penalties for slaves and free blacks with weapons, followed by further prohibitions, Ley xvi, 1665, Ley xvii, 1621, Ley xviii, 1628. 104.  Also see comments by Bennett, Africans, 18–20, and Walker, 390–91. Restall, Black, 279, suggested that slaves “were viewed as luxury goods to be consumed through display, as prestigious commodities that projected the status of their owners.”



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105.  RAH-ML, T. 21, 1609. 106.  Recopilación, T. 1, Lib. i, Tit. xxii, Ley viii, 1618. 107.  Zorita, 9 de septiembre de 1551; Recopilación, T. 2, Lib. vii, Tit. v, Ley xv, also forbade slaves and free blacks from carrying arms in 1551, repeated again the next year. 108.  Konetzke, T. 1, Doc. 208, 1552. 109.  Ibid., T. 2, Doc. 1320, 1612. 110.  Tompson, 403, 409, notes that by 1800 Spanish crown slaves in Honduras received training “in the cleaning and care of firearms” and received instruction in artisianal skills and regular wages. Variables such as climate, periphery, and royal need might “defy some of the most conventional assumptions about the workings of slavery.” Some, 412, even served in the militia. 111.  The literature on Native depopulation is contentious. Some samples include Cook; Denevan; Dobyns, 273–91; Livi-Bacci, 199–232. 112.  Cartas, 298–300, speaks of native weakness; Recopilación, T. 2, Lib. vi, Tit. iii, Ley xxi, says that the Natives fled from their towns given they were “aggravated” by outsiders. Ibid., T. 2, Lib. vii, Tit. v, Ley vii, 1558, 1589, notes that slaves and free blacks oppressed Natives. 113.  O’Toole, 26, notes that the Peruvian establishment began to comprehend the extent of Native depopulation with the census of 1645. 114.  Castleman, 229–49, provides recent comments on casta mobility. 115.  Solórzano Pereira, 216–17, defines mulattos as a combination of Spanish men and black women, but then also comments that their offspring might also be called mestizos. 116.  Konetzke, T. 1, Doc. 304, 1568. 117.  Ibid., T. 1, Doc. 306, 1568. 118.  BN, MS 2929, 1602. 119.  Ibid., MS 2989, 1607. Another official in 1609 complained about the “great number of mulattos and zambaigos that there are in these provinces,” including “free blacks and mestizos.” Konetzke, T. 2, Doc. 98, 1609. 120.  BN, MS 2989. 1608; Konetzke, T. 2, Doc. 94, 1608. 121.  Konetzke, T. 2, Doc. 86, 1607. 122.  Carrera, “Nuevo,” 61. 123.  Solórzano Pereira, 218. 124.  See Twinam, Public, 41–51; Martínez, Genealogical; Sicroff. Further research is necessary to pinpoint when mulatto appeared consistently in the lim­ pieza de sangre definitions, although the mid-seventeenth century seems the most likely. 125.  For discussions of the Two Republics, see McAlister, Spain, 391; Rout, 25; Elliott, Empires, 83; Henderson, 7, 8. 126. Buenaventura Belena, Capítulo 56, 50, noted that blacks and mulattos might ride their master’s horses but not to have their “own horse,” a prohibition almost certainly violated more than enforced.

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127.  Konetzke, T. 1, Doc. 167, 1549; T. 1. Doc. 422, 1584; T. 1, Doc. 94, 1535; T. 2, Doc. 160, 1621. 128.  Recopilación, T. 1, Lib. i, Tit. xxii, Ley lvii. 129.  Ibid., T. 2, Tit. v, Ley xxviii, 1571. The only exception would be if they had married a Spaniard. 130.  Konetzke, T. 2, Doc. 120, 1612. 131.  RAH-ML, T. 21, 1614. On the confraternities that often planned such funerals, see Graubart, “So Color,” 49. 132.  I thank John Smolenski for pointing out this distinction. 133.  Milton and Vinson, 1–18, provide an overview of non-Native tribute, although not in the context of detaching such status as inferior. Also see Vinson, Bearing, 132–72, for Mexico. 134.  Konetzke, T. 1, Doc. 335, 1572; Recopilación, T. 2, Lib. vi, Tit. v, Ley viii, as repeated in 1572 and 1573. 135.  Recopilación, T. 2, Lib. vii, Tit. v, Ley iii, 1577. 136.  Konetzke, T. 1, Doc. 442, 1587. 137.  Ibid., T. 2, Doc. 98, 1609. Also see BN, MS 2989, 527, 1609. 138.  Ibid., MS 2989, 1188, 1619. 139.  Konetzke, T. 2, Doc. 198, 1627. 140.  AGI, Contratación 5227, n. 2, R. 25, 1579; AGI, Pasajeros 6, E2053, 1579, notes that he was in Spain in 1578, that he was originally from Mora, and that he was the son of blacks (hijo de negros). Restall, Black, 6–9, provides further background on Toral. 141.  Konetzke, T. 1, Doc. 377, 1578. 142. Restall, Black, 174, noted that pardo and mulatto militias would receive such exemptions in Yucatán in the 1630s and 1640s. 143.  AHN-Ayala, Códices, L. 750, Tributo, 1574. Bennett, Colonial, 18, also sees the 1620s as a turning point in Mexico given the substantial slowing of the slave trade. 144.  AHN-Ayala, Códices, T. 742, Mulattos, 1621. 145.  Konetzke, T. 2, Doc. 178, 1623. 146.  Ibid., T. 1, Doc. 315, 1569. 147.  Ibid., T. 2, Doc. 117, 1611. 148. Bennett, Colonial, 109, 136, provides examples of Afro-Mexicans and Catholicism and, 131, “their juridical identities as Christians.” It meant, Ibid., African, 151, that identity as a “Christian person” might sometimes trump status as a slave. Landers, Atlantic, 40, concludes that “it is difficult to overestimate the significance of the Roman Catholic Church as a vehicle for African assimilation in terms of social acceptance and advancement in Spanish communities.” 149.  Archer, “Pardos,” 237; Restall, Black, 158–59, tracks the formation of pardo militias forming in early seventeenth-century Yucatán. 150.  Recopilación, T. 2, Lib. vii, Tit. v, Ley x, 1623.



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151.  Ibid., T. 2, Lib. vii, Tit. v, Ley xi, 1625. Landers, Black, 22, also notes that blacks “helped the Spanish militias defend Havana in 1555, Puerto Rico in 1557, Cartagena in 1560 and 1572 and Santo Domingo in 1583.” By the 1680s, there were black or pardo units in Central America and throughout the Caribbean, including Florida. 152.  Recopilación, T. 2, Lib. vii, Tit. v, Ley x, 1623. 153.  Jouve Martín, 193. 154. Bowser, African, 306. 155.  Jouve Martín, 193. Lima’s black population staged a less ornate but wellreceived bullfight, 189. 156.  Curcio-Nagy, 58–63. 157.  Konetzke, T. 2, Doc. 217, 1631; Landers, Black, 203, notes that the crown was “pragmatic” in exemptions from tribute for the militias given that it was “deeply resented” and “the monies were rarely collected,” an observation borne out in eighteenth-century taxation trends. This still did not prevent attempts later in the century to re-establish tribute collection from militias; Archer, “Pardos,” 236, 241. 158. Vinson, Bearing; Vinson, “Studying,” 471–96; Vinson and Restall; Vinson, “From,” 96–135; Vinson and King; Restall, Black, 174–77; Booker, “Needed,” 259– 76; Sánchez represent a new wave of research on the militias. This complements earlier regional and institutional histories. These include Archer, Army; Kuethe, Cuba; Kuethe, Military; Campbell, Military; McAlister, “Reorganization,” 1–32; Klein, “Free.” Stark, 557, notes that conversion to Catholicism and entrance to the militias were the pathways for runaway fugitives to return to society and their own town, Cangrejos, in eighteenth-century Puerto Rico. 159.  Konetzke, T. 2, Doc. 248, 1641. 160.  A number of authors—Vinson, “Free”; Sartorius, “My Vassals”; García, “Nuestra”; Landers, “Transforming”—note the direct connection between militia service and royal recognition that pardos and mulattos were vassals. 161.  Restall and Vinson, 17. 162. Landers, Black, 23. 163. Restall, Black, 177. 164.  Konetzke, T. 2, Doc. 387, 1670. 165.  Ibid., T. 2, Doc. 337, 1662. 166.  Ibid., T. 2, Doc. 346, 1663. Restall and Vinson, 23, suggest that the first turning point for militia formation was a royal decree of 1540 that required towns to establish militia companies. This opened a path in later decades for blacks and pardos and mulattos to serve. 167.  Konetzke, T. 2, Doc. 313, 1657. 168.  Recopilación, T. 2, Lib. iii, Tit. x, Ley xii, 1643, 1648, 1649, 1652. The repetition of the prohibition that mulattos and blacks serve suggests that some maybe have evaded the law. Solórzano Pereira, 219, notes (1648) that even though mulattos

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were not to hold such posts that “in some parts” they had permitted it and it had “proceeded well.” 169.  Konetzke, T. 2, Doc. 389, 1671. 170.  Recopilación, T. 2, Lib. vii, Tit. v, Ley xiv, 1568, 1573, forbade mulattos and zambaigos from carrying arms. 171.  Konetzke, T. 2, Doc. 281, 1647. 172.  Ibid., T. 2, Doc. 348, 1663. 173.  AGI, México 43, n. 4, 1669 (Agustín Rascon); Konetzke, T. 2, Doc. 371, 1668. 174.  Schwaller, “For Honor,” 249, 252–53, 258–59. 175.  Konetzke, T. 2, Doc. 482, 1680; King, “Maréchaussée,” par. 2, notes that in Saint-Domingue the black and pardo forces policing slaves could bear arms outside of their official duties. 176.  See Chapter 9 for a discussion of the “Obedezco pero no cumplo” in regards to the whitening gracias al sacar. 177.  Konetzke, T. 2, Doc. 482, 1680. 178.  Ibid., T. 2, Doc. 546, 1687. 179.  For examples, see Twinam, Public, 259–60. 180.  AGI, Panamá 231, n. 9, 1688 (Vicente Méndez). 181.  Booker, “Needed,” 14; Archer, “Pardos,” 236, 237; Lokken, 181, notes that attempts to reinstate tribute in San Salvador in 1720 led to black and mulatto riots. 182.  Konetzke, T. 3, Doc. 264, 1782. 183. Landers, Black, 203, suggests that freedom from tribute served both the crown and the castas serving in the militias. Pardos and mulattos viewed tribute as “a mark of conquest and subjugation” and “deeply resented” it, trying to escape payment. The crown benefited more by sanctioning pardo militia units, freeing them from a tribute that had been “rarely collected.” 184.  Konetzke, T. 3, Doc. 294, 1786. 185.  Pérez y López, T. 17, 178. However, it noted that the free urban pardo militias should not have this privilege. 186.  Konetzke, T. 3, Doc. 301, 1788. 187.  Booker, “Needed,” 24, 25; Campbell, “Black” 145, 146, track attempts to reinstate tribute in Mexico and Peru. 188.  Konetzke, T. 3, Doc. 358, 1802. 189.  Ibid., T. 3, Doc. 79, 1708. 190.  Ibid., T. 3, Doc. 98, 1717. 191.  Catálogo, T. 2, n. 345, 1714. 192. Vinson, Bearing, 133. 193.  Kuethe, “Status,” 109–11; Booker, “Needed,” 19–23, trace the varying histories of the rewarding of the fuero in Colombia and Mexico. 194.  Konetzke, T. 3, Doc. 186, 1763. 195.  Ibid., T. 3, Doc. 197, 1765. 196.  Ibid., T. 3, Doc. 209, 1769.



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197.  Ibid., T. 3, Doc. 237, 1778. 198. Aguirre, 137. The Pragmatic Sanction on Marriages also continued attempts to keep the Native population from mixing with Africans. It charged clerics to warn Natives marrying those with African mix that their offspring would not be eligible “to obtain honorable offices of the Republic” that were open to “pure Indians.” 199.  Los códigos, 407. Even though the crown praised the participation of blacks and mulattos, it still exempted them from “honorable military service,” in the Novissima Recopilacion (1805). 200. The first Bourbon monarch was Philip V (1700–1746). The impact of Bourbon reforms in the Indies dates primarily to Charles III (1759–1788). 201.  Konetzke, T. 3, Doc. 121, 1730. 202.  Ibid., T. 3, Doc. 121, 1730. See Chapter 6 for the history of mulatto Juan de la Cruz y Mena who likely attended the university during that period. 203.  Konetzke, T. 3, Doc. 205, 1768. 204.  Ibid., T. 3, Doc. 151, 1750. 205.  Ibid., T. 3, Doc. 78, 1707; Solórzano Pereira, 218, notes that illegitimacy also precluded them from becoming priests. 206.  Konetzke, T. 3, Doc. 81, 1709. 207.  Disposiciones, T. 1, n. 289, 1723. 208.  AHN-Ayala, Códices, T. 737, Ilegitímo, 1724. One dean of the Cathedral of Cartagena was so determined that his mulatto son be ordained that he carried him to Panama and made him a priest. When the pair returned to Cartagena, the dean attempted to establish his son at the cathedral, but he faced severe retribution for his attempt to pass his profession to his sacrilegious and casta son. 209.  Konetzke, T. 3, Doc. 225, 1772. 210.  They left a small opening that they might make some exceptions if there were “particular circumstances and singular merit” of the petitioners. 211.  Konetzke, T. 3, Doc. 84, 1713. 212.  Ibid., T. 3, Doc. 132, 1737. 213. Ibid.; Disposiciones, T. 1, n. 287, 1737; Case 8, Borbúa, 1767. 214. Twinam, Public, 205–6, found a similar pattern concerning discrimination against illegitimacy. 215.  Konetzke, T. 3, Doc. 342, 1795.

chapter 4 1.  Case 20, Valenzuela, 1796. 2. Ibid. 3.  As Restall and Landers note, there is a need for historians to explore such “mingling” in all its diversity, 170. Bennett, Colonial, 140, 146, traces the development of alternative Afro-Mexican cultures in which blacks and castas are neither “passive objects of the colonial social order” nor “social climbers.”

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4.  For classic works on the castas, see Mörner, Race; Cope. More recent works include Hünefeldt; Lewis; Bennett, Africans; Bennett, Colonial. For discussion of legal and constructed families with some members who were slaves and others who were free, see Morrison, “Creating.” 5.  While scientists agree that genes govern the creation of melatonin and determine skin color, they are still unsure how many (3–100) or how they interact to affect that process (Barsh, 3; Biello). Geneticists are adamant that skin color is not equivalent to race, which is a “cultural construct devoid of explanatory power and destructive of human and social relations” (Jablonski, 615). However, the question remains, if pardos and mulattos consistently picked partners who were lighter, to what extent would they whiten succeeding generations? One scientist provides a simplistic and hypothetical explanation of the basic principles, although the reality of how this unfolds in the real genetic world still remains uncharted: . . . If skin color is determined by six identical genes, and we have two copies of each gene, then there are twelve possible contributions to the skin color trait. So, any one person can have from zero to twelve “dark” genes that give varying dosages of color. . . . So, if the child randomly receives all dark genes from a parent that has 6 of 12 genes that are dark and all light genes from another parent that has 6 of 12 genes dark then the child will look exactly the same skin color as the parents (6 dark and 6 light). . . . if the child received all 12 of the 12 possible dark genes in this example . . . then the child would be darker than either parent. . . . if the child received all of the 12 light genes then the child would be much lighter than either parent. See Shows. Thus, the choice of partners with more light genes would have the tendency to whiten succeeding generations, although there would be no predictability as the particular color of any individual. Casta categories such as tente en el aire (holding in the air) or torna atras (turning back) reflect popular understanding of the unpredictability of appearance when there were mixed parents. See Katzew. 6. Stolcke, Marriage, 93–98, provides examples of strategies leading to whiteness. Kellogg, 81, notes that in censuses from nonwhite Mexico city parishes women rather than men were more likely to marry lower-caste categories, so the gracias al sacar patterns may not be typical. In the case of free blacks, Hanger, Bounded, 95; Landers, Black, 125; and Stark, 576, suggest that marital partners chose potential spouses of roughly the same phenotype, perhaps a more common pattern when whitening was not a primary goal. Yet Gómez, “Revoluciones,” par.  12, quotes Caracas pardos as turning down an applicant to their battalion given that the parents of the applicant “in place of improving to be whites, have retreated and have approached the caste of the blacks.” 7. See, for example, Katzew; Carrera, Imagining; Martínez, Genealogical, 228–38; Deans-Smith, “Creating”; Deans-Smith, “Dishonor.” Hill, 45, notes that eighteenth-century Jesuit José Gumilla argued that “mulattos whitened in the same fashion as people characterized as mestizos.”



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8.  The only unmarried pardo males who appeared in petitions were engaged to white women. Case 30, Gallegos, 1806; Case 31, Ximénez, 1806. While Hodes tracks numerous cases of black men having sexual relationships with white women in the U.S. South, there is little or no research on such relationships in Spanish America. 9.  For analysis of earlier linkages between white men and slave women and the potentials inherent in such connections, see Hünefeldt; Morrison, “White.” For colonial Brazil, Nazzari, 522–23. 10.  Frederick, “Pardos,” par 5, notes that in eighteenth-century Papantla, Mexico, it was common to distinguish between Afro-Mexicans who were mulattos with white fathers, calling them “mulattos blancos,” and regular mulattos with mulatto fathers. Vinson, “Studying,” 22, suggests that adult white and mestizo men and black women were the least likely to have sexual relationships with other castes, which contrasts with what seems to have occurred with the ancestors of gracias al sacar petitioners. A key distinction is if such early mixtures were consensual unions, where there seems to have been a great deal of mixing with white males, but lesser chances of marriages. 11. Stolcke, Marriage, 129. 12.  Case 16, Briceño, 1794. 13.  Morrison, “White,” 30, traces efforts in late nineteenth-century Cuba of a father to provide “white legal identities to his racially mixed progeny.” This, she concludes, was “a prioritization of family bonds and familial advancement above supporting the norms of racial attribution.” 14. Sologenealogia.com (www.sologenealogia.com), José Antonio Martínez Covarrubias. According to the family genealogy, she seems to have been his only child. 15.  Case 16, Briceño, 1794. 16.  Sologenealogia.com (www.sologenealogia.com), Lucia Parra. The petition did not mention the grandmother, but she appears on the family genealogy with the note that she was a “mulatta.” 17. Sologenealogia.com (www.sologenealogia.com), María Petronila Antonia de la Parra. Her genealogy listed her as a cuarterona, which meant that her children would be at the one-eighth mixture level and considered very close if not white. 18.  Case 32, Aristimuño, AGI, 1806; Case 26, Yañes, AGI, 1800; Case 26, Yañes, RC, 1800; Case 21, Rodríguez, AGI, 1796; Case 21, Rodríguez, RC, 1796. Pons, 179, notes that Canary Island arrivals were “least adverse” to such marriages; Lewis, 75–76, points out that immigrants from the Canaries tended come from islands where there had been previous mixing and some tended to be darker. See Phillips, Slavery in Medieval, 61, 62, for comments on Canary Island natives and slaves. 19. Stolcke, Marriage, 66, suggests this pattern for Cuba. 20.  Sologenealogia.com (www.sologenealogia.com), Juan José Briceño Pacheco. 21. Sologenealogia.com (www.sologenealogia.com), José Lorenzo Briceño Toro.

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22.  Case 8, Borbúa, 1767. 23.  Case 29, Borbúa, 1803. 24.  Case 32, Aristimuño, AGI, 1806; Case 32, Aristimuño, RC, 1806. 25.  Case 26, Yañes, AGI, 1800; Case 26, Yañes, RC, 1800. 26.  Case 21, Rodríguez, RC, 1796. Further information on a trip to Spain and his position as captain of the port exchanging prisoners of war appear, respectively, in AGI, Contratación 5529, n. 2, R. 79; AGI, Estado 67. n. 45. He was an official in the royal treasury in Trinidad. He later reapplied for the whitening of a second wife in 1816. Case 40, Rodríguez, 1816. 27.  AGI, Contratación 1270, n. 11, 1708. He also appears in 1708 as master of the ship Nuestra Senora de Regla, San José and San Francisco Javier sailing with the Armada de Barlovento to Mexico. 28.  Case 9, Báez y Llerena, 1773; Case 9, Báez y Llerena, 1787. 29.  Gómez, “Revoluciones,” par. 6, notes that John Garrigus found similar patterns in Saint-Domingue where mulattos “contracted marital ties with their equals, with illegitimate mulattos recognized by their European progenitors and even rarely, directly with individuals of white status.” 30.  Case 9, Báez y Llerena, 1773; Case 9, Báez y Llerena, 1787. 31.  Case 33, Cruz Marqués, AGI, 1806; Case 33, Cruz Marqués, RC, 1806. 32.  Case 3, Flores, 1760. 33.  Case 6, Cruz y Mena, 1764. 34. Vinson, Bearing, 123–24, observed that white women marrying into the pardo militia in Puebla were “notably overrepresented as militia spousal partners,” so the family pattern might have been typical for the area. 35.  Case 38, Caballero Carranza, 1808. 36.  See Chapters 2 and 3 and Twinam, Public, 307–13. 37.  Case 31, Ximénez, 1806. 38.  Case 30, Gallegos, 1806. 39. Twinam, Public, 233, shows a similar argument. 40.  Aureliano, 119, prints the document in which a group of elite pardos, including Blas Gallegos, attempt to establish a pardo elementary school in Caracas in 1805. 41.  Case 31, Ximénez, 1806. 42.  Case 22, Ayarza, 1803. 43.  In AGS, SGU, Leg. 7060, n. 81, fols. 386–88, 1793, Pedro Antonio de Ayarza presents a plan for the betterment of Portobelo in which he declares his father to be Don Pedro de Ayarza from “the kingdoms of Spain” and the “villa of Navarrete in La Rioja.” He names his father, his mother, Maria Policarpa Mendias, and declares his legitimacy. I thank Sergio Paolo Solano for this reference. 44.  Stolcke, “Mestizos,” 6, notes that in 1565 the Mexican Second Council ordered separation of matrimonial and baptismal records into sections for Spaniards, Indians, and castas, although in practice such divisions “varied considerably.” In Cuba, the registers separated between whites and pardos and blacks. She concludes



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that the “identities and colonial distinctions developed gradually and differed depending upon the regional socio-demographic circumstances.” 45.  Case 13, Paz, 1786; AGN-Caracas, Diversos, T. LXIV, n. 28, 1790. 46.  Case 9, Báez y Llerena, 1773. 47.  Case 6, Cruz y Mena, 1764. 48.  Case 38, Caballero Carranza, 1808. 49.  Case 30, Gallegos, 1806. 50.  Case 13, Paz, 1786. 51.  Case 29, Borbúa, 1803, was a similar case. 52.  Case 16, Briceño, 1794. 53.  Gross, 133, 164, provides examples of similar statements from pre–Civil War trials in the South, suggesting common strategies for mobility. In Arkansas, Abby Guy (1855) had witnesses confirm her whiteness due to her “social identity, her associations with white people, and her having performed tasks that white people quintessentially performed.” In 1835, in South Carolina, Judge Harper confirmed such practices holding “that for a person of ambiguous appearance, evidence of reception in society and exercise of legal and political rights could overcome evidence of negro ancestry.” He noted that “the people in question were now “respectable . . . one of them is a militia officer, and their caste has never been questioned until now.” 54.  Case 4, Báez y Llerena, 1760. 55.  Case 38, Caballero Carranza, 1808. 56.  Case 20, Valenzuela, 1796. 57.  Case 11, Ramírez, 1783. 58.  See Chapter 2 on issues relating to casta paintings and definitions of casta. 59.  Case 11, Ramírez, 1783. 60.  RC, 1, 440–41, provides a genealogy of the linkage between the Mexias Bejarano and Landaeta families, although he does not provide any documentation. Some of the chart can be recreated from the baptismal certificates submitted by Diego Mexias Bejarano and Juan Gabriel Landaeta. 61.  Guédez, 542, suggests that Basilio Landaeta was the son of a slave of Don Andres Landaeta. 62.  Case 19, Mexias Bejarano, 1789–1801, mentions the chaplaincy and his aunt when Diego collected the baptismal certificates of himself, his wife, and his son in 1786 when he began to gather documents for his petition. 63.  Case 14, Landaeta, 1798, provides the family genealogy. 64.  Morales, 325–36. 65.  García Jordán, 325, realizes that Diego and Juan Gabriel married sisters but does not note that they were also first cousins. RC, 1, 440–41, provides a genealogy of the families, which shows both linkages but does not comment on it. 66. Rappaport, “Mischevious,” 20, suggests that examples of passing in sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Colombia (New Granada) tended to be “modest” movements in a “narrow space.” The lack of intermarriage of the Mexias Bejaranos and Landaetas with whites and the exaggerated discrimination

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characteristic of the Caracas elite made their mobility particularly challenging to the establishment.

chapter 5 1.  Case 13, Paz, 1786. 2.  Catálogo, T. 2, n. 797, 1743, p. 166. 3.  As pardos and mulattos were opening avenues for mobility in Spanish America, pathways were closing in French colonies. Reinhardt, 107, has tracked a “dramatic increase in discriminatory legislation” in Saint-Domingue between 1758 and 1778 as white elites limited the rights of the free mulatto population to bear arms, hold public offices, practice as “pharmacist, surgeon or lawyer,” dress as whites, travel easily to France, and marry whites. Aubert, “Colonial,” traces the successive weakening of the French Code Noir and greater discrimination in French territories. Also see Peabody, 60–62. 4.  For a summary, see “Seven Years War,” which details a contest over imperial possessions, pitting Great Britain, Prussia, and Hanover against France, Russia, Austria, Saxony, Sweden—and relevant here after the British attacked Havana— after 1762, Spain. 5.  Lanning and TePaske, 175. 6.  Ibid., 443. 7.  Ibid., 164–65. The practice seems different in late eighteenth-century Lima, where José Manuel Valdés knew Latin but was not permitted to graduate from the university until he received a whitening decree. See Chapter 9. 8.  Ibid., 261–62. Neither profession had high status compared to law or the priesthood. 9.  See Chapter 3. 10. Rodriguez, Slavery, 1, 253–54, notes that the first registered black physician in the United States was ex-slave Dr. James Derham who had apprenticed with white doctors in Philadelphia and New Orleans. Since he lived in Spanish New Orleans (1762–1800), which later became a U.S. territory (1804), he was able initially to take advantage of Spanish practices of coartacíon, purchase his freedom in 1783, and establish a thriving medical practice. The first U.S. African American to obtain a medical degree—from the University of Glasgow in 1837—was New York ex-slave James McCune Smith. See McCune Smith and Stauffer, xx–xxi. Harley, 1425–26, traces the nineteenth-century establishment and failure (with the exception of Howard University and Meharry Medical College) of black medical schools. These were essential, given that few universities would admit African American applicants. 11.  Case 3, Flores, 1760. 12. Landers, Atlantic, 153, mentions Flores as belonging to a special cohort of Atlantic creoles, although she does not have the documentary context to place the application for his son’s admission to the university as a precursor application for whiteness.



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13.  Case 22, Ayarza, 1803, notes that the Ayarza brothers had participated in similar exhibitions of their knowledge in “various public acts” in Bogotá. 14.  Case 3, Flores, 1760. 15.  Case 22, Ayarza, 1803. See Chapter 1. 16. Burkholder, Biographical, 75. 17.  Recopilación, T. 1, Lib. i, Tit. xxii, Ley lvii, 1678. 18.  Cope, 83. 19.  Case 4, Báez y Llerena, 1760. 20.  Case 5, Avilés, 1763. 21.  García, “Nuestra,” pars. 8, 21. 22. Burkholder, Biographical, 83–84. 23.  Case 6, Cruz y Mena, 1764. 24.  Konetzke, T. 3, Doc. 366, 1793. As late as 1793, royal officials would only intervene to permit mulattos already certified as surgeons to attend special classes at the university—in this case a needed seminar on anatomy. 25.  Case 22, Ayarza, 1803. References to his case appear among the Ayarza documents. Konetzke, T. 3, Doc. 199, 1765, reprints the decree. 26.  Case 8, Borbúa, 1767; Case 29, Borbúa, 1803, provide information on these linkages. Bartolomé de Salazar and Pedro Joseph Masso trained Juan Evaristo de Jesús Borbúa, who would train his son Matías Joseph. Masso also taught his nephew Don Luis Joseph de Paz; Case 13, Paz, 1786. 27. Burns, Into, provides insight into how notaries shaped colonial archives. 28. Twinam, Public, 46, and Sicroff, 53–56, discuss peninsular precedents. 29.  BN, MS 2989, 1621. 30.  In contrast, most of the African Americans who became notaries did so during or after Reconstruction, approximately a century later than counterparts in Spanish America: for example, in Virginia in 1865 (Smith, 174), Kentucky in 1878 (Kleber, 369), Mississippi in 1924 (McMillen, 338), and South Carolina in 1931 (Fordham, 163). 31.  Castillero Calvo, “Afromestizaje,” 83. 32.  Ibid., 84. 33.  AHN, Códices, L. 701, 293, 1621. 34.  Castillero Calvo, “Afromestizaje,” 84–87. 35.  Ibid., 89, notes that the 1730s and 1740s had led to a deterioration in Panama given the burning of Panama City in 1737 and the end of the trade fairs in Portobelo in the 1740s. The ironic result was to open up opportunities for pardos and mulattos to compete with elites. He concludes, 97, by the end of the eighteenth century, Portobelo “found itself practically under the domination of the free pardos.” 36.  Case 8, Borbúa, 1767. However, Silvia Espelt Bombín suggests there may have been rare instances where petitioners paid for the office and dispensation of pardo-ness prior to the 1760s (personal communication, November 22, 2013). 37.  Ibid.; Case 29, Borbúa, 1803. 38.  Case 8, Borbúa, 1767.

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39. Burkholder, Biographical, 51–53. 40.  Case 8, Borbúa, 1767. 41.  RC, Doc. 7, 1795. 42.  Case 8, Borbúa, 1767. 43.  Case 13, Paz, 1786, contains references to these petitions. 44. Burkholder, Biographical, 29–31. 45.  He was the longest-serving fiscal in the eighteenth century. His legacy endures even today. More than two hundred years after he retired from the Council of the Indies, the family house in Fonz is still known as the “House of the Fiscal” (Casa del Fiscal). http://Cistué.fonz.es/index.php/mod.pags/mem.detalle/ idpag.64/idmenu.1098/chk.b0452751bf0b896b3330638dfc120d8c.html. 46. Twinam, Public, 271. 47.  Case 13, Paz, 1786. 48. Twinam, Public, 194. 49.  Case 13, Paz, 1786. 50.  RC, Doc. 1, 1773. 51.  Case 17, Tamayo, 1795, also supports this linkage. He was among the first to apply in 1795 to eliminate the defect of “mulattos” inherited from his mother so he might purchase the title of notary. Unfortunately, only the index reference remains, as the document is lost. 52. Burkholder, Biographical, provides data on Fernández Sarmiento y Ballón, 42, 43; Areche Sornoza, 12, 13; and Romero Aleseson, 111. At the time of this decision, none were members of the Cámara, although Romero Aleseson would later receive an appointment. 53.  Case 13, Paz, 1786. See Appendix B. Given the dates, it appears that Pedro Gonzáles de Mena Villegas charged for the first example and Cistué y Coll for the latter two cases. 54.  Such casta differences did not influence petitioners as no one ever applied as a quinterón, even if they could prove such heritage. Everyone opted for the cheaper category and paid for whitening as pardos. 55.  Case 13, Paz, 1786.

chapter 6 1.  Case 11, Ramírez, 1783. 2.  See Chapter 5. 3. Twinam, Public, 232, 252f, 277. 4.  Case 9, Báez y Llerena, 1773. 5.  See Twinam, Public, 214–15 where petitioners tried to legitimate dead relatives to restore honor to the family ancestry and therefore to themselves. 6.  Case 9, Báez y Llerena, 1773. 7.  See Chapter 4.



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8.  He had been a scribe on the frigate San Felipe, worked in the royal treasury, and helped with the sale of slaves and the functioning of the tobacco monopoly. 9. Case 9, Báez y Llerena, 1773. Guadalupe García tracks how free blacks, slaves, and the white population rallied together in the defense of Havana against the British attack. 10. Burkholder, Biographical, 67. He served from August 23, 1766, to July 29, 1773. 11.  Case 9, Báez y Llerena, 1773. 12.  Henige, 300. 13.  Case 11, Ramírez, 1783. 14.  Present-day Antigua, Guatemala, was originally named Santiago de los Caballeros. It took the name “Antigua,” or old, when it became the old capital when the crown moved the new capital to Guatemala City after the 1773 earthquakes. 15.  Cadena provides a firsthand account of the earthquake and aftermath. For information on rebuilding and Bernardo Ramírez’s contributions, see Navarrete and Muñoz; Markman; and Webre. 16.  Ramírez is the only petitioner who directly equated whitening with the privileges of Spaniards. The remaining applicants asked either for elimination of defect or the privileges of whiteness (blancos). 17.  Pardo applicants rarely criticized the Spanish discriminatory regime but rather saw themselves as individuals who should be exceptions to the rules. The typical Caribbean pattern was for pardos and mulattos to seek privileges for themselves as individuals or as an elite group, but not actively to promote either general mobility for the castas or the abolition of slavery. Helg, “Limits,” 22, notes the absence of casta critique regarding slavery. Geggus, “Slavery,” 16, also concludes that “free coloreds” were “ambivalent in their attitudes to slavery and ex-slaves.” Hanger, “Conflicting,” 192–93, provides similar conclusions for New Orleans. Yet, by 1806, the “mystery” consulta and its 1808 successor would recognize the need to provide mobility to the castas. See Chapter 11. 18. Burkholder, Biographical, 97–99. He was fiscal from September 9, 1775, to July 8, 1787. Also see Rípodas Ardanaz, Ilustrado. 19.  Case 11, Ramírez, 1783. 20.  See Chapter 2. 21.  Case 11, Ramírez, 1783. 22. Phelan, People; McFarlane; and Stavig are excellent sources. 23.  Case 11, Ramírez, 1783. 24. Burkholder, Biographical, 29–31. 25.  Case 11, Ramírez, 1783. 26.  Estatutos, 77, reveals that the academy had developed a regular process for handing out medals in competitions. However, it seems Porlier wanted simply to give Bernardo Ramírez some kind of a medal, but not one normally awarded by the academy. For information on this Enlightenment attempt to improve the

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arts, including Bernardo Ramírez’s field of architecture, see the academy’s website, http://www.realacademiabellasartessanfernando.com/es/academia/historia. For how Bernardo Ramírez used his medal to the family’s advantage, see Chapter 13. 27.  Case 9, Báez y Llerena, 1787. 28.  Case 13, Paz, 1786.

chapter 7 1.  Case 14, Landaeta, 1798. 2.  Case 19, Mexias Bejarano, 1789–1801. 3.  Case 14, Landaeta, 1798; RC, Doc. 10, 1798. 4.  Case 16, Briceño, 1794; Case 15, Almeyda, 1792. 5.  See Chapter 5. 6.  See Appendix B. 7. Twinam, Public, 269–73, discusses the rise in Council of the Indies activism. This can now be linked with the arrival of Porlier and Cistué y Coll as fiscals. 8. Burkholder, Biographical, xiii–xiv. 9.  García Pérez, 185–95, discusses the office of fiscal. 10. Burkholder, Biographical, 107–8. See Appendix B. 11.  Ibid., 100–102. 12.  See García, Fiscal, for his earlier career in Mexico. 13.  Case 14, Landaeta, 1798. 14.  See Chapter 3. Forbes, 93–130, provides details on the various meanings and uses of mestizo. 15.  Ibid., 115, 119, notes that the Greek “pardos” means leopard, referring to the color of that animal. A Portuguese dictionary from 1836 also equates pardo with a leopard color. 16.  Case 14, Landaeta, 1798. He also named their wives as leopards. 17.  RC, 1, 282, speculates that one of Landaeta’s ancestors might have been someone with both African and Native ancestry and in “a simple mathematical operation” Landaeta eliminated the “African ingredient” turning himself into a mestizo. 18. Burkholder, Biographical, 107–8. 19.  Case 14, Landaeta, 1798. 20.  Guardiola-Rivera, 188, errs in thinking that there were widespread protests “in all cases” against whitening. The only other question raised concerning whitenings occurred when the lawyers’ guild was divided on whether Joseph Ponciano de Ayarza could become a lawyer after he had graduated from the university. However, their inclination was to permit him to do so, a decision they confirmed with the Council of the Indies. 21.  The unique nature of the Caracas elite creates a problem for historians who do not study its outbursts in context, leading as in Lasso, “Republican,” 3–4, to generalizing that these attitudes resembled those of elites elsewhere.



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22. McKinley, Pre-revolutionary, 115. He contextualized Caracas events with comparisons with the Revolt of the Comuneros in Colombia and the rebellion of José Gabriel Tupac Amaru in Peru, underestimating local tensions. 23. Díaz, Female, 32–33. 24. Pellicer, Entre, 15, quotes Vallenilla Lanz. 25. Langue, Aristócratas, 67. 26. McKinley, Pre-revolutionary, 2. Also see Quintero on elite intermarriages and strategies from the late 1780s through the First Republic. This is from a topdown viewpoint, not taking into account the upward pressures from the casta populations. On elite development from the sixteenth to the eighteenth centuries, see Langue, “Orígenes” and Aristócratas. 27.  López Bohórquez, 81. Also see comments on cabildo and cabildo records in Mago de Chópite. 28. Díaz, Female, 28–34. 29.  RC, 1, 55. Since Rodulfo Cortés was not aware of the earlier petitions from surgeons and notaries, he sees the Venezuelan petitions as “the first phase” of whitening. 30.  Pons, 187–88. Gómez, “Pardo,” par. 4, has constructed the following demographic breakdown for an 1800–1810 population of Caracas province of 99,642. Whites composed 25.2 percent of the population (creole aristocracy, 0.5 percent; Spaniards, 1.3 percent; white creoles, 18.5 percent; lesser whites, 5.3 percent); Tributary Indians, 12.24 percent; pardos, 37.83 percent; free blacks, 6.64 percent; and slaves, 15.65 percent. 31.  Rosenblat, 71–72. 32. Pellicer, Entre, 16. 33.  “La iglesia.” 34. Pellicer, Entre, 63; Helg, Liberty, 99, in contrast notes that churches were not so divided in Cartagena. 35.  AHN-Caracas, Diversos, XLX, n. 9, 1774, contains reference to the march; Pellicer, Entre, 63, mentions the mayordomo. Traveler Pons, 2, 189, commented that the pardos “lavish peculiar care” on their clothing and on the church in Altagracia: “Every free man of colour makes a sort of ostentatious display of this dress, and of the neatness and riches of this church.” 36.  Case 19, Mexias Bejarano, 1789–1801. 37.  AHN-Caracas, Diversos, XLX, n. 9, 1774. 38. Helg, Liberty, 101, in contrast, notes that in Cartagena it was possible for “men of color” to join the white militia. 39.  AHN-Caracas, Diversos, XLX, n. 5, 1774. 40.  Rosenblat, 83. 41.  AHN-Caracas, Diversos, XLX, n. 5, 1774. 42.  Pons, 1, 175. Semple, 55, also comments on the custom. 43.  AHN-Caracas, Diversos, XLX, n. 5, 1774.

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44. Cañeque, 119, 145–51. Parda women also struck out against such laws. AGN-Bogotá, Seccion Colonial, Fondo Policia, T. 8, fols. 108–232, 1807, documents protests in Valledupar, Colombia, in 1807 as parda women sought the right to wear skirts and shawls and to carry fans equivalent to those of white women. I thank Sergio Paolo Solano for this reference. 45.  Cañeque., 243. 46.  AHN-Caracas, Diversos, T. LXIV, n. 28, 1790. 47. Pellicer, Entre, 14. He uses 256 of the 781 cases. 48.  AHN-Caracas, Diversos T. LXV, n. 12, 1789. 49.  AHN-Caracas. Diversos, T LXIV. n. 25, 1790. 50.  AHN-Caracas, Diversos, T. LXIV, n. 28, 1790. 51. Pellicer, Vivencia, 50–51. 52. McKinley, Pre-revolutionary, 77–78. 53.  Ibid., 88. 54.  Ibid., 44–45. 55.  Ibid., 79. 56.  Henige, 344, provides details. 57.  López Bohórquez, 76. 58.  Ibid., 78. 59.  Ibid., 63, 64. 60.  Ibid., 64. 61.  Ibid., 72. 62.  Ibid., 79, 80. 63.  Ibid., 117, discusses this issue. 64.  Ibid., 112. 65.  Ibid., 113. 66.  Ibid., 115. 67.  RC, Doc. 10, 1798 (Juan Gabriel de Landaeta). 68.  See Chapter 2. 69.  Case 14, Landaeta, 1798. 70. McKinley, Pre-revolutionary, 20, notes that the Mexias Bejarano clan owned thirty-one houses, which included residences and stores. 71.  Case 14, Landaeta, 1798. 72.  Case 19, Mexias Bejarano, 1789–1801. For some unexplained reason Rodulfo Cortés put the October 6 letter sent by the Caracas cabildo in the documents concerning Juan Gabriel Landaeta and the October 13 letter in the set of documents concerning Diego Mexias Bejarano even though the latter had not sent in his petition. 73.  See Chapter 7. 74.  Case 19, Mexias Bejarano, 1789–1801. 75.  Such ranting fits with Bennett’s Colonial, 215, description of the “elite fantasy” that there was “a profusion of grasping castas intent on acquiring whiteness at all costs.” However, the situation was perhaps less “fantasy” in Venezuela than in Mexico.



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76.  Case 14, Landaeta, 1798. For example, it only took two months for the Cámara to respond initially to Juan Gabriel Landaeta’s petition. He dated it February 14, 1788, and the Cámara considered the case on April 24, 1788. González-Silen, “Holding,” notes the turnaround time between Venezuela’s port of La Guaira and Cádiz was between 32 and 40 days, 14. 77.  Ibid. It seems that the first version (October 6, 1788) that the cabildo wrote for this is the one included in the Landaeta documents. 78.  RC, Doc. 11, 1796. 79.  López Bohórquez, 102, 103. Captain General Pedro Carbonell would report negatively on Cortines to the Council of the Indies and charge that he protected “the mulattos and people of low sphere.” Carbonell charged that the Mexias Bejaranos had “maintained him with pan regalado,” presumably with gifts or bribes and that Cortines went “frequently to the dances and other functions of this caste of people.” I thank Olga González-Silen for a further reference to the Carbonell complaints. Yet, Saether, 498, cites a case where Cortines supported the Pragmatic Sanction on Marriages, showing his disapproval of mixed marriages, not a pro-casta stance. 80.  RC, 1, 308, 328, suggests that Cortines was pro-pardo; Camacho, 13, argues he “lied” in favor of the Landaetas. While Cortines was accurate in stating that the family had no slave ancestors for three generations, he must have known the Landaetas were pardos. 81. Burkholder, Biographical, 107–8. 82.  See Chapter 4. 83.  Case 16, Briceño, 1794. 84.  Case 15, Almeyda, 1792. 85.  Case 16, Briceño, 1794. 86.  RC, 1, 272. 87. Burkholder, Biographical, 126–27. 88. Pellicer, Entre, 87–89. García Chuecos, 231, also reproduces part of the document. I thank Olga González-Silen for the reference. 89. Helg, Liberty, 95, 99, 101, notes that in Cartagena upwardly mobile mulattos had often been “sponsored by white aristocrats” creating vertical ties and personalistic linkages; there was greater passing; no segregation in Cartagena churches; some pardos joined white militia units and used the title of Don. 90. Pellicer, Vivencia, 104. 91.  Case 15, Almeyda, 1792. 92.  Case 16, Briceño, 1794. 93. Burkholder, Biographical, 126–27, 100–102. Uruñuela Aransay died April 7, 1793. 94.  Case 19, Mexias Bejarano, 1789–1801. 95. Burkholder, Biographical, 31–32. 96.  Case 19, Mexias Bejarano, 1789–1801.

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97.  Paquette, 73, traces the Bourbon regalist efforts to undue what they saw as “usurpations” of temporal power, which might explain the alacrity with which Secretary Cornejo rejected any overtures to Rome. 98.  RC, 1, 319, 348, 365, 436, 438, assumes that because the Cámara sent Diego Mexias Bejarano to the Caracas bishop that the latter would automatically provide the dispensation. However, the Cámara only provided the right to do this; it did not provide any guarantee that it would happen. Given Diego’s continued efforts, it remains unclear if the bishop fulfilled his request. Rodulfo Cortés provides unfootnoted evidence that Diego eventually did hold the chaplaincy and had to surrender it due to ill health. See Chapter 13. 99.  Case 16, Briceño, 1794. 100.  RC, Doc. 7, 1795. 101.  Case 22, Ayarza, 1803.

chapter 8 1.  Case 22, Ayarza, 1803. A much abbreviated version of this chapter appears in Twinam, “Pedro.” 2. Ibid. In AGN-Bogotá, Sección Colonial, Miscelánea, T. 3, fols. 30–46, Ayarza appears in the 1778 Portobelo census as married with five children with a total household of thirty, including nine other free inhabitants and fourteen slaves. It is unclear if the other children were alive when he began his whitening petitions in the 1790s. I thank Sergio Paolo Solano for this reference. 3.  Case 7, Polo, 1765. 4.  AGS, SGU, Leg. 7060, n. 81, fols. 386–88, 1793. I thank Sergio Paolo Solano for this document. 5. Twinam, Public, 262. 6.  RC, Doc. 9, 1796; Henige, 303. This was a different governor from Joaquín Primo de Rivera who had supported the whitening of Petronila Briceño. 7.  RC, Doc. 9, 1796. 8.  Phelan, “Authority,” 47–65, has a classic discussion. 9.  See Chapter 7. 10.  RC, Doc. 5, 1789–1801 (Diego Mexias Bejarano). 11.  Case 20, Valenzuela, 1796. 12.  Case 19, Mexias Bejarano, RC, 1796. 13.  RC, Doc. 11, 1796. 14.  This calculation assumes 20 reales in a peso fuerte. 15.  RC, Doc. 11, 1796. 16.  See Chapter 7. 17.  Geggus, “Sounds,” 22, notes that 1795 marked “upsurges” in slave and free casta resistance and wonders if the gracias al sacar might be a contributor, particularly to the Morales rebellion, 26–27, in Cuba in August 1795. Certainly, the cédula could have arrived by that date. However, the critical variable is to ascertain



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whether officials publicized it or if those in the rebellion misinterpreted it. Gaspar and Geggus, 11. Geggus also speculates that the Coro Revolt might have been precipitated by the mistaken understanding that the 1795 decree brought emancipation, not whitening. Since Coro began in May 1795 and the president first passed knowledge of the gracias al sacar to the Caracas cabildo in October 1795 at which point they lost it, this seems less likely. Geggus, “Slave,” 136, notes that “slaves in Cuba, Spanish Louisiana, Puerto Rico, La Plata, and Venezuela all suddenly started agitating at roughly the same time in spring/early summer 1795” and that “most of these plots featured rumors of a suppressed emancipation decree.” 18.  RC, Doc. 11, 1796. Langue, “Identités,” par 9, contains the petition of three sisters who remarked that it was a “universal style and practice” to award the honorifics of Don and Doña as “a distinctive characteristic” to “white persons, distinguishing them from the pardos and mulattos.” 19.  RC, Doc. 5. 1789–1801 (Diego Mexias Bejarano). 20.  RC, Doc. 11, 1796. 21.  Case 20, Valenzuela, 1796. 22.  Case 19, Mexias Bejarano, 1789–1801. 23.  Case 20, Valenzuela, 1796. 24. Burkholder, Biographical, provides periods of service. I calculated who was serving in 1788 and presumably had knowledge of the first letters from the Caracas cabildo and who was still on the Council in 1796 for receipt of the third missive. Page numbers follow each name. Ministers included José Antonio de Areche y Sornoza (12, 13), Manuel Romero y Aleson (111), Francisco Leandro de Viana y Zavala (135–37), Rafael de Antúnez y Acevedo (9, 10), Pedro Muñoz de la Torre (84, 85), Juan Manuel González Bustillo y Villaseñor (50, 51), Gaspar Soler Ruiz (118, 119), José García León y Pizarro (46, 47), Juan Francisco Gutiérrez de Pineres (53, 54), Jorge Escobedo Ocaña y Alarcón (38, 39), Miguel Calizto de Acedo y Ximinez (2), Francisco Xavier Machado Fiesco (73, 74), Bernardo de Iriarte y Nieves-Rabello (62), and Fernando José Mangino Fernandez (75, 76). 25. Twinam, Public, 293, suggests a similar search for precedents when there were questions concerning legitimation policy. 26.  Case 20, Valenzuela, 1796. 27.  Case 21, Rodríguez, AGI, 1796; Case 21, Rodríguez, RC, 1796. 28.  See Chapter 7. 29.  Case 21, Rodríguez, AGI, 1796; Case 21, Rodríguez, RC, 1796. 30. Twinam, Public, 278–79, shows Cámara officials expressing a similar bias in favor of the legitimation of women rather than men, although statistics do not support such a bias in practice. 31.  Case 19, Mexias Bejarano, 1789–1801. 32.  Ibid., also contains the cabildo’s order to prepare a response to the whitening decree. 33.  RC, Doc. 11, 1796. This appeared on November 28, 1796. 34.  See Chapter 7.

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35.  RC, Doc. 11, 1796. 36.  Ibid.; RC, 1, 511, considers that the elites might not have been so incensed by the whitening provisions if the crown had charged “fabulous sums” for the favor. 37.  Burkholder, “From Creole,” 395–415. 38.  RC, Doc. 11, 1796. 39.  RC, 1, 134. 40.  RC, 1, 310. 41.  Zahler, 357, suggests “there was no implication that the judges personally benefited from their misbehavior.” 42.  RC, 1, 504, speculated that the cabildo’s letter might have caused “general hilarity” in Madrid and that the councilors of the Indies might have considered such conjectures the result of the “tropical climate.” 43.  RC, Doc. 11, 1796. 44. Burkholder, Biographical, 32–33. He received an appointment in 1806. 45.  RC, Doc. 11, 1796. 46.  See Chapter 7. 47.  RC, Doc. 11, 1796. 48.  RC, Doc. 13, 1796–1797.

chapter 9 1.  Case 26, Yañes, AGI, 1800; Case 26, Yañes, RC, 1800. 2.  Case 22, Ayarza, 1803. 3.  Case 23, Cowley, 1797. 4.  AGI, Contratación 5535, n. 48, 1790 (Don Joseph María Cowley). He successfully asked the crown to pay his way back to Havana given his “miserable constitution.” 5.  RC, Doc. 13, 1796–1797. 6.  AGI, Buenos Aires 282, n. 24, 1797 (Pedro de Olmedo). 7.  His legitimation petition is in AGI, Buenos Aires 280, n. 14, 1796 (Don Joseph Ramón de Olmedo); Twinam, Public, 86. 8.  Case 24, Olmedo, 1797. 9.  Haring, 47–54. 10.  See Chapter 8. 11. Vinson, Bearing, 17, 18. Since whites excluded free pardos and mulattos from artisan guilds, they commonly formed their own organizations. 12.  RC, Doc. 16, 1797. 13.  I thank Asunción Lavrin for suggesting some finer points of this analysis. 14. Landers, Black, 208, traces similar strategies in Florida given the crown counted on desperately needed troops from black and pardo ranks who “parlayed initiative and military skills” into favors, as they “pursued pragmatically their best options during international conflicts.” 15.  See Chapters 6 and 8.



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16.  Case 19, Mexias Bejarano, 1789–1801. 17.  Leyes de Indias, Lib. ii, Tit. v, Ley vi, http://www.congreso.gob.pe/ntley/ LeyIndiaP.htm. 18.  Case 14, Landaeta, 1798. 19.  Case 25, Gutiérrez, 1798. A note in this file examines this petition in light of the letter from the Caracas cabildo. 20.  Case 19, Mexias Bejarano, 1805. 21.  Case 14, Landaeta, 1798. 22.  See Chapters 5 and 6 for Báez; Chapter 5 for Báez, Avilés, and Cruz y Mena and Masso, Paz, and Borbúa; Chapters 7 and 8 for Mexias Bejarano and Landaeta; and this chapter for Olmedo. 23.  See Chapter 8 where both men appear together as prominent pardos. AGS, SGU, Leg. 7060, n. 81, fols. 386–88, 1793. I thank Sergio Paolo Solano for this document. 24.  Case 25, Gutiérrez, 1798, contains both his legitimation and his whitening application. 25. Twinam, Public, 262–86, traces how the Cámara developed stricter standards for legitimations. 26.  Case 25, Gutiérrez, 1798. 27.  Case 26, Yañes, AGI, 1800; Case 26, Yañes, RC, 1800. 28.  Case 20, Valenzuela, 1796. 29.  Three groups applied to use the title of Don. Notary publics requested official approval to sign their names with Don. Since two of these applied before 1795, they may have set the precedent for such purchase to appear in the gracias al sacar. Nine notaries similarly petitioned after 1795. Second were individuals who simply asked permission to use the title of Don. Of these, two requested the favor prior to 1795 and three after. The most complicated applications came from pardos and mulattos since use of the title automatically confirmed whiteness. Before 1795, Manuel Báez included it in his wish list, as did the Almeydas who complained that they were not accorded this respectful salutation. Case 9, Báez y Llerena, 1773; Case 9, Báez y Llerena, 1787; Case 15, Almeyda, 1792. After 1795, the Mexias Bejaranos, Valenzuelas, and Ayarzas specifically offered to pay the higher price for don as listed in the arancel. Case 19, Mexias Bejarano, 1789–1801; Case 19, Mexias Bejarano, RC, 1796; Case 20, Valenzuela, 1796; Case 22, Ayarza, 1803. Yañes asked that his wife be confirmed as a Doña but made no offer to pay. Case 26, Yañes, AGI, 1800; Case 26, Yañes, RC, 1800. So five pardos either implicitly or directly asked for the title of Don. At least two others, Luis Joseph de Paz and Manuel Caballero Carranza, were already enjoying use of the title when they applied. Case 13, Paz, 1786; Case 38, Caballero Carranza, 1808. 30.  Case 20, Valenzuela, 1796. 31.  Case 26, Yañes, AGI, 1800; Case 26, Yañes, RC, 1800. 32.  RC, Doc. 22, 1801. 33.  See Chapter 9.

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34.  Adding all the possible fees that could be paid in the 1795 and the 1801 gracias al sacar reveals that the average total increase was 25.6 percent. It seems that officials rounded up or down: for example, 1200 reales rather than 1207 reales. 35.  RC, Doc. 7, 1795; RC, Doc. 22, 1801. Hijos naturales (offspring of single parents who could have wed) who wanted to practice as a notary found the fee increased from 4400 to 6000 reales (36 percent), the price of legitimation of hijos naturales changed from 4000 to 5400 reales (35 percent), and the adulterous from 19,800 to 25,800 reales (30 percent). 36. Twinam, Public, 218–28, discusses property law. 37.  Case 19, Mexias Bejarano, 1805. 38.  Case 27, Valdés, 1802. See discussion concerning these indexes in Chapter 1. The handwritten index lists gracias al sacar cases from Peru and provides an inventory of files sent to the Council of the Indies through 1821. The problem is that someone relocated the documents dated after 1799 to an unknown spot, so only the indexes remain. 39.  RC, Doc. 18, 1797. 40.  Case 27, Valdés, 1802. 41.  Paz and Kirk provide introductions. 42.  Lavalle, 2. 43.  Ibid., 5. 44.  Ades, 84, 85. The original watercolor is in the Museo de Arte de Lima. I thank them for permission for reproduction. 45.  Case 19, Mexias Bejarano, 1805. 46.  AGI, Guatemala 919, no n., 1802. I thank Laura Matthew for this cover letter, which accompanied the formal petition. 47.  Matthew, “Por qué,” 161–70, comments and prints Goicoechea’s report. 48.  Ibid., 166. 49.  Ibid., 168–69. 50.  Ibid., 164. 51.  Ibid., 170. 52. Burkholder, Biographical, 29, 30. 53.  Case 28, Arévalo, 1802; Case 28, Arévalo, 1802–1803. 54. Burkholder, Biographical, 100–102. 55.  See Appendix B.

chapter 10 1.  Aureliano, 149–50, reprints the governor’s letter, which is quoted in the 1806 consulta. See Chapter 11. RAH-ML, T. 77 (reprinted in Konetzke, T. 3, n. 370, 1806, and RC, Doc. 31). 2.  Henige, 345. 3. Burkholder, Biographical, 28–29. 4.  See Appendix B.



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5. Burkholder, Biographical, 55–58. 6.  Ibid., 51–53. 7.  Ibid., 23–25. 8.  AGI, Guatemala 919, no n., 1803. I thank Laura Matthew for this reference. See Chapter 9. 9.  See Appendix B. 10.  AGI, Guatemala 919, no n., 1803, has official scribbling revealing document flow. I thank Laura Matthew for this reference. 11.  Case 19, Mexias Bejarano, 1805. 12.  Case 19, Mexias Bejarano, 1804. The document is undated, but the audiencia responded in July 1803 so it must have been before that date. 13.  Case 22, Ayarza, 1803. Also see comments in Uribe, 517–49. 14. Burkholder, Biographical, 56. 15.  RC, 1, 353, notes that a royal decree (July 14, 1777) authorized the protomedicato in Caracas to permit curanderos de color to practice if they demonstrated the necessary skill given the absence of surgeons. This may be why Domingo Arévalo had not needed to apply for a dispensation to practice. 16.  Case 28, Arévalo, 1802–1803. 17. Burkholder, Biographical, 64–65, for the Count of Pozos Dulces; and 75–76, for Mangino. 18.  Case 28, Arévalo, 1802–1803. 19.  See Chapter 7. 20.  Case 19, Mexias Bejarano, 1805. 21.  Ibid. prints both letters. 22.  See Chapter 5. 23.  Case 29, Borbúa, 1803. 24.  Langue, “Moralista,” provides background on Bishop Francisco de Ibarra y Herrera and reprints some of his sermons, many of which decry the absence of religiosity, the lascivious dances and dress of Caraqueños, especially women and particularly those of the lower class. 25.  Case 19, Mexias Bejarano, 1805. 26. See http://www.arquidiocesisdecaracas.com/arquidiocesis/resena_histor ica.php for the history of the bishopric and archbishopric of Caracas. 27.  Case 21, Rodríguez, AGI, 1796; Case 21, Rodríguez, RC, 1796. 28.  “Historia,” 3, reprints this document. 29.  His policy suggestions prefigure some of the conclusions of the 1808 consulta. See Chapter 11. 30.  Case 19, Mexias Bejarano, 1805. 31.  Case 19, Mexias Bejarano, 1804. 32.  See Chapter 6 for the similar request of Manuel Báez. 33.  Case 30, Gallegos, 1806. Also see Chapter 4. 34.  Case 31, Ximénez, 1806. 35.  Case 22, Ayarza, 1803.

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36.  Case 19, Mexias Bejarano, 1805. 37.  Gómez, “Revolución Haitiana,” tracks the multiple impacts of the Haitian Revolution on Venezuelan elites, pardos, mulattos, and slaves. 38.  RAH, Colección Mata Linares, T. 77 (reprinted in Konetzke, T. 3, n. 370, 1806, and RC, Doc. 31), contains the 1806 consulta that reviews what had happened. 39.  Case 32, Aristimuño, AGI, 1806; Case 32, Aristimuño, RC, 1806. 40.  Pons, 2: 261, mentions Cagigal’s service in Caracas before his appointment as governor of Cumaná. 41.  Case 32, Aristimuño, AGI, 1806; Case 32, Aristimuño, RC, 1806. 42.  Case 33, Cruz Marqués, AGI, 1806; Case 33, Cruz Marqués, RC, 1806. 43. Burkholder, Biographical, 56, notes that he was paralyzed on one side and died a few days later. 44.  Ibid., 52. Since the letter, according to the Lima index of Cartas y Expedientes, was the fifth to arrive in 1806, it likely arrived in the first few months of the year. 45.  Lavalle, 7.

chapter 11 1.  RAH, Colección Mata Linares, T. 77 (reprinted in Konetzke, T. 3, n. 370, 1806, and RC, Doc. 31). 2.  AGI, Guatemala 743, no n., 1808. I thank Laura Matthew for this document, which provided crucial information on aftermaths. 3. Burkholder, Biographical, 77–79. 4. Contreras, Catálogo, xiii–xv, contains his curriculum vitae, or hoja de servicio, but never mentions his collection. 5.  Ibid., ix, x. Examples of topics found in Volume 1 include Customs, Audiencias, Patronato Real, Religious Orders, Jesuits, Missions, City Council, Ceremonies, Commerce, Council of the Indies, Indians, Inquisition, Marriage, Mining, and Rebellions and Disorders. 6.  RAH, Colección Mata Linares, T. 77 (reprinted in Konetzke, T. 3, n. 370, 1806, and RC, Doc. 31). 7.  The mystery consulta contains the only reference to the decree of April 7, 1805. 8.  RAH, Colección Mata Linares, T. 77 (reprinted in Konetzke, T. 3, n. 380, 1806, and RC, Doc. 31). 9. Stolcke, Marriage, 174, and Díaz, Female, 52, conclude that the 1806 consulta took away Diego Mexias Bejarano’s passing of whiteness to the next generation with the result that his son might not attend university. Rather, it appears the minister confirmed that in this case the father’s status passed to his son. 10.  RAH, Colección Mata Linares, T. 77 (reprinted in Konetzke, T. 3, n. 370, 1806, and RC, Doc. 31). 11.  The minister cited a consulta of May 5, 1781.



notes to chapter 11

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12.  The minister referred to a consulta of August 19, 1781. 13.  The minister quoted a revision to the Pragmatic Sanction on Marriages in April 10, 1803; the Council of the Indies considered the complaint of the viceroy of Buenos Aires in March 23, 1805. 14.  RAH, Colección Mata Linares, T. 77 (reprinted in Konetzke, T. 3, n. 380, 1806, and RC, Doc. 31). 15.  See Chapter 9. 16.  RAH, Colección Mata Linares, T. 77 (reprinted in Konetzke, T. 3, n. 380, 1806, and RC, Doc. 31). 17.  Robertson, 386–88. 18.  See Chapter 9. Matthew reprints the letter with commentary. 19.  RAH, Colección Mata Linares, T. 77 (reprinted in Konetzke, T. 3, n. 380, 1806, and RC, Doc. 31). 20.  Matthew, “Por qué,” 166. 21.  See Chapter 10. 22.  He was concerned that pardos and mulattos might lie, so he stipulated such information on birth could not be “by information of witnesses.” 23. See Chapter 4. Case 38, Caballero Carranza, 1808, would meet that standard. 24.  See Chapter 10. 25.  Case 20, Valenzuela, 1796. 26.  Case 22, Ayarza, 1803. 27.  Case 30, Gallegos, 1806; Case 31, Ximénez, 1806. It is unknown if the same minister made the decision on the Ayarza case as well as these two cases, but since it was the same date, it seems likely. 28.  Paquette, 153, notes that it was this Bourbon aim “to maintain relatively harmonious relationships with local elites” that contributed to administrative “eclectism” given the differing situations throughout the empire. 29.  Case 22, Ayarza, 1803. 30.  Mendiburu, 8, 219, and Lavalle, 8, contain information on the incident. 31.  Case 32, Aristimuño, AGI, 1806; Case 32, Aristimuño, RC, 1806. 32.  Case 33, Cruz Marqués, AGI, 1806; Case 33, Cruz Marqués, RC, 1806. 33. Burkholder, Biographical, 138. 34. AGI, Guatemala 743, no n., 1808. I thank Laura Matthew for this document. 35.  They do not surface in the usual archival locations of gracias al sacar documents. Perhaps the dislocations caused by the Napoleonic invasion and the transfer of the imperial government from Madrid to Cádiz led to the eventual loss of the documents. 36. The chances seem high that he was related to surgeon Blas Gallegos: Case 30, Gallegos, 1806. 37. Burkholder, Biographical, 51–53. He was delayed three years due to local problems that included the British invasion of the Río de la Plata.

480

notes to chapter 11

38.  Case 38, Caballero Carranza, 1808. Vinson, “From,” 114, notes that there was an “influential” group of casta population in Puebla, including “a host of highranking military officers,” to which this family almost certainly belonged. 39.  RAH, Colección Mata Linares, T. 77 (reprinted in Konetzke, T. 3, n. 380, 1806, and RC, Doc. 31). 40.  A summary is in Herr, 69–76. 41. Burkholder, Biographical, 23–25. 42.  Rieu-Millán, 1–3, details the organization. 43.  Mier, 219. See Rodríguez O., We Are Now, 99, for details on the differing ways the Cortes regulated selection of the overseas delegates. 44.  Lynch, “Origins,” 75, 101–4, provides an overview. Also see Rodríguez O., We Are Now, 99. 45.  RC, Doc. 33, 1810. 46.  As Rieu-Millán, xx, notes, “for the first time the Americans would be able to expound directly and publicly on the situation of their provinces . . . and demand reforms through the relatively direct path of laws approved in session.” See Rodríguez O., We Are Now, 335, for a revisionist interpretation of Mexican independence as part of a sweeping “political revolution” complicated by a “fragmented insurgency.” The constitution eventually written by the Cortes of Cádiz proved, as Rodríguez O., We Are Now, notes, to be “a charter for the Hispanic world,” 338. It established free press and “abolished seigniorial institutions, the Inquisition, Indian tribute, forced labor.” It provided for state control over the Catholic Church, limited monarchical authority, gave power to the Cortes. Even while excluding castas from citizenship, it still “surpassed all existing representative governments, such as Great Britain, the United States and France, in providing political rights to the vast majority of the male population.” 47.  Ibid., 235–53, for Mexico; and Herr, 79–81.

chapter 12 1.  RC, Doc. 34, 1812. For an early article on the pardo question in the Cortes, see King, “Colored.” Anna summarizes other American issues. 2.  Rieu-Millán provides background on the establishment of the Cortes. For procedures to choose the overseas delegations, see Rodríguez O., We Are Now, 98–102, who estimates, 149, that of the 220 deputies eventually participating in the Extraordinary Cortes, 67 were Americans. 3.  DDAC, V. 1, 1811, in a preface notes their later recreation and publication. Mier, 223, also mentions the absence of stenographers during the early debates. 4.  DDAC, V. 1, 9/25, 1810, 12. 5.  Ibid., V. 1, 10/1, 1810, 24; V. 1, 10/3, 1810, 26. It is difficult sometimes to identify Cortes representatives for the official record often uses one of their names and another of their names appear elsewhere. For that reason the DBPE is fundamental to identify who was speaking and where they represented. When deputies were



notes to chapter 12

481

particularly known for their speeches for or against the castas, or for other relevant information, this also appears in the footnote. For Mexia del Valle y Lequerica, see DBPE, 2: 611–16. He was one of the most eloquent leaders of the American delegation and supported the admission of pardos and mulattos to the priesthood and universities, 2: 614. 6.  DDAC, V. 1, 10/16, 1810, 45. 7.  Castro, 155. Not wanting to fall under French control, city councils deemed that sovereignty had devolved to them, and so they governed under the “masque of Ferdinand” promising loyalty when the monarch returned. 8.  Ibid., 175. 9.  Ibid., 176–79, describes this incident. 10.  DBPE, 3: 604–8. 11.  See Langue, “Representación,” par. 9, for information on the activities of the three Venezuelan delegates to the Cortes. Esteban (de) Palacios and Fermín Clemente were deputies (suplentes) from Caracas and in Cádiz at the time but did not participate in the discussions concerning equality between Spain and the Americas or the status of pardos. José Domingo Rus from Maracaibo arrived after those discussions. 12.  Mier, 221–22. 13.  DDAC, V. 1, 10/3, 1810, 26. 14.  Actas de las sesiones, 10/3, 1810, 8. 15.  Ibid., 10/10, 1810, 15. 16.  DBPE, 2: 661–67. He did support Native citizenship. 17.  Actas de las sesiones, 10/11, 1810, 16. Morales Durárez was not alone. For insight into late colonial elite attitudes that Lima’s mulattos were “unfit for the new cultural framework of the country,” see Meléndez, 219. 18.  DBPE, 3: 224–28. 19.  Actas de las sesiones, 10/14, 1810, 19. 20.  DDAC, V. 1, 10/16, 1810, 45. 21.  Mier, 223. 22.  DBPE, 2: 352–54. Although born in Lima, Dionisio Uchu Inca Yupanqui left for Spain at a young age. Morales Durárez, one of the other Peruvian representatives, complained that he did not know the reality of Peru. 23.  Rodríguez O., We Are Now, 393–94, prints the requested reforms in full. 24.  DDAC, V. 2, 233–34, 261–63, 316–30, 346–72, 410–34; V. 3, 3–5, 10–17, 19–35, 39–42, 59–77, 82–98, 149–71, 191–207, 268, 273–90. 25.  Ibid., V. 2, 1/2, 1811, 233. 26.  Ibid., 1/9, 1811, 325. For Lera y Cano, see DBPE, 2: 425–27. 27.  DDAC, V. 3, 1/18, 1811, 4. 28.  Ibid., 10. 29.  DBPE, 2: 285–91. José Miguel Guridi y Alcocer, 288, was considered as “one of the most significant” voices for issues, including the equality between Spain and America and “the equality of the Indians and the castas in America.” DDAC, V. 2, 1/9, 1811, 318–19.

482

notes to chapter 12

30.  DDAC, V. 2, 1/15, 1811, 425. 31.  DDAC, V. 2, 1/9, 1811, 329. DBPE, 1: 738–40. 32.  DDAC, V. 2, 1/16, 1811, 418; DBPE, 3: 418–22. 33.  DDAC, V. 2, 1/9, 1811, 325; DBPE, 3: 636–41. 34.  DDAC, V. 2, 1/11, 1811, 348; DBPE, 1: 753–57. 35.  DBPE, 3: 113–18.; DDAC, V. 3, 1/18, 1811, 21. 36.  DDAC, V. 3, 1/18, 1811, 11–14. 37.  DBPE, 3: 254–56. 38.  DDAC, V. 2, 1/16, 1811, 420–21; DBPE, 2: 758–64. Other sections of this debate cover Natives: DDAC, V. 3, 1/23, 1811, 75–76; DBPE, 2: 492–99; DDAC, V, 3, 1/25, 1811, 87; on postponing decisions, DDAC, V. 2, 1/9, 1811, 317, 327–28. 39.  DDAC, V. 3, 1/23, 1811, 65–67. DBPE, 1: 266–75. 40.  DDAC, V. 3, 1/25, 1811, 89; DBPE, 1: 372–81. 41.  DDAC, V. 3, 1/25, 1811, 90–91. 42.  Ibid., V. 3, 2/1, 1811, 199. 43.  Ibid., V. 3, 2/7, 1811, 290. 44.  On the siege, see Hindley. 45.  AGC, SA1, L 49, E 1219, 1808 (Francisco Fernandes); AGC, SSSA, L 1886, E 12291, 1811 (Francisco Fernández), contains information on his petition. My thanks to Mauricio Pajon for providing me with these documents. Pharmacists also had to have limpieza de sangre and be approved by the protomedicato. See Huerta Jaramillo. 46.  Helg, “Limits,” 8. 47.  See Chapter 2. Lynch, Simón, 56. The other author was Francisco Iznardi. 48.  “Constitución Federal.” 49. Lynch, Simón, 44–57, provides an elegant survey of complicated Venezuelan events from 1808 to 1812. Also see King, “Royalist,” and González-Silen, “Unexpected,” for trans-Atlantic maneuverings. Gómez, “Pardo” and “Revoluciones,” outlines the fluid and changing situation from November 1808 when the Mantuano elite attempted to depose the captain general and rule through the cabildo but were thwarted by the pardo militias; through the declaration of a conservative junta on April 19, 1810, facilitated by an alliances between the Mantuanos, other whites, and the pardo (particularly militia) elites; to the official independence on July 5, 1811. By July 31, 1811, the elite coalition began to break up, given the Caracas white and pardo elites failed in attempts to persuade the provincial elites to agree on pardo citizenship. This nonetheless produced the clause in the December 1811 constitution that abolished discrimination against pardos but established property qualifications for citizenship. The royalists gained provincial pardo loyalties given their exclusion due to these property requirements. Both sides began to free the slaves to fight in brutal civil wars. This phase ended with Francisco de Miranda’s surrender to Juan Domingo de Monteverde and royalist forces on July 12, 1812. Geggus, “Slavery,” astutely compares radical similarities between the Venezuelan independence movements and the Haitian Revolution, noting they included



notes to chapter 12

483

“multi-class alliances,” 23, “armed slaves,” 23, and “exceptional brutality,” 22. In both cases the need for a free casta military, “forced the dismantling of racial discrimination in the face of ingrained fear and prejudice,” 17. 50.  Constitución de Cádiz, 12–14. 51.  DDAC, V. 8, 8/25, 1811, 14. 52.  Ibid., V. 8, 8/31, 1811, 99. 53.  Ibid., V. 8, 9/4, 1811, 134. 54.  Rodríguez O., We Are Now, 164, points out that the Cortes extension of citizenship to Natives was a radical proposal compared to England, which never considered Indians to be royal subjects, or the United States, which did not extend citizenship to Indians until 1924. 55.  DBPE, 1: 514–22. He arrived, 1: 516, the month before and was one of the strongest defenders of casta citizenship, 1: 518. 56.  DDAC, V. 8, 9/4, 1811, 134. 57.  DBPE, 1: 775–81. 58.  DDAC, V. 8, 9/4, 1811, 134. 59.  Ibid., V.8, 9/3, 1811, 135. 60.  Ibid., V. 8, 9/4, 1811, 134. 61. Sartorius, Ever Faithful, 26–31, traces the stance of the Cuban delegates to the Cortes and local responses. 62.  DBPE, 3: 630–36. He arrived in February and presented his credentials in March 1811, 632. He was a strong supporter of casta equality, 633–34. 63.  DDAC, V. 8, 9/4, 1811, 148–50. 64.  Ibid., 150–53. 65.  Ibid., 155–58. 66.  DBPE, 2: 781–87. 67.  DDAC, V. 8, 9/7, 1811, 220–21. 68.  Ibid., V. 8, 9/5, 1811, 170; DBPE, 3: 269–73. He was a vigorous supporter of casta citizenship, 3: 272. 69.  DDAC, V. 8, 9/6, 1811, 195–96. 70.  Ibid., V. 8, 9/5, 1811, 174; DBPE, 1: 673–86. He was the first president of the Cortes of Cádiz, an eminent legal scholar, 673, 675. 71.  DDAC, V. 8, 9/7, 1811, 219. 72.  Ibid., V. 8, 9/10, 1811, 233; DBPE, 1: 607–18. He was bishop of Menorca and archbishop of Tarragona, 607. 73.  DDAC, V. 8, 9/7, 1811, 225. 74.  Ibid., 219; DBPE, 1: 722–32. He was archbishop elect of Seville, one of the most liberal members of the Cortes, although he opposed citizenship for Natives and for the castas, 730. 75.  DDAC, V. 8, 9/7, 1811, 215–16. 76.  Ibid., V. 8, 9/10, 1811, 241; DBPE, 2: 781–87. 77.  DDAC, V. 8, 9/4, 1811, 158; DBPE, 2: 259–67. He was also the bishop of Guadalajara, Mexico, 259, and strongly supported pardo citizenship, 263.

484

notes to chapter 12

78.  DDAC, V. 8, 9/4, 1811, 162. 79.  DBPE, 1: 253–57. 80.  DDAC, V. 8, 9/5, 1811, 187. 81.  Ibid., V. 8, 9/7, 1811, 221–23. 82.  See Chapter 1. 83.  DDAC, V. 2, 1/3, 1811, 255. Soria delegate García Herreros makes a reference to gracias al sacar. He does not mention whitening but just generally that the Cortes needed to make a decision if these needed to be considered. See DBPE, 2: 154–62. 84.  Of course, a counter argument might be that if the peninsulars had brought up the gracias al sacar as a precedent the Americans could have rejected it as from the past as not sufficiently liberal. 85.  DDAC, V. 8, 9/5, 1811, 172. 86.  Ibid., V. 8, 9/4, 1811, 164. 87.  Ibid., V. 8, 9/10, 1811, 234. 88.  Ibid., V. 8, 9/6, 1811, 193; DBPE, 3: 17. 89. Sartorius, Ever Faithful, 34, attempted to track down such citizenship requests using Article 22 for Cuba and only found one, in 1813. 90.  Constitución de Cádiz, 1812, 13, reflects these changes. 91.  DDAC, V. 8, 9/10, 1811, 232. 92.  Ibid., 234. 93.  Ibid., 235. 94.  Ibid., 237; DBPE, 2: 121–24. 95.  DDAC, V. 8, 9/11, 1811, 248–49; DBPE, 2: 154–62. 96.  DBPE, 2: 563–68. 97.  Constitución de Cádiz, 1812, 14. 98.  DDAC, V. 8, 9/14, 1811, 300. 99.  Ibid., 301. 100.  Ibid., 305–6. 101.  Ibid., 311. 102.  Ibid., V. 8, 9/15, 1811, 331; DBPE, 2: 406–15. He supported citizenship for Natives and castas, 412. 103.  DDAC, V. 8, 9/16, 1811, 338; Cavo and Bustamante contains a copy of the letter from the consulado, 882–905. 104.  Ibid., 892. It also included vicious condemnation of the Native and creole populations. 105.  Ibid., 894–95. 106.  Ibid., 900. 107.  DDAC, V. 8, 9/17, 1811, 356. 108.  Ibid., 340. 109.  Ibid., 341. 110.  Ibid., V. 8, 9/19, 1811, 376. 111.  Ibid., V. 8, 9/21, 1811, 382–90. 112.  Ibid., V. 11, 1/26, 1812, 392.



notes to chapter 13

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113. Landers, Atlantic, 162, mistakenly concludes the provision was part of the Constitution of Cádiz, rather than an additional decree expended months before the official ratification. 114.  Rodríguez O., We Are Now, 160–65, provides an excellent evaluation of the innovations and failures of the constitution of 1812. 115.  Colección de los discursos, iii. They published excerpts from debates from September 4–7. 116.  Ibid., i. 117.  Ibid., 1. 118.  Ibid., 40–51. 119.  Ibid., 92–106. 120.  Ibid., 98. 121.  Ibid., 4; DBPE, 3: 630–36. 122.  Colección de los discursos, 8. 123.  Ibid., 15. 124.  Ibid., 64–65. 125.  Ibid., 35. 126.  Ibid., 99. 127.  Ibid., 118–19. 128. See Chambers; Helg, Liberty; Lasso, Myths, for complications of the transition. 129. Lynch, Simón, 55–57. 130.  Case 21, Rodríguez, AGI, 1796; Case 21, Rodríguez, RC, 1796. 131.  Case 40, Rodríguez, 1816. Shumway, 212–13, notes that the category of “trigueña,” facilitated the movement of blacks to whiteness in Argentina in the nineteenth century. 132.  RC, Doc. 35, 1838.

chapter 13 1. Tannenbaum, Slave, 128. Yet Jones, 301, less optimistically, warns of the mandate to eradicate a continuing “white supremacist culture” in which “racial mythologies” legitimize “injustice” and have not only shaped the U.S. past but might mold its “future.” 2.  With digitalization, more information will surface. 3.  Special thanks to Mauricio Pajon for document finds in Guatemala City, Laura Matthew in Guatemala, and Sergio Paolo Solano in Colombia. 4.  García y García, 67, 68, on his service; 6, on the establishment of the court. 5.  Asociación reprints a document from 1790 that shows notary Juan Evaristo de Jesús Borbúa was practicing; “Autos,” 3, that Ciriaco Hipólito Correoso also became a notary. 6.  See Chapter 9. 7.  AGN- Registro, Escribanos, Gallegos, Blas (Ascanio), 1806.

486

notes to chapter 13

8.  See Chapter 7. 9.  Cadena, 41. 10.  Case 11, Ramírez, 1783. Also see Markman. 11.  Case 11, Ramírez, 1783. 12.  Tovas Astorga, 326. 13.  “AGCA, SA 1 Leg 19 E526, 1798 (Ramírez family). I thank Mauricio Pajon for this document. 14.  Case 26, Yañes, AGI, 1800; Case 26, Yañes, RC, 1800; Case 38, Caballero Carranza, 1808. 15.  Andreu and Reyes Bustamante, 13, 21. 16.  Casas Briceño, 436–37. 17.  Picón-Parra, 86–87. José Antonio married in 1794, Vicente in 1798, Maria Merced in 1797, Pedro in 1799, Isidro in 1804, and Juana Paula in 1805. It is unknown when Ana Gertrudis, Fernando, Nicolasa, José Lorenzo, and Petronila married. Casas Briceño, 431–536, traces the descendants from Petronila and Don Joseph Briceño until the present. 18.  Ibid., 432. 19. Sologenealogia.com (www.sologenealogia.com), José Lorenzo Briceño Toro. 20. Hospitales. 21.  Castillero Calvo, “Afromestizaje.” 90. 22.  Rodríguez-Bobb, 125. 23.  “La mirada” mentions that Pedro Crisólogo de Ayarza led the procession; Davidson and Gitlitz, 490, provides background on the “Black Christ”; Dudenhoefer, 131, links the procession to a cholera epidemic in 1821. Ayarza was the first cleric publicly to be associated with processions concerning the image. 24.  Soler, 28–29. 25.  Santander and Bolívar, 295. The details noted the letter was from Antonio Nicanor de Ayarza described as a “captain, patriot.” Andrews, 86, notes that it was rare but not impossible for pardos in Buenos Aires to advance to higher ranks than captain prior to independence. 26.  United, 322. It is unknown if Joseph Ponciano or Antonio Nicanor de Ayarza married and had children. There was a Don Juan Ponciano Ayarza noted as an employee of the University of San Marcos in 1841; Calendario, 88. Panama government documents list a Manuel Ayarza in 1864 as a lieutenant colonel (teniente coronel) and a Ponciano Ayarza as a sublieutenant (subteniente); Memoria que, xxxv, xl. 27.  Case 21, Rodríguez, AGI, 1796; Case 21, Rodríguez, RC, 1796. Further information on a trip to Spain and his position as captain of the port exchanging prisoners of war appear, respectively, in AGI, Contratación 5529, n. 2, r. 79.; AGI, Estado 67. n. 45. He was an official in the royal treasury in Trinidad. 28.  AGI, Estado 60, n. 7, 1802. Only the cover note to the documents remains.



notes to chapter 13

487

29.  Of course, the brother and sister might have had different fathers. However, even if Doña Angela Inés’s father was white and José’s was not, the close connections socially with pardos might have threatened her reputation. 30.  Marcano, 88. 31.  Case 40, Rodríguez, 1816; AGI, Ultramar 134, n. 2, 1819. 32.  Case 28, Arévalo, 1802–1803. 33.  Memoria escrita, 490. 34.  Bello, 64. 35.  Vargas, Gutiérrez Montes, and Álvarez Milán, 39–41. 36.  Altez, 55. 37.  Boletín, 108. 38.  Sonesson, 83, 84. 39.  Actas—San Juan, 3. 40. Pérez Vega, “Efecto,” 877–78, also mentions the arrival of Arévalo, although she assumes he was white. 41.  Ibid., 870–71; Kinsbruner, 41. 42.  Neumann Gandía, 272. This was in 1816. 43.  Actas—Ponce, 76, 103. 44.  Ibid., 68–69, 165, 342–43. 45.  Ibid., 342. 46.  Pérez Vega, Cielo, 95. 47.  Actas—Ponce, 116. 48.  Doctor, 65. Pérez Vega, “Efecto,” 881–82. 49.  El Proceso, 259, includes a lawsuit against the hacienda for mistreatment of a slave in 1868, with both person and property noted as the “inheritance” from Don Domingo Arévalo. There is a younger, 24-year-old Don Domingo Arévalo listed as the overseer and mistreater of the slave, although it is unclear if he was the Venezuelan’s son. 50.  Potthast, 43. 51.  Case 19, Mexias Bejarano, RC, 1796. 52. Morales, 324. Arellano, 388–89, provides information on a multigenerational Landaeta family members who were artists. It is unclear if these were related to Juan Gabriel, although his brothers, named Antonio José and Joseph, were two of the names on existing religious paintings. The problem, as Arellano notes, 388, is that “between 1770–1814 eight different persons called Juan José held the surname of Landaeta,” making it difficult to identify if individuals belonged to the “leopard” Landaeta family. 53.  RC, 1, 434–36, contains this version. 54.  Case 19, Mexias Bejarano, 1805. 55.  RAH, Colección Mata Linares, T. 77 (reprinted in Konetzke, T. 3, n. 370, 1806 and RC, Doc. 31), contains the mystery consulta that reviews what had happened.

488

notes to chapter 13

56.  Catholic, “Chaplain.” 57.  RC, 1, 432. 58.  Ibid., 435–36, recounts this incident. 59.  RC, 1, 361–63, provides details suggesting that Diego Mexias Bejarano’s widow and son José Vicente continued to fight for his nomination to the chaplaincy, although there are no corroborating footnotes. 60.  Gómez,” Revoluciones,” par. 9. 61.  Cañedo, 368. See Figure 1. 62.  See Lavalle, 1–31, and Mendiburu, 219–22. 63.  Lossio chronicles his fights with foreign physicians. 64.  Valdés, 13. 65.  Lavalle, 10. 66.  Ibid., 11. 67.  Ibid., 27. 68.  Garnica and Ardila, 55. 69.  Case 22, Ayarza, 1803. 70.  Garnica and Ardila, 55. 71.  Colección Documental, 60. 72.  See Chapter 12. 73.  Castillero Calvo, “Afromestizaje,” 96; Sánchez González, 118, provide details on this incident. 74.  Tauro, 375. 75. Paredes, Guía, 10. 76. Ibid.; Calendario, 34, 39. 77.  García y García, 6, 67, 68. He received one vote to be the head of the court. 78.  Moscote and Arce, 41–43, recounts the formation of the Panama tribunal; Susto, 4, details the date of the ceremony and that Joseph Ponciano de Ayarza was one of the judges. 79.  Vargas, Gutiérrez Montes, and Álvarez Milán, 285. 80.  Pettigrew, 339. 81.  Ibid., 345. 82.  I agree with Gross, 182, who quotes Eve Kosofsky Sedgwich on the extent to which attempts to pass challenged the status quo. “The bottom line,” she [Sedgwich] writes, “is generally the same: kinda subversive, kinda hegemonic.” 83.  As Asunción Lavrin has noted, the history of the gracias al sacar only provides hints of an “untold and possibly unretrievable story of those who marched from slavery through racial mixing through educational opportunities to the eventual separation of self from a phenotype that was regarded as “defective” (personal communication, March 2013).

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Abbreviations AGCA AGI AGN-Bogotá AGN-Caracas AGN-Registro AGS AHN-Ayala AHN-Madrid ARCV BN DBPE DDAC HAHR Konetzke

RAH RAH-ML

Archivo General de Centro América (Guatemala City, Guatemala). I thank Mauricio Pajon for these references. Archivo General de Indias (Seville, Spain) Archivo General de la Nación (Bogotá, Colombia). I thank Sergio Paolo Solano for these references. Archivo General de la Nación (Caracas, Venezuela) Archivo General de la Nación-Registro General del Sello (Caracas, Venezuela) Archivo General de Simancas (Simancas, Spain). I thank Sergio Paolo Solano for these references. Archivo Histórico Nacional (Madrid, Spain) Cedulario de Ayala Archivo Histórico Nacional (Madrid, Spain) Archivo de la Real Cancillería de Valladolid (Valladolid, Spain). I thank Sergio Paolo Solano for these references. Biblioteca Nacional (Madrid, Spain) Diccionario Biográfico de Parlamentarios Españoles: Cortes de Cádiz, 1810–1814. 3 vols. Madrid: Cortes Generales, 2010 Diario de las discusiones y actas de las Cortes. Cádiz: Imprenta Real, 1811–1812 (henceforth volume, month, date, year page reference) Hispanic American Historical Review Konetzke, Richard. Colección de documentos para la historia de la formación social de Hispanoamérica, 1493–1810. 5 vols. Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, 1953 (henceforth tomo [T.], document number [Doc.], and year) Real Academia de Historia (Madrid, Spain) Real Academia de Historia (Madrid, Spain): Colección Mata Linares

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Index

Page numbers in italics refer to illustrations. Abbreviations: F, fiscal; GS, gracias al sacar petitioner; V, viceroy. Acosta, Juana Rosalia, 137 Africa, 45, 49, 78, 86, 264, 270, 408; mentioned in Cortes, 352, 359, 367–73 passim, 377–78, 381 African(s), 4, 17, 57, 58, 83, 85, 93, 95, 101, 411, 443n124, 448n11, 449n24, 452n73, 454n99; as defective, 52–53, 57, 413, 431n2, 439n43; descent from, 10, 18, 43–45, 48–49, 100, 103, 111, 126, 201–2, 209, 229, 405, 439n36; discussed in Cortes of Cádiz, 359, 366–67, 370, 382; interactions with Spaniards and Natives, 34, 47, 83, 91–98, 147, 328, 452n62, 452n68, 453n88, 454n89, 454n101, 459n198, 468n17; religion, 86–87, 411, 456n148, 449n24. See also Africa African American, 42, 324, 464n10, 465n30 Aguirre Beltrán, Gonzalo, 452n62 Alarcón, Alonso de, 168 Albornoz, Agustina, 130, 318 Allen, Theodore W., 449n24, 452n62 Almeyda, Ana Dalmasia (GS), 221, 475n29 Almeyda, Juliana María, 221 Altagracia, 144, 146, 207, 228, 229, 300, 311, 405–6, 469n35 Álvares, José Joaquin, 335 Álvarez-Coca González, María Jesús, 437n109 Álvarez de Quiñones, Antonio Claudio, 120 Amar, Antonio (V), 314, 335 Amat y Juniet, Manuel de (V), 119 Andrews, George Reid, 486n25 Anglo America, 40, 411, 450n37, 452n62, 454n89, 454n101 Anguiano, Ramón de, 240

Antigua, 28, 186, 364, 395, 467n14 Antioquia, 14, 28, 67, 124, 142, 245–46, 249, 253, 391 Arango, Joseph, 164 Arate, Bartolomé de, 92 Archive of the Indies, 13, 19, 82, 325, 392; whitening documents, 19, 25–27, 249, 410, 434n62 Archivo Histórico Nacional, 82 Areche Sornoza, José Antonio, 173 Arellano, Fernando, 487n52 Arévalo, Domingo (GS), 295–96, 304–10 passim, 315, 319, 321, 402–4, 477n15; aftermaths, 402–4, 487n40, 487n49 Arévalo, María de la Concepción, 304 Arévalo, Petronila, 304 Argentina, 25, 28, 28, 271, 436n106, 485n131; officials from, 298, 320, 325, 344. See also Buenos Aires; Córdoba; La Plata Argüelles, Agustín, 362–63, 370, 379–80 Arias, Juan Bautista, 207–8 Aristimuño, Juan Martin de (GS), 128, 130, 136, 318–22, 338–42 passim, 347, 391 Arizpe, Pedro de, 240, 282 Armada, Juan Ignacio de, 243–44 Arrate, Joseph Agustin de, 133 Arrate de Báez, María Gertrudis, 133, 181 Atlantic, 153, 199, 354 Aubert, Guillaume, 441n84, 442n93, 452n62, 464n3 audiencia, 99, 187, 251; in Bogotá, 239, 249, 251–52, 301, 335; in Caracas, 136–37, 203, 208–20 passim, 226, 237, 243, 247, 250–81 passim, 289–90, 297, 301, 305, 313–22

521

522

index

audiencia (continued) passim, 334, 338, 395, 418, 437n111, 447n208; in Chile, 328; in Cuba, 183; functions and officials of, 66–67, 70, 105, 166–67, 329; in Guatemala, 187, 191, 196, 225; in Lima, 105, 107, 290–91; in Manila, 225; in Mexico, 114, 328; in Quito, 171 Aureliano, Chanchica G., 462n40, 476n1 Avendano, Nicolas de, 121 Avilés, Gabriel de (V), 289 Avilés, Miguel Joseph (GS), 159–62, 165–66, 199, 242, 281, 345 Ayarza, Antonio Nicanor de (GS), 238, 302– 3, 314, 321, 334–37, 392, 408, 486nn25–26; aftermaths, 400–401 Ayarza, Joseph Ponciano de (GS), 8, 11–12, 14, 17, 23, 156, 234, 253–54, 270, 282, 290, 293–94, 301–2, 333, 335, 407–9, 468n20, 486n26, 488n78; aftermaths, 392–94 Ayarza, Pedro Antonio de (GS), 138–39, 237, 240–46 passim, 253, 258, 267, 282, 284, 302–3, 314, 320, 334–40 passim, 347, 451n52, 462n43, 472n2, 475n29 Ayarza, Pedro Crisólogo de (GS), 238, 302–3, 314, 321, 334–37, 392, 486n23; aftermaths, 400–408 passim Ayarza Gutiérrez de Bocanegra, Pedro de, 138–39 Azupurú, Ramón, 11 Báez, Ignacio, 132, 142 Báez, Joseph, 132 Báez, Joseph Francisco (GS), 139, 142, 158– 69 passim, 176, 199, 281 Báez, Manuel (GS), 139, 142, 197, 199, 217, 232, 283, 475n29, 477n32; first petition, 177–89 passim, 196, 233, 281; second application, 192–95, 198 Bajamar, Marqués de. See Porlier, Antonio de baptismal certificates, 46, 121, 463n60; in Panama, 141, 172, 308; significance of listings, 46, 95, 129, 135–43 passim, 156, 171, 184, 221, 226, 372, 440n58, 441n80, 453n88, 462n44; used in whitening, 61, 69, 125, 129–30, 139–42, 164, 181, 185, 198, 204, 228, 233, 239, 245, 283, 300, 345, 399, 463n62; in Venezuela, 201, 210, 211 Baptista, Juan, 116 Barces, Julian, 121 Barisno, Fernando, 98

Barrero, María Francisca, 129 Bayamo, 28, 134, 161–64, 179 Bejarano, Francisco, 144, 145 Bejarano, Juana Antonia, 145, 406 Bejarano, María Graciela, 145, 202 Beltrán de Santa Cruz, Gabriel, 183 benchmarks, 38, 76–77, 83, 118, 152, 166–82 passim, 237, 308, 417 Bennett, Herman, 86, 88, 94, 443n124, 444n147, 448n3, 452n62, 454n99, 456n143, 456n148, 459n3 Berlin, Ira, 449n14 Berrio, Joseph Antonio, 239 blanco. See white Blanco, José Félix, 11 Blanco, Lope Joseph, 194 Blanco, Manuela, 133 Blanco-Fombona, Rufino, 25, 433n20, 433n30 Bogotá, 8, 11, 67–68, 72, 164–65, 232–72 passim, 290, 293, 301–2, 314, 335, 349, 392–94, 400, 408–9, 432 (unnumbered note), 444n152, 447n208, 465n13, 470n44 Bolívar, Simón, 13, 400 Bolivia, 94 Bonaparte, Joseph, 348 Bonaparte, Napoleon, 11, 348, 350, 357, 400. See also Napoleonic Booker, Jackie R., 457n158, 458n181, 458n187, 458n193 Borbúa, Juan Evaristo de Jesús (GS), 129–30, 168–75 passim, 242, 321, 394, 485n5; as cluster, 282, 308, 465n26 Borbúa, Matías Joseph (GS), 308, 319, 321–22 Borbúa, Pedro Fernandez de, 129 Borla de los Santos, Francisco, 254 Borrull, Francisco, 363 Botacio Grillo, Manuel, 168 Botacio Grillo, Silvestre, 168 Bourbon monarchy, 15, 77, 118, 188, 229, 459n200 Bourbon reforms, 20, 39, 56, 66, 71–78 passim, 113–17 passim, 205, 213, 230, 297, 337, 418–19, 472n97, 479n28; administrative, 68, 199–200, 221, 227–28, 233, 296, 299, 321, 419, 447n219; Caracas protests and, 256–64 passim, 281 Bowser, Frederick P., 17 bozales, 270 Branche, Jerome, 442n95 Briceño, José Antonio, 398

index Briceño, Joseph, 128, 136, 198, 221–31 passim, 244, 254, 398, 486n17 Briceño, Juana Paula, 398 Brito, Theresa María, 194 Brother Nectario María, 19 Buenos Aires, 26–27, 67–68, 329, 349, 448n224, 450n37, 452n76, 479n13, 486n25 Burkholder, Mark, 71, 73–74, 446n186, 473n24, 478n43 Burns, Kathryn, 44, 442n90, 465n27 Caballero, Joseph Antonio (secretary of state), 292–99 passim, 320, 325, 330, 341, 382, 415, 420 Caballero Carranza, Felipe, 135, 344 Caballero Carranza, Francisco Mariano Miguel, 140 Caballero Carranza, Joaquín, 135, 344 Caballero Carranza, José María, 140 Caballero Carranza, Juan, 134, 344 Caballero Carranza, Manuel (GS), 135–36, 140, 142, 344–45, 348, 397, 475n29, 479n23; aftermaths, 399, 401 Caballero Carranza, Manuel María, 140 Caballero Carranza, Mariano, 140 cabildo. See city council Cabrejo, Joaquín, 171–72 Cabrejo, Jose María, 292 Cadena, Marisol de la, 63 Cádiz, 356, 360, 362, 369, 417–18, 442n100, 471n76, 479n35, 481n11 Cagigal, Juan Manuel de, 319 calidad (cualidad). See quality California, 25, 436n106 Callao, 99, 107, 108, 110 Cámara of the Indies, 58, 66–74 passim, 446n203; disagreements with fiscals and, 266–74 passim, 284, 286, 294, 309, 320, 382, 414–15, 418 Cañeque, Alejandro, 56, 66, 209 Cangrejos, 457n158 capellanía. See chaplaincy Caracas, 5, 26, 28, 33, 67, 70, 117, 122, 204– 29 passim, 240–78 passim, 291, 301–19 passim, 333–38 passim, 349, 357, 364, 385–95 passim, 401–19 passim, 469n22. See also city council, of Caracas Caracas Company, 205, 213, 215 Carbonell, Pedro, 220, 247–48, 266, 471n79 Carmen Correa, María del, 136–37, 314, 319, 321, 333, 347

523

Carmona, María, 134–35, 344 Carrera, Magali Marie, 440n68 Carroll, Patrick, 95 Cartagena, 28, 67, 106, 239, 364, 457n151 Casas, Bartolomé de la, 97 Casas, Juan de la, 84 caste (casta), 123, 139; in Anglo America, 438n34, 439nn36–37, 440n68; categories of, 10, 29, 33, 43–49, 52, 63–64, 83, 98, 139, 141, 172, 175–76, 201–2, 207–8, 210, 232, 257, 278, 328, 441nn86–87, 445n165, 460n5; vs. class, 4, 21–22, 346, 410; in Cortes of Cádiz, 356, 358, 363, 380; mobility within, 84, 118, 126, 131–32, 202, 224; paintings of, 47–48, 126, 143 Castillero Calvo, Alfredo, 167 Castillo, Florencio José, 366, 373, 375, 483n55 Castillo Palma, Norma Angélica, 94, 453n88 Castillo y Negrete, Manuel del (F), 298, 348–49, 364 Castleman, Bruce A., 455n114 Castro, Alvaro de, 88 Catholicism/Catholics, 8, 39–40, 51, 53, 90, 357, 373, 407, 444n138, 451n59, 480n46; castas and, 90, 106, 122, 311, 369–70, 411, 417, 449n24, 456n148; slaves and, 52, 86–89, 122, 411, 452n76, 457n158; state and, 78, 93, 117 Cedulario de Ayala, 82 Cerdán y Pontero, Ambrosio (F), 298 Cerro, Francisca, 136–37, 141, 313, 319, 321, 334, 347; aftermaths, 394 chaplaincy, 144, 207, 228–30, 245, 311, 405– 6, 463n62, 472n98, 488n59 Chapman, Charles E., 6 Charcas, 26, 67, 188, 203 Charles III (1759–1788), 77, 459n200 Charles IV (1788–1808), 77, 204, 215–16, 324, 348 Chávez, Luis de, 251 Cherokees, 454n101 Chile, 26, 68, 328 chirimias, 110 Cholula, 94, 111, 453n88 chronologies, 38, 41, 75, 410, 417; Atlantic time, 39, 75–76, 198, 203, 225, 234, 243–49, 266, 277, 305, 309, 315, 345, 417–18; frozen time, 39, 75–76, 152, 417–18; linear time, 39, 75, 152, 417–18; long time, 34, 39, 75, 82, 391, 417

524

index

Cistué y Coll, José de (F), 72–73, 124, 171–76, 180, 191, 195, 199–200, 221–55 passim, 266, 270–87 passim, 291–98 passim, 304–5, 308, 329, 394, 402, 414, 446n200, 466n45, 466n53, 468n7 citizenship, 4, 26–27, 32, 40; castas and, 108, 482n49; Cortes of Cádiz and, 353, 355, 363–86 passim, 413, 416, 420, 438n26, 447n222, 480n46, 481n16, 483nn54–55, 483n68, 483n74, 483n77, 484n89, 484n102 city council, 66–70, 349, 396, 418, 447n208, 469n27, 470n72, 471n77, 472n17, 481n7; of Bogotá, 335; of Caracas, 11, 19, 46–47, 62, 64, 70, 116, 143, 204–6, 211–20, 224, 227, 230, 232, 247–48, 253–82 passim, 286, 289–91, 294–95, 301–13 passim, 317–18, 322, 326, 328, 332, 339, 403, 418, 473n24, 473n32, 474n42, 475n19, 482n49; Cortes of Cádiz and, 349, 372, 377; of Havana, 181, 183, 193; of Lima, 290–91; of Panama City, 121, 167; of Ponce, 403–4; of Portobelo, 138, 168, 172, 241, 282; of San Juan, 403; of San Salvador, 81; of Tegucigalpa, 341 civil death, 52 class, 4, 21–23, 38, 43, 47, 49, 78, 117, 127, 130, 142–43, 187–88, 206, 209, 216, 221–26 passim, 251, 259, 262, 272, 274, 299, 306–17 passim, 328–30, 344, 369–70, 374, 380, 383, 407, 410, 433n30, 435n81, 440n66, 451n61. See also caste clean blood, 134, 162, 201, 213, 222, 259, 311, 411, 442nn92–93, 442n100; definitions of, 18, 49, 51–55, 60, 62, 65, 441n77, 442n103, 455n124; discriminations concerning, 101, 119–20, 129, 151–58 passim, 167, 173, 212, 271, 307, 329, 399, 482n35; three-generation standard and, 202, 229, 274 Clemente, Fermín, 481n11 cluster, 32, 151–52, 159, 161, 166, 177, 197–99, 281, 319, 413 coartación, 86, 449n23, 450n37, 464n10. See also manumission Cohen, David W., 17, 435n81 College of Lawyers, 225 Colombia, 14, 23, 25, 28, 28, 190, 212, 221, 401, 409, 432 (unnumbered note), 441n75, 441n80, 458n183, 463n66, 469n22; pardo mobility and, 32, 164–65, 169, 226, 459n208, 469n34, 469n38, 471n89. See also Antioquia; Bogotá; Cartagena; Medellín; New Granada; Valledupar

color: in Anglo America, 438n34, 439n36, 451n51; race and, 3, 6, 10, 11, 17, 20, 24, 42, 63, 442n90; rejection of classification by, 50–51, 157, 330–31, 347, 440n48, 442n103, 460n5 Constitution of 1812, 11, 49, 324, 349–86 passim, 413–20 passim, 480n46, 482n49, 485nn113–14 consulado (Mexico City), 379–81, 417 consulta, 68–76 passim, 157, 171, 189, 200, 203, 222–23, 230, 233, 243, 287, 294, 299–300, 302, 446n200; 1806 mystery, 293, 320, 324–39 passim, 346–48, 375–76, 382, 386, 415, 420, 467n17, 478n7, 478n9; 1808 Viaña, 293, 324–25, 340–48 passim, 375–76, 382, 386, 415, 467n17, 477n29 Contaduría. See General Accounting Contreras, Gerónimo de, 193 Cooper, Frederick, 29, 34, 37, 40–41, 438n26 Cope, R. Douglas, 22, 63, 157 Corbacho, Lorenzo, 240 Cordero, Juan Gabriel, 202 Cordero, María Paula, 144, 146 Córdoba, 28, 448n224 Cornejo, Joseph Antonio, 146, 228–30, 472n97 Coro, 28, 131, 208, 329 Coro Revolt (1795), 77, 248, 263, 265, 285, 473n17 Correoso, Ciriaco Hipólito (GS), 171, 174; aftermaths, 394, 485n5 Cortés, Isabel Josefa, 135 Cortes of Cádiz (1810–1814), 34, 77, 324, 349–54 passim, 408, 416–21 passim, 480n2, 480n5, 481n11, 483n54, 483n61; debates over casta citizenship and, 49, 361–82 passim, 386, 480n1; debates over representational parity between Spain and the Americas and, 352, 354–64 passim, 480n43; delegates and, 349, 352, 353; nonmention of whitening gracias al sacar and, 11, 374–75, 484n83; responses to castas and, 364–65, 382–85; slavery and, 369. See also consulado —delegates from the Americas: Caribbean, 369; Chile, 367, 372, 374, 378; Costa Rica, 366, 373, 375; Guatemala, 379; Mexico (Coahuila, 372, 375–76, 378, 385; Guadalajara, 369; Tlaxcala, 361, 363, 369, 378, 384; Zacatecas, 373, 384); New Granada, 354,

index 357–58, 362; Peru, 358, 360, 371, 374, 381, 384 (Lima, 361, 373; Trujillo, 361); Puerto Rico, 358, 361 —delegates from Spain: Asturias, 362, 370, 376; Cádiz, 356; Catalonia, 361, 372; Extremadura, 363, 371, 373, 379; Guadalajara, 361; Santiago de Compostela, 361; Soria, 373, 377; Valencia, 363; Valladolid, 375; Zamora, 377 Cortines, Francisco Ignacio, 218–20, 260– 61, 265, 313, 471nn79–80 Cottrol, Robert J., 438n25, 449n16, 449n19 Council of Regency, 324, 348–50, 362, 381, 434n70 Council of the Indies, 58, 67–75, 178–79, 414–15, 446n186, 447n208, 468n7. See also Cámara of the Indies; crown attorney Council of Trent (1545–1563), 78, 217, 451n46 Cowley, Joseph María (GS), 270–73, 293– 94, 474n4 Crespo de Bolanos, María Guadalupe, 135 Creus, Jaime, 372, 375, 483n72 Crow, John, 6, 433n20 crown attorney (fiscal), 68–75, 185, 196, 199–200, 243, 272, 284, 298–99, 321, 346, 414–15, 418–19; experience in the Indies, 73–75, 159–60, 165–66, 171, 175–76, 190, 196–98 passim, 225, 229, 233, 296, 299, 305, 321, 414, 419. See also individual fiscals Cruz, Juana Inés de la, Sor, 290 Cruz Marqués, Francisco de la (GS), 133, 319, 321, 338–40, 342, 347, 391 Cruz y Mena, Fernando Joseph de la, 162 Cruz y Mena, Juan Antonio de la, 162 Cruz y Mena, Juan de la (GS), 134, 136, 161–66, 184, 199, 242, 281, 459n202 Cuba, 25, 28, 28, 77, 96, 156, 164, 436n106, 462n44, 472n17; capture by British, 77, 117, 159, 182, 192, 419, 464n4, 467n9; pardo/mulatto militias and, 108, 115, 117, 134, 153, 391, 457n151. See also Bayamo; Havana Cumaná, 28, 254, 318–21, 338–40, 342, 402, 478n40 Darién, 112 Dávalos, Manuel, 338, 374, 383 Davidson, D. M., 450n39 defect: elimination of pardo-ness, 47, 55, 62, 65, 81, 112, 115, 129–31, 135, 140–42, 146, 151, 158–60, 163, 167–85 passim, 195,

525

203, 221, 231, 242, 249, 270, 282, 303, 308, 341, 383, 394, 399, 466n51, 467n16; understandings concerning, 30–31, 49–51, 54, 116, 165, 189, 215, 219–33 passim, 248, 262, 292, 347, 411, 413, 431n2, 442n90. See also illegitimacy demographic disaster, 99, 100, 112 Derham, James, 464n10 Díaz, Arlene, 41, 205, 478n9 discrimination: pardos and mulattos toward others, 207–8; variability of, 20, 155, 162, 164, 407. See also clean blood; color; defect; gender; inconveniences; law; naturaleza; notary public; physicians; proximity argument; public office; socioracial; surgeons; Sweet, James Domínguez, Gregorio, 335 Domínguez, Jorge I., 435n74 don/doña, 65, 134–35, 137, 285–86, 288, 475n29; as equivalence to whiteness, 46, 139–40, 172, 248, 303, 307–8, 312, 397, 473n18; pardo/mulatto attempts to pass/ purchase, 27, 31–32, 65, 182, 222, 241, 247, 250, 284–87, 293, 295, 302–3, 305, 321, 337, 345, 397–99, 403, 475n29 Dos Republicas, 101. See also Two Republics Dou, Ramón Lázaro de, 372, 483n70 earthquake, 187, 191, 395–97, 402–3, 467n15 Echevarria, Manuel Antonio de, 336–37 Ecuador, 436n106. See also Esmeraldas Elkins, Stanley M., 433n42 El Morro, 182 El Observador (Cádiz), 356 El Salvador, 28. See also San Salvador emic and etic approaches. See methodology Emparan, Vicente de, 240 encomiendas, 31, 96, 273 England, 158, 483n54. See also Great Britain Enríquez, Martín (V), 92–93 entail, 26, 116, 288, 451n52 Escalada, Manuel de, 27 escribano. See notary public Esmeraldas, 453n87 Espelt Bombín, Silvia, 465n36 Espersa, Cayetano, 402 Espiga, José de, 372–73, 483n74 Esteban, Andrés, 361 expósito, 50, 141, 171 Ezpeleta, José de (V), 240, 243, 251–54, 266, 277, 290, 314, 316, 355

526

index

Feliú, Ramón, 361, 373, 384 Ferdinand VI (1746–1759), 77 Ferdinand VII (1808–1833), 349, 351, 386, 416 Fernández, Francisco (GS), 364 Fernández, Joseph Alvino, 272 Fernández de Leiva, Joaquin Lucas, 367 Fernández Sarmiento y Ballón, Manuel Ignacio, 173 Ferreguert, Andrés Vicente, 193 Fields, Barbara J., 444n148 Figueroa, Juan Antonio de (GS), 341–42 fiscal. See crown attorney Fischer, Kirsten, 451n51 Flores, Antonio (GS), 134, 153–58, 160, 162, 165, 184, 242, 391, 464n12 Flores, Joseph Ignacio, 154–56 Florida, 25, 436n106, 439n36, 451n51, 457n151, 474n14 Forbes, Jack D., 450n39, 452n68, 468n14 France, 153, 241, 338, 384, 441n84, 443n122, 464nn3–4, 480n46 Frederick, J., 461n10 Freyre, Gilberto, 432n4 Fromesta, Juan Manuel de, 241, 282 Fuente, Alejandro de la, 40–41, 96, 449n23, 450n37 Fuentes, Petronila, 134, 319 fuero (military), 115–18, 122, 152, 263, 414, 458n193 Gabaldón Márquez, Edgar, 433n20, 433n30 Galicia, 134 Gallardo, Bartolomé, 134 Gallardo, Thomas Salustiano, 273 Gallego, Juan Nicasio, 377 Gallegos, Andres, 137 Gallegos, Blas (GS), 137, 141, 313, 334, 462n40, 479n36; aftermaths, 394 Gallegos, Diego de, 223 Gallegos, Joseph María (GS), 342 Gálvez, Matías de, 186–87, 189 Garay, Manuel, 271 García, Guadalupe, 457n160, 467n9 García, Juan Andreo, 437n116 García Herreros, Manuel, 372, 377, 484n83 García Pérez, Rafael, 73, 446n190, 446n192, 446n200, 446n203, 447n220, 468n9 Garofalo, Leo, 98 Gasca, Pedro de la (acting viceroy), 91 Gates, Henry Louis, 435n81 Geggus, David P., 77, 467n17, 472n17, 482n49

gender, 205, 225, 442n103, 473n30; differential transmission and, 50, 183, 230, 441n84; socioracial sexual strategies and, 91–95, 127–38, 147, 412 genealogical mathematics, 48, 126, 143, 412 General Accounting (Contaduría), 9, 33, 269, 287–89, 299, 323–24, 332–47 passim; inclusion of whitening in gracias al sacar, 30–31, 173–76, 233–34, 242 genes, 460n5 Georgia, 153 Gibson, Charles, 25 Gil, Carlos B., 22 Gil, Pedro Domingo, 225–26 Glenn, Evelyn Nakano, 436n97 Goicoechea, José Antonio, 269, 292–300 passim, 325, 330, 343, 346, 382, 420 Gómez, Alejandro E., 435n70, 439n43, 460n6, 462n29, 469n30, 478n37, 482n39 Gonzalbo Aizpuru, Pilar, 47–48, 441n75, 441n80 Gonzáles de Mena y Villegas, Pedro (F), 169–70, 176, 188, 466n53 González de Acuña, Manuel, 408 González-Silen, Olga, 471n76 Goodenough, Ward, 37 Gordoa, José Miguel, 373, 384, 483n77 Gorvea y Vadillo, José Lucas de (F), 298, 320, 344–45, 348, 447n220 Gould, Eliga, 438n22 gracias al sacar: application process, 68–70; cost (arancels of 1773, 1795, and 1801), 9–16 passim, 24–34 passim, 174–75, 247–48, 258, 267, 273, 287–90, 294, 418, 437n116, 475n29; frequency of, 24, 31–33, 204; historiography, 3–25, 29, 34, 39, 374, 420; location of documents, 19, 25–28; origins of, 29–31, 158–59, 161, 166, 168–71, 173–74, 176, 195–96, 233–34; translations of, 6. See also Cortes of Cádiz, nonmention of whitening gracias al sacar and; General Accounting, inclusion of whitening in gracias al sacar; Native, gracias al sacar and; whitening Graubart, Karen B., 445n165, 456n131 Great Britain, 373, 464n4, 480n46 Greene, Jack P., 17, 435n81 Gross, Ariela, 438n34, 439n36, 445nn158–59, 463n53, 488n82 Guardiola-Rivera, Oscar, 468n20 Guatemala, 26–29, 28, 35, 68, 171, 189, 193, 196, 200, 225, 292, 298, 341, 364, 395;

index mixture in, 94, 96; slavery in, 89, 96, 102; tribute in, 113–14. See also Antigua; Guatemala City Guatemala City, 28, 67, 186, 191, 396, 467n14 Guerrero, 453n88 Guerrero, Domingo, 132 Guerrero, María Raphaela, 132 Guevara y Vasconcelos, Manuel de, 311–23, 331 Guitar, L., 450n39 Gumilla, José, 460n7 Guridi y Alcocer, José Miguel, 361, 363, 369, 378, 384, 481n29 Guss, David M., 23 Gutiérrez, Manuel Antonio (GS), 240, 282–83, 293–94 Gutiérrez Brockington, Lolita, 94, 452n73 Gutiérrez Castañeda, Bartolomé, 283 Gutiérrez de Caviedes, Frutos Joaquín, 251 Guy, Abby, 445n159, 463n53 Haiti, 435n70 Haitian Revolution (1791–1804), 248, 317, 419 Hanger, Kimberly S., 460n6, 467n17 Haring, C. H., 25 Harris, Marvin, 36 Hasenbalg, Carlos, 23 Havana, 28, 91, 106, 110, 122, 151, 155, 164, 177, 181, 184, 193, 474n4 Helg, Aline, 23, 32, 226, 467n17, 469n34, 469n38, 471n89 Henige, David P., 446n184 Herbert, Frank, 14 Hering Torres, Max S., 442n90 Hernández de Alva Alonso, Lorenzo Serapio (F), 298, 303–5, 308, 314, 319–20, 322, 402 Herrera, Robinson A., 95 Herzog, Tamar, 24 Hidalgo y Costilla, Miguel, 369 Hill, Ruth, 460n7 Hodes, Martha Elizabeth, 438n34, 439nn36– 37, 461n8 Hoefte, Rosemarijn, 439n36 holidays, 228, 271, 281, 312, 314, 418 Hollinger, David A., 451n51, 452n62 Holt, Thomas, 41, 438n26 Homboni, Francisco (GS), 171, 174–75 Honduras, 28, 28, 455n110 honor, 60, 65, 180, 466n5

527

horses, 84, 101–2, 107, 442n90, 443n124, 455n126 Howard University, 464n10 Humboldt, Alexander von, 206–7 Ibarra y Herrera, Francisco de, 309–12, 315, 322, 332, 442n92 illegitimacy, 49–50, 55, 60–61, 111, 127, 131, 133, 171, 180, 283, 288, 407, 431n2, 445n169, 459n205, 459n214 inconveniences, 38, 54–71 passim, 99–100, 109, 122; whitening and, 181, 183, 190–97 passim, 219, 222, 244, 252–53, 265–86 passim, 295, 304, 309–21 passim, 328, 332–34, 358, 411 index, 5, 19, 26–27, 289–91, 434n62, 437n111, 448n5, 466n51, 476n38, 478n44 Indian/indigenous. See Native interrogatory (interrogatorio), 69–70, 193, 239 interstice, 34, 82, 84–85, 90, 93, 110, 122, 153, 180, 237, 395, 409, 411 Isabella (1474–1504), 57 Jamaica, 44, 90, 451n50 Jaúregui y Barcena, Juan de, 120 Jenks, Albert E., 442n101 Johnson, Lyman L., 450n37 Jones, Jacqueline, 438n28, 452n62, 485n1 Jorgan y Domingo, Pedro, 179 justice: concept of, 38, 56, 58–60, 62, 65, 68, 111, 228, 276, 357, 377, 395, 406; toward slaves and castas, 18, 88, 98, 107, 328, 346, 369–70, 372, 420 Katzew, Ilona, 442n101 Kellogg, Susan, 94, 453n88, 460n6 Kentucky, 465n30 Kettering, Sharon, 443n122 King, James F., 7, 9–11, 14, 17, 24–26, 374, 480n1, 482n49 King, Stewart, 57, 458n175 Klein, Herbert, 57, 449n24, 450n37, 451n41, 457n158 Konetzke, Richard, 7, 13–19, 24–27, 431 (unnumbered note), 448n4 La Guaira, 202, 471n76 Landaeta, Andres, 463n61 Landaeta, Antonia, 144, 145 Landaeta, Antonio José, 145, 301 Landaeta, Basilio, 144, 145, 202, 463n61

528

index

Landaeta, Juana María, 144, 145 Landaeta, Juan Gabriel (GS), 144, 145, 146, 198–206 passim, 214–32 passim, 245, 260, 278–82, 289, 292–97 passim, 301–7 passim, 313–21 passim, 342, 437n116, 468n17, 470n72, 471n76, 487n52; aftermaths, 404–5, 415 Landaeta, María Raphaela, 144, 145, 207 Landaeta, Miguel, 145, 146 Landers, Jane, 59, 84, 450n37, 453n76, 456n148, 457n151, 457n157, 457n160, 458n183, 459n3, 460n6, 464n12, 474n14, 485n113 Langue, Frédérique, 205, 469n26, 473n18, 477n24, 481n11 Lanning, John Tate, 7–16 passim, 24–25, 152, 432n14 Lanz de Casafonda, Manuel Miguel (F), 183–89 passim, 196, 217 La Plata, 67–68, 472n17 Larrazabal, Antonio, 379, 484n102 Lasso, Marixa, 23–24, 440n66, 468n21, 485n128 Lavalle, José Antonio, 338, 479n13 Lavrin, Asunción, 432n14, 474n13, 488n83 law, 24, 30, 34, 67, 82, 122, 169, 226, 244, 295, 327, 444n138, 448n6; inheritance and, 89–90, 122, 288, 445n169, 451n48, 476n36; mestizos and, 201; pardos and, 70, 93, 96, 99, 102, 113, 118–19, 155, 162, 164–65, 242, 251, 254, 256, 266, 268, 307, 330, 343, 392, 409, 453n78, 457n168; slavery and, 85–86, 98–99; Spanish and, 40, 50, 85; United States and, 39, 452n62 Laws of Soria, 451n49 Laws of Toro (1505), 64, 89 lawyers, 301, 340, 344, 350; casta mobilities and, 119, 303, 408, 468n20 legitimations, 14, 16, 25, 27, 30, 32, 36, 64, 68, 170, 179, 188, 197, 231, 288, 443n113, 445n171, 448n4, 475n25 leopard, 201, 214–15, 219, 228, 232, 245, 260, 278–80, 293, 295, 301, 305, 313, 321, 405, 468n15, 487n52 Lewis, Laura A., 435n81, 450n39, 461n18 Leyva de la Cerda, Juan de (V), 108, 111 Lima, 26, 28, 67, 188, 203, 289–93 passim, 302, 320, 325–26, 338, 362, 373–74, 393–94, 406–9, 453n88, 464n7, 476n44, 481n22 limpieza de sangre. See clean blood Liñán y Cisneros, Melchor (V), 111

Lokken, Paul, 94, 96, 448n13, 453n86, 458n180 López, Manuel Joseph, 168 López Bohórquez, Alí Enrique, 205, 213–14 Louisiana, 25, 436n106, 472n17 Love, Edgar, 15–17 Lucian, Domingo (GS), 81 Lutz, Christopher, 94, 452n73 Luxan, Manuel Mateo, 363 Lynch, John, 24, 480n44, 482n49 Madariaga, Salvador de, 12 Maldonado, Tomás de (F), 156–58, 165, 169, 176 Mangino, Fernando José, 305 Mantuanos, 20, 204–12 passim, 225, 416, 435n70, 482n49 manumission, 39–40, 83, 85–86, 92, 449n15, 449n23, 450n37. See also coartación Maracaibo, 28, 221–31 passim, 243, 248, 265–66 Martínez, Joseph Antonio, 128 Martínez, María Elena, 52, 436n105, 440n66, 442n100 Martínez-Alier, Verena. See Stolcke, Verena Martínez Colmenares, Francisco de la Cruz, 338–40 Martínez de Compañón, Baltasar, 241 Martínez de Leguízamo, Juan, 168 masque of Ferdinand, 349, 481n7 Masso, María del Carmen, 141, 172 Masso, Pedro Joseph, 168, 172, 282, 465n26 Mata Linares, Benito, 82, 325–26, 333 Matthew, Laura, 445n165, 476n47 mayorazgo. See entail McAlister, Lyle, 21, 446n188 McCune Smith, James, 464n10 McDermott, Annella, 435n70 McKinley, P. Michael, 205, 434n63, 469n22, 470n70 Medellín, 66–67 Medina, Charles Beatty, 453n86 Meharry Medical College, 464n10 Mena, Pedro de, 134 Méndez, Vicente, 112, 121 Mendoza, José Rafael, 13 mestizos, 25, 48, 61, 64, 95, 117, 200–203, 214, 219, 228, 254, 278–81, 305–6, 313, 328, 405, 461n10, 468n14, 468n17 methodology: comparison, 4, 8, 17, 39–42, 65, 433n42; digital searches, 4–5, 392–93,

index 485n2; emic and etic approaches, 36–39, 60, 83, 431n2; identification of crown attorneys, 71–75; processual analysis, 36–38, 41, 64–65, 75–76, 83, 410; reverse engineering, 4, 7, 26–27 Mexia, José, 354–58, 362, 481n5 Mexias, Felipe, 144, 145 Mexias Bejarano, Diego (GS), 14, 15, 17, 144, 145, 146–47, 198, 204, 206–7, 219–20, 228–30, 232, 245–47, 249–50, 260–71 passim, 278–347 passim, 394, 415–16, 463n66, 470n70, 471n79, 472n98, 475n29, 478n9, 488n59; aftermaths, 404–6 Mexias Bejarano, Diego Lorenzo, 18, 21, 145, 258, 305, 311, 326, 332–33, 335; aftermaths, 405–6 Mexias Bejarano, José Vicente, 145, 405–6 Mexias Bejarano, Saturino, 145, 406 Mexico, 25, 26, 28, 28, 436n106. See also Cholula; Guerrero; Mexico City; Oaxaca; Papantla; Puebla; Vera Cruz; Yucatán; Zacatecas Mexico City, 67, 99, 106, 349, 353, 379, 399, 452n73, 460n6 Mier, Servando de, Fray, 353–59 passim Mignolo, Walter, 442n90 Miles, Tiya, 454n101 military, 110 militia: as aiding casta upward mobility, 57, 69, 109, 111, 115, 117–18, 121–22, 151–52, 412, 414, 448n226, 457n166, 471n89; as marker of vassalage and citizenship, 57, 108, 113, 457n160; pardo/mulatto units in Cuba, 108, 115, 117; pardo/mulatto units in Mexico, 106, 456n149; pardo/mulatto units in Panama, 106; pardo/mulatto units in Peru, 107–8, 111, 374, 383; pardo/ mulatto units in Venezuela, 116–17, 263, 267, 274–76. See also Cuba, pardo/mulatto militias and; fuero; tribute, militias and Miranda, Francisco de, 77, 329, 418 Mississippi, 15–16, 465n30 Montero y Española, María (María Guadalupe Montero), 135 Montesclaros, Marqués de (V), 100 Monteverde, Juan Domingo de, 482n49 Morales Durárez, Vicente, 358, 381, 481n17, 481n22 Mörner, Magnus, 14–21 passim Morrison, Karen Y., 461n13 Morse, Richard, 446n180

529

Mosquera y Pimentel, Luis Francisco (F), 160–65 passim, 188 Motta Sánchez, J. Arturo, 452n73 mulattos. See pardos Muslims, 45, 86 mystery consulta. See consulta Nandaime, 28 Napoleon. See Bonaparte, Napoleon Napoleonic, 20, 299, 324, 349, 356, 416, 479n35 Naranjo, Joseph Antonio, 210 Narváez, Antonio, 239, 241 Native (Indian/indigenous): depopulation, 97, 100, 455n111, 455n113; gracias al sacar and, 10, 25, 31; mixing with slaves/castas, 83, 91–92, 95, 113, 328, 448n13, 452n73, 454n89, 454n101, 459n198; references in Cortes of Cádiz, 35, 38–39, 60, 362, 370, 380, 416, 480n46, 481n16, 484n104; towns, 95–99, 446n180, 453n78, 454n92, 454n99; tribute, 94, 97, 273; women, 92– 114 passim, 126, 411, 451n58, 453nn87–88. See also African(s); tribute; Two Republics; vassals; womb naturaleza: and citizenship, 26, 366–67; and pardo-ness/mulatto-ness, 49–55 passim, 60, 65, 115, 129, 183, 292, 411, 441n86 Nazzari, Muriel, 442n93 Nectario María, Brother, 19 New England, 454n89 New Granada, 54, 67–68, 212, 409, 432 (unnumbered note), 446n184, 463n66. See also Colombia New Mexico, 25, 436n106 New Orleans, 464n10, 467n17 New Spain. See Mexico New York, 464n10 New York Times, 16 Nicaragua, 25, 28, 114, 241, 436n106 No ha lugar, 185, 196 Nolasco Pantoja, Pedro, 116 North Africa, 86 North Carolina, 451n51 notary public: apprenticeship, 105, 166; discrimination against castas, 52, 118, 132, 147, 167, 184, 342, 412, 466n51; importance of, 167, 475n29; in Lima, 105; in Panama, 105, 129, 168–72, 199, 242, 308–9. See also benchmarks

530

index

notorious, 54, 61–62, 140, 144, 272, 282, 312, 329. See also public and private Nuñez del Castillo y Sucre, Juan Clemente, 194 Oaxaca, 452n73 Obedezco pero no cumplo, 111, 244, 249, 309, 458n176 Ochoa, Juan de, 105 Oleachea Labayen, Juan Bautista, 16–17 Oliveira Lima, Manoel de, 3, 7, 23, 39, 410, 433n20 Oliveros, Antonio, 371, 373, 379 Olmedo, Joseph Ramón de, 272, 474n7 Olmedo, Pedro de (GS), 27, 271–72, 282, 293–94 one drop rule, 43, 209, 439n37, 451n51 originario, 358–72 passim, 377–78, 381 Ortiz, Fernando, 432n4 Ostoloza, Blas, 361 O’Toole, Rachel, 95, 443n128, 445n113 Ots Capdequi, José María, 12, 448n5 Owensby, Brian P., 444n138 Pagden, Anthony, 66 Paita, 107 Palacios, Esteban (de), 481n11 Palafox, Juan de, 443n124 Panama, 28, 28; and Ayarzas, 138, 237–53 passim, 267, 272, 302, 308, 342, 393, 400– 401, 407–8, 462n43, 472n2; and pardo mobility, 141, 168–74 passim, 240–41, 282. See also Darién; Panama City; Portobelo Panama City, 28, 115, 121, 167, 169, 171, 308, 465n35 Papantla, 461n10 Paquette, Gabriel, 448n225, 472n97, 479n28 Pardo, Andres, 246 Pardo Guild, 66, 70, 107, 274–78, 287, 295, 418, 474n11 pardos (mulattos): appropriation of mestizo and, 61, 64, 200–203, 214, 279–80, 306, 313, 405, 468n17; loyalty to crown and, 57, 93, 218, 257, 264, 267, 274, 276, 285, 295, 317, 326–31 passim, 413, 419–20; varying definitions of, 44–46. See also caste; citizenship; clean blood; Colombia, pardo mobility and; color; Cortes of Cádiz; Cuba, pardo/mulatto militias and; defect, elimination of pardo-ness; discrimination, pardos and mulattos toward others; don/

doña, pardo/mulatto attempts to pass/ purchase; gracias al sacar; inconveniences; justice; law, pardos and; lawyers; militia, pardo/mulatto units in; Native; naturaleza, and pardo-ness/mulatto-ness; notary public; Panama, and pardo mobility; Pardo Guild; Peru, pardos’ response to Cortes of Cádiz; physicians; priest/priesthood, elite objections to pardo entrance into; proximity argument; public office; reciprocity; socioracial; surgeons; vassals, status of pardos and mulattos; weapons Parsons, James, 446n181 passing, 10, 15, 22, 60–64, 142, 164, 172, 222–23, 253, 285, 364, 374, 413, 444n148, 444n152, 463n66, 471n89 Paz, Crisanta de, 141 Paz, Luis Joseph de (GS), 141, 151, 171–75, 195, 282, 465n26, 475n29 Peabody, Sue, 450n37, 451n59 Pellicer, Luis, 207, 209 Peña, María Francisca de la, 208 Pennsylvania, 464n10 Peralta Briceño, Petronila (GS), 198, 221–31 passim, 244–45, 346, 472n6, 486n17; aftermaths, 398–99, 401; gender, 127–32, 138, 142, 146 Pereira, Melchora, 406 Pérez de Castro, Evaristo, 376 Perez Grageda, Matías (GS), 151 Pérez Vega, Ivette, 487n40 Peru, 25, 28, 28; free castas in, 19, 21–22, 102–11 passim, 157, 164, 436n106; pardos’ response to Cortes of Cádiz, 353, 382–85; slavery in, 89–91, 97, 99. See also Callao; Lima; Paita; Piura Petley, Christer, 451n50 Pettigrew, Andrew M., 37–38 Philip II (1556–1598), 92 Philippines, 25, 254, 290, 436n106 Philip V (1700–1746), 57, 77, 459n200 Phillips, William D., 449nn14–15, 461n18 physicians, 464n10; castas and, 164, 184, 291, 374, 383, 399, 405–6, 408; Latin training of, 152–53, 162, 290, 338; requirements of, 156, 160; Romance training of, 152–53, 157. See also surgeons Pike, Kenneth, 36 Piura, 107 Plane, Ann Marie, 454n89 Polanco, Manuela, 132

index Politica Indiana, 94, 101, 154 Polo, Christobal (GS), 164–65, 238, 242 Ponce, 403–4 Pons, François Raymond Joseph de, 206–7, 209, 461n18, 469n35, 478n40 Porlier, Antonio de (F), 35, 47, 55, 58–59, 72, 143, 147, 188–203 passim, 216, 252, 277, 316, 395–97, 414, 436n97, 438n3, 438n5, 447n220, 467n26, 468n7 Porres, Martín de, Saint, 407 Portobelo, 28, 141, 465n35 Posada y Soto, Ramón de (F), 73, 81, 200, 228, 252, 254, 266, 270, 272, 284–97 passim, 304, 329, 394, 414 Potosi, 100 Power, Ramón, 358, 361 Pozos Dulces, Count of, 304 Pragmatic Sanction on Marriages (1778), 78, 117–18, 122, 181, 326, 328, 330, 346, 448nn224–26, 459n198; debates in Venezuela, 136–38, 209, 214, 221, 232, 260, 277, 279, 304, 313–14, 321, 334, 394, 398, 419, 471n79 precursor (cases), 14, 29–31, 75, 112, 147, 151, 410, 464n12 Premo, Bianca, 448n6 priest/priesthood, 85, 138; conversion and, 86–87, 106; Cortes of Cádiz and, 372, 377, 413, 416, 420, 480n5; in Cuba, 110; as designator of socioracial status, 69, 135, 139–41, 172, 181, 198, 201, 210–11, 283, 308, 313, 345, 405, 453n88; elite objections to pardo entrance into, 64, 211–12, 215–17, 223, 230, 233, 292, 299, 310–11, 316–17, 332, 407; in Santo Domingo, 120; in Venezuela, 120, 209–11 Proctor, Frank T., 449n23, 452n73 protomedicato, 152, 157–66 passim, 229, 291, 304, 406, 477n15, 482n45 proximity argument, 63–65, 119, 122, 157, 194, 207–8, 217, 232, 240, 251, 258, 307, 309 public and private, 60–61, 258, 318, 369 Public Lives, Private Secrets, 29 public office, discrimination against, 52, 102, 105, 118, 121, 182, 184, 201, 211, 216, 219, 233, 258 Puebla, 28, 106, 134–35, 140, 142, 155, 344–45, 399, 443n124, 462n34, 480n38 Puerto Cabello, 28, 130, 386 Puerto España, 28

531

Puerto Rico, 25, 96, 358, 361, 403–4, 417, 436n106, 457n151, 457n158, 473n17. See also Cangrejos; Ponce; San Juan quality (calidad, cualidad): usage concerning, 49, 53–55, 59, 65, 297, 311, 411, 442nn102–3; in Venezuela, 313–20 passim; in whitening cases, 140, 163, 171, 223, 230, 237–38, 245, 270, 289, 300–301, 337 quarterones, 48, 129, 143, 171–75 passim, 208 Quintero, Inés, 469n26 quinterones, 3, 10, 31–32, 48, 50, 54–55, 129, 151, 169–76, 195, 202, 208, 242–43, 466n54 race, 22, 64–65, 435n81, 440n68, 442n90, 442n92, 460n5; comparison Anglo and Latin views of, 17–18, 23, 40, 410, 438n28, 445n158, 451n51; essentialist vs. constructionist, 42–43; historic constructions of, 43–45, 51, 432n14; relations, 5, 8–9, 17 Ramírez, Bernardo (GS), 14–15, 35, 58, 142–43, 186–97 passim, 202, 216, 223, 232, 252, 254, 345, 436n97, 440n60, 446n196, 467n16, 467n26; aftermaths, 395–97, 401 Ramos Arizpe, José Miguel, 372–78 passim, 385, 483n68 Rappaport, Joanne, 47–48, 63–64, 441n75, 441n80, 441n87, 442nn102–3, 444n152, 445n165, 463n66 Rascon, Agustín, 111 raza, 51, 442n90, 442n92 reciprocity, 38, 59–60, 65, 68, 188–89, 191, 246, 263; castas and, 104, 112, 122, 183, 196–97, 222, 275, 303–4, 330, 342, 346–47, 349, 411, 413–14 Recopilaciones, 82 Reinhardt, C. A., 464n3 religion. See Catholicism/Catholics; Muslims Rendon, Leonor, 138 Rengifo, José Ignacio, 249, 256 Restall, Matthew, 64, 84, 94–95, 98, 108, 438n30, 439n35, 448n11, 449nn23–24, 452n73, 454n104, 456n140, 456n142, 456n149, 457n166, 459n3 Revolt of the Comuneros (1781), 190, 221, 224, 469n22 Rieu-Millán, Marie Laure, 480n42, 480n46, 480n2 (chap. 12) Rincón, Francisco de, 120 Rivera, Albina de, 143

532

index

Rivera, Joaquín, 251 Rivera, Joaquín Primo de, 472n6 Rivera y Peña, Ramón (F), 200, 203, 221 Rodríguez, Ana, 402 Rodríguez, Angela Inés (GS), 11, 17, 128, 131, 255, 266–67, 311, 401–2, 487n29 Rodríguez, Juana Josepha (GS), 402 Rodríguez de Argumedo, Pedro, 131, 254, 386, 402; aftermaths, 401–2, 462n26 Rodríguez O., Jaime, 480n43, 480n46, 480n2 (chap. 12), 481n23, 483n54, 485n114 Rodríguez Rendón, José Fermín, 401 Rodulfo Cortés, Santos, 7, 19–27 passim, 32, 205, 220, 225, 230, 260–61, 405–6, 431 (unnumbered note), 434nn62–63, 434n67, 437n123, 445n171, 469n29, 470n72, 472n98, 474n42, 488n59 Rome, 146, 228–30, 245, 472n97 Romero Alsesón, Manuel, 173 Ros, Manuel, 361 Roscio, Juan Germán, 62, 64, 354 Rout, Leslie B., 18, 436n97 Royal Academy of San Fernando, 192, 396–97 Rus, José Domingo, 481n11 Saether, Steinar A., 471n79 Sáez, Benito, 292 Saint-Domingue, 458n175, 462n29, 464n3 Salas, José (GS), 342 Salazar, Bartolomé de (GS), 168–69, 199, 465n26 Salcedo-Bastardo, José Luis, 435n70 San Bartolomé, 335 Sánchez, José, 115 Sandoval, Alonso de, 441n87 Sandoval, Francisca Gertrudis de (GS), 341–42 San Juan, 403 San Juan de Dios, 158, 239, 282 San Salvador, 28, 81, 458n181 Santa María, Pablo de, 54 Santander, Francisco de Paula, 400 Santiago de los Caballeros, 186, 364, 395, 467n14. See also Antigua Santo Domingo, 26, 67, 86, 88–89, 109, 120, 212–13, 232, 448n208, 457n151 Saravia, Julián Díaz de, 211, 214, 265, 271, 313 Sartorius, David, 57, 457n160, 483n61, 484n89 Schafer, Daniel L., 439n36, 451n51

Schmidt, Henry C., 22 Schmidt-Nowara, Christopher, 40 Schwaller, Robert, 96, 111, 453n88 Scott, Rebecca, 41, 438n26, 439n36 Seven Years War (1756–1763), 152, 158, 464n4 Shumway, Jeffrey M., 485n131 Siete Partidas (1256–1265), 50, 85, 87, 122, 411 Simonsen, Gunvor, 454n99 slave, marriage and, 83, 91, 96, 453n86; penis, 93; transition to free, vassal, citizen, 4, 41, 57, 417. See also Catholicism/Catholics, slaves and; coartación; justice, toward slaves and castas; manumission; Native, mixing with slaves/castas; Slave and Citizen; sumptuary legislation; urban legend; weapons, and slaves; womb, slave Slave and Citizen, 8–9, 16, 39–41, 438n26 slavery, 449n9; comparative, 8–9, 15–18, 22– 24, 40; early arrival of, 90; as justification for hierarchy, 262; in Spain, 449nn14–16; three-generation standard, 102, 201, 219, 229. See also Guatemala, slavery in; law, slavery and; Peru, slavery in; slave; Sweet, James Smedley, Audrey, 43 Sobreria, Gerardo Joseph de la, 168–69 socioracial, 61, 83, 100, 126, 206, 209 Solano, Joseph, 117 Sollojo y Urrea, Beatriz, 194 Solloso, Juan, 194 Solórzano, Joseph Gabriel, 116 Solórzano, Rosalia, 221 Solórzano Pereira, Juan de, 94, 101, 155, 455n115, 457n168, 459n205 Sorolate, Domingo, 84 Soto, Manuel de, 239 South Carolina, 465n30 Spain, 11, 50, 54, 275. See also Cádiz; Cortes of Cádiz; Galicia Spickard, Paul R., 438n29 St. Croix, 406 St. Thomas, 403 Stark, David, 96, 457n158, 460n6 status, 43, 47, 89–90, 146, 211; as situational, 44–45, 48, 50, 62–63, 64, 438n30, 439n36; tensions, 205–6. See also passing Statute of Toledo (1449), 167 Stoan, Stephen K., 33 Stolcke, Verena, 453n88, 460n6, 461n19, 462n44, 478n9 Stoler, Ann Laura, 29, 34, 42

index Sturtz, Linda L., 439n39 sumptuary legislation, 102, 208, 216, 240–41 surgeons, 281, 469n29; castas and, 30, 53, 77, 123, 152, 157, 162, 165–66, 168–85 passim, 215, 233, 237, 242, 292, 308, 342, 383, 414, 465n24; Latin training of, 152–53, 162; Peruvian response concerning, 383–85; Romance training of, 152–53. See also physicians Suriname, 439n36 Sweet, James, 45, 450n33, 450n37 Tamayo, Joseph Gil (GS), 466n51 Tamayo Durán Guerra, Rosa de, 134, 162 Tannenbaum, Frank, 8–9, 39–42, 438n26 Taranco, Antonio Ventura de, 224 Tegucigalpa, 28, 341 TePaske, John Jay, 152 tercerones, 48, 143, 208 Terrero, Vicente, 356 Thibaud, Clément, 435n70 titles of nobility, 26–27, 30, 32 Toledo, Francisco de (V), 100 Tompson, Doug, 455n110 Toral, Sebastian de, 104, 107, 113–14, 456n140 tribute, 50, 191; on ending, 300, 332, 334, 339, 341, 415; militias and, 107–8, 113–21 passim, 152, 414, 457n157, 458n183; Natives and, 31, 94, 96–97, 102, 273, 480n36; pardos and mulattos and, 83, 102–4, 412–13, 456n133, 458n181, 458n187 Trinidad, 28, 254, 451n50 Troncoso, Juan, 272 Trujillo, 127, 398 Tupac Amaru, Diego, 326, 329 Tupac Amaru, José Gabriel, 190, 326, 469n22 turning points, 42, 77, 107, 118 Twinam, Ann, 434n63, 443n113, 445n169, 451n48, 459n214, 462n39, 465n28, 466n5, 468n7, 473n25, 473n30, 475n25, 476n36 Two Republics, 101–2, 446n180, 455n125 Unanue, Hipólito, 291, 406 United States, 66; climate of race relations in, 4, 8, 16–17, 21, 43–44, 443n101, 451n51, 464n10; comparisons with, 39–40, 373, 410, 444n148, 480n46, 483n54. See also individual states

533

University of Caracas, 14–26 passim, 254, 300–308 passim, 315–27 passim, 332, 339, 405 University of Glasgow, 464n10 University of Havana, 118, 140, 154–64 passim, 189, 242 University of Lima, 289, 394, 406, 486n26 University of Mexico City, 399 University of Mississippi, 15–16 University of Montpellier, 338, 383 University of Santa Fe (Bogotá), 8, 164–65, 237–38, 242, 251–52, 293, 301, 335, 392, 394, 400 urban legend, 88–89, 92, 451n46 Uría, José Simeón de, 369, 384, 483n62 Urivochea, Juan de, 335 Uruñuela Aransay, Juan Antonio (F), 200, 225–28 Utgés, Ramón, 361 Uzcategui Briceño, Domingo, 398 Valdés, José Manuel (GS), 289–94, 320–21, 338, 374–75, 383, 394, 408, 464n7; aftermaths, 406–7 Valenzuela, Joseph Antonio (GS), 124, 142, 245, 249–50, 265, 272, 284, 333, 391, 475n29 Valenzuela, Julián (GS), 14–15, 17, 124, 142, 237, 245, 249–50, 265, 272, 284, 333, 391, 475n29 Valladolid Moboron, Juan de, 109 Valledupar, 470n44 Vallenilla Lanz, Laureano, 13, 205, 433n27, 433n32 Vargas, José, 404 Vasconcelos, José, 432n4 Vaso, Alvaro, 134 vassals: significance, 4, 6, 41, 56–57, 177, 191, 195, 417; status of Natives, 57; status of pardos and mulattos, 56–59, 188–89, 276, 380, 443n124, 443n128 Velasco, Luis de (V), 100 Venezuela, 28, 28; as perfect storm, 206. See also Caracas; city council, of Caracas; Coro; Cumaná; La Guaira; Maracaibo; Trujillo Vera Cruz, 106, 108, 298 Viaña, Francisco José, 324, 341–48 passim, 415, 420 Villagarcia, Marqués de (V), 119 Ville, Juan, 27

534

index

Villegas, Juan Feliz de, 241 Villella, Peter B., 443n124 Vinson, Ben, III, 4, 21, 57, 435n81, 441n86, 444n131, 456n133, 457n160, 457n166, 461n10, 462n34, 480n38 Virginia, 452n62, 465n30 Virgin Islands, 403, 406 Viso, Antonio, 255, 301 Vrij, Jean Jacques, 439n36 Wade, Peter, 436n97 weapons: and castas, 108–11, 122, 454n103; and slaves, 96, 98–99 white, 46–47, 440n56, 440n62, 461n10, 467n16. See also clean blood; color; defect; don/doña, as equivalence to whiteness; gender; naturaleza; proximity argument; public office; socioracial whitening. See Archive of the Indies, whitening documents; baptismal certificates, used in whitening; Cortes of Cádiz, nonmention of whitening gracias al sacar and; General Accounting, inclusion of whitening in gracias al sacar; gracias al sacar; inconveniences, whitening and; quality, in whitening cases; white; and individual gracias al sacar petitioners Winn, Peter, 433n17

Wolfe, Justin, 437n106 womb: free, 85, 92–93, 122, 147, 332, 348, 411, 420, 452n62; married, 332, 341, 415; slave, 85, 452n62 Wright, Winthrop R., 434n63, 436n96, 439n37 Xavier del Rosario, Francisco, 223 Xedler, Antonio, 116 Ximénez, Juan Joseph (GS), 137–38, 314, 334 yanaconas, 452n73 Yañes, María Nicolasa, 286, 293–94, 311 Yañes, Nicolás Francisco (GS), 128, 131, 285–86, 440n48, 475n29 yellow fever, 298, 403 Yucatán, 94–95, 104, 122, 448n11, 456n142, 457n149 Yupanqui, Dionisio Uchu Inca, 360, 371, 374–75, 481n22 Zacatecas, 98 Zahler, Reuben, 474n41 zambaigos, 49, 95, 100–101, 103, 445n103, 455n119, 458n170 zambos, 10, 18, 46, 49, 115, 119, 157, 206, 210, 257, 292, 299, 330