Clyde A. Milner A New Significance Re-Envisioni

A New
Significance
Commentaries by
Richard Maxwell Brown

Arnoldo De Leon
Dan Flores
DeenaJ. Gonzalez
Albert L. Hurtado
Peter Iverson
Patricia Nelson Limerick
Sucheta Mazumdar
Gary Y. Okihiro
Robert W. Righter
Vicki L. Ruiz
Martha A. Sandweiss
Barre Toelken
Elliott West
Special concluding statement by

Quintard Taylor
A New
Significance
Re-envisioning the History
of the American West
Edited by
CLYDE A. MILNER II Essays by
Allan G. Bogue
William F. Deverell
David G. Gutierrez
Susan Rhoades Neel
Gail M. Nomura
Anne F. Hyde
David Rich Lewis
Susan Lee Johnson
New York Oxford * Oxford University Press 1996

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Copyright © 1996 by Clyde A. Milner II

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

A new significance: re-envisioning the history
of the American West / edited by Clyde A. Milner II;
essays by Allan G. Bogue . . . [etal.].
p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 0-19-510047-6. ISBN 0-19-510048-4 (paper)
1. West (U.S.)—History.
2. West (U.S.)—History—1890-1945.
3. West(U.S.)—History—1945-
I. Milner, Clyde A., 1948- .
II. Bogue, Allan G.
F591.N47 1996 978—dc20 95-53151
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Printed in the United States of America
on acid-free paper
Preface
Planning for this project began in the early spring of 1989 and may be
neatly divided into two three-year periods: 1989—92 and 1992—95. All the
names that appear below, including the shade of Frederick Jackson Turner,
deserve my personal thanks for aiding me during this six-year trek. Ini-
tially, I had hoped to create a series of essays that would allow a new set of
historians to comment on important topics that now shape our interpre-
tation of the American West. I wanted these writings to demonstrate some
of the "new significances" in western history that have arisen in the hun-
dred years since Frederick Jackson Turner's seminal statement on "The
Significance of the Frontier in American History." My plans included
publication of these essays in the Western Historical Quarterly.
On 1 July 1989, with the retirement of my good friend and mentor
Charles S. Peterson, I became the editor of the WHQ, the journal of the
Western History Association. In 1984, Chas had appointed me his associ-
ate editor. He later gave me the designation of coeditor. Chas encouraged
my efforts in creating this series and helped focus my thinking. Anne M.
Butler took over my responsibilities as associate, and later co-, editor. Like
Chas, Anne provided valuable advice on what topics to consider and
which scholars to invite.
Before long, I felt that the selected authors might benefit greatly if we
could all gather at a conference where early drafts of the articles could be
read and improvements suggested. Plans for the conference soon began to
anticipate a much bigger event. Utah State University's Mountain West
Center for Regional Studies wanted to organize a national research con-
ference in recognition of the centennial of Turner's frontier thesis. The
center's director, F. Ross Peterson, suggested that we make a joint proposal
to the National Endowment for the Humanities for some funding. We re-
ceived generous support from the NEH, as well as additional funds from
Utah States Vice-President for Research, the university's Conference and
Institute Division, the Department of History, and the Mountain West
vi • PREFACE
Center. Shannon Hoskins, the center's associate director, oversaw many

important details in our planning.
The conference took place from 29 July through 1 August 1992 on
the campus of Utah State University in Logan, Utah. Over thirty graduate
students from history programs across the United States received financial
support to attend, as did numerous public school and community college
teachers. Many others paid their own way to far northern Utah for our
four-day gathering. An average of more than two hundred people at-
tended each of the sessions. KUSU-FM, Utah Public Radio, recorded all
the meetings. Lee Austin, the station's news director, then produced a se-
ries of five one-hour programs for regional broadcast.
Many people helped with the conference. What can be only a partial
list must include special recognition to Utah State's Vice-President for Re-
search, Bartell Jensen, now retired, as well as to Sherry L. Smith, Mikiso
Hane, Carol A. O'Connor, Robert Parson, Richard White, Virginia
Scharff, Zeese Papanikolas, Peggy Pascoe, Leonard Arrington, Kerry
Soper, Carolyn Fullmer, Kimball Fife, Ian Craig Breaden, Bradley J.
Birzer, David S. Trask, Gunther Peck, Paivi Hoikkala, Renee M. Sentilles,
John Andrew Hardcastle, Hope Benedict, Scott Hughes, Brian Cannon,
Alicia Rodriquez, Laura Santigian, and Kathryn Morse.
At the conference two individuals presented formal comments on
each of the major essays. Allan G. Bogue graciously agreed to deliver our
keynote address. By the time the commentators had become part of our
project, I realized that we could produce a book that would contain the es-
says, the commentaries, and Al Bogue's address. All the participants agreed
that the conference had allowed us to hear only preliminary drafts of what
would later be published. The second three-year period, 1992—95, was a
time of rewriting and rethinking for most of our contributors.
Bogue's keynote address and the seven major essays did appear in the
Western Historical Quarterly. Nonetheless, each author has been permitted
to make adjustments for publication in this book. The introduction, chap-
ter 9, and all the commentaries are in print for the first time. The staff of
the Western Historical Quarterly deserves my grateful thanks for preparing
the main essays for publication. Barbara L. Stewart dealt with vital corre-
spondence, whereas Jane A. Reilly and Ona Siporin oversaw production
and copyediting. A group of student editorial assistants aided our produc-
tion. They included Andrew M. Honker, John A. Hardcastle, Stephen K.
Amerman, Kelly W. May, A. J. Taylor, Grant Martin, James W. Feldman,
Jared Farmer, John W. Heaton, Eric Walz, Kevin D. Hatfield, Esther
Hansen, andTamara Martinez.
Once a book became the obvious goal, Sheldon Meyer of Oxford
PREFACE • vii
University Press provided much encouragement. We were fortunate to

have Sheldon's support. He is a peerless editor for important books in
American history, and his attention to new writing on the American West
is very welcomed. In addition, Sheldon sought out helpful readings of our
collection by Peggy Pascoe and Sarah Deutsch. Peggy's report to the press
provided important fresh ideas about our book's organization. D. Teddy
Diggs copyedited our volume for the press. Andrew Albanese provided
valuable editorial aid. Deborah C. Gessaman created uniform text files
and a standard word-processing format. Jane A. Reilly and Sabine Barcatta
compiled and edited the index. Dean Brian L. Pitcher of the College of
Humanities, Arts, and Social Sciences at Utah State helped cover the cost
of illustrations for this book.
Finally, I must express my sincere gratitude to the twenty-three schol-
ars who contributed their writings to this project. They each applied their
special gifts and precious time to a shared effort at re-envisioning the his-
tory of the American West. Because of their efforts, my six-year journey
has been a wonderful collaboration. But our intellectual travels are not
over. New generations of scholars will keep re-envisioning western history.
With these future writers in mind, all of us who contributed to this book
have agreed to place its royalty income into an account that will support
graduate editorial assistants at the Western Historical Quarterly.
Logan, Utah Clyde A. Milner II

March 1996
This page intentionally left blank
Contents
Introduction: Envisioning a Second Century of Western History

Clyde A. Milner II xi
1. The Course of Western History's First Century Allan G.Eogue 3
2. Fighting Words: The Significance of the American West in the

History of the United States William Deverell 29
COMMENTARIES:
Courage without Illusion Richard Maxwell Brown 56
The New Significance of the American West
Patricia Nelson Limerick 61
3. Significant to Whom?: Mexican Americans and the History

of the American West David G. Gutierrez 67
COMMENTARIES:
In Pursuit of a Brown West Arnoldo De Ledn 90
Interpreting Voice and Locating Power Vicki L. Ruiz 97
4. A Place of Extremes: Nature, History, and the American West

Susan Rhoades Neel 105
COMMENTARIES:
A Mosaic of Different Environments Robert W. Righter 125
Place versus Region in Western Environmental History
Dan Flores 130
5. Significant Lives: Asia and Asian Americans in the U.S. West

GailM. Nomura 135
COMMENTARIES:
Through Western Eyes: Discovering Chinese Women in America
Sucheta Mazumdar 15 8
Extending Democracy's Reach Gary Y. Okihiro 168
x CONTENTS
6. Cultural Filters: The Significance of Perception Anne E Hyde 175

COMMENTARIES:
Looking West from Here and There Martha A. Sandweiss 202
The Shadow of Pikes Peak Elliott West 205
7- Still Native: The Significance of Native Americans in the History

of the Twentieth-Century American West
David Rich Lewis 213
COMMENTARIES:
We Are Restored Peter Iverson 241
New Awareness for an Old Significance Barre Toelken 247
8. "A Memory Sweet to Soldiers": The Significance of Gender

Susan Lee Johnson 255
COMMENTARIES:
Staring at the Sun Albert L. Hurtado 279
A Regendered, Reracialized, and Resituated West
DeenaJ. Gonzalez, 283
9. Concluding Statements
Through the Prism of Race: The Meaning of African-American

History in the West Quintard Taylor 289
Reintroducing a Re-envisioned West Anne E Hyde

and William Deverell 300
Contributors 307
Index 311
Introduction
Envisioning a Second Century
of Western History
Clyde A. Milner II
Many people, especially many Americans, have a passion to honor any-

thing that has existed for a century. These centennial enthusiasms may be
explained by the fact that few people live for more than ten decades. Not
all of these celebrations are created equally or are endowed with special im-
portance. But for scholars interested in the history of the American West,
one recent centennial deserved appropriate recognition. This collection of
essays and commentaries began as an effort to recognize the centennial of
Frederick Jackson Turner's first presentation, in 1893, of "The Signifi-
cance of the Frontier in American History." Instead of yet again consider-
ing Turner's frontier thesis, this project tried to capture the spirit of
intellectual excitement that Turner's essay created. For this reason, I
wanted the authors of the major essays to be at a point in their scholarly
careers that approximately equaled Turner's status in 1893. This approach
meant that the "new significance" advocated in this volume is stated by a
new generation of western historians—a generation newer even than those
scholars currently identified with the "new western history."
Turner first presented his famous essay as a thirty-two-year-old histo-
rian from the University of Wisconsin. He gave the final talk at the last ses-
sion on the second day of the World's Congress of Historians and
Historical Students, organized by the American Historical Association as
part of the Columbian Exposition in Chicago. His audience did not re-
spond with any enthusiasm, but it was an especially warm July evening,
and four other speakers had preceded him. Eventually, his thesis would
gain an amazingly durable prominence.
During the past century, perhaps no other single essay on an Ameri-
can historical topic has received such extensive critical attention or lasted
so long in terms of scholarly and popular interest. In addition, few other
xii • INTRODUCTION
American historians have been so praised and pounded—revived, revised,

or dismissed—as has Frederick Jackson Turner. His ideas have remained
both lively and controversial, especially for historians of the American
West. This current volume was not conceived to extend the historiograph-
ical debate over Turner's frontier thesis, although a few readers may choose
to use it for such a purpose. Instead, this book recognizes Turner's legacy
of intellectual inquiry by publishing a set of "new significance" essays.
This collection gave numerous scholars an opportunity to examine
topics that have emerged in the study of the American West in the century
since that warm July evening. Many of the essays use examples drawn
from the twentieth century. The topics either are ideas suggested in
Turner's essay, such as the significance of the natural environment or the
role of perception, or are subjects that Turner ignored, such as Native
Americans, Mexican Americans, Asian peoples, and gender. In either case,
the intellectual challenge to each author is drawn from a pedagogic tech-
nique that Turner used with his graduate students at Wisconsin and later
at Harvard. In his seminars, as Merle Curti has reported, Turner had each
student write a "problem paper" that focused on a narrow and well-de-
fined research question. He then required a "correlation paper" that tried
to synthesize the entire seminar in relation to the specific research problem
examined by the individual student. As William Cronon has shown,
Turner's own writings followed this same pattern. His most successful ef-
forts were "correlation papers" that considered the "significance" of a his-
torical question.
This volume is built around a set of seven "correlation papers." Pre-
ceding these, Allan Bogue's essay introduces readers to Turner and his pro-
fessional career, especially his contribution to the teaching of western
American history at colleges and universities. Bogue also considers the ori-
gins of the "new western history" and how it fits the pattern of other "new
histories." The seven essays that follow avoid extended consideration of
Turner and his ideas, since such considerations have been done and even
overdone. Instead, these essays begin to chart the course for the next cen-
tury of scholarship on the history of the American West. They ask us to
consider, "What will be the 'newer' western history?"
The debate over the history of the American West has become as en-
ergetic as the older debate over the meaning of the frontier in American
history. Contrived confrontations are tedious, but legitimate intellectual
inquiry can be exciting. Other voices needed to be included in this intel-
lectual conversation. For this reason, other scholars of diverse back-
grounds and interests were invited to contribute shorter essays that
responded to one of the seven major essays. In this way, the significance of
INTRODUCTION • xiii
each topic could be tested by sharing ideas and building additional in-
sights. Two of these shorter commentaries accompany each of the longer
essays. The authors of these responses could choose to consider directly the
ideas presented in the main essay, or they could expand on the possibilities
that the larger topic suggested. In most cases, the commentaries for each
major essay divide between these two approaches.
The topics presented in this volume are not the exclusive "seven ways
to understand the American West." Quintard Taylor's concluding state-
ment in chapter 9, "Through the Prism of Race," and the jointly written
afterword recognize that other "significant" topics are worthy of extended
consideration. This collection also does not argue that each topic is a
"new" way to explain western history. Significance for historical under-
standing, not the novelty of presentation, was the organizing principle.
Among the mountains of historiographical writings on Turner's famous
essay are studies that show his frontier thesis was not a fully original idea
in 1893. Indeed, some of the immediate responses to his essay claimed
that the basic concept had been known for a while. Ironically, these early
critics missed the espoused significance of Turner's thesis because his cen-
tral idea, the "frontier," did not seem "new." Similarly, the topics for each
of the seven essays are not novel, yet each is important. Native Americans,
Mexican Americans, Asia and Asian Americans, gender, the natural envi-
ronment, human perception, and the role of the West itself in the nation's
history are all vital subjects. To think about each of these is not new, but I
hope that for many people reading this book, some of the ways to think
about the significance of these topics will indeed be new.
A New
Significance
1
The Course of Western

History's First Century
Allan G. Bogue
After the annual meeting of the American Historical Association in

December 1888, John Franklin Jameson wrote to his father: "The meet-
ings . . . were extremely stupid. . . . We had much Western history
warmed-over from [the canceled meeting in Columbus]. Western history
is stupid anyway, I think." Seven years later, the Catalogue of the Univer-
sity of Wisconsin carried a new course heading, "The History of the
West," and the instructor, young Frederick Jackson Turner, was to become
Jameson's trusted adviser in the latter's important roles in the developing
profession.1 Jameson's letter, the inception of Turner's course, and the lat-
ter's emergence as a person of professional consequence were all related to
major changes under way in the history discipline. This essay considers the
origins and development of western history in American institutions of
higher learning, examines the changing face of the western history text-
books used by generations of college students, and tries in some degree to
evaluate the past and future significance of the history of western America
as a curricular offering.
Origins
In 1883, Herbert Baxter Adams of Johns Hopkins University confided to
one of his correspondents that history was "booming." Actually, higher
education was booming and continued to do so. Percentage growth in col-
lege enrollments was matched by that of college faculty. The University of
Wisconsin claimed an enrollment of 722 students in the academic year
1887-88; its Catalogue of 1909-40 recorded a student body of almost
4,400 students.2 As the only instructor in history and political studies at
Johns Hopkins in 1876, Herbert Baxter Adams had provided "one exercise
3
4 • A NEW SIGNIFICANCE
a week." Ten years later there were "three regular instructors and one tu-
tor" giving twenty-eight exercises each week. Pleas came to Adams, partic-
ularly from trans-Appalachian and southern institutions, for him to
recommend good men to assist in developing curricula in history and po-
litical science. In self-congratulation, he prepared a map of the United
States showing the "institutions of learning" that had employed his stu-
dents, as a "graphical illustration" of "the colonial system of the Johns
Hopkins University."3
After his appointment as a classicist at Wisconsin in 1867, William F.
Allen came to specialize in history, having been progressively relieved of
other commitments. Pleading for help by the late 1880s, he shared the ser-
vices of an M.A. candidate and former reporter, Fred Turner, with the De-
partment of Rhetoric and Oratory. Soon President Thomas C.
Chamberlin recognized the need for a second full-time appointment, and
rather than looking abroad to fill this position on a full-time basis, Wis-
consin released its own fingerling into the Hopkins pool for further train-
ing. After strategic maneuvering by all concerned, Chamberlin and Allen
reclaimed Frederick). Turner at the end of the academic year 1888—89, his
horizons greatly expanded as a member of a group of young scholars who
would become the elite of their emerging discipline. Turner was intelli-
gent, handsome, pleasant and resonant of voice, and infused with enthu-
siasm for scientific history. Aiding also in his rapid emergence as a force on
the Madison campus were the political lessons learned in a home headed
by an influential Republican politician.4
At the time of Professor Allen's death in late 1889, he and Turner con-
stituted the history faculty at the University of Wisconsin. In Turner's last
year at Wisconsin (1909—10) the university Catalogue named eight history
professors, three instructors with Ph.D.'s in hand, and eleven teaching fel-
lows or scholars.5 At Wisconsin, as elsewhere, this period of expansion in
faculty and students allowed the development of historical curricula in
which there was a place for specialized courses.
The Wisconsin Catalogue of 1895—96, wrote Ray A. Billington, "an-
nounced a completely new course: 'History 7. The History of the West.'"
"Particular attention," explained Turner, "is paid to the advance of settle-
ment across the continent, and to the results of this movement." "Here,"
wrote Billington, "was innovation, indeed—this was the first course on
the history of the frontier to be offered anywhere." Citing the pride of the
local press in this departure, he absolved Turner of provincialism by not-
ing the continental sweep of the course. Interest in regionalism was wide-
spread, he added, making it reasonable for Turner to believe that the
history of regions must be known before that of the nation could be un-
WESTERN HISTORY'S FIRST CENTURY « 5
derstood. Billington suggested also that Turner's "decision to explain the

'West' to his students" followed arrangements to have Professor William P.
Trent offer a lecture series on southern history at Wisconsin during the
academic year 1895—96.6
"History of the West" was a novel catalogue entry; that it announced
a "completely new course" is arguable. The description of course content
can be traced back to the 1891 —92 Catalogue when Turner introduced a
course titled "Economic and Social History of the United States." Among
the topics to be considered in that offering was "the process of American
settlement across the continent." By the next year Turner was promising,
"Particular attention will be paid to the spread of settlement across the
continent, and to the economic and social causes of sectional and national
sentiment." In the Catalogue of 1893—94, Turner dropped the second half
of this description, substituting "and to the economic and social results of
this movement." Two years later he changed the title of the course to "His-
tory of the West."7
Indeed, other antecedents of the course of 1895-96 had appeared as
early as 1888 when Turner prepared a syllabus entitled "Outline Studies in
the History of the Northwest" for the National Bureau of Unity Clubs.
Turner listed undergraduate "seminary" study in the "History of the
Northwest" in the Wisconsin Catalogue before his year at Johns Hopkins
and, in planning course offerings for 1889-90 with Professor Allen, pro-
posed that seminary work in "Northwestern development and influence"
should be a string in his bow. The frontier hypothesis—the marvelously
winning synthesis of ideas and evidence that derived from many sources
and that he delivered as "The Significance of the Frontier in American
History" in the summer of 1893—was thus being formulated during the
early 1890s and earlier, in Turner's classroom as well as in his study and
preliminary published statements.8
When Turner proclaimed the importance of the presence and reces-
sion of free land and declared that the first period of American history had
ended with the passing of the frontier, he was justifying his western origins
and intellectual commitments and protesting against eastern myopia. He
was also forging a weapon in the competition for educational leadership
beyond the Appalachians. Assisting in the efforts in 1891—92 to bring Pro-
fessor Pvichard Ely to Wisconsin from Johns Hopkins to head a new
School of Economics, Political Science, and History, Turner discussed the
history program and his hopes for it. Ely's acceptance of the Wisconsin of-
fer, Turner wrote, "will make it certain that the University of Wisconsin
will not content itself with giving undergraduate instruction and becom-
ing a feeder to Chicago; but that it will be a center of postgraduate work
for the Northwest." He added: "This . . . has long been an ambition of

mine . . . Such a school will be a new departure in the West, and I be-
lieve our earnest western boys will supply the best sort of material." He
thanked Ely for his assurance that he and his colleague, Charles H. Hask-
ins, would be freed for more advanced work. "I am myself becoming anx-
ious to open some of the many fields for original work in American
History that lie about me. If we are to contend with Chicago we must ad-
here strongly to the maxim—quality rather than quantity." A few days
later Turner returned to this theme: "Chicago's funds enable her to carry
things by a coup de main. . . . Ought we not to meet this policy by de-
veloping certain special features that will attract men. . . . In the line of
western, local, and newspaper & periodical material, as well as in Dr.
Draper's ms collections for Ky. Tenn. & N.W. history, we are «»rivalled."
A decade or so later, Turner still emphasized the contest with Chicago in a
memorandum endorsing the usefulness of the summer school.9
On 19 February 1892, Turner described his own teaching preferences
to Ely: "I would prefer to give two advanced courses in place of Modern
history, viz. Social and Economic History of U.S.—(especial reference to
progress of western settlement, immigration, internal improvements, land
legislation, labor, manufactures, literature, etc.)—And a course in the gen-
eral history of Colonization." Although Turner once presented an exten-
sion course on the history of colonization, his second advanced offering at
Madison emerged in the Catalogue as "History of the West," and it had
been gestating within "Economic and Social History"—curricular
parthenogenesis.! °
The delivery of the Chicago paper sounded the trumpet call "Charge"
in the very keep of the academic enemy. It may also have proclaimed an
important history agenda within Professor Ely's school, where there must
have been a strong tendency for everything to be sucked into the wake of
the dynamic director. In his way, Turner was no less committed to devel-
opment than the western town promoters who rallied community support
by invoking the threat of rivals. But we should not denigrate Turner's ef-
forts; he had observed Adams's empire building at Johns Hopkins, and de-
velopment and progress were part of the Yankee ethos in which Turner had
been reared.
Turner and the Course

In effect, Turner set his teaching agenda in advanced courses for the rest of
his career at Wisconsin in the Catalogue of 1895-96. Thereafter, through-
out his career, the "History of the West" was his usual advanced under-
WESTERN HISTORY'S FIRST CENTURY • 7
graduate offering, accompanied by a graduate seminar in American his-

tory. Although Turner announced central topics in western history for the
seminar for a few years around 1900, he focused the seminar each year af-
ter 1903 on one of the presidential administrations of the early national
period, except in the year 1904—5, when the subject was nullification.11
How did western history spread out of its spawning ground at Wis-
consin? In a recent evaluation of frontier historians, John R. Wunder iden-
tified seventy-eight deceased writers who had made major contributions
to the history of the West. Sixty-two of the seventy-eight were academic
historians; the remaining one-fifth were journalists, creative writers,
lawyers, a gold rush merchant, and so on. The academic historians had
trained in twenty different graduate schools, ten claiming degrees from
Wisconsin and six from Harvard. The graduate schools of the University
of Pennsylvania and the University of Chicago each prepared five scholars,
and the University of California at Berkeley was represented by four grad-
uates. Other historians had trained in schools scattered from Oxford, Eng-
land, to Palo Alto, California. Although Wisconsin and Harvard produced
sixteen of the academic western specialists, or a quarter of the total, Turner
was the doctoral adviser for only five of the sixteen—two at Wisconsin and
three at Harvard.12
Eighteen doctoral candidates completed degrees under Turner's direc-
tion at Wisconsin and a comparable number at Harvard University and
Radcliffe College combined. Both the Wisconsin and the Harvard groups
included historians with distinguished futures—Carl L. Becker, Louise P.
Kellogg, Joseph Schafer, Marcus L. Hansen, and Frederick Merk, for ex-
ample. Although Cornell, Wisconsin, and Northwestern employed Turner
students, the Wisconsin Ph.D.'s in general pursued their careers in state
universities of the second rank—West Virginia, Oregon, North Dakota
University, North Dakota Agricultural College, Tulane—and small mid-
western colleges. In the East, Turner's Harvard students served at the Uni-
versities of Pennsylvania, Pittsburgh, and Virginia, at Yale, Harvard, and
Brown Universities, and at Clark and Williams Colleges, among others. In
the West, they were at Oklahoma, Minnesota, Colorado, Northwestern,
and Reed. Several found employment as researchers. But only three of the
Harvard Ph.D.'s took their degrees before 1920. Also, some of Turner's
advisees left the field, so we can hardly visualize a small army of his doc-
toral graduates seeding the profession during his career.13
But Turner's influence was potent. At both Wisconsin and Harvard
some of his students remained to complete their degrees after his depar-
ture, and others became influential professionals without completing the
Ph.D. At a farewell party in Madison in 1910, students presented him
8 « A NEW SIGNIFICANCE
with a map of the United States; across the top a map-toting Turner pur-
sued a trapper and a pioneer farmer, and dots and concentric circles lo-
cated some eighty former members of his seminars. Numerous young
scholars heard and were influenced by his message as visiting students in
the Wisconsin summer sessions or as students in other schools at which he
lectured. Financial considerations drew some with Wisconsin or Harvard
credits elsewhere for the doctorate, but they remained committed to west-
ern history. However, the history of the West rapidly developed an iden-
tity larger than Turner and his students. Other scholars accepted his
thesis, and it rapidly found its way into textbooks in American history and
government. Beyond the Appalachians, Turner found able coworkers like
Clarence W. Alvord, Benjamin Shambaugh, and Frederic L. Paxson eager
to help develop the field. And graduate directors, little known as western
historians, allowed students to develop doctoral topics in the field.
In 1922, Turner responded to a request for information about his
"connection with Western history" and about himself. "Something like
half the states have such a college course," he wrote, "and many of the
leading universities, east and west, include it in their curriculum. A con-
siderable portion of the instructors were trained in my seminary." The
curricula of ninety leading history programs throughout the contiguous
United States in 1931—32, the year of Turner's death, show that 63 per-
cent of the institutions offered some variant of western or frontier history.
From Ohio through Iowa and Minnesota, every state university plus the
University of Chicago listed the course. Of the eastern schools surveyed,
49 percent had such an offering, compared with 69 percent of those in the
trans-Mississippi West, but all seven Ivy League schools for which data are
available gave the course. Of the southern schools examined, 47 percent
offered western history, a figure exactly equal to the proportion listing
southern history.14
Surveying the state of western American history during the early
1960s, W. N. Davis Jr. discovered that 194 of the 375 institutions queried
reported a course in western history, 51 percent of the total. American
Historical Association data for 1991—92 show that, in 191 of 610 Ameri-
can history programs listed, 245 faculty members (excepting emeriti) re-
ported a research interest in the West or the frontier; 62 schools reported
specialists in western subareas above the state level. Eliminating duplica-
tion provides 238 institutions with avowed western specialists, about 40
percent. The western tilt in the location of this interest was more visible
than in the past. Of the seven Ivy League institutions teaching western
history in 1931-32, only Yale and Dartmouth persevere. Of the eight
leading midwestern schools of the earlier date, only Wisconsin, Indiana,
and Iowa maintain the faith. 15
Examining regional history offerings in 1990, Carl Abbott suggested

that western history had suffered more recent erosion than had south-
ern.16 But western history studies are still important, and part of the ap-
parent decline is explained by the fact that topics once presented as an
integral part of western history are now often separate areas of interest, for
example, Native American and environmental history.
Western History as Course

To the sorrow of publishers, Turner never wrote a western history text.
However, preserved lecture notes and published reading lists reveal much
of the organization and content of his course in western history. Well set
by the time that he went to Harvard, the basic structure gave heavy cov-
erage to the colonial frontiers and broke, probably at the end of the first
semester, at about 1850. There were fifty-two reading units in the List of
References on the History of the West of 1913, the last five dealing with the
West after 1900: "The New West, 1900-1910," "Combinations and the
Development of the West," "Conservation and the West," "The Progres-
sives," and "Contemporaneous Western Ideals." In the edition of 1922,
Turner and Frederick Merk added a section on "The West in the World
War and Reconstruction." Despite his pronouncement of 1893, Turner's
course apparently ended with the morning paper.17
Destined for a distinguished scholarly career in political science, John
M. Gaus enrolled in Turner's western history lecture course during the
second semester of the academic year 1919—20, and his notes have been
preserved.18 After discussing the extension of transportation facilities
westward from the Appalachians and the territorial system, Turner turned
his attention to the trans-Mississippi West. The Gaus notes reveal a course
that melded economic, diplomatic, and political history. Turner did not
disregard social institutions and the role of ideas—he called it idealism—
but these were less emphasized. When he brought his presentation into
the twentieth century, he still used the basic concepts of frontier and sec-
tion to give broader meaning to his material. Gaus recorded descriptive
statistics only occasionally, but Turner's slides probably provided such
data. If Turner often emphasized colorful incidents or told anecdotes,
Gaus did not record them. As a teacher, Turner was basically a question
asker or a proposer of hypotheses, although he introduced illustrative in-
dividuals and crafted telling aphorisms. "The logic of events does not as-
sume a logic of purpose," noted Gaus on one occasion.
Critics have correctly argued that Turner's interpretation of the west-
ward movement revealed blind spots and a lack of sensitivity. Let us
briefly examine his treatment of material bearing on those currently pop-
ular social variables—ethnicity, gender, and class. Although he did not ig-
nore the indigenous population, Turner's use of the phrase "Indian Bar-
rier" in his lists of references is cited as revealing the one-sidedness of his
approach, and he apparently did not dip deeply into the anthropological
and ethnographic literature. But on 29 March he included an evaluation
of American Indian policy and introduced the concept of conquest—a
term now much in vogue.
The spread of population [scribbled Gaus] is fundamental in explaining

the Mexican War—rather than any conspiracy of slave holders and using
diplomacy to get more territory. Previous spread had been into unoccu-
pied areas—unorganized by civilized people, not expansion by conquest.
But we had conquered the Indians. Was this just? Failure to use resources
will submit people to subordination of a superior type which does. An in-
evitable process. But a better way could have been found for dealing with
[the] Indians than was found.
Later Turner referred to the occupation of the Black Hills as a "betrayal" of

the Sioux. So we find a mingling in Turner of Spencerian inevitability, ac-
knowledgment of injustice, and regret at past policies, but hardly moral
outrage.19
Turner taught numerous women in his seminar at Wisconsin and lec-
tured for years at Radcliffe College, but Kit Carson's mother is the only
woman in the frontier essay. The record was not much improved during
the spring of 1920. Describing the background of the Grange, however,
Turner drew a picture of the farmer: "Isolated and ignorant. Wife still
worse off. Only an occasional religious meeting—no normal social func-
tions." The children were "lured" away by "city growth and urban im-
provements." He noted that women were full-fledged members of the
Patrons of Husbandry and as such played important ceremonial roles, but
he ignored the female orators of the Populist movement. Although
Turner's Reference List of 1922 shows that he was somewhat interested in
the family's role in the westward movement, the gender issues and matters
of domestic economy that our generation has made an integral part of so-
cial history did not appear in his lectures or, to be fair, in those of his con-
temporaries.20
And what of class and its influence? Turner sketched at length the
great changes that occurred in the American economy during the late
nineteenth and early twentieth centuries and western involvement—the
spread of settlement, changes in transportation and marketing, the impact
of western minerals, the denuded pineries, and the growth of great corpo-
rations and combinations. Increased agricultural production and deflation
put the West and its farmers at a disadvantage. The latter Turner described
as a "class in a region." The passage of the Granger laws, John Gaus

learned, meant that "individualistic competition and fear of govt [had]
now [been] deserted by the farmer. A turning point in the history of Amer-
ican development. But a system of socialism was not sought."21
The recently settled West constituted a new section and joined with
the South in a "free silver" group, but the northeastern wing of the Re-
publican party overwhelmed the midwestern presidents, and "bloody
shirt" rhetoric was diverting as well. Turner described the building of a
great industrial empire in the West as a "new type of pioneering—a pio-
neering of capital and organization by men of imagination." James J. Hill
was "a type of the new western man." "The capitalist," wrote Gaus, "was
applying the principle of the squatter, but at the very time when such in-
dividualism [was becoming] a new thing because of disappearance of
land." Where once the squatter farmer had ruled, now "combinations of
industry and capital were predominant," and large stockmen dominated
the range country by organizing associations. The basic principle, Turner
explained, was that of the old farmers' protective associations and mining
camp vigilance committees, but this was a "squatter sovereignty by busi-
ness interests."22
The Populists, Turner told his class, represented a stage in the "ad-
vance of industrialism." William Jennings Bryan was thoroughly a "fron-
tier type," one whose family had followed the frontier; his great speech of
1896 was a "remarkable effort" destined to "stand in history as a land-
mark." In concluding lectures Turner emphasized the concentration of
control over natural resources, the Progressive reaction that this produced,
and the enhanced role of government visualized by Theodore Roosevelt
and Gifford Pinchot. Where squatter individualism had once prevailed,
now government paternalism worked to provide "new functions due to
western needs." Although there were "some areas yet to be developed in
the West . . . [it would] be under conditions unlike the Old West." It
would, forecasted Turner, "be through government or corporations—pos-
sibly through tenantry or peasantry." Gaus wrote, "The Old West will re-
main a disembodied idea."23
In his last lecture, Turner explained that the concentration of control
in natural resources and other industries made political discontent "natural
in our time." "Revolting political movements pass one into another—
Bryanism, Insurgency—Progressivism." Gaus summarized Turner's con-
clusions as the lecture and semester ended:
The frontier [was] important—settlement pressing forward into the

wilderness—a new type developing different from Europe—opposite to
every thing Prussian.
The movement had ended by 1900. With it had gone on the forma-
tion of provinces or sections. Each show signs of persistence—The U.S.
in terms of sections—Danger in intolerance. We must realize the com-
posite quality of our life. Made up of pieces of Europe. Study the house
raising of [the] West.24
Scholarly Cumulation
While Turner's career proceeded, great collections of monographs, period-

icals, society transactions, local and regional manuscripts, and government
documents relevant to his interests grew in library after library. His famous
Reference List expanded to 156 pages by 1922. Accumulation continues;
the western historian is singularly blessed. Given the many fine critiques
available, discussion of the western research frontier can be brief. Subse-
quent to Turner's retirement there were patterns of both continuity and
change; some scholars remained firmly committed to his ideas, whereas
others mined rewarding veins of western history that peers recognized as
important, irrespective of their relationship to a Turnerian framework.
One thinks of the work of Marcus L. Hansen, Frederick Merk, Paul W.
Gates, Arthur P. Whitaker, Thomas P. Abernethy, Edward E. Dale, Everett
Dick, and Herbert E. Bolton, for example. At about the time of Turner's
death, Walter P. Webb and James C. Malin were developing invigorating
reinterpretations of regionalism and human adaptation.25
Meanwhile criticism of Turner's ideas mounted, focused to some ex-
tent by George W. Pierson's survey of scholarly opinion about the frontier
thesis, a study that he reported in late 1941. Turner, critics said with some
justice, used social theory that was now obsolete, underemphasized the
continuities in the lives of the pioneers and their institutions, ignored im-
portant aspects of American development, and was blind to much of the
seamy side of frontiering. If some historians compounded Turner's faults
in the years following World War II, new approaches and perspectives
somewhat muted the protests. Henry Nash Smith and other specialists in
American studies, for example, demonstrated that reality did not always
rule in thinking about the West and that myths, symbols, images, and
stereotypes, developed in response to the conditions of a particular time,
could become embedded in American culture and be transmitted to sub-
sequent generations.26
During the 1950s, behavioral science also began to influence many
historians. Stanley Elkins and Eric McKitrick, David M. Potter, and oth-
ers suggested that aspects of Turner's argument made sense in the light of
contemporary social theory. The mixing of anthropologists and historians
in Indian claims cases nurtured ethnohistory, with its enhanced under-

standing of Indian values, objectives, and actions. Behavioralism also im-
plied a more rigorous examination of evidence, and quantitative analysis
was applied to old themes. Paul F. Sharp and Herbert Heaton called for
the development of a comparative approach to the history of the West,
and Earl Pomeroy and Robert F. Berkhofer Jr. urged western historians to
pay more attention to continuities. Other scholars brought overly roman-
ticized themes into perspective, such as when Richard M. Brown re-
assessed American violence. Howard Lamar found new meaning in so
Turnerian a subject as territorial development. Biographers like Dale Mor-
gan and Wallace Stegner found the West to be a magnificent canvas. Ray
A. Billington conceived the "Histories of the American Frontier" series; if
less integrated than hoped, many of the volumes are almost indispensable.
Now too, Billington and Wilbur R. Jacobs began to enrich our under-
standing of Turner by their research in the Turner Manuscripts collection
at the Huntington Library. The twenty-five years after 1945 were produc-
tive ones.27
By the late 1960s and 1970s, significant numbers of western histori-
ans were invading the twentieth century, and the era of the new social his-
tory was beginning with its changed emphasis, interdisciplinary concerns,
and interest in identifying and understanding the members of ignored or
oppressed social groups. Here, thus far, the contributions in women's his-
tory, Native American history, and environmental issues, particularly
those relating to aridity and water supply, have been striking.28
Along these trails institutional landmarks appear. In 1929, former stu-
dents of Turner's at the University of Colorado convened a regional con-
ference at Boulder on the history of the trans-Mississippi West. Papers
presented there showed increasing interest in western social history and
continued progress in describing western economic development. Bolton,
Carl O. Sauer, Schafer, and Webb presented papers that are still impres-
sive.29 Some three decades later, the Museum of New Mexico in Santa Fe
was the site, in 1961, of a conference on the "History of Western Amer-
ica." This meeting triggered the organization of the Western History
Association, whose early leaders mobilized a significant historical con-
stituency. The papers delivered in Santa Fe revealed a growing interest in
the twentieth century and indicated that intellectual and social history, in-
cluding that of women, held great promise. But there was no Webb or
Sauer on the program. Unfortunately, one promised paper, "The History
of the West: The Worst Scholarship in America," was not published in the
volume of conference papers.30
In September 1989, the National Endowment for the Humanities
sponsored the exhibit "Trails through Time" and the symposium "Trails:
Toward a New Western History," marking the initial presentation of the
display in Santa Fe. The papers presented there prompted the editor of
Montana. The Magazine of Western History to commission complementary
essays on the nature of western history. The two sets of papers are pre-
sented, with additional views, in Trails: Toward a New Western History.
That history, say the critics here, has been too much a triumphal account
of an advancing empire, of the development of a mythic garden, and of the
nineteenth century. Now we must look at the grimmer side of a story of
conquest, tally the human and environmental waste involved, study the
victims of the advance of empire and those neglected in the storytelling,
analyze intercultural relations, and examine the twentieth-century West.
These are sound precepts, although the enthusiasm of these critics recalls,
to some, Arthur Guiterman's concluding couplet celebrating Edinburgh's
fixation with Mary, Queen of Scots, and suggests a revised wording:
And send us good historians to restore the many blots

That rest upon the titles of all those western lots.31
The Textbook Writers
When Davis surveyed the state of western American history during the
early 1960s, he noted the "immense importance" of textbooks in deter-
mining course content: the teachers of 169 out of 194 courses used a stan-
dard text. Such texts did much to shape the conception of the American
West in the minds of generations of college-educated Americans. They are
worth consideration.
In the year that Turner retired from teaching, the History of the Amer-
ican Frontier, 1763—1893 by Frederic L. Paxson appeared. A University of
Pennsylvania Ph.D. and Turner's successor at the University of Wisconsin,
Paxson recalled the state of western history around 1900, when he had be-
gun to teach at the University of Colorado:
The frontier was gone; and the frontiersmen there . . . were adapting
themselves to the life of a new century. Turner had already pointed out
the significance of the frontier . . . but the occasional historical pioneer
who followed his lead must make his own tools. . . . This is all changed
today. . . . The time is ripe for this synthesis. . . . My successors
will . . . do better, but none will complete his task with a firmer con-
viction . . . that the frontier with its continuous influence is the most
American thing in all America. In future generations we . . . shall still
possess and be shaped by a unique heritage.32
Viewing frontiers east of the Proclamation Line of 1763 as European

frontiers, Paxson focused on settlement west of the Appalachians. Al-
though briefly acknowledging Turner's preeminence in western history,
Paxson was more the narrative historian. He muted Turner's use of social
science concepts and showed less interest in the relation between physiog-
raphy and settlement patterns. Like Turner, he undervalued the urban
component, and if more detailed in describing settlement processes than
Turner, he was also less accurate. Paxson did express some sympathy for
the Indians, and although he mentioned Emma Smith in his text, no
woman appears in his index. Describing the frontier mother as heroic, he
disposed of her unique problems and contributions in one paragraph.
There were other gaps; John Wesley Powell, for example, does not enter
the story. Like Turner's course—strongest in its treatment of western
diplomatics and political and economic development, weakest in its ap-
proach to social history—Paxson's text is genteel. Members of the Donner
party suffered without resort to cannibalism, and the cattle towns knew
no prostitutes or female temperance advocates. Paxson concluded:
The frontier had disappeared, and with it had been removed . . . that
special influence that had made American history unique. . . . There
was still no cessation in the steady pressure of the new West upon the Na-
tion. . . . But the distinctive frontier influence was undergoing trans-
mutation into agrarian influence, and the struggle was henceforth to be
less a contest between the older sections and the young, and more a
struggle of the agricultural elements of society against the industrial.33
Paxson's book won a Pulitzer prize, and Richard Etulain recently termed
it "just the text" that professional historians "needed and used in their
classrooms," the "core text" in western history until Ray A. Billington
published Westward Expansions 1949.34
In addition to Paxson, we identify his former student Robert E.
Riegel, Dan E. Clark, Ray A. Billington, and Thomas D. Clark as tradi-
tionalists.35 All were essentially committed to a Turnerian analysis of the
West. Publishing first in 1930, Riegel, like his teacher Paxson, made few
explicit references to Turner. But in his edition of 1947, Riegel responded
to the criticism of the frontier hypothesis, made Turner central to a new
concluding chapter, and stigmatized as "ridiculous" the "trend toward de-
veloping the thesis that the frontier had no significant influence." He
wrote, "No one of intelligence can really believe that the conquering of
three thousand miles of wilderness did not leave some stamp on American
history and character."36 In 1937, Dan E. Clark affirmed his support of
the major elements of Turner's thesis but also maintained that the succes-
sive stages of economic development described by Turner were more typi-

cal of the Middle West than the Far West.
Ray A. Billington (initially collaborating with James B. Hedges)
maintained that his text "attempt [ed] to follow the pattern that Frederick
Jackson Turner might have used." In this impressive and most used of
western texts, Billington outlined western processes of development as he
believed Turner had seen them, but with perhaps some surreptitious
amendment. In this respect consider the concluding lines of the first edi-
tion: "The hardy, self-reliant men and women who through three cen-
turies conquered the continent have played their role in the drama of
American development; as they pass from the scene a new generation,
freed from the prejudices of an outworn past where the needs of individu-
als transcended the needs of society, will blaze the trails into the newer
world of co-operative democracy that is America's future." The last of the
traditionalists to produce a text, Tom Clark, was more qualified in his
Turnerian commitments, admitting in 1959 that the contribution of the
frontier to American democracy might "remain an open question" forever.
But he saw it as a "fiery test of sinew and courage" that confirmed the na-
tion's understanding of its great potential, contributed "a keen sense of
progress," and prepared Americans to accept "large challenges."37
The traditionalists tended to affirm Turner's assertion of progressive
adaptation frontier by frontier, without much specific citation of evidence.
Women played extremely minor roles in their accounts, and these writers
followed Turner in omitting other significant aspects of pioneer life, al-
though they edged toward a fuller presentation of the contributions of
towns and cities in western development. Paxson and Riegel began their
accounts with the 1760s; the others treated the earlier colonial frontiers as
well. All five, however, terminated their accounts with the 1890s. Initially,
Paxson, Riegel, and Clark used few maps, whereas Billington's attention to
physiographic regions and cartography would have gladdened Turner's
map-loving heart. In contrast to Paxson, Riegel introduced memorable
characters—Mike Fink, Calamity Jane, and Jesse James among them—
and included humorous doggerel. Clark quoted sources freely and em-
phasized colorful details, including Henri de Tonty's prosthetic iron hand.
The chapter bibliographies in Billington's text were, of themselves, valu-
able research tools.
The traditionalists were ethnocentric and uniformly believed that the
westward movement was a great achievement, but one also finds admis-
sion of treacherous U.S. policy regarding Indians, of wastefulness in the
use of resources, of failure as well as success. Although they might have
WESTERN HISTORrs FIRST CENTURY • 17
emphasized such matters more, these authors did not picture the west-
ward movement as a process of unalloyed progress and development.
At the end of the 1960s, writers of western texts began to break new
ground, to innovate. From a background in American studies, Kent L.
Steckmesser identified himself as a neo-Turnerian, humanistic in perspec-
tive and emphasizing "biography, social institutions, and folkways." But it
was Robert V. Hine who most clearly showed the influence of American
studies, writing in 1973 of a West that was "part economic and social fact,
part myth" and that "had a history peculiarly revised by dream," a place of
"native races" and "motley actors . . . spilling over from old cultures and
helping to begin a new history." Hine made violence, the western hero,
and community-building the subjects of separate chapters and dotted his
text with revisionary evaluations. The four major characteristics of the
American frontier had been "rapid growth, dynamic expansion, violence,
and disdain for authority." Racist but intolerant of slavery and highly in-
consistent in other attitudes and positions as well, "the West," wrote Hine,
"with its recurrent cycle of growth from primitive conditions, motivated
by and continually selecting its own myths and legends, pervaded Ameri-
can life and will continue to color tomorrow." Turner, Hine argued, had
accurately predicted the consequences of the frontier's closing: imperial-
ism, intensified class struggle, and a trend toward socialistic politics.38
In 1974, Richard A. Bartlett viewed the westward movement as "a
great sweep westward, unbroken, inevitable, of epic proportions." He em-
phasized the movement of population westward, its composition, every-
day life, western families, and society. But he entitled one of the eight
chapters in his social history of the American West "Despoilment: The
Rape of the New Country" and emphasized "The Urban Frontier." Such
"complexities" as the Louisiana Purchase or Indian treaties were "mere in-
cidents washed away by the flood tide of the white man's advance." And
"different nationalities" were less important than "the story of [the set-
tlers'] acculturation and adjustment to the new country," one with "in-
credible opportunity for the reasonably healthy, stable, and hard-working
person." America's frontier years were perhaps "the happiest time," he
mused, "for a whole people in all history."39
Two years later, Arrell M. Gibson completed The West in the Life of the
Nation, positing an "Old West" lying between the Appalachians and the
western boundaries of the first tier of trans-Mississippi states and a "New
West" stretching beyond to the Pacific. His, he wrote, was a "pluralistic
approach" emphasizing the "social, cultural, and intellectual dimensions"
of western history and tempering Turnerian "absolutes." To Gibson, the
h8 a new signifcance
"emergent American nation . . . surging with incredible velocity and ir-

repressible force westward across the continent into the Pacific Basin" was
one of "the grandest epics of human history." The West, he argued, had
"been the prime determinant of national economic direction and develop-
ment." Westerners did "refine and expand . . . democratic processes,"
but western pioneering experiences were not "the principal determinants
of a distinctly American character or ... cultural institutions." But
Gibson accepted Turner's theory of successive economic stages, expanding
their number considerably. Unlike Hine and Bartlett, he carried his ac-
count deep into the twentieth century. Like them, he stressed the waste-
fulness of westerners, entitling a chapter "Plundering the New West's
Natural Bounty."40
In 1976, Turner's student, collaborator, and heir at Harvard, Frederick
Merk, completed the text that probably best fit Turner's mold. But Merk's
extended coverage of twentieth-century issues places his book among the
works of the innovators. Turner, in 1893, argued Merk, had merely stated
that "the line of the continuous frontier" had ended and not that "the fron-
tier in all its aspects had ended." To Merk the frontier still persisted, al-
though "increasingly . . . in the realms of science and technology . . .
the environment . . . the relations of man to man." Affirming that the
westward movement was "the greatest migration of peoples in recorded
history," Merk noted that it also involved "conquest, speculation, ex-
ploitation, and violence."41
Authors also examined subareas or chronological subdivisions of west-
ern history in books of sufficient scope to be used for textual reading: Car-
dinal Goodwin's treatment of the trans-Mississippi West, written in 1922;
Webb's 1931 monograph The Great Plains, immediately enshrined—at
least in Texas—as gospel and text for understanding adaptation to the
plains country; and LeRoy Hafen and Carl Rister's Western America, first
available in 1941. The last two authors explained that they were primarily
concerned with "the problems of conquest and settlement" and portrayed
a settler "sprung from a new soil, transformed by contact with forest and
Indian, an admixture of non-English blood in his veins, he was a newly
molded type—an American." Despite this flourish, Hafen and Rister were
severely factual. Their edition of 1970 included accounts of twentieth-cen-
tury territorial, agricultural, industrial, and urban development. By this
time, Earl Pomeroy's thoughtful and pathbreaking The Pacific Slope: A
History of California, Oregon, Washington, Idaho, Utah, and Nevada had
appeared, developing a countertheory of western development and em-
phasizing cultural continuities and urban growth. Less prophetic of future
scholarly trends than Webb's or Pomeroy's volumes was John A. Haw-

good's well-written but essentially traditional America's Western Frontiers,
published in 1967.42
In 1973, Gerald D. Nash provided the first textual survey of the West's
history during the twentieth century—using the phrase "urban oasis" in
his subtitle. "Culture," wrote Nash, "and environment . . . have been
the two great formative factors in the development of the twentieth-cen-
tury West." Westerners were unique and faced a singular challenge in de-
veloping and melding dry and humid subregions. Influence between
nation and region ran in each direction, but the West threw off its status as
a colonial periphery to become a pacesetter in meeting the challenges of
interacting cultures, in developing new industrial and technological solu-
tions in both urban and agricultural settings, and in adopting metropoli-
tan and suburban lifeways.43
Of the participants in the Santa Fe "Trails" symposium in 1989 and
the contributors to its related publications, Richard White alone has writ-
ten a full-scale western text: "It's Your Misfortune and None of My Own. "
White's West, however, is the trans-Missouri West, which he believes
forms a coherent, but somewhat: heterogeneous, western America today.
Turner does not appear in White's index, and gone is the idea that the so-
cial processes associated with a moving frontier were unique in form and
impact or even usefully comparative, although he delineates interaction
between his West and the nation. To White, "the American West is a prod-
uct of conquest and of the mixing of diverse groups of peoples. The West
began when Europeans sought to conquer various areas of the continent
and when people of Indian, European, Asian, and African ancestry began
to meet within the territories west: of the Missouri that would later be part
of the United States."44
"It's Your Misfortune and None of My Own" repents some of the ideas of
the innovators and the subdividers but also strongly shows the influence of
the new social history. Here we find concepts unknown to the traditional-
ists: transformations, two-tiered labor systems, household production,
gender and the cult of domesticity, models, metaphors, myths, irony, and
much else. If the traditionalists believed that they were presenting their
readers with a golden key to American history, White, some may suggest,
offers them a salad bowl of middle-range generalizations. In summarizing
the research in western history during the last thirty years and especially
that research relating to cultural interaction, modern western society, and
the interactions between urbanization, corporations, and federal presence,
White's book is a tour deforce. But he also abandoned much that some his-
torians find hard to surrender. He also, others believe, revealed the west-
erner's proverbial land hunger by claiming the midwestern fringe states for
his province even though the economic and cultural ties of the inhabitants
still run primarily to the East.
Obviously, western textbook writers have changed and adapted their
emphases, ideas, and material over time, although they held to some
themes with unwise tenacity—particularly the magical significance of the
1890s. All scholars of stature, they have, of necessity, reflected the state of
the periodical and monographic literature of their times. None of them
have stood independent of the work of earlier scholars. They have, we sus-
pect, been less responsible for romantic notions about the West than more
popular writers.
Significance of Western History

In 1941, Samuel Eliot Morison, once a member of Turner's seminar,
wrote:
Turner's thesis served a very useful purpose. It stimulated study and in-
terest in American history, served to differentiate our history from that of
other lands, removed the inferiority-complex of the West and made that
section proudly conscious of her immediate past, struck at the intellec-
tual complacency of New England, and the romanticism of the South—
and, not least, gave to hundreds of young westerners topics for books
they could integrate with their environment.45
Although ranging from regional psyches to the pragmatism of book top-

ics, Morison left much unsaid.
At its most elemental level, western history was the foundation on
which a charismatic young scholar rose to eminence in a growing and pro-
fessionalizing academic discipline. To read Frederick Jackson Turner's cor-
respondence, to trace his daily routines, and to try to rethink his thoughts
is to relive much of our own experience. His was the generation that es-
tablished modern academic history—its interaction with administrators,
its sense that graduate instruction and research are more important than
undergraduate teaching, and its understanding that offers of jobs power
the academic escalator. At the institutional level, the history of the West
was also a weapon in a contest for regional educational hegemony that re-
flected the booming, developmental aspirations of western educators.
Emphasis on the history of the West at the University of Wisconsin repre-
sented in part an effort to capitalize on local assets in a race with the Uni-
versity of Chicago for midwestern educational leadership.
In regional terms, the academic history of the West demonstrated that

the country beyond the Appalachians also had a proud history and was an
integral and important part of the American experience. Western soldiers
had played a major role in saving the Union, and between 1850 and 1890
the economic transformation of the north-central region of the country
was phenomenal. There had been approximately 438,000 farms there in
1850; by 1890 there were almost two million. Studying the national and
regional economic development of this era, a team of economists later
termed the Lake States "one of the greatest resource regions in the Ameri-
can economy," providing "a firm foundation for its own burgeoning man-
ufactures and commerce" and "strength to the continuing thrust of
industry elsewhere."46 Between 1860 and 1900, western men almost mo-
nopolized the presidency, and after the 1890 redistricting, the north-cen-
tral census region of the United States provided 36 percent of the nation's
congressmen. Thus historians of trans-Appalachia had substantial ground
for believing that they had an important and hitherto unappreciated story
to tell.
It was Turner's genius, or luck, that he was able to meld basic facts of
western growth with long-held ideas of western uniqueness and the scien-
tific theories and popular concerns of the day into a rhetorical statement
that became one of the most powerful explanations of American develop-
ment and character. Although the western history course in important
elements preceded the statement of the thesis, the thesis in turn provided
a conceptual core that other history courses lacked. To study western his-
tory was to understand American growth, institutions, and values. Spread
in hundreds of classrooms, the message could also be used by specialists
elsewhere in the discipline—diplomatic history, for example—or as a
baseline in the study of national cultures, and it could be useful to the psy-
chologist or to Aldo Leopold advocating the retention of wilderness.47 Ab-
sorbed within American culture, it could reinforce the American sense of
uniqueness and accomplishment, strengthening our very nationalism.
At a less rarefied level, the history of the West gave generations of col-
lege students the best and, often, only introduction to their region and lo-
cality. In college history courses they learned how the Indians were
dispossessed from their area, how the land was distributed to their ances-
tors, how their local and state governments came to be, and how these
contrasted with experiences in other regions. Explicitly or implicitly, de-
pending on the instructor and the time, the survey course in western his-
tory was a record of American aspirations, dreams, and myths. For many,
it was an unmatched exercise in self-identification.
It was significant also that Turner's model of American development
was interdisciplinary. Graduate students at Johns Hopkins absorbed large

amounts of political economy. Turner, in 1892—93, was a faculty member
of the School of Economics, Political Science, and History at the Univer-
sity of Wisconsin. In 1904, he wrote to Albion Small that there should be
more sociology in history and more history in sociology.48 The influence
of other disciplines is apparent in his early publications. One of the most
interesting aspects of western studies has been the fact that interaction
with other disciplines has recurrently led to change in the content of west-
ern history.
What may we ask is the significance of the new western history? In
part, the critics within the Trails detachment articulated ongoing tenden-
cies, but the institutional expression of their discontents and dreams and
the storm of popular and professional reaction have produced an intellec-
tual ferment of unprecedented magnitude in western history. In broader
perspective the new western history is one in a series of revitalizations that
have occurred in American history since World War II but one that is
unique in that elements of the general public apparently are also inter-
ested. In 1957, new economic historians were raising the standard of re-
volt in a conference at Williams College, and a less heralded meeting on
political history at Rutgers University focused the behavioral thrust that
produced a so-called new political history. By the mid-1960s, a new urban
history was apparent, and somewhat later a transformation occurred in la-
bor history when working-class history emerged; still later some historians
proclaimed a new agricultural history. While older fields of interest un-
derwent significant change, cadres of researchers energetically developed
relatively ignored areas of American social history, such as the history of
women and racial minorities.
Typically, in such revitalization, dissatisfaction with the values, con-
cerns, and methods of historians in a subarea of the discipline have led in-
dividuals, usually those of a new generation, to reconceptualize the field by
introducing new topical focuses, different assumptions, and new methods
and by exploiting new source material or using old sources in different
ways. As interest builds in conversations at professional meetings and in
seminars, networks emerge to legitimize and spread the new approaches.
Often a particular conference or meeting serves as a catalyst, solidifying
opinion into holy cause. (The messianic gleam detected in the eyes of
some new western historians is no more pronounced than that observed in
the eyes of leading cliometricians during the early 1960s.)
The proposals of the new historians excite each other and draw ad-
herents, especially senior graduate students. Particularly "hot" exponents
of the new departures are deluged with invitations to appear on the pro-
grams of professional associations or to give lectures at other institutions

of higher learning or in public forums. Their lecture fees escalate, and
some suffer from jet lag and nervous exhaustion. Critics point out that the
new prescription is not as new as claimed—citing examples—or note that
the analysis involves sins of both omission and commission. Various older
scholars take strong exception to the missionary message. Some frauds,
sloppy workers, or overexuberant practitioners attach themselves to the
movement, giving the critics particularly inviting targets. In the end the
new historians are judged not by their preachments but by their scholarly
product. Does their work help significantly in understanding important
outcomes? Judging from past experiences, we see that so far no group of
new historians in the post-World War II era has failed to alter the per-
spective and content of its field. But the most extreme positions taken by
the new historians are sometimes rejected. In general, a stronger and more
useful history has been the result, and there is every reason to believe that
this will be true in western history as well.
Turner once wrote, "Each age writes the history of the past anew with
reference to the conditions uppermost in its own time."49 We have read
this as a more devastating restriction on historical understanding and
achievement than it needs to be. Whether implicitly or explicitly, histori-
ans ask questions about past human actions and historical events. The
changing human condition dictates that new generations will ask different
questions. That does not mean that their predecessors did not ask impor-
tant questions or that all of their answers were wrong, then or later. But
not all of those questions, or all of the answers, may be useful to a suc-
ceeding generation. One of the significant aspects of the history of the
American West is that four-plus generations have found it possible to ask
important questions about the subject matter around which Turner drove
his claim stakes. Patricia Nelson Limerick has correctly noted, "In the sec-
ond half of the twentieth century, every major issue from 'frontier' history
reappeared in the courts or in Congress."50
Population mobility and change, community-building, intercultural
relations, natural resource policy and management, the characteristics and
problems of extractive industries, adaptation to natural environment as
well as to technological, economic, and institutional change, urbaniza-
tion, and the problems of development generally, including colonialism
and its other face, dependency-—these were and still are important
processes, uniquely combined in the American West. In that fact lies the
vitality of western history. Adjusting the curriculum to best convey an un-
derstanding of these issues and processes in relation to the problems of the
future—that is our great challenge. Will subinfeudation continue until the
survey course in western history disappears? Will western historians shrink

their field to make a regional stand—perhaps their last—behind some
midcontinental barrier? Will a new "holistic" formula emerge? Will fresh
thinking and imagination carry an old heritage through new times and
challenges? Our students and their students will decide.
Notes
An earlier version of this essay appeared under the title "The Significance of the His-
tory of the American West: Postscripts and Prospects," by Allan G. Bogue. Previously
published in the Western Historical Quarterly 24 (February 1993): 45-68. Copyright
by Western History Association. Reprinted by permission.
1. John Franklin Jameson to John Jameson, 5 January 1889, in An Historian's
World: Selections from the Correspondence of John Franklin Jameson, ed. Elizabeth Don-
nan and Leo F. Stock (Philadelphia, 1956), 46; University of Wisconsin, Catalogue,
1895-96 (Madison, 1895), 140.
2. William E. Foster to Herbert B, Adams, 5 April 1883, in Historical Scholar-
ship in the United States, 1876—1901: As Revealed in the Correspondence of Herbert B.
Adams, ed. W. Stull Holt (Baltimore, 1938), 61; University of Wisconsin, Catalogue,
1887-88 (Madison, 1887), 35-36; University of Wisconsin, Catalogue, 1909-10
(Madison, 1909), 601-2.
3. Herbert B. Adams to the president and executive committee of the Johns
Hopkins University, 29 May 1886, in Holt, Historical Scholarship in the United States,
82-83; Herbert B. Adams, The College of William and Mary, U.S. Bureau of Educa-
tion, Circulars of Information, No. 1, 1887, 73—74, as cited in Holt, Historical Schol-
arship in the United States, 94 n. 1.
4. The fullest account of Turner's emergence is provided by Ray Allen Billing-
ton, Frederick Jackson Turner: Historian, Scholar, Teacher (New York, 1973), 34-131.
See also Wilbur R. Jacobs, The Historical World of Frederick Jackson Turner with Selec-
tions from his Correspondence (New Haven, 1968). Note also Fulmer Mood, "The De-
velopment of Frederick Jackson Turner as a Historical Thinker," Publications of the
Colonial Society of Massachusetts: Transactions, 1937-1942 (Boston, 1943), 283-352.
5. University of Wisconsin, Catalogue, 1909-10, 173.
6. Billington, Frederick Jackson Turner, 135-36; University of Wisconsin, Cat-
alogue, 1895-1896, 140.
7. University of Wisconsin, Catalogue, 1891-92 (Madison, 1891), 98; Univer-
sity of Wisconsin, Catalogue, 1892—93 (Madison, 1892), 62; University of Wiscon-
sin, Catalogue, 1893—94 (Madison, 1893), 72; University of Wisconsin, Catalogue,
1895-96, 140.
8. Frederick Jackson Turner, Outline Studies in the History of the Northwest
(Chicago, 1888); Frederick Jackson Turner to William F. Allen, 16 January, 14
March 1889, Frederick Jackson Turner Papers, Henry E. Huntington Library, San
Marino, Calif. Turner's earlier statements are collected in The Ea.rly Writings of Fred-
erick Jackson Turner, with an introduction by Fulmer Mood (Madison, 1938). Note
WESTERN HISTORrS FIRST CENTURY • 25
the criticism of Hermann Von Hoist, a University of Chicago professor, in Frederick

Jackson Turner, The Frontier in American History (New York, 1920), 24, and the bou-
quet tossed to Herbert B. Adams in ibid., 25.
9. Frederick Jackson Turner to Richard T. Ely, 29 January, 1 February 1892,
Richard T. Ely Papers, State Historical Society of Wisconsin, Madison; undated
memorandum (circa 1903) concerning the importance of maintaining a summer
school, Frederick Jackson Turner Papers, University of Wisconsin Archives, Madi-
son.
10. Turner to Ely, 19 February 1892, Ely Papers.
11. University of Wisconsin, Catalogue, foryears 1889-1910.
12. John R. Wunder, ed., Historians of the American Frontier: A Bio-Bibliograph-
ical Sourcebook (New York, 1988).
13. The roster of those completing the Ph.D. under Turner's direction was com-
piled from Billington, Frederick Jackson Turner, and Jacobs, Historical World, from
various lists in the Turner Papers at the Huntington Library, from the Blue and Red
Books of testimonials in that collection, and from former students mentioned in Merle
E. Curti, "The Section and the Frontier in American History: The Methodological
Concepts of Frederick Jackson Turner," in Methods in Social Science: A Case Book, ed.
Stuart A. Rice (Chicago, 1931), 353-57, as well as from the entries in Warren F.
Kuehl, Dissertations in History: An Index to Dissertations Completed in History Depart-
ments of United States and Canadian Universities, 1873—1960 (Lexington, 1965).
14. Frederick Jackson Turner to Constance Lindsay Skinner, 15 March 1922,
in Jacobs, Historical World, 55-62. The 1931-32 data are based on a questionnaire
circulated to the archivists in two major institutions in each state and the District of
Columbia. I wish to thank the archivists who cooperated so promptly and helpfully.
15. W. N. Davis Jr., "Will the West Survive as a Field in American History? A
Survey Report," Mississippi Valley Historical Review 50 (March 1964): 672—85; Direc-
tory of History Departments and Organizations in the United States and Canada,
1991-92, ed. Robert B. Townsend (Washington, D.C., 1991).
16. Carl Abbott, "Tracing the Trends in U.S. Regional History," Perspectives 28
(February 1990): 6. I owe thanks to Paul Andrew Hutton, who provided me with
membership lists of the Western History Association.
17. In analyzing syllabi, I have used Frederick Jackson Turner, List of References
in History 17: History of the West (Cambridge, Mass., 1911); Frederick Jackson
Turner, List of References on the History of the West (Cambridge, Mass., 1913, 1915);
Frederick Jackson Turner and Frederick Merk, List of References on the History of the
West (Cambridge, Mass., 1922).
18. John M. Gaus, "Lecture Notes," February-June 1920, Turner Papers, Uni-
versity of Wisconsin Archives.
19. Ibid., 29 March, 5 May 1920.
20. Turner, The Frontier in American History, 19; Gaus, "Notes," 14 May 1920;
Turner and Merk, List of References, 7-12. Turner's role as an adviser of women grad-
uate students and his views on their place in the history teaching profession will be
considered in another publication.
21. Gaus, "Notes," 14 May 1920.
22. Ibid., 19, 24 May 1920.

23. Ibid., 26, 28 May, 2 June 1920.
24. Ibid., 2 June 1920.
25. Illustrative works include the following: Marcus Lee Hansen, The Atlantic
Migration, 1607—1860: A History of the Continuing Settlement of the United States
(Cambridge, Mass., 1941), published posthumously; Frederick Merk, The Oregon
Question: Essays in Anglo-American Diplomacy and Politics (Cambridge, Mass., 1967);
Paul W. Gates, History of Public Land Law Development (Washington, D.C., 1968);
Arthur P. Whitaker, The Spanish-American Frontier, 1783—1795: The Westward
Movement and the Spanish Retreat in the Mississippi Valley (Boston, 1927); Thomas P.
Abernethy, From Frontier to Plantation in Tennessee: A Study in Frontier Democracy
(Chapel Hill, 1932); Edward E. Dale, The Range Cattle Industry: Ranching on the
Great Plains from 1865 to 1925 (Norman, 1930); Everett Dick, The Sod-House Fron-
tier, 1854-1890: A Social History of the Northern Plains from the Creation of Kansas and
Nebraska to the Admission of the Dakotas (New York, 1937); Herbert E. Bolton, The
Spanish Borderlands: A Chronicle of Old Florida and the Southwest (New Haven, 1921);
Herbert E. Bolton, Wider Horizons of American History (New York, 1939); Walter P.
Webb, The Great Plains (Boston, 1931); James C. Malin, The Grassland of North
America: Prolegomena to Its History (Lawrence, 1947).
26. George W. Pierson, "American Historians and the Frontier Hypothesis in
1941," parts 1 and 2, Wisconsin Magazine of History 26 (September 1942): 36-60;
(December 1942): 170-85. For other representative criticism, see George Rogers
Taylor, ed., The Turner Thesis Concerning the Role of the Frontier in American History
(1949; 3d ed., Lexington, 1972), and Henry Nash Smith, Virgin Land: The American
West as Symbol and Myth (1950; reprint, Cambridge, Mass., 1970).
27. Stanley Elkins and Eric McKitrick, "A Meaning for Turner's Frontier, Part
1: Democracy in the Old Northwest," Political Science Quarterly 69 (September
1954): 321-53. See also Richard Hofstadter and Seymour Martin Lipset, eds., Turner
and the Sociology of the Frontier (New York, 1968); David M. Potter, People of Plenty:
Economic Abundance and the American Character (Chicago, 1954); Herbert Heaton,
"Other Wests than Ours," The Tasks of Economic History, supplement to Journal of
Economic History 6 (1946): 50-62; Paul F. Sharp, "Three Frontiers: Some Compara-
tive Studies of Canadian, American, and Australian Settlement," Pacific Historical Re-
view 24 (November 1955): 369-77; Earl Pomeroy, "Toward a Reorientation of
Western History: Continuity and Environment," Mississippi Valley Historical Review
41 (March 1955): 579-600; and Robert F. Berkhofer Jr., "Space, Time, Culture, and
the New Frontier," Agricultural History 38 (January 1964): 21-30. For old assump-
tions tested, see Allan G. Bogue, "The Iowa Claim Clubs: Symbol and Substance,"
Mississippi Valley Historical Review 45 (September 1958): 231-53; Richard Maxwell
Brown, Strain of Violence: Historical Studies of American Violence and Vigilantism
(New York, 1975), essays extending back to the 1960s. Howard R. Lamar, The Far
Southwest, 1846-1912: A Territorial History (New Haven, 1966); Dale L. Morgan,
Jedediah Smith and the Openingofthe West (Indianapolis, 1953); and Wallace Stegner,
Beyond the Hundredth Meridian: John Wesley Powell and the Second Opening of the West
(Boston, 1954). See also Billington, Frederick Jackson Turner, and Jacobs, Historical
World.
28. For bibliographical reviews to the mid-1980s, see Michael P. Malone, ed.,
Historians and the American West (Lincoln, 1983), and Roger L. Nichols, ed., Ameri-
can Frontier and Western Issues: A Historiographical Review (New York, 1986). See also
the reviews and bibliographical lists in the Western Historical Quarterly.
29. James F. Willard and Colin B. Goodykoontz, eds., The Trans-Mississippi
West: Papers Read at a Conference Held at the University of Colorado, June 18-21, 1929
(Boulder, 1930).
30. K. Ross Toole et al., eds., Probing the American West: Papers from the Santa
Fe Conference (Santa Fe, 1962).
31. Patricia Nelson Limerick, Clyde A. Milner II, and Charles E. Rankin, eds.,
Trails: Toward a New Western History (Lawrence, 1991); Arthur Guiterman, "Edin-
burgh," in The Pocket Book of Humorous Verse, ed. David McCord (New York, 1945),
109-10. Just as defining "Turnerian" and "neoTurnerian" is difficult, so also, at
times, is distinguishing "new" from "old" western history.
32. Frederic L. Paxson, History of the American Frontier, 1763—1893 (Boston,
1924),v.
33. Ibid., 573.
34. Richard W. Etulain, ed., Writing Western History: Essays on Major Western
Historians (Albuquerque, 1991), 152.
35. Robert E. Riegel, America Moves West (New York, 1930); Dan Elbert Clark,
The West in American History (New York, 1937); Ray Allen Billington, Westward Ex-
pansion: A History of the American Frontier (New York, 1949); Thomas D. Clark,
Frontier America: The Story of the Westward Movement (New York, 1959).
36. Robert E. Riegel, America Moves West, 2d ed. (New York, 1947), 624.
37. Billington, Westward Expansion, vii, 756; Clark, frontier America, 24, 762.
38. Kent L. Steckmesser, The Westward Movement: A Short History (New York,
1969), v; Robert V. Hine, The American West: An Interpretive History (Boston, 1973),
vii, 320, 334.
39. Richard A. Bartlett, The New Country: A Social History of the American Fron-
tier, 1776-1890 (New York, 1974), vi, 448.
40. Arrell M. Gibson, The West in the Life of the Nation (Lexington, 1976),
viii—ix.
41. Frederick Merk, History of the Westward Movement (New York, 1978),
616-17.
42. Cardinal Goodwin, The Trans-Mississippi West(l 803-1853): A History of Its
Acquisition and Settlement (New York, 1922); Webb, The Great Plains; LeRoy R.
Hafen and Carl Coke Rister, Western America: The Exploration, Settlement, and De-
velopment of the Region beyond the Mississippi (New York, 1941), viii, 74; Earl
Pomeroy, The Pacific Slope: A History of California, Oregon, Washington, Idaho, Utah,
and Nevada (New York, 1965); John A. Hawgood, America's Western Frontiers: The
Exploration and Settlement of the Trans-Mississippi West (New York, 1967).
43. Gerald D. Nash, The American West in the Twentieth Century: A Short His-
tory of an Urban Oasis (Englewood Cliffs, N.J., 1973), 2. Michael P. Malone and
Richard W. Etulain, The American West: A Twentieth-Century History (Lincoln,
1989), provides an eclectic alternative.
44. Richard White, "It's Your Misfortune and None of My Own ": A New History
of the American West (Norman, 1991), 4. Depending on the other reading assigned,
Patricia Nelson Limerick, The Legacy of Conquest: The Unbroken Past of the American
West (New York, 1987), might also serve as a text.
45. Morison quoted in Pierson, "American Historians and the Frontier Hypoth-
esis," 41-42.
46. Harvey S. Perloff et al., Regions, Resources, and Economic Growth (Baltimore,
1960), 175.
47. Curt Meine, Aldo Leopold: His Life and Work (Madison, 1988), 233, 244,
345,352.
48. Frederick Jackson Turner to Albion Small, 4 November 1904, Turner Pa-
pers, University of Wisconsin Archives.
49. Turner, "The Significance of History," Early Writings, 52.
50. Limerick, Legacy of Conquest, 31.
2
Fighting Words:
The Significance of the American West
in the History of the United States
William Deverell
"Somebody's always looking for something in this part of the West,"

rancher Reno Smith says in the middle of the dark western film Bad Day
at Black Rock. "To the historian it's the Old West. To the book writer it's
the Wild West. To the businessman it's the underdeveloped West. They say
we're all poor and backward and I guess we are. We don't even have enough
water. But to us this place is our West, and I wish they'd leave us alone."1
Made in 1954, the film takes place in the California desert just after
the end of the Second World War. Spencer Tracy's character John J.
Macready, coolly investigating a murder, is unimpressed by Reno Smith's
plaintive speech. But it is these words that I remembered when I began
thinking about this essay. Somehow Smith succeeds in touching on some
of western history's most important concepts. Spoken in cinematic sound
bites, here are the organizing tools used by several generations of western
scholars. The notion of an "old" and "wild" frontier West appears first,
suggesting a boundary on the other side of which is the tame, new West.
"We don't even have enough water," Smith laments, a blunt declaration of
the West's arid barrier running north and south at the ninety-eighth
meridian. Here too is the outpost colonial economy in which natural re-
sources become valued commodities exchanged for eastern and foreign
goods or cash. We even get a glimpse of that macho icon of western Amer-
ican lore, that "leave us alone" defensiveness: the West as refuge for defiant
individuals brandishing cherished individualism.
Hollywood depends on scriptwriters who can, for better or worse, re-
duce American history and American culture to just a few lines. Rarely do
such writers have the option or inclination to wander historical terrain
29
with care. Shared facility with words notwithstanding, screenwriters and

historians do not usually share the same West. But Reno Smith's quick
recital of critical frames of western historical analysis did a remarkable
thing: it smartly captured, in a few concise sentences, the concerns of this
major subfleld of the American historical enterprise.
Even though Hollywood has never lost its fascination with the West,
such cinematic simplifying would today be impossible. Outside of an act-
long soliloquy or a tedious interview, it is hard to imagine a film figure do-
ing justice to the field's wide-ranging concerns. Western history is simply
a different sort of pursuit from what it was a generation or two ago. These
days it is concerned with issues beyond six or seven catchphrase ideas. No
longer comfortable with the familiar in western American history—arid
environmental determinism, frontiers giving way to postfrontiers, na-
tional character expressed as western masculinity—historians now seek to
defamiliarize the field and its icons. They hope to disassemble that which
was once solid so that a scholarly reassembly may yield new insight into
the whole of American history. What is more, western historians increas-
ingly ask whether there are new patterns to see in the mosaic of western
America or even new patterns of seeing. Can our work be reconceptual-
ized, from the outset of inquiry, with new questions about the West and
about western history? Can those stories that make up the understandings
of the western and American past be supplemented with other views? Can
the fragmentary, even mythic, lives that historians make into history be al-
tered or supplemented so that partial narratives get better at representing
the richness of the American past? If so, will anyone pay attention? Will
anyone care?
There have been encouraging signs. The Turner Centennial Confer-
ence held in the summer of 1992 at Utah State University, Logan, Utah,
brought several dozen scholars together, united, if but temporarily, in the
common pursuit of "western significance." Each went about her or his re-
spective tasks differently. Some sought to analyze threads of regional his-
tory, leaning analysis against the West as place. Others were concerned
with the West as process. Still others wandered a vague middle ground. All
the Logan papers, comments, and discussions raised hard questions about
how to begin thinking about the West in a new way. For instance, can
western historians uncover truths about American history by pairing
process with place? Can or should such pairing come in chronological se-
quence? Do we learn more about the West when we think of process giv-
ing way to place at some point in time?2
Questions such as these separated us as we tried to determine various
ways to approach our work and our Wests. Deeper than any differences
FIGHTING WORDS • 31
ran a shared, unspoken certainty: the historical West—place, process,

whatever—is breathtakingly complicated. The work gets harder when we
wonder what, exactly, is significant about the place, the process, and our
analyses of both.3 What exactly is significance in the first place?
I begin with a simple premise: the collected stories that make up the
history of the West are ideal texts for the analysis of power throughout
American history. That alone makes the West significant, but "Fighting
Words" seeks also to exchange certain significances for others. In other
words, significance itself is elastic: different truths, events, and meanings
about the West have been determined as significant at different points in
national history. That "determination of significance" is a dramatic con-
test—between political points of view, between scholarly generations, be-
tween the public and the academy, between the West and the outside.
Simply put, western significance is no mild thing: as much as it is thought
about, it is fought about.
Looking West
The American West plays an immense role in shaping and explaining
American history. This truism has been molded into a popular under-
standing that the West—particularly the story of nineteenth-century
frontiering—remains heroically detached from anywhere and anytime
else in the nation and the nation's past. Companion to this "tyranny of the
frontier" is a notion that the remote, heroicized West is itself more repre-
sentative of national character than any other chronological or regional
chapter in the text of popularized American history. These are troubling
concepts to many western historians, scholars who argue that the West's
sequential demographic catalog, with its familiar successive stages of ex-
plorer, trapper, settler, and on and on, hardly begins to tell the story. What
is more, the western field is in the vanguard of an exciting reassessment of
the entire supposed progression of American history: the story itself is in
question.
Better analytic tools help western historians re-envision the West.
These include a more sophisticated understanding of power, particularly
that wielded by the state, and the ways in which power fills space on the
western conceptual landscape. Power is being chased from its obvious and
less obvious hiding places, particularly by scholars engaged in arenas
within and across categories of race, class, gender, and environment. This
essay closes with a suggestion that historians need to think more about ad-
dressing power through the prism of dependence and independence, espe-
cially by using a concept borrowed from legal studies, the ward/guardian
relationship. Regardless of method, recent acclaim makes it clear that west-

ern historians are breaking new historical ground in all varieties of settings.
One deceptively simple contribution of recent work is the idea that we
can learn a great deal more about the West and its significance when we
render plural that which has been regarded as singular. This essay is about
different significances and about different Wests; what I am concerned
with here is probing the meanings behind those plurals. At the heart of
this investigation is an interrogation of a compelling stereotype: "the
West."4
What does this mean? My expedition is bracketed by an assumption
that there exists one great narrative of the American West. It is a mythic
image cultivated by all sorts of entities, from journalists to politicians to
corporations, and it is a view fiercely protected by nostalgia and sentiment.
It is a West both understood and explained by Ralph Lauren, Frontier-
land, Levi's, High Noon, rodeos, and Ronald Reagan, as well as countless
history texts and tests. We all know about this West, the West of little
houses and prairies, good and bad guys, Conestogas, and lusty days of yes-
teryear. This image is one that, as one writer put it, casts the West as
"America's primordial sandbox." This is the mega-narrative, the supernar-
rative of many names, one equally as good as another: the legend of na-
tional fulfillment, the saga of cowboys and Indians, the hardy pioneer
epic.5 It is not necessarily true, and it is not necessarily false, but it is pow-
erful. It is what so many people, adults and schoolkids alike, still think and
believe when they imagine the West: that it is somehow different from the
rest of the country and its history is different from the rest of the country's
history, that it is marked by adjectives like rugged, brave, and true more
than is any other time or any other place in all the American past.6
There is a quieter alternative working its way through parallel streams
of public and academic consciousness. This vision of the West, or bundle
of visions, does not exactly flip the other on its head, but there is great
animosity between the two. At the very least, this collection of new stories
(exactly that rendering of West into Wests) is trying to seize conceptual
and explanatory power from the Super West that has, in Richard White's
apt phrasing, taken "pride of place in the American imagination."7 Wrest-
ing the history of the American West from the jealous grasp of myth calls
for fighting words, precisely because possession of that past is so important
to the present.
Competing visions of the western past assume different western sig-
nificances. Newer versions of western history and understanding explicitly
claim that the significance of particular, formerly unfamiliar western his-
tories need now to be scrutinized, even emphasized. Not the least of these
concerns is the necessity of stretching western American history beyond

the raw limits of last century's imperial westward expansion, a period the
supernarrative adores as much as it misrepresents. Similarly, much of the
work challenging older notions expresses a wariness and exasperation over
supposed western distinctiveness and exceptionalism, a tendency that in-
vites marginalization on all sorts of political, cultural, and academic
fronts.8
Assumptions of the West's exceptionalism are not new: remember, for
instance, James Bryce's impenetrable reduction that took the equation
even a step further: "What America is to Europe, what Western America
is to Eastern, that California is to the other Western States."9 Exceptional-
ism assumes western isolation, a belief that the West, by geography, his-
tory, and circumstance, is somehow outside of America. But, of course,
except for a dividing mountain range or two, the West is not separate from
the rest of the nation, nor has it ever been. Scholars of the American West
err if they offer their insights as mere regional history, unable to transcend
geography in addressing problems of the American, much less human,
condition. That serves merely to reinforce the assumption of an isolated
West, a West that, when it comes to explaining American history, is either
special enough to be purely representative—an American mirror, as Bryce
would have it—or so disappointingly distinctive that it tells us nothing at
all about history outside regional divides.10 The West is less than a perfect
representation of, and more than only a regional variation on, American
history, life, and character. Between those poles, scholars active in western
American research and teaching take up Wallace Stegner's charge that the
West "could use a little more confidence in itself" as they demonstrate the
significance of the American West both to itself and to America.11
A first step is to encounter the region in its own terms. Think of ex-
periencing this built and unbuilt West: standing atop Yosemites Half
Dome at sunset, hiking the Gore Range in Colorado, maneuvering
through the canyons of Los Angeles skyscrapers, wandering the Texas hill
country, visiting the pueblos of New Mexico, gazing out across miles of
central Oregon wheat, navigating the endless grasslands of the central
plains. It would be difficult not to have a visceral response to the West's
sheer grandeur. This is one West, a well-known West, a much-pho-
tographed, much-painted, awe-inspiring place. This is the West of wide-
open spaces, the West as last great place, the West of Manifest Destiny, the
Big Sky, a dreamscape accepted as fundamental to America and funda-
mentally American.
Gut response to beauty is not the same thing as significance. This is
not to say that this Big West is entirely without meaning, of course, but it
is an image often divorced from the dramas of people's lives and the at-
tachment of the living and the dead to the landscape. There is significance
when beauty and grandeur are utilized as interpretive prisms; observers ex-
plain the people of (and peopling of) the West when they argue that hu-
man behavior is environmentally determined in the West in ways different
from (or stronger than) those seen elsewhere in America.
As complement to the built and natural environment, the West ex-
udes human historical bigness. The western embrace—however geologi-
cally or geographically defined—collects the histories of people, living and
dead, the raw stuff of social and political history. Too many of these men,
women, and children remain historically mute and invisible. As Elliott
West has noted:
We are obliged to study everyone who has ever lived in the West—and for
the length of time they have lived there. That sounds obvious, but in fact
the story of many peoples have [sic] been told only in relation to the fron-
tier epic of the last century. Reading older texts, for example, it is easy to
get the impression that Indians and Hispanics were significant only as
barriers to the bold frontiersmen who pushed beyond the Missouri after
1820. One wonders how the Nez Perce and Navajos survived the bore-
dom of long centuries waiting for invaders from the East to show up.12
The West is conceptually massive as well, at once place and many

places, process and many processes, even something akin to ideology in
popular conception.13 Any slice of western time or space reveals that com-
plexity: the vagaries of geopolitical history that have defined the West, the
region's permutations of American social process and demography, the
clash of cultural and political contests. When gathered as a collection of
Wests, the loose package of western landscape, ideas, and people becomes
all the more meaningful, all the more significant.
No less obvious than a giant mountain range is that scholars study the
American West because it is dangerous not to, because wrapped in any sig-
nificance test or demonstration are interpretive agendas worth fighting
over and fighting for. Scholars tussle with themselves and those outside the
academy in a contentious debate over representations of the West as true
America. The so-called new western history adds an edge to western schol-
arship along with an inclination to saddle the West with different repre-
sentations, different significances. Membership in the new western history
club is hardly so important as learning from the insights of reinvigorated
thinking.
Perhaps more so than their predecessors, new western historians admit
just how extraordinarily slippery history can be. We are history's prisoners:
something happened sometime to create the world we inhabit, to render the

past into the present. Less comforting, and far less absolute, is the realiza-
tion that history is frighteningly malleable if it can be run down, gathered
up, packaged, and sold. Interpretation alters how the present views the
past by virtually changing that past. With past as cause and present as ef-
fect, western historians test public reactions to historical lessons.
Such interpretive tinkering rarely leads to uncritical celebration. The
West can no longer be memorialized because it fulfilled or fulfills some
vague, unsettling expectation of national destiny or greatness. To do so
smooths the rough edges of the western past. Instead, historians go West
to work in a laboratory ideally suited to investigating an American history
that falls short of destiny and epic.
Environmental study offers a good example of this invigorated schol-
arship. Sophisticated analyses of the West juxtapose environmental de-
spoilment with grandeur. That juxtaposition itself pushes scholars into
new understandings, since it does little good simply to add an example of
degradation as counterpart to each picture of beauty. An environmental
grid prompts an entirely new conception of the West, one pointing toward
failure far more often than triumph. Given the game of chicken now be-
ing played with environmental catastrophe, a greater understanding of
western environmental history may help dull the impact of inevitable cri^
sis. This requires that scholars push beyond the banality of landscape fas-
cination to uncover root causes of environmental distress. In what may be
the field's most important collective act, western historians increasingly
turn out works (and students) that ask tough and disruptive questions
about the all-too-obvious legacies of environmental damage.
The Once and Future West

Years ago, Richard Hofstadter cautioned scholars about mixing their
"nows" with their "thens," about stirring too much present into too little
past. The resulting blend would be short on "respect for the integrity, the
independence, the pastness, of the past."14 Just that sort of blurred past
and present gave birth to the western supernarrative in the first place, in a
kind of societal loss of the historical integrity to which Hofstadter referred.
Think of the ways in which the mythic West informed understandings of
nationalism, those all-too-well-known ties between a particularized un-
derstanding of western culture and emergent national identity. The West
prevailed as that last best place for "free labor" in the debates of antebellum
politics; to many, the western landscape looked like the causeway that
could spill sectional angst onto the spacious plains. That vain hope found
an ally in myth. Think of what the frontier suggested, particularly regard-

ing the turmoil of nineteenth-century industrial expansion and sectional
rivalry. Did the West ensure the maintenance of American democracy?
Did the West relieve class, ethnocultural, and racial stress? So it was ar-
gued, a concept enshrined in the national psyche well before the outbreak
of Civil War hostilities. Yet the West, and disagreements over the future of
the West, also played a fundamental role in provoking the bloodbath that
killed hundreds of thousands of Americans and nearly killed America in
the process: here was a new western significance, ugly and unsubtle (and
precisely the opposite of what myth promised).
Even so, the supernarrative lived on, invulnerable to the power of the
paradox. How else to explain the West emerging from the fires of section-
alism as "America Triumphant" or "America Newly Defined"? In part this
may have been because the West, oddly enough, escaped most of the war
and the human and environmental carnage. And it can be argued that the
West did not fully align with either side, thus enabling the region to exist
as something again outside the war, outside its aftermath. But ideology
loves vulnerable circumstance. As the nineteenth century closed, the West
operated perfectly as the morality play for the emergent world power en-
gaged in the drama of reestablishing national identity; history, specifically
that centered on the western region, had become a vocabulary of valida-
tion. The West rode in ever so heroically to save the day, to escort an Amer-
ica eager to see the world. White, Anglo Saxon, cowboy and cavalry man,
gunfighter and lawman, town-builder and banker: the West was heroic,
grand, tough, and above all, ruggedly masculine. Theodore Roosevelt's
public and political persona might have been equal parts coincidence and
calculation but nonetheless speaks volumes about the timely coalescence of
international American power and supposed western vitality.
This relationship between the spirit of the West and nationalism is
troubling given its tried-and-true status as a storybook recitation of the
history of America. But as George Lipsitz has succinctly pointed out, the
Turnerian narrative thread "does not prepare us to think about the Amer-
icans who crossed the Pacific rather than the Atlantic, or about the people
who did not come to America . . . but instead had America come to
them with the brutality and sadism of conquest, slavery, and genocide."15
Yet the crux of the problem is not necessarily that the West inspired
dreams of national destiny and a brand of peculiarly gendered and racially
specific heroism. We cannot make that vision go away simply by being dis-
turbed by its narrowness. Nor should we try, since the West "worked" for
many, especially those who fit into narrow race, class, and gender chan-
nels. The problem is the story's sheer inclusive power, its ability to stand as
"America" and not one tiny fraction of that America. Too many people
seem to buy it as representative. So we get the perverse cause-and-effect
equations of western American history. Because Horace Greeley said that
the West operated as a safety valve to skim off both eastern laborers and
class discontent, it must have done so. Because Henry David Thoreau and
Walt Whitman insisted that the West was a special place, it must have been
so. Thomas Moran, Albert Bierstadt, and John Hillers captured beautiful
western landscapes. The unintended collaboration worked far beyond any
individual artist's expectations, petrifying a particular West as much as
simply representing it.16 One of the region's greatest characteristics is its
ability to inspire the hyperbolic "This is America!" exultation of a master
painting or stunning photograph that memorializes freedom and equality
simply by reference to space and landscape. On such assurances are impe-
rial confidences formed.
Awe skews analysis. The Wests captured in paint, poem, and photo-
graph (again, with particular reference to the nineteenth century) are syn-
thetic: they say too much to too many by relying on the stories of too few.
Yes, the West is, was, a beautiful place—it is the place of dreams—but it is
the ways in which people act out their lives on and against that dreamscape
that make a difference.17 And that world is not always graced by the beauty
of a western sunset or a canyon vista or a Rocky Mountain meadow. Nor
is it an existence neatly tied up in the morally determined plot of a nine-
teenth-century dime novel or the breathless expectation of "new begin-
nings."
Some understood the burden placed upon the West better than oth-
ers. The fervent hopes of Thomas Jefferson and the poetic cadences of
Thoreau and Whitman gave way to the failed vision of John Wesley Pow-
ell and the ominous "What now?" pronouncements of Frederick Jackson
Turner. Either Powell was right, and democracy would die of western
thirst, or Turner was right, and democracy and the West could exist sym-
biotically until that fabled frontier line disappeared from the maps. The
frontier is demographically erased, or it is destroyed by land monopolies
and giant corporate farms; either way the democracy factory shuts down.
These darker images suggest a new West, the West of Populist fervor
and passion, the West of Utopian escapism, the West of anarchic dreamers
and socialist hopefuls and industrial saboteurs. It is a West demanding
equal time from older understandings. Not a West of Currier and Ives or-
derliness, this is a place-process amalgam of a dangerous, threatening land-
scape and an equally scary drama in which people get squashed by the
weight of a capitalist nation-state swapping industrial demands for corpo-
rate ones. Again, the power motif emerges: these are Wests suited to analy-
ses centered on the collection, utilization, maintenance, and mystification

of power. The region offers hard lessons about the indiscriminate use of
power as land- and gold-hungry Anglo Americans became the shock
troops of a nation flexing its imperial muscles. The West witnessed all
those legal, militaristic, and ideological constructs and institutions that
made possible and glorified the continental stretch to full length. It is an
often dark and bloody ground, this West, stained by the shame of genoci-
dal combat, greed, and environmental destruction.18 Again, significance
lies in blunt ugliness, expressed as tales we only recently seem to think of
as important. What can these do but force reassessment of the canonical
triumphalism that has been western history, and how can we be surprised
when some seek to make such revision the core memory of the West's or
even the nation's heritage?19
Fond stereotypes of western meaning and history—such as "national
fulfillment" and "Manifest Destiny"—remain alive and well for obvious,
intuitive reasons. As is the case for most stereotypes, there may be some
truth lying behind that caricature of the decent western lawman out to do
good, some reality shadowing the memories we have of the independent
farmer, the rugged cowboy, and the schoolteacher. It is important to ac-
knowledge the truth in these stereotypes when we can, to display the indi-
viduals who give stereotype shape and form as real people whose lives
deserve to be rendered true stories.20
But let us not forget that stereotypes cannot be allowed to stand in for
history, that they do the labor of dehumanization. One-dimensional,
quaint portraits exist because they take the edge off truth and invariably
render history a neat, if not pretty, moral package. Stereotypes are dull: se-
vere attention changes them into something else, something sharp, cut-
ting, potentially painful. Scrutiny uncovers the "hurts and heartbreaks of
history."21 The West was not so much cowboys fighting Indians as it was
indigenous people battling a ragtag, cacophonous infantry unit that was
carrying out orders to starve natives off the land. Or we find Native Amer-
ican against Native American within these worlds, instances that were
once dismissed or ignored and that now demand explanation. We reeval-
uate violence, we rethink crime, we find that for every duel at high noon,
there were legions of lonely suicides, cold-blooded killings, and innumer-
able atrocities committed by the strong against the weak, the unprotected,
and those simply overwhelmed—culturally, numerically, immunologi-
cally—by the proportions of Anglo-American penetration, settlement,
and expansion.
So too are we careful about degree. The overwhelmed may not have
been rendered powerless in any absolute sense; that is too easy a zero-sum
game to pursue, and it is an exercise too wedded to the absolutes of con-

quest. Historians have gotten much better at understanding negotiation
and contest among groups, genders, and ethnicities. We explore, for ex-
ample, dynamics of gender and power not only when we write of western
prostitution but also when we ponder the social relations between western
men and women in all varieties of settings.22 We describe cultural mainte-
nance and evolution as well as discrimination and racism when we write of
Spanish and Mexican encounters with Anglo conquistadors disguised as
trappers, sailors, and merchants. The common denominator here is power,
and we sense a vague uncomfortableness that everything was far more
complicated than we once thought. The West—these Wests—display
"power enacted" at specific and critical times in American history. In other
words, these Wests are both the place and the process of national fulfill-
ment—imperially defined—in a remarkable coincidence of timing and
geography. The interplay between the temporal and situational arenas de-
scribes the West and its role in American life. This is the setting around
which historians are adding complexity to the previously narrow under-
standings of national experience. These are the Wests around which new
syntheses will be tried out and tried on, when and if synthesis is possible.23
If it is to mean anything at all, western history will be written as an
exercise in demonstrating broad and potentially troubling significance at
that meeting ground between past and present. The West today has the
most important arenas of multicultural expression and the greatest hope
for ethnic political coalescence in the history of the nation; so too does
the West exhibit the possibility of an American version of international
ethnic conflagration. No less momentous, the West will in large part de-
termine how well the country handles environmental imperatives too long
ignored.
Where did these imperatives come from? And how can we use histor-
ical insight to emphasize the West's significance in American history? Let
me suggest a few important ways. For one, the West is an extraordinarily
rich place in which to study state power and, in particular, the state's role
in manufacturing and maintaining important relationships between
groups and individuals. Since the federal government remains critically in-
tertwined in western development, scholars have obligations to tease out
the salient issues regarding the state's role in western lives. Rugged indi-
vidualism free from state gaze and reach has ceased to mean as much un-
der the open sky as it does on the big screen. We need fewer studies of
hardy settlers, in whatever century, and more studies of the faceless and
nameless pioneers of the Bureau of Land Management, the Immigration
and Naturalization Service, the Forest Service, and the Army Corps of En-
gineers.24 The looming presence of the federal government in and on the

western landscape makes this place a highly significant region for this
avenue of inquiry. We must ask big, bold questions about the ways in
which bureaucracies (and bureaucrats) are formed, about the roots of state
policy, about the ways in which the presence of state dollars, employees,
and installations affects the everyday realities of people's lives. That state
presence is here to stay, although it may change forms, despite disingenu-
ous western pleas to the government to "leave us alone, but don't ignore
us."25 Through focused research in the West, we have a great deal to learn
about the ways in which national power gets consolidated and extended,
attracted and wooed, not to mention contested.26
It is the state's key relationships with groups and individuals that make
the opportunity for study all the more compelling. For one, the federal
government's sponsorship of industrial capitalism demands (always) more
scholarly scrutiny. In a field full of arbitrary chronological and thematic
frontiers and divides, there is at least one near-constant: state care, indeed
massage, of a particular capitalistic political economy. Yet this is a research
angle oddly and mysteriously untracked in western history. Given the tim-
ing of industrial expansion and transcontinental conquest, the West stands
as the last proving ground of nineteenth-century American capitalism,
complete with critical protest and opposition movements. Look to the
West to see the lightning bolts of American political economy strike the
landscape: imperial expansion, colonial management, industrial explo-
sion, and the quieting and tamping—hushing and crushing—of con-
flict.27 That takes us to the turn of the century. After that, it is the
Progressive Era West that best displays the transitions inherent in a mas-
sive economy's move from industrial to corporate capitalism. From there
the story gets more dense as the West becomes the weapons factory for the
prosecution of wars hot and cold and the dormitory for millions of
weapons makers and weapons users.
Given such factors as federal control and ownership of western lands,
state involvement in natural resource "management" is as critical in the
political economy of the American West as anywhere else in the nation.
This feature of state involvement transcends boundaries conveniently de-
signed to separate the old and the new Wests. "The West as colony" has
long been an important conceptual arrangement by which to study the re-
gion's past. But such a conception absolves westerners of their part played
in the drama, of their own colonizer roles. Investigations of the federal role
in altering the natural environment at the request of various western con-
stituencies, often well-removed from eastern or foreign settings, would
generate both heat and light.28 Where does degradation begin and internal
improvement end—or do they coexist and overlap? Who decides? Which

constituencies proved best able to entice federal engineering, financial,
and legal capital to weigh in on their side? What is the frontier between
conservation and environmentalism? Between conservation and preserva-
tion? How do we begin to arrange conceptually, even thematically, the
multitude of federally sponsored projects that drastically affect the ways in
which all living things go about their lives in the West?
Wards and Guardians, Land and Language

Other critical issues of power remain to be explored, and one way to get at
them is through the ward and guardian concept. I mean to suggest here a
broader social and political use of the terms and the relationship than that
suggested by the strict legal relationship existing between a child and his or
her adult guardian, although the analogy is an apt one. The states
guardian role played vis-a-vis Native Americans is closer to the conception
I have in mind. If we cast the state as guardian, how does the relationship
sketch itself out in the American West? And with what wards?
Wardship assumes a dependent role assigned to a class, group, or in-
dividual. The independent role is assigned to an agent with power over
that ward, not unlike that of a parent over a child, although there is clearly
room here for negotiation and its own dramas. The parental analogy is es-
pecially appropriate given the state view of dependents as infants, a view
that lends new clarity to the Anglo propensity to utilize childlike adjectives
in paternal regard to Native Americans, African Americans, Mexican
Americans, or the gendered divisions separating citizen men from depen-
dent women (or feminized, dependent men).
We know that one important way in which nineteenth-century Amer-
ica (or, more accurately, the narrowed America of the state) addressed
wardship or dependence was through landownership. And we know the
"land" and "the West" could often become conceptually interchangeable
in the political and popular discourse of the era. According to the tenets of
nineteenth-century American liberalism, landownership ensured the
property owner protected access to the supposedly egalitarian market-
place. In other words, dependency could be (and ought to be) erased once
title to land had been gained. For all its flaws—not the least of which was
a stuck safety valve that stalled western landowning by eastern depen-
dents—the idea itself was pure enough to become a staple of American po-
litical theory.29 Landowning need not be the encompassing virtue that
Jefferson so clearly articulated; it was important enough solely as protec-
tion from dependency. The access and acquisition of land in turn was sup-
posed to woo the embrace of egalitarian enlightenment. And once the

state got involved in the equation, the process became all the more mo-
mentous. Through the ordering and selling of the public domain, through
the 1862 Homestead Act, through the Dawes Act, and through the forty-
acre-and-a-mule redistribution schemes of Radical Reconstruction, the
land-equality idea got played out again and again as the government
sought to make real a scheme built on sand, sod, or dust.
The land-independence equation assumes that, in a world energeti-
cally embracing capitalism and its hierarchies, ownership of a freehold
could create—indeed must create—equality. Or at least it could create
some equality, enough to stave off Jefferson's nightmare of European
crowdedness and inevitable social revolution. But the arrangements did
not prevent failure for nearly enough Americans to make the equation rep-
resentative. How could they?
When are wards supposed to grow up? The suggestion, indeed the ex-
pectation, embedded in American political discourse was that some mys-
tical relationship existed among the triad of land, independence, and
citizenship. Dependence was erased by the privileges of citizenship when
landownership dissolved ward status. Yet although landholding might al-
leviate dependence in a sort of Jeffersonian wish fulfillment, it could not
mitigate the problems of those people characterized as "different," beyond
the ability of mere property to rectify. In addition to the obvious class
specificity of the arrangement, nineteenth- and even twentieth-century
American history offers a less than laudatory portrait of the power of land
to, say, whiten the skin. And the triangular equation does not allow for the
subtleties of western geography and geology. Land could shore up a tide-
water planter's gendered, racial, and class bulwarks. But drag that same
man west and grant him 160 acres, and the neat formula might just disin-
tegrate in a single dry season. Jefferson's Virginia and Powell's arid West
simply demanded different geopolitical schemes, not to mention some-
thing more tangible than an alchemic self-assurance that because it made
sense, it must be true.
We know that ownership of that vaunted freehold meant tough polit-
ical and economic sledding. Look to the prosaic story where life is just
plain hard. Farmers squeezing that individual parcel of land hardly held
the ticket to success that popular understanding suggested. As Gilbert Fite
has written of many a western landowner, those fortunate enough to get
onto land hardly had an independent life handed to them: "Rather than
realizing their Jeffersonian dreams of establishing a successful farm and liv-
ing a happy, contented life under their own vine and fig tree, they were
battered and defeated by nature and ruined by economic conditions over
which they had no control. Many western pioneers . , . filed on govern-

ment land in a spirit of hope and optimism only to find that natural and
human-made barriers defeated their hopes and aspirations."30 Eden?
Studies departing from the old scripts of western history tell us about
these difficulties, these failures. They call into question the narrow tale of
western history that promises reward and independence for the patriotic
hardy. Failure and the description of failure, particularly when that failure
can be ascribed to victimization, tell us more than succeeding and accom-
plishing and making it work. Why? Because success is so casually expected,
tossed off as a given in the discourse between state and individual, between
government and governed.31 Surely this was the suggestion in the codified
conversation between the nation and the citizen, a dialogue replete with
obligatory nods toward democratic ideals and meritocratic ideals, open ac-
cess, and free exchange. Take up the yoke of Manifest Destiny, the state
exhorts the people. Go West, own land, shed dependence, succeed.32
But when that equation breaks down, it signals one of two things. If it
fails in isolated instances, we can marginalize failure as anecdotal, an easily
dismissed outlier, unimportant. But when the arrangement breaks down
in a systematic fashion, or looks unnervingly like a systematic pattern,
there may be something else going on. Then the entire experiment—
democracy, egalitarianism, the American Dream—is brought into ques-
tion. Like so many latter-day Henry Georges, western historians tackle the
Edenic vision of happy yeomen and contented families. Of course, maybe
the equation itself is far too simplistic; maybe the acquisition of, say, land
by a nineteenth-century western settler will address only symptomatic de-
pendence? Perhaps the state-sponsored conversation wrapped around
landholding independence is simply so much smoke and mirrors, decep-
tion, even conspiracy? In any event, the West offers great opportunity for
the study of the arrangement and its drawbacks, and much of the best
work in western American history is either implicitly or explicitly focused
on the interaction of independence and dependence, usually through the
prisms of gender, race, and ethnicity.33 Exciting new research even pushes
the relationship into an environmental arena, drawing from the attempts
of groups to establish themselves as guardians to both animate and inani-
mate wards.34
Even so, many studies that discuss failure and drawback often tell us
the "what" better than the "why." In other words, they tack bits and pieces
onto the old narrative of western conquest without necessarily proposing
a new one, remaining content usually to offer data as merely contradictory
to perceived wisdoms. The West is a rich place to witness the limits of the
American promise of success and upward mobility. But we must make sure
to contextualize those studies within a framework that allows speculation

about the roots of failure. Catalogs of disappointment, genocidal conflict,
and racial disharmony and hatred tell us little beyond the obviousness of
example. These findings will teach us more when they add analysis to de-
scriptions of "who is doing what to whom" and when they attack the
power of the old narrative.
This requires that old notions get scrapped, one being the arbitrary di-
vide between the nineteenth and the twentieth centuries. The analysis has
to be pushed across this invisible, largely meaningless boundary. For in-
stance, if the nineteenth-century key to the vault of independence was
supposedly land, it remains unclear what the America of the twentieth
century has hit on as its equation. The key may simply be money, now
standing in for property. Or it might be education. But more intriguingly,
it may be language. For there is a way in which land and language compare
in the realm of independence and "equal access" promises, one for the last
century and one for this. Again the critical arena is the American West.
The most important conflict in the twentieth-century West—and in
America, I would argue—is that between native and alien, or insider and
outsider.35 Often, it is race that decides the issue, a reminder of the cen-
trality of race in the nineteenth century (i.e., whites do not have to be na-
tives to be insiders).
But beyond that crude denominator exists language—or more specif-
ically, one language. The proponents of English-only initiatives sound
much like the reformers of the nineteenth century working diligently to-
ward that forty-acre-and-a-mule Utopia for the dependent, dark-skinned
burdens of white imperialism. We want only to level the playing field, re-
formers claim, to help dependent peoples grow up.The parallels are strik-
ing. Landholding was to provide protection from the slings and arrows of
a monstrously transformed industrial economy. Today, language acquisi-
tion is said to foster entry into that economy, transformed again from in-
dustrial to corporate capitalism. English makes for better workers. Again,
the dependency issue is stark. Just as land could be "given" by a hegemonic
race-class-state structure a century ago (that giving itself an indication of
the reality of haves and have-nots), language can be delivered—by law or
symbol—to the dependent and, the myth suggests, dependency will cease.
But it has not worked, and the mere notion of this "land-giving" and "lan-
guage-giving" has at its core cultural arrogance and cultural thievery. After
all, many a dependent group had their own land—or earned it—and they
all had their own language. But their land was not commodified correctly,
and their languages fell somewhere short of the accepted dialogue. As the
Northern Cheyenne teacher Dick Littlebear noted, in a statement that
highlights both the connectedness of land and language and this problem
of giving: "We need our land and we need our language. The two are in-
separable."36
Such is an unlikely dream. The American playing field is still rocky,
and there looms a possibility that citizenship—or at least many of its priv-
ileges—will be predicated on language acquisition. Forcing non-English
speakers to speak English by law will do little except create greater resent-
ment between the independent and the dependent. Non-English speak-
ers—and there are millions of them in the American West—are not
dependent because they speak Spanish, Chinese, or Portuguese. They are
dependent because the dominant society has determined that difference
(particularly racial, ethnic, and class difference) must justify dependence
and has gone about ensuring that this is so. Language cannot change this
nearly so much as has been claimed. In the meantime, ethnic enclaves will
remain safe harbors for people made to feel unwelcome by the broader
society; traditional language maintenance will remain part of cultural and
emotional defense mechanisms against a different world.37
Speaking English, like owning land a century before, will not erase
class and race hierarchies made convenient, made legitimate, by differ-
ence. Language is not that powerful—nor is, nor was, land. The presump-
tion that English proficiency produces societal "success" is both naive and
insulting; such an equation has never worked for entire subsets of the 97
percent of the American population who speak English, whether they be
Anglo Saxon, African American, Latino, or any other population slice.
Again the West is the nation's headquarters for many of these contests:
watch the Denver school boards, watch Los Angeles supervisors, watch
Nevada's statehouse and Utah's town councils.38
The South has of course been the great example of historical uneven-
ness between those independent and those dependent. The sort of inquiry
that interrogates race, difference, and dependence ought now to shift to
this world of the American West.39 No doubt we can also learn a great deal
from comparative studies; clearly, southern regional scholarship has much
to teach us about racial tension, about herrenvolk conceptions of the
world, and about group political formation based on racial unities and
racist fears. These insights ought to be paired with similar analyses of west-
ern America.40 But the West has as much to teach other fields. The West
offers great opportunity for developing arguments that weave together
race and class, ethnicity and dependence, citizen and noncitizen.41
These ways of investigating the West, these ways of insisting on west-
ern significance, rest on the realization that there is no longer a single, all-
powerful conceptual model by which to explain the American West;
neither can we explain America by looking at the West. That is a poten-

tially dangerous, at least lonely, position to take. There are sure indications
of a storm on the horizon, a battle taking shape over the West's ability to
define and to explain certain key traits of national character. The battle
lines this time around (in the fight "for the West") are not so simple as de-
bates over the representativeness of Turner's demographic sequences. And
that complexity is perhaps why the debate is so exciting.42
Western historians already contribute to and further the contest. In-
terpretations of the West will continue to provide particularized, and no
doubt politicized, narratives around which to refine our understandings of
American history writ large. Western history will help increase awareness
that no single seamless narrative of American history or experience can
possibly be truthful. Western history will further divorce the particular
from the general in such a way as to call into question the legitimacy of any
consensus in (or regarding) the American past—or present.43
To paraphrase the film dialogue with which this essay began, someone
is always looking for something in the West. Historians are obligated to
explain that quest and to puzzle out the larger meanings therein. In doing
so, scholars further defamiliarize the West in attempts to reshape under-
standings of the big American picture. As William Cronon has encourag-
ingly written of western history, it "has been the one branch of American
history that has consistently looked at the nation as a whole to explore
similarities and differences in regional economies, environmental dynam-
ics, political conflicts, and cultural identities."44
The West's revered place in American popular consciousness is as
strong now as ever. In a New York Times essay titled "Again, That Hanker-
ing," Deanne Stillman discussed the West's seductive hold on American
imagination. "In times of cultural travail, the country heads west to a fron-
tier forever open," Stillman wrote. Historians, as merely "socially accept-
able spin doctors," have protected tradition by twirling stories into
myths.45 But many western historians no longer have those same concerns;
we no longer feel compelled to line up stages of national development in
categories of progressive advancement separated into the specifics of race,
ethnicity, and gender. Our task now is not to reveal such a one-dimen-
sional portrait or story; it is to add richness and propose alternatives.
Frameworks abound for exploring and commenting on diversity and
the dramas that diversity produces. Relationships between power and de-
pendence, ward and guardian, insider and outsider, and nature and hu-
mankind invite exploration in western time, place, and circumstance.
Western history can further help us determine why these socially deter-
mined categories, as well as those of race, gender, and ethnicity, have been
so successful in dividing the world into groups and subgroups.
Scholars who study the American West find themselves up against
powerful images that inform a protected narrative embedded in the na-
tional psyche. There is a western vision "out there," in popular culture and
popular understanding, made up of stereotypes pasted together. But none
are so true as to never be false. Equally obvious is the quality of works
readdressing and reworking the entire frameworks of western American
significance. These articles, addresses, and books contain scholarly fight-
ing words, and they ought to.46
Many of the most important proponents of a new view of the western
past have been unfairly accused of windmill-tilting because of pique and
pessimistic funk. Nonsense. It is simpleminded to suggest that western
historians are so disturbed about the present that they write disturbingly
about the past. As historians, we revere the regions grandeur and beauty
and can ourselves become carried away by the stirring rhetoric that comes
out of this place. But we see the faults inherent in the human interaction
with and on this landscape. That is not to say we see beyond the beauty:
we simply are obliged to see things in addition to the beauty. The history
of the American West is hardly all heroic, all natural splendor, all beatified
democracy. Emphatically pointing this out is an implicit suggestion that
things can be made better. As Howard Lamar has noted, we may one day
again celebrate the image of the West offered to us by thinkers such as
Turner and Jefferson not so much because they were right but because
they (and their imagined, mythic West) gave us all something to shoot for,
as a region, as a nation, and as a people.47
One hundred years ago, at that juncture of the nineteenth and twen-
tieth centuries, this country happened on the West as a vital if not the
most vital component in explaining the structure of national identity. As
the country exerted international influence, it turned inward in search of
self-referents. The process had an inescapable logic to it: exporting Amer-
ica required packaging it first. That package had to be defined and ex-
plained before it could be commodified or quantified. Hence, the West as
America: rugged, free, independent, ambitious. Given the shape of the in-
fant American historical profession, scholars tried to answer the era's call
for scientific history to uncover the origins of Americanness.
At the same time, prophets of the American future looked West and
saw the loss of free land as both fundamental challenge and inevitable
eventuality. Scholars and social commentators look West today and are
similarly resigned and exhilarated by massive demographic change. Across
the arbitrary boundary of the fast-approaching century beckons a richly

diverse and different world. Historians have a poor batting average when
it comes to predictions of the future. But one "prediction" is easy to make,
since it has already happened: the multicultural world that so many peo-
ple think will arrive with the twenty-first century has always existed. It
may not always have worked very well—hence one of our critical ex-
planatory duties—but it has always been there. Rediscovery and refamil-
iarity lie in the new West we study.
Notes
This essay is dedicated to the memory and example of Wallace Stegner. If not for the
help, insight, and advice of colleagues, this essay would have been much poorer. Spe-
cial thanks go to David Gutierrez and Patty Limerick, who spent time and care with
an earlier draft. My gratitude also goes to Richard Maxwell Brown, Doug Flamming,
Anne Hyde, Wilbur Jacobs, Clyde Milner, Martin Ridge, Bryant Simon, and Jen-
nifer Watts. I am grateful to Clyde Milner for asking me to take on this essay. Its
many shortcomings are, of course, entirely my responsibility. I urge colleagues to con-
sult "Becoming West," the opening essay in William Cronon, George Miles, and Jay
Gitlin, eds., Under an Open Sky: Rethinking America's Western Past (New York,
1992). Written by the volume's editors, "Becoming West" covers much of the same
western ground I try to cross in this essay.
An earlier version of this essay appeared under the title "Fighting Words: The
Significance of the American West in the History of the United States," by William
Deverell. Previously published in the Western Historical Quarterly 25 (Summer
1994): 185-206. Copyright by Western History Association. Reprinted by permis-
sion.
1. Bad Day at Black Rock, produced by Dore Schary, directed by John Sturges,
81 min. (MGM, 1954).
2. At the risk of oversimplifying a sometimes contentious debate, scholars who
emphasize place in their studies of the West implicitly argue that regional significance
can alone justify their analytical attention. Process enthusiasts, on the other hand, ex-
plain that western significance lies in the region's laboratory status for analyses of na-
tional and international trends, themes, and relationships. Try as I might, I cannot
rid myself of the suspicion that these two positions are symbiotic. For an engaging
analysis of western regional definition, see David M. Emmons, "Constructed
Province: History and the Making of the Last American West," Western Historical
Quarterly 25 (Winter 1994): 437-459, as well as the roundtable responses that fol-
low.
3. I am indebted to William Cronon for his reminder regarding the pitfalls of
such an inquiry. As he has pointed out regarding another broad essay, "The empha-
sis on 'significance' was a black box that avoided the necessity of more rigorous analy-
sis and theory." William Cronon, "Turner's First Stand: The Significance of
Significance in American History," in Richard W. Etulain, ed., Writing Western His-

tory: Essays on Major Western Historians (Albuquerque, 1991), 89.
4. I readily confess that reliance on "Wests" produces several conceptual dilem-
mas. It would be defensible to suggest that such reliance on a multiplicity of geo-
graphical-conceptual-ideological locations (in time, space, otherwise) called "the
West" is but a backdoor escape from complexity. Using an apt metaphor, Wilbur Ja-
cobs notes just how difficult it is to come up with "the West." "As you move back and
forth," he wrote, "the West as a place floats on the map, almost like a puddle of mer-
cury. The sub-puddles, spinning around, have so many socioeconomic, political, en-
vironmental, and cultural eddies that they are almost impossible to control when we
try to write a coherent account." (Wilbur Jacobs to author, 19 September 1992, let-
ter in author's files.) I do not doubt that this is true, and I suspect it is far more diffi-
cult for me to "control" these Wests than it is for my distinguished colleague.
However, I would like to suggest that claiming—and trying to explain—many Wests
over one coherent West has much merit. I am indebted to Dave Gutierrez, who
helped shape my thinking regarding the political nature of significance tests and sig-
nificance testing.
5. This is the West that Richard White wrote about near the end of his fine
textbook. "To many people the idea of a modern West seems to be an oxymoron—a
combination of words that is inherently contradictory. The 'real' West can't be mod-
ern. It is nineteenth-century Dodge City or Virginia City; it is not late-twentieth-cen-
tury Los Angeles or Dallas. Symbolically, the West in American culture stands for
certain qualities and events that cannot survive the process of development; they van-
ish as a place matures." Richard White, "It's Your Misfortune and None of My Own":
A New History of the American West (Norman, 1991), 537. See also the closing section
on "The Imagined West," including its description of Ralph Lauren's time-warped
activities in the Colorado Rockies (613—32). The sandbox quotation is from Deanne
Stillman, "Again, That Hankering," New York Times, 22 August 1993, sec. 2, p. 20.
6. Nothing proved the power ol the supernarrative to me more than a recent
stint grading high school Advanced Placement history exams. The essays written in
response to a westward expansion question revealed the overwhelming degree to
which students remain wedded to Turnerian notions of the West as America. About
the only indication that things may be slowly, slowly changing (although in which di-
rection is unclear) was high schoolers' references to the ideas of "Jesse Jackson
Turner," "Andrew Jackson Turner," the frontier historian "Ted Turner," and "Fred-
erick Douglass Turner."
7. White, "It's Your Misfortune," 617.
8. The recent past offers, I think, an example of this. In the spring of 1992, the
American West was the site of the single most volatile urban uprising in American his-
tory. Yet in the presidential campaign that followed shortly thereafter, little of the
conflagration seemed pertinent. Why? Is it because the turmoil of Los Angeles was
not significant? That seems an unsustainable argument given the stark empirical real-
ities of rage and destruction. Two other interpretations must be pondered—one
crudely methodological, one crudely ideological. The uprising and its aftermath may
have played a critical role in determining the outcome of the fall elections, something
that thoughtful electoral analysis will in time reveal. More germane to this essay and
its purposes, events in Los Angeles were apparently pushed aside, allowed to seem less
important (and unrelated) to other policy concerns and nationwide economic dilem-
mas in the midst of the run for the White House, as if western events might be more
interesting (tragic, dangerous, frightening) than important.
9. See James Bryce, The American Commonwealth, vol. 2 (New York, 1889),
372.
10. Such obstinance is all the more frustrating given the obviousness of histori-
cal ties—in transportation, trade, and politics—between the West and other regions
of the country, continent, and world. As William Robbins has noted in a recent es-
say, "The historic connectedness of the West to a wider geographical world . . .
[has] never been central to scholarly discussions about the region." See William G.
Robbins, "Laying Siege to Western History: The Emergence of New Paradigms," Re-
views in American History 19 (September 1991): 313. On a purely anecdotal level, vis-
a-vis the perceptions of scholars outside the western field, I well remember being
involved in a discussion regarding the significance of the American West with a dis-
tinguished southern historian who dismissed the importance of the West because
"the West had no Civil War."
11. Wallace Stegner, "Out Where the Sense of Place Is a Sense of Motion," Los
Angeles Times Book Review, 3 June 1990, originally given as an address before PEN
USA Center West. Virginia Scharff notes that western historians have staked out
boundaries in part because of defensive reactions to dismissive responses from other
fields of American history. "Western historians have long been derided by practition-
ers of other histories as cowpoke scholars. . . . The best western historians have
produced sophisticated and significant work equal to any in American history, but
have nevertheless been unable to escape this redneck stereotype." Virginia Scharff,
"Else Surely We Shall All Hang Separately: The Politics of Western Women's His-
tory," Pacific Historical Review 61 (November 1992): 548.
12. Elliott West, "A Longer, Grimmer, but More Interesting Story," in Trails:
Toward a New Western History, ed. Patricia Nelson Limerick, Clyde A. Milner II, and
Charles E. Rankin (Lawrence, 1991), 107.
13. An analogy lurks here aligning the West with, of all things, postwar Ameri-
can suburbia. Think of that ostensibly inane explosion of 1950s American prosperity:
the suburban world stretching American cities outward was at once place, certainly
process, and, it has been argued, an ideological arena as well. The West seems similar.
Like suburbia, the West is a moving and fluid entity, itself somehow wrapped up in
compelling and often competing visions of the American dream.
14. The full text of Hofstadter's caution reads: "The activist historian who
thinks he is deriving his policy from his history may in fact be deriving his history
from his policy, and may be driven to commit the cardinal sin of the historical writer:
he may lose his respect for the integrity, the independence, the pastness, of the past."
Richard Hofstadter, The Progressive Historians: Turner, Beard, Parrington (New York,
1968), 464-65, quoted in William E. Leuchtenburg, "The Historian and the Public
Realm," American Historical Review 97 (February 1992): 8.
15. George Lipsitz, "Facing the Music in a Land of a Thousand Dances," re-
marks delivered at "Art of Teaching History" conference, Los Angeles, 30 October

1992, printed in the California Council for the Social Studies magazine Sunburst
(February 1993), 7.
16. See Anne Farrar Hyde, An American Vision: Far Western Landscape and Na-
tional Culture, 1820—1920 (New York, 1990), for a fine discussion of nineteenth-cen-
tury artists and "their" West.
17. As Cronon, Miles, and Gitlin argue in Under an Open Sky, focused regional
study of the American West, as place and process, "[reminds] us that the continent it-
self has been both the principal object of human struggle and the stage on which that
struggle has taken place" (8).
18. I agree with William Robbins on this point: "But that is part of the beauty in
the debates swirling about the New Western History, a vision tempered by a less op-
timistic view of American culture, one that self-consciously focuses on the darker,
tragic element." Robbins, "Laying Siege to Western History," 316.
19. Insofar as this paragraph relates to the controversies over new western history
and new western historians, I defer to Walter Nugent, with whom I agree: "I like to
regard the New Western Historians as part of a long and honorable tradition of Amer-
ican anti-imperialism and resistance to aggression." See Walter Nugent, "Happy
Birthday, Western History," Journal of the West 32 (July 1993): 4.
20. "However bored historians may be with such images, they retain a strong
hold over our collective imaginations." Cronon, Miles, and Gitlin, Under an Open
Sky, 5.
21. Lipsitz, "Facing the Music," 7.
22. I have learned much from Karen Anderson, "Work, Gender, and Power in
the American West," Pacific Historical Review 61 (November 1992): 481-99.
23. I share scholar Judy Nolte Lensick's concern about the danger of quick syn-
thesis and demand for incorporation of new work into old narratives. As she has writ-
ten, a "highly suspicious subtext is embedded in the ongoing call by concerned
historians for 'synthesis,' in which the 'subfields' of women's and ethnic history are ca-
joled to reenter the confines of History writ large, to 'wrestle inside the ring.' A major
strength of feminist history is that thinkers stand on the margins of'the' story so as to
see it as freshly as possible." Judy Nolte Lensick, "Beyond the Intellectual Meri-
dian: Transdisciplinary Studies of Women," Pacific Historical Review 61 (November
1992): 479.
24. Why federal bureaucracies in rhe West have not received more scrutiny is a
mystery to me. As an example of a given institution acting on individuals and of indi-
viduals in turn acting on that institution, bureaucracies would seem to offer studies of
great importance across a wide range of disciplines.
25. Patricia Limerick has wryly suggested that the quotation could as accurately
read, "Leave us alone, but don't stop funding us."
26. I do not mean for this to be stretched beyond reason (and I think it can be).
I have, for instance, been asked in a newspaper interview if one could compare the re-
bellious republics of the Baltic states with the Bear Flag Republic in nineteenth-cen-
tury California. Aside from the fact that Estonia, Lithuania, and Latvia end in "ia" as
does California, 1 am at a loss to make comparisons, meaningful or otherwise, across
so wide a gulf of time, space, and circumstance. White's "It's Your Misfortune''is to my
mind a model of the ways in which state authority, patronage, and power can be ana-
lyzed in a western setting.
27. As such, we cannot ignore the critical western role played by the U.S. Army
and, particularly as the nineteenth century yielded to the twentieth, various state mili-
tia and national guard units called into the field at the cooperative request of state and
industrial officials during outbreaks of radical protest against the status quo. I would
add to this the role played by the Army Corps of Engineers as well, in terms of both
environmental manipulation and implantation of an additional bureaucratic structure
in the West.
28. Water is, of course, the great, but by no means sole, natural resource subject
here. The U.S. Bureau of Reclamation, for instance, demands greater study, in terms
of not only dams and aqueducts but also patronage, bureaucracy, and politics.
29. See Fred A. Shannon, "A Post Mortem on the Labor-Safety-Valve Theory,"
Agricultural History 19 (January 1945): 31-37, and William F. Deverell, "To Loosen
the Safety Valve: Eastern Workers and Western Lands," Western Historical Quarterly
19 (August 1988): 269-85.
30. Gilbert C. Fite, "A Family Farm Chronicle," in Major Problems in the History
of the American West,ed. Clyde A. Milnerll (Lexington, Mass., 1989), 431-32.1 have
also profited from the insights of Rowland Berthoff, "Conventional Mentality: Free
Blacks, Women, and Business Corporations as Unequal Persons, 1820-1870," Jour-
nal of American History (December 1989): 753-84.
31. Patricia Limerick has made a similar point in arguing that the American
West "underwent Anglo-American conquest at a time when the United States was a
fully formed nation, providing, thereby, a more focused and revealing case study of
how the United States as a nation conducted conquest and especially how the federal
government adopted a central role for itself." See Patricia Limerick, "The Trail to
Santa Fe: Unleashing the Western Public Intellectual," in Limerick, Milner, and
Rankin, Trails, 71.
32. I know of no better popularization of this than in the person and practiced
persona of Ronald Reagan. "Big Hat, No Cows" Reagan, always ably assisted by
shrewd speechwriters, masterfully melded patriotism and western history as the de-
mocratic-promise script for the age. As Patricia Limerick notes in The Legacy of Con-
quest: The Unbroken Past of the American West (New York, 1987), the progressive view
of American—hence western—history (and not the other way around) became a siren
song for the conservative revolution of Reaganism, a blinded vision of Eurocentric
cultural values and mean-spiritedness. Listen to both the historical understanding and
the contemporary call to arms inherent in Reagan's oratoiy: "The men of the Alamo
[and we must not forget the gendered specificity of the new Right's new America] call
out encouragement to each other; a settler pushes west and sings his song, and the
song echoes out forever and fills the unknowing air. It is the American sound: It is
hopeful, bighearted, idealistic—daring, decent and fair. That's our heritage, that's our
song. We sing it still. For all our problems, our differences, we are together as of old."
Quoted in Limerick, Legacy of Conquest, 324. It is just that image, as well as the power
that comes with being the messenger, that makes this entire approach to the history of
the American West worth all the "fighting words."
33. The November 1992 issue of the Pacific Historical Review is devoted to dis-
cussions of western women's history and the ways in which recent scholarship is forc-
ing scholars to rethink western America. See especially Antonia I. Castaneda,
"Women of Color and the Rewriting of Western History: The Discourse, Politics,
and Decolonization of History," Pacific Historical Review 61 (November 1992):
501-33.
34. The best case of this is the entire "should trees have standing?" debate over
the Disney Corporation's attempts to build a resort at Mineral King, California. See
especially Christopher D. Stone, "Should Trees Have Standing? Toward Legal Rights
for Natural Objects," Southern California Law Review 45 (Spring 1972): 450-501.
The western connections between early-twentieth-century debates over conservation
and preservation and late-twentieth-century wrangles over "Deep Ecology" versus
"Shallow Ecology" remain largely unexplored.
35. In terms of independence and dependence, it is clear that one category is
"in" and that the other lacks the prefix and all the privileges that membership entails.
36. Dick Littlebear quoted in James T. Crawford's untitled essay in the
"Quotable" section of the Chronicle of Higher Education (30 September 1992), B5
(italics added). As Crawford wrote: "Coercive anglicization has taken more from Na-
tive Americans than a set of linguistic skills. It has isolated them from cultural re-
sources they need to define themselves."
37. Dennis Baron pointed out, "Fluency in English is universally advanced as a
sine qua non for assimilation, yet the abandonment of a minority language in favor of
English has seldom convinced American society at large to welcome into its midst for-
mer speakers of other tongues, while switching to English is all but certain to produce
feelings of anxiety, guilt, or alienation in those experiencing language loss." Dennis
Baron, The English Only Question: An Official Language for Americans? (New Haven,
1990), 194.
38. I have learned much from four recent publications addressing the English-
only controversy and its historical roots. See Baron, English Only Question; Sandra
Lee McKay and Sau-ling Cynthia Wong, eds., Language Diversity: Problem or Re-
source (New York, 1988); Karen L. Adams and Daniel T. Brink, eds., Perspectives on
Official English: The Campaign for English as the Official Language of the USA (Berlin,
1990); and Harvey A. Daniels, ed., Not Only English: Affirming America's Multilin-
gual Heritage (Urbana, 1990).
39. This is Robbins's argument in "Laying Siege to Western History."
40. I am reminded of the following lines from an essay by C. Vann Woodward:
"What but confusion of the undergraduate mind can possibly come from comparing
Colorado and Alabama? I apologize for this travesty against sound canons of the pro-
fession." C. Vann Woodward, "Reconstruction and Revision," unpublished manu-
script, copy in author's files.
41. See, for instance, Howard Lamar, "From Bondage to Contract: Ethnic La-
bor in the American West, 1600—1890," in The Countryside in the Age of Capitalist
Transformation: Essays in the Social History of Rural America, ed. Steven Hahn and
Jonathan Prude (Chapel Hill, 1985).
42. Take the controversy over a recent (March-July 1991) exhibition at the Na-
tional Museum of American Art in Washington, D.C. Called "The West as America:
Reinterpreting Images of the Frontier, 1820-1920," the short-lived show sparked a

spirited debate over competing interpretations of the West. Controversy arose over the
captions used to describe and analyze the exhibit's paintings. Smithsonian curators
"pushed the envelope" and attempted to include much of what newer scholarship has
suggested about the gender, cultural, and ethnic realities of the American West. We
may agree with the historians Eric Foner and Jon Wiener that, in comparison with
other crises in American life and on American campuses, this battle over the signifi-
cance of the American West seems at first a tempest in a teapot—the Right's rejoinder
to the Left's often shrill declarations. But there is more to it than this, evident in the
words of Senator Ted Stevens (Republican, Alaska), who told officials at the Smith-
sonian that they were "in for a battle" over the exhibit, which, in the senator's mind,
impugned his understanding of the West of America. I think that there is depth to this
debate; at stake, in the words of Wiener and Foner, is "nothing less than an entire in-
terpretation of the American past." See Eric Foner and Jon Wiener, "Fighting for the
'West," The Nation (29 July-5 August 1991), 163-66. See also William H. Truettner
and Alexander Nemerov, "What You See Is Not Necessarily What You Get: New
Meaning in Images of the Old West," Montana The Magazine of the Western History
42 (Summer 1992): 70-76; Alexander Gulliford, "Visitors Respond: Selections from
'The West as America' Comment Books," Montana the Magazine of Western History
42 (Summer 1992): 77-80; and Bryan J. Wolf, "How the West Was Hung; Or, When
I Hear the Word 'Culture' I Take Out My Checkbook," American Quarterly 44 (Sep-
tember 1992): 418-38.
43. This notion itself renders the "mere regional history" spin often applied to
western history all the more meaningless. If western scholars suggest that the West does
not fit the cultural norms of the whole, that may help reveal the problems inherent in
any assumed notions of national identity or national fabric.
44. Cronon, "Turner's First Stand," 93. I disagree with, for instance, Michael
Malone's view—in regard to a search for broader conceptualization—that "tracing na-
tional trends and events in western settings" is an "unrewarding task." Michael P. Mai-
one, "Beyond the Last Frontier: Toward a New Approach to Western American
History," Western Historical Quarterly 20 (November 1989): 415-16. On the con-
trary, as this essay is meant to suggest, it is precisely this "tracing" that may illuminate
the gaps in the assumed narrative of American history.
45. See Stillman, "Again, That Hankering," sec. 2, pp. 1, 20.
46. See, for example, White, "It's Your Misfortune"; Limerick, Legacy of Conquest;
Cronon, Miles, and Gitlin, Under an Open Sky; the November 1992 issue of the Pa-
cific Historical Quarterly; William Cronon, Changes in the Land: Indians, Colonists, and
the Ecology of New England (New York, 1983); Richard White, The Middle Ground:
Indians, Empires, and Republics in the Great Lakes Region, 1650—1815 (Cambridge,
Mass., 1991) and The Roots of Dependency: Subsistence, Environment, and Social
Change among the Choctaws, Pawnees, andNavajos (Lincoln, 1983); Peggy Pascoe, Re-
lations of Rescue: The Search for Female Moral Authority in the American West,
1874-1939 (New York, 1990); and Ramon A. Gutierrez, When Jesus Came, the Corn
Mothers Went Away: Marriage, Sexuality, and Power in New Mexico, 1500-1846
(Stanford, 1991). I would also refer readers to the other chapters of this book. Two an-
thologies of earlier conferences are important compilations of newer western scholar-
ship: Susan Armitage and Elizabeth Jameson, eds., The Women's West (Norman,
1987); Lillian Schlissel, Vicki Ruiz, and Janice Monk, eds., Western Women: Their
Land, Their Lives (Albuquerque, 1988).
47. "Turner, like Jefferson, insisted on talking about an ideal West rather than a
real West. We may celebrate the names of both men one day, not for their presenta-
tion of the grim facts, but for their vision of what the West and America itself could
mean." Lamar, "From Bondage to Contract," 317. See also Howard Lamar, "Much
to Celebrate: The Western History Association's Twenty-Fifth Birthday," Western
Historical Quarterly 17 (October 1986): 397-^16.
COMMENTARIES
Courage without Illusion
Richard Maxwell Brown
Written with verve and insight, William Deverell's "Fighting Words" is a wise
and eloquent contribution to the series of essays growing out of the 1992 con-
ference "Re-Envisioning the History of the American West." I do not have a
single word of disagreement with what Professor Deverell has written. In-
stead, I am using a passage in his essay as a point of departure for my remarks,
the passage in which he says that the West "is the place of dreams—but it is
the ways in which people act out their lives on and against that dreamscape
that makes a difference," a dreamscape littered with the failed hopes arising
from the false illusions of many a westerner, including the father of the late
Wallace Stegner, to whose memory and example Deverell dedicates his essay.1
We all know about the new western history, but there is something else
just as new that might be called and probably has been called the "new west-
ern literature." By the new western literature, I mean the luminous stream of
writing about the West in the last fifteen years or so—a period that roughly
coincides with the rise of the new western history. I am not going to focus on
the fictional output of the new western literature but, rather, on what has been
one of its most striking products: autobiography. This, in turn, might be
called the "new western autobiography." The new western autobiography is as
much family history as it is individual autobiography. From the beginning of
the new western autobiography—with This House of Sky: Landscapes of a West-
ern Mind by Ivan Doig (New York, 1978)—to more recent examples such as
Mary Clearman Blew, All But the Waltz: Essays on a Montana Family, and
William Kittredge, Hole in the Sky: A Memoir,2 western autobiography is
thriving. The new western historians have been presenting a new conceptual
history of the West while the new western autobiographers are giving us a new
emotional history of the West.
In 1992 the dean of western letters, Wallace Stegner, published a book of
essays
J
on livingO and writingO in the West entitled Where the Bluebird Sinn o
to
the Lemonade Springs? Stegner won both the Pulitzer Prize and the National
Book Award, but he never won what his nearly thirty books of fiction, history,
biography, and essays over more than half a century earned him: the Nobel
Prize for literature. In his last book, Where the Bluebird Sings to the Lemonade
Springs, Stegner tells us what his literary mission was. Born in 1909 and grow-
ing up close to the bone of the North American West, Stegner wrote: "I grew
to hate the profane Western culture, the economics and psychology of a rapa-
cious society. I disliked it as reality and I distrusted it when it elevated itself
into the western myths that aggrandized arrogance, machismo, vigilante or
56
COURAGE WITHOUT ILLUSION • 57
sidearm justice, and the oversimplified good-guy/bad-guy moralities."4 Of

the mythic cowboy hero whose prototype is Owen Wister's Virginian, Stegner
wrote that the hero had "irritated" him all his life. "I would obviously like to
bury him. But I know I can't. He is a faster gun than I am. He is too attractive
to the daydreaming imagination. It gets me nowhere to object to the self-
righteous, limited, violent code that governs him."5
Of course, Stegner was more successful in a career of writing against the
western myth than he would have us think. The realism of his writing has had
a major impact.6 Yet there is still much to be done, and it is being done by a
younger generation of western writers who are giving us the new emotional
history I referred to. For writers of the southern renaissance—William
Faulkner and all the others from the 1920s to the 1950s—the great issue and
problem was black-white race relations.7 For the new western writers—at
least for many of them and certainly for the ones I am going to discuss—the
great issue and problem is the myth of the West: what that myth has meant to
them and what it has done to their own lives.
In 1939 the writer Mary Clearman Blew was born Mary Hogeland in the
Judith River range country of Fergus County in central Montana. She grew
up as a fourth-generation Montanan, with a father who came to mistake the
myth of the West for its reality. Her book All But the Waltz is the story of the
Hogelands and, on her mother's side, the Welches—three generations of men
and women who were ranchers and teachers among the plains and mountains
northwest of Lewistown, Montana. Mary's father, Jack Hogeland (born in
1913 and died in 1987), was a cowboy who became a successful rancher un-
til he sold the medium-size family ranch in order to buy one that was not as
good but was located close to Lewistown, allowing his daughters, including
Mary, to live at home but ride the bus to high school in the county seat. Hav-
ing no sons, Jack reared Mary like a cowboy and not like a little lady. His
dream was for Mary to go to college and become, like her mother and Grand-
mother Welch, a schoolteacher. Jack's plan was for Mary to come home from
college, find a country school to teach in during the winter, and live a ranch
life during the summer: breaking horses, tending the hay meadows, and run-
ning a little stock. "Of course," wrote Blew in All But the Waltz, "we did no
such thing."8 Instead, Mary went on to graduate school and an academic ca-
reer, leaving her father feeling betrayed and angry. But Mary was angry too—
angry because her father had "tried too hard" to keep her tied to a tradition
that she saw as "illusory." She added, "He had given everything he had for me;
[but] all I wanted was to be free of the cowboy." By "the cowboy" she meant
her father, and she wanted to be free of his control as well as what he stood
for.9
Her father's life as a rancher dwindled away. "The price of beef cattle
plummeted, and he sold the Herefords and tried" dairy cows. "Tried sheep,
tried a little logging. Nothing did well. The economy was changing, ranching
was changing and the cowboy"—her father—"grew more and more bewil-
dered. Finally he gave up and leased out the pasture and went to work at the
stockyards in town."10 In his last years, with ranching behind him (and prob-
ably long before that), Mary's father, she tells us, had acquiesced "to that ro-
mantic and despairing mythology which has racked and scarred the lives of so
many men and women in the West."ll Looking back on Jack's life, Mary won-
dered whether his reading of the popular western fiction by the likes of Louis
L'Amour "offered a pattern for his sense of himself, or a mirror"—"so strongly
did he believe in a mythic Montana of the past, of inarticulate strength and
honor and courage irrevocably lost."12
But as Mary's own life wore on in the 1960s, 1970s, and 1980s, she had
her own problems. Mismated in a rash first marriage that eventually broke up,
Mary reared her children and carried on a successful career as an administra-
tor in a small state college in Montana. Then came a second marriage in
which, for a long time, she was deeply happy—a marriage that, in the waning
years of her fertility, yielded a love child. But the marriage tragically failed
when her husband, an oil wildcatter from Kansas who lived on dreams and
bravado and the highs and lows of a boom-and-bust career, became incurably
ill. He reacted to his illness with denial and with a search, against all reason,
for one more bonanza in a faltering oil industry. To Mary's frantic efforts to
help he reacted with irrationality and abuse. She had no choice but divorce,
and from twelve hundred miles away, she watched her former husband die as
he continued to believe in his illusions to the last.
Still persisting in her academic career, Mary survived her ordeal through
her writing and her western heritage of three Montana generations. Through
study of private family writings and photo albums and through conversations
with and memories of her mother and grandmothers and aunts, Mary re-
solved the emotional history of herself and her family and triumphed with a
combination of courage without illusions. From her mother, with whom she
often had a contentious relationship, there came a lesson of bravery, for her
mother had survived a hard, cheerless girlhood followed by married life in
bleak teacher cottages and on the luckless family homestead. As Mary listened
to her mother's stories, she was awed by her mothers courage.13 Mary's
mother, father, aunts, and uncles were the children of Montana's early-twen-
tieth-century homestead frontier; they would "take adversity for granted,
poverty as pervasive," and "smile for the box cameras, as proud of their horses
and proud of each other as though they had money in their pockets or whole
shoes on their feet."14
Hole in the Sky by William Kittredge is a book in which the scope of tri-
umph and tragedy and of failed illusions is on an even grander scale than that
of the Hogelands and the Welches in Mary Clearman Blew's Montana. Hole
in the Sky is the story of the 1930s-l 960s rise and fall of a family ranching em-
pire in the isolated but vast Warner Valley, a lush oasis in the desert country of
southeastern Oregon. The book chronicles the environmental wounding of
the fragile wetlands physical environment of the Warner Valley by the Kit-
COURAGE WITHOUT ILLUSION « 59
tredges' agribusiness farming and ranching that made the property intensely
productive at first but ultimately sterile and degraded. It is the story also of
how the human values of love in the Kittredge family were sacrificed to the
excessively selfish values of economic gain. In a book that comes close to the
Faulkneresque, Kittredge presents three generations: his own; that of his fa-
ther, Oscar; and that of his grandfather William, after whom he was named.
It was the steely resolve and lust for power of the domineering grandfather
that ruled the far-flung Warner Valley ranch of twinkling marshes and boun-
teous pastures. In the second generation, Oscar Kittredge wanted nothing so
much as to get away from it all—to attend Stanford University and forge a
professional career—but his will to make a new life of his own was broken by
his father, the patriarch. Instead, Oscar Kittredge threw himself into making
the ranch a huge success, and he did. As he hobnobbed with, among others,
the governor of Oregon, Oscar created an innovative, intricate network of ir-
rigation canals that made the ranch the nation's greatest producer of heavy
oats during World War II.
Meanwhile, the scion of the third generation and the family historian
and autobiographical writer of Hole in the Sky, William (Bill) Kittredge, born
in 1932, lived the life of a summertime teenage cowboy on the large family
spread. When he went away to college at Oregon State in Corvallis, Bill found
that the home ranch in the Warner Valley was the agriculture professors' class-
room model of a technologically and scientifically up-to-date western pro-
ducer of grain and beef. Imbued with the cowboy myth, the young Bill
Kittredge grew up to operate the giant ranch with a pride and arrogance be-
yond his years.15
But it all collapsed in family discord and recrimination. The relentless
pursuit of profit had enriched the family coffers but impoverished its emo-
tions. Like so many other families in the early- and middle-twentieth-century
West, the Kittredges lived by "a stern code, an unstated rule: Never speak
aloud of what you feel deeply."16 The long marriage of Bill's father and mother
fell apart, and Bill's father finally faced the fact that he had thrown away his
life on a barren ethic of unfulfilling work, property, and ownership. A like re-
alization came to the son, Bill, but not before Bill had ruined his own mar-
riage with debauchery and faithlessness. Thus, William Kittredge was a
damaged soul until he forsook the ranch and finally found redemption—as
had Mary Clearman Blew—in an academic life of writing and teaching.17
Hole in the Sky is not only a searing story of a family ruined by false illu-
sions and the inability to express love but also, interwoven with the family
memoir, a disquieting environmental history of the Warner Valley. Without
moralizing, the book is a cautionary tale about how illusions without love
destroyed a family and how commercial values degraded an ecology and an
environment.18 Not until the members of the Kittredge family sold the ranch
in the late 1960s were they able, at last, to find satisfaction in other pursuits.
Yet these two remarkable examples of the new western autobiography,
All But the Waltz and Hole in the Sky, do not leave the reader sunk in pes-
simism. After reading them, one is left with both purged and purified emo-
tions and with hope. These two books—like others in the new western
autobiography—engrave a lesson of courage without illusions. That is a prin-
cipal achievement of the new western autobiography: the way its authors have
held to the grassroots western heritage of courage without the disabling illu-
sions that have misled so many into failed and fruitless lives across the west-
ern dreamscape.
Notes
1. William Deverell, "Fighting Words: The Significance of the American West

in the History of the United States," Western Historical Quarterly 25 (Summer 1994):
194. (Reprinted this volume, pages 29—55.)
2. Mary Clearman Blew, All But the Waltz: Essays on a Montana Family (New
York, 1991); William Kittredge, Hole in the Sky: A Memoir (New York, 1992).
3. Wallace Stegner, Where the Bluebird Sings to the Lemonade Springs: Living
and Writing in the West (New York, 1992).
4. Ibid., 175-76.
5. Ibid., 111.
6. "Essays on Wallace Stegner," Montana The Magazine of Western History 43
(Autumn 1993): 52-76. See also Wallace Stegner and Richard W. Etulain, Conver-
sations with Wallace Stegner on Western History and Literature (Salt Lake City, 1983).
7. A recent study is Joel Williamson, William Faulkner and Southern History
(New York, 1993).
8. Blew, All But the Waltz, 54.
9. Ibid.
10. Ibid., 53.
11. Ibid., 45.
12. Ibid.
13. Ibid., 161—76 and passim.
14. Mary Clearman Blew, Balsamroot: A Memoir (New York, 1994), 4. Balsam-
root is a sequel to All But the Waltz and, like its predecessor, is a combination of fam-
ily history and autobiography.
15. Hole inthe Sky, 105-15, 150-75.
16. The quotation is from Blew, Balsamroot, 4, but the "stern code" enunciated
there by Blew on behalf of the Hogeland and Welch families certainly applied with
equal force to the Kittredges and many other rural western families of that time.
17. Hole in the Sky, 173-238.
18. Ibid., 170-75 and passim. The theme of commercial values degrading a
rural ecology and environment is also strong in Jane Smiley, A Thousand Acres (New
York, 1991), an authentic, highly regarded work of fiction chronicling the rise and
fall of a well-to-do Iowa family brought low by the heedless pursuit of profit from its
thousand-acre farm.
THE NEW SIGNIFICANCE OF THE AMERICAN WEST • 61
Bibliographical Note
In addition to This House of Sky, All But the Waltz, Hole in the Sky, and Balsamroot,
other notable examples of the new western autobiography include Juanita Brooks,
Quicksand and Cactus: A Memoir of the Southern Mormon Frontier (Salt Lake City,
1982); Cyra McFadden, Rain or Shine (New York, 1986); Terry Tempest Williams,
Refuge: An Unnatural History of Family and Place (New York, 1991); Ivan Doig,
Heart Earth (New York, 1993); and Pete Sinclair, We Aspired: The Last Innocent
Americans (Logan, Utah, 1993). With the exception of the book by Sinclair, all of
these works combine family history with autobiography. All are distinguished for
their literary quality. These books are part of an even broader trend, the "new grass-
roots biography of the West" (my own term) that I discuss in "Perspectives on Biog-
raphy and on the New Grassroots Biography of the American West" (unpublished
remarks delivered at the annual Evans Biography Award ceremony, Utah State Uni-
versity, August 17, 1993). Women are unusually prominent in this trend, both as au-
thors (for example, four of the seven authors cited in this bibliographical note are
women) and as subjects. All seven authors mentioned in this bibliographical note are
trained intellects who are notably reflective and often explicitly conceptual in their
autobiographical writings. The new western autobiography and the even broader new
grassroots biography of the West are crucial meeting grounds of the literary talent and
the social history of the West. Although the current trend began in 1978 with Ivan
Doig's This House of Sky, there were, of course, earlier precedents, a striking example
being Mari Sandoz, Old Jules (Boston, 1935), a book combining autobiography, bi-
ography, and family history.
The New Significance of the American West

Patricia Nelson Limerick
At Disneyland in my childhood, there were as many lessons to be learned as

there were rides to be taken, and the lessons were decidedly mixed. The moral
to the story of "Mr. Toad's Wild Ride," for instance, was that driving horribly
and nearly killing yourself and others could be exhilarating. The moral to the
story of the "Flying Saucers" was that if you cleared your path and leaned hard
into the task, you could slam into your sister's saucer hard enough to take her
to the borders of whiplash. With all this negativity on the grounds in Ana-
heim, the designers of Disneyland must have felt that they had to counter
with one dose of complete, unbroken positivity. Therefore Disneyland as-
sembled a ride in which multicolored, internationally costumed dolls danced,
bobbed, and sang, in penetrating tones, "It's a Small, Small World."
I have not taken that cheerful ride in years, but it is impossible not to re-
member it, and impossible not to resent it. Driving responsibly around Boul-
der, halting at stop signs and signaling one's turns, one can remember with
some envy how it felt to drive with the maniacal and unrestrained Mr. Toad.
In various academic exercises, from department meetings to conference pre-
sentations, one can draw on the lessons learned about momentum and impact
from the "Flying Saucers." But when one thinks of that "Small, Small World"
ride, one feels overdosed on sweetness, in deep need of a dill pickle or a spoon-
ful of vinegar. The image of human life without conflict or friction, with
everyone chirping away at the same squeaky song, drives one to imagine a
counterride. In this ride, the dolls would dance, bob, and take an occasional
swipe at one another. "It's a Small, Small World," they would sing, "But It's a
Mean One."
For quite a long time, my understanding of the American West tilted to-
ward the spirit of Disney's ride and away from the spirit of the counterride I
propose here. In the preface to The Legacy of Conquest, I admitted that I was
closer to Eleanor Roosevelt than to Angela Davis in my point of view. In the
last lines of The Legacy of Conquest, I came as close to singing "It's a Small,
Small World" as a historian can and still retain a shred of dignity: "Indians,
Hispanics, Asians, blacks, Anglos, businesspeople, workers, politicians, bu-
reaucrats, natives, and newcomers, we share the same region and its history,
but we wait to be introduced. The serious exploration of the process that made
us neighbors provides that introduction."1
One might imagine that a person who would write those lines was a per-
son who observed National Brotherhood Week as her major annual holiday.
And yet, against all probability, some imaginative readers were able to find in
Legacy a dark and grim version of the West, a story centered on misery and op-
pression. In fact, the good-hearted, earnest faith recorded in that book pushes
past the edges of probability. If the people of the American West would only
sit down and examine their shared history, the author of Legacy was trying to
believe, the common ground that they would discover would persuade them
to behave equitably toward each other. If they were tolerant and appreciative
of each other's distinctive ways, they could live in peace. Regional identity, I
had almost convinced myself, could give westerners a bridge across the
canyons of ethnic and gender inequality. In its furthest reaches of hopefulness,
The Legacy of Conquest walked right up to the edge of this proposition: if peo-
ple from backgrounds of material abundance took seriously the histories of
people from backgrounds of scarcity, the privileged people would redistribute
their wealth, pay equitable wages, and forswear economic advantage.
Western America has played host to more improbable Utopian visions
than this one. I state it now without reservation, without an effort to cloak its
improbability. If I wanted to make it to sound a little less improbable and a lit-
tle more practical, I would accent the way in which I wanted to redefine west-
ern legitimacy. I wanted to expand the boundaries of the definition of "real
westerners" to include the descendants of nineteenth-century white pioneers,

descendants of African-American people who came to the West to work in
World War IFs defense plants, descendants of Spanish conquerors and Mexi-
can immigrants, descendants of Asian immigrants, descendants of people of
mixed Indian and European heritage. I wanted to widen the pool of people
who could be considered, to use a term of our times, "stakeholders" in the des-
tiny of the West—past, present, and future. This was not a matter of Utopian
visions but simply historical accuracy. My more inclusive definition of west-
erner had, however, the inadvertent effect of mystifying birthplace, drawing a
distinction between those "born" western and those who "became" western by
immigration and choice. I was, unintentionally, glorifying a kind of pedigree,
treating humans as others treat show dogs, determining legitimacy by the ac-
cident of birth. Here, I was missing the fact that living in the West by con-
scious, adult choice could carry considerably more meaning than living in the
West by virtue of a biological event in which one was not a self-determining
participant. Moreover, this definition of legitimacy invited a kind of existen-
tial application of the western doctrine of "prior appropriation." "First in
time, first in right" had not always produced the most reasonable practices
when applied to water, and there was no reason to think it would do much
better when applied to human identity.
My "Small, Small World" vision of tolerance and equity, arrived at by a
common historical claim to western legitimacy, has pretty well unraveled
since the publication of Legacy. There have been plenty of good reasons for the
unraveling: ongoing American hostility to Mexican immigrants; the bitter-
ness of recent fights over western resource use; the 1992 uprising in south-
central Los Angeles; the dramatic gap between the lives led by privileged
westerners and the lives led by poor westerners; the adoption, by many audi-
ble and articulate white men, of the position of beleaguered victims of preju-
dice. I encountered, as well, my own doubts about how effectively regionalism
provides a framework for understanding ethnic history.2 Mexican Americans
in Los Angeles and Mexican Americans in Chicago have shared and do share
many concerns, whether or not the Mississippi River runs between them. San
Francisco's Chinatown and New York's Chinatown have to figure in any un-
derstanding of Chinese-American history.3 Indian people setting up gaming
businesses in Connecticut face challenges in common with Indian people set-
ting up casinos in California. When the boundaries of regionalism interrupt
the understanding of ethnic experience, the only sensible choice is to defy
those boundaries.4
Contemporary western historians, William Deverell tells us, can draw on
"a more sophisticated understanding of power . . . and the ways in which
power fills space on the western conceptual landscape."5 It is the topic of
power that knocks the pins out from under any effort to portray region as a
unifying factor transcending ethnicity, gender, and class. The proposition that
requires a reckoning is a simple one: people who have had power in western
American life have been consistently reluctant to give it up. Thus, all the at-
tention directed to the cultural diversity of the western past, all the invoca-
tions of understanding and tolerance, all the recognitions of how completely
everyone's stories are intertwined with everyone else's—all this runs up against
the fact that people who have held power have tried to keep it.
Underneath, then, all these issues of cultural understanding and tolerance
lies a story of contests to control property, labor, and profit. Consider, for in-
stance, the lament that one sometimes hears over the ethnocentrism of nine-
teenth-century white Americans. Whites and Indians, this argument
proceeds, met in a clash of cultures, a jangle of misunderstanding and preju-
dice. "If only," the presumption here seems to be, "white Americans had been
more open-minded toward, more tolerant of, even enthusiastic about the rich
and interesting ways of Indian people." And yet, even if one tries to imagine a
"Small, Small World" version of nineteenth-century •white consciousness,
there remains an uncomfortable fact: the Indians had control of the land, and
whites wanted to take it from them. Admiring the Indians' religious sincerity,
appreciating their art, envying their warm ties of kinship, praising their ora-
tory—none of that would have altered the power dynamics of the fact that
some people occupied land that other people wanted. In truth, whites in the
nineteenth century did a surprising amount of that admiring, appreciating,
envying, and praising. Not much deterred, the land developers went about
their business.
A clear appraisal of power and its operations in the American West knocks
the wind out of innocent visions of historical understanding as the sponsor of
tolerance and good nature. In truth, western America is a small world; for all
the region's great spaces, a network of cultural and economic interactions has
pulled people in remote places into interwoven narratives. For more than two
centuries, everyone has been influencing everyone else. There is little in the
way of cultural "purity" left for any group to claim; the enormous and conse-
quential factor of intermarriage is the most powerful reminder of how inter-
twined our destinies are. But even though it is a small world, it has often
enough been a mean world. Power—sometimes subtly expressed, sometimes
openly wielded—has structured most cross-cultural interactions, with those
in power directing land, resources, labor, markets, and laws toward their own
benefit. Ironically, this ungenerous reality provided the underpinning for
many of the most generous statements on behalf of the tolerance of difference.
When, for instance, the owners of the Central Pacific Railroad supported the
Chinese right to immigrate, or when southwestern farmers advocated an open
border with Mexico, these spokesmen for tolerance were taking their direction
from their wallets and account books and not from their consciences.
In 1987, in The Legacy of Conquest, I fudged the facts of power in the in-
terests of offering a historical vision that might make westerners into better
neighbors to each other. In 1996,1 would like to fudge and cannot. This is not
a statement of regret for or recantation of the part I played in campaigning for
a new western history. I do not regret that campaign in the least. Ten years
ago, most American historians were, in actual practice, regional historians.
Whether they recognized it or not, what they called American history was pri-
marily the history of the eastern United States. Half the nation waited for at-
tention, recognition, and inclusion.6
That situation is by no means entirely reversed, but it has shifted re-
markably. One feels unexpectedly—and prematurely—cast as the old-timer,
sitting on the porch in the rocking chair and telling the youngsters what it was
like in the olden days, when the field of western American history was on the
ropes. The young people, the ancients necessarily feel, do not know how bad
things were before the renaissance and recovery. A decade and a half may have
passed, but this old-timer can still hear the voice of a distinguished American
historian at a job interview, saying, "Patricia, we're curious why you would go
into this backwater of a field."
"Backwater," huh? I'd show him. In fact, I—and several hundred other
historians—did show him. Western American history got out of its slump.
The field is thriving. When I am struggling to read all the important and in-
structive new monographs, I wish that the field would thrive a little less insis-
tently. I may have fallen permanently behind in my reading, but it was a
privilege and a very memorable adventure to play a part in the campaign to
bring that restored vitality to the attention of mainstream American histori-
ans and to the attention of the public.
But like most adventurers, campaigners in the cause of the new (increas-
ingly, the middle-aged) western history confront the passage of time with
some bewilderment. Ten years ago, one's self-image was crystal clear. One was
young, untenured, unorthodox, unintimidated, determined to challenge the
assumptions and pieties of a complacent older generation. Within the space
of a few years, everything reversed: youth to middle age; assistant professor
to full professor; Young Turk to Old Bird; intentional challenger of an old
orthodoxy to unintentional defender of a new orthodoxy; unintimidated
questioner of established power to intimidator if others did not watch their
step. As a historian, I had long recognized that intentions and outcomes stand
in an ironic relationship. It is a different matter to experience this proposition
rather than to study it.
Unpredictable outcomes, however, have their charms. Surely Disney-
land's dullest ride, with the sorriest moral to the story, was the Autopia, in
which one drove a little car around a track. The narrowness of the road and
the big curbs on either side meant that choice was not at issue in this ride; one
went where the road went. Neither was speed a temptation; press the acceler-
ator as much as one wanted, and a snail-like forward movement was the best
that could result. In fact, the wildest (and the only) choice one could exercise
at the Autopia was not to press the accelerator and simply to block the road,
permitting the car behind to rear-encl one's own car and transform the ride
into at least a pale imitation of the "Flying Saucers." The lesson of this ride
was a deeply discouraging one: life followed a preset track, and all that the dri-
ver could do -was to press the accelerator and go, with the most exciting
prospect for creative self-assertion being a pileup.
Any melancholy, any mourning for lost hopes, any regret that region did
not prove to be the loom on which a united, cross-ethnic western identity
could be woven, any negativity at all, disappears when one contrasts the "Au-
topia" experience with the excitement and surprise of the last decade's change
in the field of western history. The experience has been considerably closer to
"Mr. Toad's Wild Ride," with twists and turns and sudden stops and sudden
accelerations. The saccharine vision of a region of multicultural harmony,
with the American West as the equivalent of Disney's multicolored, costumed
dolls living together with full justice, mutual understanding, and a sustainable
economy, collapsed of its own sweetness. But I hold on to another vision, the
vision of western scholars engaged in fruitful and vigorous debate over these
trying issues, using their "fighting words" in a spirit of personal respect and af-
fection, living up to the motto of my undergraduate college, "The Pursuit of
Truth in the Company of Friends." This vision may be nearly as improbable
as the one of a "Small, Small World," but it carries, in my mind, one great ad-
vantage: I have, from time to time, seen this one work.
Notes
1. Patricia Nelson Limerick, The Legacy of Conquest: The Unbroken Past of the
American West (New York, 1987), 349.
2. I am particularly indebted to David Gutierrez for making it impossible to
avoid these doubts.
3. See Patricia Nelson Limerick, "Common Cause? Asian American and West-
ern American History," in Privileging Positions: The Sites of Asian American Studies, ed.
Gary Okihiro (Pullman, Wash., forthcoming).
4. The project that most dramatically calls the remarks in this paragraph into
question is Quintard Taylor's forthcoming book on western African American his-
tory, in which the unit of the region does not limit Taylor's inquiry in any way and in
which Taylor's evidence calls into question many taken-for-granted propositions of
western history.
5. William Deverell, "Fighting Words: The Significance of the American West
in the History of the United States," Western Historical Quarterly 25 (Summer 1994):
187. (Reprinted this volume, pages 29-55.)
6. Patricia Nelson Limerick, "The Case of the Premature Departure: The
Trans-Mississippi West and American History Textbooks," Journal of American His-
tory 1'8 (March 1992).
3
Significant to Whom?:
Mexican Americans and the History
of the American West
David G. Gutierrez
In this period in which we mark both the quincentenary of Christopher

Columbus's voyages and the centennial of Frederick Jackson Turner's ru-
minations on the significance of the frontier to American history, it has be-
come fashionable to pose questions about minority peoples' contributions
and significance to the pluralistic culture of the United States. Although
most of the institutions sponsoring such observances appear to be well-in-
tentioned, too few seem to recognize that framing these questions in this
manner (once again) encourages a reproduction of modes of analysis that
virtually guarantee that the categories "minority" and "majority"—and the
asymmetrical relationships of power that they imply—will continue to
persist and will be reinforced. When we ask questions in this manner, at
some level we accept the premise that the significance of one group of peo-
ple must be explained with reference to some other group.
This is not to assert, however, that thinking about the relationship of
minority peoples to the history of the West cannot provide useful insights.
On the contrary, in considering Mexican-American history, one might ar-
gue that the debate about the significance or importance of ethnic Mexi-
can people in the West has reflected the central themes of the social and
political history of the region. Whether one considers initial Mexican re-
sistance to American exploration of the Mexican Northwest (a territory
now encompassing the five southwestern states plus Nevada and Utah),
Mexicans' active resistance to American imperialism during the Mexican
American War, or ethnic Mexicans' subsequent campaigns to achieve the
full rights of citizenship, we might: argue that on one fundamental level,
ethnic Mexican residents of the American West have been involved in a
67
protracted struggle to prove their importance, to prove themselves signifi-

cant in American society.'
One might argue more generally that (like much of the interethnic
conflict that has erupted in the rest of the world) a substantial portion of
the ethnic conflict that has occurred in the American West has involved
subject peoples' efforts to contest and resist attempts to impose ascriptive
social judgments on them, particularly by interpreting and representing
their histories in certain ways. Much of the most compelling recent theo-
retical work in social history, cultural criticism, and feminist studies relies
on this central premise: military conquest or absorption of one society by
another usually represents only the first step of the process by which one
society imposes itself on another. Ultimately, however, the most crucial de-
velopment as a result of expansion and domination is the subsequent con-
struction of elaborate sets of rationales that are designed to explain why
one group has conquered another and to establish and perpetuate histories
that help "set . . . and enforce . . . priorities, [repress] some subjects
in the name of the greater importance of others, [naturalize] certain cate-
gories, and [disqualify] others."2
Myth and Myopia

The salience of applying such a perspective to historical analysis of ethnic
Mexicans in the American West is clear, for any such exploration must be-
gin with an acknowledgment of how American ideologies of expansion
have powerfully influenced historical representations of and about "Mexi-
cans" (and other subject groups) after the United States acquired the re-
gion. Of course, this process was well under way even before the actual
annexation of the West. Indeed, Americans had developed a rather de-
tailed demonology about Mexicans (and about Spaniards before them)
even before establishing regular contact with Spanish-speaking people in
the region in the 1820s. Building on the so-called Black Legend, in which
European rivals portrayed Spaniards as bloodthirsty, sexually depraved
tyrants, Americans tended to transfer many of these negative stereotypes to
the descendants of the first Spanish explorers of South America, arguing
that their mixed-blood offspring combined the absolute worst traits of
both the conquistadors and the local Indians. With the advent of the clus-
ter of racist and nationalist ideas collectively known as Manifest Destiny
in the early 1840s, these stereotypes assumed a more virulent form. Al-
though the specific ideas that contributed to the notion of Manifest Des-
tiny seemed diverse and complex, virtually all of them derived from
SIGNIFICANT TO WHOM? • 69
Americans' belief in the superiority of U.S. civilization, culture, and polit-

ical institutions.3
Mexicans were aware of Americans' tendency to explain their territor-
ial aggrandizement as part of "God's plan" even before John L. O'Sullivan
coined the term "Manifest Destiny" in the 1840s. In the 1820s, for exam-
ple, a series of dispatches written from the Texas frontier by Inspector-
General Manuel Mier y Teran made it clear that American designs on
Mexico's northern territories deeply concerned the Mexican government:
Texas is contiguous to the most avid nation in the world. The North
Americans have conquered whatever territory adjoins them. In less than
half a century, they have become masters of extensive colonies which for-
merly belonged to Spain and France, and even of spacious territories from
which have disappeared their former owners, the Indian tribes. There is
no power like that to the North, which by silent means, has made con-
quests of momentous importance.4
The general's observations, of course, proved prescient, anticipating both

the Texas Revolution and the Mexican War. But Mier y Teran was perhaps
even more foresightful in recognizing the Americans' tremendous ability
to rationalize and justify westward expansion. "If considered one by one,"
the general noted wryly, the Americans' methods of expansion "would be
rejected as slow, ineffective, and at times palpably absurd." He continued:
"They begin by assuming rights . . . which it is impossible to sustain in
serious discussion, making ridiculous pretensions based on historical inci-
dents which no one admits. . . . In the meantime, the territory against
which these machinations are directed . . . begins to be visited by ad-
venturers [who gradually] complicate the political administration of the
coveted territory by discrediting the efficiency of the existing authority
and administration." Mier y Teran indignantly concluded that, to add in-
sult to injury, the Americans "incite uprisings in the territory in question
[while] manifesting a deep concern for the rights of the inhabitants."5
Although General Mier y Teran had no way of knowing it then, he
had touched on one of the most important elements of Americans' expan-
sionist impulses. The U.S. penetration and conquest of Mexican territory
was, of course, important, but Mier y Teran seemed to recognize that this
represented only the first step in American expansion. Ultimately, the crit-
ical aspect of the annexation of the West proved to be the power that con-
quest bestowed on Americans to explain what had occurred there. As
Reginald Horsman noted in his analysis of the Mexican War: "Total Mex-
ican defeat convinced the Americans that their original judgement of the
Mexican race had been correct. . . . Americans were not to be blamed

for forcibly taking the northern provinces of Mexico, for Mexicans . . .
had failed because they were a mixed, inferior race."6
Acceptance of these fundamental premises in turn enabled Americans
to demean, and ultimately to dismiss, the people they had incorporated
into their society. This process was sped along by the segregation of ethnic
Mexicans, an activity that occurred in varying degrees throughout the re-
gion. As Mexican Americans were slowly forced, by population pressures
and discrimination, to withdraw into shrinking urban barrios and isolated
rural colonias, they seemed to gradually disappear from the landscape,
thereby fulfilling the prophecies of those proponents of Manifest Destiny
who had predicted that the West's indigenous peoples would "recede" or
"fade away" before the advance of American civilization. By the turn of the
century, Mexican Americans had become, to use the words of one well-
known historian, America's "forgotten people."7
To assert, however, that America forgot this ethnic group oversimpli-
fies a far more complicated story. What actually occurred was a rather pe-
culiar re-envisioning of the role Mexicans played in the region's past.
Gradually released from the necessity of viewing Mexicans as any kind of
political or military threat, Americans were able to indulge themselves in
romantic reveries about what the landscape must have looked like before
the war. In a process no doubt similar to the one that allowed Americans
to construct the notion of the noble savage after Indians had been effec-
tively removed from lands they coveted, the consolidation of American
control over former Mexican domains allowed westerners to construct
what Carey McWilliams aptly called "the Spanish fantasy heritage." With
historians and history buffs, artists, travel and fiction writers, amateur
ethnographers, and eventually local chambers of commerce and real estate
boosters all contributing, Anglo-American residents of the region helped
to construct a benign history of the not-so-distant past, one in which gra-
cious Spanish grandees, beautiful senoritas, and gentle Catholic friars over-
saw an abundant pastoral empire worked by contented mission Indians. As
McWilliams, Kevin Starr, and more recently, Anne Hyde have demon-
strated, this creation not only fit nicely with the images that Americans
held of themselves but also allowed them the freedom to extol and selec-
tively appropriate for their own use those aspects of the region's culture
that amused them. These pastoral images seemed to capture the imagina-
tion of people living in the region. By the early decades of this century, it
was rare to find a town of any size in the "Old Spanish Southwest" that did
not celebrate its illustrious past by restoring missions, erecting historical
markers, and holding what seemed to be a nearly endless round of annual
Spanish fiestas, replete with dons and donas (usually Anglos) wearing full
"Spanish" regalia and sitting astride matched palominos.8
Resistance, Excavation, and Recovery
Although some may persist in arguing that the elaborate historical and
popular reimaginings constituting "the Spanish fantasy heritage" were
harmless examples of romantic myth-making, Mexican Americans have
long been aware of the ways such myths have helped to obscure, and thus
to diminish, the actual historical producers of the culture that Anglos os-
tensibly celebrated. It was one thing to suffer the humiliation of conquest
and the subsequent indignity of relegation to an inferior caste status in the
emerging social order of the American-dominated West, but it was quite
another to sit idly by and watch the Americans appropriate, for their own
amusement, aspects of Mexican culture they found quaint and pic-
turesque reminders of the past. Moreover, many Mexican Americans
knew, to a painful degree, that the seemingly harmless celebration of
Spanish fiestas masked the disdain so many Americans felt about the re-
maining representatives of Hispanic culture in the West. One can easily
imagine the bewilderment and anger of Mexican Americans who, know-
ing that the very term Mexican had already become deeply embedded in
the vocabulary of the region as a label of derision and stigma, watched
gringos celebrate appropriated cultural events.
In many ways, ethnic Mexicans' awareness that they had been ren-
dered insignificant as human beings in this manner has provided one of
the major forces driving both their efforts to achieve full political rights in
American society and their attempts to recapture and rewrite their own
history. In fact, these two objectives have worked hand in hand since the
1850s, even if the resultant efforts went largely unheeded until very re-
cently. Even a cursory knowledge of the region's ethnic history reveals that
Mexican Americans have long considered the struggle to represent their
own history and to be represented accurately in the West's history gener-
ally as crucial components of their ongoing campaign to achieve their full
rights as American citizens and as human beings.
The dual nature of this struggle is readily apparent in the work of the
first generation of scholars who began publishing research on the West's
ethnic Mexican population in the years following World War I. Most of
this generation of Mexican Americans either were descendants of the
Spanish-speaking people whose presence predated that of the conquest or,
more commonly, were the children of the huge numbers of Mexican im-
migrants who settled in the United States after 1910, so they had firsthand
knowledge of what it meant to grow up with the stigma of being Mexican

in the American West. Thus, when reviewing the work of pioneering in-
tellectuals such as George I. Sanchez, Arthur L. Campa, Carlos Castaneda,
Ernesto Galarza, Jovita Gonzalez, or Americo Paredes, one immediately
sees that these individuals were driven by more than a merely dispassion-
ate pursuit of knowledge for knowledge's sake. Although most of these
scholars (particularly the professional academicians) attempted to adhere
to the so-called ideal of objectivity that mainstream scholarship de-
manded, they recognized that before they could ever hope to gain a fair
reading of their work, it would be necessary to break through the deeply
entrenched, dehumanizing stereotypes that Americans had come to accept
since the early nineteenth century. This first generation of intellectuals
also faced the burden of having come of age during an era of heavy immi-
gration from Mexico. Forced to do their work in an atmosphere of inten-
sifying anti-Mexican sentiment, this generation of Mexican-American
scholars had to be even more careful in the way they framed their research
questions and in the language they used to represent the subjects of that
research.
The work these scholars produced stands on its own as research, yet I
would argue that the more important legacy of the scholarship produced
during this era is its quietly political nature rather than its specific topical
content. This is not to assert that the scholarly efforts of this group were
part of some coordinated, monolithic project; to the contrary, these schol-
ars came from diverse disciplinary backgrounds and training and held var-
ious research interests and political orientations. When viewed in
hindsight, however, the body of work produced by these individuals is
unified in several important respects. The most important theme unifying
this research was these scholars' obvious concern to represent ordinary
working-class Mexican Americans and Mexican immigrants as complex,
fully formed, and fully functional human beings. Although this might not
seem to be a significant point, when viewed in the context of the times this
work should be seen as the first stage of a bold—and inherently political—
project of excavation and recovery that was designed, at least partially, to
upset the prevailing regional social order by demonstrating the extent to
which stereotypes about Mexicans were the products of Americans' active,
and truly powerful, imaginations.
A brief discussion of George I. Sanchez's research helps illustrate some
of the ways Mexican-American scholars of this period used their work
both to advance objective knowledge and to alter what had become the
master discourse used to describe Mexicans in the United States. Superfi-
cially, the work of the longtime University of Texas history and education
professor appears to be an example of fairly straightforward academic re-

search. But a closer analysis of his work reveals that Sanchez pursued a self-
consciously political agenda throughout his long career. But this was not
"politics" in the sense that most Americans associate with the word. Al-
though Sanchez actively participated in the civil rights efforts of organiza-
tions such as the League of United Latin American Citizens, the American
G.I. Forum, and the American Council of Spanish-Speaking People, in
some ways his attempts to get the readers of his research simply to recog-
nize Mexican Americans as human beings represented the most radical po-
litical position he could have advanced in the 1930s and 1940s. From the
time he wrote his earliest work on general issues concerning education,
Mexican-American bilingualism, and intelligence testing, Sanchez fo-
cused intently on destroying prevailing notions of Mexican Americans as
a culturally monolithic, socially unstratified population by demonstrating
the complexity and utility of the Southwest's syncretic Mexican-American
culture. Writing in 1941, Sanchez maintained: "The Spanish-speaking
population is not a monogenous [sic] group—in economic status, in edu-
cation, in cultural background and history, or even in the degree to which
its members are, in truth, Spanish-speaking! There is as much cultural va-
riety within the group as there is to be found in any similar sector of pop-
ulation in the nation."9
Sanchez's point here, and in much of his other work, was not merely
that the Mexican-American population was heterogeneous and internally
stratified. On the contrary, Sanchez sought to illustrate, in a subdued and
scholarly way, that because Mexican Americans disagreed about politics
and were divided, among other things, by class, religion, customs, and lan-
guage preference, their community was as internally complex and func-
tionally cohesive as any other. Building on this basic premise, Sanchez
systematically dissected theories that attributed Mexican-American
poverty and low educational achievement to putative flaws inherent in
Mexican culture or biology. "Poverty and its social effects," he wrote, "are
not peculiar to any one racial, language, or cultural group. These effects
are the attributes of poor people—irrespective of race, nationality, or lan-
guage."10
For Sanchez, the implications of such insights were clear: the ethnic
Mexican population's internal heterogeneity proved that they were human
beings entitled to the same chances as any other people. Although
Sanchez's published work usually focused on ethnic Mexican schoolchild-
ren, his proposals for reform—both in his academic work and in his tire-
less political efforts—encompassed issues relevant to the entire
Mexican-origin population. As he put it: "'The problem of the Spanish-
speaking child' is a fictitious generalization insofar as it presupposes uni-

formity in the educational status or prospect of Latin Americans in the
United States. Any educational practice based on that assumption is ill-ad-
vised and dangerous." From his point of view: "Insofar as the fundamen-
tal approaches of the school are concerned, Spanish-speaking children are
no different from other children. They learn just as readily, they require
just as good teachers and instructional facilities, and they need the same
careful study of their individual differences as do other children."11
Though Sanchez's assertions may now seem to be little more than
common sense, such notions held potentially revolutionary implications.
On the most fundamental level, Sanchez's arguments, and those made by
other Mexican-American scholars and activists of this generation, under-
mined an ideological edifice that had long maintained notions of Ameri-
can superiority and Mexican inferiority as fact. Although Sanchez and his
generation would be criticized in the 1960s and 1970s by some Chicano
activists for not having been quite strident enough in their resistance to
discrimination, in the context of their own times these individuals' efforts
represented a serious and inherently subversive assault on the entire system
of meanings that Americans had constructed about the annexation of the
West and, perhaps more important, about the significance of the ethnic
Mexican people living there. By attacking Americans' common assump-
tions of racial, cultural, and political superiority—using scientific and ob-
jective research methods that could not be faulted by mainstream
scholars—Sanchez and his generation issued a crucial first challenge to the
very core of the ethnically stratified social order in the American West.12
The Chicano Moment

Although few Chicano activists of the 1960s and 1970s seemed willing to
acknowledge the accomplishments of their immediate forebears, Sanchez's
generation of scholar-activists in many ways anticipated the research
agenda, modes of analysis, and political rhetoric of the generation of intel-
lectuals and social activists that came of age during the era of the Chicano
movement. The members of this second generation of intellectuals and so-
cial critics, however, were in a much better position than their predecessors
to take the project of humanization several crucial steps further. Coming
of age during a period of social ferment symbolized by the civil rights
movement, inner-city revolts, and intensifying protests over the war in
Vietnam, by the mid-1960s young Mexican Americans in scattered locales
across the Southwest had embarked on a series of political campaigns that
became known collectively as the Chicano movement. These protests
played a crucial role in transforming regional politics by forcing the ma-

jority population to acknowledge and act on Chicano demands, but one of
the least noticed yet most important effects of the Chicano movement was
the extent that it helped force open the doors of colleges and universities
to Mexican-American students. The opening of such previously restricted
institutions not only allowed unprecedented numbers of students the op-
portunity to pursue a higher education but also helped fuel a renewed
drive among Mexican Americans to recapture and rewrite their own his-
tory.
If the hallmark of the first generation of Mexican-American scholars
and social critics was to try to accomplish this task within what they un-
derstood to be the framework of American liberal democracy, scholars and
activists of the Chicano generation raised the stakes of this endeavor by in-
sisting that Mexican Americans should be much more militant in chal-
lenging Anglo political, social, cultural, and intellectual authority.
Whereas many members of the generation active in the 1940s and 1950s
seemed to accept the integrationist premises of American liberalism, Chi-
cano radicals of the 1960s and 1970s wanted to engage in a full frontal as-
sault on this ideology. Rejecting liberalism and the notion of assimilation
as parts of a mystifying, imperialist regime of thought that helped rein-
force notions of Mexican inferiority by holding up Anglo-American soci-
ety as the ideal to which Mexican Americans (and other people of color)
should aspire, Chicano activists advocated the development of a new pos-
itive sense of ethnic and cultural identity.13
From the point of view of many Chicano militants, history would
play a central role in the project to reconstruct Chicano identity. Indeed,
from the very outset of the movement, Chicano activists argued that eth-
nic Mexicans must learn their true history before they could even hope to
develop a strong sense of community and solidarity. As Jesus Chavarria, a
historian active in the Chicano movement, recalled:
Chicano history emerged as a product of the Chicano Movement because

of our peoples social and psychic need for self-knowledge. We . . .
gradually recognized . . . hat we were the social and cultural product of
a racial and cultural [process] which had attained such a degree of de-
ranged assimilation chat it had produced a monstrous distortion of our
true past. Thus, we set out . . . self-consciously to identify and recon-
cile ourselves with our true past, which [to us] meant a positive identifi-
cation with our indigenous forebears.14
Of course, constructing a record of the true past and establishing a

positive identification with that past meant different things to different
people, a fact that many activists seemed to forget in the flush of the Chi-
cano movement. Although the ideological struggles of the 1960s served as
important catalysts that provoked historians to renew their inquiry into
the significance of (or, to quote this same activist-historian, "the meaning
and value of") Chicano history, at its worst the history produced during
this period helped to create a different totalizing discourse that in some
ways was as distorting, essentialistic, and exclusionary as the one that ac-
tivists were attempting to transform. Drawing from quasi-nationalistic or
ethnic separatist perspectives that were never completely thought through,
some Chicano activist-scholars showed a tendency to reify "Chicano cul-
ture" into a set of codes and symbols designed to offset what they argued
was the inherent acquisitiveness, materialism, chauvinism, and rapacious-
ness of Anglo culture. Although the more thoughtful of these intellectuals
argued that such temporary distortions were unfortunate but necessary
mechanisms designed to build solidarity, ethnic pride, and a basis for con-
certed political action among Americans of Mexican descent, few seemed
to realize that much of the rhetoric of the Chicano movement—and the
scholarship that drew inspiration from that rhetoric—slid perilously close
to replicating the same kind of exclusionary, hierarchical, and dehumaniz-
ing ideologies that Anglo Americans had used so effectively for so long to
suppress minority peoples.15
At their best, however, scholars writing during this period broadened
and deepened comprehension of the social history of the West by pulling
Mexican Americans and Mexican immigrants out of obscurity, by render-
ing them visible and significant in regional history. And perhaps more im-
portant, the best of this generation of historians gave new life to the
humanizing project their predecessors had initiated nearly fifty years ear-
lier. At the level of the academic production of history, scholars such as
Rodolfo Acuna, Tomas Almaguer, Mario Barrera, Arnoldo De Leon,
Mario T. Garcia, Juan Gomez-Quinones, Richard Griswold del Castillo,
Ricardo Romo, David Weber, and others published important works that
compelled scholars—and at least some of the general public—to replace
the traditional, stereotypical representations that had long dominated
regional history with more complex and subtle renderings of individ-
ual Mexicans and Mexican culture. Employing the same sophistication
in conceptualization, methodology, and argument that other so-called
new social historians were developing at this time, Mexican-American
scholars publishing in the 1970s and early 1980s produced work that
gained increasing notice, respectability, and legitimacy in mainstream
academic circles.
Of the many studies published in this era, however, it was Albert M.
Camarillo's pathbreaking 1979 monograph, Chicanes in a Changing Soci-

ety, that most suggested the possibilities inherent in exploring the implica-
tions of the wide variation in the experiences of the region's ethnic
Mexican residents. Combining a close analysis of manuscript census data
with extensive oral history interviews to develop a detailed portrait of
Mexican Americans and Mexican immigrants in Santa Barbara and other
southern California communities, Camarillo provided one of the most
nuanced social histories of this particularly fruitful era of Mexican-Amer-
ican historiography. The postannexation imposition of American political
and economic hegemony runs as a strong theme throughout the study,
but Camarillo broke new ground in a number of areas by indicating the
ways Mexican Americans and gold rush—era Mexican immigrants used
traditional cultural practices to adapt to and survive their changed status
as an ethnic minority in a larger society. More important, building on
the insights first touched on in the work of pioneering scholars such
as Manuel Gamio, George I. Sanchez, Paul S. Taylor, and Carey
McWilliams, Camarillo performed crucially important spade work by
emphasizing how important the heterogeneity of southern California's
ethnic Mexican population was to Mexican-American social, cultural, and
political development. By demonstrating the ways that Mexican Ameri-
cans and subsequent immigrants manufactured social barriers that di-
vided them along class, regional, generational, nativity, and other lines
and by exploring some of the ways that Mexican immigrants differed from
Mexican Americans with regard to their specific cultural and religious ob-
servances, linguistic practices, and political orientations, Camarillo's book
challenged previous interpretations by both mainstream and Chicano
scholars, who had depicted Mexicans (or Chicanos) as a monolithic, in-
ternally undifferentiated population. Although many reviewers appar-
ently missed the significance of this point at the time, Camarillo's
emphasis on the internal diversity of the ethnic Mexican population was
crucial in that it eventually encouraged both Chicano and non-Chicano
readers to recognize that—contrary to the monolithic images projected
(albeit in very different ways) by mainstream western historians on the
one hand and militant Chicanos on the other—the syncretic Mexican-
American culture of the Southwest was just as intricate and variegated as
any other.
Camarillo's study and similar works published in the 1970s and early
1980s played an important role in establishing Mexican-American studies
as a viable area of research, but the ultimate significance of this scholarship
derived from its ability to challenge Anglo Americans' authority to deter-
mine both the appropriate (or significant) subjects of historical research
and thus the dominant interpretations of the region's past. The scholar-
ship produced during this era alerted westerners—and other Americans—
that ethnic Mexicans henceforth were to be not only included in the
West's history but included on their own terms.
The Changing Significance of Difference

in Western History
Though some would argue that the project of humanization pursued by
historians of the ethnic Mexican experience since early in this century con-
tinues in the present period, the character of this enterprise has recently
undergone a significant transformation. In fact, members of the present
generation of ethnic Mexican and other Latino intellectuals and social ac-
tivists seem intent on pushing their demands for recognition and inclu-
sion even further than did the militants of the 1960s and 1970s. Moving
well beyond the rhetoric of mere inclusion, many in the present intellec-
tual and political generation are insisting on developing a fundamental re-
configuration in the ways minority peoples are conceived of, categorized,
and analyzed in history and contemporary American society.
On one level, this strident interventionist initiative can be seen as the
outcome of a much larger process of social flux in which the character of
ethnic, racial, gender, and class politics has changed in the West, and in
the United States generally, since the civil rights upheavals of the 1960s.
Although it is clear that civil rights activists' efforts to overthrow the es-
tablished racial hierarchy of the United States have been only partially suc-
cessful, the civil rights movement has succeeded in transforming the
debate over race and ethnicity by providing American minority groups
with powerful new bases of collective identity. By confronting, and
ultimately rejecting, the ascribed negative identity categories (such as
"Negro," "Oriental," or "Mexican") that had provided the necessary first
steps in the construction and maintenance of the traditional racial hierar-
chy of American society, by the late 1960s "Blacks," "Asians," and "Chi-
canos" not only had redefined their own identities but also had served
notice that other Americans would henceforth have to deal with them on
new terms. As the sociologists Michael Omi and Howard Winant noted in
their analysis of the civil rights era: "The ability of racially based move-
ments to ... challeng[e] . . . past racial practices and stereotypes
[helped] initiate . . . a trajectory of reform which exposed the limits of
all previously existing political orientations. . . . In transforming the
meaning of race and the contours of racial politics, the racially based
movements transformed the meaning and contours of American politics

itself."16
The effect of this political sea change on historical scholarship has
been no less profound. The widespread challenges to established author-
ity that were issued on the streets and in the universities during the 1960s
contributed to a sharpening of debate about the politics of representation
of minority peoples and, more broadly, about the nature of historical au-
thority itself. As Peter Novick noted in his sweeping study of the histori-
cal profession, when combined with the parallel challenges being issued to
the notion of "objective," "value-free" history and social science by other
dissident scholars, minority scholars' intellectual assault on the presumed
"universalistic norms" of the American historical profession helped to
throw the enterprise of historical scholarship into a deeply divisive "epis-
temological revolution" that continues to rage today.17
Although it is impossible in this limited space to assess the full impact
of this revolution on questions concerning the historical significance of
minority populations in the West (and even more difficult to predict the
future trajectory of these ongoing political and intellectual develop-
ments), the emergence of three interrelated trends in recent regional his-
torical interpretation is particularly relevant to this discussion. First,
consider the dramatic increase in the number of scholars who are bringing
interdisciplinary or transdisciplinary approaches to their study of the his-
tory of ethnic Mexican peoples in the West. Drawing theoretical, method-
ological, and critical insights and research questions from what used to be
much more discretely demarcated disciplines, the recent "blurring of gen-
res" (to borrow Clifford Geertz's phrase) so evident in western historiog-
raphy has brought a variety of new perspectives to the study of minority
populations. It is also contributing to a rapid dismantling of the kind of
victor's history that has dominated regional historiography since the Mex-
ican Cession. Whether one considers the recent explorations in autobiog-
raphy and literary theory by scholars such as Hector Calderon, Angie
Chabram, Clara Lomas, Genaro Padilla, Jose David Saldivar, Ramon
Saldivar, or Rosaura Sanchez,18 the musings of anthropologists such as
Renato Rosaldo or Roger Rouse,19 the historical investigations of folk-
lorists such as Maria Herrera-Sobek, Jose Limon, or Manuel Pena,20 the
ruminations on regional history by sociologists such as Tornas Almaguer
or David Montejaiio,21 or the work of formally trained interdisciplinary
social historians such as Deena J. Gonzalez, Camille Guerin-Gonzales,
Ramon A. Gutierrez, Lisbeth Haas, Douglas Monroy, George J. Sanchez,
or Devra Anne Weber,22 one cannot help but be struck by the extent that
old "us versus them" interpretations of interethnic relations have given

way to extremely subtle analyses in which Mexicans, Anglos, Indians, and
others emerge as complex, multifaceted, sometimes cooperative, and often
contradictory actors on the regional stage. For example, it is impossible to
read the work of Gonzalez, Padilla, or Gutierrez on New Mexico, Monte-
jano or Pena on Texas, or Hass, Monroy, or Almaguer on California and
not come away with the understanding that the conquest of the Mexican
Northwest in the 1840s involved more than the abject subjugation of eth-
nic Mexicans and Indians. As Montejano reminds us in the case of Te-
janos, although the history of relations between Anglos and Mexicans in
Texas has undeniably been harsh and at times brutal, extensive contact
over time forced "uneasy accommodation [s]" in which "paternalism and
protection, the exchange of obligations and commitments, and justice
[were all] sometimes possible."23 In short, work of this type shows the ex-
tent to which Mexicans were simultaneously objects of subordination and
active agents of political and cultural opposition and resistance.
Whereas the move toward interdisciplinary analyses represented by
such work has accelerated the project of humanization initiated by pio-
neering ethnic Mexican activists and intellectuals, an even more funda-
mental challenge to "business as usual" in regional history has been issued
by western historians of women, gender, and sexuality. Spurred by devel-
opments similar to those that stimulated women in the civil rights, anti-
war, and New Left movements to reassess their relationships to male
activists in the 1960s and 1970s, the recent florescence of Chicana history
grew out of Mexican-American and Mexican immigrant women's experi-
ences in the Chicano movement. Ethnic Mexican women played central
roles in the myriad organizations that made up the Chicano civil rights
struggle, but like their counterparts in the other social movements of the
times, they quickly discovered that they were expected to conform to tra-
ditional subordinate gender roles within their culture.24
Exposed through their political activities to the raw dynamics of con-
tinuing gender subjugation within a movement ostensibly dedicated to
their liberation, Chicana and Mexicana activists soon began asking more
comprehensive questions about the nature of their oppression in society.
Logically, the answers to these questions initially tended to focus almost
exclusively on the dynamics of male-female relationships within contem-
porary Mexican-American and Mexican culture. However, as increasing
numbers of women activists gained access to higher education along with
their male counterparts in the Chicano movement, such inquiries in-
evitably began to influence the production of regional historical scholar-
ship and interpretation.
The work of a new generation of women scholars influenced by these

political and intellectual developments began to appear in the 1980s. Led
by women's historians such as Vicki L. Ruiz, Rosalinda Gonzalez, Sarah
Deutsch, Deena J. Gonzalez, Antonia Castaneda, Peggy Pascoe, Susan
Johnson, and others, this generation of scholar-activists immediately
transformed the research agenda in the West by systematically including,
often for the first time, women as primary subjects of analysis in regional,
social, and cultural history.25 Perhaps just as important, from the time they
first entered graduate school, women scholars made it a fundamental part
of their business to insist that male historians rethink the ways they framed
and pursued their own research.20
Although this insistence played a crucial role in reducing the glaring
distortions resulting from traditional research methods that had obliter-
ated at least half of the putative subjects of social history, it proved to be
just the first step in a series of logical steps that led women's historians and
feminist theorists to ask deeper questions about the nature of gendered
systems more generally construed. The importance of the critique that
arose from such a realization extended far beyond its proximate concen-
tration on women per se. On the most basic level, scholars who sought to
analyze gender—that is, the complex systems of social and cultural mean-
ings assigned to sexual difference—insisted that it played at least as pow-
erful a role in ordering and stratifying men and women in society as does
race or class. Using this basic premise as a point of departure, women's his-
torians and feminist theorists explicitly and implicitly raised important
theoretical questions about the production and reproduction of all kinds
of subjective identities, including those based on race, ethnicity, and class.
As one theorist noted recently, by engaging in "genealogical investigations
of the generative power of male dominance within the production of
knowledge," feminist scholars opened the door to new ways of thinking
about other aspects of social life and knowledge, including "the suppres-
sion of knowledge of gender and its essential role in the structuring of in-
dividual experience, social relations, and knowledge itself."27 Just as
important, such a line of inquiry eventually led feminist scholars to reject
notions of unified naturalized identity categories in favor of those that
treat identity as "a contested terrain, the site of multiple and conflicting
claims."28
Although regional historical scholarship that draws on such insights is
still in a probing, experimental stage of development, several projects pub-
lished since 1980 suggest the possibilities inherent in pursuing these ex-
periments. Perhaps the earliest and best-known example of such
innovative work is the best-selling anthology This Bridge Called My Back,
edited by Gloria Anzaldiia and Cherrie Moraga and first published in

1981. Although not specifically a work of historical scholarship, the col-
lection stands out as an important example of early experimental efforts to
extend and explicitly link insights generated from feminist and cultural
theory with explorations into other asymmetrical relationships of power,
including those involving the historical legacies of racial, ethnic, and class
stratification.29
Beyond the thematic content of the anthology, the importance of this
and similar work lay in the rich possibilities it suggested for the continua-
tion and expansion of the general project both to humanize the objects of
historical inquiry and to add to our comprehension of what traditionally
has been termed "ethnic relations" in the West. By dismissing essentialistic
renderings of individuals, communities, and cultures and by paying par-
ticularly close, critical attention to the ways men, women, and children are
socialized to take up prescribed roles within gendered systems, studies such
as This Bridge represent an important example of these social critics' will-
ingness to interrogate and challenge naturalized categories such as race,
culture, ethnicity, sex, and nation.
Moreover, the authors of innovative works such as This Bridge accom-
plished another breakthrough by demonstrating the courage to be openly
self-reflective and self-critical. Although a strong critique of the hegemonic
power of white colonizers is evident throughout the anthology, the women
represented in This Bridge spent at least as much energy calling into ques-
tion the painfully sexist, racist, homophobic, and culturally chauvinistic
tendencies evident in their own cultural and/or social groups and thus
contributed to the process of self-determination that activists had called
for during the Chicano movement. Both majority and minority readers
undoubtedly will continue to find it painful to consider this type of criti-
cism, but the authors of This Bridge and more recent works make it clear
that close attention to the structures that internally stratify and divide
communities must be a central component of any project that aspires to
render human all of the historically subject peoples who have lived and
now live in the West.30
The third and potentially greatest contribution made by the members
of the present generation of critical scholars to the project to render signif-
icant the ethnic Mexican population of the West is their unwavering com-
mitment to explore and illuminate the intrinsic relationship between
power and knowledge in scholarship and in society at large. Although
many academics refuse to acknowledge that the production of any histori-
cal knowledge is an inherently political act, it is clear that many (if not
most) scholars of the ethnic Mexican experience in the West have accepted
the view that, as Peter Novick notes of those who believe this, "postures of
disinterestedness and neutrality [in historical scholarship are] outmoded
and illusory."31
The production of knowledge based on the acceptance of such a
premise has not occurred without cost to those actively engaged in it. On
the contrary, as the recent proliferation of highly critical books, articles,
and political rhetoric attests, scholars pursuing this type of innovative,
nontraditional research will continue to face charges that the inherently
political nature of their work renders their project an exercise in polemics
rather than rigorous, objective historical scholarship.32 Moreover, to rec-
ognize that the challenge to deeply ingrained ways of thinking undoubt-
edly will continue to elicit strong and perhaps even violent opposition,
one need think only of the intensifying debate over cultural values in the
most recent American presidential campaigns, the bitter ongoing battle to
challenge and restructure curricula at all levels of American public educa-
tion, the increasingly rancorous interethnic and intraethnic disagreements
over the efficacy and desirability of affirmative action approaches to struc-
tural discrimination, the recent increase in both racial and ethnic tensions,
gang violence, and "hate crimes," and in the West especially, the renewal
of the bitter debate over U.S. immigration policy. Clearly, practitioners of
this kind of research—and activists who espouse similar views in their po-
litical work at the community level—will inevitably continue to attract
the ire of those in society who feel personally threatened by the implicit
and explicit challenges to the social status quo (or who have a vested in-
terest in preserving the status quo).33
In a fundamental way, however, this kind of research is intended to
threaten existing social structures that serve to maintain the subordination
of certain groups at the same time that they mystify the dynamics of this
subordination. By drawing from and building on theoretical and method-
ological insights developed by those involved in interdisciplinary cultural
studies and, more recently, by women's historians and feminist theorists,
historians interested in analyzing other kinds of socially constructed sys-
tems of difference and power seem committed to struggle to transform the
ways we conceive of and understand the histories of subordinated peoples
in the region. This exceedingly diverse and complex work should not be
thought of as a monolithic project or as some magical device that will pro-
vide historians the means to bridge the gap between the lived experiences
of ethnic Mexicans (or, for that matter, any group) and the historians' rep-
resentations of this social history. Activist-scholars need also to guard
against, to paraphrase Henry Louis Gates, the academic profession's
"propensity for offering lexical redress to political grievances" and our ten-
dency to believe that a more complete representation of various underrep-

resented minority groups in historical texts is somehow necessarily equiv-
alent to a more complete political empowerment.34
Taken as a whole, however, all research of this type suggests a number
of innovative ways to reconceptualize historical inquiry, ways that perhaps
will help us to challenge more effectively the racist, sexist, and culturally
chauvinistic stereotypes and structures that have for so long permeated
thought and discourse about the significance of different peoples in the
American West. By exposing and painstakingly analyzing the constructed,
manipulated nature of social hierarchies of all types, scholars and social
critics working from this point of view might help change the terms of de-
bate about the historical and contemporary significance of ethnic Mexi-
cans and other minority peoples. They might also have an unprecedented
opportunity to change the way people think about the significance of dif-
ferences between and among people generally. If these trends continue, to
paraphrase the recent musings of two scholars of the emergence of multi-
culturalism, we may be witnessing "the development of a new definition
of what comprises 'mainstream' culture."35 If such hopeful prognostica-
tions turn out to be true, the question of who is, and who is not, consid-
ered significant in this society will itself take on an entirely new
significance.
Notes
I am deeply indebted to a number of friends and colleagues for reading and critiquing
several earlier drafts of this work. Special thanks go to Tomas Almaguer, Al Camarillo,
Arnoldo De Leon, Bill Deverell, Ramon Gutierrez, Susan Johnson, Michael Meranze,
Clyde Milner, Raul Ramos, and Vicki Ruiz. I would also like to express my thanks to
Susie Porter for her research assistance and my heartfelt gratitude to Peggy Pascoe and
Andrea Otanez for encouraging me to listen to the ideas that most informed this es-
say.
An earlier version of this essay appeared under the title "Significant to Whom?:
Mexican Americans and the History of the American West," by David G. Gutierrez.
Previously published in the Western Historical Quarterly 24 (November 1993):
519-39. Copyright by Western History Association. Reprinted by permission.
1. In this essay, when I speak of "Mexican Americans" I am referring to Amer-
ican citizens of Mexican descent, regardless of their length of residence in the United
States. The term Chicano, as will become clear in the text, refers to persons of Mexi-
can descent who used that term as a self-referent during the 1960s and 1970s. I use
the term Mexican immigrants when referring to citizens of Mexico residing in the
United States. Although all of these groups have historically recognized important dis-
tinctions between and among themselves, all have been subject to varying degrees of
prejudice and discrimination in the United States, regardless of their formal citizen-
ship status. Thus, when referring to the combined population of all people of Mexi-
can ancestry or descent living in the United States, I employ the term ethnic Mexicans.
For an extended analysis of the historical significance of difference within this popula-
tion, see David G. Gutierrez, Walls and Mirrors: Mexican Americans, Mexican Immi-
grants, and the Politics of Ethnicity (Berkeley, 1995).
2. Joan Wallach Scott, Gender and the Politics of History (New York, 1988), 9.
This is, of course, a point a number of scholars have made in other contexts. My analy-
sis here has drawn on, in addition to Scott, Michel Foucault, The Order of Things: An
Archaeology of the Human Sciences (New York, 1970) and The Archaeology of Knowl-
edge (New York, 1972); Abdul R. JanMohamed, "Negating the Negation as a Form of
Affirmation in Minority Discourse: The Construction of Richard Wright as Subject,"
in The Nature and Context of Minority Discourse, ed. Abdul R. JanMohamed and
David Lloyd (New York, 1990), 102-23; and especially Edward W. Said, Orientalism
(New York, 1978).
3. For the evolution of such attitudes, see Raymund A. Paredes, "The Origins
of Anti-Mexican Sentiment in the United States," in New Directions in Chicano Schol-
arship, ed. Ricardo Romo and Raymund Paredes (La Jolla, Calif., 1978), 139-65;
David J. Weber, '"Scarce More than Apes': Historical Roots of Anglo Stereotypes of
Mexicans in the Border Region," in New Spain's Far Northern Frontier: Essays on Spain
in the American West, 1540-1821, ed. David J. Weber (Albuquerque, 1979),
295-307; Reginald Horsman, Race and Manifest Destiny: The Origins of American
RacialAnglo-Saxonism (Cambridge, Mass., 1981); and Arnoldo De Leon, They Called
Them Greasers: Anglo Attitudes toward Mexicans in Texas, 1821—1900 (Austin, 1983).
4. Mier y Teran to Pablo Viejo, Mexican Minister of War, 14 November 1829,
in Ohland Morton, Terdn and Texas: A Chapter in Texas-Mexican Relations (Austin,
1948), 99-101. Excerpts of these dispatches are reprinted in David J. Weber, ed., For-
eigners in Their Native Land: Historical Roots of the Mexican Americans (Albuquerque,
1973), 101-4.
5. Mier y Teran in Morton, Terdn and Texas.
6. Horsman, Race and Manifest Destiny, 246, 210.
7. George I. Sanchez, Forgotten People: A Study of New Mexicans (Albuquerque,
1967).
8. On the creation and evolution of the Spanish fantasy heritage, see Carey
McWilliams, North from Mexico: The Spanish-Speaking People of the United States
(New York, 1949) and Southern California Country: An Island on the Land (Salt Lake
City, 1973), 70-83; Kevin Starr, Americans and the California Dream, 1850—1915
(New York, 1973), 390-401; and Anne Farrar Hyde, An American Vision: Far West-
ern Landscape and National Culture, 1820-1920 (New York, 1990), 235-38. Al-
though the Spanish fantasy heritage of the Southwest was constructed largely at the
level of the popular imagination, professional scholars also played their part in build-
ing this view of the region's past. The earliest histories (such as Hubert Howe Ban-
croft's massive series of volumes) and more recent works by American borderlands
scholars characteristically include sympathetic depictions of Spanish colonial and

Mexican institutions and culture, but the reader cannot help but come away from
these histories with the sense that they reflect a kind of "victor's history," which above
all else seeks to analyze and explain the "objective reasons" for American "successes"
and Hispanic "failures" in the region. For a recent review and critique of this litera-
ture, see Gerald E. Poyo and Gilberto M. Hinojosa, "Spanish Texas and Borderlands
Historiography in Transition: Implications for United States History," Journal of
American History 75 (September 1988): 393-416.
9. George I. Sanchez, "North of the Border," Proceedings and Transactions of
the Texas Academy of Science, 1941 26 (1942): 79.
10. Ibid., 82.
11. Ibid., 80, 81, emphasis added.
12. For a recent study that makes this case, see Mario T. Garcia, Mexican Amer-
icans: Leadership, Ideology, and Identity, 1930—1960 (New Haven, 1989).
13. That Chicano intellectuals were no longer content to suffer the appropria-
tion or colonization of their people's history was made crystal clear in a series of
scathing critiques of Anglo-American interpretations of the Mexican-American expe-
rience. Among the most notable published during this period were Tomas Almaguer,
"Toward the Study of Chicano Colonialism," Aztldn 2 (Spring 1971): 7-21, and
"Historical Notes on Chicano Oppression: The Dialectics of Racial and Class Domi-
nation in North America," Aztldn 5 (Spring and Fall 1974): 27—56; Octavio Ignacio
Romano-V, "The Anthropology and Sociology of the Mexican Americans: The Dis-
tortion of Mexican-American History," El Grito 2 (Fall 1968): 13-26, "The Histori-
cal and Intellectual Presence of Mexican-Americans," El Grito 2 (Winter 1969):
32-46, and "Social Science, Objectivity, and the Chicanos," El Grito 4 (Fall 1970):
4-16; Nick C. Vaca, "The Mexican-American in the Social Sciences, 1912-1970,"
part 1 (1912-35), El Grito 3 (Spring 1970): 3-24, and part 2 (1936-70), El Grito 4
(Fall 1970): 17-51; and Miguel Montiel, "The Social Science Myth of the Mexican
American Family," El Grito 3 (Summer 1970): 56—63.
14. Jesus Chavarrfa, "On Chicano History: In Memoriam, George I. Sanchez,
1906-1972," in Humanidad: Essays in Honor of George I. Sdnchez, ed. Americo Pare-
des (Los Angeles, 1977), 44.
15. For recent critical discussions of some of the intellectual and ideological in-
consistencies that characterized the Chicano movement, see Jose E. Limon, "The Folk
Performance of 'Chicano' and the Cultural Limits of Political Ideology," in "And
Other Neighborly Names": Social Process and Cultural Image in Texas Folklore, ed.
Richard Bauman and Roger D. Abrahams (Austin, 1980), 197-225; Tomas Alma-
guer, "Ideological Distortions in Recent Chicano Historiography: The Internal Colo-
nial Model and Chicano Historical Interpretation," Aztldn 18 (Spring 1987): 7—28;
Alex M. Saragoza, "Recent Chicano Historiography: An Interpretive Essay," Aztldn
19 (Spring 1988-90): 1-78; Juan Gomez-Quinones, Chicano Politics: Reality and
Promise, 1940-1990 (Albuquerque, 1990); and David G. Gutierrez, "Sin Fronteras?
Chicanos, Mexican Americans, and the Emergence of the Contemporary Mexican
Immigration Debate, 1968-1978," Journal of 'American Ethnic History 10 (Summer
1991): 5-37.
16. Michael Omi and Howard Winant, Racial Formation in the United States:
From the 1960s to the 1980s (New York, 1986), 138.
17. Peter Novick, That Noble Dream: The "Objectivity Question" and the Ameri-
can Historical Profession (Cambridge, England, 1988), 470, 546.
18. Such work has proliferated at such a rapid rate that it is impossible to sum-
marize here. For some representative examples, see Angie Chabram, "Chicano Criti-
cal Discourse: An Emerging Cultural Practice," Aztldn 18 (Fall 1987): 45-90; Genaro
M. Padilla, "'Yo sola aprendi': Contra-Patriarchal Containment in Women's Nine-
teenth-Century California Personal Narratives," Americas Review 16 (Fall-Winter
1988): 91-109, and "The Recovery of Chicano Nineteenth-Century Autobiogra-
phy," American Quarterly 40 (September 1988): 286-306; Clara Lomas, "Mexican
Precursors of Chicana Feminist Writing," in Multiethnic Literature of the United
States: Critical Introductions and Classroom Resources, ed. Cordelia Candalaria (Boul-
der, 1989); Ramon Saldfvar, Chicano Narrative: The Dialectics of Difference (Madison,
1990); Rosaura Sanchez, Chicano Discourse: Socio-Historic Perspectives (Rowley,
Mass., 1983) and "Postmodernism and Chicano Literature," Aztldn 18 (Fall 1987):
1-14; Asuncion Horno-Delgado et al., eds., Breaking Boundaries: Latina Writingand
Critical Readings (Amherst, 1989); and Hector Caldereon and Jose David Saldfvar,
eds., Criticism in the Borderlands: Studies in Chicano Literature, Culture, and Ideology
(Durham, N.C., 1991).
19. Renato Rosaldo, Culture and Truth: The Remaking of Social Analysis (Boston,
1989); Roger Rouse, "Mexican Migration and the Social Space of Postmodernism,"
Diaspora 1 (Fall 1991): 8-23.
20. Maria Herrera-Sobek, The Bracero Experience: Elitelore versus Folklore (Los
Angeles, 1979) and The Mexican Corrida: A Feminist Analysis (Bloomington, 1990);
Jose E. Limon, Mexican Ballads, Chicano Poems: History and Influence in Mexican
American Social Poetry (Berkeley, 1992); Manuel H. Pena, The Texas-Mexican Con-
junto: History of a Working-Class Music (Austin, 1985).
21. Tomas Almaguer, Racial Fault Lines: The Historical Origins of White Su-
premacy in California (Berkeley, 1994); David Montejano, Anglos and Mexicans in the
Making of Texas, 1836-1986 (Austin, 1987).
22. DeenaJ. Gonzalez, Resisting the Favor: The Spanish-Mexican Wome n of Santa
Fe, 1820-1880 (New York, forthcoming); Camille Guerin-Gonzales, Mexican Work-
ers and American Dreams: Immigration, Repatriation, and California Farm Labor,
1900-1939 (New Brunswick, N.J., 1994); Ramon A. Gutierrez, When Jesus Came,
the Corn Mothers Went Away: Marriage, Sexuality, and Power in New Mexico,
1500-1846 (Stanford, 1991); Lisbeth Haas, Conquests and Historical Identities in
California, 1769—1936(Berkeley, 1995); Douglas Monroy, Thrown among Strangers:
The Making of Mexican Culture in Frontier California (Berkeley, 1990); George J.
Sanchez, Becoming Mexican American: Ethnicity, Culture, and Identity in Chicano Los
Angeles, 1900-1945 (New York, 1994); Devra Weber, Dark Sweat, White Gold: Cal-
ifornia Farm Workers, Cotton, and the New Deal (Berkeley, 1994).
23. Montejano, Anglos and Mexicans, 11.
24. Adelaida Del Castillo, "Mexican Women in Organization," in Mexican
Women in the United States: Struggles Past and Present, ed. Magdalena Mora and Ade-
laida Del Castillo (Los Angeles, 1980), 9. Many women activists had come to the
painful realization that the patterns of gender subordination they experienced in soci-
ety generally were being replicated, and even intensified, within the Chicano move-
ment. For discussion of these issues in the Chicano movement, see Adaljiza Sosa
Riddell, "Chicanas and El Movimiento," Aztldn 5 (Spring and Fall 1974): 155-65,
and Sonia A. Lopez, "The Role of the Chicana within the Student Movement," in Es-
says on La Mujer, ed. Rosaura Sanchez and Rose Martinez Cruz (Los Angeles, 1977),
16-29. For more general discussions, see Maxine Baca Zinn, "Mexican-American
Women in the Social Sciences," Signs 8 (Winter 1982): 259-72; Patricia Zavella,
"The Problematic Relationship of Feminism and Chicana Studies," Women's Studies
17 (1989): 25-36; Alma M. Garcia, "The Development of Chicana Feminist Dis-
course, 1970-1980," in Unequal Sisters: A Multicultural Reader in U.S. Women's His-
tory, ed. Ellen Carol DuBois and Vicki L. Ruiz (New York, 1990), 418-31; Denise A.
Segura and Beatriz M. Pesquera, "Beyond Indifference and Antipathy: The Chicana
Movement and Chicana Feminist Discourse," Aztldn 19 (Fall 1988-1990): 69-92;
and Antonia I. Castaneda, "Women of Color and the Rewriting of Western History:
The Discourse, Politics, and Decolonization of History," Pacific Historical Review 61
(November 1992): 501-33.
25. See Antonia I. Castaneda, "Comparative Frontiers: The Migration of
Women to Alta California and New Zealand," and Vicki L. Ruiz, "Miles to Go...:
Mexican Women and Work, 1930-1950," both in Western Women: Their Lands,
Their Lives, ed. Lillian Schlissel, Vicki L. Ruiz, and Janice Monk (Albuquerque,
1988), 283-300, 117-36; Antonia I. Castaneda, "The Political Economy of Nine-
teenth Century Stereotypes of Californianas," in Between Borders: Essays on Mexi-
cana/Chicana History, ed. Adelaida R. Del Castillo (Encino, Calif., 1990), 213-36;
Sarah Deutsch, No Separate Refuge: Culture, Class, and Gender on an Anglo-Hispanic
Frontier in the American Southwest, 1880—1940 (New York, 1987); Deena J.
Gonzalez, "The Widowed Women of Santa Fe: Assessments on the Lives of an Un-
married Population, 1850-1880," in On Their Own: Widows and Widowhood in the
American Southwest, 1848-1939, ed. Arlene Scadron (Urbana, 1988), 65-90; Peggy
Pascoe, Relations of Rescue: The Search for Female Moral Authority in the American
West, 1874-1939 (New York, 1990); Susan L. Johnson, "Sharing Bed and Board:
Cohabitation and Cultural Difference in Central Arizona Mining Towns,
1863-1873," in The Women's West, ed. Susan Armitage and Elizabeth Jameson (Nor-
man, 1987), 77—92; Rosalinda M. Gonzalez, "Chicanas and Mexican Immigrant
Families, 1920-1940: Women's Subordination and Family Exploitation," in Decades
of Discontent: The Women's Movement, 1920—1940, ed. Lois Scharf and Joan M.
Jensen (Westport, Conn., 1983), 59-84; and Vicki L. Ruiz, Cannery Women, Can-
nery Lives: Mexican Women, Unionization, and the California Food Processing Industry,
1930-1950 (Albuquerque, 1987).
26. For critiques of the resistance of Chicano men to the inclusion of gender in
their historical research, see Cynthia Orozco, "Chicana Labor History: A Critique of
Male Consciousness in Historical Writing," La Red/The Net 77 (January 1984): 2-5,
and "Sexism in Chicano Studies and the Community," in Chicana Voices: Intersections
of Class, Race, and Gender, ed. Teresa Cordova et al. (Austin, 1986), 11-18, and Vicki
L. Ruiz, "Texture, Text, and Context: New Approaches in Chicano Historiography,"

Mexican Studies/Estudios Mexicanos 2 (Winter 1986): 145-52.
27. Jane Flax, "The End of Innocence," in Feminists Theorize the Political, ed. Ju-
dith Butler and Joan W. Scott (New York, 1992), 454.
28. Joan W. Scott, "Experience," in ibid., 31.
29. Cherrie Moraga and Gloria Anzaldiia, eds., This Bridge Called My Back:
Writings by Radical Women of Color (New York, 1981). Although this collection does
not explicitly focus on "the West," the authors of many of the essays write of lives ex-
perienced in the region.
30. For recent publications that build on the project first articulated in This
Bridge, see Gloria Anzaldiia, ed., Making Face, Making Soul—Hacienda Caras: Cre-
ative and Critical Perspectives by Women of Color (San Francisco, 1990), and Gloria
Anzaldua, Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza (San Francisco, 1987); Norma
Alarcon, "Traddutora, Traditora: A Paradigmatic Figure of Chicana Feminism," Cul-
tural Critique 13 (Fall 1989): 57-87; Angie Chabram-Dernersesian, "I Throw
Punches for My Race, but I Don't Want to Be a Man: Writing Us—Chica-nos (Girl,
Us)/Chicanas—into the Movement Script," in Cultural Studies, ed. Lawrence Gross-
berg, Gary Nelson, and Paula A. Treichler (New York, 1992), 81-95; Norma Alar-
con, Ana Castillo, and Cherrie Moraga, eds., Third Woman: The Sexuality of Latinos
(Berkeley, 1989); and Tomas Almaguer, "Chicano Men: A Cartography of Homo-
sexual Identity and Behavior," Differences 3 (1991): 75-100.
31. Novick, That Noble Dream, 523.
32. For recent articulations of this kind of criticism, see Arthur M. Schlesinger
Jr., The Disuniting of America (New York, 1992), and Dinesh D'Souza, Illiberal Edu-
cation: The Politics of Race and Sex on Campus (New York, 1991). For a broader view,
see James Davison Hunter, Culture Wars: The Struggle to Define America (New York,
1991).
33. For explications of such research agendas in interdisciplinary Chicana/o
studies that, in my view, have direct implications for historical scholarship (in addi-
tion to the previously cited works by Norma Alarcon, Antonia Castaneda, Angie
Chabram, Deena J. Gonzalez, Ramon A. Gutierrez, Genaro Padilla, Renato Rosaldo,
and Ramon Saldivar), see also Chela Sandoval, "U.S. Third World Feminism: The
Theory and Method of Oppositional Consciousness in the Postmodern World," Gen-
ders 10 (Spring 1991): 1-24, and articles by Richard Chabran, Angie Chabram,
Norma Alarcon, Alvina Quintana, Rosa Linda Fregoso, Yolanda Broyles Gonzalez,
Rosaura Sanchez, Michael Soldatenko-Guderrez, and Raymond Rocco in a special is-
sue of Cultural Studies entitled "Chicana/o Cultural Representations: Reframing Al-
ternative Critical Discourses," Cultural Studies 4 (October 1990).
34. Henry Louis Gates Jr., "The Weaning of America,"New Yorker (19 April
1993), 114; see also Henry Louis Gates Jr., "Trading on the Margin: Notes on the
Culture of Criticism," Loose Canons: Notes on the Culture Wars (New York, 1992),
173-93.
35. Rick Simonson and Scott Walker, eds., The Gray wo If Annual Five: Multi-
cultural Literacy (Saint Paul, 1988), xi.
COMMENTARIES
In Pursuit of a Brown West
Arnoldo De Leon
Professor David Gutierrez informs us that the most important new perspec-
tives currently being utilized to re-envision the American West may be traced
to the influence of the social movements of the 1960s. He is particularly
struck by the effect of interdisciplinary concepts in rewriting western history
and by the approaches used by scholars interested in women, gender, and sex-
uality. Of course, space limits him from speculating at length on how to revise
the story of the West. Let me, therefore, take up where Professor Gutierrez left
off by offering further possibilities.
A careful consideration of geographic areas and how they influence Mex-
ican-descent peoples might serve as a framework for understanding the diver-
sity of Hispanic communities in the West. Historians have long acknowledged
the distinctions among Tejanos, Nuevo Mexicanos, and Californios, and
though they recognize environment as a determining factor in the complexity
of the Mexican experience in the West, they have not pursued it decisively. In
1989,1 focused on this issue in an article entitled "The Tejano Experience in
Six Texas Regions,"1 and if the claim may be made that particular settings such
as the agricultural orientation of South Texas or the ranching ambient of West
Texas shape personalities as well as regional variants of Mexican-American cul-
ture, then similar arguments may be advanced concerning the impact that
mountains, rivers, plains, deserts, and forests have on Mexican residents in the
southwestern states or on inhabitants of Montana, Utah, Kansas, and Ne-
braska.
Cultural geographers might chime in with historians and find fertile
grounds for their own perspectives. Already historians are engrossed in a lively
debate over the origins and preservation of Hispano culture in northern New
Mexico; the catalyst has been Richard L. Nostrand's conception of the "His-
pano Homeland." As Nostrand sees it, the Hispanos' isolation over the gener-
ations begot a culture that is distinctive from that of Mexicanos in the rest of
the New Mexico and certainly in other regions of the West, and although
other geographer-historians have contested his thesis, Nostrand marshals a
credible group of fellow scholars to uphold his conclusions.2 Similarly, Daniel
D. Arreola of Arizona State University has looked at a variety of Mexican-
American cultural manifestations including houses and house fences, plazas,
restaurants, and murals. He finds that cultural tastes that are traceable to Mex-
ico are not entirely muted by residence in the United States and that such
sentiments produce favorite cultural expressions that distinguish a Mexican-
American identity from that of other peoples in the West.3 The historian
90
IN PURSUIT OF A BROWN WEST • 91
Antonio Ri'os-Bustamante of the University of Arizona is currently directing a

major project tentatively titled "Atlas of Mexican American History."
Historians might test the relevance of the frontier thesis to the experience
of ethnic Mexicans. Research need not necessarily focus on Frederick Jackson
Turner's major premises—that the West engendered rugged individualism,
democracy, self-reliance, improvisation, and the like—although it might. A
more appropriate interpretive framework might borrow from the musings of
Ray Allen Billington. As Billington explained his own understanding of cul-
tural geography, frontiers do not necessarily shape cultural folkways or soci-
etal traits. Instead, a healthy interaction occurs between a society and a
wilderness setting. A frontier people's cultural baggage can influence survival
responses.4 Consequently, Tejanos might have reacted somewhat differently
than did Californios or Nuevo Mexicanos to a similar environmental set-
ting, and the consequences make up different stories of assimilation and adap-
tation.
The continuity of cultures across nationhoods might have to be taken
into account in new periodizations of western history. Studies in the 1980s
showed that the year 1848—the date of the signing of the Treaty of
Guadalupe Hidalgo, which transformed Mexican residents of the Far North
into American citizens—is not the feasible beginning date for Mexican-Amer-
ican history (as the early practitioners of Chicano history had argued). The
works of Gerald E. Poyo, Gilberto M. Hinojosa, and Jesus F. de la Teja in
Texas, of Ramon A. Gutierrez and Deena Gonzalez in New Mexico, and of
Douglas Monroy and Antonia I. Castaneda in California are but a sampling
of recent studies that undermine that earlier notion.5 This reconceptualiza-
tion has meaningful implications for western history. For one thing, the once
antagonistic relationship that prevailed between the Bolton-Bannon Border-
lands school of New Spain's Far North and the newer revisionist "Chicano his-
tory" finds common ground in the linkage between the Spanish-Mexican and
Chicano experiences. More significant, historians will have to rethink notions
of the "American West" and push their beginning point to the years of the ear-
liest Spanish tntmdas. Recent studies have been doing this, and the recogni-
tion given to Ramon A. Gutierrez's When Jesus Came, the Corn Mothers Went
Away by scholars of the West encourages this consideration.
Simultaneously, historians should turn their attention to notions of
"community," "identity," and "nationalism." Historians who have made re-
cent probes into the subject have sought to determine how Mexican Ameri-
cans and their predecessors in what is today the continental United States
grappled with forces such as changing sovereignties (Spain, Mexico, and the
United States), economic systems, population movements, intellectual cur-
rents, and a plethora of other variables. New realities ordinarily lead to a
process of readjustment or of redefinement of feelings regarding allegiance
(when different governments take power), self-identity, community values,
and nationalistic tendencies, especially among immigrant communities. The
last case brings up the related topic of how international episodes touch on
events in the United States. Select examples of transnational incidents that
have determined Mexican-American history include the roles of Mexican ex-
ile Ricardo Flores Magon and the activities of his Partido Liberal Mexicano in
Los Angeles during the era of the Mexican Revolution and the diplomatic
strategy of Mexico's President Venustiano Carranza in Texas making use of the
Plan de San Diego (1915), which called for establishing a republic in the U.S.
Southwest for Mexican-origin people.6 Nationalism has also been evident in
heightened mexicanidad within Mexican-American communities, such as in
the first three decades of the twentieth century and even later at the time of
the Chicano movement (1960s and 1970s), when Mexican Americans reaf-
firmed their pre-Columbian origins.
Indeed, Professor Gutierrez's essay refers to the Chicano movement, not-
ing its impact on how historians, especially Chicanos, came to revise the way
western scholars interpreted their history. How do social movements deter-
mine the direction of intellectual discourse, then? Was the movement an ad-
vancement of sentiments previously advocated by those political leaders
before the 1960s, or was it a "militant" expression with ambiguous an-
tecedents? Historians today generally posit that the programs advanced by the
"Chicano Generation" (the politicized cohorts of the 1960s and 1970s)
amounted to little else than a recycling of ideas pressed by Mexican-American
leaders since the U.S. conquest of the borderlands in 1848, albeit more pre-
cisely advocated by men such as Ernesto Galarza, Alonso Perales, and George
I. Sanchez (to name only a few individuals) since the 1930s. Thus the move-
ment was a moderate reformist one resting squarely on the American political
tradition: it called for an opening of society in which Chicanos might gain so-
cial, economic, and political parity with Anglos.7 But there is room for others
to argue that unprecedented ideological currents characterized the
movimiento. Youths inspired it: they renounced the acculturation process and
looked to their pre-Columbian past or the Mexican Revolution for inspira-
tion, called for liberation, criticized gringo society, and advocated a return
to Aztlan. They engaged in demonstrations, marches, and school boycotts,
all methods shunned by earlier generations of leaders. Supposedly, the
movement took new directions, departing from old platforms proposed
by earlier spokespeople. Once the movement petered out by the 1970s, His-
panic ideology reverted to its more natural ties to the politics of the pre-1960s
generation.8
Julie Leininger Pycior's study titled "Lyndon Johnson, Mexican Ameri-
cans, and the American Saga" gives us a glimpse of the type of study that west-
ern historians will inevitably undertake to discern connections between
national and regional politics. Based on a wealth of sources garnered from the
National Archives, the LBJ Archives at the University of Texas, the Hector P.
Garcia Archives at Texas A&M University—Corpus Christi, and many smaller
collections, Pycior's work in progress is a model study of the relevance of U.S.
history to a minority group experience.9 Other candidates for scrutiny may be

governors such as Octaviano Larrazolo, senators such as Bronson M. Cutting,
congressmen such as Maury Maverick or Dennis Chavez, or even another
president. Such political figures need not always have had the best interest of
la raza at heart, but the manner in which their politics affected ordinary folks
at more localized levels will move us away from the tendency to concentrate
almost exclusively on microhistory.
Historians might also consider allocating a more prominent role to Ang-
los in Mexican-American history and for that matter to African Americans
and Native Americans, as Neil Foley and Ramon Gutierrez have done respec-
tively.10 Presently, for instance, Anglo Americans rarely play a part other than
oppressor and exploiter of powerless minorities in the West. Yet there are nu-
merous figures that spring to mind as "friends of Mexicans," among the most
obvious being Carey McWilliams (the journalist-historian who championed
Mexican-American causes from the 1930s to the 1960s) or even Billy the Kid.
Historians might try to unravel cordial relationships extant between barrio
members and social workers, religious figures, educators, labor union leaders,
and even political bosses who took a caring attitude toward a people they per-
ceived as being downtrodden. Other sympathetic Anglos no doubt worked
closely with ethnic Mexicans to survive the rigors of the West, to found set-
tlements, or in the twentieth century, to help in civil rights movements. One
should expect to find Anglo allies as much a part of Mexican-American his-
tory as white people have long been performers in African-American history.
Such research would end the stock portrayal of the Anglo as a villain and lead
to a more completely integrated history of the West.11
Scholars might make more deliberate efforts to present the unsavory role
that Mexican Americans have played in western history. Mexican-American
scholars still feel it is almost treasonable to bring up the darker side of their
peoples history, whereas Anglo writers think it is politically hazardous to at-
tempt the same thing. The newer western history should include honest doses
of self-analysis and self-criticism. In this revisionism, scholars would realisti-
cally identify the forms of self-oppression that have characterized Chicano
communities throughout time. How have segments of the Mexican-American
population used means—similar to the type that historians associate with
white racial control—to oppress fellow Chicanes? Did men hold restrictive
feelings regarding schooling for women in the nineteenth century? What
stands did communities take on issues such as women's suffrage or women's
political activism? Have some members of the community colluded with An-
glos to profit from economic change, even when it meant exploiting poorer
elements in their neighborhoods? In the realm of politics, how did bossism
work at the barrio and rancho levels? Very little is known of midlevel bosses,
only that they existed as lieutenants within the urban boss structure. As mid-
dlemen who came from the barrios, were they motivated by genuine concerns
for residents of their districts, or did they seek personal aggrandizement? Writ-
ers of Chicano history, the majority of whom are Mexican Americans, may
take a cue from the work of southern historians, most of them white, who dis-
play little restraint in attacking mainstream white society for its treatment of
African Americans.
Lastly, historians should revive the issue of "race" as an analytical frame of
reference for understanding western history. For a time in the 1970s, race
received a great deal of attention as a causal factor in the formation of ethnic
relations in the West, but then historians turned their attention to other sub-
ject matters. In the 1990s, a discussion concerning the place of racism in the
development of the western experience may seem dated, but in the last few
years social scientists have proposed findings that question the standard theses
that whites moved into the borderland with a set of attitudes inducing them
to think negatively of the native pobladores and that Anglos have continued to
deny Chicanos a modicum of equality. These recent theories suggest that
competition in the Southwest—over land, political control, economic oppor-
tunities, and demographic supremacy—may have been behind the rise of
racist sentiments. This approach posits that Anglos had fairly neutral notions
about race and that views about immorality, indolence, and vice emanated
from negative relations centered on certain social and economic conditions.
Only after Anglos subordinated Mexicans and forced them into exploitative
situations did the majority use racism as a rationalization for that debasement.
Those looking for a middle ground between these two arguments might ad-
vance the plausible thesis that prejudice and exploitation went hand in hand,
fueling each other as circumstances dictated.12
Chicano history, then, can be quite instructive in understanding the
American West. First, it reminds us that settlers came from all directions, not
just those areas east of the Mississippi. Indeed, the push north from Mexico
was as significant as westward expansion, a point dramatized today as His-
panics have come to compose the majority of citizens in some sections of
southwestern states (similarly, immigration from Asia in the last few decades
reminds us of still another direction). Since immigrants from Mexico after
1848 have come from diverse backgrounds and have adapted in varying de-
grees to the U.S. landscape, we now recognize that the West has never been a
homogeneous place of Anglo Saxons but includes a rainbow of peoples united
by their common commitment to the values of human liberty. The majority
of Mexican-descent people, whether previous occupiers of the borderlands or
post-1848 immigrants, faced unique limitations to their aspirations: obstacles
manifested themselves in Jim Crow traditions, wage differentials, poll taxes,
and the white man's primary. The notion of unfettered opportunity in the
West thus turns out to be myth; in many ways, Mexicans and other minori-
ties constituted the counterparts of African Americans in the South. We can
also appreciate the role that non-elites played in the western saga by taking
note of the Mexican-American experience. Chicano bibliographies today con-
sist of monographs and articles on aspects of Mexican-American history that
exclude biographies of great women and men. We have come to understand,

therefore, that little people can make as indelible an imprint on the history of
the West as do elites. Chicano history also gives us a better appreciation of the
meaning of regions. Even today, there remain discernible centers of Hispanic
concentrations: villages in northern New Mexico, towns in South Texas that
reflect a rural ambient, and sprawling barrios in cities such as East Los Ange-
les, San Antonio, and Houston. Chicano history has made the study of such
population nodes a respectable enterprise; previously, scholars regarded such
research as provincial. The lessons to be taken from Chicano history seem
lengthy.
Mexican-American history, only a bit older than a score of years, has a se-
cure spot in the history of the West, and it will play an important role in the
future re-envisioning of the West. The success of symposia that attract Bor-
derlanders, Anglo-American academicians, women scholars, and Chicano
historians reaffirms the widespread interest researchers have in this fascinating
area of study. The prominent role given to Mexican ethnics in Rodman Paul's
The Far West and the Great Plains in Transition, 1859—1900 (New York:
Harper and Row, 1988), written for the "New American Nation" series, is
further testimony to scholars' increased awareness of the Mexican-American
presence in the West.13 In the future, the task of furthering Mexican-Ameri-
can history will be carried forth by an energized coterie of up-and-coming
Mexican-American historians like David G. Gutierrez as well as Anglo-Amer-
ican colleagues trained in either Borderlands or the several subfields of west-
ern history. This cohort will consider Mexican-descent people to be as
significant to Turner's frontier as were the westering Americans whom the
Wisconsin mentor had in mind.
Notes
1. Arnoldo De Le6n, "The Tejano Experience in Six Texas Regions," West
Texas Historical Association Yearbook 65 (1989).
2. Richard L. Nostrand, "The Hispano Homeland in 1900," Annals of the As-
sociation of American Geographers 70 (September 1980): 382-96; Miles Hansen,
"Commentary: The Hispano Homeland in 1900," ibid., 71 (June 1981): 280-82;
Richard L. Nostrand, "Comments in Reply," ibid., 282—83; J. M. Blaut and Antonio
Rios-Bustamante, "Commentary on Nostrand's 'Hispanos' and Their 'Homeland,'"
ibid., 74 (1984): 157-64; Richard L. Nostrand, "Hispano Cultural Distinctiveness:
A Reply," ibid., 164-69; "Rejoinders," ibid., 16-71; Richard L. Nostrand, The His-
pano Homeland (Norman, 1992); Richard L. Nostrand and Lawrence E. Estaville Jr.,
"Introduction: The Homeland Concept," Journal of Cultural Geography 13
(Spring/Summer 1993): 1-4; Richard L. Nostrand, "The New Mexico-Centered
Hispano Homeland," ibid.; Sylvia Rodriguez, The Hispano Homeland Debate (Stan-
ford, 1986).
3. Among Arreola's numerous contributions are "Mexican Restaurants in Tuc-
son," Journal of Cultural Geography 3 (Spring/Summer 1983): 108-14; "Fences as

Landscape Taste: Tucson's Barrios," ibid., 2 (Fall/Winter 1981): 96-105; "Mexican
American Exterior Murals," Geographical Review 74 (October 1984): 409-24; "Mex-
ican American Housescapes," ibid., 78 (July 1988): 299-315; "Plaza Towns of South
Texas," ibid., 82 (January 1992): 56-73.
4. David J. Weber, The Mexican Frontier, 1821-1846: The American Southwest
under Mexico (Albuquerque, 1982), 277-79.
5. Gerald E. Poyo and Gilberto M. Hinojosa, Tejano Origins in Eighteenth-
Century San Antonio (Austin, 1991); Jesus F. de la Teja, A Revolution Remembered:
The Memoirs and Selected Correspondence of Juan N. Seguin (Austin, 1 99 1); Ramon A.
Gutierrez, When Jesus Came, the Corn Mothers Went Away: Marriage, Sexuality, and
Power in New Mexico, 1500-1846 (Stanford, 1991); DeenaJ. Gonzalez, "The Span-
ish Mexican Women of Santa Fe: Patterns of Their Resistance and Accommodation,
1820-1880" (Ph.D. diss., University of California, Berkeley, 1986); Douglas Mon-
roy, Thrown among Strangers: The Making of Mexican Culture in Frontier California
(Berkeley, 1990); Antonia I. Castaneda, " Presidarias y Pobladoras: Spanish-Mexican
Women in Frontier Monterey, Alta California, 1770-1821" (Ph.D. diss., Stanford
University, 1990).
6. James A. Sandos, Rebellion in the Borderlands: Anarchism and the Plan of San
Diego, 1904-1923 (Norman, 1992); Don M. Coerver and Linda B. Hall, Texas and
the Mexican Revolution: A Study in State and National Border Policy (San Antonio,
1984), 85-108.
7. Carlos Mufioz, Youth, Identity, Power: The Chicano Movement (New York,
1989); Mario T. Garcia, Mexican Americans: Leadership, Ideology, and Identity,
1930—1960 (New Haven, 1989); Juan Gomez-Quinones, Chicano Politics: Reality
and Promise, 1940-1990 (Albuquerque, 1990).
8. Mufioz, Youth, Identity, Power; and Garcia, Mexican Americans.
9. Early pieces from that forthcoming monograph are "From Hope to Frustra-
tion: Mexican Americans and Lyndon Johnson in 1967," Western Historical Quarterly
24 (November 1993): 469-94, and "Lyndon, La. Raza, and the Paradox of Texas His-
tory," in Lyndon Baines Johnson and the Exercise of Power, ed. Bernard J. Firestone and
Robert D. Vogt (Westport, Conn., 1988).
10. Neil Foley, "The New South in the Southwest: Anglos, Blacks, and Mexi-
cans in Central Texas, 1880-1930" (Ph.D. diss., University of Michigan, 1990);
Gutierrez, When Jesus Came,
1 1 . Arnoldo De Leon, "Our Gringo Amigos: Anglo Americans and the Tejano
Experience," East Texas Historical Journal 32 (1993): 72-99.
12. Kenneth L. Stewart and Arnoldo DeLeon, Not Room Enough: Mexicans, An-
glos, and Socioeconomic Change in Texas, 1850—1900 (Albuquerque, 1993), 73—74,
82-84.
13. Other works include Richard White, "It's Your Misfortune and None of My
Own ": A New History of the American West (Norman, 1991), and David J. Weber, The
Spanish Frontier in North America (New Haven, 1992).
Interpreting Voice and Locating Power
Vicki L. Ruiz
The indigenous peoples of California were astute observers as they recorded

the movements of the Spanish-speaking strangers who arrived on their shores
during the late eighteenth century. With a mixture of fascination and suspi-
cion, they noted the strangers' manners (including the lack thereof),
weapons, livestock, and appearance. Certainly they noticed the absence of
women. In a memorandum dated 22 June 1774, Junipero Serra wryly com-
mented that the Indians believed the Spaniards to be "the sons of the mules
on which they rode."1 In reviewing Chicano historiography over the past
twenty years, one might reach a similar conclusion. With a growing number
of exceptions,2 Chicano history has meant just that—Chicano, with emphasis
on the masculine ending. Gender has rarely surfaced as a category of analysis.
The next twenty years will be different. Professor David Gutierrez's brilliant
essay moves beyond historiography as he identifies a plethora of issues to be
questioned and problematized. He offers possible theoretical directions in a
field inhabited by specialized monographs. He challenges us to consider a
conceptual sweep of Chicano history drawing on frameworks rooted in phi-
losophy, feminist studies, and literary criticism. I would like to continue this
discussion—adding my own modifications through a blend of historiography
and primary documents, blending interpretation and voice.
Race, class, and gender have become familiar watchwords, maybe even
forming a mantra, for social historians, but few such historians have gotten
beneath the surface to explore the intersections of these words in a manner
that sheds light on power and powerless ness, boundaries and voice, hegemony
and agency. In deciphering conceptions of power, one must consider the pol-
itics and interplay of gender and sexuality. Drawing on exciting, innovative
studies by borderlands and nineteenth-century scholars as well as my own re-
search, I would like to share with you my thoughts on compadrazgo/co-
madrazgo—the ties of godparenthood established through the sacrament of
baptism. Refracted through the lens of gender, race, and social location, a case
study of comadrazgo offers a glimpse into cultural production, class forma-
tion, and community building on the Spanish-Mexican frontier.
Few scholars of the Mexican North would deny the pervasive web of pa-
triarchy that shaped relations between women and men. Yet women had their
own worlds of influence, rooted in female networks based on ties of consan-
guine and fictive kinship. The works of Helen Lara Cea, Antonia Castaneda,
Angelina Veyna, Ramon Gutierrez, Douglas Monroy, and James Brooks pro-
vide valuable explorations into women's relations across class and ethnicity.3
Helen Lara Cea, in particular, brings out the "lay ministry" role of women set-
97
tiers who, as midwives to mission neophytes, baptized sickly or stillborn

babies. As godmothers for these infants, they established the bonds of
comadrazgo between indigenous and Spanish-Mexican women.4 The impor-
tance of the comadre relationship lasted well beyond the mission era. In We
Fed Them Cactus, New Mexico native Fabiola Cabeza de Baca, born in 1894,
recalled her grandmother's efforts to control smallpox.
When she went to live in La Liendre, there were terrible outbreaks of small-
pox and she had difficulty convincing the villagers that vaccination was a so-
lution. Not until she had a godchild in every family was she able to control
the dreaded disease. In Spanish tradition, a godmother takes the responsibil-
ity of a real mother, and in that way, grandmother conquered many super-
stitions. . . . At least she had the power to decide what should be done to
her godchildren.5
Acculturation was not a one-way street. Spanish-speaking women
adopted many of the herbal remedies used by indigenous peoples. One source
claimed that Eulalia Perez (the healer, teacher, and quartermaster at the San
Gabriel mission) had at her disposal every California "herb . . . that was
known to possess healing qualities" and that she "had learned of their proper-
ties from the Indians."6 The close contact between Indians and colonists
alarmed some sectors of the elite in both California and New Mexico. Gover-
nor Pedro Pages, for example, "issued orders to regulate the number of Indi-
ans allowed in the pueblo at any given time and to prohibit those who did
from staying overnight."7
The relationship between Spanish-Mexican and Indian women forms a
fascinating and portentous research area. To what extent did a shared "sister-
hood" exist and under what conditions? Senora Dona Juana Machado Alipaz
de Ridington, in her reminiscence housed at the San Diego Historical Society
Research Archives, related the story of how in 1838 Ceseara, an India servant,
warned herpatrona (or mistress), Eustaquia Lopez, of an impending attack on
Rancho Jamul. "Dona Eustaquia with much prudence went to the room
where her daughters were sewing; she told them to leave their work, take their
reboso [sic] . . . and go for a walk along the edge of the cornfield." And in
this way, the family escaped.8 Conversely, as Antonia Castaneda pointed out,
during the Bear Flag Revolt Rosalia Vallejo de Leese, "who was pregnant and
herself a prisoner of John C. Fremont," refused to obey Fremont's orders that
she turn over her India servant for the entertainment of his officers.9
Historians like Ramon Gutierrez, Douglas Monroy, and Antonia Cas-
taneda also acknowledge the exploitation among women of differing classes,
races, and social position. For women in domestic service, racial and class
hierarchies undermined any pretense of a shared sisterhood. In San Antonio,
Texas, in 1735, Anttonia Lusgardia Ernandes sued her former patron for cus-
tody of their son. Her testimony bears witness to the conditions of servitude
and, by inference, the nexus between patriarchy and race-class hegemony.
INTERPRETING VOICE AND LOCATING POWER • 99
I, Anttonia Lusgardia Ernandes, a free mulatta residing in the presidio, do

hereby appear before your Lordship in the best form according to law and
my own interests and state that about eight or nine years ago I entered the
home of Don Miguel Nunes, taking a daughter of mine with me. I entered
the said home without any salary whatever and while I was working in the
said home of Don Miguel Nunes Morillo I suffered so much from lack of
clothing and from mistreatment of my humble person that I left the said
house and went to the home of Alberto Lopez, taking two children with me,
one of whom I had when I entered the home of the said Don Miguel and an-
other which I gave birth to in his home. Just for this reason, and because his
wife baptized the same creature, he, exercising absolute power, snatched
away from me my son—the only man I have and the one who I hope will
eventually support me. He took him from the house where I live and carried
him to his own, I being but a poor, helpless woman whose only protection is
a good administration and a good judicial system. Your Lordship will please
demand that the said Don Miguel Nunes, without the least delay, shall pro-
ceed to deliver my son to me without making any excuses. I wish to make use
of all the laws in my favor, and of Your Lordship, as a father and protector of
the poor and helpless, as well as anything else which might be in my favor.10
Admitting paternity, Miguel Nunes Morillo claimed that his former servant
had relinquished the child to his wife. The court, however, remanded custody
of the child to Ernandes on the condition that she give her son "a proper
home."11 Under these circumstances, the sacrament of baptism did little to
promote women's networks across class and race.
The Ernandes case seemed exceptional in that a servant had challenged
her former master in court. Indentured servitude was prevalent on the colo-
nial frontier. Ramon Gutierrez persuasively argues that captive Indians
pressed into bondage by New Mexican colonists formed their own caste. Af-
ter serving their time, these gem'zaros (or detribalized peoples) created their
own communities separate from the colonists.12
Bonded labor persisted well into the nineteenth century. California
rancher Cave Couts and his wife Ysidora Bandini de Couts regularly appeared
before the local courts to secure Indian children from desperate, indigent par-
ents. Dona Ysidora, for example, paid $50 to indenture a six-year-old child
named Sasaria for a period of twelve to fifteen years.13
Evidence of indenturement appears in both political documents and cul-
tural artifacts. Oral tradition has preserved this legacy. A version of a New
Mexican folk song "Una Indita en su Chinante" (An Indian Girl in Her Gar-
den) includes the following verse:
The Comanche and his wife

Went to Santa Fe,
To sell the little Comanches
For sugar and coffee.14
Indenturement and domestic service bring out the fissures marking colo-
nial society. However, women's interactions across race and social location15
did not necessarily revolve around a mistress-maid relationship. The reminis-
cence of Senora Dona Jesus Moreno de Soza reveals a lively interchange be-
tween a Mexicana and an Apache woman at a fiesta in Tucson. "[The park]
used to have a dancing platform. Once it happened that an Apache squaw
named Luisa was dancing." According to Moreno de Soza: "When Petrita
Santa Cruz . . . came along, and looking at the Apache squaw said, 'That is
enough get out, we want to dance.' The Apache squaw replied, 'I am a person,
too. "16
Another intriguing piece of evidence, a letter written by Rosita Rodrigues
to her father in 1846, offers a glimpse into the relationships among Mexican
women and Native Americans: "I remained a prisoner among the Comanche
Indians about one year during which time I was obliged to work very hard,
but was not otherwise badly treated as I was the property of an Old Squaw
who became much attached to me and would not allow me to be ill treated.
My little boy Incarnacion is still a prisoner among the Comanches. I heard
from him a short time ago—he was well and hearty but he is pure Indian
now. "17
Bonded labor cut both ways, but as the above letter indicates, tribal adop-
tion could soften the situation. The work of the historian James Brooks illus-
trates how "captives" became "cousins" through the exchanges of women and
children between Spanish-Mexican colonists and indigenous peoples. Brooks
posits that a "community of interests" developed between subsistence mestizo
farmers and their Indian neighbors and that the New Mexican elite became
increasingly concerned that area villagers were acculturating to native ways.18
Don Fernando de la Concha, for instance, firmly believed that New Mexican
settlers "love distance . . . in order to adopt the liberty and slovenliness they
see . . . in their neighbors, the wild Indians."19
I would argue that the comadre relationship, whether established through
the sacrament of baptism or the rite of tribal adoption, could foster ties be-
tween mestizo colonists and Native Americans. "Class," as defined by a shared
lifestyle, served to bridge differences in culture and social location. This pat-
tern also holds up when examining fictive kinship within the walls of the Cal-
ifornia missions, where soldier and settler wives baptized indigenous infants.
The elites, -with the seigneurial worldview, used compadmzgo as a venue of so-
cial control, whereas mestizos and Indians conferred a more polycratic mean-
ing to baptism and adoption. James Brooks pairs the terms exploitation and
negotiation in his perceptive analysis of intercultural relations on the New
Mexican frontier.20 The critical issue here is power. Indeed, women's histories
must be reconceptualized "as a series of dialectical relations among and across
races and classes of women representing diverse cultures and unequal
power."21
For over twenty years, social historians have grappled with the hows and
INTERPRETING VOICE AND LOCATING POWER • 101
whys of recording histories premised on people. As an outgrowth of their ef-

forts, integration has become the buzzword in curriculum reform, a term that
suggests the inclusion of gender and/or race. Integration is but a small step to-
ward the goal, not the goal itself. Infusion and intersection across theory and
evidence—genderizing, racializing, and signifying class—must be the task at
hand. As Ellen DuBois and I profess in the second edition to Unequal Sisters:
"We do not want to become so engulfed in theoretical abstraction that we lose
touch with human action; and yet, we can no longer avoid analyzing the lan-
guages, attending to the silences, and decoding the symbols by which people
place themselves in history. In the end, situating historical experience and
understanding how it has been constructed may help us arrive at a new, more
inclusive synthesis."22 However, in our quest for a representative (dare I say
"multicultural"?) history of the U.S. West, we must listen to the voices.
Knowledge of cultural studies, deconstruction, and feminist theories can help
us become better listeners, but they can never replace the sentiments expressed
by the actors themselves.
Notes
I would like to thank Victor Becerra and Clyde Milner for their encouragement and
patience and James Brooks, Ellen DuBois, Ramon Gutierrez, and Angelina Veyna for
their insights and friendship.
1. "Memorandum dated June 22, 1774," in Antonine Tibesar, ed., The Writ-
ings ofjunipero Serra, vol. 2 (Washington, D.C., 1955), 87.
2. Historical monographs in which gender takes center stage include the fol-
lowing: Sarah Deutsch, No Separate Refuge: Culture, Class, and Gender on an Anglo-
Hispanic Frontier in the American Southwest, 1880-1940 (New York, 1987); Ramon
Power in New Mexico, 1500-1846(Stanford, 1991); DeenaJ. Gonzalez, Refusing The
Favor: The Spanish-Mexican Women of Santa Fe, 1820-1880 (New York, forthcom-
ing); and Vicki L. 'Rmz,Cannery Women, Cannery Lives: Mexican Women, Unioniza-
tion, and the California Food Processing Industry, 1930—1950 (Albuquerque, 1987).
For a focus on the family, see Richard Griswold del Castillo, La Familia: The Mexican
American Family in the Urban Southwest (Notre Dame, 1984). Pathbreaking collec-
tions devoted to Chicana scholarship are Adelaida R. Del Castillo, ed., Between Bor-
ders: Essays on Mexicana/Chicana History (Los Angeles, 1990), and Beatriz Pesquera
and Adela de la Torre, eds., Building with Our Hands: Directions in Chicana Scholar-
ship (Berkeley, 1993). In addition, the following historical and interdisciplinary an-
thologies also incorporate Chicana scholarship: Magdalena Mora and Adelaida R. Del
Castillo, eds., Mexican Women in the United States: Struggles Past and Present (Los An-
geles, 1980); Joan Jensen and Darlis Miller, eds., New Mexico Women: Intercultural
Perspectives (Albuquerque, 1986); Susan Armitage and Elizabeth Jameson, eds., The
Women's West (Norman, 1987); Vicki L. Ruiz and Susan Tiano, eds.,Women on the
U.S.-Mexico Border: Responses to Change (\ 987; reprint, Boulder, 1991); Lillian Schlis-
sel, Vicki L. Ruiz, and Janice Monk, Western Women: Their Land, Their Lives (Albu-
querque, 1988); Ellen Carol DuBois and Vicki L. Ruiz, Unequal Sisters: A Multicul-
tural Reader in U.S. Women's History (New York, 1990); Vicki L. Ruiz and Ellen
Carol DuBois, Unequal Sisters, Second Edition (New York, 1994); and Susan Ar-
mitage and Elizabeth Jameson, Writing the Range (Norman, in press). Furthermore,
seeAztMns first-ever volume on gender, "Las obreras: The Politics of Work and Fam-
Hy,"Aztl4n2Q (1991): 1-2 [actual publication date, 1993].
3. Helen Lara Cea, "Notes on the Use of Parish Registers in the Reconstruction
of Chicana History in California Prior to 1850," in Del Castillo, Between Borders,
131-59; Antonia I. Castaneda, "Presidarias y Pobladoras: Spanish-Mexican Women
in Frontier Monterey, Aha California, 1770-1821" (Ph.D. diss., Stanford University,
1990); Antonia I. Castaneda, "Spanish and English Speaking Women on Worldwide
Frontiers: A Discussion of the Migration of Women to Alta California and New
Zealand," in Schlissel, Ruiz, and Monk, Western Women, 283-300; Angelina F.
Veyna, "'It Is My Last Wish That . . .': A Look at Nuevo Mexicanas through Their
Testaments," in Pesquera and De la Torre, Building with Our Hands, 91-108; Gutier-
rez, When Jesus Came; Douglas Monroy, Thrown among Strangers: The Making of
Mexican Culture in Frontier California (Berkeley, 1990); and James F. Brooks, "'This
Evil Extends Especially to the Feminine Sex': Captivity and Identity in New Mexico,
1700-1847" (seminar paper, University of California, Davis, 1992), forthcoming in
Armitage and Jameson, Writing the Range.
4. Lara Cea, "Parish Registers," 140-42.
5. Fabiola Cabeza de Baca, We Fed Them Cactus (Albuquerque, 1954), 60.
6. Mrs. A. S. C. Forbes, Mission Tales in the Days of the Dons (Los Angeles,
1926), 174—75. The narrative of Eulalia Perez has been preserved at the Bancroft Li-
brary. See Eulalia Perez, "A Viejay Sus Recuerdos" (1876), Bancroft Library, Univer-
sity of California, Berkeley.
7. Brooks, "This Evil," 5-7; Antonio Rios-Bustamante and Pedro Castillo, An
Illustrated History of Mexican Los Angeles, 1781-1985 (Los Angeles, 1986), 53.
8. Castaneda, "Spanish and English Speaking Women," 293; Senora Dona
Juana Machado Alipaz de Ridington, "Times Gone By in Alta California" (1878),
San Diego Historical Society Research Archives.
9. Castaneda, "Spanish and English Speaking Women," 292.
10. "Child Custody, Mulatto Woman" (9 August 1735), Bexar Archives, Barker
History Center, University of Texas, Austin.
11. Bexar Archives Inventory, "Child Custody, Mulatto Woman" (9 August
1735).
12. Gutierrez, When Jesus Came, 179-80, 195-97, 305.
13. Monroy, Thrown among Strangers, 192-93.
14. John Donald Robb, Folk Music of New Mexico and the Southwest: A Self-Por-
trait of a People (Norman, 1980), 442. The verse in the original Spanish follows:
El comanche y la comancha
se fueron para Santa Fe
a vender los comanchilos
por aziicar y cafe.
INTERPRET™ G VOICE AND LOCATING POWER • 103
15. By "social location," I refer to a combination of race and class. A mestiza sub-
sistence farmer, for example, may have shared ethnic and kinship ties with a Pueblo
woman, and their standards of living may have been similar, but these women occu-
pied different strata or social locations within colonial life.
16. Senora Dona Jesus Moreno de Soza, "Reminiscences" (1939), Antonio Soza
Papers, Arizona Historical Society Library, Tucson. Note: Although suffering their
own share of stereotypes, some Mexican women, such as Moreno de Soza, did not
hesitate to use the term squaw when referring to Native American women. Seemingly
unaware of the contradiction, they adopted Anglo stereotypes of Indian women.
17. Rosita Rodrfgues, "Letter to Don Miguel Rodrigues" (15 January 1846),
Barker History Center.
18. Brooks, "This Evil," 2-7, 8-9, 16. For an elaboration of these issues, see
James F. Brooks, "Captives and Cousins: Bondage and Identity in New Mexico,
1700-1837" (Master's thesis, University of California, Davis, 1991).
19. Donald E. Worcester, trans., "Don Fernando de la Concha to Lieutenant
Colonial Don Fernando Chacon, Advice on Governing New Mexico, 1794," New
Mexico Historical Review 24 (1949): 250.
20. Lara Cea, "Parish Registers," 139-42; Brooks, "This Evil," 4.
21. DuBois and Ruiz, Unequal Sisters: A Multicultural Reader, xiii.
22. Ruiz and DuBois, Unequal Sisters, Second Edition, xv.
Echo Park, Dinosaur National Monument. Courtesy National Archives.
4
A Place of Extremes:
Nature, History,
and the American West
Susan Rhoades Neel
Not far from the tiny gas-and-go town of Dinosaur, Colorado, a ragged
dirt road drops off a high plateau and heads down toward the confluence
of the Green and Yampa Rivers. Deep in a desert canyon, the road ends at
a place called Echo Park. Here the Green River loops back on its course,
carving a long, narrow peninsula from a red sandstone massif. A sheer rock
wall, awash with great streaks of desert varnish, rises from the water's edge.
The river is not wide—a good arm could send a stone across—nor is it
boisterous, as rivers so often are in this canyon country. Like a ribbon of
molten glass, the water glides by noiselessly, carrying along the odd bit of
cottonwood duff on its glistening surface. There is a profound stillness
here, as though the earth had drawn a deep breath and held it. Nature's or-
dinary chatterings—the persistent flutter of windblown leaves, the scuffle
of a rabbit dashing helter-skelter through the scrub—all are rendered in-
consequential by the immense, silent stone. Not even the murmuring of
children at play on the riverbank breaks the spell of quietude.
I take the road to Echo Park often, sometimes in my Jeep, sometimes
only in my dreams. I go there to remind myself that the "nature" in the ti-
tle of this essay is not merely an academic abstraction and that western his-
tory is best, truest, when it keeps nature in sight. I have little interest in a
history that would posit places like Echo Park as counterpoints to the sup-
posed depravity of modern life, their beauty and wildness posed as a sting-
ing rebuke to our own "unnaturalness." Such a history does no more than
perpetuate our imagined separation from nature. What we need is a his-
tory that has at its heart this simple but enduring truth: nature has shaped
us as surely as we have it. With every turn of the season, touch of the hand,
105
or gaze into the vast blue sky, nature and culture together have made this
place called the West. By attending as much to the workings of the natural
world as to the human one, western history can serve to remind us that in
being part of nature we are bound by it and that humans alone are not the
measure of all things. And that is why, for me, all western history begins at
Echo Park—and ends there too.
The New Western Regionalism

Westerners, to paraphrase Wallace Stegner, seem to need a history to
match the scenery. We are intent on rooting our region's exceptionalism
and significance in the land, in its vastness, its magnificence, even its
harshness. Out West, it is said, nature has worked some kind of wonder,
transforming the ordinary into the remarkable, the old into the new,
molding us into a more audacious and egalitarian people or, depending on
who is telling the tale, into a society of extraordinary villainy and rapa-
ciousness. From Frederic Remington to Kevin Costner, from Frederick
Jackson Turner to Patricia Nelson Limerick, the western environment has
been central to our popular and scholarly envisionings of the West's his-
tory. Like the strong, steady current of the Green River, the idea of a dis-
tinctive western society shaped by a distinctive nature courses through the
canyons of our imagined past. This is no less true of the "new" western his-
torians than the old, for they too have found in nature both means and
moral for the West's past. The new western history, for all its theoretical so-
phistication and attentiveness to the too-long-neglected issues of cultural
diversity, race, class, and gender, continues in significant ways to be con-
figured around ideas about nature and its role in shaping western society.
My purpose here is to consider why this is so and to critically examine
some of the philosophical and historiographical assumptions about the
environment present in recent efforts to reconfigure western history.
For the most part, the new western history takes as its starting point
the idea that the West is a specific, identifiable place and that western his-
tory is properly the story of how that region was formed and reproduced
over time through the interaction of diverse cultures with each other and
with nature. Regionalism, of course, is nothing new to western history.1
Walter Prescott Webb made the case for a regional approach in his classic
1931 study The Great Plains.2 Webb began with what he believed any
westerner knew—that the West was different. Its customs, institutions,
and habits of mind were unlike those in any other part of the nation. He
dismissed traditional interpretations of western history because they failed
to account for the West's enduring distinctiveness. Much like the plains-
A PLACE OF EXTREMES • 107
men he so admired, Webb imagined himself breaking trail, abandoning

"well-established principles of thinking about the West and the frontier."3
Webb found the source of his region's exceptionalism in its environ-
ment. Virtually the entire reach of the continental United States west of
the ninety-eighth meridian, he noted, is characterized by at least two of
three key features-—insufficiency of rainfall, lack of trees, and flatness of
terrain. With a hubris typical of the young Texan, Webb labeled this vast
reach "the Great Plains environment." His argument was simple: the west-
ern environment was so different from the humid, forested East that set-
tlers were compelled to abandon old ways of doing things and to innovate
new technologies, methods of agriculture, and laws. For Webb, all of west-
ern history flowed from the wellspring of environment. "This land," he
concluded, "with the unity given it by its three dominant characteristics
has from the beginning worked its inexorable effect upon nature's chil-
dren."4
The flaws in Webb's history are manifest. Having claimed the West
for his subject, he rarely saw beyond Texas. He overemphasized geo-
graphic unity within the West by ignoring what did not fit (the Rocky
Mountains, for example), underestimated similarities between East and
West, and in some instances, incorrectly attributed western origins to
technologies innovated elsewhere. Even as he wrote The Great Plains, its
environmental essentialism and determinism had fallen into disfavor
among geographers and historians alike. Webb also indulged in racial
stereotyping, moving Indians, the Spanish, and Mexicans on and off the
stage of his historical drama for the sole purpose of demonstrating by
comparison the adaptive "genius" of white settlers. As for women, Webb
saw the West as "strictly a man's country." Yet for all its egregious faults,
Webb's regionalism has had a certain attraction for those seeking a new
western history. Never mind that his reading of the West's history was im-
perfect; his accomplishment was in finding the right vantage point from
which to get the best view—the fixed ground of region. The current re-
newed enthusiasm for region as an organizing concept for western history
stems from several historiographical and ideological concerns.
For the latest cadre of historians determined to wrest western history
from the vice of Frederick Jackson Turner, regionalism's greatest appeal is
as a counterparadigm to the frontier thesis.5 Turner too put nature at the
center of western history. Nature, Turner said, made America out there in
those many places called the West, For Turner, nature was a transforming
agent, an object of Euro-American desire, a stage for the play and.a
metaphor for the drama's meaning. On Turner's frontier, nature served as
a cornucopia of potential commodities, an abundance of resources, un-
used and free for the taking, beckoning successive waves of frontier arche-
types ever westward. From the act of exploiting nature, capitalizing on its
potential, flowed all the accoutrements of "civilized" society—communi-
ties, markets, transportation systems, political institutions, law. Desiring
its resources, Euro-Americans turned what they called "wilderness" into
settled, "civilized" terrain, but in doing so, they were themselves trans-
formed. On the frontier, Turner said, the wildness of unsettled nature ini-
tially overwhelmed the newcomers and reduced them to a sort of
"primitiveness." Thus purged of Old World habits, the frontiersman soon
regained his composure and set about his business—furs were taken, trees
felled, cattle fattened. From this contest between nature and colonist
emerged a unique American character and a distinctive political culture—
what Turner saw as those most American of sensibilities: individualism
and democracy.
For more than a half century, scholars have cataloged the defects in
Turner's postulation of history, not least among these being its artificial ge-
ography of "civilized" and "savage" space and Turner's wonder-working
nature, deterministic and yet vaguely mystical, always the agent of change
but never the patient.6 Nationalistic, simplistic, and hopelessly mired in
metaphors of racial and sexual domination, Turner's frontier thesis seems
to tell us more about the ambitions and anxieties of his own age than
about the realities of Euro-American settlement or, more specifically,
about the history of that region we now call the West. Some historians
have argued for a renovation of the frontier thesis by purging it of Turner's
jingoism and social Darwinist assumptions. It is possible to embrace
within the idea of moving frontiers a diversity of cultures and to acknowl-
edge the appalling consequences of expansionism for many of those peo-
ples and much of the land. But other critics insist that such a retooling is
wrongheaded because it overlooks the frontier's most serious conceptual
flaws. Lost in space but stuck in time, the frontier is at once too broad and
too narrow a concept. It has always seemed more mythic than real, not a
place but a process so sweeping in effect and occurring in so many places
that it defies substantive or specific description.
Trying to understand the West from the perspective of the frontier is
like viewing the scenery from a moving car—the passing terrain is blurred
and distorted. Calling the idea of frontier "abstract," "bewildering," and
"unsubtle," the new regionalists insist that it is better to pull the car over,
turn off the engine, and survey the vista in all its stationary detail. Focus-
ing on region seems to give concreteness to western history, a "down-to-
earth clarity," says Limerick.7 Replacing frontier with region also allows
historians to connect the twentieth-century West with its past. By its very
definition, frontier history comes to an end, thus leaving more than a hun-
dred years of western history without a conceptual mooring. Concentrate
on place rather than process, however, and 1890 appears not as an end but
as only one of many historical watersheds. "Deemphasize the frontier and
its supposed end," Limerick says, "and Western American history has a
new look."8
This "new look" strikes powerful personal and ideological chords
among many new western historians. Underlying this most recent effort
to replace the frontier paradigm with regionalism is a sense, forged from
the historians' own experiences, that the history of a real place and those
who made their lives there has been distorted and obscured by the "va-
porous frontier." Of all its failings, it is the frontier's apparent inability to
explain the West in which we now live that has most animated the turn to
regionalism. "I am from Banning, California, a town on the edge of the
desert," says Limerick at the outset of her essay "What on Earth Is the
New Western History?" Recalling her childhood experience of that dry
place, Limerick questions "standing models of western history [that] sim-
ply won't fit Banning regardless of how you trim and stitch, tighten and
loosen."9 Limerick and others have embraced regionalism because it seems
to be the explanatory model best able to account for those places that they
know as home and those experiences that resonate through their own lives
and family stories.10
For many new western historians, landscape and personal narrative
intertwine into a singular trope, that of a hard life in a hard land, of envi-
ronmental and social declension witnessed. "I have never been able to
think of the West as Turner did, as some process in motion," says Donald
Worster. "Instead, I think of it as a distinct place inhabited by distinct peo-
ple: people like my parents, driven out of western Kansas by dust storms
to an even hotter, drier life in Needles, California, working along the way
in flyblown cafes, fruit orchards, and on railroad gangs, always feeling
dwarfed by the bigness of the land and by the economic power accumu-
lated there." The historian's witness of a life lived out in an identifiably
"western" environment serves as emblem for the larger, regional narrative.
As it did for Webb, the idea of a western exceptionalism rooted in a dis-
tinctive environment fits the new western historians' sense of place. West-
erners are different, Banning is not like Portage, Wisconsin, and at some
visceral level it feels right to link that difference to the land. "I know in my
bones, if not always through my education, that Webb was right," says
Worster. n
For Worster and many of his contemporaries, regionalism reflects a
particular ideological outlook as well as a personal sense of western place
and experience. More than mere geographic space, region can be thought
of as a social ideal. Nineteenth-century regionalists such as Josiah Royce
argued that regional consciousness or, in his words, "wise provincialism"
fostered orderly and moral community life amid an increasingly frag-
mented and materialistic society. Turner believed that regional societies
were free from the exploitative and transitory tendencies of the frontier yet
were resistant to the instability and divisiveness of an urban, industrial-
based nationalism. For twentieth-century regionalists such as Howard W.
Odum and Lewis Mumford, region represented the level of human orga-
nization at which diversity was most likely to be balanced into a harmo-
nious unity. These regionalists based their social ideal on what they
perceived as the diversity and balance of nature and believed that regional
societies were best because they most effectively connect human beings
with their natural environment.12
This tradition of regionalism has influenced much of the new western
history. Rejecting the idea of scholarship as neutral or objective, the new
western historians have adopted the stance of social critics and reformers.13
In the past, they argue, are to be found the roots of a contemporary West
rife with racial injustice, economic inequity, and wanton destruction of
the environment. An imperfect understanding of the past, however, has
too often blinded us to these problems and inhibited efforts to correct
them. Only by lifting the veil of old Turnerian mythologies, the western
historians argue, can society be reformed. If we are to create a more hu-
mane and just society, we must begin by taking a cold, hard look at our
flawed past. "We need new kinds of heroes," says Worster, "a new appreci-
ation of nature's powers of recovery, and new sense of purpose in this re-
gion—all of which means we need a new past."14 The purpose of western
history ought to be, in Worster's words, to "discover a new regional iden-
tity and set of loyalties, more inclusive and open to diversity than we have
known, more compatible with a planet-wide sense of ecological responsi-
bility."15 In such a western history, region serves as the conceptual bridge
between interpretation of the past and the historians' reformist agenda.
The new western history, in summary, has headed for the terra firma
of region because it constitutes a literal and intellectual landscape espe-
cially appealing to the most recent generation of western historians. Con-
cerns about the role of nature in the West's history and about human
impact on the environment are central to the historiographical foundation
of the new regionalism as well as to its broader philosophical underpin-
nings. The challenge confronting the new regionalists is to articulate what
Michael Malone calls a "genuine regionalism," that is, a paradigm that
does more than simply tip its hat to the idea of the West as a distinctive
place before dancing off with older interpretive modes.16 Not surprisingly,
in trying to construct such a paradigm, the new regionalists have relied on
their own particular reading of western environmental history and of the
environment itself in order to define the region and to find for its past a
new significance and narrative structure.
Aridity and the Definition of "West"

In his essay "New West, True West," Donald Worster urges historians to
ignore the western history path marked out by Turner and to follow in-
stead the road sign reading "To a fixed geographic region."17Turner's path,
the new regionalists warn, is covered with brambles so thick and thorny
that we will never reach our destination. But the road to region, we are as-
sured, is unobstructed, the route straight and true. We won't get lost be-
cause the place called the West is set out on the map for all to see. Forget
that "vague mythical landscape" of frontier and think region, Worster
says, and the West takes on "a clear, concrete shape."18 Yet for all its
promised clarity, the concept of the West as place turns out to be as prob-
lematic in its own ways as the idea of frontier. Whatever virtues region
may have over frontier, precision and constancy are not among them.
Nothing better illustrates this than the role accorded environment in the
efforts to define what constitutes the West.
Regionalists have long defined the West by a singular condition of en-
vironment—aridity. More than a century ago, John Wesley Powell
pointed out the demarcation of the continent's humid and arid regions at
the one hundredth meridian. Webb made that observation central to his
environmental definition of the West in 1931 and even more directly sev-
eral decades later when he declared, "The heart of the West is a desert, un-
qualified and absolute."19 Over the years regionalists have offered up a
fuller, more varied list of cultural as well as environmental map coordi-
nates for the West. Look for that territory with the greatest diversity of
racial and ethnic groups, the new regionalists say. Look for the region that,
until the early twentieth century, had the highest ratio of urban to rural
population and that today has the most public lands and the most unoc-
cupied space. But it is aridity, regionalists continue to insist, that consti-
tutes the region's most fundamental characteristic. A host of features may
differentiate the West from other parts of the nation, but aridity serves as
the connecting sinew of region, unifying all its disparate aspects like mus-
culature holding a body's many parts into identifiable form. "Aridity, and
aridity alone, makes the various Wests one," said Wallace Stegner.20
Aridity, it would seem, confers on western regionalism coherence and
authority, but beneath the surface elegance are some disturbing flaws. In
defining the West by aridity, regionalists acquiesce to the very bias that
heretofore has privileged the history of Anglo-American settlement in the
region. Although it is true that climate influences the particular configura-
tion of topography, flora, and fauna in any given area, nature assigns no
value to these variations. Climate takes on meaning only through the cul-
tures inhabiting a place. The significance attached to the physical reality of
average annual rainfall below twenty inches varies among the West's dif-
ferent peoples. We cannot assume, for example, that Ute Indians perceived
the sparse annual rainfall in the Great Salt Lake Valley in the same way as
did the Mormon colonists who arrived in the mid-nineteenth century, or
the ethnic Mexicans who came decades later to work in the valley's mills
and smelters, or the Japanese truck farmers who came in the early 1900s,
or the Hmong refugees who arrived in the 1970s. The fact that in the dry
West rivers are few, erratic, and often surrounded by formidable canyons
has an entirely different significance to indigenous agriculturalists, His-
panic pastoralists, and Anglo urban entrepreneurs. From the many mean-
ings climate has had in the West, why select aridity, which reflects a
particularly Anglo-American perception of the environment, as the re-
gion's defining feature?
Aridity is a concept burdened with ethnocentric connotations. Im-
plicit in the idea of a region that lacks enough water for things to grow and
that is dry, barren, lifeless, and dull is a binary vision of a place that is lush,
fecund, and productive.21 An arid region, in this sense, is an aberrant one,
a deviation from an environment of adequacy, specifically one suited for
European-derived, nonirrigated agriculture. The "arid" West has meaning
only in relation to the "normal" East, where the landscape is verdant, the
wide rivers are traversable, and all the "customary" ways of making a life
from the land are possible. Which environment is called normal and which
aberrant depends entirely on who is doing the labeling. It would be just as
accurate to point out the abundance of rainfall in the East, but that condi-
tion is rarely remarked on by scholars because they assume it as the norm.
Only the West's aridity is marked, in much the same way that descriptors
denoting otherness are attached to people, as in "the black politician" or
"the woman attorney" but never "the white congressman" or "the male
lawyer." By singling out aridity as the West's defining characteristic, re-
gionalists position the edifice of western history on an inherently ethno-
centric foundation. For those who would reject the idea of frontier as
ethnocentric, such a definition of region will hardly do.
The concept of aridity not only is culturally biased but also falsely im-
plies for the region an ecological coherence that does not in reality exist.
Substantial sections of the region west of the one hundredth meridian are
not arid. The heaviest rainfall in all the continental United States occurs in
the Pacific Northwest, for example. In California, annual precipitation
varies from under two inches in the Mojave Desert to more than ninety
inches in the Sierra Nevadas. Similar degrees of variation characterize Ore-
gon, Washington, and Idaho. A greater proportion of Texas is humid or
subhumid than is arid. Minnesota has more semiarid land than Kansas,
but few would consider Minnesota as part of the West. Regionalists rightly
insist that some level of generalization must be tolerated in defining the
West because no region is entirely homogeneous in its physical character-
istics. But such diversity would as easily warrant the conclusion that cli-
mate divides the West internally as the assertion that aridity unifies the
region. What logic justifies accepting aridity as the appropriate generaliza-
tion when so many events important to western history occurred in
nonarid places—the California and Alaska gold rushes, for example, or
the rise of the Pacific-Asia trade, the growth of the timber and fisheries in-
dustries, and the creation of America's first national parks and forests?
The danger in accommodating aridity as a generalization is that it ob-
scures what may be a far more salient characteristic of the western envi-
ronment—extreme variability. Precipitation, which varies dramatically
both temporally and spatially, is a good case in point. Consider the exam-
ples of Electra and Tamarack, two California towns located just fifty miles
apart. Tamarack, at an elevation of 8,000 feet, gets an average of forty-two
feet of snow annually. Electra, situated at an elevation of 725 feet above sea
level, has less than one inch of snow per year. Throughout the West, pre-
cipitation occurs unevenly over the course of widely differing annual cy-
cles. California receives most of its rain in the winter and spring, whereas
in Tucson, Arizona, nearly the entire year's precipitation arrives in sudden
torrents between July and September, and in parts of the Pacific North-
west it rains on nearly half the days of the year. The West also experiences
irregular wet and dry cycles, some extending over many decades. In Los
Angeles, for example, the annual average is nearly fifteen inches of rain for
a one-hundred-year period, but within that time span were years with as
much as forty inches and as little as six. The hallmark of the West's hy-
drology is unpredictability and variability.22
Such extremity typifies many aspects of the western environment.23
The highest peaks and lowest valleys in the continental United States are
to be found in the West, as are the widest seasonal fluctuations in temper-
ature and variations in humidity. Trace on the map virtually any compo-
nent of the physical environment (type of vegetation, precipitation,
temperature, distribution of animal species), and you will find the eastern
part of the continent characterized by broad bands of similarity with grad-

ual change generally according to longitude, whereas in the West there is a
dizzying, swirled pattern corresponding largely to the region's radically
varied topography.24 It is this environmental eccentricity that has most in-
fluenced western life and that accounts in good part for the enduring place
of the West in national mythology. For millennia, peoples have set their
epic tales in extreme places, imagining their gods and cultural heroes as
residents of the darkest forests, the highest peaks, the most desolate
deserts. Americans have done no less, locating their nation-building myths
and secular heroes out West. Nor is it surprising that in our postmodern
tales of anguish and alienation, the heroes drive their cars through vast
western spaces, seeking oblivion at the edge of strange western precipices.
Regional history must begin not with an unjustified assertion of geo-
graphic unity but with an acknowledgment that the western experience
has been forged in an environment of profound variability and extremity.
It is important as well for regional history to recognize that the west-
ern environment is not immutable. Throughout the region, in the great
forests of the Rockies, the Sierras, and the Pacific Northwest, on the
prairies, along the coastal and inland waterways, even in the southwestern
deserts, the distribution and diversity of plant and animal species is the re-
sult, in part, of land use by indigenous and migrant peoples. For as long as
humans have inhabited the West, they have altered the environment. It is
a mistake, as Richard White has argued, to think of region as "something
that has always existed in some neat geographical package"—because the
environment is dynamic, not static.25 The region is not a fixed entity, says
White, but "a land and people constantly in the midst of reinvention and
reshaping."26 The West is given character as a singular place not by some
intrinsic quality of environment but by changing relationships forged be-
tween western peoples and the land. "It is this sense of historically derived
relationships," says White, "that is central to the regionalism of the New
Western History."27
By resisting facile definitions that fix the West in a timeless nature and
by adopting instead a more complex concept of region as a changing mo-
saic of relationships among different peoples and different environments,
regionalism takes on a new depth and vitality. But this relational West
raises its own set of definitional questions. What, precisely, are the "his-
torically derived relationships" that define the West? Limerick character-
izes these relationships as conquest, by which she means "the drawing of
lines on a map, the definition and allocation of ownership (personal,
tribal, corporate, state, federal, and international), and the evolution of
land from matter to property."28 White says that the West is "a product of
conquest and of the mixing of diverse groups of peoples," a process largely

centered on conflicts over possession and use of land and natural re-
sources29 For Worster, the West "derives its identity primarily from its eco-
logically adapted modes of production,"30
Conquest, conflict, modes of production—all certainly are to be
found in the West, but how are they unique to the region? How was capi-
talist exploitation of western water different from experiences in other
parts of the nation—in the coal mines of Kentucky, for example, or in the
cotton mills of the South or the logging camps of Minnesota? How was
conquest in California different from conquest in New England or in the
Ohio Valley or in Hawaii? What distinguishes conflicts over land and re-
sources among Europeans, Native Americans, and Anglo Americans in the
East or in the Great Lakes region from those in the West? Significant dif-
ferences do exist, for example in the greater role played by the federal gov-
ernment in the West. But these differences have yet to be fully delineated
by the new regionalists, and we are left with nagging doubts about just
what it is that makes the West a region. It is entirely possible, as Michael
McGerr has suggested, that as different as the western environment is, hu-
man interaction with it may not result in a society substantially different
from that in other places.31 Having staked their claim in the "mappable
West," albeit one vastly more sophisticated than Webb's old region, the
new regionalists still face the challenge of adequately defining the region.
Without such a definition, regionalism will be open to the same charges of
ethnocentricism, vagueness, and irrelevance leveled at the concept of fron-
tier.
It is worth noting, with some irony, that as the new regionalists chart
their way through the relational West, they may well find themselves on
that old frontier road once again. If we think of the West not as a fixed en-
tity but as a product of changing relationships, our attention logically
shifts from the operation of historical processes in a specific place to those
processes that create the region. In other words, the relevant question is,
"How and when did the West become a region?" That is precisely the is-
sue that William Cronon and his fellow neo-Turnerians put at the heart of
a new frontier history. Frontier and region are not "isolated, alternative
ways of viewing the American past but rather [are] phases of a single his-
torical process," say Cronon, George Miles, and Jay Gitlin.32 The process
of moving from frontier to region—invasion of a place by a new people,
settling new communities there and establishing new economic, political,
and social systems—occurred throughout America. The result is regions as
varied as New England, the South, and the West, but that difference in
outcome should not obscure the fact that all of America shares a common
history of making the transition from frontier to region. This characteri-

zation of frontier and region is not inconsistent with the new regionalism,
which posits much the same relationship between place and process. What
does distinguish the two approaches is the differing ideas about the rela-
tionship of region to nation or, more specifically, the significance of the
West in the nation's history.
Environment and the

Significance of the West
Whatever faults are to be found in the frontier thesis, original or neo-
Turnerian version, its one undeniable virtue is in claiming a place for the
West in the nation's history. By stressing an enduring western exceptional-
ism, regionalists like Webb relinquished much of the West's place in the
bigger story. As Elliott West has noted, Webb gave "specificity and perma-
nence" to western history by linking the region's unique culture to a dis-
tinctive environment, but in doing so, he "surrendered western history's
special claim—the notion that it provided a unifying vision for all Ameri-
cans."33 An unabashed western chauvinist, Webb in the end found little of
national significance in the region's history. And therein has been western
regionalism's most disaffecting flaw. Beyond those momentous nine-
teenth-century events that completed the United States as a continental
nation, what happened in the West struck many scholars as irrelevant to
the main currents of American history. To be sure, western history could
be interesting, even lively, and many historians happily retreated into a
provincialism that highlighted the colorful and melodramatic aspects of
the West's past. Other scholars, however, especially those writing in the
1960s and 1970s, ignored regionalism altogether and chose to place west-
ern subjects in interpretive contexts that seemed closer to the center of
American history—urbanization, the persistence of ethnic cultures, the
divisions of race, class, and gender.
The new regionalists, however, have been dissatisfied equally with lo-
calism and with a history that does no more than replay national trends on
the regional stage. Central to their construction of a new western history
has been the search for a wider significance to the western experience. Al-
though committed to the idea of the West as a distinctive place with its
own, intrinsic local meanings, the new regionalism insists that, in impor-
tant ways, the West accounts for what America has become. The new re-
gionalists point to the crucial role of western resources—minerals, timber,
agricultural products—in the development of the national economy. They
also note that the demands of bringing the West into the national and, ul-
timately, the global market system stimulated the expansion of the federal
government, profoundly altering the relationship of the central state to all

regions of the nation. But as important as these economic and political
factors were, the greatest significance of the West, the new regionalists say,
is to be found in what Limerick calls the legacy of conquest.
In the western version of conquest, the new regionalism posits, an An-
glo-American culture driven by the imperatives of capitalism indulged in
an orgy of subjugation and exploitation unlike that experienced anywhere
else in America. "Conquest," wrote Limerick, "forms the historical
bedrock of the whole nation, and the American West is a preeminent case
study in conquest and its consequences."34 In this tragic tale—and it is as
tragedy that the new regionalists see the West's history—nature is no less a
victim than those dispossessed and exploited peoples shoved to the pe-
ripheries of western society. "The drive for the economic development of
the West," says Worster, "was often a ruthless assault on nature, and it has
left behind it much death, depletion, and ruin."35 For the new regionalists,
social and ecological disruptions are the interwoven consequences of con-
quest—they are part of a whole cloth.
The new region alist version of the West's significance draws heavily
on recent work in environmental history, a field that has evolved simulta-
neously (one might even say symbiotically) with the new western history.
Since the 1980s, much of the best scholarship in environmental history
has focused on the ecological changes resulting from the expansion of Eu-
ropean and Anglo-American systems of land use and on the ideological
and institutional mechanisms through which those systems have been per-
petuated. Indeed, the great transformation of North America's indigenous
landscape into one organized according to what Cronon has called the
logic of capital has become the dominating trope of environmental his-
tory.36 Environmental histories of Island County, Washington, of New
Mexico's Sangre de Cristo Mountains and Pajarito Plateau, of the bad-
lands of the southern high plains, and of the Calapooia Valley in Oregon,
to cite just a few examples, have greatly enhanced our understanding of
conflicting systems of land use in the West and of how ecological
change—sometimes intentionally but often inadvertently—impoverished
some western peoples while enriching others.37 In addition to these envi-
ronmental histories, recent studies focusing on landscape art and photog-
raphy in the West, on the history of science in the region, and on the
movement to preserve wilderness and scenic landscapes have suggested
that those currents within American society that may once have been seen
as being in opposition to the imposition of a market system on the west-
ern environment actually served to rationalize that process or to provide
new forms of commodifying nature.38
Yet for all the valuable insights provided by these studies, the environ-
mental history of the "West is not sufficiently extensive or conclusive to

warrant the assertions that, in Limerick's words, the national "faith that
humans can master the world—of nature and of humans"—was put to its
greatest test in the West or, as Worster has suggested, that in its ecological
relationships, western society "best exemplifies the modern capitalist state
at work."39 Too many questions about the human interaction with the
western environment remain to be answered before the new regionalism
can justifiably recast the significance of the West in terms of ecological
change. Western environmental history, for example, has yet to fully ex-
plore the varieties of human-nature relationships in the region, particu-
larly as they vary by class and gender, or to account for the ways in which
the environment has been used to resist Anglo-American expansion. Nor
do we have good comparative studies to demonstrate that what occurred
in the West was markedly different from the environmental history of
other regions.
Nature and a New Western Narrative

Regardless of how the new regionalists reconfigure the West's significance,
their histories will have to match the narrative power of that old frontier
tale. "The greatest attraction of the frontier thesis," William Cronon ar-
gues, "has been its simplicity and its sense of movement, its ability to
shape and set in motion so many of the mere facts that American histori-
ans need to narrate."40 Turner's narrative structure gave the disparate
pieces of the past an order and coherence, connecting America's many
places to a national culture through a common story: all places had the
same storied past and, therefore, in some sense shared in the nation's fate.
This is one of the reasons that the frontier thesis has had, and continues to
have, a powerful hold on the popular and scholarly imagination. If re-
gionalism is to break the hold of frontier on western history, it will have to
replace not only Turner's interpretation of the western past but also his
narrative form. The great challenge for western historians is to find a new
way of telling the story of the West, of ordering and signifying the facts,
that is at once reflective of the new visions they have of and for America
and yet as compelling in its "movement" as Turner's frontier thesis.
Upon what warp can this new story be woven? Nature, say the new
western historians, can serve as one of the strong narrative fibers out of
which a new western history cloth can be made. By making the interac-
tion of people and the natural world the narrative device, Cronon says,
"western history can become what it has always been, the story of human
beings working with changing tools to transform the resources of the
land, struggling over how that land should be owned and understood, and
defining their notions of political and cultural community, all within a

context of shifting environmental and economic constraints."41 Limerick
also suggests that in focusing on "the story of human efforts to 'master' na-
ture in the region," western history takes on narrative continuity.
Although western historians may want environment to serve as a nar-
rative thread connecting the full chronological sweep of the region's his-
tory, the task so far has proven beyond the methodological capability of
environmental history. In practice, whereas the human-nature dialectic
has provided narrative focus to nineteenth-century environmental histo-
ries of the West, the same has not been generally true of twentieth-century
studies. Indeed, environmental historians have treated nature very differ-
ently in the frontier and in the postfrontier eras. In their studies of the
frontier West, environmental historians have brought the dialectic be-
tween nature and culture into focus by concentrating on a singular
process—the extension of a Euro-American system of land use across
the region. Because the process of imposing Euro-American ways of per-
ceiving, valuing, and using nature was, in the West, largely (although
not completely) a nineteenth-century phenomenon, the human-nature
dialectic has tended to recede from historical view in the twentieth cen-
tury. Nature as a concrete reality shaping the lives of western peoples is
largely absent from twentieth-century history.
This is not to suggest that nature and culture ceased to be mutually
informing in the twentieth century, only that the lens through which his-
torians seem best able to discern the dialogue became irrelevant. The con-
versation between humans and nature is one carried on between parties so
familiar with one another that a knowing nod and a few cryptic words
convey meaning. For historians looking in on the parties, it is often diffi-
cult to tell that a conversation is even going on, let alone what the discus-
sion is about. The task of finding ways of capturing the human-nature
dialectic and tracing its trajectory through time remains the most difficult
challenge facing environmental historians. To date, they have accom-
plished this best by focusing on dislocation, either cultural or ecological,
that is, by looking at a moment in time when ecological relations broke
down—the dust bowl, the decline of California's coastal fisheries—or
when distinct cultures were in conflict.
Nature, it would seem, ill serves the goal of connecting frontier and
postfrontier Wests into a single narrative scheme. Writing nature into the
western narrative poses another challenge. As western historians seek to
tell new stories of the West, they need to be cautious not to mistake the or-
dering of narrative for simplification. Turner not only gave western his-
tory "movement" but also set that movement to epic rhythms. The heroic
intonations of the frontier thesis derived from Turner's plotting of events,
as well as from his distillation of so much into simplified patterns and of

so many into stereotypical characters. Neither people nor nature can be
reduced to stock types. Facile dichotomies between "natural" and "unnat-
ural," between "wilderness" and "civilization," and between "harmony"
and "disorder" do not reflect the concrete reality of an intricate, change-
able natural world. Western history with nature in it must consist of com-
plex, finely textured stories set to subtle, discordant harmonies, not to the
strident, heroic cadences Turner chose. In these stories we will find no easy
lessons, no exportable heroes. The past will not provide us with a tran-
scendent set of values about nature and how to treat it. Nor can we use past
nature as a moral template for our own social relations, judging society by
how successfully it mirrors a perceived orderliness or balance in nature.
Yet our histories should be meaningful ones, with significance for our
own lives. No one has made a better case for why that is so than William
Cronon. "Stories about the past are better," he reminds us, "if they increase
our attention to nature and the place of people within it [because] narra-
tives remain our chief moral compass in the world. Because we use them
to motivate and explain our actions, the stories we tell change the way we
act in the world. We find in such stories our histories and prophecies both,
which means they remain our best path to an engaged moral life."42 Who
we are, as individuals and as a society, derives in part from the ways in
which we have drawn our physical and spiritual sustenance from the phys-
ical world in which we live. All peoples of the West have found in nature
sources of delight and of terror, tools of oppression and means of main-
taining human dignity. Western history should teach us about the central-
ity of nature to the human experience, indeed about how that experience
is not apart from nature. As problematic as the role of environment re-
mains in recent efforts to construct a new western history, it is the insis-
tence on making nature a part of the story that ensures the field's
continuing vitality.
Notes
An earlier version of this essay appeared under the title "A Place of Extremes: Nature,
History, and the American West," by Susan Rhoades Neel. Previously published in
the Western Historical Quarterly 25 (Winter 1994): 489-505. Copyright by Western
History Association. Reprinted by permission.
1. For a good survey of regionalism in western history, see Gerald D. Nash,
Creating the West: Historical Interpretations, 1890-1990 (Albuquerque, 1991),
101-58. On regionalism and the new western history, see Patricia Nelson Limerick,
"What on Earth Is the New Western History?" and "The Trail to Santa Fe: The Un-
A PLACE OF EXTREMES « 121
leashing of the Western Public Intellectual," in Trails: Toward a New Western History,
ed. Patricia Nelson Limerick, Clyde A. Milner II, and Charles E. Rankin (Lawrence,
1991), 59-77, 81-96; Donald Worster, "Beyond the Agrarian Myth," in ibid., 3-25,
and "New West, True West," Under Western Skies: Nature and History in the Ameri-
can West (New York, 1992), 19-33; Spencer C. Olin Jr., "Toward a Synthesis of the
Political and Social History of the American West," Pacific Historical Review 55 (No-
vember 1986): 599—611; Frederick C. Luebke, "Regionalism and the Great Plains:
Problems of Concept and Method," Western Historical Quarterly 15 (January 1984):
19-38; Michael C. Steiner, "The Significance of Turner's Sectional Thesis," Western
Historical Quarterly 10 (October 1979): 437-66; Martin Ridge, "The American
West: From Frontier to Region," New Mexico Historical Review 64 (April 1989):
125-41; Richard Jensen, "On Modernizing Frederick Jackson Turner: The Histori-
ography of Regionalism," Western Historical Quarterly 11 0uly 1980): 307-22; and
Richard Maxwell Brown, "The New Regionalism in America, 1970-1981," in Re-
gionalism and the Pacific Northwest, ed. William G. Robbins, Robert J. Frank, and
Richard E. Ross (Corvallis, Oreg., 1983), 37-96. For examples of new western re-
gional histories, see Patricia Nelson Limerick, Legacy of Conquest: The Unbroken Past
of the American West (New York, 1987); Michael P. Malone and Richard W. Etulain,
The American West: A Twentieth-Century History (Lincoln, 1989); Richard White,
"It's Your Misfortune and None of My Oivn ":A New History of the American West (Nor-
man, 1991); and Donald Worster, Rivers ofEmpire: Water, Aridity, and the Growth of
the American West (New York, 1985).
2. Walter Prescott Webb, The Great Plains (Boston, 1931). On Webb and re-
gionalism, see Gregory M. Tobin, The Making of a History: Walter Prescott Webb and
The Great Plains (Austin, 1976); Elliott West, "Walter Prescott Webb and the Search
for the West," in Writing Western History: Essays on Major Western Historians, ed.
Richard W. Etulain (Albuquerque, 1991), 167-91; and James C. Malin, "Webb and
Regionalism," in History and Ecology: Studies of the Grassland, ed. Robert P. Swierenga
(Lincoln, 1984), 85-104.
3. Webb, Great Plains, vi-vii.
4. Ibid., 8.
5. Turner, of course, devoted as much attention (arguably more) to the idea of
region or, as he preferred, section, but the new regionalists have nor embraced his sec-
tional thesis because, as Worster has rioted in "New West, True West" (256 n. 5),
Turner did not see what we now define as the West "as a cohesive whole, fixed in
place." Richard White also dismisses the sectional thesis as unconvincing. See Richard
White, "Frederick Jackson Turner," in Historians of the American Frontier: A Bio-Bib-
liographical Sourcebook, ed. John R. Wunder (New York, 1988), 671. Other hisrori-
ans have found the sectional thesis a useful if flawed route toward a new regionalism.
See Steiner, "Significance of Turner's Sectional Thesis," and his "Frederick Jackson
Turner and Western Regionalism," in Etulain, Writing Western History, 103-35, and
Jensen, "On Modernizing Frederick Jackson Turner."
6. For a useful overview of the critical response to Turner, see Nash,
the West, 3-99.
7. Limerick, Legacy of Conquest, ?,(>.
8. Ibid., 26-27.
9. Limerick, "What on Earth Is the New Western History?" 81, 82.
10. I do not mean to imply that only westerners can write western history, nor
do I know of any historians who make such a claim. My point is simply that within
the new western history, there is a keenly felt and openly expressed desire by histori-
ans from the West to tell a history consistent with their own experience of the region
and perceptions of its environment. The new western historians are not unique in
this, of course; as Nash has pointed out in Creating the West (259), western historians
are always writing about themselves. For a discussion of the role of nostalgia and sense
of place in Turner's work, see Steiner, "Significance of Turner's Sectional Thesis."
But the new western historians have been explicit in connecting personal experience
and a sense of the land with their adoption of regionalism. See, for example, Worster,
"New West, True West," 24, and White, "It's Your Misfortune," xviii—xix.
11. Worster, "New West, True West," 24.
12. J. Nicholas Entrikin, The Betweenness of Place: Towards a Geography of
Modernity (Baltimore, 1991), 80. On Royce, see Robert V. Hine, "Josiah Royce: The
West as Community," in Etulain, Writing Western History, 19-41. For Turner's view
about region, see Steiner, "The Significance of Turner's Sectional Thesis" and
"Turner and Western Regionalism." On Odum and Mumford, see Entrikin, The Be-
tweenness of Place, 75-80.
13. Worster and Limerick have been explicit in calling for an activist or re-
formist western history. The history of the West, says Worster, "cannot be kept iso-
lated from public controversy, struggles over power, the search for new moral
standards, or the ongoing human debate over fundamental principles and values."
Worster, "Beyond the Agrarian Myth," 16. See also Limerick, "Trail to Santa Fe,"
63-67.
14. Donald Worster, "A Country without Secrets," Under Western Skies, 253.
15. Worster, "Beyond the Agrarian Myth," 18.
16. Both Worster and Malone have noted the need for a regionalism that does
not simply apply the older Turnerian approach to a specific geographic locale. See
Michael P. Malone, "The 'New Western History': An Assessment," in Limerick, Mil-
ner, and Rankin, Trails, 100, and Worster, "New West, True West," 24.
17. Worster, "New West, True West," 22-23.
19. Walter Prescott Webb, "The American West: Perpetual Mirage," Harper's
214 (May 1957), 26.
20. Wallace Stegner, "Living Dry," The American West as Living Space (Ann Ar-
bor, 1987), 8.
21. The terms dry, lifeless, dull, and uninteresting appear in various definitions of
arid. See, for example, Webster's Third New International Dictionary of the English
Language, unabridged edition (Springfield, Mass., 1986); Oxford American Dictio-
nary (New York, 1980); and Sir Dudley Stamp and Audrey N. Clark, eds., A Glossary
of Geographical Terms (1961; 3d ed., rev., London, 1979), 34-35. See also the entry
for hydrology in Douglas M. Considine, ed., Van Nostrand's Scientific Encyclopedia
(1938; 7th ed., rev., New York, 1989), esp. 1502-3; "Mean Annual Rainfall" in War-
ren A. Beck and Ynez D. Haase, Historical Atlas of the American West (Norman,
1989), 3; and Mohamed T. El-Ashry and Diana C. Gibbons, "The West in Profile,"
in Water and Arid Lands of the Western United States, ed. Mohamed T. El-Ashry and
Diana C. Gibbons (Cambridge, England, 1988), 1-19.
22. Norris Hundley makes this point about California: "It is a mistake . . . to
think of California in terms of averages and regular cycles of precipitation. . . .
[G]reat irregularity characterizes the typical precipitation pattern throughout Califor-
nia." Norris Hundley Jr., The Great Thirst: Californians and Water, 1770s—1990s
(Berkeley, 1992), 9, 13.
23. William Cronon suggests the idea of extremity in his essay on Kennecott,
Alaska: "The thing that initially most strikes one about Kennecott is just how western
it is. ... Although [Kennecott] inverts the dryness that characterizes large parts of
the arid West, it shares with the rest of the region a more fundamental trait: a climate
of extremes. It has too much cold, too much rain and snow, too much and too little
sun to be mistaken for anywhere else on the continent." William Cronon, "Kennecott
Journey: The Paths out of Town," in Under an Open Sky: Rethinking America's West-
ern Past, ed. William Cronon, George Miles, and Jay Gitlin (New York, 1992), 32.
24. For graphic illustrations of this, see National Geographic Society, Atlas of
North America: Space Age Portrait of a Continent (Washington, D.C., 1985) and The
National Atlas of the United States of America (Washington, D.C., 1970).
25. White, "It's Your Misfortune, "3.
26. Richard White, "Trashing the Trails," in Limerick, Milner, and Rankin,
Trails, 39.
27. Ibid.
29. White, "It's Your Misfortune, "4, and "Trashing the Trails," 36-38.
30. Worster, "New West, True West," 27.
31. Michael E. McGerr, "Is There a Twentieth-Century West?" in Cronon,
Miles, and Gitlin, Under An Open Sky, 247.
32. William Cronon, George Miles, and Jay Gitlin, "Becoming West: Toward a
New Meaning for Western History," in Cronon, Miles, and Gitlin, Under An Open
Sky, 7.
33. West, "Walter Prescott Webb," 174.
36. For good historiographical overviews of the field, see Richard White, "Amer-
ican Environmental History: The Development of a New Historical Field," Pacific
Historical Review 54 (August 1985): 297-335; Donald Worster, "Doing Environ-
mental History," in The Ends of the Earth: Perspectives on Modern Environmental His-
tory, ed. Donald Worster (Cambridge, England, 1988), 289-307; and "A Round
Table: Environmental History," Journal of American History 76 (March 1990):
1087-147.
37. See Richard White, Land Use, Environment, and Social Change: The Shaping
of Island County, Washington (Seattle, 1980); William deBuys, Enchantment and Ex-
ploitation: The Life and Hard Times of a New Mexico Mountain Range (Albuquerque,
1985); Hal K. Rothman, On Rims and Ridges: The Los Alamos Area since 1880 (Lin-
coln, 1992); Dan L. Flores, Caprock Canyonlands: Journeys into the Heart of the South-
ern Plains (Austin, 1990); and Peter G. Boag, Environment and Experience: Settlement
Culture in Nineteenth-Century Oregon (Berkeley, 1992).
38. See, for example, Nancy K. Anderson, "'The Kiss of Enterprise': The West-
ern Landscape as Symbol and Resource," in The West as America: Reinterpreting Im-
ages of the Frontier, 1820-1920, ed. William H. Truettner (Washington, D.C., 1991),
237-83; Michael L. Smith, Pacific Visions: California Scientists and the Environment,
1850-1915 (New Haven, 1987); Arthur F. McEvoy, The Fisherman's Problem: Ecol-
ogy and Law in the California Fisheries, 1850—1980 (Cambridge, England, 1986); and
Chris J. Magoc, '"The Selling of Wonderland': Yellowstone National Park, the
Northern Pacific Railroad, and the Culture of Consumption, 1872-1903" (Ph.D.
diss., University of New Mexico, 1992).
39. Limerick, Legacy of Conquest, 29; and Worster, "Beyond the Agrarian
Myth," 14.
40. William Cronon, "Revisiting the Vanishing Frontier," Western Historical
Quarterly 18 (1987): 170.
41. Ibid., 172.
42. Cronon, "Nature, History, and Narrative," Journal of American History 78
(March 1992): 1375.
COMMENTARIES
A Mosaic of Different Environments
Robert W. Righter
The major virtue of Professor Susan Neel's essay is that she provides us with a
fresh reminder that the American West is a region of environmental or natural
extremes. This idea is surely worthy of comment. But first, a definition of the
American West is in order. Historians, environmental or otherwise, will con-
tinue to debate whether the American West is a geographical place or a cul-
tural process. But let us grant the new western history a victory, relegating the
"American frontier" to process and the "American West" to place. If the West
is a place, where is it, and what are its characteristics? Eschewing the many ge-
ographic spats, let us define the West as the region between the ninety-eighth
meridian and the Pacific Ocean, bordered on the north by Canada and on the
south by Mexico. What are the region's characteristics? Historians from Wal-
ter Prescott Webb to Donald Worster have focused on its most distinguishing
feature, its aridity. Admittedly, the parched landscape cannot be denied.
When it comes to water, nature has blessed the West here and there but cer-
tainly not everywhere. Perhaps, however, historians such as Webb, Worster,
W. Eugene Hollon, and Bernard DeVoto have overstressed the "everywhere."
Defining the American West as arid is like describing Swiss cheese without the
holes. The essence is defined, but not the distinctiveness. According to Susan
Neel, the West finds its distinctiveness in its diversity, its extreme environ-
ments, of which aridity is only one. Perhaps a more accurate description
would be the "mosaic West," reminiscent of the Yellowstone landscape after
the spectacular 1988 fires. The fires swept over the lodgepole pine forests, but
almost miraculously and surely capriciously, the windblown inferno spared
patches of wild, green groves; the result was a fascinating mosaic of different
environments.
Susan Neel advocates looking at the West in a similar fashion, as a place
of geographic diversity and a region of extremes. "A region of extremes" fits
nicely into my plethora of definitions. If I can indulge in a brief autobio-
graphical excursion, one can see that my experience and understanding
strengthen such a thesis. I was raised near San Francisco, attended college in
Salem, Oregon, did graduate work at Santa Barbara, taught in Los Angeles,
then accepted a position in Laramie, Wyoming. My present appointment is in
El Paso, Texas. I read Professor Neel's paper in the Wind River Mountains.
Every one of these locations I consider to be the American West, but they are
environmentally different—one might even say extremely different. The Cal-
ifornia locations are generally temperate, Mediterranean climates, with the
aridity of Los Angeles moderated by a massive injection of imported water.
125
Salem, Oregon, boasts about seventy inches of rainfall each year, the very an-
tithesis of aridity. There one finds a watery deluge rather than a desert.
Laramie, Wyoming, is semiarid, but its extremes fall in the arena of altitude
and temperature. It is high and dry and cold. The Red Desert of Wyoming,
for instance, is indeed a desert, but a lost wanderer is far more likely to die
of frostbite than heat exhaustion. Farming is a marginal activity on the north-
ern high plains, but the limits are prescribed not so much by a lack of water
as by a short growing season. My present home, El Paso, can occasionally be
cold, but in this arid region heat is the enemy. Buy an automobile battery in
Wyoming, and the salesperson will tout its "cold cranking power." Buy one
in El Paso, and the pitch is the battery's ability to withstand heat.
When Walter Prescott Webb concluded his controversial Harper's Maga-
zine article "The American West: Perpetual Mirage," he likened the westerner
to a musician "performing on a giant stringed instrument with many of the
strings missing."1 I prefer to replace the "giant stringed instrument" with a
twelve-string guitar. The westerner tries to play the guitar, and eventually
through compensation and ingenuity he succeeds, although the music is
"sometimes odd." Webb implied that almost all of the missing strings are as-
sociated with aridity. However, no one can deny that heat, cold, fire, flood,
blizzard, wind, hail, and altitude number among the out-of-tune strings with
which westerners must contend, making it difficult to live in harmony (i.e.,
prosperity) with the environment. Neel maintains that defining the West en-
vironmentally does not work because there is no unified ecological basis to the
West. She is correct. The West has less unity and more diversity than the
South, the North, or the Midwest. Environmentally, it is unique. It has the
highest mountain (in the lower forty-eight states) and the lowest point in the
country. In the nightly television meteorologist's competition to point out the
coldest place and the hottest place in the nation, the West often wins both
contests hands down. No other region of the nation (New England, the
South, the Midwest) can match the variety of climates in the West.
This diversity has been somewhat submerged in our regional history. The
preoccupation with aridity may be conditioned by how we approach the
West. I do not mean how we think about the West, but how most Anglo
Americans have historically entered the West, as well as how most Americans
have imagined that entrance. Fur trappers, government explorers, miners, cat-
tlemen, and settlers penetrated the West from the east. Until fairly recently
these groups set the model for how historians conceptualized western history,
ignoring Mexicans who entered from the south or Chinese from the Pacific
Rim. If these same Anglo-American groups had entered the West from the
west, would our perception be different? I have always thought that when the
Lewis and Clark party spent the winter of 1805-6 at Fort Clatsop, near the
mouth of the Columbia River, they may have wished, indeed prayed, for some
of the West's vaunted aridity. Instead, they bore witness to another extreme.
A MOSAIC OF DIFFERENT ENVIRONMENTS « 127
This diversity enhances rather than diminishes the importance of the

western environment. The West is a region where nature dominates and hu-
mans accommodate. Neither does environmental diversity deny the West its
most distinguishing environmental characteristic. The West has space, vast
landscapes with minimal human impact. Any easterner traveling west per-
ceives that somewhere in the middle of Nebraska (or Kansas or South
Dakota), the West begins. Just where is speculative, for as the geographer Yi-
Fu Tuan notes: "No two persons see the same reality. No two social groups
make precisely the same evaluation of the environment."2 The landscape,
however, changes. Towns, houses, and people are fewer, the sky is bluer, hu-
midity flees, and the sense of space becomes an undeniable reality.
This can be a freeing or a fearful experience, depending on the individ-
ual. In the category of fearful I recall a Green River, Wyoming, friend who fi-
nally persuaded his Brooklyn-based father to come west. After the father's
arrival, the two took a day trip south from Green River to Flaming Gorge
Reservoir. It was a dramatic drive with vast plains and the snowcapped Uinta
Mountains for a backdrop. However, the father didn't see it that way. Increas-
ingly jittery, he finally shouted at his son, "Stop the car!" He insisted that his
son return immediately to Green River. Infinite land and sky—endless
space—worked on the mind of this urban row-house alien to create scenarios
of aloneness, nakedness, and danger.
Of course westerners find such fear inexplicable. It is often a difficult
place to live, but a sense of freedom and "the solace of open space," as writer
Gretel Erhlich put it, offer compensations unmatched elsewhere. Bernard
DeVoto explained that the West's "landscape is dramatic, its climate vio-
lent."3 This striking yet turbulent quality is part of the attraction of the ex-
treme, mosaic West. The region can produce strong feelings of attachment.
Yi-Fu Tuan calls this topophilia, and the West in all its varieties induces abun-
dant feelings of connection.
Because the land and its inhabitants are so central to westerners and their
history, the region seems to have become a favorite focus for environmental
historians. No one can dispute that the leading environmental historians also
define themselves as historians of the American West. This region of environ-
mental extremes offers a perfect springboard from which to examine the
proper relationship between the anthropocentric and the biocentric. What
better place to study people, as Don Worster says, "from the Earth up"? The
West offers a vast sagebrush stage from which the environmental historian
can project a different, perhaps contrary, view of the American experience.4
Worster recently wrote, "Conventional history has been too anthro-
pocentric in outlook, sundering the seamless unity of humankind and the rest
of nature."5 The West—a place where nature and humankind are so inter-
twined—can help historians resurrect this unity through story and narrative.
Susan Neel suggests, "Western history should teach us of the centrality of na-
ture to the human experience." We need to write this history. We need to

move the perspective of nature into history. "Martha," the last passenger pi-
geon, must tell her tale. If Martha, who died on 1 September 1914 in a
Cincinnati zoo, could interpret nineteenth-century American history, her
saga would be quite different from the anthropocentric one.6 She would set
the nineteenth century upside down. Progress becomes regress. Human
wealth becomes nature's impoverishment. And it would be clear that for all
the manifest strides of the American nation, some cultures or some species
paid the price. The story of the westering American becomes much different.
Social historians of the American West have detailed the anthropocentric
price in terms of race, class, and gender. Whether Martha's story—and other
tales like it—have been heard is problematical. We need to tell them often.
As we rewrite western history we must find the proper balance between
the anthropocentric and the biocentric. In the past, people have always been
on center stage in the epic of the West; nature has been the backdrop—a dra-
matic backdrop summoned when necessary to illuminate the human drama.
The environmental historian must now move nature onto center stage. How-
ever, as stage directors, we have a fine line to follow. We cannot remove hu-
mankind from the story. If we do, we face the certain reality that we are
shifting from our field of history and the humanities to natural history and
science. How many of us can master the intricacies of natural history? How
many of us feel comfortable in the field of nature writing? We must, of course,
embrace interdisciplinary methods, but we should guard against venturing far
afield from our training, lest it taint what we research and write. To return to
Neel's thesis, we had best confine our narrative to human sentiments and re-
actions to the extreme variations of the West rather than to entrap ourselves in
unfamiliar arenas. We need to tell and interpret stories illustrating, according
to Neel, that "the peoples of the West have found in nature sources of delight
and of terror, tools of oppression and means of maintaining human dignity."
The interaction of humans and their environment is where we can be most ef-
fective.7
And environmental historians do want to be effective. Frederick Jackson
Turner's insistence that history should enlighten the present continues to have
resonance for contemporary scholars. Surely environmental historians head
the list of such scholars. We are often presentist, and we do fall victim to treat-
ing history, as Richard White cleverly put it, "as a sort of intellectual scavenger
hunt from which one returns with useful ideas for our time."8 We are earnest
scholars, and earnest scholars are easily seduced by bias. Caution is advised by
Neel, and it should be heeded. In our stories of the American West, "we will
find no easy lessons, no exportable heroes. The past will not provide us with a
transcendent set of values about nature and how to treat it."
The environmental past may not provide the answers, but Neel recog-
nizes that such an observation will not dissuade environmental historians
A MOSAIC OF DIFFERENT ENVIRONMENTS • 129
from crossing the line between scholarship and advocacy. Since "a deep con-
cern over the fate of the earth is what most distinguishes environmental his-
tory," we should not be surprised that members of our guild frequently
descend the steps of the ivory tower to romp in the rough-and-tumble world
of policy-making.9 Lessons from the extreme environment of the West may of-
fer solutions to try and paths to take to avoid an extreme fate for the earth.
Turner's most often quoted axiom that "each age writes the history of the past
anew with reference to the conditions uppermost in its own time" seems ap-
plicable. Turner did not mean to imply that there are no verities, that there are
no lasting principles. Nor did he want to suggest that we must teach and write
environmental history only to please the present. But he did recognize that we
cull, discard, select, and resurrect—all depending on what society perceives to
be significant. Today, the relationship of people and cultures to the environ-
ment numbers among the significant, both in the West and in the world.
Notes
1. Walter Prescott Webb, "The American West: Perpetual Mirage," Harper's

Magazine 214 (May 1957): 31.
2. Yi-Fu Tuan, Topophilia: A Study of Environmental Perception, Attitudes, and
Values (1974; New York, 1990): 5.
3. Gretel Erhlich, The Solace of Open Spaces (New York, 1985); Bernard De-
Voto, "The Anxious West," Harper's Magazine 193 (December 1946): 481.
4. Both quotations are from Donald Worster, ed., The Ends of the Earth: Per-
spectives on Modern Environmental History (New York, 1988), 289.
5. Ibid., preface.
6. A. W. Schorger, The Passenger Pigeon: Its Natural History and Extinction
(Norman, 1973): 28-30. Schorger is roo much a naturalist and too little a historian to
succeed in making this book interpretive rather than factual.
7. There is always an exception. Most recently Dan Flores, in Caprock Canyon-
lands (Austin, 1990), successfully wedded nature writing, mysticism, and a biocentric
view with history and a sprinkling of anthropology.
8. Richard White, "American Environmental History: The Development of a
New Historical Field," Pacific Historical Review 54 (1985): 316.
9. In his presidential address to the American Society for Environmental His-
tory conference in Pittsburgh, March 1993, William Cronon addressed at some
length the propensity of environmental historians to make their research "useful" to
both policymakers and "the earth itself." See William Cronon, "The Uses of Environ-
mental History," Environmental History Review 17 (Fall 1993): 1-22.
Place versus Region in Western
Environmental History
Dan Flores
As a graduate student, I briefly admired fantasy art and practitioners of it like

Frank Frazetta, and twenty years ago I once owned (again, briefly) one of
Frazetta's prints. As I was reading Susan Rhoades Neel's essay on environment
and western history, this print popped into my head. I recall few of the details
of it now. It was blue-green. It was large. Mostly it was aswirl with life, with
comings, goings, conquests, and capitulations. A dozen societies were in vari-
ous processes of emergence and decline in it, and their stages and potential
fates were wondrous to contemplate on an idle summer day. But more than all
of the history represented there, what riveted me most was a pair of tiny fig-
ures, near the bottom, which I suspect most viewers of the print missed. For
at the edges of this maelstrom of life, here were the obligatory academics, at-
tired in caps and gowns and observing and gesturing and arguing about the
meaning of what lay sprawled before them—and, of course, remaining safely
detached from it all.
Granted, Professor Neel has gotten most of the canvas spread out before
us here: Turner, Webb, Limerick, Worster, White, and Cronon, along with
Frontier, Region, Aridity, and Process. And her essay is both stylishly written
and a provocative synthesis of a good deal of the modern debate about west-
ern history, about the roles of nature and culture in interpreting the history of
the vast stretch of country the whole world knows as, simply, "the West." She
grapples on the definitional turf too, or at least most of it. The idea that the
West is bounded by environmental characteristics gets its due, as does the
event-institutional sequence we historians call "process"—although "system"
does escape her analysis. The fact that I admired the context she establishes
but disagreed with much of what she concludes in no way diminished my
stimulation at reading her essay and pondering her ideas.
Neel's evocative opening carries us with her from the wide plateau, where
we see but do not understand, down into the kernel of the western earth to
watch time and history surge by in a river metaphor. This is a symbolic jour-
ney, like participating in a rite of passage in the rock-art caves of southern
France, and when the torches are finally lit, spread before us like a panel of pic-
tographs are the images and icons of our modern-day perceptions of the West.
Judging from the tone of the presentation, it is clear that our party consists of
apprentice shamans whose task it is to deconstruct the existing images and
then to decide on what symbols we might utilize to give new power and mean-
ing to our own explanations. Neel is our capable guide through this late-twen-
130
PLACE VERSUS REGION • 131
tieth-century dreamtime ceremony, interpreting older symbols for us and

pointing out some of the new glyphs and markers that a few of our contem-
poraries are using to capture the present reality. Here, we apprentices are told,
on this wall is everything our ancestors knew, set down by our most far-see-
ing shamans. The problem is that their marks don't represent our current ex-
periences. Your task is to devise new marks that do.
So far so good. Of course we need the discussion of definitions, not only
because you can't talk profitably about what you can't define but also because
the definitions put forth by our great historians have come to a strange turn:
they don't seem to fit either our time or our view down the river and may ac-
tually have been too exclusionary even back when they seemed to explain
things very well. Relying on Shaman Frederick Jackson Turner's definition—
the symbols signifying a process called the "frontier"—has special problems,
of course, and not only because of ethnic marginalizations. There is also, as
Neel points out, the problem of trying to figure out what to do with the in-
terpretive symbols (other than to market them) once the so-called frontier
process has run its course. And if Shaman Turner's particular glyphs are to be
relied on, why designate a "West" upon which to base all our speculations
about the process? Frontiering, in fact, is what we humans have been doing at
least since the Upper Paleolithic.
Shaman Walter Prescott Webb's symbols, as Neel points out, have been
easy to pick apart but difficult to dismiss in the round. And in fact a good
many modern historians do embrace his assertion of a set of environmental
characteristics that make of the West a real and recognizable place on the
map. Who doesn't recognize those characteristics? You know you've arrived in
the West when grass and cactus overwhelm trees, when the air carries dust in-
stead of pollen, when the opalescent wool of humidity lifts and transparent
light allows the eyes to outrun all the other senses. These are the superficial
effects of aridity on a landscape, but to Webb they were only the beginnings
of an influence that altered all life under its sway.
Neel guides us through Webb's shamanic symbols gracefully, and she
correctly points out some of their flaws. Webb did draw a circle around half
the continent and then talk only about a little, and atypical, piece of it. He ig-
nored (if his follower Wordsmith-shaman Wallace Stegner did not) all those
many pieces within his circle that are not arid, including the Rocky Moun-
tain West, the area that serves as the core water-source region for the sur-
rounding drylands and within which elevation appears more an influence
than aridity. Webb's treatment of aridity was, to substantiate our guide's
charge, very much ethnocentric. And yet among our ranks there are many—
and I am one—who would suspect a non sequitur in Professor Neel's conclu-
sion that because Indians, Hispanics, Asians, and Anglo Americans all
perceived aridity differently, it follows that the effects of aridity are strictly
cultural. In simplest terms, what the symbol for aridity means, in fact, is "not
much water," and since water is one of the basic requirements for the human
organism irrespective of culture, gender, or place of national origin, aridity
freely translates in real environmental terms to limits. Just how those limits get
dealt with does have cultural manifestations, but this does not alter the fact of
those limits as biological, hence universal, hence real. A lack of water may well
limit human population growth everywhere, eventually. But societies in
places like the arid West will face that sobering situation sooner than those
everywhere else.
As for the environmental diversity that exists across the western half of
America, Neel is quite right to point it out. It is an interpretive difficulty, al-
though not as much a problem as she thinks. Combine all those environmen-
tally distinctive (i.e., unarid) places like the Pacific Northwest and Alaska with
those places of political-institutional uniqueness like California and Texas,
and the difficulty of defining where the West is, based on anything resembling
an environmental or institutional baseline, becomes apparent. As our guide
toward interpretive regionalism, it might have been worthwhile for Professor
Neel to broach the example of another part of the United States that has long
been recognized as a distinctive region but that also lacks environmental uni-
formity. The South, very obviously, does exist as a recognizable region in
terms of culture, literature, and sense of itself. But as the geographer Yi-Fu
Tuan has instructed us, one of the key elements that goes into the creation of
place out of space is a sense of a shared history. This has played a critical role
in southern regionalism. The historian David Emmons, in a recent article,
similarly argues that at the heart of western self-identity is this sense of a
shared history, not so much of interethnic strife (which was common across
much of America) or even the presence of cowboys (although that gets us
closer) as of a shared history that played out during the time when the global
industrial economy had reached a particular level of maturity and reach that
was capable of unprecedented rapidity in its transformation of places into
cogs in a market system. In this interpretation California, Alaska, Texas—or
the Sonoran Desert, the Grand Tetons, and the Columbia Valley—have a tie
that binds.
It is in her discussion of regionalism that 1 think Professor Neel simulta-
neously holds before us exactly the proper set of symbols for our own
shamanic acts yet proceeds to confuse us by asserting that our task is to apply
them to the West as a whole. As any monkey wrencher will tell you, you don't
cut down a billboard with a speed square, and you don't strip octagonal bolts
with a hexagonal wrench. Having made her excellent points about western di-
versity, she assumes that any western history fundamentally based on envi-
ronment is thus going to founder on that diversity . . . which leads us back
to Turner and process?
I don't think so, although Turner's recognition that adaptation takes place
is useful still, if only as a start. Nor do I accept her critique that it is difficult
PI ACE VERSUS REGION • 133
to find environmental histories of the West that address the human-nature

dialectic in the twentieth century. Although many of our histories of the West
as a whole suffer from the literary dissonance of forcing all those diverse places
to hew to a singular interpretive thread, Neel neglects to point out that much
western environmental history already exists (and much more is being writ-
ten) that carries regionalism to the very scale that someone like Lewis Mum-
ford envisioned for it and indeed to the scale that enables us to approach the
actual complexity of the way people and nature interact.
This kind of western environmental history is truly place-specific. Al-
though it makes every effort to see its place as part of the larger regional or na-
tional, indeed as part of the global, process of environmental integration and
transformation, its focus is on what postmodernists would call "particular-
ism." It ricochets off the difficulties, say, of trying to fit Texas—only a third of
which is arid or semiarid and a state that virtually lacks both public lands and
Indians—with the rest of the West, by drawing its boundaries bioregionally
and examining the nature-culture dialectic as a thematic manifestation of a
particular place. The narrative line of such histories is commonly grafted onto
sequential cultural inhabitations, and interpretively it could borrow from so-
cial scientists like Roy Rappaport and Karl Butzer a sophisticated study of cul-
tural adaptation as being central to human success in place. If this western
environmental history has a founding shaman, it is probably the curmud-
geonly James Malin of Kansas.
The new western environmental historians who have done such work—
and I am thinking of William DeBuys's Enchantment and Exploitation (1985,
on the Sangre de Cristo range in New Mexico), James Sherow's Watering the
Valley (1990, on the Arkansas Valley of Colorado and Kansas), Peter Boag's
Environment and Experience (1992, on the Willamette Valley of Oregon), Hal
Rothman's On Rims and Ridges (1993, on the Jemez range in New Mexico),
and perhaps my Caprock Canyonlands (1990, on the southern high plains of
Texas and New Mexico)—have consistently had close personal ties with their
places. The surprising result has not been regional defensiveness so much as
sharp critique. Despite their specificity, not one of these books has so far been
considered provincial. Whether they represent historical balkanization of the
kind that European historians, especially the Annalists, have been accused
may be another matter. But we should seek to embrace a history that can treat
one thousand years in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains in something like the
manner to which Languedoc is accustomed.
A question worth pondering is whether modern professional historians,
of the West or of anywhere else, aren't in some danger of a detachment—like
the academics in my fantasy art print—that renders us superfluous to anyone
but ourselves. What we may as well acknowledge is that the reason Turner and
Webb still dominate our discussions of theory about western history is that
their ideas felt intuitively right to their readers, many of whom were on the
scene and experienced the life these historians described and who in turn
granted validity to the frontier and aridity interpretations. In some real sense,
and however inaccurately in refinement, Turner and Webb did not so much
invent their theories as capture a prevailing folk sense of history.
Therefore, if Professor Neel is right (and I believe she is) that regional his-
tory—and, maybe more particularly, ^regional or place history—is emerg-
ing as one manifestation of some kind of consciousness shift in western
communities, then we historian-shamans might consider the unthinkable: lis-
tening, rather than talking among ourselves.
5
Significant Lives/
Asia and Asian Americans
in the U.S. West
Gail M. Nomura
The dominant, Eurocentric view of U.S. history places European settlers

center stage and relegates Asian Americans to the wings. This centrist in-
terpretation became clear to me when one of my colleagues questioned the
researching and teaching of Asian American history in the Pacific North-
west.
"Just how many Chinese were there?" he challenged.
I told him numbers didn't necessarily indicate significance. "For ex-
ample," I said, "Lewis and Clark were only two men, yet volumes are writ-
ten about them—with little enough reference to the diverse peoples who
met or accompanied their Corps of Discovery. And, at times, there were
more 'Chinese' in parts of the Pacific Northwest than there were European
settlers."
My colleague used the term "Chinese" because that is the generic la-
bel employed by those ignorant of the variation of Asian ethnic groups.
There was much to tell him. I wanted to emphasize the diversity of Asian
Americans, to stress that I do not see significance only in numbers, and to
interrogate the term significance itself.
It is these considerations, in the context of "justifying" the study of
Asian Americans in U.S. history, that I would like to address in this essay.
This challenge is best begun by asking a question: Why is significance as-
cribed to European-American settlers, whereas people of color must
achieve it?
I do not intend to discuss the role that Asian Americans played in U.S.
western history by merely recentering the narrative from European-Amer-
ican settlers to Asian American settlers. Rather, I would like to question
135
the meaning of the term significant, to reflect on what it indicates when we

say a group is "significant," to weigh the criteria used in establishing the
"significance" of any group's role in history, and to suggest ways we might
better envision a multicultural history of the U.S. West by understanding
Asian American history.
The first step in assessing any group is to know what it is. What we call
"Asian Americans" is not, as my misguided colleague and many people in
the United States seem to think, a unified, homogeneous grouping. The
ethnic peoples called Asian Americans include Chinese, Filipino, Japanese,
Korean, South Asian (e.g., Asian Indian, Pakistani, Bangladeshi, and Sri
Lankan), and Southeast Asian (e.g., Vietnamese, Lao, Hmong, Cam-
bodian, Thai, Indonesian, Malaysian, and Singaporean). The complexity
of this term "Asian American" is further illustrated by noting the many
ethnicities within the larger subcategories—such as Southeast Asian Amer-
ican—or even within a seemingly homogeneous subcategory such as
Japanese American, in which Okinawan Americans compose a distinct
grouping.
To the above Asian American grouping we might also add Pacific Is-
landers (e.g., native Hawaiian, Samoan, Chamoru,1 Fijian, Tongan, and
Taihitian). The U.S. Census Bureau lists Asian and Pacific Islanders to-
gether, and many political coalitions have been formed by these groups,
who share some common agendas and histories.
All of these peoples possess distinct histories, languages, cultures, reli-
gions, and conflicts among and between themselves. What they share is a
common history in the United States of exclusion and discrimination. As-
sessing these diverse populations is problematic, since there are so many
different histories to discuss. However, I will suggest ways in which these
varied voices help articulate a multicultural history of the U.S. West.
Since I assume no static, exclusive, dominant center of U.S. western
history, my discussion is not, and cannot be, the study of margins. I believe
in an inclusive history that bespeaks the significance of the lives of all our
people. Such a history reveals not only a diverse and complex U.S. West
but a variegated and manifold United States.
Borders: The East as West

First of all, in envisioning a multicultural history of the U.S. West, we
must question the borders that define this region. Asia is inextricably
linked to the U.S. West. At one time a land bridge connected North Amer-
ica to Asia, facilitating the migration of people from Asia to the Americas.
Columbus's search for a new maritime route to Asia, and his landing in the
SIGNIFICANT LIVES « 137
Americas, initiated a process of cultural confrontation and transformation,

the consequences of which we are still reaping. The voyages of Columbus
set the stage for conquest and colonization, the political foundation of the
United States. The mythic China market stimulated explorers to search for
direct routes to China. In 1778, Captain Cook, looking for the fabled
Northwest Passage connecting Europe to Asia, accidentally "encountered"
HawaTi. The U.S. desire for the China trade propelled expansion in the
Pacific. The national fantasy of the U.S. West was tied to expectations
about the "Orient" beyond the wilderness, and in many cases, state and
national policies were shaped by the lure of trade with Asia.
Americans pushed into the Pacific Northwest, in part to profit from
the commodity of furs, so vital lor participation in the China trade. Of
course, John Jacob Astor and other American entrepreneurs advocated ac-
quisition of the Columbia River, especially its mouth, which would open
the gates to Asian trade across the Rockies and down the Missouri River to
St. Louis. Competing nations initially supported the independence of the
Kingdom of HawaiM as an international port open to all because of its
strategic location as a reprovisioning stop for traders and whalers in the
mid-Pacific.
To expansionists, Asia appeared to offer limitless opportunities for
commerce. In debates in the 1849 California constitutional convention,
one delegate, H. W. Halleck, argued for the most expansive boundaries to
be set for California:
No other portion of the globe will exercise a greater influence upon the
civilization and commerce of the world. The people of California will
penetrate the hitherto inaccessible portions of Asia, carrying with them
not only the arts and sciences, but the refining and purifying influence of
civilization and Christianity; they will unlock the vast resources of the
East, and, by reversing the commerce of the world, pour the riches of In-
dia into the metropolis of the new State.2
Expanding trade with Asia continued to fuel state economic policies in the
U.S. West into the twentieth century.
With the acquisition of Pacific Basin territory, our stake in Asia and in
Pacific affairs rose. Alaska was purchased in 1867, in part to serve as a
drawbridge to Asia. The Midway Islands were annexed in the same year,
pushing the American presence ever deeper into the Pacific. At the turn of
the century we engaged in our first Asian-theater wars: the Spanish-Amer-
ican War in 1898 and the Boxer Rebellion in 1900. Were these wars in fact
far western wars? We used some of the same cavalry troops from the Indian
wars and sent them across the Pacific into Beijing to aid the foreign lega-
tions under siege and to the Philippines to oust the Spaniards and then to
suppress the Filipino nationalists. Debate over our imperialist adventure
in the Philippines affected the U.S. elections of 1900. Americans were
struggling to come to grips with the United States as a colonizer. The
newly acquired U.S. territories of Hawai'i, Wake, Guam, and the Philip-
pines, along with Midway, provided a chain of ports and later airports
across the Pacific to Asia.3
Recognizing the significance of our Pacific and Asian territories forces
us to question how we define the boundaries of the U.S. West. Indeed,
with the acquisition of the Philippines, Hawaivi, Guam, Wake, and Amer-
ican Samoa at the turn of the century and, after World War II, of Ameri-
can Micronesia, the U.S. West literally moved to the so-called Far East and
became ever more entwined in Asian and Pacific affairs. The western bor-
der of the U.S. West became Asia itself. The Far East became the Far West.
It is impossible to view Asian American history without understand-
ing this "Far Eastern" context. Asian American history connects the U.S.
West to the global experience of the diaspora and the interchange of peo-
ple and ideas from the colonial and postcolonial era, to transnational labor
migration, to international assembly lines in Asia, and to multinational fi-
nancial and corporate structures in the Pacific Rim. The Pacific Coast
states have always been oriented to Asia and the Pacific, an orientation that
explains, in part, why the largest West Coast cities are the ports of Seattle,
Portland, San Francisco, and Los Angeles. The largest city in Hawai'i,
Honolulu, has long functioned as a link between the U.S. mainland and
Asia. In envisioning the U.S. West as a vital component of the Pacific
Basin, we challenge the Eurocentric focus of both western and national
U.S. history. The roots of what is currently called the Pacific Century, with
attention focused on the Pacific Basin, took firm hold in the U.S. West of
the nineteenth century and have continued to grow throughout the twen-
tieth century.
Asia and the "Core" of America

Exclusionists tie American lineage to Europe and refuse to acknowledge
Asian elements in defining the "core" of America. Thus, there exists an
overriding sense that Asia is alien to the United States, but the roots of the
United States are more global than is usually acknowledged.
Europe and Asia have a long and rich history of contact. Medieval Eu-
rope was fascinated with Asia as the source of such marvels as spices, silks,
and porcelain—as well as fantastic monsters. Until the sixteenth century,
Europe was an area marginal to Asia, and it was only after the develop-
ment of capitalism that the dominance of the northwestern Atlantic econ-
SIGNIFICANT LIVES • 139
omy emerged. Even then, until the late nineteenth century, China saw Eu-
ropeans as barbarians with little to offer. Indeed, it was Asia that possessed
the civilized treasures Europe longed to acquire.
The impact of Chinese civilization on western European civilization
is undeniable. China exerted influence through books, manuscripts, tan-
gible objects like porcelain, and the knowledge of technologies, such as the
printing press and gunpowder. Donald Lach has documented much of
this impact and points to the elephant in the iconography of European art
as a symbol of Asia in the making of Europe.4 The rediscovery of Asia's
high civilization by Renaissance Europe was a significant intellectual fac-
tor in the making of early modern Europe. The Enlightenment philoso-
phers, especially Voltaire, admired Confucius as the Noble Sage, the
archetypal rationalist philosopher, and viewed the government of China as
the rational model of a meritocracy with virtuous leaders chosen through
a civil service examination system. H. G. Creel points out that the aboli-
tion of hereditary aristocracy in ancient Confucian China, nearly two
thousand years earlier, fueled the attack on hereditary privilege in Europe.
Creel notes that Confucianism played an important role "in the develop-
ment of democratic ideals in Europe and in the background of the French
Revolution. Through French thought it indirectly influenced the develop-
ment of democracy in America. It is of interest that Thomas Jefferson pro-
posed, as the 'key-stone of the arch of our government,' an educational
system that shows remarkable similarities to the Chinese examination sys-
tem. . . . The extent to which Confucianism contributed to the devel-
opment of Western democracy is forgotten."5 Forgotten or remembered,
Asian ideas continued to cross the Atlantic via Europe.
In the United States, Asian religions and philosophies provided alter-
natives at times when there was doubt about common morals and ethics.
The impact of Mahatma Gandhi's teachings on Martin Luther King Jr. and
leaders of the antiwar movement is well known, as is the influence of In-
dian mysticism and the idea of reincarnation and karma on the Transcen-
dentalists (Boston Brahmins).6 More recently, at the Democratic
convention in 1992, Vice President: Al Gore quoted Gandhi when he called
for Americans to become the change they wanted to see in the future. Bud-
dhism, Zen, Hinduism, Confucianism, and Taoism have had a profound
effect on the counterculture of beatniks and hippies. Asian meditation cen-
ters abound. The generation of the 1960s extolled Mao's anti-imperialist
stance, and the leader's little red book was as much a symbol of protest on
college campuses in the U.S. West as was the peace symbol.
The arts and architecture of Asia surround us. Chinoiserie has been a
popular decorative style since colonial times. American homeowners in
the early 1900s patterned their new craftsman-style homes on Japanese ar-
chitecture. After Frank Lloyd Wright viewed the Japanese exhibit at the
1893 Chicago World's Columbian Exposition, he incorporated Japanese
forms into his own work. Japanese gardens influenced U.S. landscape ar-
chitecture while Japanese woodblock printing influenced impressionist
painters.
American popular culture has also been deeply affected by Asia. Who
hasn't heard of (or tasted!) stir fry, instant ramen, soy sauce, tofu, and
sushi? Chinese restaurants have sprung up in nearly every town in the na-
tion. Asian martial arts, typified by the Karate Kid film series, are em-
braced as confidence builders. Even the western movie classic the
Magnificent Seven was modeled after Akira Kurosawas Seven Samurai.
The interaction has not been totally positive. The Vietnam War cre-
ated a widespread sense of disillusionment and dissent in the United
States, ushering in a generation of intense social criticism and social con-
sciousness of global dimensions. The antiwar movement spawned wide-
spread protests, particularly on college campuses. American war efforts in
Vietnam and Cambodia highlighted the contradiction between the enor-
mous destructive capabilities of American technology and the very real
limits of that power to crush the nationalist resistance of a smaller, poorer,
and weaker nation, North Vietnam, and make it conform to American
purposes. The Vietnam War led Americans to question the myths of
American global, political, cultural, and moral supremacy. Certainly the
image of defeat associated with Vietnam has troubled Americans greatly in
the last two decades.
This is not to say that the dominant elements in the American core are
Asian. The core comprises elements from throughout the world and is in a
constant process of change and modification. The concept of the core can
be contested at any given time. It cannot be claimed, in other words, that
the American core of the Puritan period is the same as the core in the
1990s. An understanding of the multicultural and global dimensions of
the core leads to an inclusive definition of "American" and a broad under-
standing of American society. The question remains: Why is it so impor-
tant to some to deny links to Asia and other lands? Why do some people
fight to defend Eurocentric assertions that Western civilization is purely
and uniquely self-invented?
Asian Americans and the Defining

of "American"
Asian American history begins in the U.S. West. It is in the West that the
peoples, politics, and economies of Asia and the United States met and
mixed at the grassroots level. This is particularly true in Hawai' i and along
the Pacific Coast, where a large population of Asian/Pacific Americans has

resided since the nineteenth century. The large concentration of Asian im-
migrants in the U.S. West evoked an anti-Asian exclusion movement and
racist policies.
Although expansionists were eager to penetrate Asia, they were not
eager to confront Asians in their own western mainland territories. Roger
Daniels has noted: "Among westerners, particularly Californians, a defen-
sive rather than expansive frontier psychology often developed. Although
Californians dreamed of expansion, territorial and commercial, ever west-
ward toward Japan, China, and India, they often felt that their rocky
coastline should serve as a bulwark or dike against the human sea of Asian
immigration which seemed to threaten their way of life." Daniels calls this
the "defensive frontier" psyche, which set a trend that "modified the fun-
damental American attitudes toward immigration nearly a half-century
before the rest of the nation."7
This defensive frontier psyche is exemplified by the memorial written
in 1921 by the James J. Sexton Post #224 Veterans of Foreign Wars of Ab-
erdeen, Washington, and addressed to the secretary of the interior and
U.S. Bureau of Indian Affairs. In advocating the exclusion of Japanese im-
migrants from leasing rights on the Yakima Indian Reservation, the
memorial declared:
We are rapidly approaching the following condition throughout the

West: Either the Jap must leave, or the white man will have to live [sic].
The white man cannot live in competition with the Jap. Are you going to
allow the future inhabitant of Our West to be a Mongolian, or a Hybred
[sic]. Will you save America for the American; if so we urge you and re-
quest you to use all possible influence to put a stop to the leasing of lands
to the Japanese either directly or through renegade white men.8
Asians became the accepted target of nativist-racist antagonism,

which served to unify the increasingly heterogeneous white population in
the U.S. West. An American ethnicity could be achieved through the as-
sertion that it was not Asian. Asians were a necessary "Other" in defining
who was an American. The idea of assimilability was utilized. Europeans
were assimilable. Asians were declared unassimilable. In arguing for the
unassimilability of Asians, exclusionists aimed to affirm a racist founda-
tion for the American nation.9 Overriding all other factors in the con-
struction of this exclusive definition of "American" was the assertion that
Asians were unalterably alien, naturally inclined to Oriental despotism,
and incapable of assimilating to democratic self-government.
Asian immigrants were seen as the vanguard of the Yellow Peril. The
anti-Asian movement culminated in the total exclusion of Asian immigra-
tion and the prohibition of naturalization. This movement portrayed the

Asian in America as un-American and led to the enactment of anti-Asian
laws, which enshrined this assumption of the Asian as alien.
The responses of westerners to Asian immigrants fixed the political
psyche of Americans in their dealings with Asia in the twentieth century.
American westerners responded to Asian immigrants as if they were an in-
vading army. How Asian immigrants settled in the hostile West and strug-
gled to enjoy rights equal to those of white European Americans is part of
the history of a cultural confrontation that extended to diplomatic con-
frontation: Anti-Asian discrimination was a national as well as local policy.
Discriminatory national policies of naturalization and immigration ad-
versely affected diplomatic relations between the United States and Japan
before World War II. U.S. historians underestimate the impact of anti-
Japanese legislation, particularly the 1924 Immigration Act excluding
Japanese immigration. Such acts undermined moderate elements in Japan,
leading to a deterioration of U.S.-Japanese relations in the critical decades
before the Pacific war.
U.S. naturalization laws kept Asian immigrants foreign. While these
immigrants were systematically denied every avenue of legally becoming
American, they were consistently faulted for remaining foreign. Exclu-
sionist forces perceived Asian immigrants as incapable of being American.
In the eyes of exclusionists, the melting pot of America could never be hot
enough to melt Asian immigrants into the national culture. Asian Ameri-
cans have challenged the exclusive definition of "American" and have, by
this search for justice, broadened the inclusiveness of American ideals. Le-
gal challenges by Asian Americans have helped define and refine legal in-
terpretations, and this process has cast new light on the workings of our
justice system and our ideals.
Takao Ozawa and Bhagat Singh Thind contested for naturalization
rights. In a legal brief for the U.S. Supreme Court, Ozawa argued: "In
name, General Benedict Arnold was an American, but at heart he was a
traitor. In name, I am not an American, but at heart I am a true Ameri-
can."10 Naturalization laws stated that "whites" and those of African na-
tivity and descent were allowed to become naturalized. Ozawa, who was of
Japanese descent, and Thind, who was of South Asian descent, argued for
inclusion in naturalization rights by challenging the category "white." In
the 1922 Ozawa decision the Supreme Court judged "white" to mean
Caucasian and affirmed a racial prerequisite for naturalization that ex-
cluded all those of the Mongolian race. But in the 1923 Thind decision,
because South Asians were, by the racial classifications of that time, con-
sidered to be Aryan and thus Caucasian, the U.S. Supreme Court refined
its exclusionary definition for naturalization by now relying on the "un-

derstanding of the common man" rather than on a "scientific" basis of
racial classification. Thus, the U.S. Supreme Court affirmed the legality of
the useful exclusionary category of "alien ineligible to citizenship." But
Asian immigrants continued to fight for naturalization rights.
Asian immigrants persisted as active agents in the making of their
own history. They challenged the fluctuating boundaries of who was and
was not included in America. They disputed exclusion through legal and
diplomatic channels and through creative resistance and organization. By
taking a stand, they became a permanent part of the American experience.
Starting with the repeal of the Chinese Exclusion Act in 1943, Asian
immigrants chipped at the barriers to citizenship by arguing that anti-
Asian discriminatory policies were not "democratic," especially in view of
the war effort. Filipinos and South Asians, who were also allies in arms,
joined in the challenge. As Trinidad A. Rojo argued: "From the standpoint
of biology, color line, history, anthropology, logic, justice, fairness, and
world's democracy, your naturalization law is consistently inconsistent to-
ward us. It is a record against you rather than against us."11 In 1946, Fil-
ipinos and South Asians won rights to naturalization and a small
immigration quota. In 1952, the United States finally recognized that
people of all races had the right to immigrate to the United States and to
become naturalized citizens.
Asian Americans persisted and built stable communities through sup-
portive coalitions. For example, the Filipino community in the Yakima
Valley in Washington secured leasing rights on the Yakima Indian Reser-
vation by directly contesting classification as "alien."12 Though Filipinos
were U.S. nationals and held U.S. passports, before World War II it was
generally held that anti-alien land laws were applicable to them. There-
fore, Filipinos were not allowed to directly lease land on the Yakima In-
dian Reservation before World War II, since the Bureau of Indian Affairs
chose to adhere to state law denying this right. Filipinos circumvented the
law by arranging to farm through labor agreements with Indian allottees.
To Filipinos, farming was a means of creating jobs for themselves during
the Great Depression. But as Filipinos left migrant-labor status and be-
came independent reservation farmers, they collided with white farmers,
who sought to exclude Filipinos from the privilege of leasing reservation
land.
After the passage of the 1937 amended Washington alien land law,
which defined "alien" as "noncitizen," there was a crackdown on Filipino
reservation farmers. Following a mass arrest of Filipino farmers, the Fil-
ipino Community of Yakima Valley, Inc., was organized in August 1937
to "fight for justice" and settle the issue of their legal status and rights.
They circulated petitions, sought the support of labor unions and civic
groups, wrote to President Franklin D. Roosevelt, to the speaker of the
U.S. House of Representatives, to President Manuel Quezon of the Com-
monwealth of the Philippines, to the resident commissioner of the Philip-
pines, and to other officials, and worked out an agreement with the
Yakima Tribal Council. Meanwhile, through the united efforts of Filipinos
across Washington, the test case of Pio DeCano, a Filipino leader in Seat-
tle, reached the state supreme court. In February 1941, the court ruled
that the 1937 amended Washington alien land law was unconstitutional
due to the technicality that the law had been improperly titled. Finally, in
1942, because of the determined efforts of these Asian Americans, who
forced the government into the embarrassing position of having to either
support or openly discriminate against an ally in arms, the Yakima Valley
Filipinos secured leasing rights on the reservation and ensured for them-
selves a permanent home in Yakima Valley, ironically on Indian land.13
Yet exclusionists persisted in viewing Asia and Asian Americans as
alien to American culture. They refused to acknowledge non-Western ele-
ments in the American core and professed that western Europe alone had
created the idea of democracy and freedom. In truth, the idea of freedom
and revolution has a long history in Asia. Confucianism carries the seeds
of revolution, making it the duty of the people to overthrow a tyrant and
to institute a humanistic government working for the benefit and welfare
of all. Asian immigrants recognized injustice; they protested and opposed
oppression not because they were "Americanized" but because their own
traditions had taught them to resist injustice. As one Chinese rhyme from
San Francisco's Chinatown goes:
So, liberty is your national principle;

Why do you practice autocracy?
You don't uphold justice, you Americans,
You detain me in prison, guard me closely.
Your officials are wolves and tigers,
All ruthless, all wanting to bite me.
An innocent man implicated, such an injustice!
When can I get out of this prison and free my mind?14
After the valiant defense of Bataan and Corregidor by Filipino and

American troops, as Manuel Buaken wrote, the United States suddenly
discovered that Filipinos were "one with . . . freedom-loving 'western-
ers.' One in courage. One in ideals." But Buaken asserted: "It is not that
we have changed, it is only that your knowledge of us is widened now.

Knowledge of the fundamental unity of our peoples has been pictured for
all the world to know on the great screen of this world catastrophe. Bataan
has been a drama of'American' character reading."15
Asian American history teaches us about the continuing process of
"inventing" America through interactions of ideas from around the world
and across time. As Carlos Bulosan pointed out in his 1946 book America
Is in the Heart, people throughout time and history have been struggling
for and contributing to the formation of "America," which is still an un-
finished dream. Despite the dated use of gendered terminology, Bulosan
has written one of the best statements about "America":
It is but fair to say that America is not a land of one race or one class of
men. We are all Americans that have toiled and suffered and known op-
pression and defeat, from the first Indian that offered peace in Manhat-
tan to the last Filipino pea pickers. America is not bound by geographical
latitudes. America is not merely a land or an institution. America is in the
hearts of men that died for freedom; it is also in the eyes of men that are
building a new world. America is a prophecy of a new society of men: of
a system that knows no sorrow or strife or suffering. America is a warn-
ing to those who would try to falsify the ideals of freemen.
America is also the nameless foreigner, the homeless refugee, the
hungry boy begging for a job and the black body dangling on a tree.
America is the illiterate immigrant who is ashamed that the world of
books and intellectual opportunities is closed to him. We are all that
nameless foreigner, that homeless refugee, that hungry boy, that illiterate
immigrant and that lynched black body. All of us, from the first Adams
to the last Filipino, native bom or alien, educated or illiterate—We are
America!16
Asian/Pacific Americans' resistance to injustice challenged the United

States to uphold the principles of equality and justice. Their persistence in
seeking justice resulted in rectification, even if it took a half century in one
instance and a century in another instance. In the first instance, Gordon
Hirabayashi's conviction for resisting the internment of Japanese Ameri-
cans during World War II was overturned in 1987 by the U.S. Court of
Appeals, Ninth Circuit, on the basis of recently uncovered evidence that
the U.S. government knowingly suppressed, altered, and destroyed evi-
dence proving that there existed no military necessity for the removal and
internment of Japanese Americans during World War II. Moreover, after
a concerted redress movement by Japanese Americans, Congress passed
and the president signed the Civil Liberties Act of 1988, which issued
an apology and paid monetary compensation to redress the unjust reloca-

tion and internment of Japanese Americans during World War II.
Hirabayashi's guiding principle for his resistance and half a century of
struggle was that idealism is realism. That is, in confusing times, your
ideals are your only realistic source for your actions.
In the second instance, the persistence of native Hawaiian protest and
resistance to the U.S.-assisted illegal overthrow of the constitutional gov-
ernment of the Kingdom of Hawai'i in 1893 resulted in the passage of the
Akaka Joint Resolution (Public Law 103-150), which was signed into law
on 23 November 1993 and which apologized for the complicity of the
U.S. government in the illegal overthrow of the Kingdom of Hawai'i in
1893, an overthrow that led to the deprivation of native Hawaiian rights
of self-determination, and pledged to acknowledge the ramifications of
the overthrow of the monarchy in order to work toward reconciliation
with the native Hawaiian people. Native Hawaiian resistance to injustice
is expressed in the state motto of Hawai'i: "Ua mau ke ea o ka 'aina i ka
pono" (The life of the land is perpetuated in righteousness).
Two lessons drawn from these long struggles for justice are that "ide-
alism is realism" and that "ua mau ke ea o ka 'aina i ka pono"—the life of
the land is perpetuated in righteousness.
Demographic and Economic Significance

In rethinking the role of Asian Americans in the history of the U.S. West,
I am reminded of a haole (white) docent who led a tour of missionary
houses in Honolulu, enthusiastically explaining that a haole Christian mis-
sionary had built Kawaiahao Church by carving coral blocks at Pearl Har-
bor and dragging the heavy blocks several miles to the Honolulu church
site. This was quite a feat, the docent thought. She spoke only of the mis-
sionary and never mentioned that it was native Hawaiians who had carved
the coral blocks, dragged them from Pearl Harbor to Honolulu, con-
structed the church, and worshipped in it. It is in this way that we see only
the power-holders without seeing the real builders of the edifice of U.S.
history.
In the mid-nineteenth century, Asian immigrants represented a major
segment of the population of the U.S. West. Chinese composed 9.2
percent of the population in California in I860; in 1870 they were 28.5
percent in Idaho and 9.5 percent in Montana, and in 1880 they were
8.7 percent in Nevada.17 But anti-Asian immigration exclusion acts dis-
torted the population composition of the U.S. West. We can ask what ex-
actly would have been the racial composition of the U.S. West if Asian
Japanese Americans' persistent protests against internment prompted the U.S.
government to overturn the wartime convictions of Gordon Hirabayashi, Fred
Korematsu, and Min Yasui, who were arrested for resisting internment. The
protests also led to the passage of the 1988 Civil Liberties Act, in which the gov-
ernment apologized to Japanese Americans and paid reparations. Clipping cour-
tesy of Gordon Hirabayashi. Photo courtesy of the Walla Walla Union-Bulletin,
reprinted with permission.
This photo depicts members of one of the native Hawaiian resistance move-
ments, the Protect Kaho'olawe Ghana, taking part in a 1987 religious procession
on the island of Kaho'olawe. In the 1993 Akaka Joint Resolution, the U.S. gov-
ernment issued an official apology for its complicity in the overthrow of the
Kingdom of Hawai'i in 1893. Photo courtesy of Franco Salmoiraghi, reprinted
with permission.
147
immigration had been allowed to continue without the imposition of

these acts. Yet though immigration restrictions altered and stunted the de-
mographics, significant Asian American populations were concentrated in
cities, in certain regions, and within particular occupations.
Asian immigration was vital to the economic growth of the U.S. West,
but listing Asian contributions creates misunderstanding because it means
that the Anglo is still the focal point. In the context of the U.S. West, when
I am asked to discuss the "contributions" of Asian Americans, I feel I am
actually being asked, "How much did your group contribute to the Anglo
capitalist system of oppression of native peoples and destruction of the en-
vironment?" Yet I believe that it is necessary to fully acknowledge the crit-
ical role of Asian Americans in the transformation, for good or bad, of the
U.S. West. To ignore this Asian American role is to discount or trivialize
the role of Asian Americans as builders of our country and to acknowl-
edge, as either villains or heroes, only the elite.
Asians supplied the labor to build the railroads, which provided the
transportation infrastructure for commercial growth. In addition to build-
ing the western half of the transcontinental railroad, Asian laborers con-
structed and maintained many of the other railroads in the West. Asian
laborers were pivotal to agricultural development in the West. Sucheng
Chan has documented the integral role that Chinese immigrants played in
developing California agriculture. She asserts, "Working as truck garden-
ers, vegetable peddlers, commission merchants, farm cooks, tenant farm-
ers, and owner-operators of farms, thousands of Chinese brought new
land under cultivation, experimented with various crops, and provided
much of the labor needed to plant, harvest, pack, preserve, and sell the
crops in almost every major agricultural region of California."18 Japanese,
Filipinos, Koreans, and Asian Indians also furnished the labor needed by
West Coast agriculturalists. And Japanese farmers innovated on and dom-
inated in the cultivation of many kinds of vegetable, fruit, and floral crops.
Asian labor was indispensable in the sugar and pineapple industry in
Hawaii, in the Alaskan salmon canneries, and in the lumber industry.
Asian immigrants helped build U.S-Asian trade and operated small shops
serving both ethnic and nonethnic customers.
A striking example of the multicultural nature of the labor force in the
West is that of native Hawaiians in the early Pacific Northwest. Hawai'i
became an important waystation for the trans-Pacific sea trade soon after
its contact with the West in 1778. British and American ships on their way
to and from the Pacific Northwest for furs to trade in China would stop
for rest and provisions in Hawaii. Hawaiians were known for their sea-
manship, and a system of contract labor was developed in which Hawai-
ians (known variously as Kanakas, Owyhees, Blue Men, or Sandwich Is-

landers) were employed as sailors. Thus, Hawaiians first came to the Pa-
cific Northwest as sailors, accompanying the early expeditions inland.
Later they were recruited as the first skilled and unskilled laborers for the
fur trade. Numbering more than a thousand during the first half of the
nineteenth century, Hawaiian communities were scattered throughout the
Pacific Northwest, including Fort Vancouver and Fort Walla Walla. Many
Hawaiians intermarried with Indians, and their descendants still recognize
their Hawaiian origins.19
Significant Lives, Significant Voices
Asian Americans lived in the West. They shaped the western landscape
through cultivation and toil. They were not simply excluded. They were
not just passive victims to be conquered and subjugated. They built and
they molded and they struggled.
As an Asian American myself, I am particularly aware that the vital
role of Asian Americans in the history of the U.S. West goes unrecognized.
I believe we need to hear the voices of Asian Americans themselves in
order to understand their place in history and gain a full account of the
western U.S. experience. For example, Trinidad Rojo presents Filipino-
American view of the process of European conquest and colonization of
the United States: "When the Europeans came to this continent, they did
not take the trouble of applying for naturalization rights to the Indians.
We understand, they simply declared themselves the new bosses of the
land; and the Indians left by bullets and bayonets were told to preserve
themselves in a museum of living species, called INDIAN RESERVATIONS."
Rojo went on to point out: "We came here because Americans went to the
Philippines. . . . I may say that America invited itself with the gun to
the Philippines."20
An important alternative perspective to traditional accounts of Japan-
ese-American internment in World War II is provided by the Fair Play
Committee (FPC) of the Heart Mountain, Wyoming, concentration
camp, which opposed the drafting of Japanese Americans from the camps
without restoration of their freedom and civil rights. The Fair Play Com-
mittee reasoned:
Without any hearings, without due process of law as guaranteed by the

Constitution and Bill of Rights, without any charges filed against us,
without any evidence of wrongdoing on our part, one hundred and ten
thousand innocent people were kicked out of their homes, literally up-
rooted from where they have lived for the greater part of their life, and
herded like dangerous criminals into concentration camps with barb wire
fence and military police guarding it, AND THEN, WITHOUT RECTIFICA-
TION OF THE INJUSTICES COMMITTED AGAINST US NOR WITHOUT
RESTORATION OF OUR RIGHTS AS GUARANTEED BY THE CONSTITUTION, WE
ARE ORDERED TO JOIN THE ARMY THRU DISCRIMINATORY PROCEDURES INTO
A SEGREGATED COMBAT UNIT! Is that the American way? NO.' The FPC be-
lieves that unless such actions are opposed NOW, and steps taken to rem-
edy such injustices and discriminations IMMEDIATELY the future of all
minorities and the future of this democratic nation is in danger. . . .
We are not being disloyal. We are not evading the draft. We are all
loyal Americans fighting for JUSTICE AND DEMOCRACY RIGHT HERE AT
HOME. So, restore our rights as such, rectify the injustices of evacuation,
of the concentration, of the detention, and of the pauperization as such.
In short, treat us in accordance with the principles of the Constitution.21
When interrogated by the government, Frank Emi, a leader of the Fair

Play Committee, reiterated, "I believe it is more my duty to try to uphold
those supreme laws of the United States which is in the Constitution, and
you could say that you are fighting for democracy abroad, but if you lose
democracy at home what have you won?"22 The actions of the Fair Play
Committee and Frank Emi are testimony to the ways in which Asian
Americans were active agents in the making of U.S. history. Their voices
must be heard.
In writing a more inclusive history, one need not rely only on the
voices of excluders to hear the experiences of Asian Americans. Traditional
sources exist: histories written by Asian communities, as well as documents
from the ethnic press, letters, and diaries. These ethnic community histo-
ries present an alternative perspective to the usual view espoused by the ex-
cluders. Japanese immigrant histories, for example, give us an insight into
how the immigrants viewed the anti-Japanese movement. One immigrant
history written in 1935 displays a clear understanding of the racist nature
of the exclusion movement: "Exclusion of the Japanese was based initially
on the same principle concerning colored races such as the blacks and the
Chinese." This history analyzed the political usage of assimilation by the
exclusionists: "Yet the self-contradiction in the rationale of the American
exclusionists is that the Japanese must be excluded since we do not assim-
ilate. Rejecting our naturalization rights, excluding the Japanese socially
and economically and thereby closing our road to assimilation, the Amer-
icans still demand that we assimilate. Such is like tying someone's feet and
then ordering him to run, and finally clubbing him to death because he
cannot run." 23
Manuel Buakens conclusion to his 1948 book / Have Lived with the
American People contains a message as relevant to the United States enter-
ing the twenty-first century as it was to the United States after World War
II:
I have lived with the American people. Here are your lives as we see them,
we Filipinos here in the United States, and here are the lives that we must
lead, we Filipinos. Your lives, our lives, could all be better, must all be bet-
ter, or the world cannot stand. Life must be more abundant for all of us,
and unless people know that there are no "superior" or "inferior" races,
no god-given rights to rule over other races, unless Americans know this
there can never be a new order, can never be any realization of the dreams
we all hold for peace and prosperity and liberty for all of us.24
Oral histories are useful sources of experiences often not recorded in

formal documents. Oral histories of Asian immigrant women in particu-
lar give a compelling historical perspective on the plight of working moth-
ers. One Korean mother of five recalled her life in Sacramento, California:
"I did the laundry for Caucasians and Korean bachelors. I had to wash by
hand and iron. I got paid about eighty cents or one dollar per day fin
1916]. . . . I never went to bed before 1:00 a.m. and had to get up at
4:00 a.m. to cook for my husband who had stomach trouble."25 Child care
was a critical issue for working mothers, whose labor was vital as a supple-
ment to the meager incomes of their husbands, who were paid unfairly be-
cause of race. A Japanese immigrant woman who had to leave her young
children in a plantation nursery while she worked in the sugar fields in
Hawai v i remembered: "The younger child was too young to know, but the
older one used to cry every day when I left them at the baby home. Even
now I can hear her wailing."26 Some of the most riveting and instructive
oral histories are told by Southeast Asian refugees who give us alternative
views of the Vietnam War. A South Vietnamese woman now living in Ok-
lahoma recalled the realities of war: "I had seen children without arms and
babies who were killed by the land bombs. Sometimes the babies were in
their mothers' arms when they were killed. I did not always know who was
doing this or why, but after a while it did not seem to matter. Too many
friends did not come back [from the war], and I did not want to lose my
sons, too. "27
There are less-recognized sources of the Asian American experience.
Poetry, rhymes, and songs give us insights into the inner thoughts of the
immigrants and reveal an awareness of injustice, hopes, and visions for the
future. For example, these Asian immigrants were young, ambitious, and
full of hope as they departed their lands of birth. Their dreams are
summed up in the poem "Ode on Leaving My Home Town," by Kenji

Abe, a Japanese immigrant who first began working the railroad sections
in Washington State in 1906. He wrote:
Over the horizon of the wide Pacific,

Entertaining high ambitions,
I looked for eternal happiness.
Great love . . .
Huge efforts . . .
Large land . . .
Vast sky . . .
I survey my future path.
On my two shoulders I bear a mission;
In my heart hope swells.
Goodbye, my home country.
Farewell!28
Teiko Tomita, a Japanese immigrant in Washington State, conveyed

in a poem the loneliness and monotony felt by most new settlers in the
U.S. West. These immigrants missed their families and friends and often
found that the only way to distinguish one day from another might be the
sun's rising and setting:
Neighbors are five miles far away

Many days without seeing anyone
Today, too,
Without seeing anyone
The sun sets29
Sasakura Ushu, a Japanese immigrant working on a sugar plantation in

Hawaii, spoke of a connectedness to nature and a longing for a home far
away in time and space: "Every evening, touched by the nostalgic sound
of chirping insects, I left a stand of sugarcane for them while cutting the
rest."30 A Japanese immigrant satirical poem (senryu) by Koyo captures the
lament of many westerners:
. . . and early to rise . . .

No matter how early, though,
It don't make me rich!31
Unusual sources exist, such as Wong Sam and Assistants' English-

Chinese Phrase Book, published and distributed by Wells, Fargo in 1875
(revised in 1877). The phrase book gives us a stark look at frontier life, list-
ing some 250 ways to die in the U.S. West including:
He came to his death by homicide.

He was murdered by a thief.
He committed suicide.
He was choked to death with a lasso, by a robber.
He was starved to death in prison.
He was frozen to death in the snow.
He was killed by an assassin.
He was smothered in his room.
He was shot dead by his enemy.

He was poisoned to death by his friend.32
Asian immigrants were never silent, though many non-Asians may

have wanted them to be. Their voices are proof of the significance, the un-
deniable significance, of the lives of the people themselves who give life,
dignity, and restoration of authenticity to our multicultural western expe-
rience.
The Changing Demography of the West

Asian Americans have persisted as a discrete ethnic group despite repeated
forecasts that they would disappear or assimilate into oblivion. Moreover,
new immigrants from Asia are further changing the composition, espe-
cially of the U.S. West. Changes in immigration laws since 1965 resulted
in Asians becoming the highest number of non—Western hemisphere im-
migrants. The number of Asian/Pacific Americans has doubled with each
census since 1970. This population growth is reflected in our education
system in the U.S. West—with large percentages of Asian Americans in
the major universities, particularly in California and Hawai'i. In growing
numbers and with increasing participation in electoral politics, Asian/Pa-
cific Americans represent a significant political presence in the U.S. West,
particularly in Hawaii, Washington, and California, the last being a state
typically seen as central to the outcome of the presidential election.
In the U.S. West, the majority-minority society is almost a reality.
Hawai v i is already a majority-minority population. California will soon
be. How the U.S. West handles this new phenomenon will be instructive
154 » A NEW SIGNIFICANCE
to the nation as a whole. The 1992 Los Angeles riots clearly illustrate that
in the U.S. West, race relations are beyond black-white issues. The national
press may have covered the uprising as an African-American reaction to the
Rodney King verdict, but in truth, the event involved the complex issues
and relationships of inner-city Latinos and Korean Americans as well.
What about the future? Certainly the rapidly changing demographics
of the West will influence this question. I hope that the U.S. West will be
a vital area that recognizes and values diversity. Our diverse American soci-
ety is a microcosm of the global community. How the United States deals
with its own multiculturalism is instructive in how it relates to other na-
tion-states.
1 welcome the new western history, which is more inclusive and cog-
nizant of the complexities of the western U.S. experience. But it must be
emphasized that there is nothing particularly "new" in the new western his-
tory. The recognition of a multicultural, multiethnic U.S. West is not an
original idea. Monoculturalism has never had a place in the history of the
U.S. West. Asian Americans and other people of color knew that the West
was multicultural, no matter what traditional historians wrote. Still, we
must be wary of those who are too quick to appropriate research on the his-
tories of people of color, often without acknowledging the pioneering
works done by historians of color. We cannot rush to synthesize without
thoroughly understanding the diversity.
There are those who oppose an inclusive history. These opponents fear
the ungluing of American society—the glue being a Eurocentric cultural
hegemony. They advocate a return to Eurocentric "basics" and "standards"
in writing "American" history. This battle to bring recognition not only to
Asian American history but also to the histories of all U.S. peoples of color
and to women's history raises several questions: Who controls the writing
of history? Whose representation of whose collective memory gets
recorded?
I believe we need to recognize a shared memory of the many diverse
groups inhabiting the U.S. West and the nation as a whole. We need to rec-
ognize the West as populated by women and men and people of all colors.
By recognizing and incorporating the views from the "margins," we gain a
more inclusive and fuller history and achieve a greater understanding of
the multiple centers and, more important, the whole. The changing de-
mographics of the United States will further challenge our writing of U.S.
history to better reflect the understanding of an increasingly diverse
United States. We need to chart our future with vision and clarity. Rather
than resist change, we must welcome innovation and think beyond the
limits of our current system. We must rethink, reconceptualize, and re-en-

vision a multicultural history of the U.S. West that recognizes our whole
voices.
Notes
1 would like to thank Mikiso Hane, Sucheta Mazumdar, and Gary Okihiro for their
careful reading of this manuscript and their suggestions. I would also like to thank
Stephen Sumida, Davianna McGregor, Gordon Hirabayashi, Tom Fujita-Rony,
Richard Kim, Evelyn R. Flores, K. Scott Wong, and Carrie Waara for their help and
suggestions.
An earlier version of this essay appeared under the title "Significant Lives: Asia
and Asian Americans in the History of the U. S. West," by Gail M. Nomura. Previ-
ously published in the Western Historical Quarterly 25 (Spring 1994): 69—88. Copy-
right by Western Histoiy Association. Reprinted by permission.
1. Robert Underwood, the current delegate to Congress from Guam, was the
chair of the Kumision 1 Fino' Chamoru (Chamoru Language Commission) in 1983
when it introduced a new orthography that was better reflective of the pronunciation
of the indigenous people of Guam. If one followed the rules of the new orthography,
the name of the indigenous people and the name of their language would be spelled
"Chamoru" (some at first spelled in "Chamorru," but this is no longer used). The
commission did allow for the continuation of traditional spellings of proper nouns to
avoid confusion. Therefore, people continued to use the traditional "Chamorro"
spelling while others began using the "Chamoru" spelling. More than just a spelling
issue, the core of this debate as to how to spell the very name of this distinctive peo-
ple is the issue of the colonized status of Chamoru as symbolized by a spelling of their
name by others in a manner not reflective of their own pronunciation. A prominent
indigenous activist group calls itself Chamoru Nation. The question remains: who is
in charge of a people's language?
2. Reginald Horsman, Race and Manifest Destiny: The Origins of American
Racial Anglo-Saxonism (Cambridge, Mass., 1981), 287.
3. Hawai v i and Alaska are usually excluded from the history of the West. But
Asian American history requires the inclusion and in-depth study of these two states.
It is significant that debate over statehood rested not only on arguments of contigu-
ous union but also on questions of common history and culture. John Whitehead ar-
gues persuasively for the commonalities of Hawai'i with the more traditional West
and points out that Hawai'i was pan of "the first maritime Far West" and that
"diplomatically, geographically, and historically Hawai'i has long and deep connec-
tions to the American West." See John Whitehead, "Hawaivi: The First and Last Far
West?" Western Historical Quarterly 23 (May 1992): 177.
4. Donald F. Lach, Asia in the Making of Europe (Chicago, 1965).
5. H.G.Creel, Confucius: The Man and the Myth (New York, 1949),5.Fora
fuller discussion, see Creel's chapter "Confucianism and Western Democracy,"
254-78.
6. For example, see Sudarshan Kapur, Raising Up a Prophet: The African-Amer-

ican Encounter with Gandhi (Boston, 1992).
7. Roger Daniels, Asian America: Chinese and Japanese in the United States since
1850 (Seattle, 1988), 3-4.
8. Memorial of James J. Sexton, Post #224, Veterans of Foreign Wars, 3 Feb-
ruary 1921, RG 75, Seattle Federal Archives and Records Center, Seattle, Wash.
9. For example, see Alexander Saxton, The Indispensable Enemy: Labor and the
Anti-Chinese Movement in California (Berkeley, 1971).
10. Yujilchioka, Thelssei: The World of the First Generation Japanese Immigrants,
1885-924 (New York, 1988), 219.
11. Trinidad Rojo, "An Appeal for U.S. Citizenship," Philippine Mail, 26 Feb-
ruary 1940, reprinted in Hyung-chan Kim and Cynthia C. Mejia, The Filipinos in
America, 1898-1974: A Chronology and Fact Book (Dobbs Ferry, N.Y., 1976), 104.
12. The Yakama Nation has revised the (spelling of its name from "Yakima" to
"Yakama."
13. See Gail M. Nomura, "Within the Law: The Establishment of Filipino Leas-
ing Rights on the Yakima Indian Rsservation,"Amerasia Journal 13 (1986-87):
99-117.
14. Marlon K. Horn, Songs of Gold Mountain: Cantonese Rhymes from San Fran-
cisco Chinatown (Berkeley, 1987), 85.
15. Manuel Buaken, / Have Lived with the American People (Caldwell, Idaho,
1948), 294.
16. Carlos Bulosan, Americalsin the Heart (1946; reprint, Seattle, 1973), 189.
17. Daniels, Asian America, 70-71.
18. Sucheng Chan, This Bittersweet Soil: The Chinese in California Agriculture,
1860-1910 (Berkeley, 1986), 403.
19. See E. Momilani Naughton, "Hawaiians in the Fur Trade: Cultural Influ-
ence on the Northwest Coast, 1811-1875" (Master's thesis, Western Washington
University, Bellingham, 1983); Janice K. Duncan, Minority without a Champion:
Kanakas on the Pacific Coast, 1788-1850 (Portland, 1972).
20. Rojo, "An Appeal for U.S. Citizenship," 103-4.
21. Fair Play Committee Bulletin reprinted in Gail M. Nomura et al., eds.,
Frontiers of Asian American Studies (Pullman, Wash., 1989), 52.
22. Hearing Transcript, 4 April 1944, reprinted in ibid., 67.
23. Yakima Nihonjin-kai, Yakima Heigen Nihonjin-shi (The History of the
Japanese in the Yakima Valley) (Yakima, Wash., 1935), 154.
24. Buaken, Have Lived, 333.
25. Asian Women United of California, eds., Making Waves: An Anthology of
Writings by and about Asian American Women (Boston, 1989), 59.
26. Gail M. Nomura, "Issei Working Women in Hawaii," in ibid., 144.
27. Paul James Rutledge, The Vietnamese Experience in America (Bloomington,
1992), 18. For an excellent collection of Vietnamese oral histories, see James M. Free-
man, Hearts of Sorrow: Vietnamese-American Lives (Stanford, 1989).
28. Poem cited in Kazuo Ito, Issei: A History of Japanese Immigrants in North
America, trans. Shinichiro Nakamura and Jean S. Gerard (Seattle, 197.3), 34—35.
SIGNIFICANT LIVES - 157
29. Kazuo Ito, Hokubei hyakunen zakura (North American Hundred Years
Cherries) (Tokyo, 1969), 519. For a fuller discussion of Tomita, see Gail M. No-
mura, "Tsugiki, A Grafting: A History of a Japanese Pioneer Woman in Washington
State," in Women in Pacific Northwest History: An Anthology, ed. Karen J. Blair (Seat-
tle, 1988).
30. Ushu cited in Franklin Odo and Kazuko Sinoto, A Pictorial History of the
Japanese in Hawaii, 1885-1924 (Honolulu, 1985), 79.
31. Poem cited in Stephen H. Sumida, "Hawaii, the Northwest, and Asia: Lo-
calism and Local Literacy Developments in the Creation of an Asian Immigrant's
Sensibility," Seattle Review: Blue Funnel Line 11 (Spring/Summer 1988): 13.
32. Jeffrey Paul Chan etal., The Big Aiiieeeee! An Anthology of Chinese American
and Japanese American Literature (New York, 1991), 98.
COMMENTARIES
Through Western Eyes:
Discovering Chinese Women in America
Sucheta Mazumdar
When Union Pacific met Central Pacific at Promontory Point in 1869, Bret
Harte had the engine from the West snorting to its counterpart from the East:
You brag of your East! You do?

Why, I bring the East to you!
All of the Orient, all Cathay,
Find through me the shortest way.l
In this essay I want to explore the ways in which the American West indeed
brought the Orient to the East and, in so doing, forged an Anglo-American
cultural identity that served to bind the two halves of the nation together.
In our efforts to separate American history from its colonial connections
with Europe, it is common to distance American ideological proclivities from
those of western Europe. Orientalism, a style of thought based on an episte-
mological distinction between "the Orient" and "the Occident"—the East
and the West—is seen as a European discourse, specifically an Anglo-French
discourse, a product and a legacy of the one-thousand-year contact with the
Arab Islamic world and of the more immediate history of nineteenth-century
colonialism. Orientalism formed the backdrop against which European na-
tion-state identity and culture were formulated and strengthened. What I
want to propose is that Orientalism was and is as much a part of the nine-
teenth- and twentieth-century American discourse, but with one difference. If
the Arab world and Islam, as representations of the Orient, served to set off
European-Anglo-French culture and identity, as Edward Said has shown in his
classic study, I propose that the Chinese and the Japanese have had the same
role in the production of American material culture and national cultural
identity and that the American West, with its greater familiarity and proxim-
ity to both Asia and the Asian immigrants, has played a crucial role in the
shaping of this discourse.
Edward Said has pointed to a specific development in nineteenth-century
Orientalism. A distillation of essentialist ideas about the "Orient" focused on
its habits of sensuality, depravity, aberrant mentality, lying and cheating, and
backwardness; all of these aspects of the "Oriental character" then became part
of a coherent explanation of the people and the place.2 Before the Orientalist
discourse came to dominate, American traders for example, even in the early
nineteenth century, "of solid Puritan stock for the most part," had had very lit-
158
THROUGH WESTERN EYES • 159
tie to say about issues of polygamy or infanticide, prostitution, or even opium

addiction in China.3 In the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, the
differences between American and Chinese styles of clothing, of furniture,
and of architecture were noted primarily by the East Coast-based American
traders to China. The Chinese and their artifacts, though "curious" and "pe-
culiar," were not considered so "alien" as to be inimitable. The vogue for chi-
noiseries in eighteenth-century New England is well known; Chinese-style
gardens and porcelains were to be found in many wealthy American homes.
One American diplomat, after his return from China to Philadelphia,
brought over Chinese servants, named his house "China Retreat," and built a
pagoda-like dome on his house and lived among entirely Chinese furnish-
ings.4 But by the mid-nineteenth century, this fascination for the curious and
different in one's life was replaced by the notion of the exotic, which could
not be imitated; it could only be observed at a distance. On the one hand,
there was an increasing disdain for the Chinese "civilization" by East Coast in-
tellectuals, as seen in Ralph Waldo Emerson's famous dismissal: "China, rev-
erend dullness! hoary ideot!, all she can say at the convocation of nations must
be—'I made the tea.'"5 On the other hand, there was also a growing interest
in the objectification of the exotic, an integral process of Orientalizing the
East. And as I explore below, the discourse on Chinese women helped iden-
tify most clearly these fundamental differences.
The first known Chinese woman in the United States was Afong Moy,
who was displayed sitting amid Chinese paraphernalia at the American Mu-
seum, the Brooklyn Institute, and various other New York locations between
1834 and 1847. In the latter year she shared star billing with Tom Thumb.
When Afong Moy left for Boston, Barnum's Chinese Museum catered to the
New Yorkers' curiosity about the "Celestial Empire" by producing Pwan-ye-
koo and her maidservant in 1850. The small bound feet of both women were
a prime feature of the advertisements announcing their displays. In both these
cases, the allure of the women was heightened by the suggestion that they
were upper-class; the illustrations of the women show them sitting demurely,
their contours obscured by brocades and silk clothing. Barnum described
Pwan-ye-koos bound feet as an indication of her high social position, "a
choice mark of distingue character."6 Displays of "Siamese twins," troops of
Chinese musicians, and acrobats both preceded and followed the exhibitions
of Afong Moy and Pwan-ye-koo on the East Coast. However, it was the West's
greater familiarity with Chinese women as prostitutes that was to shape im-
migration and judicial policies, not to mention popular cultural notions
about the Chinese and particularly about their women.
In keeping with the emerging racist discourse on anatomy, a discussion
begun as early as 1816 by George Cuvier, who sought to prove that genitalia
varied according to race, it was posited that Chinese women had horizontal
vaginas in keeping with their slanted eyes.7 As late as the 1880s, J. W. Buel,
accompanied by two friends and a policeman, conducted a "scientific experi-
ment" in San Francisco's Chinatown: "In order to set at rest a question which
has been fiercely debated by students of nature . . . our investigation justi-
fies the assertion that there are no physical differences between the Chinese
and American women, their conformation being identical."8 That it should
have taken Buel up to the 1880s to ascertain the facts is surprising. For as early
as 1851, Frank Soule, in his Annals of San Francisco, could write that although
most of the people in the city were "generally orderly, obedient and useful,"
the Chinese were an exception. They were "bringing with them a number of
their women who were among the filthiest and most abandoned of their sex."9
At this time there were only seven Chinese women in San Francisco, and at
least two of them worked as domestics; there were well over a thousand other
prostitutes of various nationalities. But this did not deter a municipal com-
mittee from visiting Chinatown in 1854 and declaring that most Chinese
women were prostitutes.10 By midcentury, an iconography of the sexualized
woman had developed in Europe, a convention of representation of the pros-
titute. Like Manet's Oiympia, which has been discussed in detail as drawing
on a convention of early erotic photography by having the central figure con-
front the observer directly, Ah Toy, one of the better known of the Chinese
prostitutes in San Francisco, was illustrated in the San Francisco Chronicle
wearing a tight-fitting outfit and sitting in an Olympia-like pose offering her-
self up to the observer.11 The exotic "Oriental" and the erotic "Oriental" had
come together.
Throughout the 1850s and 1860s, Chinese prostitutes were singled out
for raids by the Vigilance Committees and were frequently taken to court for
keeping "disorderly houses." The viewpoint that all Chinese women were
prostitutes gained currency through these and assorted other raids; by 1866
"An Act for the Suppression of Chinese Houses of Ill-Fame" was passed by the
California State Legislature.12 Under the supposition that the Chinese were
inclined to use all housing for such illegal purposes, it was now possible for
landlords to deny housing to Chinese. The law also made it profitable to give
information to officials about these alleged houses of ill fame. This pattern
was followed elsewhere in the American West. In Colorado, Wyoming, Utah,
and Nevada the furor over Chinese prostitutes in the 1870s would have sug-
gested that there were thousands of them; the reality was closer to what was
found in Denver: out of 360 identified Denver prostitutes, 204 were white,
44 were black, 2 were Mexican, and 3 were "Oriental."13 The Page Act, intro-
duced in California in 1870 and passed by Congress in 1875, was entitled "An
Act to Prevent the Kidnapping and Importation of Mongolian, Chinese, and
Japanese Females for Demoralizing Purposes." It assumed, in effect, that all
Asian women coming into the country were doing so for "criminal and de-
moralizing purposes" unless proven otherwise.14 In addition to the immigra-
tion officials, the American Consul in Hong Kong also was to ascertain that
the Chinese women were not coming for "lewd and immoral purposes." The
women had to have their photographs taken and "swear to a certain state of
facts" before they were allowed to board the ship.15 Given that William Sanger
found that one-fourth of the male population of most American cities visited
prostitutes and that there were prostitutes of every race and nationality in
every city, the special attention given to Chinese prostitution is a reflection of
the prurient interest in "Oriental depravity," which was to occupy the Amer-
ican media for decades to come.'6
Nothing denoted the dangers of Chinese depravity quite as effectively as
the use of opium and "the dens of infamy" in Chinatowns. The Opium War
(1839-42) had captured the American imagination, and it was almost as if
there could be no discussion of the Chinese without a mention of opium;
editorials and newspaper articles usually discussed the negative effects of Chi-
nese immigration and Chinese vices in the same sentence. Even a description
of violence against the Chinese brought in a mention of opium; the reporter
of the Rocky Mountain News covering the aftermath of the 1880 riot in Den-
ver, in which hundreds of Chinese had been beaten up and at least one killed
and the Chinese residential area burned to the ground, found, "There was
nothing left whole . . . and the rooms so recently the abode of ignorance,
vice, and shame, contained nothing beyond the horrid stench emitted by the
little wads of opium."17 Perhaps the fear and fascination with opium had less
to do with the Chinese than with the emerging Christian temperance move-
ment, particularly in the West.18 What if, in addition to alcohol, the masses
turned to opium? For on Denver's Arapahoe Street, the opium joints had been
found to be catering to Caucasian women.19 As has been discussed by several
scholars, including Barbara Epstein, the Christian Temperance Union was
a central organ of the Victorian women's cult of culture and domesticity.20
And all excesses, whether alcohol or opium, were a threat to this paradigm of
domesticity.
The Chinese prostitute embodied the sexualized woman who threatened
the domestic ideal and symbolized both disease and depravity. As early as the
1850s in California, General Mariano Vallejo had noted that Chinese
immigration was "very harmful to the moral and material development of the
country, to the spread of the white race and the healthfulness of San Fran-
cisco, the spot in which were congregated most of the Chinese women,
who . . . had made it a duty to keep the hospitals always filled with syphil-
itics."21 By 1876, the president of the American Medical Association declared
Chinese syphilis more deadly than any other form; it was but one step to the
argument that the Chinese women were poisoning the Anglo-Saxon blood.22
Fears of Oriental pederasty and disease came together in Denver, where the
presence of an estimated 450 Chinese out of a total population of 40,000 in
1880 had nevertheless made the issue of Chinese labor immigration a major
election-year issue. A letter to the editor, supporting Chinese exclusion, de-
claimed, "Chinese harlots have diseased small boys often years of age and up-
wards, of some of the most respected citizens."23 Never mind the question of
what boys often were doing visiting Chinese prostitutes, even as all Chinese
162 - A NEW SIGNIFICANCE
women were being criminalized as prostitutes, Anglo-Saxon prostitutes were

redeeming themselves by protecting ill-fated Chinese men from the fury of
lynch mobs.
An unlikely emulator of Thomas Nast's famous depiction of Columbia
defending Chinese men cowering at her feet was Liz Preston, a madam of a
Denver brothel. Preston was said to have protected "four cowering Chinese"
with a shotgun during the anti-Chinese riot of 31 October 1880. "Ten Ama-
zonian beauties" apparently backed her up and managed to save some thirty-
four Chinese men. As William Roberts, a Denver fireman and deputy sheriff,
noted in his journal, "That day the pariahs, the outcasts of society, the
denizens of Holladay Street, the center of the red light district, put themselves
in the hall of fame. . . . And perhaps the recording angel gave them one
white mark."24 And that may not have been all that white women gained from
the emerging American discourse on the Chinese.
Issues such as the exclusion of the Chinese have been understood primar-
ily in terms of the particularities of American settlement of the West, the op-
position to cheap Chinese labor by organized white workers, the fear of being
inundated by millions of Chinese immigrants, the American missionaries, the
American racist discourse, and the "indispensable enemy" that enabled white
workers' unionization.25 Yet these propositions alone do not explain the Ori-
entalizing of the Chinese and the simultaneous outpouring of interest in the
conditions of Chinese immigrant women. I propose that the answers lie very
much in an examination of the conditions of American women in the Ameri-
can West and their own struggles for equality within the family and in society.
As historians of women have pointed out, "One of the ironies of Jack-
sonian democracy was the simultaneous development of the 'true cult of
womanhood' and rhetoric celebrating the equality of men."26 As white
women's political demands that too closely approached the prerogatives of
men met with resistance, ideas about womanhood and separate spheres
evolved. Middle-class women were caught up in the cult of domesticity,
Christian marriage, and motherhood in rapidly urbanizing America. Women
found it possible to continue to participate in politics and public action only
through the resurgence of revival religion and through the claims for their
"higher moral nature" that permitted activism in organizations seeking to cor-
rect injustices toward women and children. Others extended "motherhood"
to include all of society, an argument that stressed women's role as "social
housekeepers."27 The catalogue of horrors experienced by Chinese women
underlined the subversion of utilitarian positions of authors such as John Stu-
art Mill, who had argued that the condition of women in society was a barom-
eter of its progress and level of civilization; it was now argued that countries
that treated women poorly were further down on the evolutionary scale. The
Anglo-Saxon races were superior because they treated their women better. As
one 1835 editorial in Atkinsons Casket stated: "The fairest and weakest of the
human race: mothers, sisters, daughters, names which thrill to the sensorium
of Europeans . . . is in the case of the Chinese females a sorrowful task; pity

in its extreme feeling is awakened. . . . In childhood slighted—in maiden-
hood sold—in mature womenhood shackled."28 A longer and louder litany of
the conditions of Chinese women may also have subverted more radical ten-
dencies in the emerging women's movement in America by reiterating the
message that American women already enjoyed an enviable position of free-
dom and equality.
In the post—Civil War period as American women struggled to reclaim
lost political and public space, China became an example of the social decay
and the immorality that must result when women are removed from the pub-
lic sphere. American women, as missionaries and as wives of missionaries, had
begun arriving in China in increasing numbers from the midcentury onward.
Many focused on the status of women in China and the Chinese family as
their particular realm of work. The resultant "evangelical enthnography," as
Joan Jacobs Brumberg has labeled it, published in American women's maga-
zines such as the Ladies Repository and then the Ladies' Home Journal, energet-
ically took up issues of polygamy, female infanticide, and foot-binding.
Popularization of the list of heathen atrocities committed against women in
China was furthered by the foreign mission crusade, "a powerful and multi-
faceted sisterhood of agencies."29 Between 1868 and 1873, women separated
from the "parent boards" of male directors in each of the major American
Protestant evangelical denominations and generated their own foreign mis-
sion organizations under exclusively female leadership. These missionaries fo-
cused on women's issues both at home and abroad. Through talks by
China-returned missionaries to women's groups and through articles on Chi-
nese, Indian, and other unfortunate women in the Ladies Home Journal and
scores of other women's magazines, the average urban American woman be-
came intimately familiar with foot-binding, the tyranny of concubinage,
harems, the seclusion of Chinese women, their illiterate status, and child mar-
riages.30 Moved by the sad tales narrated by a Mrs. John Gullik, a Presbyterian
missionary to China in 1873, a group of women came together in San Fran-
cisco to form the California branch of the Women's Foreign Missionary Soci-
ety. But enthusiasm for rescuing women in distant China soon waned. The
officers of the organization decided that they needed "something tangible
right here at home, to create a greater interest." And what better focus than
Chinese prostitution, which threatened both Christian marriage and the
health of Christian men? As Peggy Pascoe has written, "Protestant women
quickly came to see Chinese immigrant prostitution as symbolic of the abuse
of women that flourished in western cities."31
Additionally, Protestant culture had other challenges that had to be met
in the American West. Women like Angie Newman, who was to leave her
mark on the home mission field, found "the substitution of the Harem for the
Home in all our western borders" a matter of grave concern.32 The non-Mor-
mon attacks on the degradations of polygamy for women had been going on
for decades. And though Mormons in Utah struggled to retain the practice
and leaders such as Franklin D. Richards and Brigham Young stressed the im-
portance of religious duty and companionate marriage in Mormon marriages,
the hostility toward polygamy was not readily deflected. Mormons aban-
doned the practice under federal pressure in 1890.33 Polygamy in the West,
therefore, had a particular resonance, and Chinese polygamy challenged the
Protestant woman's faith in monogamy and companionate marriage; chastity
was the bedrock upon which this marriage was to be built. Polygamous Chi-
nese were seen as the very antithesis of these beliefs and had to be excluded.
The men were declared physically and morally unclean; Chinese women were
labeled both victims and breeders of "moral and physical pestilence" in the
American West.34
The institution of bride-price in China, rather than dowry, with which
the English and Euro-Americans were far more familiar in their own society,
also led to the widespread discussion of all Chinese marriage as a form of slav-
ery. This, coming on the heels of the Civil War, added particular fuel to the
anti-Chinese movement. By extension, since all women, whether prostitutes
or wives, were "purchased" and all men, as "coolies," were also enslaved, the
Chinese came to be portrayed in some instances as no different from African
Americans. Cartoons and drawings published on both coasts depicted the
Chinese with African-American features. Fatness was associated in contempo-
rary Britain and America with lax morals; as one commentator noted, "The
grossest and stoutest of these women are to be found among the lowest and
most disgusting classes of prostitutes."35 In many cartoons Chinese women
were shown not only with African-American features but also as rather fat.
Hutchings Illustrated California Magazine of 1857 elaborated on one such il-
lustration: "Unlike other Oriental nations, the Chinese have sent hither
swarms of their females, a large part of whom are a depraved class; and though
with complexions in some instances approaching to fair, their whole physiog-
nomy but a slight removal from the African race."36 It has been suggested that
this was a "Negroization" of the Chinese on the West Coast, where there were
very few African Americans and where the Chinese came to occupy the low-
est rank in the racial hierarchies of the day.37 I would take the argument fur-
ther. Illustrating the malleability of racial phenotype, I suggest that the
Chinese conveniently "became black" in this equation of Chinese as slaves. In
the post—Civil War period, some used Chinese slavery to suggest that the sit-
uation of the antebellum African-American had not been that bad. An article
in the Californian argued, for instance, "There exists in this country, wherever
the Chinese have obtained a foothold, a slavery so vile and debasing that all
the horrors of negro American slavery do not begin to compare with it." The
author, focusing on the sale of Chinese women and children, continued, "The
negro of antebellum days was a prince in fortune to the luckless Chinese slave:
the former was sold to work, while the latter is selected, bought and handed
over for a use compared to which death would be a happy release."38 For
many who had never set eyes on a Chinese man or woman, the issue of slav-
ery among the Chinese became the primary argument for exclusion.
In these and dozens of other ways, a new "Orient" was created during the
course of the nineteenth century: the supine, backward, degenerate "East,"
the backdrop against which energetic Americans could take their measure;
the "other," which reiterated the hierarchies of the races, of superior and infe-
rior cultures, and which reassured Americans of their dominant place under
the sun. Repulsive yet attractive, like a magic crystal ball, opium-sodden
polygamous nineteenth-century China gave Americans a glimpse of their
own degenerate tendencies. Americans formulated hundreds of ways that set
"us" apart from "them"—why "they" could not be assimilated and become
part of "America." The contrast with the Chinese also reiterated a racial con-
nection with the new masses of immigrants from Europe swarming to Amer-
ican shores in the 1870s and 1880s. After reading extensively about dirt,
disease, and decadence in California's Chinatowns in 1870, James Gordon
Bennet of the New York Herald concluded, "Compared with these base Chi-
nese, the vilest dregs that come into New York from the vilest holes in Europe
are refined and attractive people."39
In 1882 the Chinese Exclusion Act was passed, followed by a string of
other legislation that terminated Chinese immigration to the United States;
the Chinese population declined from an overall high of 107,488 in 1890 to
89,863 within a decade and continued declining until the 1920s. Firmly rel-
egated to the margins of American society, Chinese women lapsed back into
the realm of the exotic, their souls and bodies in need of rescue. There was lit-
tle discussion in the American press of the women's rights and anti-foot-bind-
ing movements not only in China but also in the Chinatowns of San
Francisco and Los Angeles. The arrival in 1902 of sixteen-year-old Xue Jinqin
as a student at the University of California, Berkeley, and her lecture to an au-
dience numbering around a thousand in San Francisco's Chinatown on
women's education and on "women's obligations to break the old Chinese
practices" passed unnoticed by the East Coast media.40 So too did Mrs. Joe
Wing's half-hour speech in Los Angeles in 1905; she discussed the persecu-
tion of women in China and demanded that women learn to read and write
so that "men wouldn't bully them."41 But dozens of photographs were taken
when there were raids on houses of "ill repute"—such as attempts to rescue
Chinese women by Donaldina Cameron of the Chinese Mission Home in
San Francisco.
By the twentieth century, exotic Chinese women and evil Chinatowns
had become an integral part of the American West; they were perceived as
"different," and their difference had to be preserved, even under duress.
Donaldina Cameron in the 1920s insisted on keeping "her [Chinese] girls in
native costume, deploring their preference for leather shoes over their own
gay embroidered ones [and only] regretfully indulging them in a change from
their own style of hairdressing."42 San Francisco's Chinatown came to repre-
sent the "Orient" in America; New York's rowdy Irish-Italian-Chinese neigh-
borhood was perhaps not as evocative. Ernest Peixotto and Robert Fletcher
collaborated on an expensive portfolio of drawings of San Francisco's China-
town in 1898. The accompanying text effused: "The streets of Chinatown
fairly swarm with its silent-footed inhabitants. They do not come and go, they
appear and disappear. From dark door-ways and alleys, and from the gloomy
interior of shops, these pallid-faced figures with shaven heads and dangling
cues clothed in voluminous black or blue blouses and short straight trousers,
their ankles swathed in white linen and their feet mounted on padded slip-
pers, they pass and repass in spectral procession.43
When Hollywood emerged in the 1920s with Dr. Fu Manchu, the de-
praved Chinese man with "terror in each split-second of his slanted eyes," and
with movies of "tong wars" in shady Chinatowns with dark alleyways peopled
with "inscrutable Orientals," Americans all over the country simply had their
notions of the "Orient" reconfirmed. From Ah Toy to Suzy Wong, American
Orientalism and its many faces had come full circle.
Notes
I would like to thank colleagues at the Center for Studies of Ethnicity and Race in
America (CSERA), University of Colorado, Boulder, for their comments on an earlier
draft of this essay. A Rockefeller Fellowship at CSERA in the fall of 1994 enabled me
to carry out the research for this essay.
1. Cited in Howard Lamar, ed., The Reader's Encyclopedia of the American West
(New York, 1977), 203.
2. Edward Said, Orientalism (New York, 1978), 205. Space and other consid-
erations have encouraged me to limit my discussion to the Chinese experience in this
essay.
3. Stuart Creighton Miller, The Unwelcome Immigrant (Berkeley, 1969),
32-33.
4. Many such examples are discussed by Harold Isaacs, Images of Asia (New
York, 1958), 69-71, 93-96, and by Miller, Unwelcome Immigrant, 16-37.
5. Ralph Waldo Emerson, The Journal and Miscellaneous Notebooks of Ralph
Waldo Emerson, ed. William H. Gillman et al., vol. 2 (Cambridge, Mass., 1961), 224.
6. Morning Courier and New York Enquirer, 10 April 1850.
7- Jerome Ch'en, China and the West: Society and Culture (London, 1979),
224-25; Sander Gilman, "Black Bodies, White Bodies," in Race, Writing, and Differ-
ence, ed. Henry Louis Gates (Chicago, 1986), 232-37.
8. Curt Gentry, The Madams of San Francisco (Sausalito, Calif., 1964), 57.
9. Cited in ibid., 62.
10. Aha California, 22 August 1854.
11. George Needham, "Manet, Olympia, and Pornographic Photography," in

Woman as Sex Object, ed. Thomas Hess and Linda Nochlin (New York, 1972),
81-89. The illustration of Ah Toy is reproduced in Judy Yung, Chinese Women of
America (Seattle, 1986), 17.
12. Brenda E. Pillors, "The Criminalization of Prostitution in the United States:
The Case of San Francisco, 1854-1919" (Ph.D. diss., University of California,
Berkeley, 1982); Statutes of California (2865-66), 81-82.
13. Anne Butler, Daughters of Joy, Sisters of Misery (Urbana, 1985), 6-7. The re-
maining 107, whose ethnicity was not accounted for, were probably French, for there
was a direct importation of French prostitutes to Denver.
14. California Statutes, 1870, 330.
15. Letter of Giles H. Gray, cited by Sucheng Chan, "The Exclusion of Chinese
Women, 1870-1943," in Entry Denied, ed. Sucheng Chan (Philadelphia, 1991),
103-4.
16. William Sanger, History of'Prostitution (New York, 1858).
17. Rocky Mountain News, 1 November 1880, 8.
18. The Colorado Women's Christian Temperance Union, for example, was
founded in 1878.
19. Roy Wortman, "Denver's Anti-Chinese Riot, 1880," Colorado Magazine
Western History42 (1965): 279.
20. Barbara Epstein, The Politics of Domesticity: Women, Evangelism, and Tem-
perance in Nineteenth Century America (Middletown, Conn., 1981); Peggy Pascoe,
Relations of Rescue (New York, 1990).
21. Cited in Gentry, Madams of San Francisco, 62.
22. Transactions of the American Medical Association 27 (1876): 106-7, cited in
Miller, Unwelcome Immigrant, 163 (see also p. 171).
23. Rocky Mountain News, 27 October 1880, 2.
24. Cited in Wortman, "Denver's Anti-Chinese Riot," 283.
25. These interpretations have been forwarded by numerous scholars, including
Roger Daniels, Asian America (Seattle, 1988), and Alexander Saxton, The Indispens-
able Enemy (Berkeley, 1971).
26. Paula Baker, "The Domestication of Politics: Women and American Politi-
cal Society, 1790-1920," American Historical Review 89 (1984): 630.
27. In addition to Baker, this section has drawn on Mary Ryan, Womanhood in
America: From Colonial Times to the Present (New York, 1975).
28. Miller, Unwelcome Immigrant, 88.
29. Joan Jacobs Brumberg, "The Ethnological Mirror: American Evangelical
Women and Their Heathen Sisters, 1870-1910," in Women and the Structure of So-
ciety, ed. Barbara J. Harris and JoAnn K. McNamara (Durham, N.C., 1984), 110.
30. E.g., Ladies''Home Journal'16 (1899).
31. Pascoe, Relations of Rescue, 13-14.
32. Ibid., 24.
33. Lawrence Foster, "Polygamy and the Frontier: Mormon Women in Early
Utah,"Utah Historical Quarterly 50 (1982): 268-89.
34. Miller, Unwelcome Immigrant, 163.
35. Gilman, "Black Bodies, White Bodies," 242.

36. Hutching's Illustrated California Magazine 1 (March 1857), illustration re-
produced in Robert Heizer and Alan Almquist, The Other Californians (Berkeley,
1971).
37. Dan Caldwell, "The Negroization of the Chinese Stereotype in California,"
Southern California Quarterly 53 (June 1971).
38. M. G. C. Edholm, "A Stain on the Flag," Californian (California Illustrated
Magazine) 1 (February 1892): 159.
39. Cited in Miller, Unwelcome Immigrant, 182-83.
40. Judy Yung, "The Social Awakening of Chinese American Women as Re-
ported in Chung Sai Yat Po, 1900—1911," Chinese America: History and Perspectives
(San Francisco, 1988).
41. Sucheta Mazumdar, "In the Family," in Linking Our Lives: Chinese Ameri-
can Women of Los Angeles, UCLA Chinese American Oral History Project (Los Ange-
les, 1984), 36.
42. Cited in Pascoe, Relations of Rescue, 118.
43. Robert Howe Fletcher, Ten Drawings in Chinatown (San Francisco, 1898),
Bancroft Manuscript Collection, University of California, Berkeley.
Extending Democracy's Reach

Gary Y. Okihiro
Over two decades ago, Stanford M. Lyman published an essay titled "The Sig-
nificance of Asians in American Society," a much overlooked, though brilliant
work.1 Although Lyman failed, in my estimation, to prove his thesis, he
pointed the way toward a new understanding of U.S. race relations.2 The
dominant paradigm, argued Lyman, was based on black-white relations and
ignored the trajectories of other groups, including Asians. The black-white
model, he continued, derived largely from the plantation South, characterized
by the master-slave relationship. Asians, he offered, stimulated a new stage of
race relations, one that represented a move away from the rural South toward
the urban West and away from racism within total institutions toward racism
in modern institutional settings. Although the argument is flawed, Lyman's
search for a more inclusive paradigm of U.S. race relations remains a valid en-
deavor, and like Lyman and some among the new western historians, I believe
the West holds the key to that problematic.
But locating the significance of Asians within U.S. race relations and
anti-Asianism is a revival of the moribund literature of the past that focused
EXTENDING DEMOCRACY'S REACH • 169
on the excluders and not the excluded. Multiculturalism has all too often
meant depicting .Asians as victims, most prominently within U.S. history
texts, as objects of exclusion in the nineteenth-century anti-Chinese move-
ment and as "Americans betrayed" in the twentieth-century mass detention of
Japanese Americans. But multiculturalism has also meant a "contributions"
approach that asks, oblivious to the wider social relations and institutions,
about the roles played by women and various ethnic and minority groups in
the building of the nation. Asians are herein celebrated for their labor, fore-
most in the construction of the transcontinental railroad and in the develop-
ment of western agriculture and Hawaiian sugar plantations.
The contributions approach, it seems to me, slights the true significance
of Asians in the American West and elsewhere. Helping to bind the nation
with bands of steel, however masculine and heroic, and laying the founda-
tions for California's orchard and vegetable economy, however important, and
planting and reaping Hawaiian sugar, however profitable, pale in comparison
with the centrality of the Founding Fathers, the framers of the constitution,
the shapers of letters and science of the American core. I would, however, has-
ten to add that the core deliberately and systematically built the republic for
itself, for those it defined as members of the American community, and just as
deliberately and systematically marginalized the efforts of nonmembers of
that community. How, then, could the contributions of the latter equal those
of the former?
Instead, what 1 would like to suggest is that the deeper significance of
Asians, and indeed of all minorities, in the West and in America as a whole
rests in their opposition to the dominant paradigm, in their contestation at
the borders, at the gates that admitted members and barred nonmembers.
What I contend, albeit in summary fashion, is that racial minorities, specifi-
cally Asian Americans, have in the past repeatedly sought inclusion within
American society, within the promise of American democracy, within the
ideals of equality and human dignity and have, just as regularly, been rebuffed
and excluded from that company and ideal. What I will suggest further is that
racial minorities, in their struggles for inclusion and equality, helped to pre-
serve and advance the very privileges that were denied to them and thereby
democratized America for the benefit of all Americans.
Hawaiian planters thought of imported Asian workers as mere com-
modities necessary for the production of sugar. "I can see little difference be-
tween the importation of foreign laborers and the importation of jute bags
from India," declared Richard A. Cooke, president of the Hawaiian Sugar
Planters' Association (HSPA). Theo. H. Davies, a Honolulu mercantile
house, confirmed in a letter to C. McLennan, manager of Laupahoehoe Plan-
tation, on 2 July 1890 that the company had received his requisition for
"bonemeal, canvas, Japanese laborers, macaroni, Chinamen."3 In testimony
before the U.S. Congress in 1910, HSPA Secretary Royal D. Mead reported:
"The Asiatic has had only an economic value in the social equation. So far as
the institutions, laws, customs, and language of the permanent population go,
his presence is no more felt than is that of the cattle on the ranges."4
When no longer useful as laborers, Asians were denied entry into Amer-
ica, "repatriated," and displaced or marginalized. Those goals were achieved
by the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882, the Gentlemen's Agreement of 1908,
the 1917 and 1924 Immigration Acts, and the Tydings-McDuffie Act of
1934, by which Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Asian-Indian, and Filipino exclu-
sion was affected. The exclusion of Asian women, California's (and other
states') antimiscegenation statute(s), and the 1922 Cable Act that stripped
U.S. citizenship from women who married Asian migrants ("aliens ineligible
to citizenship") restricted the ability of Asians to reproduce and create stable
communities, and the 1922 Ozawa ruling by the U.S. Supreme Court af-
firmed earlier decisions that the naturalization laws did not apply to Asians.
"The widespread animosity toward the California Chinese," observed several
students of California's anti-Asian movement, "was translated into a broad
range of discriminatory legislation designed to drive out those already here
and to discourage the immigration of others."5
Despite the dissonance between the rhetoric and the practice of Ameri-
can democracy, its promise of equality held out much hope to Asians. During
the 1909 sugar plantation strike on the island of Oahu involving about seven
thousand workers, Japanese strikers argued against the racial hierarchies cre-
ated by the planters: "Is it not a matter of simple justice, and moral duty to
give [the] same wages and same treatment to laborers of equal efficiency, irre-
spective of race, color, creed, nationality, or previous condition of servitude?"
And in 1903, in Oxnard, California, over thirteen hundred Japanese and
Mexican sugar-beet field hands joined together in a historic union, the Japan-
ese-Mexican Labor Association (JMLA). When the American Federation of
Labor (AFL) offered to charter the JMLA, but only after the union had been
purged of all of its Japanese members, the union's secretary, J. M. Lizarras, a
Mexican, responded to the AFL's Samuel Gompers, "We would be false [to
the Japanese] and to ourselves and to the cause of Unionism, if we . . . ac-
cept privileges for ourselves which are not according to them [Asians]." Work-
ers should unite, Lizarras concluded, "without regard to their color or race."6
The Chinese contested, early on, inequities in the education of their chil-
dren. In 1884, eight-year-old Mamie Tape, the American-born daughter of
Chinese migrants Joseph and Mary McGladery Tape, was denied admittance
to California's Spring Valley Primary School by the principal, Jennie Hurley.
The Tapes challenged Hurley's decision, and in January 1885, the court de-
cided in favor of the petitioners, citing the equal protection clause of the Four-
teenth Amendment. "To deny a child, born of Chinese parents in this State,
entrance to the public schools," wrote the superior court judge, "would be a
violation of the law of the state and the Constitution of the United States."7
The Tape decision was affirmed by the state supreme court, but neither ruling
IEXTENDING DEMOCRACY'S REACH • 171
challenged the "separate but equal" doctrine that would be established eleven
years later in the landmark 1896 U.S. Supreme Court decision of Plessy v.
Ferguson.
The state responded by enacting legislation designed to skirt the court
rulings by enabling school boards to establish separate schools for Asians; as
was mandated by the 1885 amendment to Section 1662 of the 1880 Political
Code: "Trustees shall have power to exclude children of filthy or vicious
habits, or children suffering from contagious or infectious diseases, and also to
establish separate schools for children of Mongolian or Chinese descent.
When such separate schools are established Chinese or Mongolian children
must not be admitted to any other schools." The legislation was praised by
San Francisco's school superintendent as "not a question of race prejudice" but
"a question of demoralization of one high race by a lower," and on 13 April
1885, Mamie Tape, described by the San Francisco Evening Bulletin as neatly
dressed, with her hair in "the traditional braid of American children hanging
down her back and tied with a ribbon," joined her brother Frank and four
other "bright Chinese lads" at Rose Thayer's Chinese Primary School on Jack-
son and Powell Streets in San Francisco.8
Mary McGladery Tape, unconvinced that the exclusion of her daughter
was "not a question of race prejudice," wrote a letter to the board of education
dated 8 April 1885. "I see that you are going to make all sorts of excuses to
keep my child out of the Public Schools," she began. "Dear sirs, Will you
please tell me! Is it a disgrace to be born a Chinese? Didn't God make us all!!!
What right! have you to bar my children out of the school because she is a chi-
nese Descend." Tape concluded: "I will let the world see sir What justice there
is When it is govern by the Race prejudice men! Just because she is of the Chi-
nese descend, not because she don't dress like you because she does. Just be-
cause she is decended [sic] of Chinese parents I guess she is more of a
American then a good many of you that is going to prewent [sic] her being Ed-
ucated."9
In 1920, the Hawaiian legislature passed Act 30, which authorized the
Department of Public Instruction to issue and revoke operating permits to
foreign-language schools, to test and certify language-school teachers, who
were required to have knowledge of the "ideals of democracy, American his-
tory and institutions and the English language," and to regulate the curricula,
textbooks, and hours of operation of those schools. Despite the regulatory in-
tent of the act, the department applied its provisions toward eliminating the
territory's 143 Japanese-language schools, and on 28 December 1922, a group
of 87 language schools joined in a petition testing the constitutionality of Act
30. As the litigation moved from territorial circuit court to the U.S. District
Court, to the Ninth Court of Appeals in San Francisco, and finally to the U.S.
Supreme Court, the Hawaiian legislature tightened controls over the language
schools by passing Act 171 in 1923 arid Act 152 in 1925.10
On 21 February 1927, the Supreme Court rendered a unanimous deci-
sion in favor of the Japanese-language school petitioners, arguing that despite

the "grave problems" of a "large alien population in the Hawaiian Islands,"
parents had the right to determine the education of their children and the
state had limits in curtailing the rights and powers of individuals.11 At a mass
meeting held the following month, five thousand supporters of the successful
constitutional challenge passed a series of resolutions: "We re-affirm our con-
fidence in the friendship and good-will of the American people, and reassert
our pride in the fact that our children are American citizens." They added,
"We emphatically reaffirm our continued loyalty to America and our desire to
rear our children as loyal, patriotic and useful citizens of the United States."
Kinzaburo Makino, a test-case leader, told the gathered throng that the litiga-
tion was "the right of a people living in a free democracy to seek legal clarifi-
cation regarding constitutionality of their laws." But he cautioned, "We must
never forget that we have to stand up for our rights as guaranteed under the
Constitution."12
Exploited and seen to have no more effect than "cattle on the ranges,"
Asian-American laborers went on strike for equality "irrespective of race,
color, creed, nationality, or previous condition of servitude" and organized
themselves into unions "without regard to their color or race." Relegated to
"Oriental" schools, Asian Americans challenged segregation and, to para-
phrase Mary McGladery Tape, declared themselves to be more American than
those who would deny a child equal education on the basis of race. The lan-
guage-school challenge of the 1920s, which taught Asian Americans to stand
up for their "rights as guaranteed under the Constitution," presaged the suc-
cessful fight for bilingual language rights some five decades later, resulting in
the 1974 Supreme Court decision of Lau v. Nichols.1^ The struggle for non-
racism in the workplace, equality in education, and linguistic and cultural
rights helped to extend democracy's reach and significantly advanced the fun-
damental freedoms of all Americans. That, I maintain, is the true significance
of Asians in America.
Notes
1. Stanford M. Lyman, The Asian in the West (Reno, 1970), 3-8.
2. For another conceptualization of U.S. race relations, see Michael Omi and
Howard Winant, Racial Formation in the United States: From the 1960s to the 1980s
(New York, 1986).
3. Cooke and Davies cited in Ronald Takaki, Pau Hana: Plantation Life and
Labor in Hawaii, 1835-1920 (Honolulu, 1983), 23.
4. Quoted in Gary Y. Okihiro, Cane Fires: The Anti-Japanese Movement in
Hawaii, 1865-1945 (Philadelphia, 1991), 16-17.
5. Jacobus tenBroek, Edward N. Barnhart, and Floyd W. Matson, Prejudice,
War, and the Constitution (Berkeley, 1954), 17.
EXTENDING DEMOCRACY'S REACH • 173
6. Both quotations in Yuji Ichioka, The Issei: The World of the First Generation
Japanese Immigrants, 1885-1924 (New York, 1988), 96-99.
7. Victor Low, The Unimpressible Race: A Century of Educational Struggle by the
Chinese in San Francisco (San Francisco, 1982), 62.
8. Ibid., 59-73.
9. Ibid., Appendix D.
10. Okihiro, Cane Fires, 136-38, 153-54.
11. Kenneth B. O'Brien Jr., "Education, Americanization, and the Supreme
Court: The 1920s," American Quarterly 13 (Summer 1961): 170-71.
12. Okihiro, Cane Fires, 154-55.
13. See L. Ling-chi Wang, "Lau v. Nichols: History of a Struggle for Equal and
Quality Education," in Counterpoint: Perspectives on Asian America, ed. Emma Gee
(Los Angeles, 1976), 240-63.
6
Cultural Filters:
The Significance of Perception
Anne F. Hyde
The geographic region of the American West has done much to shape the
culture and character of the United States. Conversely, the culture and
character of the United States has reshaped much of the western land-
scape. Frederick Jackson Turner told us as much in 1893. He argued that
the West molded American culture because it was a frontier, a meeting
ground between savagery and civilization. Because frontier, for Turner, did
not mean a specific place, the geographic realities of the Far West played
no important role in his thinking.
I argue instead that the West has shaping power because of its unique
geography and not necessarily because it was or is a frontier. Its signifi-
cance comes from the fact that in a certain part of the American continent,
particularly the lands west of the one hundredth meridian, Anglo Ameri-
cans came up against a series of landscapes that defied their notions about
utility and beauty. The region's strange appearance, combined with na-
tional expectations about its uses, created a volatile mixture of geography
and culture.
Distinctive and unfamiliar landscapes presented explorers, travelers,
and settlers with perceptual challenges. What was the West? What did it
look like? How could it be first understood, then lived upon, made prof-
itable, or consumed? Meeting this challenge with new methods of inter-
pretation forced Americans to make sense of their surroundings and, at
times, distort the landscape. These shifting perceptions reflected the ways
in which American culture defined itself—and this is the significance of
perception in the history of the American West.
Other historians have made observations along these lines. Walter
Prescott Webb devoted a career to the distinctive characteristics of the
Great Plains, arguing that geography determined the culture that devel-
175
oped there. Donald Worster, in his work on the use and misuse of land and
water in the West, has shown us the folly of ignoring geographic realities.
Henry Nash Smith and, more recently, Annette Kolodny have looked at
the way in which the West, both the real West and the West that Ameri-
cans imagined, affected American culture in the nineteenth century.
William Goetzmann has surveyed the history of western exploration as a
vehicle of empire building and argued that explorers were the point men
of American culture, bringing it west as they carried images of the West
east.1
Few historians have looked systematically at the history of perceiving
the West. However, this history of perception is crucial in understanding
how the region has been used. I see two basic problems in understanding
Anglo-American perceptions of the region. First, what does perception
mean? It denotes both firsthand observations of Americans who viewed
the West for the first time in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries
and the responses of readers or viewers to those firsthand accounts or im-
ages. What did both groups expect to see? How did their expectations
color their perceptions of the Far West? Working like filters on a camera
lens, cultural expectations, biases, and ideology affected what people saw
and what they recorded for others. Second, we must remember that the
perceptions of Anglo observers do not represent the entire spectrum of vi-
sion, though in the nineteenth century their views, however limited, had
tremendous impact on the region.
This essay explores the role of culture in the history of perception in
the American West. In particular, I want to look at the filters that altered
and shaped this perception. Because of the enormous interest in the West
and because of its distance from eastern population centers, the percep-
tions of early interpreters shaped American ideas about the West. How
Americans gained their knowledge about the West resembled a game of
telephone throughout most of the nineteenth century. Most Americans
got their information about the West after it had been filtered through sev-
eral observers and recorders. Certainly the views of Anglo Americans vary
enormously. How did different peoples' or groups' perceptions shape the
West, and how did the West shape these perceptions?2
Because I want to look at the role of perception as a cultural shaper, it
is important to look at what might influence such perceptions. Modes of
transportation provide a significant filter on what people see. The earliest
American explorers viewed the West in terms very different from those
used by tourists on Interstate 80 two centuries later. Another important
filter is gender. When women and men looked at the landscape, they of-
ten saw very different things. Another sort of filter is the medium upon
CULTURAL FILTERS • 177
which firsthand responses are recorded. Because most people saw the West
through words and pictures made by others, the medium of exchange be-
comes important in understanding national conceptions about the region.
Words, pictures, buildings, and more recently, films have all recorded per-
ceptions. What happens in the translation between viewer and image?
How does the medium change the perception?
Working underneath all of these filters is the crucial lens of cultural
preparation or expectation. If the eye acts as a camera body, culture works
as a lens providing focus. In large part, the history of Anglo-American per-
ception in the West is one of willful misperception. To counter this view,
one could examine the perceptions of nonwhite westerners. What did they
see when they looked at the landscape? How did they filter their views? Be-
cause Native Americans and Hispanic colonizers had little interest in re-
modeling the landscape on a large scale, they seemed more likely to accept
far western geography at face value. Culturally, the landscape seemed use-
ful to them.3 White Americans, using their own culture, focused their
cameras and saw a highly mutable West—a place that could be remade
into anything they wanted as they twisted and adjusted that cultural focus.
Describing the West:

Explorers and Their Words
The concept of cultural preparation and its impact on perceptions of the
West is vital. A quick trip through the history of western exploration
should demonstrate the significance of expectation. In general, people see
what they are looking for. If you have been told that a place is beautiful,
generally when you see it, the spot will appear beautiful. And in general,
landscape that is familiar is pleasing.4 Navajo, Paiute, or Apache Indians,
for example, would have been stunned to know that nineteenth-century
white observers found the western deserts hideous and threatening. Be-
cause native peoples knew how to find water, food, and shelter, the desert
seemed a comfortable place to them. Similarly, what white Americans ex-
pected and what was familiar had great impact on what they found in the
Far West in the early nineteenth century.
Geographical knowledge of the American West did not begin with a
blank slate. Myths and assumptions long preceded and shaped knowledge.
A useful way to characterize nineteenth-century exploration is as a series of
"reality checks" that had relatively little effect on a durable myth. For ex-
ample, we often assume that Thomas Jefferson sent Meriwether Lewis and
William Clark into a great void when they headed up the Missouri River
in 1804 to inspect the newly acquired Louisiana Purchase.
Jefferson, however, had devised the expedition based on several clear

geographic assumptions. He believed, with the weight of science and his-
tory behind him, that a waterway existed connecting the Atlantic and Pa-
cific Oceans. Reality, in this case, came in the guise of reports from fur
traders and fur company explorers and chipped away at this belief, reduc-
ing the waterway to a western-flowing river and an eastern-flowing river
that were interrupted by an insignificant portage over a small mountain
range. As Bernard DeVoto put it: "This basic conception, this irreducible
minimum, left no room for the Rocky Mountains. Geographical thinking
had been unable to imagine them."5 Perhaps even more significant was
Jefferson's assumption that the West, like most of the territory east of the
Mississippi, would provide climate and land suitable for American farm-
ing. In his message to Congress justifying the expedition, Jefferson ex-
plained that "the Missouri, traversing a moderate climate," would provide
passage through a rich and fertile agricultural region.6 Jefferson's instruc-
tions to Lewis and Clark, exhorting them to pay careful attention to cli-
mate, soil, mineral production, and navigational possibilities of various
rivers, reflect these assumptions.
Lewis and Clark's report describing the torturous 220-mile portage
through the deep snows of Montana's Bitterroot Mountains seriously
damaged the concept of a Northwest Passage. However, their report did
nothing to erode the notion of the West as an agricultural wonderland des-
tined for American use. Despite the fact that Lewis and Clark described
great treeless expanses, unnavigable rivers, and an array of native peoples,
Anglo Americans continued to believe that the Far West could be readily
molded to fit their economy, society, and culture. Lewis and Clark found
a garden, perhaps a rocky and cold one, but a garden nevertheless—be-
cause they were expected to find one.7
Nearly fifteen years later, another official expedition ventured into the
supposed "Garden of the West." Led by Stephen Harriman Long of the
U.S. Topographical Engineers, this group headed into the heart of the
continent, along the Platte, Arkansas, and Canadian Rivers. Perhaps be-
cause Long and his men expected to find a fertile region much like the
Mississippi Valley just to the east, the arid, treeless plains seemed especially
bleak. The report they brought back was not optimistic. The Long expe-
dition found only hostile Indians, towering mountains, and sandy wastes,
a region that, according to Long, was "almost wholly unfit for cultivation,
and of course uninhabitable by a people depending upon agriculture for
their subsistence."8 As a result of Long's judgment, the center of the Amer-
ican West was designated the "Great American Desert."9
Such a dismal appellation did little to slow the conquest of the West,
nor did it put much of a dent in American assumptions about the region.
As the United States made moves toward acquiring Texas, Oregon, Cali-
fornia, and the rest of the Great Basin, few Americans considered the geo-
graphic realities of the land they coveted. Throughout the nineteenth
century, Americans seemed to be looking for two things in the West. One
was a scenic West, a place that represented the power and beauty of the
American nation and that could be compared to the most sublime scenes
in Europe. The other West offered a locus of opportunity and a testing
ground for American ingenuity, a notion that had been present long be-
fore Thomas Jefferson. However, these two Wests seem mutually exclu-
sive. How could Americans perceive the landscape as sublime Eden and at
the same time build farms and mines on top of it? Even more poignant,
both of these western visions clashed with the facts of the landscape. And
this clash, because of the powerful ideology about the role of the West,
could not be reconciled by nineteenth-century Americans.
Although some people worried that the nation was growing too fast
and that expansion would destroy the union, no one seemed to question
the notion that the land could meet aesthetic standards and the needs of
traditional American farming and industry. Even if deserts did mar the
landscape, they presented a challenge to be met, not a barrier to develop-
ment or understanding. The perception of the Far West as a potential
wonderland was far too strong.
John Charles Fremont set off on a series of expeditions in 1842 to
prove that such a wonderland did exist. His own ambitions and the ex-
pansionist fervor of his patrons dictated what he saw. The Great American
Desert became the Great Plains, home to nutritious grasses, innumerable
buffalo and antelope, and picturesque Indians. The Rocky Mountains
contained scenes of grandeur and sublimity that rivaled the famed Alps of
Europe. Oregon and California cried out for the plows of industrious
American farmers to make the valleys into fertile oases. Certain parts of
tended to ignore these unfortunate areas, which included the huge ex-
panses of the Great Basin and the plains. He simply explained them away:
"In America, such things are new and strange, unknown and unsus-
pected," implying that once known, these regions could be made more ap-
pealing.10
The news in Fremont's Report of the Exploring Expedition to the Rocky
Mountains in the Year 1842 and to Oregon and North California in the Years
1843—1844 captivated Americans. The report read like an adventure
story, but it also provided clear descriptions of the landscape. Fremont
used familiar language and analogy to make the Far West comprehensible
180 A NEW SIGNIFICANCE
Central Chain of the Wind River Range, Charles Preuss, 1842. Lithograph in John
Charles Fremont, Report of the Exploring Expedition to the Rocky Mountains in the
Year 1842 and to Oregon and North California in the Years 1843-1844 (Wash-
ington, D.C., 1845).
to his readers. Because of the publicity surrounding his expedition and the
astounding popularity of his Report, the words Fremont selected had great
impact on American perceptions of the region.11
Remodeling the West:

Promoters and Settlers
Fremont simply echoed what white Americans had assumed all along—
that the West was a place of opportunity where American enterprise could
spread its wings. However, by the middle of the nineteenth century, geo-
graphical knowledge had placed question marks on this opportunity. The
Great Plains looked fertile with all of those buffalo chewing grass, but
where were the trees and the rain? The Rockies and the Sierra Nevada
could be crossed and they had spots of undeniable beauty, but could they
ever be anything but a barrier to development? The Great Basin and the
desert Southwest provided another cipher. Indians had lived there for
thousands of years and Mormons had recently established a toehold using
irrigation, but could mainstream Americans establish profitable enter-
prises in those regions? How could the Far West be made into America?
These areas presented perceptual challenges that would take another fifty
years to solve.
In general, Anglo Americans chose two strategies to deal with the ge-
ography of the Far West. Both of these reflected the power of the cultural
filter Americans used to view the region. The first method involved deny-
ing the facts of the landscape and insisting that the entire region would
support traditional American patterns of living. The semiarid plains could
be made into agricultural bonanzas while the deserts and mountains could
flower with irrigation and mining. The ingrained American belief in Man-
ifest Destiny made geographical barriers impossible. One could argue that
this is a history of stubborn misperception.
Confidence and determination could even alter geography. For exam-
ple, as settlement in the Mississippi Valley pushed people farther west and
as the promises of promoters enticed them, Americans began to reevaluate
the Great American Desert. Driven by optimism and faith, folk wisdom
and science put forth the notion that if the region was settled, more rain
would fall. Boosters, settlers, and railroad builders insisted that if Ameri-
cans dug up the plains and planted crops and trees, annual rainfall would
increase. In 1867, Ferdinand V. Hayden, the eminent and politically as-
tute director of the U.S. Geological and Geographical Survey of the Terri-
tories, announced, "The planting of ten or fifteen acres of forest-trees on
each quarter-section will have a most important effect on the climate,
equalizing and increasing the moisture." Thus rain would indeed follow
the plow.12 Others insisted that the electricity created by trains on railroad
tracks and by telegraph wires would stimulate cloud formation.13 Such
fanciful claims evolved out of the perception that the West could be made
into whatever Americans wanted it to be, despite geographic realities.
A second way to deal with unpleasant geographical truths was to
search for regions of the West that did fit American perceptions of what
the West should be and to pretend nothing else existed. The strenuous ef-
fort by promoters to make the West attractive to wealthy American
tourists by making it into a version of Europe exemplifies this strategy. The
practice of imposing European standards on American landscape had a
long history. This tendency developed out of Americans' insecurities about
their culture, doubts that had been present since the nation's beginnings.
Europe provided the standards that determined what was beautiful, what
was historical, and what was civilized. And, much to the discomfort of cul-
turally conscious Americans, most of the eastern half of the nation simply
did not measure up.14
When railroad travel made tourism possible in 1869, Americans were

eager to find the scenery they craved, and promoters were just as eager to
provide it. Unpleasant or inconvenient deserts and plains could be ignored
or simply slept through. Instead, promoters advised visitors to focus on
California and Colorado, the two places easiest to describe in European
terms.15
The resort town of Colorado Springs offers a clear illustration. The
Rockies provided an alpine setting that promoters were quick to exploit. A
pamphlet produced by the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad promised,
"All the sublimest glories of the Swiss and Italian Alps, all the picturesque
savagery of the Tyrol, and all the softer beauties of Killarny and Como and
Naples dwindle to insignificance by comparison with the stupendous
scenes that meet the gaze at every turn in Colorado."16 The president of
the Denver and Rio Grande, General William Palmer, added an English
resort to this alpine splendor in hopes of attracting wealthy tourists to his
railroad and community. Because the dry, windblown sage plains covering
the site that Palmer chose for his new town did not fit American percep-
Distant View of the Rocky Mountains, Samuel Seymour, 1823. Courtesy Harry
Ransom Humanities Research Center, University of Texas at Austin.
tions of what a "Europeanized" West should be, Palmer simply changed

the landscape. He planted trees, built casinos and hotels, designed Queen
Anne houses, and held "fox hunts" in which coyotes, who did not under-
stand the sport, were chased through the sagebrush. Because American
tourists perceived European scenery as being proper scenery, they sought
it and encouraged its cultivation in the Far West, even though few parts of
the region could be construed as looking the least bit European.
These perceptions of what the West should be, ideas created by a cen-
tury of cultural preparation, prevented Americans from accepting the facts
of the far western landscape. The result was an unprecedented series of
failures. The cultural determination to re-create the West to suit the needs
of white American left a legacy of environmental destruction and aban-
doned farms, resort areas, and mines. In spite of this, we have insisted on
representing the history of the nineteenth-century American West as a
heroic success story, though the new western history has made a few in-
roads on this monolith.17 Nevertheless, the lens of cultural expectation is
still carefully focused.
An important variant on this lens is the filter of gender. Women saw
the West very differently from men, particularly in the nineteenth century.
In general, they saw much less economic opportunity and exciting adven-
ture. As they looked at the great expanses stretching west and at the moun-
tains looming overhead, they saw danger and real limits to stable
agricultural and family existence.18 Tamsen Donner voiced her concerns in
her diary as her party wandered from the main trail onto the infamous
Hastings Cutoff. Caroline Kirkland warned other women of the dangers
and discomforts of the Michigan frontier and of the lies presented in pro-
motional literature written by men. On the Dakota plains of Ole Rolvaag's
novel Giants in the Earth, Beret sees misfortune lurking in the endless
prairie grasses while her husband, Per Hansa, can see only endless profits.
Although men mocked them for being frightened, these women held per-
ceptions far more accurate than the optimistic ones of their brave hus-
bands. The places they attempted to settle and conquer often proved to be
disastrous for the maintenance of family life.19
Such impressionistic accounts suggest that gender may be crucial in
determining perception. Particularly in the case of nineteenth-century
women who rooted their lives so entirely in the health and safety of their
families, gender may have prevented other cultural filters from acting so
strongly. The struggle to keep up domestic standards under primitive fron-
tier conditions and the fear of losing the network of family and friends
that gave life meaning made the West less appealing to many women.20 In
fact, women may have held the advantage in looking at the West because
ambition and Manifest Destiny did not color their perceptions so strongly.
Travel, Technology, and Vision

Certainly most white American men perceived the West through a cultural
filter of optimism, Manifest Destiny, and pure stubbornness, but other fil-
ters acted on nearly everyone's impressions of the Far West. Perception of-
ten depends largely on mode of transportation. Speed, distance, safety, and
comfort have enormous impact on any observer. Whether one travels
across the landscape on foot, on horseback, by stagecoach, by train, or by
airplane affects what one sees. Someone being chased by an angry buffalo
or being jolted through wagon ruts sees a different West than someone en-
joying a game of whist in a parlor car or sipping a cocktail at thirty thou-
sand feet.
The first explorers, travelers, and settlers who ventured into the new
world of the Far West did so on foot or horseback. They moved slowly
across the great distances and depended on the landscape for much of their
food, water, and fuel. In addition, most of these early sojourners were
headed for Oregon or California and had little interest in the plains and
the mountains of the western interior.21 Their concerns about safety and
the difficulties of everyday travel colored their perceptions of the region.22
The plains, deserts, and mountains stood, for most people, as obstacles
rather than objects to admire. One can hardly blame the members of the
Donner Party, for example, for not being thrilled by the sight of the mag-
nificent Sierra Nevada rising over them as they stumbled out of the Car-
son sink.
Though many travelers did comment on certain sights as being par-
ticularly beautiful, their perceptions of beauty depended a great deal on
cultural preparation and the realities of traveling across the plains, moun-
tains, and deserts. For people who came from an agriculturally based cul-
ture and who were accustomed to well-watered, wooded areas, the plains
were a shock. Americans and Europeans used trees to determine an area's
fertility, and the plains did not measure up. A generation of overland emi-
grants who moved out across the plains with the intention of making their
fortunes in Oregon or California found the region strange and unsettling.
The lack of wood made building fires and repairing wagons difficult, and
the flat unchanging landscape made distances impossible to judge. Travel-
ing in a wagon over rough roads, swallowing alkali dust, drinking muddy
water, and worrying about the possibility of Indian attacks did little to im-
prove the travelers' perceptions of the landscape.23
When the influential newspaper editor Horace Greeley, who had

urged Americans to head west, finally took his own advice in 1859, he
traveled in a slightly more comfortable way. Ensconced in a coach that had
rudimentary springs and reassured with the promise of stage stations
to provide meals and a place to sleep, Greeley had different concerns.
Monotony and boredom replaced physical hardship and actual danger.
Even so, he was shocked by the landscape, particularly the lack of trees. In
Greeley's view, land had no value if it could not be used for farming or for
growing trees to build stout farmhouses or produce railroad ties. By the
time he reached Utah, his shock had turned into depression. He discon-
solately remarked, "I have not seen the raw material of a decent axe-helve
growing in all my last thousand miles of travel."24
Despite his initial disgust with the region, Greeley found much to
celebrate. He had seen oases of trees and rivers at the base of the Rockies
and in California, and he fervently believed that what nature had left out
of the West, industrious Americans could provide. All they needed was a
railroad to get them quickly and comfortably to the more amenable parts
of the landscape and to bring the materials necessary to make the West
into a properly productive part of the United States.
Travel by train forever changed the experience of crossing the conti-
nent. Safety, comfort, and speed not only made the trip more pleasant and
faster but also changed the perceptions of travelers. The far western land-
scape looked different from a train than it had from a horse, a wagon, or a
stagecoach. Gazing out a window while seated in the plush luxury of a
Pullman car and hurtling along the track at twenty-five miles an hour af-
fected the way Americans saw the West. Mark Twain explained the signif-
icance of comfort while traveling when he observed, "Nothing helps
scenery like ham and eggs."25 Such luxuries took the threat out of the
wilderness and made it something to enjoy.
Speed and luxury, however, altered what people actually saw. Percep-
tive travelers had long noted that the swiftness of the train made the
scenery a rapidly moving blur. The historian Wolfgang Schivelbusch ex-
plains that railroad travel required a new kind of perception. All details
near the train disappeared into a haze of speed, and the traveler could see
only the general outline of the far distance. Schivelbusch calls this
"panoramic perception."26 The scenery, which from a slow and bumpy
coach had provided the only entertainment available, became a boring fog
from the window of a train.
The speed of train travel not only affected what people saw from the
window but also changed their perceptions of the space covered by the
train. Many nineteenth-century observers noted the phenomenon of the
annihilation of space. The railroad linked places together as its speed de-
stroyed the distance between them.27 In the American West, however, the
new experience of train travel did not conquer space. In a sense, the rail-
road created new spaces as it initiated large numbers of people to vast
tracts of land. Because few towns interrupted the expanse and because
travelers now spent days in what seemed like a gigantic void, space seemed
to expand. The region's lack of recognizable landmarks often disoriented
passengers, who could find no way to tell how far they had traveled. Sub-
tle geographic changes noted by earlier overland travelers disappeared
with the train's rapid movement. Many observers shared the feelings of an
1881 tourist who commented in her journal one morning, "We wake up
in the morning and find ourselves speeding along the great American
desert, a wide expanse [where] all is blank and bare."28 Vast monotony
challenged the idea that Americans had controlled their landscape.29
Paradoxically, the comfort and power of the train also changed na-
tional perceptions about the utility and conquerability of the region. The
space might be vast and alien, but if Americans could build a railroad
across it, the Far West could be mastered by American ingenuity as well.
Railroad promoters assured travelers and settlers that the railroad had
changed the landscape forever. "Once the home of the savage and the wild
beast," an early Union Pacific guidebook noted, "the deep gulches and
gloomy canyons are alive with the sounds of labor, the ring of pick, shovel,
and drill."30 Evidence of such material progress helped to convince Amer-
icans of both the economic potential of the region and the safety of travel.
Railroad builders had a vested interest in making sure that Americans
perceived the West as fertile, safe, and readily developed. The huge tracts
of land granted to them by the federal government in recompense for
building track needed to be bought by settlers and speculators if the rail-
roads were to be profitable. The Union Pacific Railroad alone had more
than twelve million acres of land to sell, most of it in the arid parts of the
West. As a result, an entire industry developed around making the West
attractive to potential settlers.31 This meant, of course, making it famil-
iar—green and fertile.
Beginning in the 1850s with the promotional department of the Illi-
nois Central, railroad boosters littered the nation with circulars, pam-
phlets, and newspaper advertisements. Hordes of paid agents visited
farming regions all over the eastern half of the nation and traveled through-
out northern Europe looking for land-hungry and ambitious potential set-
tlers. Would-be farmers were lured to Illinois and Iowa and then to Kansas
and Nebraska "because it is the garden spot of the world . . . because it
rains here more than in any other place, and just at the right time."32
Even the undeniably dry plains of Colorado, Wyoming, and western

Kansas became arcadias. Promotional materials designated these regions as
"semiarid" but insisted, "Successful crops can be raised every year without
irrigation."33 Anyone who suggested that inadequate rainfall might be a
problem on the plains west of the one hundredth meridian was laughed at
and reminded that a nation that could bring iron rails west of the Missis-
sippi could surely bring some rain. The presence of the railroad alerted
Americans to the enormous space in the center of the nation and con-
vinced them that this land could be made into a familiar and profitable
version of America.
If the train encouraged Americans to look at the vast spaces of the Far
West and to perceive them as potential homes, scenic wonderlands, and
moneymakers, the automobile allowed them to envision the complete re-
modeling of the region. The appearance of the automobile in the early
twentieth century had two contradictory effects on perceptions of the
West. It reintroduced the idea of adventure into travel, and it allowed a
mass penetration of the West in areas Anglo Americans had never seen be-
fore. Now that trains crisscrossed the landscape, now that the Great Plains,
the mountains, and the deserts had burgeoning communities, and now
that most of the Indians were herded onto isolated tracts of land, many
Americans felt confident that the region was safe enough for an "adven-
ture." The car allowed them to have it.
The car gave the illusion of freedom by taking travelers out of trains
and placing them in control of individual vehicles. The automobile liber-
ated the traveler from the restriction of railroad schedules and tracks. The
artist James Montgomery Flagg expressed a common feeling when he
wrote that there was "a freedom about motoring across the continent" as
opposed to what he described as "the galling monotony of the stifling Pull-
mans."34 Even though the earliest motorists spent most of their time push-
ing their vehicles out of the mud, changing tires, or cranking engines, they
saw themselves as freed by their machines.35 The driver of the car con-
trolled where it went, when it traveled, and how quickly it covered a cer-
tain distance, giving motorists a sense of personal choice. The availability
and quality of roads, automobiles, and motoring supplies placed obvious
limitations on this choice but did not change the perception that from the
car, Americans could see the "real" West.
However, like the wagon, the stagecoach, or the train, the automobile
itself affected how people viewed the landscape. Like the train, the car had
speed and power that heightened the perception of control over the land-
scape, but the relatively small size of the car and the ability to stop and
start it at will increased the sense of intimacy. The experience of driving
created an illusion of knowing the landscape even while whizzing past it at

high speeds. Speed itself interfered with actual vision. Because moving fast
was lulling and addictive, few drivers could resist the urge to cover ground
as quickly as possible. Only the grandest natural or human-made objects
could lure the motorist to stop before the need for gas, food, or sleep
forced a break. The intimate knowledge made possible by the car was of-
ten overwhelmed by the rush to cover distance.
Beginning in the early decades of the twentieth century, many Amer-
icans could claim firsthand knowledge of the West. The automobile and
the large numbers of travelers it carried across the region produced new
perceptions of the West. The automobile provided a filter of safety and
control, making the Far West a place of comfortable adventure. It also be-
came a region of great distance, but a distance that could be conquered by
an individual in three days. The West presented challenging geographical
variety, challenges that could be met with different grades of gas, types of
tires, and styles of dress. Deserts and mountains held no terrors as long as
the motorist had reliable sources of gas, food, and water. Roads and cars
made the West "knowable," but in the most superficial sense; this too in-
creased the perception that the region could be anything that Americans
desired.
The airplane also added to the complexity of the perception question.
In some ways, the airplane provides a very accurate view. When you fly
over the western landscape, you are struck with how little of the land is set-
tled. Lights are few and far between, and green circles or squares of farm-
land appear like tiny grafts on a vast expanse of brown skin. Mark Reisner
describes what we have achieved in the West as a beachhead against wilder-
ness and aridity, and his description is borne out in the view from thirty
thousand feet.36 Though we pass over the region in comfort, we are re-
minded of the inaccuracy of our perceptions and of how little control we
have actually achieved.
The View from Afar
A century before Americans could climb in their cars and speed across the
western expanses and see the West for themselves, they believed they knew
what the region looked like. Beginning early in the nineteenth century, the
views of these armchair travelers determined much about perceptions of
the Far West. What Americans read and saw and how they interpreted this
information are complex issues but important ones to consider. Images of
the West in a variety of media provided another critical filter through
which Americans perceived the West. Though written descriptions played
a crucial role in forming ideas about the West, pictorial material had spe-
cial impact.
For example, many tourists who ventured West in the late nineteenth
century expected to see a version of the Alps in Colorado and California
because of the enormously popular work of Albert Bierstadt.37 A few years
later the photographs of William Henry Jackson and the paintings of
Thomas Moran played a role in popularizing Yellowstone as the first na-
tional park.38 Similarly, later in the century, the drawings, paintings, and
sculptures of Frederic Remington created an image of American enterprise
in the West, a place of vibrant soldiers, cowboys, Indians, and horses, now
indelibly etched in national culture. Remington's visions have particular
import because they depict the West as a blank place where white Ameri-
cans make exciting things happen, not as a geographic region where the
people and the climate have the power to limit what happens.39
Given the significance of these pictures in creating American percep-
tions about the West, we need to look at them more carefully. Stunned by
both the beauty and the sterility of the region, artists groped for adequate
ways to depict it. Professionally trained artists had a particularly difficult
time because far western scenery bore little resemblance to the landscape
they considered artistically significant. The artists who traveled west and
drew, painted, or photographed the region carried cultural expectations
with them, and many had specific goals in creating their art. Often the
works they sent back to eastern audiences were reflections of personal am-
bitions or national expectations about the West rather than depictions of
actual sights.
The first artists to travel west in the early nineteenth century had a
clear mission. Hoping to preserve the pristine grandeur of western land-
scapes and peoples on canvas, painters like Karl Bodmer and George
Catlin perceived an exotic world of color and action. They did more than
document the appearance and customs of Native Americans; they ex-
tended and glamorized the idea of the noble savage in the American
mind.40
Similarly, the artists who traveled with the geographical surveys of the
mid-nineteenth century did more than provide illustrations for the scien-
tific treatises produced by the surveyors. Recognizing the midcentury ap-
petite for sublimity and heroic images, many artists made the western
landscape bigger, better, and more fertile than it was. They created an im-
age of the West as a compendium of fantastic landforms, plants, and ani-
mals that reflected the variety and wealth Americans hoped they would
find.""
John Mix Stanley, for example, who accompanied Colonel Stephen
Chain of Spires Along the Gilo. River, John Mix Stanley, 1855. Oil on canvas (31"
x 42"). Courtesy Phoenix Art Museum. Purchased with funds provided by the es-
tate of Carolann Smurthwaite.
Watts Kearny on his march across the Southwest in 1846, was hired to
make accurate depictions of the landscape for military use. Instead, his de-
light in the color and shapes of the region drove him to combine plants,
animals, and geological forms in impossible ways. In Chain of Spires Along
the Gilo. River (1855), cacti, ferns, spires of rock, rushing water, deer, and
horned toads all crowd the same painting. Stanley's perception of the
Southwest seemed to be a bizarre cornucopia—desert forms in lush sur-
roundings.42
Later in the century, artists' different purposes in going west affected
their perceptions in equally important ways. By the 1860s, some painters
could see the commercial possibilities of the western landscape. Albert
Bierstadt, for example, saw the potential for making a name for himself in
the West. Determined to find scenery in America that could be heralded
in Europe, he latched onto the Rockies and the Sierra Nevada. In paint-
CULTURAL FILTERS 191
ings like The Rocky Mountains, Lander's Peak (1863), Bierstadt produced
a vision that thrilled Americans—towering Alps with American flour-
ishes. Sharply pointed granite peaks and fantastically illuminated clouds
float above a tranquil, wooded genre scene. Bierstadt painted the West as
Americans hoped it would be, making his paintings vastly popular and re-
inforcing the perception of the West as either Europe or sublime Eden.43
A similar shaping of reality appeared in other media. Photography
provides a useful example because of the illusion that it captures truth.
This illusion made photography especially effective in convincing Ameri-
cans that the West could be what they wanted it to be. In 1851, the first
photographs of the West to reach a large audience appeared in New York
with the claim, "These views are no exaggerated and high-colored
sketches, got up to produce effect, but are ... the stereotyped impres-
sion of the real thing itself."44
Such a claim denies the significant control the photographer has over
Among the Sierra Nevada Mountains, California, Albert Bierstadt, 1868. Oil on
canvas (72" x 120"). Courtesy National Museum of American Art, Smithsonian
Institution, bequest of Helen Huntington Hull, granddaughter of William
Brown Dinsmore, who acquired the painting in 1873 for "The Locusts," the fam-
ily estate in Dutchess County, New York.
the creation of an image. Carleton Watkins, one of the earliest successful

landscape photographers, understood the art involved in photography. He
used a combination of painterly aesthetics and photographic truth to
make the western landscape appealing to American audiences. His com-
positions included careful framing and sharp contrasts between light and
dark. He used trees to frame a single monolithic object, which provided a
picturesque introduction to the scenery in a style not unlike the paintings
of Claude Lorrain and his American followers in the Hudson River school.
These images presented an ideal version of the landscape—carefully bal-
anced, silent, and grand.45
The photographers who accompanied government surveys, ostensibly
with scientific intentions, demonstrated the considerable manipulation
possible in the medium of photography. Because Rick Dingus has "repho-
tographed" the work done by Timothy O'Sullivan, who accompanied
George Montague Wheeler and Clarence King on parts of their surveys
The Castle Geyser, Upper Geyser Basin, Yellowstone National Park, Thomas Moran,
1873. Chromolithograph by Louis Prang. Courtesy Bancroft Library.
CULTURAL FILTERS 193
The Three Brothers, Carleton Watkins, 1868. Courtesy Bancroft Library.
into the Great Basin, we know "how much the choice of positioning,
lighting, lens, and framing alters a subject."46 O'Sullivan clearly height-
ened the drama of the landscape in shaping his images, sometimes hold-
ing his camera at odd angles to tilt the horizon or masking the background
to make a rock or a tree stand out. Much like the scientists themselves,
O'Sullivan "was willing to subdue or enhance certain features of the envi-
ronment. . . . so he could thereby convey the truth as he saw it."47 And
this truth, of course, had more to do with cultural expectation than with
geographic fact. The most important filters O'Sullivan and other photog-
raphers placed on their cameras were their own notions about what the
West should or could be.
The work of these photographers reinforced a powerful perceptual
tradition that had been present since the first explorations of the region.
The perception of the West depended largely on national ideology.
"Conglomerate Column
[Witches Rock #1],"
Timothy O'Sullivan, 1869.
In Clarence King, U.S.
Geological Survey of the
Fortieth Parallel, vol. 2
(Washington, D.C., 1878).
"Conglomerate Column
[Witches Rock #1]," Rick
Dingus, 1978. In Rick
Dingus, The Photographic
Artifacts of Timothy
O'Sullivan (Albuquerque,
1982).
194
Americans had invested so much hope in the West of their dreams that
they would not even consider the possibility that the geographic West
would not fulfill their expectations. For much of the nineteenth century,
most Americans were dependent on the perceptions of others—artists,
writers, promoters, and scientists—for their information about the Far
West. This gave nineteenth-century observers the awesome responsibility
of producing a West that Americans wanted to see. Amazingly enough,
they did manufacture this miraculous West, despite the "reality checks" of
failed farms and ghost towns. Deserts became gardens and Rockies be-
came Alps and, at least in national mythology, the West continued to be
the land of opportunity.
New Perceptions, Stubborn Legacies
Finally, I want to explore the significance of the history of perception in

the twentieth century. Americans could now see the West for themselves,
but the perceptual legacy of the nineteenth century certainly colored their
view. As Patricia Nelson Limerick has argued, the nineteenth and twenti-
eth centuries are not easily separated in western history.48 The perceptions
of the West constructed in the nineteenth century continue to affect our
ideas and behavior. The tension between wanting to expand and develop
agriculture and industry and wanting to enjoy splendid scenery has not
been resolved. We still perceive the West as the setting for limitless oppor-
tunity and indestructible wilderness, despite the realities that surface daily.
The persistence of successive droughts in the Great Plains, of failing dams
and irrigated lands destroyed by salt, and of deserted mining towns and
overgrazed ranges seems to have had little impact on national mythology.
Because few Americans have been able to disengage the cultural filters that
affect their vision of the region, the twentieth-century West is the result of
the West we perceived in the nineteenth century.
The interpretation of the West has changed as Americans have inte-
grated the region into their culture. Because the landscape of the Far West
now represents a distinctive national culture, cacti, Indians, and rock
monoliths have become tourist attractions. However, few of the cultural
filters that affected perceptions in the nineteenth century have been re-
moved. Some, in fact, have been enhanced. New developments in com-
munication and technological skill heighten the perception that the West
can be molded in any way its inhabitants see fit. Cellular phones shrink
frightening distance into a momentary crackle, and great dams can turn
any desert into a garden.
In some ways, the twentieth century brought a new set of mispercep-
A Dash for the Timber, Frederic Remington, 1889. Oil on canvas (no. 1961.381).
Courtesy Amon Carter Museum, Fort Worth, Texas.
tions, but in other ways it brought a new understanding of what the West
could mean for American culture. As non-Anglo Americans have begun to
challenge mainstream views of what the West was, is, or should be, our
perceptions of the region have grown increasingly complex. Americans
discovered that the parts of the West they had been avoiding or ignoring
were invested with unique cultural and economic value. Some artists
looked beyond European models and reveled in the distinctive shapes and
colors of the Southwest. Georgia O'Keeffe's abstract landscapes challenged
Frederic Remington's men of action in the category of most popular west-
ern art.49 Ethnologists and anthropologists learned to appreciate the rich
history and culture of Indian peoples. The former wastelands of the Great
Basin and the Southwest have become convenient testing grounds and
waste dumps.
These discoveries, however, also continued the old role of the West:
providing what the nation needed. By the early twentieth century, the na-
tion needed a distinctive history and personality—one that distinguished
it from Europe—and the West provided this. The areas that did not meet
economic needs could be turned into quaint "frontierlands," places where
scenery and native peoples combined to give white Americans a sense of
history. Early in the century, for example, the Santa Fe Railroad recog-
nized the growing perception of the unique landscape of the Southwest as
the "real America" and cleverly packaged it for Americans to consume.50
Many of us now perceive the West as original, distinctive, and quin-
tessentially American. The irony is that much of the West that seems so
important to our self-perception either never existed or has disappeared,
but we have re-created it as we imagine it must have been. The perceptual
West of glorious mountains, verdant grazing land, and noble Indians now
decorates T-shirts and motel rooms because the landscape has been
molded to fit our perceptions of what Anglo Americans thought the West
should be; in the process, the landscape was eaten by cattle, blasted by
miners, and blurred by smog. We need to reexamine our perceptual lega-
cies and take some cues from other cultures about using adaptation rather
than remodeling as our approach to the West. Perhaps then we will take
off some of the filters and look at the western landscape with a clearer
view.
Notes
An earlier version of this essay appeared under the title "Cultural Filters: The Signifi-
cance of Perception in the History of the American West," by Anne F. Hyde. Previ-
ously published in the Western Historical Quarterly 24 (August 1993): 351-74.
Copyright by Western History Association. Reprinted by permission.
1. Walter Prescott Webb, The Great Plains (Boston, 1931); Donald Worster,
Dust Bowl: The Southern Plains in the 1930s (New York, 1979) and Rivers of Empire:
Water, Aridity, and the Growth of the American West (New York, 1985); Henry Nash
Smith, Virgin Land: The American West as Symbol and Myth (Cambridge, Mass.,
1950); Annette Kolodny, The Land before Her: Fantasy and Experience of the Ameri-
can Frontiers, 1630-1860 (Chapel Hill, 1984); William H. Goetzmann, Exploration
and Empire: The Explorer and the Scientist in the Winning of the American West (New
York, 1966).
2. This gets into sticky issues involving "reader response theory" and under-
standing why people read texts or view images; it is at least worth considering the re-
lationship between eyewitnesses and armchair observers. For a clear description of the
basics of such ideas, see Terry Eagleton, Literary Theory: An Introduction (Minneapo-
lis, 1983), 74-88, or John Betgci, About Looking (New York, 1980).
3. Little work has been done on Native Americans' or non-Anglo colonizers'
perceptions of landscape. See Douglas Monroy, Thrown among Strangers: The Mak-
ing of Mexican Culture in Frontier California (Berkeley, 1990), 10-50, 134-62, for
examples of peoples who accepted the limitations of landscape. See Richard White,
The Roots of Dependency: Subsistence, Environment, and Social Change among the
Choctaws, Pawnees, and Navajos (Lincoln, 1983), and Ramon A. Gutierrez, When Je-
sus Came, the Corn Mothers Went Away: Marriage, Sexuality, and Power in New Mex-
ico, 1500—1846 (Stanford, 1991), for discussions of the impact of conquest on per-
ception and use of land. For a discussion of Asian views of the region, particularly of
Japanese-American internees, see Patricia Nelson Limerick, "Disorientation and Re-
orientation: The American Landscape Discovered from the West," Journal of 'Ameri-
can History 79 (December 1992): 1021-49.
4. For a more detailed discussion of these points, see Yi-Fu Tuan, Topophilia: A
Study of Environmental Perception, Attitudes, and Values (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.,
1974) and Space and Place: The Perspective of Experience (Minneapolis, 1977), and
John A. Jakle, The Visual Elements of Landscape (Amherst, Mass., 1987). For a general
discussion on the cultural role of perception, see John Brinckerhoff Jackson, Discov-
ering the Vernacular Landscape (New Haven, 1984).
5. Bernard DeVoto, ed., The Journals of Lewis and Clark (Cambridge, Mass.,
1953), xl—xli. See also Donald Jackson, Thomas Jefferson and the Stony Mountains: Ex-
ploring the West from Monticello (Urbana, 1981).
6. Thomas Jefferson, Message to Congress, 18 January 1803, in Letters of the
Lewis and Clark Expedition, ed. Donald Jackson, 2 vols. (1962; reprint, Urbana,
1978), 1:12.
7. For a more detailed discussion of the impact of Lewis and Clark on national
ideology, see John Logan Allen, Passage through the Garden: Lewis and Clark and the
Image of the American Northwest (Urbana, 1975).
8. Edwin James, "Account of an Expedition from Pittsburgh to the Rocky
Mountains, Performed in the Years 1819, 1820," in Early Western Travels,
1748-1846, ed. Reuben Gold Thwaites, 32 vols. (Cleveland, 1905), 17:147.
9. Lieutenant Zebulon Pike may have been the first to designate the region as
useless deserts, but his report was not well known during the early nineteenth century.
For discussions about the origins and ramifications of the "Great American Desert"
idea, see W. Eugene Hollon, The Great American Desert: Then and Now (1966;
reprint, Lincoln, 1974); Goetzmann, Exploration and Empire, 49-64; and Martyn J.
Bowden, "The Great American Desert in the American Mind: The Historiography of
a Geographical Notion," in Geographies of the Mind: Essays in Historical Geography, ed.
David Lowenthal and Martyn J. Bowden (New York, 1976), 119-47.
10. Donald Jackson and Mary Lee Spence, eds., The Expeditions of John Charles
Fremont, 3 vols. (Urbana, 1970), 2:702.
11. For an analysis of Fremont's language in the Report, see Anne Farrar Hyde,
An American Vision: Far Western Landscape and National Culture, 1820—1920 (New
York, 1990), 1-6. For descriptions of the popularity and impact of the Report, see Al-
lan Nevins, Fremont: Pathmarker of the West (1939; reprint, New York, 1955), or
Ferol Egan, Fremont: Explorer for a Restless Nation (New York, 1977).
12. Quoted in Smith, Virgin Land, 180. See also David M. Emmons, Garden in
the Grasslands: Boomer Literature of the Central Great Plains (Lincoln, 1971), 128-61.
13. Webb, Great Plains, 376-82.
14. For discussions about American cultural insecurities, see Barbara Novak,
Nature and Culture: American Landscape and Painting, 1825—1875 (New York,
1980); Elizabeth McKinsey, Niagara Falls: Icon of the American Sublime (Cambridge,
England, 1985); and Christopher Mulvey, Anglo-American Landscapes: A Study of
Nineteenth-Century Anglo-American Travel Literature (Cambridge, Flngland, 1983).
15. Hyde, American Vision, 107-46.

16. Passenger Department, Chicago, Burlington, and Quincy Railroad, The
Heart of the Continent: An Historical and Descriptive Treatise... of the Advantages, Re-
sources, and Scenery of the Great West (Chicago, 1882), 29.
17. See, for example, Patricia Nelson Limerick, The Legacy of Conquest: The Un-
broken Past of the American West (New York, 1987); Donald Worster, Under Western
Skies: Nature and History in the American West (New York, 1992); and Richard White,
"It's Your Misfortune and None of My Own ": A New History of the American West (Nor-
man, 1991).
18. For a clear definition of these gender differences, see Glenda Riley, The Fe-
male Frontier: A Comparative View of Women on the Prairie and the Plains (Lawrence,
1988), 195-97. Kolodny, in The Land before Her, provides a provocative discussion
of the real differences in the ways that women imagined and perceived aspects of the
frontier.
19. George R. Stewart, Ordeal by Hunger: The Story of the Donner Party (1960;
reprint, Boston, 1964), 5; Caroline S. Kirkland [Mrs. Mary Clavers],y4 New Home—
Who'll Follow? Or, Glimpses of Western Life (Boston, 1839); O. E. Rolvaag, Giants in
the Earth (New York, 1927).
20. For a discussion of the powerful impact of women's sphere on frontier life,
see Julie Roy Jeffrey, Frontier Women: The Trans-Mississippi West, 1840-1880 (New
York, 1979). For the ambivalent feelings about leaving settled areas and the difficulty
of maintaining standards on the frontier, see John Mack Faragher, Women and Men
on the Overland Trail (New Haven, 1979), 66-109, and Joanna L. Stratton, Pioneer
Women: Voices from the Kansas Frontier (New York, 1981), 34—106.
21. The exceptions to this would be travelers like Francis Parkman, Bayard Tay-
lor, and Edwin Bryant, who took the trip into the West for pleasure.
22. Much attention has been given to the Overland Trail experience, but little
work has been done on the overlanders' perceptions of the landscape. John D. Unruh
Jr., The Plains Across: The Overland Emigrants and the Trans-Mississippi West,
1840-60 (Urbana, 1979), and Faragher, Women and Men, both devote some discus-
sion to this issue but are more concerned with the mechanics of travel and social rela-
tionships.
23. For examples of overlanders' reactions to the environment, see William
Swain's account in J. S. Holliday, The World Rushed In: The California Gold Rush Ex-
perience (New York, 1981), 150-71, or Phoebe Goodelljudson, A Pioneer's Search for
an Ideal Home (1925; reprint, Lincoln, 1984), 31-38. For a more general discussion
of the difficulties of travel, see Faragher, Women and Men, 66-87.
24. Horace Greeley, An Overland Journey from New York to San Francisco in the
Summer of 1859 (New York, 1860), 205.
25. Samuel Clemens [Mark Twain), Roughing It (1872; reprint, New York,
1980), 114. See also Patricia Nelson Limerick, Desert Passages: Encounters with the
American Deserts (Albuquerque, 1985), 75.
26. Wolfgang Schivelbusch, The Railway Journey: Trains and Travel in the Nine-
teenth Century (New York, 1977), 65—66. See also Geoffrey Hindley, Tourists, Trav-
ellers, and Pilgrims (London, 1983), 198-205.
27. Stephen Kern, The Culture of Time and Space, 1880-1918 (Cambridge,
Mass., 1983), 10-64; John R. Stilgoe, Metropolitan Corridor: Railroads and the Amer-
ican Scene (New Haven, 1983), 249-56.
28. Lady Duffus Hardy, Through Cities and Prairie Lands: Sketches of an Ameri-
can Tour (New York, 1881), 134-35.
30. Thomas Nelson, The Union Pacific Railroad: A Trip across the Continent from
Omaha to Ogden (New York, 1870), 15. For a discussion of Americans' fascination
with the technology of railroads, see Stilgoe, Metropolitan Corridor, 137-45.
31. Emmons, Garden in the Grasslands, 25-46; Robert G. Athearn, Union Pa-
cific Country (Chicago, 1971), 147-97.
32. Paul Wallace Gates, The Illinois Central Railroad and Its Colonization Work
(Cambridge, Mass., 1934), 171-99; 1873 pamphlet quoted in Emmons, Garden in
the Grasslands, 35-36.
33. George S. Clason, Free Homestead Lands of Colorado Described: A Handbook
for Settlers (Denver, 1915), 97.
34. James Montgomery Flagg, Boulevards All the Way—Maybe! (New York,
1925), 138. For discussions of the perceived freedom created by the automobile, see
Warren James Belasco, Americans on the Road: From Autocamp to Motel, 1910-1945
(Cambridge, Mass., 1979), 18-22; James J. Flink, The Automobile Age (Cambridge,
Mass., 1988), 129—31; or John A. Jakle, The Tourist: Travel in Twentieth-Century
North America (Lincoln, 1985), 146-52.
35. See Flink, Automobile Age, 169-71, for a description of early travel. See also
Vernon McGill, Diary of a Motor Journey from Chicago to Los Angeles (Los Angeles,
1922).
36. Marc Reisner, Cadillac Desert: The American West and Its Disappearing Wa-
ter (New York, 1986), 3.
37. For the impact of Bierstadt on national conceptions of the West, see William
H. Goetzmann and William N. Goetzmann, The West of the Imagination (New York,
1986), 149-51; Hyde, American Vision, 77-80; and Nancy K. Anderson and Linda S.
Ferber, Albert Bierstadt: Art and Enterprise (New York, 1990), 24-34.
38. Peter B. Hales, William Henry Jackson and the Transformation of the Ameri-
can Landscape (Philadelphia, 1988); Carol Clark, Thomas Moran: Watercolors of the
American West (Austin, 1980).
39. Ben Merchant Vorpahl, Frederic Remington and the West: With the Eye of the
Mind (Austin, 1978), 38-47, has a perceptive discussion of Remington and the Far
Western landscape.
40. Many tourists were disappointed because they did not see Indians that re-
sembled Catlin's noble figures or the heroic characters of James Fenimore Cooper's
novels. See Hyde, American Vision, 27-31, 140-42. For more detailed discussions of
George Catlin, see William H. Truettner, The Natural Man Observed: A Study of
Catlin's Indian Gallery (Washington, D.C., 1979); for Karl Bodmer, see John C. Ew-
ers et al., Views of a Vanishing Frontier (Omaha, 1984).
42. Goetzmann and Goetzmann, West of the Imagination, 38—40.
43. Gordon Hendricks, Albert Bierstadt: Painter of the American West (New
York, 1974), 51-58, 149-50; Anderson and Ferber, Albert Bierstadt, 74-77.
44. Catalogue of the Daguerreotype Panoramic Views in California, by R. H. Vance

(New York, 1851).
45. Hyde, American Vision, 81-85; Peter E. Palmquist, Carleton E. Watkins:
Photographer of the American West (Albuquerque, 1983), 18—26.
46. Rick Dingus, The Photographic Artifacts of Timothy O'Sullivan (Albu-
querque, 1982), xiii.
47. Ibid., 55.
48. Limerick, Legacy of Conquest.
49. See Patricia Janis Broder, The American West: The Modern Vision (Boston,
1984), for a perceptive discussion of the change in western art from narrative realism
to symbolic abstraction.
50. T. C. McLuhan, Dream Tracks: The Railroad and the American Indian,
1890-1930 (New York, 1985), 13-29; see also Hyde, American Vision, 229-44.
COMMENTARIES
Looking West from Here and There
Martha A. Sandweiss
It is ironic that so much of our enduring national myth about the West should
have been created by nineteenth-century explorers, artists, and writers who
never really lived there. These chroniclers could propose hypotheses they
would never have to test. After a season in the West they could return to the
comfort of home, never worrying about whether winter would prove as felic-
itous as spring or whether technology would make the desert bloom. To an
eastern audience hungry for news of the sparsely settled West, they left behind
a mixed legacy of spare facts and complex ideas that ranged from useful maps
and geological sketches to culturally loaded ideas about the region's native
peoples and the utility of the western landscape. And, as Anne Hyde suggests,
their reports and photographs, books and paintings, not only shaped a na-
tional myth but also helped set the stage for more than a century and a half of
federal policy toward the West. The constraints or "filters" that conditioned
the perceptions of these early western chroniclers are thus worth examining in
some detail.
The idea of "perception" that frames Hyde's essay is used in several differ-
ent ways that might be useful to distinguish. First, it denotes personal, first-
hand observation of the West, such as the perceptions formed by Major
Stephen H. Long and his companions on their trek across the plains in
1819—21. It also refers to the response of readers or viewers of the firsthand ac-
counts produced by eyewitness observers like Long or Albert Bierstadt. Fi-
nally, it describes the more generalized cultural beliefs of countless Americans
with little exposure to either the West or the many visual and literary accounts
produced to describe the region. This is the sense of the word that Hyde uses
when she refers to our continuing cultural "perception" of the West as a place
of limitless opportunity.
Each use of the word perception raises different conceptual problems, for
in each case the perceiver is developing an understanding of the West based on
a different sort of information or experience. Because most dictionary defini-
tions of the word perception invoke the concept of direct visual cognition or
apprehension, it seems most appropriate to apply the word only to the activi-
ties of eyewitness observers of the West and to clarify that second- and third-
hand consumers of information or ideas gathered knowledge in a different
way.
As Hyde suggests, even firsthand observations are conditioned by cultural
filters, and she argues for the importance of gender and comfort as important
mediating factors. To these, we might also add the health and age of the ob-
202
LOOKING WEST FROM HERE AND THERE • 203
server and even the local weather. Calling for a cross-cultural perspective,
Hyde also proposes that we look at the perceptions of early Hispanic travelers
and settlers as well as those of Native American peoples. This is an important
idea that suggests yet another category for analysis. We might also consider
the differences in the perceptions formed by western residents and western
travelers, even within the same ethnic group; an unfamiliar terrain is always
very different from the familiar landscape of home.
But any discussion of western literary or visual images must begin with
the acknowledgment that visual or literary renderings of firsthand experiences
do not necessarily reflect the creator's "perceptions" of the West. That is, they
do not always convey the feelings experienced by the artist at the time he or
she observed a particular scene. The creative process is much more compli-
cated than that. Artists are not necessarily reporters, and they have no moral
obligation either to tell the truth or to reveal their own feelings. Indeed, nine-
teenth-century artists and writers often served particular patrons who had
very specific goals for their work. If Alfred Jacob Miller painted Indian
odalisques, it was not necessarily because they fairly represented either the
women he found at the fur traders' rendezvous of 1837 or his own longings.
It may also have been because he was in the employ of the Scottish nobleman
William Drummond Stewart, who wanted romantic paintings of the West to
take home to Murthley Castle. Likewise, whereas Carleton E. Watkins's land-
scape photographs of the West are often, as Hyde argues, "balanced, silent
and grand," it is important to note that many were done for commercial
clients who wanted to promote a particular popular understanding of their
steam navigation company, mining operation, or large industrial farm. The
worlds of western art and western commerce often intermingled.
As businessmen or entrepreneurs with complicated agendas for their
work, most chroniclers of the nineteenth-century West worked with a public
audience in mind. Thus to Hyde's list of factors motivating artists, a list that
includes "personal ambitions" and "national expectations," we must add eco-
nomic considerations, embracing everything from the very specific demands
of patrons to the more nebulous demands of public audiences. Consider, for
example, the John Mix Stanley painting that she cites, Cham of Spires Along
the Gila (1855). We should not necessarily conclude from the image itself that
Stanley "perceived"—that is, saw, experienced, and understood—the South-
west as a "bizarre cornucopia." The image, after all, was painted some nine
years after his trip to the region. We must thus ask whether he painted it as a
record of a particular site or as a kind of typical landscape, specific to none,
that would recapitulate a wide range of experiences. Perhaps he intended to
convey an impression or idea rather than an actual perception of a particular
place. Perhaps he merely wanted to work out a formal painting problem. We
must be wary of the ways in which we use images as primary source evidence
of either the physical appearance of a place or the actual beliefs or intentions
of its creator.
The worlds of firsthand observers and secondhand viewers are inextrica-

bly intertwined. Western travelers' eyewitness accounts sent back east could
inform and shape Americans' understanding of the West. But the needs, de-
mands, and desires of a distant audience could also dictate the form of a work
created in the field.
These distant readers and viewers who encountered eyewitness accounts
and images of the West in public ways—through published works or exhibi-
tions—form the second category of "perceivers" that Hyde addresses in her es-
say. To distinguish their means of learning from those of firsthand observers,
let us say that these secondhand observers "understood" or "imagined" the
West rather than "perceiving" it for themselves.
How did they receive their firsthand accounts of the West? And what
relationship did the message they receive have to the one that firsthand ob-
servers sought to create? I pose this last question because so much of what was
initially written about the West, or drawn or photographed there, passed
through a sort of translation process before it reached a wide audience. Hyde's
metaphor of a game of "telephone" is apt. Letters to a hometown newspaper
might become a published book. A photograph might be distributed with de-
scriptive captions written by a publisher or might be reproduced as a wood en-
graving. A painting might become a hand-colored engraving marketed to a
mass public. Changes in content (and often in meaning) would inevitably oc-
cur, for firsthand observers could not always control the message their work
conveyed to distant viewers.
The consumers of western literature or western imagery might not dis-
criminate between the descriptive material produced by an eyewitness ob-
server and that produced by someone else. Among Currier and Ives's most
popular western prints, playing on numerous widely held beliefs about the
West, were those created by Frances Palmer, an Englishwoman who never ven-
tured west herself. Likewise popular were the paintings and prints of the hunt-
ing and wildlife artist Arthur Fitzwilliam Tait, who never ventured west of the
Adirondacks and who based his western scenes on earlier works by the artists
Karl Bodmer and George Catlin, works that he looked up at the New York
Public Library.
Hyde's interesting questions about the filters through which eyewitness
observers viewed the western landscape might also be applied to the vast
American audience that encountered the West in other forms, through books,
pictures, and films. Did gender, class, and age influence the image of the West
these consumers formed from their reading of the texts and viewing of the im-
ages? Did women read Charles Fremont's report differently than men did?
Did they draw different lessons from Bierstadt's paintings? Did youths take
away from dime novels different ideas than did their parents? What filters, we
might usefully ask, were in operation back in eastern America?
The third and final sense in which Hyde uses the concept of perception is
to apply to broad, generally held cultural beliefs, as when she discusses the per-
ceptions of the West constructed in the nineteenth century as opposed to
THE SHADOW OF PIKES PEAK • 205
twentieth-century beliefs, or the nineteenth-century "perception that the

West could be made into whatever Americans wanted it to be, despite geo-
graphic realities." Again, because "perception" connotes mental apprehension
or personal observation, it seems more useful to introduce another term that
more clearly suggests that broadly held beliefs are shaped by a wide variety of
political, cultural, and economic forces that may or may not reflect visual or
literary information about the western landscape or the experience of being in
the West. What we're really talking about here is a mode of thought shaped by
popular culture in its most broadly construed form, a form of thought that re-
flects the Zeitgeist of the age.
Many questions might be asked about the ways in which specific infor-
mation is translated into general beliefs, personal visions into popular myth.
But again, Hyde's essay suggests a useful approach. We might ask, as we did
with eyewitness observers and the viewers or readers of their work, what cul-
tural filters operated on the vast number of Americans who had no personal
experience of the West but who nonetheless formed certain beliefs about it.
However popular certain ideas might have been, they were not universally
held. Were popular beliefs about the West conditioned by gender, class, geo-
graphical location, or political persuasion? This is a rhetorical question, for of
course they were.
Hyde asserts, "Few historians have looked systematically at the history of
perceiving the West." Such a statement is true only in the narrowest definition
of the historical profession, for the field has long been of interest to western
literary historians, western art historians, and students of popular culture.
Nonetheless, one of the significant virtues of Hyde's essay is its suggestion that
cultural history deserves greater pride of place in the academic study of the
West. The complicated history of western literary and visual images—from
their creation through their publication and popular reception—is a history
intertwined with the history of exploration and settlement, political decision
making, and economic development. It is, as Hyde argues, a history that is
fundamental to a deeper understanding of the questions that are central to the
field of western historical studies.
The Shadow of Pikes Peak

Elliott West
Nathan C. Meeker loved three things above all. He loved his wife, the long-
suffering Arvilla. He loved the Prohibitionist cause. And he loved the idea of
how agricultural reform might improve society and elevate the spirits of those
who worked the soil. In 1869 Meeker left love number one to pursue numbers
two and three in the great West. He went to Colorado, hurrying to a place that
was, to him, symbolic of the West's glorious, uplifting possibilities: Pikes
Peak. One story has it that Meeker arrived late at night near the mountain's
base and that, after a few hours of tossing in bed in anticipation, he arose at
the first of false dawn and looked out of his tent at the magnificent shape that
towered in the dark. Overwhelmed with emotion, he wrote an ode on the
"awful majesty" of such a masterpiece of God's handiwork. By the time he fin-
ished, it was full light. Stepping from his tent for another view of the peak, he
looked up and saw—a haystack.l
Anne Hyde, a young historian who works near the foot of that mountain
that Meeker didn't see, has written a provocative essay on the importance of
perception—or rather misperception—in understanding western history, and
she raises important issues to which we have paid too little attention. Histori-
ans have not ignored perceptions of the West, of course. There is an enor-
mous, sprawling scholarship on the mythic West and on western literary and
artistic images. But Hyde is stressing a couple of points that have not been
taken seriously enough. First, she is arguing that we need to identify and de-
fine the many variables of perception—the "cultural filters," to use her phrase,
through which actualities are bent into what is finally perceived by individu-
als. These filters might be cultural expectations rooted in historical experience
or might be distorting mechanisms arising from changing technology. In the
case of the latter, I found especially fascinating her insights into how modes of
travel influence how we see the land and our relationship to it and what we
anticipate from it.
Second, and more fundamentally, Hyde is arguing that perception is an
integral part of studying everything else, from the topics laid out in traditional
texts, such as ranching, politics, military campaigns, and town building, to
the subjects of contemporary concern, such as gender and ethnic relations.
The premise is simple. A prominent Yale alumnus has put it well. "How I see
the world," he wrote, "is the only way I know to react to the world." These
words are from William F. Buckley in his most recent book, WindFall, but the
principle holds, whether we are talking about mining and native-white rela-
tions or about sailing and Tory politics.2
The role of perception in human action has long been a part of western
historiography. There are the well-known works by William Goetzmann and
John Logan Allen on expectations and exploration, for instance, and works by
David Emmons and Donald Worster on fantasies of the Great Plains and their
disastrous consequences.3 But we need to think more broadly and complexly
about the dynamic relationship between perception and action. In a recent es-
say on the continuing process of discovery in North America, for instance,
Richard White wrote that European Americans' mental encounters with the
West have been a kind of conversation, with each exchange building on the
ones before it. People act on the land according to particular imagined con-
structions of "nature"; what they do changes the actual environment; the
modified environment inspires new mental constructions, which lead people

to make different sorts of changes.'' Considered this way, as a component of
every human's dialogue with his surroundings, perception is not just another
significant topic; it is an essential element in understanding all other signifi-
cant topics.
That means, among other things, that we have to be very careful in defin-
ing and using the term perception. In the other commentary on Hyde's essay,
Martha Sandweiss considers some of the various meanings of this flexible
word and some of their implications. Instead I would like to expand on what
Hyde has said and to suggest a few ways that this perceptual approach, how-
ever we define it, might be applied other than the ways she has emphasized.
For example, Hyde stresses the promise and possibilities newcomers saw
in the land itself. But perceptions of the West were never limited to the land-
scape per se and to what it would give pioneers and let them do. There was al-
ways a social dimension to the vision. Easterners looked westward and
pictured who was and would be living there. These perceptions were often as
bizarrely wrongheaded as those of the physical potential of the land, and when
pioneers acted on them, the results were similarly calamitous.
Hyde tells us about William Jackson Palmer, who, like Nathan Meeker,
stood at the base of Pikes Peak and had a vision, in his case of a place of sur-
passing beauty, European-style, that would become a lounging ground for the
well-to-do from both sides of the Atlantic. But that was not all he saw. A few
months after Meeker's encounter with the haystack, Palmer sat at about the
same spot and wrote his wife of rising early in the morning, gazing at Pikes-
Peak, and envisioning what might be: his own castle, surrounded by prosper-
ous farmhouses and round about a vast deer park with buffalo, antelope, "and
with them a few Indians to recall more vividly the wild prairie life—which the
Americans of a few years hence will only know from the pages of story-
books." Two years later, with plans for Colorado Springs well under way, he
wrote more specifically of his social vision: "We shall have a new and better
civilization in the far West; only may the people never get to be as thick as on
the eastern seaboard. We will surrender the briny border as a sort of extensive
Castle Garden to receive and filter the foreign swarms and prepare them by a
gradual process for coming to the inner temple of Americanism out in Col-
orado. . . . Isn't that a logical as well as a unique notion?"5
Well, it was not so logical and, alas, certainly not unique. At the time
Palmer was writing, the percentage of foreign-born in Colorado was more
than twice that in his native state of Delaware, half again that of Maryland,
and greater than that in Pennsylvania. The state along the eastern "briny bor-
der" with the highest portion of aliens was New York, with about 26 percent.
Wyoming and Montana each had more than 38 percent, whereas Idaho had
52 percent, twice that of New York, and these figures do not include most
Hispanics, who were counted as native-born, or Indians, who stubbornly re-
fused to vanish into the storybooks.6 In short, if Palmer had wanted to escape
the "foreign swarms," he should have headed back east, because the West was
then, as it is now, the most ethnically diverse part of America.
The Palmers of that time perceived the West not just as a wilderness of
sublime scenery; they saw it also as a kind of social void waiting to be filled
with people of their choosing. Just as they looked at deserts and saw gardens
and looked at the plains and saw European resorts, so they looked at human
diversity and saw uniformity or saw nobody at all. They then projected west-
ward a society of blue-eyed sons of Albion.
This perceptual approach should also be applied to all groups involved in
the story. For all of the new ideas in Hyde's essay, her approach is in one way
traditional. Her emphasis is on the cultural misperceptions of Anglo Ameri-
cans moving west. We should also consider the perceptions of the many other
ethnic groups that accompanied the Anglo invasion, of the earlier Hispanic
intruders who would in turn be intruded on, and of the Asians for whom east-
ward expansion was another distinct experience.
Yet another cultural variable must be included. Early in her essay Hyde
stated, "In . . . he lands west of the one hundredth meridian, Anglo Amer-
icans came up against a series of landscapes that defied their notions about
utility and beauty." She might just as well have written, "In . . . he lands
west of the one hundredth meridian, Americans came up against thousands
of eastern interlopers who acted very oddly and who had very strange ideas
about the land." These Americans—the Native Americans—brought their
own cultural biases to events. Reconstructing the Indian perception of con-
tact, exchange, and conflict is one of the most challenging, and essential, tasks
before us. The obstacles are formidable, beginning with the fact that most of
what we know of native perceptions comes from white observers, so the voices
are doubly and triply filtered, like the electronically altered accents of a wit-
ness testifying against the Mafia. And yet, keeping in mind the Buckley prin-
ciple, we cannot possibly understand what happened, the changing hows and
whys of Indian history, without some conception of what natives saw and
what reality had become by the time it arrived in the native consciousness.
Interestingly, most work so far has focused on the time most difficult to
recapture—the earliest contact between Europeans and Indians. From the
eastern United States there is the work of James Merrell, James Axtell, Mary
Helms, and George Sabo. Investigations in the West have lagged a little be-
hind, but the work that has been done shows that the effort is clearly worth it.
Ramon Gutierrez's When Jesus Came, the Corn Mothers Went Away shows how
wonderfully, deliciously complicated the story gets when we bring to it the na-
tive cultural perceptions.7
Finally, as Hyde notes briefly, we ought to carry this perceptual approach
forward into the present era. Certainly the perceptions Hyde discusses have
survived. The two insistent images she stresses—the West as economic op-
portunity and the scenic West of "frontierlands"—in away have converged in
what is arguably the region's leading industry: tourism. In the West of today,
the search for the scenic is opportunity. But this seeming reconciliation actu-
ally represents a new set of contradictions, as millions of vacationers leave the
crowded, polluted cities of the East and flee to litter-choked, bumper-to-
bumper, smog-shrouded Yosemite and Jackson Hole. As Hyde notes, the ear-
lier, nineteenth-century versions of these nagging national psychic needs had
a profound impact on western lands. How much, much greater, then, are the
ecological consequences today, given the numbers of people involved? Pikes
Peak draws rather larger crowds than in the days of Meeker and Palmer; in
1981, 253,000 persons drove to the top. In 1955, the last year before limits
were set on river traffic through the Grand Canyon, about as many people
floated through the canyon by raft as emigrated to Oregon by wagon between
1840 and 1850. There is not the slightest hint that the situation is changing.
I suggest a simple measurement, which might be called the "turnstile test."
The perception of the West as sublime wilderness will remain among the pre-
eminent factors in its history as long as the number of annual visits to the four
most popular western national parks (Grand Canyon, Yosemite, Yellowstone,
and Olympic) is greater than the population of New England.
Just as surely, the misperception of the blue-eyed West remains an im-
portant part of contemporary life. William Jackson Palmer's vision survives in
extreme form in places like northern Idaho, pockets of the dream of the West
as Aryan Americas last line of defense against ethnic and racial degeneration.
Far more widespread is resentment and alarm over the most recent immigra-
tion from across our southern border and across the Pacific. The confusion of
perception and reality results in the; strangest contortions in the current de-
bate. Critics of the new immigration sometimes invoke the principles of con-
servatism, even as they promote what would be a profoundly radical
innovation (ethnic uniformity) and as they resist the West's oldest process
(immigration and adaptation) and work to undo its most ancient condition
(cultural diversity).
Less can be said about bringing into the present century the perceptions
of other cultural groups, for the good reason that, except in Hispanic studies,
relatively little attention has been given to the subject. There are a growing
number of works on recent Indian history, but their emphasis has not been on
the perceptual world—how Native Americans have seen themselves and their
place in the changes around them. Enough has been done to be provocative:
David Baird's recent presidential address before the Western History Associa-
tion; John Farella's study of Navajo philosophy, The Main Stalk; and a few
tribal studies that raise the issue, such as Morris Foster's recent Being Co-
manche.& Nonetheless, the history of Native American self-perception in the
twentieth century is one of the great understudied topics before us.
We can learn more, in fact, by turning from shelves of history to those of
literature, specifically to the large and growing number of fictional works by
Native American authors, established srars like James Welch, Louise Erdrich,
and Leslie Marmon Silko and slightly lesser known writers like Diane Glancy.
When we integrate their writing into western literature, it is impossible to

miss what seems to me a revealing irony. Among even our best white writers,
the descendants of those supposedly practical and pragmatic and realistic and
forward-looking pioneers, we are far more likely to find stories that look back-
ward to a lost, magnificent West free of restraints or to a place of Old Testa-
ment wrestlings with God and the devil, a land of Little Big Men and Blood
Meridians and Buffalo Girls. Yet among Indian novelists, grandchildren of
those supposedly tradition-bound peoples who, as the cliche goes, "watched
their way of life disappear," the stories are almost without exception in the pre-
sent, or rather the present is bound seamlessly to the past, usually through rich
weavings of family and kin, as in Erdrich's trilogy.
This is not to say that Indians have not misperceived and suffered the
consequences. Obviously they have. But the themes of this new native litera-
ture—of return and reconciliation, of beliefs both evolved and enduring, of
many peoples and traditions tangled beyond any thought of unraveling—sug-
gest at the very least a different perceptual experience, in particular one that
has been fairly successful at negotiating the changes of the past century and a
half and at keeping today and yesterday connected.
So as we mark the centennial of a thesis that celebrated adjustment to
changing circumstances, it seems especially timely to study more closely how
Native Americans have taken in the reality of events since the Europeans'
arrival in the West. We may find that they have a stronger claim as masters of
adaptation than do the white pioneers Turner celebrated, because it may be
that Native Americans have had a more accurate perception of what the West
was and is, what it can and cannot do, and who has been here. Telling that
story will certainly enrich and nicely complicate western history; it might also
offer hints about how to cope with the present, about how to look at a
haystack and see a haystack, or to use Hyde's words, how to "reexamine our
perceptual legacies and . . . look at the western landscape with a clearer
view."
Notes
1. Marshall Sprague, Massacre: The Tragedy at White River (Boston, 1957),
16-17.
2. William F. Buckley Jr., WindFall: The End of the Affair (New York: 1992),
xii.
3. William H. Goetzmann, Exploration and Empire: The Explorer and the Sci-
entist in the Winning of the American West (New York, 1966) and New Lands, New
Men: America and the Second Great Age of Discovery (New York, 1986); John Logan
Allen, Passage through the Garden: Lewis and Clark and the Image of the American
Northwest (Urbana, 1975); David M. Emmons, Garden in the Grasslands: Boomer Lit-
erature of the Central Great Plains (Lincoln, 1971); Donald Worster, Dust Bowl: The
Southern Plains in the 1930s (New York, 1979).
4. Richard White, "Discovering Nature in North America.," Journal of Ameri-

can History!*) (December 1992): 877.
5. John S. Fisher, A Builder of the West: The Life of General William Jackson
Palmer (Caldwell, Idaho, 1939), 163-64, 202-3.
6. U.S. Office of the Census, Ninth Census, Volume I, Statistics of the Popula-
tion of the United States . . . (Washington, D.C., 1872), 299.
7. James Merrell, The Indians'New World: Catawbas and Their Neighbors from
European Contact through the Era of Removal (Chapel Hill, 1989); James Axtell,
"Through Another Glass Darkly: Early Indian Views of Europeans," After Columbus:
Essays in the Ethnohistory of Colonial America (New York, 1988), 125-43, and Imag-
ining the Other: First Encounters in North America (Washington, D.C., 1991); Mary
Helms, Ulysses' Sail: The Ethnographic Odyssey of Power, Knowledge, and Geographical
Distance (Princeton, 1988); George Sabo III, "Reordering Their World: A Caddoan
Ethnohistory," in Visions and Revisions: Ethnohistorical Perspectives on Southern Cul-
tures, ed. George Sabo III and William M. Schneider (Athens, 1989), 25-47; Ramon
Power in New Mexico, 1500-1846 (Stanford, 1991).
8. David Baird, "Are the Five Tribes of Oklahoma 'Real Indians'?" Western
Historical Quarterly 2\ (1990): 5-18; John R. Farella, The Main Stalk: A Synthesis of
Navajo Philosophy (Tucson, 1984); Morris W. Foster, Being Comanche: A Social His-
tory of an American Indian Community (Tucson, 1991).
7
Still Natives
The Significance of Native Americans
in the History of the Twentieth-Century
American West
David Rich Lewis
When Frederick Jackson Turner reimagined American history in 1893, he

considered Native Americans to be of little significance. He demonstrated
more interest in the process of heroic, white yeomen hewing out a corri-
dor of civilization in an environment that all but overwhelmed them,
transforming them from immigrants into Americans. Indians were Indi-
ans, part of that wild frontier environment. They posed "a common dan-
ger" and served as "a consolidating agent in our history," faceless obstacles
to be overcome and subdued in the process of westering.1
Common wisdom and events of the day seemed to justify Turner's
perspective. After all, Indian populations were at their low ebb, a vanish-
ing vestige of the frontier experience. Turner's contemporaries saw the
breakup of Indian reservations and the "final promise" of assimilation
through allotment and agrarian settlement as an eventuality—the ulti-
mate realization of the Euro-American belief in the unilinear progress of
peoples from savagism to civility. Why should he have written differently?2
Yet one hundred years later, there are those who voice essentially the
same attitudes: that modern Indians are unimportant in the larger picture;
that they are obstacles in the development of the American West; that they
must assimilate or disappear; and that the answer to the "Indian Problem"
again lies in abrogating their special relationship with the federal govern-
ment. James Watt, secretary of the interior during Ronald Reagan's presi-
dency, was only the most visible of- those lamenting reservations and
Indians as examples oi the "failure of socialism," as stumbling blocks in the
development of the West. Whereas Turner tried to sell a theory and Watt
213
This cartoon by Oliphant appeared in 1983. Copyright 1983 Universal Press

Syndicate, reprinted with permission.
tried to sell everything, both tried to sell the idea that this was an Indian
rather than a non-Indian problem, one fueled by persistent mispercep-
tions and political agendas dismissive of contemporary Native American
cultures and realities.3
In the following pages, let me suggest six broad areas of significance
for Native Americans in the history of the twentieth-century American
West and, by extension, the history of the nation. The first four areas of
significance—persistence, land, economic development, and political
sovereignty—are overlapping and interdependent. The fifth and sixth
areas address larger cultural issues: the persistent symbolic value of native
peoples, and the contributions emerging from Native American history
and literature. There are many other areas of significance that could be
discussed. I offer these as suggestions to stimulate discussion and focus at-
tention on issues of importance for Indian peoples.
Persistence
The first significance of Native Americans in the twentieth-century Amer-

ican West is their physical and cultural persistence as identifiable ethnic
STILL NATIVE • 215
individuals and communities in the face of overwhelming odds—the

odds by which Turners contemporaries viewed them as increasingly in-
significant. Five hundred years of disease and conquest, removal and
reservation, reduced the native population of the continental United
States from a conservatively estimated 2 to 5 million people to only
228,000 survivors by 1890. Such wholesale depopulation had repercus-
sions across the spectrum of cultural knowledge and practice. Entire
groups disappeared or withdrew and regrouped in unwanted corners of
the country. They persisted by selectively resisting, adopting, and adapt-
ing to meet ever-changing circumstances. Federal officials pushed Indians
to respond to policy and directed change at a pace and on a scale unex-
pected of any other group. When Indians failed to acculturate rapidly
enough, reformers and bureaucrats abandoned them on the periphery of
American society.4
But Native Americans did riot disappear and, in fact, staged an im-
pressive comeback, demonstrating cultural resilience and experimenta-
tion in the face of the policy pendulum of allotment, reorganization,
termination, self-determination, and the recent threat of fiscal termina-
tion disguised as Reagan's "New Federalism."5 Revitalization movements
and pan-Indian organizations emerged in the early twentieth century to
counter the hopelessness of allotted reservation life, to transcend tribal
politics, and to sustain a native identity—one that not only recognized di-
versity within the Indian population but also acknowledged a shared ex-
perience distinct from that of normative Americans.6 In the 1930s, Native
Americans variably used or rejected the Indian Reorganization Act (IRA)
of 1934 to create tribal governments to protect their identity and sover-
eignty.7 Tribes began to renew group ceremonialism and re-create home-
lands where Indians and Indianness could continue. What emerged from
the IRA process was a more unified ethnic identity, voice, and story than
had previously existed—a truly "Indian" history as opposed to the greater
diversity of native group histories, but native nonetheless.
In the post—World War II era, growing Indian populations, limited
reservation opportunities, and federal relocation programs sparked a mi-
gration from reservation to city. The urbanization of Indian peoples par-
allels the urbanization of the West. In 1980, 77 percent of all American
Indians lived west of the Mississippi River, and over half lived in urban
areas—Los Angeles, Tulsa, Phoenix, and a host of other cities, all with
their own recognizable Indian communities and cultural centers. In
1990, one hundred years after their population nadir, there were almost 2
million American Indians (0.8 percent of the total U.S. population), rep-
resenting 314 recognized tribes, 197 Alaskan native villages, and many
more groups awaiting federal recognition. More than half lived in just six
states—Oklahoma, California, Arizona, New Mexico, Alaska, and Wash-

ington—all in the West. Native Americans are a youthful population, and
their numbers continue to grow at an astounding rate, leading to projec-
tions of 4.6 million Indians by 2050. Navajos alone are expected to dou-
ble their population of 219,198 in the next twenty years—both a benefit
and a potential threat to their future.8
This physical and cultural survival has not been without costs—the
loss of diversity, cultural knowledge, land, and identity. Intermarriage and
the emergence of mixed-blood groups have generated and will continue to
generate social and political factionalism within tribes, necessitating the
periodic and painful redefinition of tribal identity and Indianness. Rapid
population growth, underdevelopment, health issues, and migrations be-
tween city and reservation feed the outward appearances of a growing cul-
ture of poverty. In 1989, 27 percent of all Indian families were living in
poverty, nearly three times the national average. Media images of Ameri-
can consumerism bombard Indians, intensifying the cultural and genera-
tional disjunctures in value and expectation, needs and wants. Tribes find
themselves balancing the modern rights and resources that make their
identity possible against periodic disunity, divergent pan-Indian agendas,
and challenges by outsiders intent on abridging their sovereignty.9
That the people demonstrated a genius for enduring, for surviving the
descendants of Columbus, is undeniable. Whether or not they continue to
do so is up to the next generation. Many suggest Indian persistence de-
pends on educating young people in their own language and customs
while training them to meet the needs of the tribal group in an increas-
ingly technological world. Most tribes are working with state school dis-
tricts to add cultural heritage units to the curricula while others are
creating their own schools. Today there are twenty-nine tribally controlled
colleges serving over ten thousand students in twelve states. Leaders like
Wilma Mankiller of the Cherokee Nation recognize the need for more ef-
fective educational opportunities for Indian children, to instill hope and
produce "a cadre of well-trained young people to help us enter the twenty-
first century on our own terms."10
Land
A second significance of Native Americans in the twentieth-century West
is their control of land and valuable natural resources. Placed on unwanted
and apparently worthless reservations in the nineteenth century, Indians
and neighboring whites later discovered that these lands were often re-
source rich. Today, the land provides not only a place but also a way for In-
STILL NATIVE - 217
This Ed Stein cartoon appeared in the Rocky Mountain News in 1979 (reprinted
with permission of Newspaper Enterprise Association, Inc.),
dian peoples to live in the modern, industrial world. Landownership and

resource rights give tribes power and the ability to exercise political sover-
eignty but also subject them to conflicting forces from both within and
outside their groups.
Land holds several levels of value for Indian peoples. First, most In-
dian oral traditions posit the earth and its occupants as animate, sentient,
and connected through the power of creation. Nineteenth-century treaty
negotiators heard native orators express this unity between people and
earth in their refusal to part with the land or cut it with the plow. Those
same messages resonate today among Western Shoshones who refuse to
recognize federal abrogation of their treaty rights and oppose the use of
their land as a nuclear test range. "The earth is our mother," stated Carrie
Dann. "It is not for sale."1'
Second, Native Americans recognize the importance of land as a place

for community and continuity in the twentieth century. Their land base
holds them together physically and culturally as identifiable groups, sepa-
rate and safe from a national mainstream that has swept along other ethnic
groups. "Everything is tied to our homeland," said the Flathead writer and
historian D'Arcy McNickle. "Our language, religion, songs, beliefs—
everything. Without our homeland, we are nothing."12The land holds Na-
tive American ancestors and gives place to their cosmologies. The land
gives them identity. Hupas of northern California call themselves Nati-
nook-wa, "the people ofNatinook, the place by the river to which the trails
lead back." Natinook or Hoopa Valley is the center of creation on "This
Earth." In their geopolitical name, Hupas linguistically demonstrate the
connection of people with place with earth. No matter where they go in
life, eventually all trails return them to the center, to the valley, to the peo-
ple.1^
Finally, the land provides native groups a means of support. Removed
from extensive territories to limited reservations in the nineteenth century,
Indian groups altered their subsistence strategies. Dependency increased
as herding replaced hunting and as warriors became farmers. Western de-
velopment swept around reservations and then backtracked in the early
twentieth century. Suddenly reservations became attractive because they
contained natural resources absent or overexploited in other parts of the
West. Where tribes retained control of their lands, they exerted some in-
fluence over the nature of development and gained some socioeconomic
benefits. In other cases they watched their land, resources, and power slip
away. 14
Herein lies the problem: that control of Indian homelands has been
anything but consistent. Allotment resulted in the alienation of more than
80 percent of reservation lands by 1930. Of the Indians receiving title to
individual allotments, 90 percent sold or lost those lands. Under the 1934
IRA, Indian Bureau plans to repurchase 25.6 million acres to help tribes
achieve "the modest standard of living of rural white people" fell woefully
short because of budget constraints and the antagonism of western mem-
bers of Congress. That kind of opposition continued to plague tribes in
the 1950s as they began to rebuild their landed estates using royalty and
claims-case money. Politicians and special-interest groups renewed their
attacks on Indian lands, resources, and rights by terminating federal trust
responsibilities and supervising the division of collective assets for twelve
tribes.15
As the promise of Indian self-determination emerged in the 1960s
and 1970s, tribes reasserted their treaty rights to alienated lands and re-
sources. The Passamaquoddy and Penobscot Indians sued Maine for 58

percent of that state and $25 billion in damages, and they surprised every-
one by winning. Indian groups in the Pacific Northwest and Great Lakes
regions have been able to reestablish their aboriginal hunting and fishing
rights.16 But failures and stalemates in the process continue to offset the
gains. In the 1980s, Northern Utes regained legal jurisdiction to 4 million
acres that had composed their preallotment reservations in Utah, only to
lose the land again in 1994. Even legislative action such as the 1971 Alaska
Native Claims Settlement Act, which looked good initially, is proving a
mixed blessing. Such money settlements have rarely been as worthwhile as
control of the land. Less blatant and more insidious attacks on Indian
lands continue as ill-advised development plans drain off much-needed
capital and as off-reservation sources contaminate reservation soil, air, and
water.17
Today American Indians control over 90 million acres in the United
States (including 56.2 million acres in federal trust)—a sizable chunk but
still less than 3 percent of their aboriginal estate. From the 16-million-acre
Navajo Reservation, which bridges three states, to the tiny California mis-
sion rancherias like Jamul Village, with 6.03 acres, Indian-controlled lands
provide modern Indian peoples a source for identity and the ability to
practice meaningful self-determination. This landed estate and the control
of natural resources set them apart, affording them an economic and po-
litical significance beyond that of other ethnic groups in shaping the pre-
sent and future history of the American West.18
Economic Development
A third and related significance of Native Americans is the nature of reser-
vation economic development and its impact on local and regional
economies in the American West. Before European contact, native groups
maintained diversified subsistence economies based on cultural prefer-
ences and the natural or periodic abundances in their environments. Con-
tact, coupled with the devastating effects of epidemic disease and of an
extractive market economy based on fur, hides, and ultimately land,
slowly drew natives into a dependent state.19
During the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, federal officials
attempted to transform Indians into yeomen farm families, individualiz-
ing Indian landholders at the very time that white farmers and corporate
capitalists were consolidating operations in response to environmental
and competitive market realities. Indian farming and ranching may have
reinforced a kind of rural lifestyle identity among Indians, but it never
generated the kind of self-sufficient agrarian market economy officials

hoped for. Local Indian subsistence economies mixing farming, ranching,
wage work, and more traditional native resource use suffered during the
national depression and environmental nightmare of the 1930s. Direct
federal relief and job programs like the Indian Division of the Civilian
Conservation Corps buoyed reservation economies through the 1930s un-
til World War II created military service and war industry jobs in the
West.20
In the post—World War II era, Native Americans looked for new eco-
nomic opportunities. Indian agricultural operations persisted but em-
ployed relatively few and produced meager profits in comparison with
other economic opportunities, including leasing reservation lands to non-
Indians. More and more Indians turned to off-reservation wage work or
moved to nearby cities to earn a living. Indians took up jobs in the auto in-
dustry of Detroit, in the high steel construction industry of the urban
East, in the mines of the Southwest, and in the forests and fisheries of the
Pacific Northwest. The Tohono O'odham, for example, left their cattle
and floodplain farms to serve as domestic servants and wage laborers in
nearby Tucson, as agricultural laborers in the booming cotton industry of
southern Arizona, and as Indian extras for Hollywood Westerns.21 Others
followed suit. From the late 1930s, when John Ford and Hollywood dis-
covered Monument Valley, Navajos played Apaches, Navajos played Co-
manches, and Navajos and other Indians played the extras, the cannon
fodder for John Wayne and the cavalry. The landscape and Indians of Ari-
zona became our cinematic projection of a savage West, the "real" West,
but Indians rarely played a film lead when a white actor or actress was
available.22
To provide jobs and economic opportunities for growing reservation
populations, western tribes turned to their greatest asset—land and nat-
ural resources. This shift parallels that of the larger American West; it
marks a retreat from small-scale agriculture and a move toward growing
dependence on natural resources and the boom-and-bust cycles of extrac-
tive industries. Currently, Indians control approximately 30 percent of the
coal west of the Mississippi River, over 40 percent of uranium sources,
4 percent of known oil and gas reserves, and other mineral resources of
indeterminate value. They own millions of acres of forest land and the
rights to an unquantified amount of water, which is becoming as precious
as life itself in the arid West. Mineral, oil, and gas leases, timber contracts
with multinational corporations, and plants to process or transport those
resources have generated reservation jobs and billions of dollars in royal-
ties, severance taxes, and direct revenues. Of all these resources, water—
STILL NATIVE 221
the control, quantification, and marketing of Indian water and water

rights—is central to the future of reservation economies and western de-
velopment.23
Despite this seeming abundance, only a small number of reservations
contain readily exploitable resources. Tribes with little to offer beyond
open land and a large, low-wage labor force have had to explore other de-
velopment options. Subsidized training programs and the creation of
tribal enterprise zones with less restrictive regulations have attracted some
outside corporations.24 In the last thirty years, tribes have initiated a vari-
ety of small businesses and joint-venture corporations: the Paiutes of Utah
produced safety clothing for industry and government; in Arizona the
Hopi Electronics Enterprise produced and sold equipment to IBM,
Motorola, and Hughes Aircraft; Wisconsin Winnebagos started their own
pharmaceuticals company; the Eastern Band of Cherokees built the largest
mirror company in the United States; the Siletz Indians of Oregon
launched their own salmon smokehouse and native plant nursery; and the
Sioux Manufacturing Corporation on the Devil's Lake Reservation pro-
duced radar-absorbing tank camouflage for Operation Desert Storm.25
This 1991 cartoon from the Navajo Times was originated by Tom Arviso Jr. and
illustrated by Jack Ahasteen. Reprinted with permission by Tom Arviso Jr.
NAVAJO 'riMt.S. Ori^inalrd by lorn Arviso, ji and illiHIwu-ii by |ark AliaMtt-n. Ri-prinicd with pcnnimon
Perennial hard times have forced others—like the Turtle Mountain

Chippewas, Rosebud Sioux, Kaibab Paiutes, Skull Valley Goshutes, and
Mescalero Apaches—to explore the ramifications of locating national
landfills, toxic waste incinerators, or nuclear waste repositories on their
lands, that is, of becoming national dumping grounds as a means of eco-
nomic development for their people.26
Economic alternatives do exist. In 1938, the anthropologist Ruth M.
Underbill observed, "Anyone writing a book on Indian economics might
do worse than start with the subject of games; for all games included bet-
ting, whether they were athletic contests for the young men or games of
chance for which the old people squatted on the sand throwing dice to the
accompaniment of solemn song."27 Gambling as a modern development
strategy surfaced when Florida Seminoles opened a bingo parlor in 1979
and weathered legal challenges by the state. Other tribes followed suit in
this cultural-economic discovery, pressing their sovereignty by opening
full-scale casinos. In 1988, Congress clamped down on tribal operations
with the Indian Gaming Regulatory Act, which established three classes of
operations and made tribes negotiate compacts with state governments.
Despite regulation and the threat of new gambling taxes that many
Native Americans claim abridge tribal sovereignty, tribes have made a for-
tune from their gaming halls and tax-free smoke shops. Hotel-casino com-
plexes are popping up on reservations across the country to cash in on area
residents and a growing tourist trade. As of June 1993, tribes operated 209
legal gaming establishments, an estimated $6 billion annual industry cre-
ating needed jobs and cash flow for both Indian and non-Indian commu-
nities. Tribes have used gaming revenues to fund a variety of development
projects including housing, health and education facilities, land acquisi-
tion, and reservation industries, as well as to replace lost federal dollars for
services and entitlement programs. Indian gaming promises to be the eco-
nomic bonanza that tribes need to combat underdevelopment, but it suf-
fers near constant attack by politicians and citizens as immoral,
counterproductive, and (perhaps most important) threatening to existing
non-Indian gaming operations. Although gambling is not without its own
inherent socioeconomic problems, when compared with other develop-
ment strategies such as resource mining or with the lack of alternatives for
meaningful development, Indian gaming offers a reasonable chance for
the economic self-sufficiency necessary to ensure native self-determina-
tion.28
Rapid economic development through resource management and
business or gaming enterprises benefits Indian communities but also
forces them to confront and balance economic needs against cultural val-
ues. Their decisions about how or if to develop certain areas or pursue cer-
tain strategies can have unpredicted costs. Extractive industries tie native
groups to international fluctuations in resource price and demand, deplete
nonrenewable resources, and leave reservations with long-term environ-
mental and health problems. On the Navajo and Spokane reservations,
uranium tailings contaminate soil and water, sickening humans and ani-
mals. Oil wells, strip mines, timber clear-cuts, power plants, and industrial
wastes pollute the physical environment and threaten sacred sites. Corpo-
rations have been quick to realize the benefits of doing business on reser-
vations, but few have established long-term operations or understood the
needs and cultural norms of their native employees. In the end these in-
dustries create their own type of dependency.
The Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA), in balancing its trust responsibil-
ities with Indian self-determination, has both squandered tribal resources
and saved tribes from shortsighted expediency and greed. Management
and mismanagement of tribal resources and businesses are ongoing prob-
lems, evidenced by the erosion of Indian fishing rights in the Pacific
Northwest and Great Lakes regions, by failed sustained-yield timber pro-
grams on the Hupa, Yakima, Colville, Fort Apache, and other reservations
throughout the West, and most recently by the dramatic revelations about
financial improprieties with the Utah Navajo oil trust fund and Utah
Navajo Industries. Overall, tribal councils themselves have a poor record
of managing and reinvesting windfall resource royalties into reservation
development because of the serious need for immediate per capita distrib-
utions and entitlement programs. Long-term economic planning is made
more difficult by the reversal of federal programs, by rapidly changing
tribal needs, and by the politics of personality and faction that contribute
to a high turnover rate in tribal governments.29
Although Indian economic advances are heartening, perhaps more
significant is the fact that, overall, reservation economies remain insignif-
icant, existing on the edge of American market capitalism. Reservations
remain what some have called internal colonies or dependent incorpo-
rated peripheries. They show up on high-altitude mapping photographs as
places where development stops. Isolation, unemployment, and poverty
breed a host of social problems. Indians have had more experience with
poverty than any other group in the country—poverty that has become a
way of life, "a fine art" for some. A paternalistic government has virtually
ensured this situation through years of inconsistent policy, financial mis-
management, and direct relief, encouraging a cycle of dependence and a
perceived lack of alternatives. Future options will have to be weighed by
each generation as it balances cultural identity with development.30
Political Sovereignty
A fourth significance of Native Americans in the history of the twentieth-
century West is their political sovereignty and emerging voice in regional
politics. During the nineteenth century, Indian groups constituted do-
mestic dependent nations, subject to the will of the federal government.
What little political power they had came from their military and diplo-
matic skills, their economic and cultural stability, and their freedom from
state jurisdiction. Too often that power existed at the sufferance of federal
officials and white advocates with "good intentions" who championed In-
dian causes but offered their own, rather than Indian, solutions to issues.
Indian political influence reached a low point in 1903 when the Supreme
Court affirmed the plenary authority of Congress to alter treaty provisions
without Indian consent.31 Over the next thirty years, pan-Indian organi-
zations, successful U.S. Court of Claims suits, citizenship, and the reorga-
nization of tribal governments slowly began to increase the political
profile, if not the actual power, of Native Americans.
A measurable leap in Indian political significance came after passage
of the 1946 Indian Claims Commission Act. The act, intended to vacate
federal responsibility for past wrongs, allowed tribes to sue the govern-
ment. Its result was to awaken tribes to the enduring power of the 370
treaties signed between 1789 and 1868. Once a vehicle for alienating In-
dian title, treaties became the basis for claiming land and just compensa-
tion and for establishing tribes' distinct relationship with the federal
government. Tribes prevailed in 58 percent of the 852 suits (consolidated
into 370 dockets) filed with the commission between 1946 and 1978.
They won small cash trust settlements instead of land, but the victories,
more moral than equitable, showed Indians a powerful alternative to the
legislative and policy process that seldom favored them.
That point became very clear in 1953 when Congress and the BIA
followed up with two tribal-hostile policies. House Concurrent Resolu-
tion No. 108 called for the termination of Indian treaty rights and federal
trust responsibilities as soon as possible. A companion bill, Public Law
280, allowed certain states limited civil and criminal jurisdiction on In-
dian reservations, abridging Indian sovereignty and immunity from state
control. Congress intended to get out of the Indian business, to break up
tribal governments and individualize tribal holdings, and to reduce Indian
political and economic power. Between 1953 and 1962, federal officials
targeted more than sixty groups for termination. In the end the process
claimed twelve victims—most notably the Klamaths, the Menominees,
and the Mixed-Blood Northern Utes—by exploiting tribal factionalism
and short-term economic interests. As the failures of termination became

evident, the government reestablished its trust relationship with a number
of the groups, but the damage to Indian resources and sovereignty re-
mained.32
The claims-case process, Public Law 280, and the threat of termina-
tion contributed to a growing political sophistication among tribes. A
number of educated, articulate, and thoughtful leaders began to emerge,
people who understood the needs and cultural desires of their communi-
ties, the nature of American politics and law, and the political power in-
herent in tribal land and resources. Pan-Indian organizations like the
National Tribal Chairmen's Association, the Native American Rights
Fund, the Council of Energy Resource Tribes, and the American Indian
Movement arose to shape Indian policy and political debate through col-
lective action.
But the reality of modern tribal and pan-Indian unity is as elusive as
any idea of absolute aboriginal unity. Inter- and intratribal factionalism
keeps groups divided, making coherent tribal administration and long-
term planning difficult. The push and pull of personalities and band pol-
itics, the shifting tribal agendas, and the largely semantic battle pitting
"traditionalists" against "progressives" further limit cooperation and true
power in the arena of modern, interest-group politics. Although the
rhetoric, if not the reality, of Indian political power increased with the
self-determination and "government-to-government" policy agendas of
the 1970s and 1980s, the problem of finding an acceptable balance be-
tween federal trust and true tribal autonomy remains.33
Indian peoples continue to be targets of racial and economic discrim-
ination; they struggle for full political recognition and equality, but their
political clout is increasing and cannot be ignored forever. Tribal popula-
tions continue to grow, and their ability to manipulate local political
structures through the ballot box is becoming more evident. Even though
only a handful of native people have been elected nationally, an increasing
number are running for and winning state and local offices. For example,
in 1990, the Mormon power elite of San Juan County, Utah, "turned
white" when Navajos, led by county commissioner Mark Maryboy,
threatened to capture Republican-controlled county offices and com-
mand their fair share of public services. The last-minute record turnout by
white Republicans ensured the defeat of all Navajo Democrats except
Maryboy but forced both state parties into a greater awareness of the po-
tential of organized Indian voters. Few others have joined together to
challenge the system so directly, but the potential of bloc voting has not
escaped Indian organizers and white incumbents. Tribes are already shap-
ing national policy debates on issues ranging from skeletal and artifact
repatriation to the location of toxic waste dumps and national wilderness
areas and will continue to expand their lobbying and policy influence over
time.34
Perhaps the greatest source of political clout western tribes have today
is water, which gives them a powerful voice in the politics and develop-
ment of the West. Although Indians were unable to halt the damming of
the Columbia and Missouri Rivers in the first half of the twentieth cen-
tury—damming that had disastrous effects on tribal communities and
economies—they have played a more prominent role in determining the
nature and construction of new water projects. Today along the Columbia
River, the Skokomish, Skagit, Snoqualmie, and Kootenai peoples are re-
asserting treaty rights to dictate stream flows and initiate the destruction
of several dams. In both Utah and Arizona, native groups are key players
in supplying and receiving water from the controversial Central Utah and
Central Arizona projects. Indians have run into problems with environ-
mental groups and each other over the control of western waters. The An-
imas-LaPlata dam and irrigation project currently pits Southern and Ute
Mountain Utes against Navajos and sets non-Indian environmentalists
against both groups.35
The significance of tribal politics and Indian political power will con-
tinue to increase in the American West. Already state and national gov-
ernments, corporations, and individuals can no longer run roughshod
over Indian rights and desires without at least a protracted fight, and the
record of Indian litigation in the courts is becoming more impressive.
Among the most successful are the Zunis, who in the last decade have won
landmark cases for land, water, and religious access rights and for the re-
turn of sacred artifacts.36 On the other hand, this legal wrangling between
tribes and governments over issues of land and resources, services and tax-
ation, jurisdiction and politics, is a hindrance to tribal self-determination
and a drain on limited tribal funds. It has also raised the specter that Con-
gress might exercise its plenary powers to abrogate treaty rights and end
federal trust responsibilities—the political equivalent of the budget-cut-
ting New Federalism that already threatens an economic termination of
tribes.
Symbols
Fifth, there is the less tangible, but no less real, significance of Native
Americans in the twentieth-century West: their symbolic presence. From
first contact, Euro-Americans clad Indians in robes of myth and symbol
STILL NATIVE « 227
and adjusted Indian policies to fit those misperceptions. Indians were Cal-
iban—half human, half monster. They were children oi nature, noble sav-
ages, and bloodthirsty heathens. By the beginning of the twentieth
century they were the disappearing Indians, fit for Wild West pageants or,
like Ishi, last of the Yahi, for exhibition in the California Museum of An-
thropology. Native Americans were Edward S. Curtis's "Vanishing Race"
and James Eraser's "End of the Trail." But soon they were forgotten,
moved to the periphery of public place and attention. They became the
subjects of salvage anthropologists more interested in their past than fu-
ture. Yet their symbolic value persisted, and images emerged as needed.37
In twentieth-century history, literature, art, movies, and advertis-
ing—in the images Americans create for ourselves and for export—
mythic cowboys and Indians continue to symbolize the frontier
experience, the romantic images that recall a simpler though nonexistent
American West. Stereotypical Indians, often feathered or in full plains re-
galia, adorned decorative objects and the visual arts, played supporting
roles in American and European literature, and sold products from to-
bacco to medicines to firearms to cooking oil. Movies and television pro-
grams perpetuated images of Indians as savage mounted warriors by
focusing on a handful of plains and southwestern tribes—Apaches, Co-
manches, Cheyennes, Lakotas—rather than on the settled agriculturalists
such as the Hopis. More sympathetic portrayals and messages appeared in
post—World War II films like Fort Apache (1948) arid Broken Arrow
(1950), but even then non-Indians acted the stereotypical Indian leads. As
kids, many of us played "Cowboys and Indians" and knew that Indians
spoke broken English, used signs, wore feathers, and scalped their ene-
mies. In time we graduated to sports teams with Indian mascots and to
anecdotes, jokes, songs, and proverbs with Indian objects.38
"Indian memory," wrote Richard Rodriguez, "has become the mea-
sure against which America gauges corrupting history when it suits us."
During the last thirty years, whites have embraced Indians, or their cher-
ished image, as symbols for the counterculture, American environmental-
ism, and New Age spirituality and mysticism—symbols for a way of life in
opposition to urban, white, Christian, techno-industrial society. In the
1960s the children of American excess made Indians the romantic symbol
of their revolt. Indians were tribal, spiritual, drug-using, and wronged,
holdouts against conformity and an American political system gone mad
with war. Hollywood reflected those images in movies like Soldier Blue
(1970) and Little Big Man (1971)—films that told us more about our-
selves, our countercultural desires, and the nightmare of Vietnam than
about Native Americans. Even movies like A Man Called Horse (1970),
Scott Bennett adapted this illustration from his earlier version, which appeared in
the Lakota Times, 1 April 1992.
which purported to capture authentic native patterns, remained shallow

and lacked cultural acuity. In the end, most movies used stereotypical
nineteenth-century natives to address modern, white social issues rather
than Indian ones.39
Native Americans influenced the thinking of early American conser-
vationists, but later conservationists perpetuated many of the grosser
stereotypes. Modern whites embraced the image of Indians as the ultimate
environmentalists, beings who lived at peace with each other, who utilized
everything they took from the land, and who left no mark of their passing.
In so doing, these whites essentially denied native peoples their humanity,
culture, history, and modernity. An apocryphal speech written as a film
script and attributed to Chief Seattle, together with the image of Iron Eyes
Cody crying over a polluted landscape, made Indians "the mascot of an

international ecology movement." Even Indians fostered this facile view
for its positive effects. The images offered more a justified critique of in-
dustrial society than any critical understanding of Indian peoples' com-
plex interactions with the environment and each other. The trend
continues today. Even the highly touted movie Dances with Wolves (1990)
is a sensitive if misleading dance with mythology, using Indians and ani-
mals as environmental symbols to attack twentieth-century human-na-
ture relationships.40
New Age philosophy has brought a greater appreciation of things In-
dian but also has entailed new forms of commercialism, racism, and cul-
tural attacks as born-again Indian "wanna-bes" commandeer native crafts,
artifacts, rituals, and places. How-to books, seminars on Indian mysti-
cism, sweat lodges, pipe ceremonies, sun dances, and vision quests taken
out of cultural context and conducted by both native and nonnative peo-
ple for paying customers have become big business. As an increasing num-
ber of wanna-bes discover or invent distant Indian blood, they
appropriate the Indian public voice and message, emphasizing the mythic
and ignoring the realities of modern Indian life.41
In the search for escape and a sense of authenticity in a manufactured
world, Euro-Americans have placed American Indians outside history, rel-
egating them to an idealized past that never existed, refusing to allow them
to be or become modern—the art of historic Gitchigoomism. In the end
all stereotypical images, even those deemed temporally functional and
used by Indians themselves, persist to the detriment of Native American
peoples. They continue to misdirect non-Indian society's relationships
with and responses to modern Native Americans. The significance of
stereotypes is in how much they hide and in how much they tell us about
ourselves rather than about others.42
The Field of Study

Finally, the study of Native American history itself has become increas-
ingly significant for academics and for Indian peoples. From its method-
ological emergence in the 1950s to its popular boom in the 1960s, Native
American history has established itself as a dynamic field of study. Donald
Parman and Catherine Price assessed the field in 1988, documenting its
growth and activity over the previous forty years. Surveys of recent disser-
tations and articles indicate how productive the field remains. The num-
ber of journals devoted specifically to Native American history, culture,
law, literature, art, archaeology, or education is truly impressive, as is the
larger number of journals that regularly publish on native topics. Mono-

graph series with university presses and the ongoing bibliography and his-
toriographical series sponsored by the D'Arcy McNickle Center for the
History of the American Indian demonstrate the depth and breadth of
current research, as well as areas for opportunity.43
This overall boom in Native American history has given rise to an in-
creasing number of university courses and faculty positions in different
disciplines. Native American Studies programs from Berkeley to Min-
nesota to Dartmouth are creating integrated, interdisciplinary approaches
to the subject. Meanwhile, an increasing number of professional organiza-
tions ranging from the American Indian Historians Association to the
American Society for Ethnohistory provide a community for scholars
working in the field. Research libraries and museums with collections em-
phasizing native history have become increasingly important for both
scholars and native peoples. Specialized research centers like the McNickle
Center and the University of Utah's American West Center serve as im-
portant repositories of information, agencies for collecting oral histories
and printed materials, and environments for mentoring and training tribal
historians. They help tribes create their own histories and educational ma-
terials and assist in preparing scholarly texts and exhibits for tribal litiga-
tion.44
Perhaps the greatest significance of Indian history for the study of the
American West has been in method and theory. Beginning in the 1950s,
Native American history moved beyond other areas of American history in
theoretical sophistication. The nature of ethnohistory and ethnohistorical
research—"the use of historical and ethnological methods and materials to
gain knowledge of the nature and causes of change in a culture defined by
ethnological concepts and categories"—pushed historians beyond stan-
dard printed texts and patterns of analysis. The combination of history,
anthropology, and archaeology strengthened the contributions of all three
fields. Since then ethnohistorians have incorporated the perspectives of
linguistics, literature, folklore, sociology, economics, political science, ge-
ography, demography, ecology, and the natural sciences, making ethnohis-
tory a true extension of the interdisciplinary approach that Frederick
Jackson Turner endorsed for the study of American history and the Amer-
ican West.4?
Such research has a significance for native peoples as well as acade-
mics. On a practical level, early ethnohistorians provided the documenta-
tion that tribes needed to win their twentieth-century claims cases.
Ethnohistorians continue to provide expert testimony and written briefs
for tribes involved in litigation over land, resources, religious practices and
access, reburial, and artifact repatriation. Scholars, both Indian and non-
Indian, help tribes define their own past and present identity for future
generations by capturing oral histories and creating educational materials
that serve Indian community needs. And as more native researchers and
teachers emerge from university and tribal college programs, they will
contribute to a much-needed dialogue within the scholarly community
and create a stronger Indian voice in the production of academic Indian
history.46
I make this distinction of "academic" history because native peoples
always have and always will create and pass down their own oral tradi-
tions, their own histories. Folklorists have been responsible for capturing
most of that material for non-Indian audiences, but increasingly, native
peoples are recording and presenting it themselves, especially in the form
of autobiography and modern literature. "I believe stories are encoded in
the DNA spiral," wrote Joy Harjo, "and call each cell into perfect posi-
tion." Early-twentieth-century writers like Gertrude Bonnin, Mourning
Dove, Charles Eastman, D'Arcy McNickle, and others set the stage in
their writings of Indian experience. An explosion in Indian literature and
autobiography followed the publication of N. Scott Momaday's Pulitzer
Prize—winning House Made of Dawn (1968). Across the country, native
authors emerged to voice their experiences: James Welch, Leslie Marmon
Silko, Simon Ortiz, Paula Gunn Allen, Gerald Vizenor, Tom King, Louis
Owens, Louise Erdrich, Michael Dorris, Anna Lee Walters, Ray Young
Bear, and others. 1 heir stories are frequently about the modern world, are
pan-Indian in message, and re-create the Native American experience as
lived with feeling and insight. These stories are a continuation of native
histories and are part of the history of the American West.47
Significance and the People

To tell the history of the twentieth-century American West without in-
cluding Native Americans is like looking through a stereoscope with one
eye closed—the image remains but the depth disappears. Indians did not
disappear or remain static nineteenth-century caricatures but grew in
numbers, in political and economic power, and in the diversity of their ex-
periences. Increasingly urban and increasingly sophisticated in their ap-
proach to the larger world, Native Americans command serious attention.
Yet for all the changes in their relationships with American society and the
federal government, Indians mirror the larger reality of the American
West as federal colony. They find themselves in the same Catch-22 situa-
tion that many westerners lament: they want and need federal funding but
resent the supervision; they depend on their trust relationship yet espouse
total sovereignty; they are rebellious and defiant but in the end still de-
pendent. Perhaps their real significance—and the significance of native
and colonial peoples around the world—is in this ongoing struggle for
recognition, sovereignty, and the opportunity and ability to decide the
means to a culturally desired end.
Whatever significance I have described for Native Americans in the
history of the twentieth-century American West, they remain people, not
some analytical subject or homogeneous unit awaiting definition. They
define themselves, their experience and significance, every day in hun-
dreds of variations. They are Tlingit, Natinook-wa, Newe, O'odham, Siwi,
Dine, Nuciu, Ndee, Nimipu, Apsalooke, Lakota, Tse-tsehes-staestse, An-
ishinaabeg, and Mesquakie. They remain "The People."
Notes
I would like to thank Peter Iverson, Barre Toelken, Tom King, Peggy Pascoe, Clyde
Milner, and Jane Reilly for their comments and help on this essay.
An earlier version of this essay appeared under the title "Still Native: The Signif-
icance of Native Americans in the History of the Twentieth-Century American
West," by David Rich Lewis. Previously published in the Western Historical Quarterly
24 (May 1993): 203-27. Copyright by Western History Association. Reprinted by
permission.
1. Frederick Jackson Turner, "The Significance of the Frontier in American
History," The Frontier in American History (1920; reprint, Huntington, N.Y., 1976),
15; David A. Nichols, "Civilization over Savage: Frederick Jackson Turner and the In-
dian," South Dakota. History 2 (Fall 1972): 383-405; Gerald D. Nash, Creating the
West: Historical Interpretations, 1890-1990 (Albuquerque, 1991), 79-83.
2. Frederick E. Hoxie, A Final Promise: The Campaign to Assimilate the Indians,
1880-1920 (Lincoln, 1984).
3. "Indians Rap Watt's Socialism Remark," Wisconsin State Journal (20 January
1983), Al. See also New York Times, 19 January 1983, A19, and 25 January 1983,
A16. President Ronald Reagan made similar comments about Indians while in the So-
viet Union in 1988. See Marjane Ambler, Breaking the Iron Bonds: Indian Control of
Energy Development (Lawrence, 1990), 3—5, 8.
4. C. Matthew Snipp, American Indians: The First of This Land (New York,
1989), 9-11, 63-66; Hoxie, Final Promise, x-xi, 240-44.
5. On twentieth-century American Indian policy, see Francis Paul Prucha, The
Great Father: The United States Government and the American Indians, 2 vols. (Lin-
coln, 1984); Donald L. Parman, Indians and the American West in the Twentieth Cen-
tury (Bloomington, 1994); James S. Olson and Raymond Wilson, Native Americans
in the Twentieth Century (Urbana, 1984); and Vine Deloria Jr., ed., American Indian
Policy in the Twentieth Century (Norman, 1985). For the latest policies, see Presiden-
tial Commission on Indian Reservation Economies, Report and Recommendations to

the President of the United States, Presidential Commission on Indian Reservation
Economies, November 1984 (Washington, D.C., 1984); U.S. Congress, Senate, A New
Federalism for American Indians: Final Report and Legislative Recommendations, 101st
Cong., 1st sess., Senate Report 216 (Washington, D.C., 1989); Joseph G. Jorgensen,
"Federal Policies, American Indian Policies and the 'New Federalism,'" American In-
dian Culture and Research journal 10 (1986): 1-14; and C. Patrick Morris, "Termi-
nation by Accountants: The Reagan Indian Policy," in Native Americans and Public
Policy, ed. Fremont]. Lyden and Lyman H. Legters (Pittsburgh, 1992), 63-84.
6. Anthony F. C. Wallace, "Revitalization Movements: Some Theoretical Con-
siderations for Their Comparative Study "American Anthropologist 58 (April 1956):
264-81; Frederick E. Hoxie, "Exploring a Cultural Borderland: Native American
Journeys of Discovery in the Early Twentieth Century," Journal of American History,
79 (December 1992): 969-95; Hazel W. Hertzberg, The Search for an American In-
dian Identity: Modern Pan-Indian Movements (Syracuse, 1971); D'Arcy McNickle,
Native American Tribalism: Indian Survivals and Renewals (New York, 1973); Francis
Paul Prucha, "American Indian Policy in the Twentieth Century," Western Historical
Quarterly 15 (January 1984): 13.
7. See Kenneth R. Philp, ed., Indian Self-Rule: First-Hand Accounts of Indian-
White Relations from Roosevelt to Reagan (Salt Lake City, 1986).
8. Snipp, American Indians, 73-88; U.S. Department of Commerce, Bureau of
the Census, We the . . . First Americans (Washington, D.C., 1993), 2—3; Felicity
Barringer, "Census Shows Profound Change in Racial Makeup of the Nation," New
York Times, 11 March 1991, Al; Jack O. Waddell and O. Michael Watson, eds., The
American Indian in Urban Society (Lantham, Md., 1984); Bunty Anquoe, "Unrecog-
nized Tribes Finally Get Governmental Attention," Indian Country Today (Plains
Edition, Rapid City, S.D.), 16 November 1994, Al; Prucha, Great Father
2:1191-208, 2:1218-26. Census figures for 1990 (1,959,234) include American In-
dians, Eskimos, and Aleuts but may be inflated by as much as 9.2 percent (180,874)
because more individuals self-identify as "Indian" on the census form than can be ac-
counted for. David Harris, "The 1990 Census Count of American Indians: What Do
the Numbers Really Mean?" Social Science Quarterly 75 (September 1994): 580-93.
9. Alvin M. Josephy Jr., Now That the Buffalo's Gone: A Study of"Today's Amer-
ican Indians (1982; reprint, Norman, 1984), 129-30; Prucha, "American Indian Pol-
icy," 13-14; Robert F. Berkhofer Jr., "Native Americans," in Ethnic Leadership in
America, ed. John Higham (Baltimore, 1978), 119-49; U.S. Department of Com-
merce, We the . , . First Americans, 5-6. Nationally, 10 percent of American fami-
lies lived in poverty in 1989.
10. Wilma Mankiller, "Education and Native Americans: Entering the Twenty-
First Century on Our Own Terms," National Forum 71 (Spring 1991): 6; William G.
Tierney and Clara Sue Kidwell, eds., "American Indian Voices in Higher Education,"
Change: The Magazine of Higher Learning^ (March/April 1991): 4-46; Olson and
Wilson, Native Americans, 202-4; Michel Marriott, "Indians Turning to Tribal Col-
leges for Opportunity and Cultural Values," New York Times, 26 February 1992, B6;
"AICF Gains Two New Member Colleges," Indian Country Today, 22 December
1993, A3.
11. Christopher Vecsey, "American Indian Environmental Religions," in Amer-

ican Indian Environments: Ecological Issues in Native American History, ed. Christo-
pher Vecsey and Robert W. Venables (Syracuse, 1980), 1-37; David H. Getches, "A
Philosophy of Permanence: The Indians' Legacy for the West," Journal of the West 29
(July 1990): 54-68; Olson and Wilson, Native Americans, 215-19; Jon Christensen,
"The Western Shoshones Look Homeward," High Country News (Paonia, Colo.), 31
December 1990, 1; Dann quoted from "Shoshone Sisters Say Ruling Won't End
Grazing Battle," Salt Lake Tribune, 9 June 1991, A18.
12. Quoted in Josephy, Now That the Buffalo's Gone, 132.
13. Lee Davis, "On This Earth: Hupa Land Domains, Images, and Ecology on
'Deddeh Ninnisan'" (Ph.D. diss, University of California, Berkeley, 1988), 2-12;
David Rich Lewis, "Changing Subsistence, Changing Reservation Environments:
The Hupa, ISSO-lVSOs" Agricultural History 66 (Spring 1992): 36-38.
14. Ambler, Breaking the Iron Bonds, 6-8; Janet A. McDonnell, The Dispossession
of the American Indian, 1887-1934 (Bloomington, 1991).
15. Donald L. Parman, "Indians of the Modern West," in The Twentieth-Cen-
tury West: Historical Interpretations, ed. Gerald D. Nash and Richard W. Etulain (Al-
buquerque, 1989), 147-5 8; Lawrence C. Kelly, "The Indian Reorganization Act: The
Dream and the Reality," in The American Indian: Past and Present, ed. Roger L.
Nichols, 3d ed. (New York, 1986), 252 (quotation); Olson and Wilson, Native Amer-
icans, 107-56; Josephy, Now That the Buffalo's Gone, 32; Arrell M. Gibson, "Indian
Land Transfers," in Handbook of North American Indians, vol. 4, History of Indian-
White Relations, ed. Wilcomb E. Washburn (Washington, D.C., 1988), 211-29.
16. Paul Brodeur, Restitution: The Land Claims of the Mashpee, Passamaquoddy,
andPenobscotIndians of New England (Boston, 1985); Robert Doherty, Disputed Wa-
ters: Native Americans and the Great Lakes Fishery (Lexington, 1990); James H.
Schlender, "Treaty Rights in Wisconsin: A Review," Northeast Indian Quarterly 8
(Spring 1991): 4-22; Fay Cohen, Treaties on Trial: The Continuing Controversy over
Northwest Indian Fishing Rights (Seattle, 1986); Josephy, Now That the Buffalo's Gone,
177-211.
17. C. Matthew Snipp, "The Indian Wars, Again," Rural Sociologist 11 (Winter
1991): 11-15; Steve Hinchman, "An Indian Tribe Regains Its Sovereign Rights over
3 Million Acres," High Country News, 30 March 1987, 10;Tony Semerad, "UteTribe
Loses Big in Court Battle, but Insists the Turf War Isn't Over," Salt Lake Tribune, 24
February 1994, Al; Gary C. Anders, "The Alaska Native Experience with the Alaska
Native Claims Settlement Act," in The Struggle for the Land: Indigenous Insight and In-
dustrial Empire in the Semiarid World, ed. Paul A. Olson (Lincoln, 1990), 127-45;
Keith Scheider, "Washington Nuclear Plant Poses Risk for Indians," New York Times,
3 September 1990, 9; Chandler C. Smith, "Optimizing Development Impacts on In-
dian Reservations," in Indian SIA: The Social Impact Assessment of Rapid Resource De-
velopment on Native Peoples, ed. Charles C. Geisler et al. (Ann Arbor, 1982), 41-42.
18. Josephy, Now That the Buffalo's Gone, 129; Florence Connolly Shipek,
Pushed into the Rocks: Southern California Indian Land Tenure, 1769-1986 (Lincoln,
1987), 103-5.
19. William Cronon and Richard White, "Indians in the Land," American Her-
itage 37 (August-September 1986): 19-25; Richard White, The Roots of Dependency:
STILL NATIVE « 235
Subsistence, Environment, and Social Change among the Choctaws, Pawnees, andNava-
jos (Lincoln, 1983),
20. David Rich Lewis, Neither Wolf Nor Dog: American Indians, Environment,
and Agrarian Change (New York, 1994); Donald L. Parman, "The Indian and the
Civilian Conservation Corps," Pacific Historical Review 53 (May 1971): 39-56;
Richard Lowitt, The Neiv Deal and the West (Bloomington, 1984), 122-37; Olson
and Wilson, Native Americans, 107-30; Alison R. Bernstein, American Indians and
World War II: Toward a New Era in Indian Affairs (Norman, 1991). An excellent
study with a more positive view of Indian ranching is Peter Iverson, When Indians Be-
came Cowboys: Native Peoples and Cattle Ranching in the American West (Norman,
1994). For an overview of economic issues, see D'Arcy McNickle Center for the His-
tory of the American Indian, Overcoming Economic Dependency, D'Arcy McNickle
Center for the History of the American Indian, Occasional Papers in Curriculum Se-
ries, No. 9 (Chicago, 1988).
21. Alan L. Sorkin, American Indians and Federal Aid (Washington, D.C.,
1971), 18, 66-96; William A. Brophy and Sophie D. Aberle, comps., The Indian:
America's Unfinished Business (Norman, 1966), 63-102; Parman, Indians and the
American West, 107-24; Kathryn L. MacKay, "Warrior into Welder: A History of
Federal Employment Programs for American Indians, 1878-1972" (Ph.D. diss.,
University of Utah, ] 987); jack O. Waddell, Papago Indians at Work, Anthropolog-
ical Papers of the University of Arizona, No. 12 (Tucson, 1969).
22. Ralph Friar and Natasha Friar, The Only Good Indian: The Hollywood Gospel
(New York, 1972), 170, 247-58; John A. Price, "The Stereotyping of North Ameri-
can Indians in Motion Pictures,"Etknohistory 20 (Spring 1973): 164-66; David Daly
and Joel Persky, "The West and the Western," Journal of the West 29 (April 1990):
35.
23. Ambler, Breaking the Iron Bonds, 29; Robert H. White, Tribal Assets: The
Rebirth of Native America (New York, 1990), 6; Josephy, Now That the Buffalo's
Gone, 259; Joseph G. Jorgensen, ed., Native Americans and Energy Development II
(Cambridge, Mass., 1984); Joseph G. Jorgensen, Oil Age Eskimos (Berkeley, 1990);
Donald L. Fixico, "Tribal Leaders and the Demand for Natural Energy Resources on
Reservation Lands," in The Plains Indians of the Twentieth Century, ed. Peter Iverson
(Norman, J985), 219-35; C. Matthew Snipp, "American Indians and Natural Re-
source Development," American Journal of Economics and Sociology 45 (October
1986): 457-74; Thomas R. McGuire, William B. Lord, and Mary G. Wallace, eds.,
Indian Water in the New West (Tucson, \ 993); Steven J. Shupe, "Indian Tribes in the
Water Marketing Arena," American Indian Law Review 15 (1990): 185-205.
24. "Tribes Urged to Entice Industry via Deregulated Business Zones," Arizona
Republic (Phoenix), 12 December 1986, 3; "Making The Reservations 'Free-Enter-
prise Zones,'" North Country, ProutJournal 1 (April 1985); Alan L. Sorkin, "Business
and Industrial Development on American Indian Reservations," Annals of Regional
Science 7 (December 1973): 115-29.
25. "Paiute Tribe Awarded $75,000 SBA Contract," Deseret News (Salt Lake
City), 8 June 1987, 1; Dick Beveridge, "Indians Go 'High-Tech' with Jewelry Ex-
pertise," Deseret News, 25 December 1986, D8; "Winnebago Pharmaceuticals, Inc.,
Opens in Wisconsin," Choctaw Community News (Philadelphia, Miss.) 21 (June
1991): 8; Robert H. White, "Indians' New Harvest," New York Times, 22 November
1990, A27. See also Larry Burt, "Western Tribes and Balance Sheets: Business De-
velopment Programs in the 1960s and 1970s," Western Historical Quarterly 23 (No-
vember 1992): 475-95; Sam Stanley, ed., American Indian Economic Development
(The Hague, 1978); and Stephen Cornell and Joseph P. Kalt, "Pathways from
Poverty: Economic Development and Institution-Building on American Indian
Reservations," American Indian Culture and Research journal 14 (1990): 89-125.
26. Avis Little Eagle, "Turtle Mountain Members File Suit on Dump Issue,"
Lakota, Times, 13 May 1992; Peter Carrels, "South Dakota's Sioux Debate Huge Na-
tional Garbage Dump," High Country News, 17 June 1991, 4; "Tribes OK Incinera-
tor," High Country News, 5 November 1990, 4; Tony Davis, "Apaches Split over
Nuclear Waste," High Country News, 27 January 1992, 12; Melinda Merriam,
"Waste Project Lures Hard-Luck Areas," High Country News, 27 January 1992, 15;
Bunty Anquoe, "Mescalero Apache Sign Agreement to Establish Facility for Nuclear
Waste," Indian Country Today, 10 February 1994, Al; Mike Gorrell, "Leavitt to
Tribe: Don't Waste Utah," Salt Lake Tribune, 12 November 1994, Al; Caroline
Byrd, "Radioactive Dollars Draw Tribes," High Country News, 21 September 1992,
6; Robert Allen Warrior, "Forget 1492, What about 1992?" Progressive 56 (March
1992): 18; Jon D. Erickson and Duane Chapman, "Sovereignty for Sale: Nuclear
Waste in Indian Country," Akwe-.kon Journal 10 (Fall 1993): 3-10.
27. Ruth M. Underbill, Singing for Power: The Song Magic of the Papago Indians
of Southern Arizona (Berkeley, 1938), 151.
28. "Indian Gaming: Law and Legislation," NARF Legal Review 10 (Fall 1985):
1-5; Pauline Yoshihashi, "Indian Tribes Put Their Bets on Casinos," Wall Street Jour-
nal (5 August 1991), Bl; Jerry Reynolds, "Yankton Casino Rings Up Positive
Change," Lakota Times, 1 April 1992, B4; Bunty Anquoe, "Lujan Reverses Gaming
Support: Calling for Control," Lakota Times, 6 May 1992, Al; "IG Says 209 Gaming
Halls—106 are Casinos," Indian News, Week in Review (U.S. Department of the In-
terior, Bureau of Indian Affairs) 18 (7 January 1994): 4-5; Bunty Anquoe, "Proposed
Gaming Tax May Affect Tribes," Indian Country Today, 30 March 1994, Al. See also
"Winner's Circle," Indian Country Today, special issue, 10 November 1993; Henry
Tatum, "With Casinos, Native Americans Get Revenge," Salt Lake Tribune, 30 Oc-
tober 1994, Dl; GarySokolow, "The Future of Gambling in Indian Country," Amer-
ican Indian Law Review 15 (1990): 151-83; and Eduardo E. Cordiero, "The
Economics of Bingo: Factors Influencing the Success of Bingo Operations on Amer-
ican Indian Reservations," in What Can Tribes Do? Strategies and Institutions in Amer-
ican Indian Economic Development, ed. Stephen Cornell and Joseph P. Kalt (Los
Angeles, 1992), 206-38.
29. Smith, "Optimizing Development Impacts," 41-42; Donald L. Parman,
"Inconstant Advocacy: The Erosion of Indian Fishing Rights in the Pacific North-
west, 1933-1956," in Nichols, American Indian, 256-71; Josephy, Now That the
Buffalo's Gone, 177-211; Alan S. Newell, Richmond Clow, and Richard N. Ellis, A
Forest in Trust: Three-Quarters of a Century of Indian Forestry, 1910— -/^^(Washing-
ton, D.C., 1986), chap. 6: 1-12, and passim; Jerry Spangler, "Trust-Fund Crisis Has
Deep Roots in Navajo History," Deseret News, 17 November 1991, Al; Dan Harrie,
"Words Belie Fate of Navajo Firm," Salt Lake Tribune, 17 November 1991, Bl; Rus-
sell Lawrence Barsh and James Youngblood Henderson, "Tribal Administration of

Natural Resource Development," North Dakota Law Review 52 (Winter 1975):
307-47; Ronald E. Johnny, "Can Indian Tribes Afford to Let the Bureau of Indian
Affairs Continue to Negotiate Permits and Leases of Their Resources?" American In-
dian Law Review 16 (1991): 203-12.
30. Thomas D. Hall, "Native Americans and Incorporation: Patterns and Prob-
lems," American Indian Culture and Research Journal 11 (1987): 1-30; Rob
Schultheis, The Hidden West: Journeys in the American Outback (1978; reprint, San
Francisco, 1983), 88; White, Tribal Assets, 5; Ambler, Breaking the Iron Bonds, 5;
Getches, "Philosophy of Permanence," 59; Vine Deloria Jr., "The Reservation Con-
ditions," National Forum 71 (Spring 1991): 10-12; Patrick C. West, "Tribal Control
and the Identity-Poverty Dilemma," in Geisler et al., Indian SIA, 80; C. Matthew
Snipp and Gene F. Summers, "American Indians and Economic Poverty," in Rural
Poverty in America, ed. Cynthia M. Duncan (New York, 1992), 155-76; Olson and
Wilson, Native Americans, 184-87.
31. Lone Wolf v. Hitchcock (1903), 187 U.S. Reports 553-68; C. Blue Clark,
Lone Wolf v. Hitchcock: Treaty Rights and Indian Law at the End of the Nineteenth
Century (Lincoln, 1994).
32. Irnre Sutton, ed., Irredeemable America: The Indians' Estate and Land Claims
(Albuquerque, 1985); H. D. Rosenthal, Their Day in Court: A History of the Indian
Claims Commission (New York, 1990); Philp, Indian Self-Rule, 114-90; Larry Burt,
Tribalism in Crisis: Federal Indian Policy, 1953-1961 (Albuquerque, 1982); Parman,
Indians and the American West, 123-47; Olson and Wilson, Native Americans,
131-53.
33. Frederick E. Hoxie, ed., The Struggle for Political Autonomy, D'Arcy Mc-
Nickle Center for the History of the American Indian, Occasional Papers in Curricu-
lum Series, No. 11 (Chicago, 1989); Russell Lawrence Barsh and James Youngblood
Henderson, The Road: Indian Tribes and Political Liberty (Berkeley, 1980); Vine De-
loria Jr., Behind the Trail of Broken Treaties: An Indian Declaration of Independence
(New York, 1974); Prucha, "American Indian Policy," 11-18; Olson and Wilson,
Native Americans, 157-77; James J. Lopach, Margery Hunter Brown, and Richmond
L. Clow, Tribal Governments Today: Politics on Montana Indian Reservations (Boul-
der, 1990).
34. Mark N. Trahant, "Indians Find Success by Going to the Polls," Salt Lake
Tribune, 2 October 1994, A2; Florence Williams, "Revolution at Utah's Grassroots:
Navajos Seek Political Power," High Country News, 30 July 1990, 1; Carol Sisco,
"Seeds of Change Could Grow in Navajo Vote," Salt Lake Tribune, 4 November
1990, Bl; Lisa Jones, "Utah's Navajos Build a Political Base for the Future," High
Country News, 3 December 1991, 7. See also John E. Peterson II, "Dance of the
Dead: A Legal Tango for Control of Native American Skeletal Remains," American
Indian Law Review 15 (1990): 115-50; Devon A. Mihesuah, "Despoiling and Dese-
cration of Indian Property and Possessions," National Forum 71 (Spring 1991):
15—17; "Menominees Protest Nuke-Waste Dump," Wisconsin State Journal 24
(March 1986), sec. II, 2; and Keith Schneider, "Idaho Tribe Stops Nuclear Waste
Truck," New York Times, 17 October 1 991, A18.
35. Brian Collins, "The Public Gets a Chance to Revamp Dams Built Fifty
Years Ago," High Country News, 2 December 1991, 1; Daniel McCool, "The North-
ern Utes' Long Water Ordeal," High Country News, 15 July 1991, 8; James Bishop
Jr., "Tribe Wins Back Stolen Water," High Country News, 15 June 1992, 1; Lisa
Jones, "Navajos Pull Plug on Animas—LaPlata Water Project," High Country News, 22
April 1991, 3; Dirk Johnson, "Indians' Water Quest Creates New Foe: Environmen-
talists," New York Times, 28 December 1991, 7; O. Douglas Schwartz, "Indian
Rights and Environmental Ethics: Changing Perspectives and a Modest Proposal,"
Environmental Ethics 9 (Winter 1987): 291-302. See also Lloyd Burton, American
Indian Water Rights and the Limits of Law (Lawrence, 1991), 87-123; Lee F. Brown
arid Helen M. Ingram, Water and Poverty in the Southwest (Tucson, 1987); Josephy,
Now That the Buffalo's Cone, 151—211; Michael L. Lawson, Dammed Indians: The
Pick-Sloan Plan and the Missouri River Sioux, 1944-1980 (Norman, 1982); Daniel
McCool, Command of the Waters: Iron Triangles, Federal Water Development, and In-
dian Wafer (Berkeley, 1987); and William H. Veeder, Indian Water Rights in the Con-
cluding Years of the Twentieth Century, Center for the Histoiy of the American Indian,
Occasional Papers Series, No. 5 (Chicago, 1982).
36. Institute of the North American West, Zuni History: Victories in the 1990s
(Seattle, 1991); "Zunis Win Court Battle," High Country News, 9 April 1990, 3;
Roberto Suro, "Effort to Regain Idols May Alter Views of Indian Art," New York
Times, 13 August 1990, Al.
37. Robert F. Berkhofer Jr., The White Man's Indian: Images of the American In-
dian from Columbus to the Present (New York, 1978); Robert F. Berkhofer, "White
Conceptions of Indians," in Handbook 4:522-47; Brian W. Dippie, The Vanishing
American: White Attitudes and U.S. Indian Policy (Middletown, Conn., 1982).
38. Michael Hilger, The American Indian in Film (Metuchen, N.J., 1986); Jon
Tuska, The American West in Film: Critical Approaches to the Western (Lincoln, 1988),
237-60; Price, "Stereotyping," 166-68; Avis Little Eagle, "Mascots: A History of
Cultural Insensitivity," Lakota Times, 29 July 1992, Bl. See also Handbook: Michael
T. Marsden and Jack Nachbar, "The Indian in the Movies," 4:607-16; Rayna D.
Green, "The Indian in Popular American Culture," 4:587-606; Leslie A. Fiedler,
"The Indian in Literature in English," 4:573-81; and Christian F. Feest, "The Indian
in Non-English Literature," 4:582-86.
39. Richard Rodriguez, "Mixed Blood, Columbus's Legacy: A World Made
Mestizo," Harper's Magazine 283 (November 1991): 49; Vine Deloriajr., Godls Red
(New York, 1973), 23-74; Stewart Brand, "Indians and the Counterculture,
1960s-1970s," 4:570-72, and Marsden and Nachbar, "The Indian in the Movies,"
4:607-8, 4:613-15, in Handbook.
40. Rodriguez, "Mixed Blood," 49; Rudolf Kaiser, "Chief Seattle's Speech(es):
American Origins and European Reception," in Recovering the Word: Essays on Native
American Literature, ed. Brian Swann and Arnold Krupat (Berkeley, 1987), 497—536;
J. Baird Callicott, "American Indian Land Wisdom," in Olson, Struggle for the Land,
255-72; Cronon and White, "Indians in the Land," 19-25; Richard White, "Native
Americans and the Environment," in Scholars and the Indian Experience: Critical Re-
views of Recent Writing in the Social Sciences, ed. W. R. Swagerty (Bloomington,
1984), 180; Richard White, review of Dances with Wolves, in Gateway Heritage 11
(Spring 1991): 80; Paul W. Valentine, "Film Version of Noble Indian Portrays
STILL NATIVE « 239
Dances with Myths," Salt Lake Tribune, 7 April 1991, Al 9; David Rich Lewis, "En-
vironmental Issues," in Native America in the Twentieth Century: An Encyclopedia, ed.
Mary B. Davis (New York, 1994), 187-90.
41. Dirk Johnson, "Census Finds Many Claiming New Identity: Indian," New
York Times, 5 March 1991, Al; William K. Powers, "The Indian Hobbyist Movement
in North American," in Handbook 4:557—61; David Seals, "Strange Tales along the
Powwow Highway," High Country News, 10 September 1990, 14; Robert Allen War-
rior, "Vine Deloria Jr.: 'It's about Time to Be Interested in Indians Again,'" Progres-
sive 54 (April 1990): 26; Rudy Martin, "Medicine War," Ute Bulletin (Fort Duchesne,
Utah), 26 November 1991, 9; Avis Little Eagle, "Elder Blames Death of Environment
on Denial," Lakota Times, 26 August 1992, A7; Anthony Eaglestaff, "Wooden
Wannabe Drives Wedges among People," Indian Country Today, 6 October 1993,
A5; David Johnston, "Spiritual Seekers Borrow Indian' Ways," New York Times, 27
December 1993, Al; Kirsten Sorenson, "New Age Use of Indian Rituals Draws Fire,"
Deseret News, 4 June 1994, Al; Ed McGaa (Eagle Man), Rainbow Tribe: Ordinary
People Journeying on the Red Road (New York, 1992).
42. Deloria, God Is Red., 50, 64-66; Rodriguez, "Mixed Blood," 49; Michael
Dorris, "Indians on the Shelf," in The American Indian and the Problem of History, ed.
Calvin Martin (New York, 1987), 98-105.
43. Donald L. Parman and Catherine Price, "A 'Work in Progress': The Emer-
gence of Indian History as a Professional Field," Western Historical Quarterly 20 (May
1989): 185-96. For McNickle Center publications, see Swagerty, Scholars and the In-
dian Experience; Colin G. Galloway, ed., New Directions in Native American History
(Norman, 1988); Francis Paul Prucha, A Bibliographical Guide to the History of In-
dian-White Relations in the United States (Chicago, 1977); and Francis Paul Prucha,
Indian-White Relations in the United States: A Bibliography of Works Published,
1975—1980 (Lincoln, 1982). Indiana University Press produced a series of twenty-
nine specific bibliographies for the center, and the bibliography series continues with
projected volumes covering works since 1980. Although American histoiy textbooks
have failed to keep pace with cutting-edge developments in the field (see Frederick E.
Hoxie, "The Indians versus the Textbooks: Is There Any Way Out?" Perspectives 23
[April 1985]: 18—22), they are improving given the recent trend toward multicultur-
alism. Perhaps the greatest historiographical gap remains in the development of the
history of twentieth-century Native Americans, especially that of the last fifty years.
See James Riding In, "Scholars and Twentieth-Century Indians: Reassessing the Re-
cent Past," in Galloway, New Directions, 127—49.
44. Special thanks go to Dr. Floyd A. O'Neil, director emeritus of the American
West Center, and Dr. Frederick E. Hoxie, former director of the D'Arcy McNickle
Center, for assisting me in my research.
45. James Axtell, The European and the Indian: Essays in, the Ethnohistory of Colo-
nial North America (New York, 1981), 5 (quotation), ,3-15; William C. Sturtevant,
"Anthropology, History, and Ethnohistory," Ethnohistory 13 (Winter-Spring 1966):
1-51.
46. Chris Raymond, "Growth of Scholarship on American Indians Brings New
Insights about Native Cultures," Chronicle of Higher Education 15 (January 1992):
A8; Hoxie, "Exploring a Cultural Borderland," 969-95.
47. Joy Harjo, "Family Album," Progressive 56 (March 1992): 23. For more in-
formation on American Indian authors, see A. LaVonne Brown Ruoff, "Western
American Indian Writers, 1854-1960," and Paula Gunn Allen, "American Indian
Fiction, 1968-1983," m A Literary History of the American West, ed. Thomas J. Lyon
(Fort Worth, 1987), 1038-66; Walter C. Fleming, "Native American Literature
Comes of Age," Montana The Magazine of Western History 42 (Spring 1992): 73-76;
Hoxie, "Exploring a Cultural Borderland," 969-95; Tom Colonnese and Louis
Owens, American Indian Novelists: An Annotated Critical Bibliography (New York,
1985); Laura Coltelli, ed., Winged Words: American Indian Writers Speak (Lincoln,
1990); and James R. Kincaid, "Who Gets to Tell Their Stories?" New York Times
Book Review, 3 May 1992, 1.
COMMENTARIES
We Are Restored
Peter Iverson
A generation ago, most prospective students of Indian history came to their

subject through prior training in the history of the American "West. Given the
long shadow of Frederick Jackson Turner and the tradition of teaching about
the West as movement and as frontier, Indians usually became important only
in the context of their relationships with whites and in the era before 1890.
This context limited the questions historians tended to ask and usually pro-
duced images of Indians as people who responded to white actions. What
passed for Indian history, more often than not, placed an emphasis on conflict
over coexistence and featured a concern for military engagements. Just as
1890 marked the end of the frontier and the Old West, it also appeared to sig-
nal the tragic conclusion of native autonomy—in the snows of December at
Wounded Knee. Dee Brown's Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee, an "Indian
History of the West" published in 1970, epitomized that perspective.1
As historians began to turn their attention to the past century, they did so
with observable hesitation and tentativeness. When Robert Berkhofer Jr. ar-
gued in 1971 for an Indian-centered history, it sounded like a good idea.2 But
how to do it? Did such a focus require new methods? Did it—gasp—mean
moving beyond archival research? Did it mean going to Indian country and ac-
tually talking and listening to the people themselves? Such a prospect smacked
of anthropology or, worse, journalism. Even in the 1990s it doesn't appeal to
many. During the era in which we have had the best opportunities for obtain-
ing Indian voices and more fully reflecting the realities of native choices—the
period since the Second World War—few historians have ventured. Those that
have snuck in have been as likely as not to emphasize traditional concerns of
policy rather than ponder the dynamics of self-determination and sovereignty.
One can hardly ignore the workings (or lack thereof) of the federal gov-
ernment in Indian life any more than one can disregard their importance in
other spheres. John Collier mattered; Dillon Myer did too. The rapid retreat
from federal assistance in the 1980s forced Indian communities to examine
other alternatives to economic development. Give Ronald Reagan and James
Watt some of the credit for slot machines at Fort McDowell. However, we
need to recall that ill-conceived federal policies do not always yield bad results.
The so-called Americanization era, which featured the Dawes Act, imposed
schooling, and denied the legitimacy of the Sun Dance, also prompted the
Native American Church, the Society of American Indians, and other devel-
opments that attested to Indian adaptation. The so-called termination era,
which sought to end federal trusteeship, also sparked the growth of the Na-
tional Congress of American Indians and the evolution of tribal institutions.
241
In a related sense, historians and other chroniclers of Indian life in this or

any other century have been tempted to use the handy approach of victimiza-
tion. From Columbus to the present, there is ample evidence to allow writers
to stress prejudice, bigotry, discrimination, hostility, and persecution. Again,
one does not want to deny the importance of racism. But a zealous portrayal
of the Indian as victim is all too reminiscent of "Son of Bury My Heart at
Wounded Knee." It ignores successful forms of persistence, transformation,
and creativity that are at the center, one is tempted to say at the heart, of In-
dian life in this century—or any other.
David Lewis's essay recognizes this important point. He uses appropriate
categories to speak to the ongoing nature of the Indian experience. His gener-
ous notes demonstrate a sure command of a healthy variety of sources. "Still
Native" shows how much distance we have traveled since 1970. And, as I am
sure David would agree, it also reveals how far we still need to go. To his dis-
cussion of persistence, land, economic development, political power, sym-
bolic value, and scholarly contributions, let me add six overlapping categories
of my own: the definition of the Indian West, women and the family, leader-
ship, farming and ranching, migration and urbanization, and community and
identity. Perhaps that's ten, but one has to do the best one can in a brief essay.
The Indian West

The Indian West ends neither at the forty-ninth parallel nor at the Rio
Grande. The Blackfeet and the Tohono O'odham have known this fact for
some time. Inclusion of western Canada, Alaska, and northern Mexico not
only verifies the transnational status of a number of native communities but
also recognizes the historical connections among Athapaskan-speaking peo-
ples and others who are linked through time and territory across thousands of
miles. Catharine McClellan, my tutor in cultural anthropology at the Univer-
sity of Wisconsin, helped me to begin to understand this matter some time
ago. Reading her work and, more recently, the work of Canadian and Alaskan
writers such as Thomas Berger, Ken Coates, Stephen Haycox, Robin Rid-
dington, and Victoria Wyatt—just to name a few—has broadened my under-
standing of the Indian past. To the south, Edward Spicer recognized over
three decades ago the futility of a Southwest without Mexico; Cycles of 'Con-
quest offered an early model that contemporary journals such as Journal of the
Southwest continue to use. Just as the Western History Association now con-
siders its terrain the North American West, Indian historians of the West
should as well.3
Women and the Family

Although women and the family are not always tied together, the two are ex-
amples of subjects we must understand more completely. Women arc obvi-
WE ARE RESTORED • 243
ously central to the workings of families and cultures. There have been more
women anthropologists than women historians, so anthropologists seem to
have figured this out a lot more quickly, but that doesn't allow us much ex-
cuse. The important studies over the past generation in western women's his-
tory should continue to inspire us to consider how women and men, how
families, and how elders have helped shape daily native life, choices, values,
and priorities.
Families matter. For those of us whose choices and opportunities have
taken us far from relatives, it is useful to recall the words of an Indian woman
who defined wealth as being able to see her grandchildren every day. Janine
Pease Pretty on Top, the president of Little Bighorn College, understands.
She and other Crows have decided to stay or return home. They may make
less money and live in less fancy houses, but family, community, and the land
more than compensate.
The Navajo poet Luci Tapahonso understands too. Now teaching at the
University of Kansas, she recently gave a quietly moving and eloquent read-
ing of her work at Arizona State University. A niece, a student at the univer-
sity, introduced Tapahonso and spoke of how her aunt's work helped her
struggle against homesickness. And in Tapahonso's lines, particularly in the
new collection Sdanii Daha.ta.al: The Women Are Singing, she testifies to the
distance between the Kaw and the San Juan as well as echoes the workings of
a family going in to town in Farmington, New Mexico: "My oldest brother
always went because he drove, my other brother went because he helped carry
laundry, my father went because he was the father, and my mother went be-
cause she had the money and knew where to go and what to buy."4
Leadership
Anyone who has heard Janine Pease Pretty on Top speak recognizes that she
is a leader. I hope she will write her own biography some day. But there are
many other significant women leaders who merit such attention. Gretchen
Harvey is completing a biography of Ruth Muskrat Bronson, the Cherokee
activist. Wilma Mankiller, as David notes, is one of dozens of contemporary
native politicians, attorneys, educators, and others whose lives and careers tell
us much about the Indian past and present. As one who has written about
Peter MacDonald, I can attest to the challenges of the perils of such por-
traits. The fact remains that we must take on the assignment. Dorothy R.
Parker's new biography of D'Arcy McNickle, Singing an Indian Song, is an-
other step in the right direction. Davids essay on William Wash also offers a
sophisticated exploration.5 The list remains stunningly short. The ranks of
the Native American Church, the Society of American Indians, native news-
papers, Indian colleges, the National Congress of American Indians, the
American Indian Movement, tribal governments, and a host of other institu-
tions and organizations should prompt us to add to the meaget total. In so
doing, we speak directly to the challenges and questions that have confronted
Indian individuals and communities and the varied ways in which people
have come forward to deal with these issues.
Farming and Ranching
The subject of David's article in Ethnohistory, William Wash, was a Ute

rancher. Farming and ranching have been important dimensions within the
overall workings of many Indian economies. Few historians, however, have
studied the subject. Economists such as Leonard Carlson and Ron Trosper
have done significant work. Sarah Carter has completed a useful study of In-
dian farming in western Canada. Douglas Hurt, Tom Wessel, and I have been
among the few to investigate the subject in the United States.6
David spoke of symbols. My research about Indian cowboys and ranch-
ers has taught me that the old symbols of cowboys and Indians are misleading
at best. Non-Indian cattle ranchers in this century have become increasingly
like the Indians of old, surrounded by a society that does not understand them
and has other priorities for their land. Indians on many western reservations
turned to cattle ranching not only as an appropriate economic activity but
also as an activity that could reinforce priorities within Indian society. As these
activities did for others, Indian farming and ranching over time contributed
to heritage.
In recent times, farmers and ranchers in the West, be they Navajo or
Norwegian, have struggled to make a go of it. They are, as Gilbert Fite has put
it, a new minority.7 And although the experiences of Indian and non-Indian
farmers and ranchers have not been identical, there is enough commonality to
remind us that Indians are westerners, in many instances rural people who
have confronted the same dilemmas of a larger economy, even before New Jer-
sey professors and Santa Monica migrants to Montana started giving them
unsolicited advice. Those experiences remind us that western history is a story
of loss as well as gain, of failure as well as success.
Migration and Urbanization

Even if they stay within the general contours of the reservation, many rural In-
dians have moved to town in the past generation. That urban movement
within Indian country is one of the most crucial and most ignored compo-
nents of the recent past. It is an understandable movement. The location of
schools and jobs has altered how families work. Many people have also moved
to reservation bordertown communities or to the city itself. Indians have not
migrated to Gallup in order to enjoy the absence of cultural pluralism; they
have not moved to Denver to root for failure in football or even to see the air
they breathe. Like other westerners, they have been driven by economic rea-
sons. And even so, they have often made the move temporary or have located
WE ARE RESTORED • 245
in the nearest place to a reservation. There are major consequences of urban-

ization in terms of language, marriage, and identity.
Yet we need to be careful about the trap of urbanization equaling accul-
turation. As George Horse Capture showed a few years ago in his fine film I'd
Rather Be Powwowing, you can work as a Xerox repairman during the week
and still go to powwows on the weekends. Indeed, one can develop a different
kind of Indian identity in opposition to the bigotry and foolishness one may
well encounter in town or city. Again, Indians are more than victims, and mi-
gration can yield pluses as well as minuses.
Community and Identity

Here symbols come into play as well. As Loretta Fowler has observed, symbols
of identity tell us a great deal about the nature of Indian communities.8 Pow-
wows and language are two cases in point. There are others. We look not only
to the writing of Indian people but as well to their weaving, their basketry,
their silverwork, their music, and their painting. The work of Daisy Tau-
glechee, Kenneth Begay, Brent Michael Davids, and T. C. Cannon reveals a
lot. Rodeos, giveaways, tribal fairs, and other gatherings are also revealing. As
a one-time participant in the seventh annual Sheep Herders Classic, I can't
omit basketball tournaments from such a list.
In Arizona and elsewhere there has been a movement to repatriate sacred
objects and human remains. This has been a vital source of cultural revitaliza-
tion. The recovery of objects and remains, of course, yields other symbols, re-
inforcing community and identity.
And as David Lewis, Edward Spicer, and others have said, the ultimate
symbol for many Indians is the land itself, invested with sacred and social
meaning. This is where we belong, the stories say. This is where we will be.
"Anything that matters is here," wrote Joy Harjo in Secrets from the Center of
the World. "Anything that will continue to matter in the next several thousand
years will continue to be here."9
In "The Motion of Songs Rising," Luci Tapahonso tells of an October
night and a Yeibicheii ceremony that links the people and the holy people, the
Dine and the land:
We are standing on a small hill and in all directions,

around us, the flat land listens to the songs rising.
The holy ones are here dancing.
The Yeis are here.
In the west, Shiprock looms above the desert.

Tse bit'a'i, old bird-shaped rock. She watches us.
Tse bit'a'i, our mother who brought the people here on her
back. Our refuge from the floods long ago. It was worlds
and centuries ago, yet she remains here. Nihima, our

mother. . . .
The Yeis are dancing again, each step, our strong bodies.
They are dancing the same dance, thousands of years old.
They are here for us now, grateful for another harvest and
our own good health. . . .
They are dancing and in the motion of songs rising,

our breathing becomes the morning moonlit air.
The fires are burning below as always.
We are restored.
We are restored.10
Notes
1. Dee Brown, Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee: An Indian History of the
American West (New York, 1970).
2. Robert F. Berkhofer Jr., "The Political Context of a New Indian History,"
Pacific Historical Review 40 (August 1971): 357-82.
3. Catharine McClellan, My Old People Say: An Ethnographic Survey of South-
ern Yukon Territory, 2 vols. (Ottawa, 1975); Thomas Berger, Village Journey (New
York, 1985); Kenneth S. Coates, Best Left as Indians: Native-White Relations in the
Yukon Territory, 1840-1973 (Montreal, 1991); Stephen W. Haycox, "Economic De-
velopment and Indian Land Rights in Modern Alaska: The 1947 Tongass Timber
Act," Western Historical Quarterly 31 (February 1990): 20-46; Robin Riddington,
Trail to Heaven: Knowledge and Narrative in a Northern Native Community (Iowa
City, 1988); Victoria Wyatt, "Alaskan Native Wage Earners in the Nineteenth Cen-
tury: Economic Choices and Economic Identity on Southeast Alaska's Frontier," Pa-
cific Northwest Quarterly 78 (1987): 43-49; Edward H. Spicer, Cycles of Conquest:
The Impact of Spain, Mexico, and the United States on the Indians of the Southwest
(Tucson, 1962).
4. Luci Tapahonso, "It Was a Special Treat," Sdanii Dahataal: The Women Are
Singing (Tucson, 1993), 15.
5. Dorothy R. Parker, Singing an Indian Song: A Biography ofD 'Arcy McNickle
(Lincoln, 1992); David Rich Lewis, "Reservation Leadership and the Progressive-
Traditional Dichotomy: William Wash and the Northern Utes, 1865-1928," Ethno-
Mstory38 (Spring 1991): 124-42.
6. Leonard A. Carlson, Indians, Bureaucrats, and Land: The Dawes Act and the
Decline of Indian Farming (Westport, Conn., 1981); Ronald L. Trosper, "American
Indian Relative Ranching Efficiency "American Economic Review 68 (1978): 503-16;
Sarah Carter, Lost Harvests: Prairie Indian Reserve Farmers and Government Policy
(Montreal, 1990); R. Douglas Hurt, Indian Agriculture in America: Prehistory to the
Present (Lawrence, 1987); Thomas R. Wessel, "Agent of Acculturation: Farming on
the Northern Plains Reservations, 1880-1910," Agricultural History 60 (Spring
NEW AWARENESS • 247
1986): 233—45; Peter Iverson, When Indians Became Cowboys: Native Peoples and Cat-
tle Ranching in the American West (Norman, 1994).
7. Gilbert C. Fite, American Farmers: The New Minority (Bloomington, 1981).
8. Loretta Fowler, Arapahoe Politics, 1851—1978: Symbols in Crises of Authority
(Lincoln, 1982).
9. Joy Harjo, Secrets from the Center of the World (Tucson, 1992), 32.
10. Luci Tapahonso, "The Motion of Songs Rising," Sdanii Dahataal: The
Women Are Singing (Tucson, 1993), 67-68.
New Awareness for an Old Significance

Barre Toelken
David Lewis's essay, "Still Native," is a thorough and generous consideration

of Native American persistence in America played off against Frederick Jack-
son Turner's nonchalant assumption that the Vanishing American was an or-
ganic and inevitable feature of the frontier's dynamism. Lews is thorough in
his delineation of those many arenas in which Native Americans not only have
persisted but have flourished, often creating new situations and possibilities
never dreamed of by that young historian of the 1890s; and Lewis is generous
in not attacking Turner for racism or other narrow thinking but rather sug-
gesting there are important dimensions of Native American life and reality
that were simply not apparent to Turner. To be sure, even with inflation, hind-
sight is still cheap; and it does indeed seem more fair for us to acknowledge
that for all scholars there have been blank areas, missed opportunities for ob-
servation, narrow-minded misinterpretations, and cultural assumptions that
have affected all our work. Railing at Turner for his omissions accomplishes
little except perhaps to convince ourselves that we are now in a position to see
clearly and judge wisely.
Going beyond Turner to point out themes and processes not yet fully ap-
preciated is Lewis's way of addressing the real question, which is not "Where
was Turner when the lights went on?" but "Where are we now that we have
better lights?" A serious consideration of this subject should help us to under-
stand more fully our own position with respect to the limitations and blind
spots in the "frontier idea," that wonderful construct that once seemed to ar-
ticulate our most passionate sense of ourselves. For it is significant that one
hundred years after Turner's manifesto, after years of debate, after tons of
books about the Native Americans, we are still so generally unaware of Native
American issues that the topic can be put forward as a major part of a national
conference, in a fully researched essay by an active young scholar. Clearly, the

topic has not yet become everyday knowledge.
Using the Indian as a "miner's canary," as has been done so often in the
past, we may suspect that these areas of neglect or blindness not only reveal
cracks in the frontier plaster but also very likely indicate some shared and
deep-seated assumptions about the way we think about our cultural history
even now, a long century after the important action was thought to have been
concluded. My remarks will parallel those of Lewis; though I have nothing to
add to his observations, I want to move his considerations to a level beyond
the physical, economic, and social. For equal in significance to the persistence
of the Native Americans themselves is the force of their intellectual heritage—
which, though massively injured in the European invasion, provides us with
some exciting grounds for rethinking the history of the country. Although I
am not a practicing deconstructionist, I find one of the basic tenets in that ap-
proach to be very serviceable to our discussion; simply phrased, the premise is
that all knowledge is socially and culturally constructed. If this is so (at least for
the sake of argument), and if our histories are thus made up of what elements
we choose to include and how we choose to evaluate them—as Professor
Lewis has so nicely demonstrated in the case of Turner's comments on Indi-
ans—then we might ask further into the meaning of the evidence that Turner
and most of his contemporaries, and most of his followers down to the pre-
sent, have chosen not to treat: Native American intellectual activity, world-
view, philosophy, and discovery. Of course, all the examples that could be
brought forward under these headings would be too many and too complex
for a brief response to encompass, so I will concentrate on five topics for
which we have ample evidence but precious little appreciation.
Literature
One of the most powerful stories ever to reach print in America is Charles
Cultee's "Sun Myth," collected by Franz Boas in 1890. At the time, Cultee
was one of the last three people alive who could speak the Kathlamet Chinook
language, and by the turn of the century there was no one left who could have
told or listened to the story. The text languished in the Bureau of American
Ethnology (BAE) reports until the folklorist and linguist Dell Hymes brought
it into understandable English and published it in the Journal of American
Folklore in 1975. Although it can be put beside any worldwide classic, it re-
mains generally unknown and unread in the country of its origin. And in ad-
dition to the vast supply of fine literature still lurking in the BAE reports and
other repositories (some of them recent in publication), we now have many
excellent Native American writers of contemporary literature, as Professor
Lewis has noted, and several of them—Louise Erdrich, Simon Ortiz, Leslie
Marmon Silko, N. Scott Momaday, James Welch, and Gerald Vizenor—are
among the best writers in the country. Silko's Ceremony (1977) is arguably
among the best novels ever written in North America, but in an odd parallel
to the eastern notion of "regional literature" (anything written west of the
Hudson River), Ceremony is dismissed as narrowly ethnic. The reader needs to
know a lot about Indians to understand it, and though this consideration is
referred to as critical scholarship when it comes to Shakespeare or Chaucer, it
is apparently seen as an unfair burden regarding Native American fields of ref-
erence. Turner's "blindness" now seems to recede into a more general cultural
unwillingness to take Indian expressions seriously.
Exploration and Discovery

Since much of the excitement of the frontier image relates to the movement
across the land, the discovery of new territories, and the basic "drive" to ex-
plore the unknown, it is a wonder to me that we have not considered the
movements of the Indians and other peoples as an inseparable part of the pic-
ture. After all, the Navajos are now thought to have arrived in the Southwest
about five hundred years ago, having traveled in a lengthy migration from the
Athabascan homeland in what is now Alaska and western Canada. Lacking a
precise date, I find it tempting to imagine that they arrived in the southwest-
ern deserts in 1492, at about the same time that some European was lost in
the "Indies" (a Native American friend of mine used to say, "Lucky for us he
wasn't looking for Turkey!"). And before the Europeans arrived in the Mid-
west, the Sioux had already obtained horses from the south and had started
moving westward out of the forests and onto the plains, just as the Kiowas
were moving out of the Yellowstone country and eastward onto the plains—
both of them to develop newer, dynamic cultures that had never existed be-
fore and that were made possible by this new "Sacred Dog" that made lengthy
travel on the plains possible. By the 1900s, the Yaquis were moving northward
out of Mexico and into Arizona. Where, then, was the frontier really—and
whose frontier was it?
For the Navajos, the long move resulted in an almost totally transformed
culture, indeed far more thoroughly altered than that of the Europeans on the
frontier, for the Northern Athabascan hunter-fisher culture (based on the
death of relatives who supply their bodies for food) changed to an agricultural
mode (in which life and fertility dominate as images), and their mostly patri-
archal system changed to a matriarchal, matrilocal, matrilineal society while
their primary animals (wolf, bear, coyote, mountain lion) changed from food
and clothing suppliers to religious emblems of power and witchcraft. Surely,
if the frontier is affective for its cultural dynamism, we have not been paying
attention to more dramatic examples than our own. And if we add the move-
ment of other cultures into the region (and why not?), we notice that the His-
panic movement is northward and that the Asian movement is eastward. In
fact, the West was a cauldron of cultural activity. Does it not seem that the rea-
son we pay attention primarily to our own (European) movement onto a fron-
tier rests not on any objective view of what was going on but rather on the fact
that our group became dominant? This is no news, of course, but it requires
us to decide whether we are talking about history or about ethnic aggrandize-
ment.
One other example of Native American exploration begs to be men-
tioned: the first "westerner" to enter Japan during its closed era was not Com-
modore Matthew C. Perry but Ranald MacDonald, a half-Chinook from
Oregon who had himself put off a whaling ship and purposely stranded him-
self on the Japanese shore. Because he looked Asian and because the Chinook
language has a number of words and sounds similar to Japanese, MacDonald
escaped the usual penalty (death) for entering the country. Instead, he was
kept under house arrest for a number of years, and it was he who taught the
English language to three of the four Japanese scholars who became the inter-
preters when Commodore Perry arrived so aggressively. MacDonald later trav-
eled around Asia and Australia and eventually came home to the United
States; he is buried in a well-marked but generally unknown grave on the
Northern Colville Indian Reservation in Washington. His remarkable adven-
ture and his intellectual achievement are known to scholars of Japanese polit-
ical history (and there is a film about him in Japan), but he is essentially an
unknown in America.
Language
We have no way of knowing exactly how many languages existed in the Amer-
icas before the European invasions, but the figure would certainly be in the
several hundreds. The current estimate is that about 150 Native American lan-
guages (not dialects) are in daily use today in North America alone. It is inter-
esting to note that most of the earliest students of these languages were
Germans and German Jews who, like Franz Boas, Leo Frachtenberg, and
Melville Jacobs, had been raised in families where languages and language
study were a part of one's cultural sophistication. Today, it is Rik Pinnxten, a
Belgian, who argues for the use of Navajo as the natural language for mathe-
matics (especially topology and space navigation) because it has precise con-
cepts and terminologies for shapes and movements—terms not found in most
of the European languages.
When we consider that each of the Native American languages is based
on a distinctive worldview that encourages certain kinds of observations, we
must realize that the wide array of languages available to us offers an incredi-
ble set of new perspectives from -which we could benefit in philosophical and
practical ways. The Navajo language, for example, focuses on movement (it
has more than 300,000 conjugations for the single verb "to go"); the Siouan
languages feature qualities of things, so that adjectives predominate (the term
wakan tanka,, literally "gigantic sacred," has to be translated into English with
the addition of a noun, "The Great Spirit," which takes the focus away from
the abstract qualities central to the original idea of a god so profoundly be-
yond us that precision is impossible); the Hopi language focuses on space and
time; the Mohave stresses dream imagery; the Tlingit features relationships,
genealogy, and ownership. Just as the burning of the jungles continues to rob
us of plant species we do not yet know about (along with all their possible
medicinal features), so the destruction and erosion of Native American lan-
guages has deprived us of a tremendous intellectual treasure (along with all the
useful applications that could have been available to us). Yet there are twice as
many Zunis today as there were when the Spanish encountered them; there
are more Navajo speakers alive today than there have ever been at any other
time (of the estimated 250,000 Navajos, more than half speak Navajo every
day; more than 50 percent of the schoolchildren speak the language, which is
routinely used in the Headstart Program—a far cry from the Bureau of Indian
Affairs goal of the 1950s: language extermination). Indeed, the realities of life
years ago led many adults of all tribes to be multilingual. Most tribes practiced
exogamy; most traded for items, food, and even rituals with other tribes; most
encouraged a kind of intertribal diplomacy that necessitated the command of
several languages by leaders. Language sophistication and language sharing, in
other words, are familiar themes to Native Americans. Why is it that learning
a Native American language has not become part of our normal intellectual
achievement rather than the passionate hobby of a few anthropologists?
Science
As Virgil Vogel has documented so well in American Indian Medicine (pub-
lished by the University of Oklahoma Press in 1970), more than two hundred
Native American medicines—including the contraceptive pill, insulin, digi-
talis, and vitamin C—are used daily by pharmacologists and are controlled by
pharmacological regulations. And there are several hundred other teas, herbs,
and salves that are available through oral tradition in folk medicine. Less clear
are the facts of how these medicines were first discovered and how the details
of their effects and their dosages have been passed along through time with-
out the agency of laboratories, weights and measures, and writing. Obviously,
there are other methods of discovery, analysis, and transmission of knowledge
than those developed by our own culture. After all, when Jacques Carrier and
his men were cured of scurvy by Indians along the Saint Lawrence River in
1535, there was no word for "vitamin C," but the Indians recognized symp-
toms and prescribed dosages that countered those symptoms in a consistent
way. Two hundred years later, James Lind, the Scottish naval surgeon who was
looking for a cure for scurvy, encountered Carder's logs and did some research
that eventually led to the issuing of citrus juices to sailors (and to the nick-
name of "Limey"). We now make pills of vitamin C, but no one knows how
many years the Indians of North America had been using the substance con-
sistently before Carder came along. Incidentally, Carrier did not record in
what language he and the Native Americans conversed on that occasion. Did
Cartier know some Indian languages, or (more likely) had some of the Indians
already become acquainted with French from earlier explorers—as Squanto
and Samoset had learned English long before the arrival of the Pilgrims?
Though modern examples of scientific discovery on the basis of Native
American worldviews are many, they are generally unrecognized; for conve-
nience two Navajo instances will suffice. Tacheeni Scott, now teaching biology
at California State University at Northridge, was able to classify a previously
unrecognized organism by showing that two separate animals were sharing a
single cell wall. Noting under an electron microscope that the organism made
two distinctly different movements that could be described only by two totally
separate Navajo verbs, he was able to articulate the existence of two entities be-
fore he had actually found a way to separate them (he eventually liberated the
two from their common cell wall using a principle he had learned from
butchering young sheep). Fred Begay, a nuclear physicist at Los Alamos Lab-
oratories, uses the terminology of Navajo mythology for his work in laser
bombardment of heavy water. In the Navajo Emergence Myth, twin sons of
the sun are given spears with which to resolve problems on earth: one is a spear
of jagged light, like a lightning bolt, which is to be used for destroying mon-
sters; the other is a spear of straight, pure light, which is to be used for healing.
Quite aside from the precociousness of the imagery, Begay has found that the
complex Navajo verb system provides him with precise terminology for the
movement of light beams—something he cannot get from English resources.
These are only two examples of the way in which Native American languages
have provided our culture with insight we did not already have.
Ecology
Although the subject has now been flayed to death by New Age guru-seekers,
the fact remains that Native Americans' attitudes and assumptions about na-
ture are quite different from those supplied by European and Middle Eastern
worldviews. Whether these attitudes are qualitatively better than our own will
depend on which view one applies to which current dilemma, so I mention
the subject only to suggest that the profusion of different models for thinking
of the environment provides us with a range of insights similar to the variety
of perspectives offered by the myriad of Native American languages. If it can
be argued that for something as complex as ecological balance, one single an-
swer will never be enough, then it would seem that the more "answers" we
have access to, the more likely we will be to develop the kind of new perspec-
tives we need.
In general, though each tribal area has developed different considerations,
the basic philosophy in Native American thought about the natural world is
that the elements of nature (plants and animals, chiefly) are relatives and that
the processes of nature are sacred. Animals and plants "act" like relatives; that
is, it is their obligation to supply their relatives (ourselves) with food, and it is
our obligation to promote the relationship through reverence, prayers, offer-
ings, and rituals. Whether every Native American "believes in" this equation
or not is as pointless a consideration as whether every Anglo American "be-
lieves" that trees are a manageable commodity; the key factor is how the cul-
tures act according to the model provided. European Americans tend to see
the elements of nature as secular and manageable, either as resources to be ex-
ploited or as resources to be protected. Native Americans generally see nature
as made up of sacred entities or relatives that are not under human control but
may be available to humans through appropriate negotiation. Obviously, a
discussion of whether to exploit timber resources, sell or divide water, protect
an owl, or restrict access to a fragile environment will be different in quality
and connotation from a discussion of whether to exploit, sell, divide, protect,
and restrict your relatives or religious treasures.
It is possible to forgive Turner his neglect of Indian intellectuality in large part

because he—like us—was operating out of a widely accepted set of cultural at-
titudes with which people had constructed the logic and the sense of that era.
After all, the leading cultural studies profession of his time, the American
Folklore Society (formed by anthropologists and antiquarians in the 1880s),
had listed the collecting of Native American traditions as one of its central
concerns, based on the argument that the cultures were quickly vanishing.
Edward Curtis was able to get the support of Theodore Roosevelt and others
for his project to photograph Native Americans and collect their stories be-
cause they and their cultures would soon be gone from the land. The leading
folklorist of the time, Alexander Haggerty Krappe, wrote of North American
Indians that their tales "give one the impression that their narrators were in-
capable even of preserving a good tale, to say nothing of inventing a new one"
(The Science of Folklore [New York: Norton, 1929], 3). It was simple good
sense and conventional wisdom for Turner to look elsewhere than the Indians
for lasting features of the frontier's effects. But we are in a position to know
more than Turner did, so we do not get off so easily.
For all our focus on the "westering" of whites in America, it seems we
have overlooked the fact that our intellectual bearings have remained in the
East, in Europe, in the Middle East. In other words, while our bodies moved
west our spirits clung to old moorings. We European Americans have contin-
ued to look backward philosophically while moving forward physically and
politically. Given the potential riches—intellectual, cultural, artistic—that we
have rejected or ignored in our encounters with Native Americans (to say
nothing of Asians and Hispanics), we become a living demonstration of what
Henry David Thoreau called a "dead set"—we made it through a knothole in
the fence of life but could not get our sledload of furniture through after us.
Perhaps we have flattered ourselves as conquerors and tamers of the wild fron-
tier (like cultural teenagers playing king-of-the-royal-mountain), rather than
letting ourselves consider the comparatively shabby alternatives: that as Amer-

icans we were not even in a position to achieve intellectual and cultural matu-
rity until we engaged the West and its multicultural dynamics and that we
have not yet risen to the intellectual demands of that situation. The frontier
has been mythically useful to us because it ends in resolution, allowing us to
have our story and to claim physical success and achievement of economic
and social power. This has made it more comfortable to ignore our intellectual
failure at coming to grips with the potential insights and perspectives atten-
dant to dynamic cultural diversity, and this failure has plagued us on all fronts
ever since.
If the Native Americans have persisted and have set new boundaries or es-
tablished new themes in American society, perhaps it is time to regard and
study them not as relics of our frontier adventure but as ineluctable partici-
pants in a grander set of cultural dynamics. Their survival, in spite of the years
of decimation and plunder, is only a part of that picture; their intellectual im-
pact on the nature of U.S. history and culture has never been peripheral but
has been central from the start. The realities of social history, not the demands
of political correctness, require us to reconstruct a fuller account, based on our
newer awareness of significant factors that have been there all along.
8
Si
A Memory Sweet to Soldiers"?
The Significance of Gender
Susan Lee Johnson
Of all the regions people have imagined within the boundaries of what is
now the United States, no place has been so consistently identified with
maleness—particularly white maleness—as the region imagined as the
American West. There is something odd about attending to gender in such
a historical place—a place where the dominant popular culture suggests
that white women were civilizers, women of color were temptresses or
drudges, and men of color were foils for the inevitable white male hero,
who is, after all, the true subject of the history of the "American West."
Studying women there is like enlisting in the frontier regulars; when you
do so, you commit yourself to a battle-ready stance that wearies all but the
strongest of heart. Studying men there is like playing with fire; when you
do so, you face the engulfing flames of western-history-as-usual, which
naturalizes and universalizes white manhood as quickly as you can strike a
match to a lodgepole pine.
Yet these same perils mean that we can learn something new about
gender from studying an imagined place like the American West—a place
where customary gender relations were disrupted for many years by un-
usual sex ratios and a place around which cultural meanings have collected
until it has become a sort of preserve for white masculinity. We can also
learn something new about gender from studying a process like the con-
quest of the West, the consolidation of Anglo-American dominance, and
the constant realignment of relations of domination in a multiracial and
multiethnic social world. Conversely, if we attend relentlessly to racialized
notions of gender, we are bound to learn something new about the West
itself—not just the "American West," which too often is shorthand for an
Anglo-American West, but all of the regions people have imagined in the
western half of the North American continent.
255
I will not engage in all aspects of this larger project here but will take
up those aspects that reflect my particular intellectual and political posi-
tioning. As a student, I came to western history first and women's history
and women's studies second, and my training in these fields centered dis-
proportionately on Anglo-American experience. I gained what limited
knowledge I have of ethnic studies and feminist theory late and largely ori
my own in the formal sense, though informally, especially in ethnic stud-
ies, I have benefited from the training provided by patient and committed
friends, colleagues, and students. In time these emphases congealed into a
broader concern with questions of region, race, and gender. Ultimately,
however, to engage in this larger project of mapping racialized notions of
gender onto the field of western history, we will need a set of tools devel-
oped in a number of interconnected areas of inquiry: feminist theory,
ethnic studies, women's and labor history, lesbian and gay studies, post-
colonial and minority discourse, cultural studies, and queer theory, to
name a few. I will take on just a piece of that project here, drawing from
my own background in the study of region, race, and gender, to ask some
questions about the "subject" of the history of the "American West." I see
this, then, as a specific intervention in the rewriting of western history, one
that is self-conscious of its historical and historiographical moment, rather
than as the statement-of-the-century implied by the essay's subtitle, which
commemorates, for better or worse, the centenary of Frederick Jackson
Turner's frontier thesis.
In recent years, this "subject" has been jostled by the emergence of a
small mountain of scholarship on women in the West, indicating deep and
active fault lines in the terrain of western history as a whole. Review essays
by Joan Jensen and Darlis Miller in 1980 and by Elizabeth Jameson
in 1988 surveyed that new terrain as it emerged, and special sections
and issues of Montana The Magazine of Western History and the Pacific
Historical Review have brought the issues and concerns of western
women's history up to date in the 1990s.1 Despite this outpouring of
scholarship, the truly earth-shattering potential of studying western
women has not been realized; only a few groundbreaking works that are
not women's history per se try to make gender a central category of analy-
sis.2 Books and articles about women proliferate; anthologies now include
a requisite women's history chapter; and scholarly conferences feature sep-
arate panels on women's experiences. Most mainstream scholars, however,
leave questions of gender to women's historians, who are also usually
women historians. Although this turn of events is hardly unique to west-
ern history, it does have its peculiar "western" dimensions and may require
peculiarly "western" efforts to change its course.
"A MEMORY SWEET TO SOLDIERS" • 257
This is because the relationship between what is western and what is

male is overdetermined.3 That relationship, though it reaches back over
the centuries of Anglo-American westward expansion on the North Amer-
ican continent, tightened into an almost impermeable bond by the end of
the nineteenth century. The American West as a conceptual region, then,
did not become such a stubbornly, almost belligerently, male preserve un-
til, however ironically, as a demographic region it was ceasing to be dis-
proportionately male. The construction of a masculine West was part of a
larger late-nineteenth-century "crisis of manliness" in the United States—
a crisis in which older definitions of white, middle-class manhood that
emphasized restraint and respectability (manly men) gave way to newer
meanings that focused on vigor and raw virility (masculine men).4 That
transformation was closely linked both to U.S. imperialism in the Pacific,
the Caribbean, and Latin America and to stateside developments such as
the rise of organized labor, the shifting tactics of African-American leaders
from the late nineteenth to the early twentieth centuries, and the broad-
ening and consolidation of the woman movement in the same period. It
was perhaps most evident in the cultural resonance of such turn-of-the-
century phenomena as the fiction of Owen Wister, Theodore Roosevelt's
advocacy of "the strenuous life," Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show, the art of
Frederic Remington, and Frederick Jackson Turner's appeal to the western
man of action.
For a hundred years now, many have struggled with the all-too-mate-
rial legacy of that crisis—that is, the discursive decline of manliness and
the concomitant rise of masculinity. This new, hegemonic masculinity has
been contested, and in some cases transformed, by a number of twentieth-
century social practices: western women's labor force participation during
World War II; the growth of lesbian and gay communities in the urban
West; and the continuing evolution of competing styles of gender rela-
tions among western American Indians, Mexican Americans, Asian Amer-
icans, and African Americans. But the discursive apparatus of white
masculinity has not been dismantled, and the "American West" still exists
as a sort of happy hunting ground for Anglo virility.
Nor, in the academic arena, have the practices of western women's his-
tory proved equal to the task; mainstream historians respectfully acknowl-
edge the new scholarship without incorporating its imperatives into their
own work.5 Then too, the field of western women's history has developed
with western-history-as-usual as its reference point, deriving part of the le-
gitimacy it has achieved from its oppositional relation to the presumed
white male subject of the history of the "American West." For this reason,
despite constant calls for multicultural approaches, western women's his-
tory is slow to incorporate into its purview the imperatives of ethnic stud-
ies scholarship, as historian Antonia Castaneda so eloquently explains in
her essay "Women of Color and the Rewriting of Western History."6 As
long as the close identification between the categories "white men" and the
"American West" continues both in popular culture and in mainstream
scholarship, the relationships among western-history-as-usual, (white)
western women's history, western ethnic history, and the history of west-
ern women of color will remain brittle at best.
On the other hand, if we can problematize men and what is "mascu-
line" or "manly" in the history of the American West, and if we can see
such gendered imaginings in all their racial, ethnic, and economic dimen-
sions, we stand to gain even more than an understanding of how various
women and men lived the western past. It is a commonplace of women's
and ethnic studies that, in the United States, women of all races and eth-
nicities and peoples of color, both women and men, constitute "marked"
and white men "unmarked" categories of human experience—the un-
marked category serving as the normative, the more inclusive, the less "in-
terested" and particular. As historians, then, we must both illuminate
female and non-Anglo-American lives and mark the category of white,
male experience—show it to be as historically and culturally contingent,
as deeply linked to conceptions of gender and race, and as limited in its
ability to explain the past as that of any other group of westerners. Only
then can we begin to deflate the overblown rhetoric of white masculinity
that has long been associated with the "American West." That rhetoric not
only has obscured the vast diversity and stubborn inequities of western life
but also has informed configurations of power and politics from Holly-
wood to Washington, D.C., and has been exported by U.S. media to far
corners of the globe.
My argument, then, runs like this: gender is a relation of difference
and domination constructed such that it appears "natural" in day-to-day
life. The West is historically a place of disrupted gender relations and stun-
ning racial and ethnic diversity, a diversity structured by inequality and in-
justice. So, studying gender in the West holds promise for the project of
denaturalizing gender and dislodging it from its comfortable moorings in
other relations of domination—from small-town racism to worldwide im-
perialism. In short, we need to ask what studying gender can do for the
history of the West and what studying the West can do for the politics of
gender.
But where to begin? One place to start is with some of the work west-
ern historians know best, reading it anew with eyes trained to recognize
the ways in which racialized notions of gender have created meaning and
reinforced power relations in the Wests of academia and popular culture.

Indeed, in the West as many scholars have represented it, gender has been
among the great invisible creators of meaning, perhaps more invisible than
race itself, which even in the most predictable, problematic winning-of-
the-West narratives has been an explicit, if deeply offensive, analytical
theme. To demonstrate this, I have chosen two texts for critical rereading:
Henry Nash Smith's Virgin Land (1950) and Richard Slotkin's The Fatal
Environment (1985). These works represent mainstream western intellec-
tual history at its most sophisticated and provocative and are texts that I
assume most students of the West have encountered in their academic
careers.7
There are worlds of difference between Virgin Land and The Fatal En-
vironment, differences that reflect not only scholarly developments during
the thirty-five years that separate their publication dates but changes in
the politics of gender as well. Nevertheless, they share the habit of brack-
eting gendered concerns and associating them primarily with things fe-
male, particularly with white women and, sometimes less consciously,
with unconventionally gendered white men. As a result, female gender re-
mains the marked category in the texts, a category unmarked by race. Men
of color—primarily American Indians—are marked by race but not by
gender, whereas women of color are nearly absent altogether. In these
texts, white male gender, in all its anxious self-absorption, remains the un-
spoken but obstreperous subject of the history of the "American West."
First I turn to Virgin Land—a gendered appellation if ever there was
one. In her appropriately titled book The Lay of the Land (197 5), Annette
Kolodny laid bare a crucial thesis of any feminist critique of Smith.8 But
my critique is not only this critique—that Smith repeats, indeed, takes
problematic pleasure in, the land-as-woman metaphor that characterized
white men's encounter with the frontier, particularly as earlier images of
the land-as-mother gave way to later images of the land-as-virgin. As im-
portant as such an indignant slap at male presumption can be, it does not
go as far as it might in confounding what historian Regina Kunzel has
identified, in a different context, as the "old, old story" of male sexual ag-
gression and female sexual passivity.9 The gender trouble in Virgin Land is
at once simpler and more complicated than its metaphoric association of
the frontier experience with rape culture, at worst, or virgin fetish, at best.
It is simpler because it is not just the monotonous hierarchy of con-
ventional heterosexual relations thai: Virgin Land obscures (indeed, Smith
naturalizes more than he obscures that hierarchy). What Smith obscures is
that his account of the "impact of the West . . . on the consciousness of
Americans" and of the "consequences of this impact in literature and so-
cial thought" is mostly concerned with the impact of the West on white
men and the consequences of that impact on white male literary and
scholarly production. I say "mostly" because Smith includes respectful, if
ultimately depreciatory, readings of authors such as Caroline Kirkland and
Alice Gary, whom he describes as clever if dowdy literary foremothers of
the bright young men who established the frontier realist genre (Hamlin
Garland, for example, and, tellingly, Kirkland's biological son, Joseph
Kirkland). These nods to matronly white women writers aside, Virgin
Land is by and large a paean to the extraordinarily rich, elastic, and com-
plex set of meanings that white men have attached to what Smith calls "the
vacant continent beyond the frontier." That definition of the West is itself
telling, for if the "virgin land" was repeopled by Mexicans and American
Indians, it would become clear not only what but who was unwillingly to
play "woman" to westward movement. If Smith had been able to mark the
experience that most enthralled him as white, as male, and as heterosexu-
ally oriented (but shot through with what Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick calls
male homosocial desire), we would have read a quite different book.10
Still, the gender trouble in Virgin Land is more complicated than a
lay-of-the-land thesis suggests, because of the brief, curiously situated
chapter that Smith includes at the end of what he calls "Book Two: The
Sons of Leatherstocking."11 The final chapter in that "book" is entitled
"The Dime Novel Heroine," and so from the start these gun-toting girls
are making trouble under a sign that is clearly gendered white male. The
"Dime Novel Heroine" is not only conceptually but physically central to
Virgin Land; the text as a whole roughly straddles it. It is conceptually cen-
tral because it marks a turning point in Smith's analysis from an earlier em-
phasis on the West as wilderness to a later emphasis on the West as garden.
For Smith, the emergence in late-nineteenth-century dime novels of
the wild western heroine—cross-dressing hunk of a girl who could shoot
from the hip like a man—marked the inevitable decline of the wilderness
metaphor and its ability to produce a hero suitable to a growing, civilized,
democratic nation. From James Fenimore Cooper's Leatherstocking, a
man of nature with a perfect moral compass and deep respect for women
of culture, Smith traces the "progressive deterioration" of the western hero
to "a self-reliant two-gun man who behaved . . . the same . . .
whether he were outlaw or peace officer." That deterioration reached its
nadir when the heroine too, "freed from the trammels of gentility, devel-
oped at last into an Amazon who was distinguished from the hero solely by
the physical fact of her sex."12
In this, then, gender becomes a distinction without a difference, as
"A MEMORY SWEET TO SOLDIERS" « 261
Smith all but dismisses the physicality of the dime-novel heroine in a

move that prefigures feminist debates over the meanings of "sex" and
"gender," albeit for quite different rhetorical purposes. For Smith, once
the wilderness was peopled with similarly gendered toughs, whatever their
genitalia, the fate of the frontier hero was sealed. As the representative of
his (white) race, the hero had no meaning in a world with one gender, for
a world with one gender was a world without gender. In the absence of
difference, who would birth the frontier hero? Who would domesticate
his increasingly savage soul?
The threat of race suicide, brought about by the collapsing of white
womanhood into white manhood, is also reflected in the illustrations for
the book, of which there are a dozen.13 They begin with a beneficent im-
age of the goddess of agriculture in the Mississippi Valley, but they end
ominously with a dime-novel cover that features a phallic rendering of
Calamity jane in buckskin, leveling not one but two guns (or, as the cap-
tion puts it, "a pair of cocked revolvers") at a frightened male foe. Her en-
emy's name is Gardner (gardener?—anyway, Ralph, to his friends), and his
only weapon, a fairly good-sized knife, is withdrawn from battle, pointed
away from Jane and toward his male companions. The image is compli-
cated further by the dime-novel title that runs in bold letters above it:
Deadwood Dick in Leadville, Or, A Strange Stroke for Liberty.
Who is the subject of this pastiche? Why is Deadwood Dick absent
from the cover illustration, and why is Calamity Jane foregrounded? What
will happen to Deadwood Dick in Leadville, that rough-and-tumble min-
ing camp in Colorado? What "strange stroke for liberty" will he take? The
possibilities for Dick and Jane, deadwood and calamity, are multiple. But
evidence for a race-and-gender panic reading appears in the figure of the
well-dressed, dark-skinned cardplayer in the lower righthand corner of the
illustration. The gambler (the text reveals that this is "straight and honest"
Carlos Cordova, who carries no gun) looks as if he stands to gain the most
when Jane enacts this particular calamity; he sits waiting while the white
men rise to meet their challenger.14
A full analysis of the fear of race suicide represented in such images
and in such texts would require a thorough rereading of the genre, but
even this brief glance at the dime-novel hero(in)es who bring up the rear
for the sons of Leatherstocking reveals something more than a "progres-
sive deterioration" of the western tale. Smith complains that after the
1880s, dime novels lost whatever literary merit they had once possessed
and became locked into formulas that eventually came to characterize
most western films and radio shows in the first half of the twentieth cen-
The cover of the dime novel Deadwood Dick in Leadville; Or, A Strange Stroke for
Liberty, vol. VII, no. 88 (Sept. 1885) of Beadle's Pocket Library. Courtesy Special
Collections, New York Public Library.
262
tury as well. He thus forecloses analysis of such narratives at this curious

moment in their evolving representations of gender and race, turning his
attention from the seemingly bankrupt metaphor of the wilderness to the
more promising metaphor of the garden. For myself, I would like to have
lingered in the "wild" West a little bit longer.
Then again, if rough-and-tumble captures your fancy, there is always
the work of Richard Slotkin. Despite the recent publication of Gunfighter
Nation (1992), the third volume of Slotkin's "frontier myth" trilogy, I will
focus on the second volume here, in part because it covers much of the
same nineteenth-century ground as Virgin Land.^ Written with the ben-
efit of two decades of feminist ferment, The Fatal Environment is more
self-conscious than Virgin Land about the maleness of the frontier myth it
seeks to explicate, but only modestly so. It is a book concerned instead
with how "the Myth of the Frontier" developed even as the "real frontier"
passed away arid the United States became increasingly urban, industrial,
and class stratified.
Indeed, Slotkin capitalizes both "myth" and "frontier" and precedes
these terms with "the," thereby bypostadzing "the Frontier Myth" as sin-
gular and univocal, a kind of pillar of stone that becomes an easy target for
patricidal critique. This approach has its benefits; fortified with struc-
turalist tools, Slotkin skillfully historicizes the frontier myth, leaning back
as far as the Puritan wars with native peoples and forward to the 1876 Bat-
tle of the Little Bighorn, which, in its retelling as "Glister's Last Stand,"
takes its place as the centerpiece of The Fatal Environment (the title itself
comes from a poem Walt Whitman first published as "Death-Sonnet for
Custer"). Slotkin's purpose is to show how U.S. history was mythologized
as an "Indian war" writ large even as mythmakers fretted over the clos-
ing of the frontier. The Last Stand story, Slotkin claims, fused these two
processes (mythologizing the frontier and fretting over its passing)
and thus became the "central fable" of the new, industrial "Myth of the
Frontier."16
Slotkin shows how "Indian war"—especially the fight-to-the-last of
the soldier so white he can dress like an Indian and still stand for his
race—became a metaphor for a variety of social conflicts plaguing a newly
industrialized nation that was also recovering from a catastrophic civil
war. He argues that by the time of Little Bighorn, journalists had already
developed the habit of juxtaposing stories of American Indian resistance
in the West with articles on the problems of emancipated African Ameri-
cans in the South and the struggles of organized white workers in the
North. Newspapermen not only set these stories side by side but also used
common verbal or thematic cues (such as "savage" or "race" or "war") to

link the articles to one another, and they occasionally wrote editorials that
made the analogies explicit.17
So when George Armstrong Custer and his troops met their fate at the
hands of two thousand Lakota, Cheyenne, and Arapaho warriors amassed
at the Little Bighorn River in June 1876, journalists soon began to see sol-
diers of civilization making last stands against all manner of savagery, not
only in the West but in the North and the South as well. The Great Strike
of 1877, in which railroad laborers resisted a nationwide rollback of their
wages, is Slotkin's major case in point. As workingmen walked off their
jobs and violence ensued, editors rushed in to announce, "The Great Rail-
road Strike Becomes a Savage War," and headlines about the "fighting
strikers" ran cheek-to-cheek with those about "murderous reds" (here
meaning Nez Perce Indians but recalling the Paris Communards as well).18
Slotkin deftly demonstrates how white newspapermen saw class in racial
terms during the nineteenth century and how Indian-white conflict, in
particular, came to stand for battles between labor and capital.
The analysis falters, though, when Slotkin tries to juggle gender along
with his concern for race and class.19 When gender does trip onto the stage
in The Fatal Environment, it often does so in the person of female charac-
ters in novels.20 In fact, gender is always self-consciously at issue when
Slotkin writes about women, and the presence of women, historical or fic-
tional, often prompts him to think of the men he has put on stage as gen-
dered beings too. But when women are nowhere to be found (and in the
nineteenth-century West, this state of affairs was not rare), Slotkin's men
often revert to their customary status as normative humans, unmarked by
gender.
Still, there are exceptions. Slotkin's descriptions of Custer, for exam-
ple, are probably more deeply gendered than they are racialized; Custer's
race seems not at issue until he meets up with racialized "others"—Amer-
ican Indians, in particular—whereas his gender is at issue from childhood,
as he seeks to accommodate motherly and fatherly influences. But when it
came to Custer and gender, there was trouble afoot, trouble that Slotkin
finds symbolized best in how the officer wore his hair: Custer would clip
it short for a time, Slotkin observes, and then grow it out and "let his curls
swing below his shoulders perfumed with cinnamon oil." Slotkin suggests
that the long hair somehow reflected Custer's father's "flamboyance," but
it also, the author acknowledges, made Custer "appear 'feminine.'" Fur-
thermore, Custer apparently took sensual pleasure in this "feminine" ap-
pearance.21
Slotkin makes much of the ways that Custer used his seeming
youth—he was, after all, regarded as America's own "boy general"—to

court the favor of older, more powerful men, be they military superiors,
New York financial magnates, or Washington politicians.22 But the author
hesitates to explore the ways that Custer's variable gender performances
worked to the officer's advantage. This is not to say that Slotkin ignores
the evidence. He is quick to include an assessment of Custer by an aide to
General Phil Sheridan, Custer's commanding officer. The aide character-
ized the relationship between Sheridan and Custer as grounded in differ-
ence: "While Sheridan was always cool, Custer was aflame." Custer's
flaming tendencies, the aide went: on to explain, were not hard to tolerate:
"We all liked Custer and did not mind his little freaks . . . any more
than we would have minded temper in a woman."23
For Slotkin, this characterization is an instance of Custer as a "liminal
hero, the boy-man whose sexual character is on the border between mas-
culine adulthood and the passionate nature of woman." As such, Custer
embodies for Slotkin the key trait of a mythic hero, that is, the "incarna-
tion of ... polar oppositions." Moving swiftly from Custer's "little
freaks" to his inevitable rise from the grave as the ultimate American hero,
Slotkin concludes: "Custer is presented as the meeting point of the posi-
tive and negative forces in American culture—masculinity and femininity,
adulthood and childhood, civilization and savagery, sanity and madness,
order and disorder."24 Never mind that each of these oppositions had very
specific (and changing) meanings during the nineteenth century. Never
mind that the masculine-feminine dichotomy in particular—which I see
more as a twentieth-century construction—might be more usefully char-
acterized as one between manliness and womanliness in this period. Never
mind that these binaries were hotly contested not only within the white,
Protestant, middle-class, male-dominated cultural ethos but also from the
margins by people not privileged by race, religion, class, or gender.
I could put these critiques aside for a moment. I could even, grudg-
ingly and temporarily, grant Custer the central place in U.S. history for
which he so longed. But I would also want to linger a little longer than
Slotkin does over how Custer inhabited a gender and how his way of do-
ing gender (and how much of that way) was mapped onto a whole region
and ultimately onto the imagined community of the nation.25 In addi-
tion, I would want to consider, in the context of western history, what
gender has to do with race wars and how it inflects class conflict as well.
And I would want to think about how the scholarly impulse to find One
Big Myth and to identify its One True Hero relates to the dominant cul-
tural impulses that, by the twentieth century, turned the "American West"
into a mirror for a particular white male subjectivity. This impulse more
recently has led Slotkin to argue that a new, less politically problematic na-
tional myth "will have to respond to the demographic transformation of
the United States and speak to and for a polyglot nationality," as if the old
myth spoke for an actual past, before the fabled "demographic transfor-
mation," when the United States and its colonial predecessors were not
troubled by the presence of women, peoples of color, and unmanly men.26
Much is held in abeyance when this impulse to find One Big Myth
and to identify its One True Hero is indulged. There is the dime-novel
heroine, whose brazen perversion of the heroic suggests that western hero-
ism itself is a parody for which there is no original, only better and worse
performances.27 Recall that Smith's search for the ultimate American hero
led him to abandon dime novels just as the she-man came into her pistol-
packing own. Also held in abeyance are Custer's "little freaks," which
Slotkin quickly positions in a larger symbolic universe of all the grand bi-
nary oppositions of modern Anglo-American culture. I am still curious,
even after 532 pages of The Fatal Environment, to learn how a white man
who took sensual pleasure in his cinnamon-scented locks and who seemed
aflame in relation to more conventionally gendered men came to stand as
the great tragic hero of Anglo America in the age of industrialization.
Not only is there little in The Fatal Environment to help rne make
sense of this, there is little in the whole of western historiography to which
I can turn in beginning such a project. Even western women's historians
have not offered much grist for this mill, except for a delightful disdain for
Big Myths and True Heroes and a dogged devotion to the heroics of every-
day life.28 So although I might begin my inquiry into the gendering of the
"American West" with the attitude of recent western women's history, for
analysis I am more inclined to turn to current shifts in thinking about gen-
der in the larger field of women's studies. Curiously enough, these two
contemporaneous scholarly developments have proceeded relatively inde-
pendent of one another.
The new work on western women that began to appear in the late
1970s opened up whole social and political worlds to view that had long
been obscured by the stultifying maleness of the West as it had been rep-
resented in both academia and popular culture. Frontier Women, Westering
Women, The Women's West, Western Women: Their Land, Their Lives—the
book titles were bold and defiant, crafted as if to say: "The game's over,
boys. It's my ball and I'm going home." The trouble was that the boys had
balls too, and so instead of stopping the contest, the feminist retreat sim-
ply started a new, largely white, women's league—a sort of "our books,
ourselves" approach to the game of historical scholarship.29
Meanwhile, back at the women's studies ranch, scholars in a variety of
disciplines were busy lassoing the very category of "women" itself, tying it
up in quotation marks, showing it to be not a transparent, self-evident de-
notation of people sexed female but, as Denise Riley puts it, a category
"historically, discursively constructed . . . a volatile collectivity in which
female persons can be very differently positioned, so that the apparent
continuity of the subject of 'women' isn't to be relied on."30 That is,
whereas western women's historians took for granted that the subjects of
their research and analysis were, in a word, "women," other women's stud-
ies scholars (a few of them historians) marveled at how we have come to
see "women" and "men" at every academic turn. So while the "women" of
western women's history trudged matter-of-factly across the Overland
Trail gathering buffalo dung for fuel, the "women" of women's studies got
all dressed up and stepped out on the town to a dizzying gender-bender
ball, where anything could—and did—happen.
Though inconsistently acknowledged by women's studies scholars
privileged by race, ethnicity, class background, or sexuality, the original in-
vitations to try out these new dance steps came disproportionately from
scholars, writers, and activists marginalized by those very same social con-
structions.31 As Evelyn Brooks Higginbotham has recently argued, white
feminist theorists, in particular, have nodded curtly at the overtures of
feminists of color while going on "to analyze their own experience in ever
more sophisticated forms." Similarly, Norma Alarcon and Chela Sandoval
have demonstrated the difficulties that hegemonic feminism has had in
incorporating the insights of U.S. Third World feminist theories—
insights that necessarily undermine understandings of gender as a binary
opposition isolated from other social and discursive categories such as race
and culture.32 To me, this conversation about gender and politics among
differently situated feminists, a heated conversation characterized by in-
equalities of power among speakers, holds as much promise for thinking
about what gender might mean in the history of the West as does the lit-
erature that seems to formulate such questions most explicitly—the histo-
riography of western women. For my purposes here, then, I will step back
from that place called the "Women's West" and survey instead the terrain
of gender itself. What if gender, anyway, and how can attending to it trans-
form our thinking about western history?
One clear trajectory in feminist theory—if I may collapse a series of
complex and often, contradictory moves into a general, unidirectional
trend—has been from structuralist to poststructuralist thinking, from sin-
gular to multiple explanations for gender difference and gender hierarchy,
and from a self-evident, self-confident agreement on social construction-
ism to an increasingly complicated inquiry into just what it means to say
that gender is socially (or culturally or historically) constructed.33 An orig-

inal insight of women's studies in the 1970s was the distinction between
sex and gender, with "sex" standing for the biological givens that distin-
guish female from male and "gender" the cultural elaborations based on
the givens of biological sex. Anthropologist Gayle Rubin developed the
most stunning explication of this distinction in her essay "The Traffic in
Women: Notes on the 'Political Economy' of Sex," which set a high stan-
dard for both rigor and wit in feminist scholarship.
Poking fun at how fast and loose some had been with the term patri-
archy, for example, Rubin reminded feminists to maintain a sense of his-
torical specificity. "Abraham was a Patriarch," she quipped, "one old man
whose absolute power over wives, children, herds and dependents was an
aspect of the institution of fatherhood."34 Substituting the term "sex/gen-
der system" for obfuscating terms like "patriarchy" or "mode of reproduc-
tion," Rubin wove together insights from Marx and Engels, Freud and
Lacan, and Levi-Strauss to postulate systematic ties among the creation of
two dichotomous genders from the givens of sex, the ubiquity of sexual di-
visions of labor, and obligatory heterosexuality. Explaining that gender
presumes not only identification with one sex but also sexual desire for the
other, she invoked the book of Genesis once again: "The sexual division of
labor is implicated in both aspects of gender—male and female it creates
them, and it creates them heterosexual."35 If this set of insights alone be-
came commonplace in studies of western places and peoples—insights
that refuse to take male-female differences, couplings, and divisions of la-
bor for granted—the field would take a great leap forward.
But there is more. In the last decade, the feminist credo of the dis-
tinction between sex and gender has fallen on hard times as some scholars
have argued that no real substance of biological sex necessarily lies beneath
the cultural elaborations of gender. Thus whereas Smith describes the de-
volution of the dime-novel heroine into an "Amazon who was distin-
guished from the hero solely by the physical fact of her sex," some feminist
theorists would dispute the "physical fact" itself. As Riley puts it, "Noth-
ing is assumed about an underlying continuity of real women, above
whose constant bodies changing aerial descriptions dance."36 The work of
Judith Butler has been particularly revealing on this point. She suggests,
first, that even if we assume the stability of male and female bodies, there
is no reason that the construction "men" will always follow from male
bodies and the construction "women" from female bodies. Nor is there
any reason that the seeming binariness of sex (its splitting into two di-
chotomous categories) will necessarily lead to two, and only two, genders.
Second, Butler argues that the duality of sex, far from being an immutable
"fact of life," is itself historically constructed through various scientific

and other discourses that have worked together to make us see natural
male and female bodies even if we are skeptical about "natural women"
and "natural men." In this reading, sex was "always already gender,"
masked as biology's last stand—and sex will presumably go the way of
Custer when faced with the warrior wisdom of feminist theory.37
For some scholars of the last decade, then, gender is not so much a
noun as it is a verb. Butler argues that "gender is always a doing," and Ri-
ley speaks of the act of inhabiting a gender, notions I used earlier in my
reading of Slotkin's Custer. In this vein, Butler suggests that gender is
performative—again, an analysis I drew on in thinking about Custer.
Thus, "gender is the repeated stylization of the body, a set of repeated
acts . . , that congeal over time to produce the appearance of substance,
of a natural sort of being."38 (And if that still seems abstract, just think of
how it worked for John Wayne or how it works for you.) Other scholars,
Joan Scott among them, have looked beyond the ways in which people
"do" gender to analyze how sexual difference creates meaning in situations
in which individual human bodies and their stylization are less at issue.39
The nineteenth-century creation of the working class on male terms is
one case in point; so too, I would contend, is the consolidation of the
"American West" as a masculine preserve.
Yet these scholars are among those to whom Higginbotham refers
when she notes that the "new wave of feminist theorists finds little to say
about race."40 To the extent that this is true, this "new wave" will prove of
limited use to western historians, for whom analysis of racial difference
and racial domination must be a key mode of inquiry. And indeed, al-
though most white feminist scholars acknowledge the importance of race
somewhere in their work, few follow through with a thoroughgoing
analysis of how gender is racialized and race is gendered, even in relation-
ship to white women. In fact, race is perhaps least often invoked as a cate-
gory of analysis when white experience is at issue. This has prompted
historian Elsa Barkley Brown to argue, "We have yet to accept the fact that
one cannot write adequately about the lives of white women in the United
States in any context without acknowledging the way in which race shaped
their lives."41
Nevertheless, it is work by and about women of color that routinely
recognizes, as bell hooks puts it, that "none of us experiences ourselves
solely as gendered subjects."42 Higginbotham, in particular, has explored
race as a metalanguage that obscures other social relations such as gender
and class. Such insights resonate with Slotkin's work on the racializing of
class tensions in the nineteenth century but are largely absent in his at-
tempts to analyze gender/13 Alarcon has gone further to examine the dif-
ferences between the theoretical subject of Anglo-American feminisms
and that ofwomen-of-color feminisms. The Anglo subject of knowledge is
"autonomous, self-making, self-determining"; she pursues her own iden-
tity largely in opposition to Anglo men. This should sound familiar be-
cause it is work like Alarcon's that has informed my thinking not only
about the presumed white male subject of the history of the "American
West" but also about how western women's history has suffered from its
overidentification, in oppositional terms, with western-history-as-usual.
Third World feminisms have developed more diffuse and complex no-
tions of identity and subjectivity, acknowledging multiple referents for
consciousness that explode the neat dichotomies of Anglo feminist theo-
ries of gender. As Alarcon points out, for example, the existence of class
and racial hierarchies often means that one may "'become a woman' in op-
position to other women." Such notions of multiple consciousness derive
from the historically and culturally specific struggles of U.S. women of
color. Gloria Anzaldiia's borderlands consciousness, "la conciencia de la
mestizo.," is a case in point especially relevant to western historians, arising
as it does in part out of Anzaldiia's South Texas roots. Her consciousness of
the borderlands encompasses a sense of self and a politics antithetical to
binary thinking that opposes Indian to Mexican, Mexican to Anglo, fe-
male to male, gay to straight, and south-of-the-border to north-of-the-
border.44
From these historical and cultural specificities and their resulting no-
tions of consciousness, Sandoval has developed a synergetic theory of "dif-
ferential consciousness," one that emphasizes the importance of shifting
tactics, which enables political coalitions to resist relations of domination
in their myriad incarnations. In what is easily one of the most visionary
sentences in any recent work of feminist theory, Sandoval explains the
grace, flexibility, and strength required of those who would practice this
differential consciousness: "enough strength to confidently commit to a
well-defined structure of identity for one hour, day, week, month, year;
enough flexibility to self-consciously transform that identity according to
the requisites of another oppositional ideological tactic if readings of
power's formation require it; enough grace to recognize alliance with oth-
ers committed to egalitarian social relations and race, gender, and class jus-
tice, when their readings of power call for alternative oppositional
stands."45
This is a program for political change on a grand scale, but its impli-
cations, 1 think, are relevant on the relatively smaller scale of transforming
the field of western history. It will require grace, flexibility, and strength,
and it will require working in alliance with those whose training and com-
mitments differ from our own, to recognize and refuse the ways that
racialized notions of gender have created meaning and reinforced relations
of domination in the American West as constructed by both scholarship
and popular culture.
This much we have learned: first, gender is what one does rather than
what one is. That is, it is not so much that boys will be boys as it is in that
being boyish, one becomes a boy in a given context. Second, gender cre-
ates meaning quite apart from the practices by which individuals become
gendered. That is, political cultures, presidential administrations, social
classes, and regions themselves, at certain historical moments, will seem to
some to be saturated with womanliness or manliness, femininity or mas-
culinity. Third, gender never exists as a simple binary that can be disag-
gregated from other constructed relations of difference and domination
such as race. As Brown puts it, "All women do not have the same gen-
der."46 Neither do all men, as suggested by soldiers' perceptions of Custer
and Sheridan and by the competing styles of manhood represented in the
dime-novel cover for Deadwood Dick in Leadville.
What happens when we take these insights back to the land of Big
Myths and True Heroes? We do not necessarily stop studying myths, or
cultural memories, and their heroes. As a region historically in a colonial
relationship with the dominant Northeast, the West, like the South, has
produced more than its share of larger-than-life legends who tell us a great
deal not only about gender and race relations within particular regions but
also about how regions themselves become imagined as gendered and
racialized places. Hopefully, though, we can learn to attend to legends less
celebrated than Custer and to see the ways in which cultural memory
and cultural amnesia among the dominant and the nondominant have
helped to create all of the regions people have imagined in western North
America.
As a California historian, 1 am reminded of particular examples. What
of Joaqufn Murrieta, the supposed scourge of the Southern Mines, who
has been remembered by Chicano scholars and activists alike as symboliz-
ing a history of resistance to Anglo domination but who is mostly forgot-
ten in mainstream accounts of the Gold Rush? What of Babe Bean (later
known as Jack Garland), who was heralded in the turn-of-the-century
press as the "trousered puzzle" of Stockton? This passing woman has been
reclaimed by lesbian and gay historians, who discovered that s/he had been
born in 1870 as Elvira Virginia Mugarrieta, of Mexican and Anglo parent-
age. But Babe Bean and many other westerners who engaged in gender
and ethnic passing have been largely ignored by western-history-as-usual.
[From a Photograph Taken for the Mail.)
Illustration of Babe Bean (Elvira Virginia Mugarrieta). This appeared in the

Stockton, California, Evening Mail, 9 October 1897. Courtesy Stockton Public
Library.
Attending to such characters will not advance the study of One Big Myth
and its One True Hero, but it will represent an attempt to listen in on a
many-voiced conversation about cultural memory of a multiracial, once
disproportionately male historical place—in this case, California.47
Yet even if we turn back to Big Myths and True Heroes from time to
time, we need to stop privileging aspects of those myths and characteris-
tics of those heroes that fit most comfortably with dominant cultural no-
tions of how white manhood is embodied in the "American West." I am
struck, for example, by the lines of Walt Whitmans "Death-Sonnet for
Custer" from which Slotkin chose the title of The Fatal Environment.^
They are bellicose lines that fight to the last until Custer and his entourage
finally fall:
The battle-bulletin,
The Indian ambuscade, the craft, the fatal
environment,
The cavalry companies fighting to the last in
sternest heroism,
In the midst of their little circle, with their
slaughter'd horses for breastworks,
The fall of Custer and all his officers and men.
My own eyes, though, are drawn to Whitman's last stanza, where an

interestingly gendered and unambiguously sexualized Custer, now an ob-
ject of desire for his officers and men, relinquishes symbols of his power
and rests in the sweetness of defeat. Imagine, then, a different title for a
book about the myth of the frontier in the age of industrialization, a title
drawn instead from these lines of Whitman's:
Thou of the tawny flowing hair in battle,

I erewhile saw, with erect head, pressing ever
in front, bearing a bright sword in thy hand,
Now ending well in death the splendid fever of
thy deeds,
(I bring no dirge for thee, I bring a glad
triumphal sonnet,)
Desperate and glorious, aye in defeat most
desperate, most glorious,
After thy many battles in which never yielding up
a gun or a color,
Leaving behind thee a memory sweet to soldiers,
Thou yieldest up thyself.
I imagine that many of us want to say and do something new about the
significance of gender in western history and to say and do it without as-
suming old postures of domination—without striking a pose, if you will.49
If that is what we want, then some among us will have to yield up guns and
colors, quietly, without trying to become anybody's heroes.
Notes
Many people have read various drafts of this essay and given me suggestions for revi-
sion or otherwise offered encouragement, including Nancy Cott, William Cronon,
Laura Downs, Yvette Huginnie, Albert Hurtado, Kali Israel, Regina Kunzel, Howard
Lamar, Karen Merrill, Clyde Milner, Kathryn Oberdeck, Peggy Pascoe, Mary Renda,
Vicki Ruiz, Barbara Savage, and colleagues in the women's junior faculty reading
group of the University of Michigan's history department. Five friends and colleagues
have been particularly unstinting with their time, their criticism, and their warm sup-
port: Deena Gonzalez, Camille Guerin-Gonzales, David Gutierrez, Yukiko Hanawa,
and Katherine Morrissey.
An earlier version of this essay appeared under the title '"A Memory Sweet to Sol-
diers': The Significance of Gender in the History of the 'American West,'" by Susan
Lee Johnson. Previously published in the Western Historical Quarterly 24 (November
1993): 495-517. Copyright by Western History Association. Reprinted by permis-
sion.
1. Joan M. Jensen and Darlis A. Miller, "The Gentle Tamers Revisited: New
Approaches to the History of Women in the American West," Pacific Historical Re-
view 49 (May 1980): 173-213; Elizabeth Jameson, "Toward a Multicultural History
of Women in the Western United States," Signs 13 (Summer 1988): 761-91; "The
Contributions and Challenges of Western Women's History: Four Essays by Sarah
Deutsch, Virginia Scharff, Glenda Riley, and John Mack Faragher," Montana The
Magazine of Western History 41 (Spring 1991): 58-73; "Western Women's History
Revisited," Pacific Historical Review 61, special issue (November 1992).
2. I am thinking here of Ramon A. Gutierrez, When Jesus Came, the Corn Moth-
ers Went Away: Marriage, Sexuality, and Power in New Mexico, 1500-1846 (Stanford,
1991); Albert L. Hurtado, Indian Survival on the California Frontier (New Haven,
1988); John Mack Faragher, Women and Men on the Overland Trail (New Haven,
1979) and Sugar Creek: Life on the Illinois Prairie (New Haven, 1986).
3. For related arguments, see Katherine G. Morrissey, "Engendering the West,"
in Under an Open Sky: Rethinking America's Western Past, ed. William Cronon,
George Miles, and Jay Gitlin (New York, 1992).
4. Despite its North-South definition of regionalism, the provocative session
entitled "Region, Race, and Gender: The 'Masculinity Crisis' and Realignments of
Power in Late-Nineteenth-Century America" at the Eighth Berkshire Conference on
the History of Women, Douglass College, 10 June 1990, has most influenced my
thinking here. Respondents Henry Abelove and Drew Gilpin Faust commented on
Nina Silber, "The Romance of Reunion: Northern Conciliation with the South and
the Metaphor of Gender," and Gail Bederman, "Ida B. Wells-Barnett's Anti-Lynch-
ing Campaign and the Northern Middle Class's 'Crisis of Masculinity.'" Bederman's
essay has since been published as "'Civilization,' the Decline of Middle-Class Manli-
ness, and Ida B. Wells's Antilynching Campaign (1892-94)," Radical History Review
52 (Winter 1992): 5—30, and Silber's arguments appear in The Romance of Reunion:
Northerners and the South, 1865-1900 (Chapel Hill, 1993). See also Clyde Griffen,
"Reconstructing Masculinity from the Evangelical Revival to the Waning of Progres-
sivism: A Speculative Synthesis," in Meanings for Manhood: Constructions of Masculin-
ity in Victorian America, ed. Mark C. Carnes and Clyde Griffen (Chicago, 1990).
5. Sadly, the most exciting and engaging work on the American West to appear
in decades represents this tendency: Patricia Nelson Limerick, Legacy of Conquest: The
Unbroken Past of the American West (New York, 1987). For a recent textbook that tries
harder to incorporate the insights of western women's history, see Richard White, "It's
Your Misfortune and None of My Own": A New History of the American West (Norman,
1991). The special-chapter approach is represented by Michael P. Malone, ed., Histo-
rians and the American West (Lincoln, 1983), and Gerald D. Nash and Richard W.
Etulain, eds., The Twentieth-Century West: Historical Interpretations (Albuquerque,
1989).
6. Antonia I. Castafieda, "Women of Color and the Rewriting of Western His-
tory: The Discourse, Politics, and Decolonization of History," Pacific Historical Re-
view 61 (November 1992): 501-33. On the calls for multiculturalism, see Jensen and
Miller, "The Gentle Tamers," and Jameson, "Toward a Multicultural History." A
good example of a multicultural approach is Peggy Pascoe, Relations of Rescue: The
Search for Female Moral Authority in the American West, 1874—1939 (New York,
1990).
7. Henry Nash Smith, Virgin Land: The American West as Symbol and Myth
(1950; reprint, Cambridge, Mass., 1970); Richard Slotkin, The Fatal Environment:
The Myth of the Frontier in the Age of Industrialization, 1800-1890 (New York, 1985).
See also Richard Slotkin, Regeneration through Violence: The Mythology of the American
Frontier, 1600-1860 (Middletown, Conn., 1973) and Gunfighter Nation: The Myth
of the Frontier in Twentieth-Century America (New York, 1992).
8. Annette Kolodny, The Lay of the Land: Metaphor as Experience and History in
American Life and Letters (Chapel Hill, 1975),
9. Regina G. Kunzel, Fallen Women, Problem Girls: Unmarried Mothers and the
Profissionalization of Social Work, 1890-1945 (New Haven, 1993).
10. Smith, Virgin Land, 4, 224-49. Compare Smith's reading of Kirkland and
Gary to Annette Kolodny's in The Land before Her: Fantasy and Experience of the
American Frontiers, 1630-1860 (Chapel Hill, 1984), 130-58, 178-90. See also Eve
Kosofsky Sedgwick, Between Men: English Literature and Male Homosocial Desire
(New York, 1985).
11. Smith, Virgin Land, 112-20 (emphasis mine).
12. Ibid., 119. As for the physical positioning of the "Dime Novel Heroine"
chapter, although the text is divided into a prologue and three "books," the prologue
and the first two books constitute the first half, and the third book forms the second
half of the volume. The chapter in question appears at the end of the second book.
13. Ibid., see illustrations following p. 98.
14. See Edward L. Wheeler, Deadwood Dick in Leadville; Or, A Strange Stroke for
Liberty (New York, 1879).
15. Slotkin, Fatal Environment, and Slotkin, Gunfighter Nation.
16. Slotkin, Fatal Environment, 32.
17. Ibid., 336. For an especially satisfying account of related themes, particularly
of the construction of western heroes, see Alexander Saxton, The Rise and Fall of the
White Republic: Class Politics and Mass Culture in Nineteenth-Century America (Lon-
don, 1990).
18. Ibid., 477-98, quotations on 484.
19. Although I invoke the "race, class, gender" trinity here, there are, of course,
other recent claimants to the status of central categories of historical analysis; in the
academic circles in which I move, sexuality and the environment are big contenders.
I remain ambivalent about the latter, especially until environmental history begins to
take race, class, and gender more (and "nature" less) seriously. Though we no doubt
differ on what "more" and "less" would look like in scholarly practice, William
Cronon has made a related call in his "Modes of Prophecy and Production: Placing
Nature in History," Journal of American History 76 (March 1990): 1122-31, esp.
1130—31. 1 am even more taken with the notion of considering sexuality a separate
category of analysis, though where gender leaves off and sexuality begins is always a
hard call for me. For an earlier argument, see Gayle Rubin, "Thinking Sex: Notes for
a Radical Theory of the Politics of Sexuality," in Pleasure and Danger: Exploring Fe-
male Sexuality, ed. Carole S. Vance (Boston, 1984). See also John D'Emilio and Es-
telle B. Freedman, Intimate Matters: A History of Sexuality in America (New York,
1988); and new work in lesbian and gay studies represented by Martin Bauml Duber-
man, Martha Vicinius, and George Chauncey Jr., eds., Hidden from History: Reclaim-
ing the Gay and Lesbian Past (New York, 1989); Diana Fuss, ed., Inside/Out: Lesbian
Theories, Gay Theories (New York, 1991); and Teresa de Laureds, ed., "Queer Theory:
Lesbian and Gay Sexualities" Differences 3, special issue (Summer 1991).
20. The other way women routinely appear in Slotkin's Fatal Environment is in
their proximity to dominant nineteenth-century notions of savagery and disorder. In
this, women occupy the same conceptual ground as people of color and the working
class in Slotkin's analysis. Slotkin, Fatal Environment, 336, 342-43, 348, 478.
21. Ibid., 375.
22. Ibid., 381, 385-87, 390, 405-6. For analysis of such male homosocial ties
and their links to homoeroticism and homophobia, see Sedgwick Between Men, and
Michael Moon, '"The Gentle Boy from the Dangerous Classes': Pederasty, Domestic-
ity, and Capitalism in Horatio Alger," Representations 19 (Summer 1987): 87-110.
23. Quoted in Slotkin, Fatal Environment, 454.
24. Ibid., 454-55.
25. See Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and
Spread of Nationalism (1983; 2d ed., rev., London, 1991).
26. Slotkin, Gunfighter Nation, 655. Slotkin goes on to say, "Historical memory
will have to be revised, not to invent an imaginary role for supposedly marginal mi-
norities, but to register the fact that our history . . . was shaped from the beginning
by the meeting, conversation, and mutual adaptation of different cultures." To me,
this indicates an unresolved tension in Slotkin's work over the relationship between
dominant and nondominant myths, histories, and peoples.
27. See Judith Butler, Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity
(New York, 1990), 31.
28. See, for example, Susan Armitage, "Women and Men in Western History: A
Stereoptical Vision," Western Historical Quarterly 16 (October 1985): 381-95.
29. For a thorough review, see Jameson, "Toward a Multicultural History." Ma-
jor titles include Julie Roy Jeffrey, Frontier Women: The Trans-Mississippi West,
1840-1880 (New York, 1979); Sandra L. Myres, Westering Women and the Frontier
Experience, 1800—1915 (Albuquerque, 1982); Susan Armitage and Elizabeth Jame-
son, eds., The Women's West (Norman, 1987); and Lillian Schlissel, Vicki L. Ruiz, and
Janice Monk, eds., Western Women: Their Land, Their Lives (Albuquerque, 1988).
(Sandra Myres disavowed a "radical" feminist approach in her work, though what was
"radical" about contemporaneous scholarship is open to question.) The "our books,

ourselves" phrase is a play on Our Bodies, Ourselves, the title of the many-editioned
bible of the women's health movement. The most recent edition is Boston Women's
Health Book Collective, The New Our Bodies, Ourselves (New York, 1992).
30. Denise Riley, "Am I That Name?"Feminism and the Category of "Women " in
History (Minneapolis, 1988), 1-2.
31. I'm thinking here of earlier works such as Cherrie Moraga and Gloria An-
zaldua, eds., This Bridge Called My Back: Writings by Radical Women of Color (1981;
2d ed., rev., New York, 1983); Gloria T. Hull, Patricia Bell Scott, and Barbara
Smith, eds., All the Women Are White, All the Blacks Are Men, but Some of Us Are
Brave: Black Women's Studies (Old Westbury, N.Y., 1982); Evelyn Torton Beck, ed.,
Nice Jewish Girls: A Lesbian Anthology (1982; 2d ed., rev., Boston, 1989); Barbara
Smith, ed., Home Girls: A Black Feminist Anthology (New York, 1983). Another key
set of readings came out of the feminist sex wars of the late 1970s and early 1980s,
one major skirmish of which took place at the "Towards a Politics of Sexuality" con-
ference at Barnard College, New York, N.Y., on 24 April 1982, the proceedings of
which were eventually published in Vance, Pleasure and Danger. See also Estelle B.
Freedman and Barrie Thorne, eds,, "The Feminist Sexuality Debates," Signs 10 (Au-
tumn 1984): 102-35. Katie King usefully ties together some of the sex war literature
with earlier women-of-color publications in "Producing Sex, Theory, and Culture:
Gay/Straight Remappings in Contemporary Feminism," in Conflicts in Feminism,
ed. Marianne Hirsch and Evelyn Fox Keller (New York, 1990).
32. Evelyn Brooks Higginbotham, "African-American Women's History and
the Metalanguage of Race," Signs 17 (Winter 1992): 251-74, esp. 252; Norma Alar-
con, "The Theoretical Subject(s) of This Bridge Called My Back and Anglo-Ameri-
can Feminism," in Making Face, Making Soul/Haciendo Caras: Creative and Critical
Perspectives by Feminists of Color, ed. Gloria Anzaldiia (San Francisco, 1990); Chela
Sandoval, "U.S. Third World Feminism: The Theory and Method of Oppositional
Consciousness in the Postmodern World," Genders 10 (Spring 1991): 1-24.
33. The following survey is not intended to serve as a comprehensive guide to
recent feminist theory. It neglects key thinkers, texts, and points of view. It is in-
tended to suggest a few feminist avenues of inquiry that I think would be especially
useful to western historians.
34. Gayle Rubin, "The Traffic in Women: Notes on the 'Political Economy' of
Sex," in Toward an Anthropology of Women, ed. Rayna R. Reiter (New York, 1975),
168 (emphasis mine). I rarely use the word patriarchy, for the reasons Rubin suggests,
but am sympathetic to other ways of thinking about the term. As Mary Childers says:
"For a lot of people who know what it is to have a daddy who beats everybody in the
family, patriarchy is a great word. . . . And for all of us who work in institutions
where there are inaccessible, controlling men at the top, patriarchy is a damn good
word." See Mary Childers and bell hooks, "A Conversation about Race and Class,"
in Hirsch and Keller, Conflicts in Feminism, 68.
35. Rubin, "Traffic in Women," 180. See Gen. 1:27, "So God created man in
his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created
them."
36. Riley, "Am I That Name?" 7.

37. Butler, Gender Trouble, 6—7. Just as this essay was going to print, Butler's re-
sponse to critics of Gender Trouble appeared: Bodies That Matter: On the Discursive
Limits of "Sex" (New York, 1993).
38. Butler, Gender Trouble, 24-25, 33; Riley, "Am I That Name?"'6.
39. Joan Wallach Scott, Gender and the Politics of History (New York, 1988).
40. Higginbotham, "African-American Women's History," 251.
41. Elsa Barkley Brown, "Polyrhythms and Improvisation: Lessons for Women's
History," History Workshop journal 31-32 (1991): 85-90, esp. 88. See also Hazel V.
Carby, Reconstructing Womanhood: The Emergence of the Afro-American Woman Nov-
elist (New York, 1987), 18.
42. Childers and hooks, "A Conversation about Race and Class," 68.
43. Higginbotham, "African-American Women's History," 255.
44. Alarcon, "The Theoretical Subject(s) of This Bridge," 357, 360, 361; Gloria
Anzaldua, Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza (San Francisco, 1987). Chandra
Talpade Mohanty, "Introduction, Cartographies of Struggle: Third World Women
and the Politics of Feminism," and Lourdes Torres, "The Construction of Self in U.S.
Latina Autobiographies," both in Third World Women and the Politics of Feminism,
ed. Chandra Talpade Mohanty, Ann Russo, and Lourdes Torres (Bloomington,
1991), 1-47, 271-87. For excellent historical overviews of some of these struggles,
which stress the relational nature of differences among women, see Brown,
"Polyrhythms and Improvisation," and Evelyn Nakano Glenn, "From Servitude to
Service Work: Historical Continuities in the Racial Division of Paid Reproductive La-
bor," Signs 18 (Autumn 1992): 1-43.
45. Sandoval, "U.S. Third World Feminism," 15.
46. Brown, "Polyrhythms and Improvisation," 88.
47. On Murrieta, see Pedro Castillo and Albert Camarillo, eds., Furiay Muerte:
Los Eandidos Chicanos (Los Angeles, 1973), esp. 32—51, and Rodolfo Gonzales, I am
Joaquin/Yo soy Joaquin: An Epic Poem (1967; reprint, New York, 1972). I have writ-
ten on the historical memory of Murrieta in '"The Gold She Gathered': Difference
and Domination in the California Gold Rush, 1848-1853" (Ph.D. diss., Yale Uni-
versity, 1993). On Babe Bean, see San Francisco Lesbian and Gay History Project,
'"She Even Chewed Tobacco': A Pictorial Narrative of Passing Women in America,"
in Hidden from History, ed. Duberman, Vicinius, and Chauncey, which is based on
the video by Liz Stevens and Estelle B. Freedman titled "She Even Chewed Tobacco "
(1983), produced by the History Project and distributed by Women Make Movies
(225 Lafayette St., New York, NY 10012); and Louis Sullivan, From Female to Male:
The Life of Jack Bee Garland (Boston, 1990).
48 Whitman's "Death-Sonnet for Custer" was first published in the New York
Tribune days after the Battle of the Little Bighorn. It is reproduced in Slotkin, Fatal
Environment, 10—11; it also appears in later editions of Leaves of Grass under the title
"Far from Dakota's Canons." See Walt Whitman, Complete Poetry and Collected Prose
(New York, 1982), 592-93.
49. The phrase "striking a pose" is derived from Madonna, "Vogue," The Im-
maculate Collection, compact sound disk (New York, 1990).
COMMENTARIES
Staring at the Sun
Albert L. Hurtado
Twenty years ago the historian Richard A. Bartlett wrote that no one had ever
questioned or analyzed the masculinity of frontier society. Since maleness was
''as obvious as the sun in the daytime," he argued, discussion hardly seemed
necessary. The federal censuses made it plain for all to see: in the West there
were far more men than women, and this demographic characteristic seemed
a likely place to begin a description of western men, women, and families.1
Since the publication of Bartlett's book, women's history has become a vibrant
part of western historiography as scholars have added the voices and images of
women to those of cowboys, mountain men, miners, troopers, and other male
heroes of the frontier era.2
Now Susan Johnson has thrown a few more clouds across the sunny, mas-
culine face of the American West. Although she does not argue with the cen-
suses, she challenges the common assumption that the West "naturally" took
on a male character simply because there were a lot of men there. Nor does she
argue merely that since there were women in the West, historians should give
them due attention. Instead, armed with new theories, she argues that schol-
ars should use gender as a way to analyze the relations of domination and the
conquest of the West. It will look like a different place after they have done so.
She contends that gender is a constructed identity and that culture and cir-
cumstances—not nature—are the builders. When men and women ventured
west, Professor Johnson argues, they entered a domain where new gendered
identities became possible, perhaps even desirable, at least if people were
willing to shed their customary relations and accept alternative ideas about
gender.
I am sympathetic with the general idea that gender is a construction, but
I hasten to add that the matter is far from settled. Scientists are studying the
biological origins of sexual orientation, and some argue that maleness, fe-
maleness, and homosexuality are biologically embedded in the individual.3
Still, it is difficult to argue against the proposition that society acts strongly on
people to produce particular behaviors for each gender. The American West
with its large Indian, Hispanic, Anglo, and Asian populations—each with dis-
tinctive ideas about gender—seems a particularly fruitful place to study gen-
der and the relations of power.
However, because Johnson has devoted much of her essay to a critique of
Henry Nash Smith and Richard Slotkin, some readers will understand that
gender analysis is only a method of literary criticism. The writings of Smith
and Slotkin are important and fair game for critics, but their intellectual ap-
279
proach to history is limited and too easily dismissed by those who analyze the
past with a different set of tools. Thus, despite Professor Johnson's intentions,
her essay establishes gender analysis as a specialists' method that has little rel-
evance in other fields of western study. That is not the case. Once we begin to
look for "gender happening" in history, we find it everywhere. From the first
encounter of the Old World with the New, gender has been an issue in the
West.
When Europeans and Euro-Americans explored the continent, they
found native people with challenging ideas about gender. A brief survey of
America's native cultures turns up women farmers, berdaches (transvestite
men), polygyny, sexual acts in religious rites, unembarrassed nudity, female
political leaders, free and easy divorce, and complicated kinship arrangements
that defined the roles of men, women, and others. I say "others" because evi-
dently some tribes believed that there was a sex-gender continuum with
men at one pole, women at the other, and berdaches somewhere in between.
When soldiers, missionaries, and traders confronted this brave new world of
sex and gender, they were often confounded and sometimes delighted by the
possibilities.4
Europeans were more often repelled than inspired by the expanded possi-
bilities of native gender roles and relations. Most newcomers were not looking
for new genders to inhabit, although some of them soon discovered that in the
West their customary gendered identities had become problematic. The main
problem for missionaries, soldiers, government officials, and ordinary civilians
was to get people to behave according to the norms of European and Anglo-
American societies.
Whereas some men were willing to take advantage of the seemingly free
sexual attitudes of Indian women, many others were repelled. Whatever the
stance of the individual observer, one thing is clear: gender differences were of
immediate interest to Europeans. This interest, which amounted to a kind of
hobby for some writers, explorers, and chroniclers, was clearly expressed. In
1500 the Spanish novelist Garci Ordonez de Montalvo expressed his ideas
about the gender possibilities of the New World. "Know that on the right
hand of the Indies there is an island called California, very close to ... the
Terrestrial Paradise; and it was peopled by black women, without any man
among them, for they lived in the fashion of Amazons."5 Montalvo went on
to relate that these remarkable women rode griffins into battle, captured men,
used them for breeding, and then killed them. Welcome to the gender-bender
ball. Of course, the tale had a moral ending. A Spanish man subdued the
queen of the Amazons, who became a good Catholic. I do not know what be-
came of the griffins.
Montalvo's novel and other fabulous tales informed the gender expecta-
tions of Spanish conquistadors who reconnoitered the Southwest.6 They
found no griffin-riding Amazons, but near Arizona's Gila River, Indians told
one Spaniard that there was a nearby tribe whose men had penises so long that
they had to wrap them four times around their waists to keep from tripping.7
STARING AT THE SUN • 281
One wonders what questions elicited such a response. In any event, Spanish
explorers never found these remarkably equipped fellows; perhaps they had
eloped with the griffins.
Although the most bizarrely gendered creatures of the Spanish imagina-
tion did not materialize, Spaniards found the realities of Indian social life star-
tling enough. Throughout the Southwest the berdache tradition was
ubiquitous, and missionaries and soldiers alike agreed that homosexuality had
to be eradicated. Everywhere, the berdaches were persecuted and driven un-
derground. Neither were priests tolerant of customary Indian heterosexual
behavior, which was far more liberal than Catholic precepts permitted. Sol-
diers, however, were more open-minded on this matter and were pleased to
find that in some Indian societies, the sexual services of women were avail-
able. There was a dark side to interracial sex too. Missionaries frequently re-
ported that soldiers and civilians raped Indian women, which suggests one
clear implication of the intersection of cultures, genders, and conquest.8
When missionaries were not complaining about consensual and coerced sex,
they were working hard to reorganize the gender relations of western Indians
according to Catholic teachings and Spanish customs, which suggests another
implication of the relationship of power and gender.
Spanish priests and soldiers were not the only people who were con-
cerned with gender in North America. Fur traders and trappers, who are
sometimes seen as cultural brokers because they took Indian wives, occasion-
ally expressed disapproval of Indian gender roles and sexual behavior. More-
over, some fur traders tried to make over Indian wives so that they more
closely resembled their white counterparts.9 Alexander Henry the Younger, a
Northwest Company fur trader, was disdainful of Indian genders and sexual
practices that he regarded as unconventional. For example, in 1806 Henry
characterized the Hidatsa villagers as "loose and licentious"; the men took
"pride in displaying their nudities." Flenry added, "I am also informed that
they are much given to unnatural lusts and prefer a young man to a
woman."10 He was contemptuous of Hidatsa women because they would
sleep with a stranger "if he had any property" and also because they stretched
their labia to a length of several inches. Henry claimed to have personally ob-
served Hidatsa genitalia while the women were bathing, but he sternly refused
to have sex with them because he was 'too much disgusted with them and
their long tubes to wish to become more intimately acquainted."11 Perhaps,
but however intimately acquainted Henry may have been with the Hidatsa
women, he surely wanted his readers to know that his views on sex and gen-
der were orthodox.
And what about Custer, the boy-general with the cinnamon-perfumed
locks? Whatever his physical appearance may have implied, his letters and
those of his wife, Elizabeth, indicate that his erotic tastes were unambiguously
heterosexual. There is some evidence that suggests that Colonel Custer had
extramarital affairs with an officer's wife and perhaps other women as well.
His best-documented liaison was with Monahsetah, a young Cheyenne
woman captured during the Battle of the Washita in November 1868. Custer
and some of his officers shared their blankets with Cheyenne women during
the winter campaign that followed the fight at Washita. Some of those
Cheyenne women inhabited the "fatal environment" of the Little Bighorn
Valley when Custer arrived in 1876. They remembered him. After the battle
they prevented others from mutilating his corpse, and they inserted sewing
awls in his ears "to improve his hearing," according to Kate Big Head.12 Is this
distinctly Cheyenne women's act an example of the intersection of gender, the
relations of power, and conquest in the American West? I think so.
The gendered history of the West was not relegated to acts of violent con-
quest. Federal Indian agents were eager to thrust Indian women and men into
new gender roles that the dominant society approved. Indian men should give
up hunting and fighting and should become farmers—women's work in many
native societies. And women must learn the homemaking skills that were so
highly valued in the cult of domesticity if they were to become a part of the
new western society that was abuilding.13
As Professor Johnson urges, historians should give increased attention to
gender in the history of the American West. The examples cited here suggest
that frontier encounters prompted most participants to interpret new experi-
ences through the gendered lenses of their own time and culture. Insofar as
the customs of Indians and others posed a challenge, the new masters of the
West sought to regender its people along familiar lines that reinforced the sta-
tus of victor and vanquished alike.
Notes
1. Richard A. Bartlett, The New Country: A Social History of the American Fron-
tier, 1776-1890 (New York, 1974), 343.
2. The following titles are merely suggestive of the breadth and depth of recent
literature on western women. Susan Armitage and Elizabeth Jameson, eds., The
Women's West (Norman, 1987); Anne M. Butler, Daughters of Joy, Sisters of Misery:
Prostitutes in the American West, 1865—90 (Urbana, 1985); Joan M. Jensen and Darlis
A. Miller, eds., New Mexico Women: Intercultural Perspectives (Albuquerque, 1986);
Polly Welts Kaufman, Women Teachers on the Frontier (New Haven, 1984); Peggy
Pascoe, Relations of Rescue: The Search for Female Moral Authority in the American
West, 1874-1939 (New York, 1990); Sarah Deutsch, No Separate Refuge: Culture,
Class, and Gender on an Anglo-Hispanic Frontier in the American Southwest,
1880-1940 (New York, 1987); Glenda Riley, A Place to Grow: Women in the Ameri-
can West (Arlington Heights, 111., 1992); Glenda Riley, The Female Frontier: A Com-
parative View of Women on the Prairie and the Plains (Lawrence, 1988).
3. Chandler Burr, "Homosexuality and Biology," Atlantic Monthly 271
(March 1993): 47-65.
4. Several recent works examine the berdache tradition in North America. See
Walter L. Williams, The Spirit and the Flesh: Sexual Diversity in American Indian Cul-
ture (Boston, 1986), 17-127; Will Roscoe, The Zuni Man Woman (Albuquerque,
STARING AT THE SUN • 283
1991), 123-46 and passim; and Ramon A. Gutierrez, When Jesus Came, the Corn
Mothers Went Away: Marriage, Sexuality, and Power in New Mexico, 1500-1846
(Stanford, 1991), 33-35. See also Ramon A. Gutierrez, "Must We Deracinate Indi-
ans to Find Gay Roots?" Out/Look (Winter 1989), 61-67.
5. Montalvo quoted in Herbert E. Bolton, The Spanish Borderlands: A Chroni-
cle of Old Florida and the Southwest (New Haven, 1921), 105.
6. George P. Hammond, "The Search for the Fabulous in the Settlement of the
Southwest," in New Spain's Far Northern Frontier: Essays on Spain in the American
West, ed. David J. Weber (Albuquerque, 1979), 17-33.
7. Herbert E. Bolton, ed. and trans., "Father Escobar's Relation of the Oiiate
Expedition to California in 1605," Catholic Historical Review 5 (April 1919): 37.
8. Albert L. Hurtado, "Sexuality in California's Franciscan Missions," Califor-
nia History 7 \ (Fall 1992): 370-85, 451-53; Gutierrez, Whenjesus Came, 123, 184.
9. Jennifer S. H. Brown, Strangers in Blood: Fur Trade Company Families in In-
dian Country (Vancouver, B.C., 1980); Sylvia Van Kirk, Many Tender Ties: Women
in Fur-Trade Society, 1670—1870 (Norman, 1980). William Swagerty points up the
bicultural role of fur traders in "Marriage and Settlement Patterns of Rocky Moun-
tain Trappers and Traders," Western Historical Quarterly II (April 1980): 159-80.
10. Elliott Coues, ed., New Light on the Early History of the Greater Northwest:
The Manuscript Journals of Alexander Henry and David Thompson, 1799-1814, 3 vols.
(New York, 1897), 1:347-48.
11. Ibid., 357.
12. Robert M. Utley, Cavalier in Buckskin: George Armstrong Custer and the
Western Military Frontier (Norman, 1988), 107, 110. Kate Big Head is quoted on
193.
13. See, for example, Robert A. 1 rennert, "Educating Indian Girls at Nonreser-
vation Boarding Schools, 1878-1920," Western Historical Quarterly 13 Quly 1982):
271-90; R. Douglas Hurt, Indian Agriculture in America: Prehistory to the Present
(Eawrence, 1987), 96-112; and Albert L. Hurtado, "California Indians and the
Workaday West: Labor, Assimilation and Survival," California History 69 (Spring
1990): 2-11,77-79.
A Regendered, Reracialized, Resituated West

DeenaJ. Gonzalez
A recent radio program broadcast out of Phoenix, Arizona, asked listeners to

describe the "old" West; phone lines were flooded with messages from old-
timers decrying the new history they heard was being promoted by "politi-
cally correct," "left-wing" and "feminist-female" academics. One caller
wanted to know why these "fanatics" did not leave well enough alone; another
asked why the "females" were so interested in destroying "our birthright, our
heritage, our one natural resource—the old, Wild West."
A local historian answered some of their questions, and as I listened, I
could not help but think of the importance of the work of the new historians
featured in this collection. We heard a few years ago of the fallout trailing the
articles, interviews, and conference discussions of Patricia Nelson Limerick,
Richard White, William Cronon, and Peggy Pascoe. Revisionist western his-
tory was attacked or defended, but many of the older practitioners of western
U.S. history appeared to be caught unaware, just as audiences in Phoenix reg-
istered opinions but qualified them with statements like, "I never knew this
was going on in western history too; I thought it was restricted to things like
blacks and whites."
Susan Johnson's essay will necessarily raise eyebrows and cause consterna-
tion of a similar sort, because she negotiates the suspicious terrain of "the"
West and dislodges it even further from comfortable "gendered" moorings; by
launching the field into interdisciplinary waters—gender studies, women's-
feminist studies, labor history, queer theory—she destabilizes the West as
male preserve, a historiographical process actually several decades old. But she
goes beyond this by suggesting that when regendered, reracialized, and resex-
ualized, this newly reconstructed "West" acquires different meanings, some of
them dangerous to audiences who would have their West remain what
movies, dime novels, and ex-presidents confirm. Johnson's task, then, requires
considerable courage, especially when confronted by a self-consciously styled
national mythology, of the Wild West variety, and by the accompanying po-
litical agenda it regenerates, of the electoral variety.
Johnson's work breaks new ground, but it also follows an older path. Ever
since the Henry Nash Smiths and their students—Annette Kolodny comes to
mind but, in general, the new "American Studies" schools of thinking—began
probing the meanings of the West in the American imagination and as a
global phenomenon, scholars have busily attended to excavations of underex-
plored topics to emerge with enriching details. Gay forty-niners (not the foot-
ball players), women tilling the land, cowgirls, Native American sculptors,
and postcard art with its racially charged messages form the richness domi-
nating "western" history. Similarly, feminist scholars began over two decades
ago to unravel the situations, positions, and contradictory poses of the many
groups of women who settled, conquered, and resettled the U.S. "West."
Conferences especially exploded the popular assumptions about women's
roles and women's lives, sometimes recasting in their place equally restrictive
depictions, but new ones nevertheless. Chicano/a scholars have for twenty-
five years defaced the racially embedded mythologies surrounding Mexican-
ness in the "classic" texts of U.S. western history.
One important point of departure for Chicano/a scholars—a result of
our training in Mexican Studies, Southwestern/Borderlands history, and Eth-
nic Studies—resided in the simple, if still overlooked, fact that long before the
REGENDERED, RERACIALIZED, RESITUATED • 285
United States was conceived, the region now hegemonized as tkeWest was ter-
ritory and land controlled first by native residents, second by the Spanish Em-
pire, and third by Mexicans. In Legacy of Conquest, Patricia Nelson Limerick
reframed the story, with the notion of cycles of conquest traced across the cen-
turies, and this popularized an important contribution that in turn helped al-
ter the questions that historians (dubbed the revisionists' brigade or the "new
western" historians) seek to answer. Researching topics on the "American"
"West" requires much patience, as all of these quotation marks attest, but the
thick qualification of each topic, from race to racism, sex to gender, and so on,
is indeed a symbol of a revamping. The curriculum of the "West" today tests
stereotypes as much as it is grounded in them, assesses origins (the myth of the
cowboy, the "vanquished" Indians) as much as it is inheritor of them. If these
newer trends document confusion or yield new theories, so be it, scholars like
Johnson suggest. Conferences, papers, talks, and museums (new ones like the
Women of the West Museum, which will open in Denver, or the Gene Autry
Museum in Los Angeles) all become forums for disrupting wagon-train his-
tory—sometimes gently, sometimes not. Naturally, the dislocations and en-
circlements that follow are difficult for many, particularly those who spend
less time reading the new ethnography, cultural studies, feminist-gender-
queer theory, and literary criticism—all prerequisites for any revisionist.
The newer work is not without its difficulties. Partly, the richness or ob-
tuseness in vocabularies embedded in the recent scholarship generates disdain
or enchantment. Either way, we are stuck in what Limerick suggested over
and over again in Legacy: we fear modernity and yet can't wait to get past it.
Beyond lies postmodern fractionalism, possibly a new "frontier," but certainly
a dilemma that every good "westerner" has faced: to go or stay? Clearly, John-
son's work, grounded as it is as well in the new feminist theory, makes the case
for the necessity of "wider" readings. Wide-ranging bibliographies that ques-
tion sex and gender as categories of analysis do not, however, imply that we
forget Marx (in this case, both Karl and Leo) but that we have a familiarity
with the classics of many varieties and with the work challenging construc-
tions on all levels. This is hardly new in western history, for borderlands his-
torians throughout this century questioned geography in refuting Frederick
Jackson Turner and, by example, depicted migration as a south-to-north phe-
nomenon. This is hardly new to readers of Smith, Marx, Kolodny, and
Richard Slotkin and, more recently, Limerick, White, and Cronon. What is
new—with Johnson—is the attention paid to the work by women of color,
not women of color as subject categories^&r analysis but as actual theoreticians
with an analysis situated historically and marked by difference and differing
inquiries. If you have not read Gloria Anzaldiia, Norma Alarcon, Alicia Gas-
par de Alba, Ana Castillo, Sandra Cisneros, Emma Perez, or Chela Sandoval
for the new writings on and from the Chicana borderlands, Johnson's essay
suggests, your homework awaits you. If, in labor history, you know Camille
Guerin-Gonzales or Vicki Ruiz, your analysis is enriched. If the names Paula

Gunn Allen, Valerie Matsumoto, and Yvette Huginnie are unfamiliar, you do
not know western history.
In an important historiographical essay in the Pacific Historical Review,
the historian Antonia Castaneda argued the necessity of—supported here by
Johnson's work as well—redesigning concepts in western history, not for in-
clusion per se (we hope to be well beyond that, although some western
women's history and many survey courses still evidence this tendency, espe-
cially in syllabi or in overcrowded classrooms) but instead for a fundamental
reorientation, beginning with dislocation and avoiding circular reasonings or
renditions. An example of this would be to ask what Asian-American women's
history affords traditional western history or U.S. history. In chronological
breakdown alone, Asian-American women's stories suggest that the Civil War
and the U.S.-Mexican War might not be appropriate as cutoff dates, and the
structure as well as the chronology needs to be held accountable. Similarly,
Nativ 2 American chronologies do not abide the "western"-western dictatorial
practice of a precontact/postconquest divide, as if no Native American soci-
eties practiced diplomacy or war before the Europeans arrived. These histories
and the rich documentary evidence upon which they are based—when histo-
rians of the West become capable linguistically—suggest not simply revamp-
ing but severe questioning of the alignments that organize our topics,
subjects, and bibliographies. As Johnson's essay demonstrates, cycles of ex-
change, of conquest, and of wills belie that some people won and many "oth-
ers" lost in the conquest of the Mexican North, the U.S. West. The West as
foregone conclusion is only a recent "fact," and books suggesting the opposite
might benefit from the example of the reorientation grounding Johnson's
work by taking a longer chronological and cultural view. The recommenda-
tion strikes me as one of the important missing links in our current work in
this field, and it is also one Johnson could strengthen as she avoids catalogu-
ing the contributions and perspectives of women of color when she reorga-
nizes questions around the newer studies of race, class, ethnicity, sex, gender,
and sexuality. A summation of the fresh questions to accompany the inventive
concepts would mark the essay historiographically as well.
Reading Johnson's essay primarily as exhortation neglects another di-
mension. Her method—if historians indeed adhere to any methodology or
combinations of them—teaches valuable lessons and is also the benchmark of
the "new" western history. Theoretical thinking is not sufficient; rather, theo-
rizing tagged to particular experiences, stories, and ideologies shapes thefrac-
tice of western history. Glances in the direction of ethnic studies are
insufficient, this essay emphasizes. Rather, it is the explicit message, theory,
and application of bell hooks's point about multiple selves and myriad repre-
sentations that Johnson takes to heart and applies to Walt Whitman and
George Armstrong Custer alike. Whitman makes Custer whiter than white
and masculinizes him in Whitman's own (homoerotic) tradition. Custer is
neither tragic figure nor hero but a complex figure because our memories of
him are not alike, and he affronts collective racial memories at every turn.
REGENDERED, RERACIALIZED, RESITUATED « 287
What we have failed to take into account in the new western history is pre-
cisely the notion that we too feminize-masculinize in our own image and that
this textures our renderings of Calamity Jane or Babe Bean. We are not
painters or artists in that sense, but we are, as good social historians, story-
tellers capable of "filling in" the blank spots. In fact, many of us enjoy work-
ing from the blank canvas toward the larger picture and not the reverse, as
has been so common especially among the followers of Turner or Herbert
Eugene Bolton. In other words, this essay informs us that the task is not to pay
attention to the marginal or marginalized but to join where possible the mar-
gins for a wider reading anda reformulated reading of the "wild West." Hon-
est positionings require an intellectual rigor sustained by an interdisciplinary
thinking that has been absent in much western history. (As Johnson says, "I
see this, then, as a specific intervention in the rewriting of western history.")
An "overdetermined" male—western history relationship, as Johnson says, is
precisely the point, but the conclusion also calls for a refocusing with differ-
ently trained senses; adding "bad girls," cowgirls, or widow-farmers to the list
is not the task, unless we want to "sell" western women's history or overdeter-
mine fernaleness against male westerners. Euro-American men and women
were equally conquerors, day laborers, poor migrants, and, before 1848, ille-
gal immigrants. We should seek not egalitarian-companionate mythologies
but revamped, far-reaching, and layered ones. What we welcome in Johnson,
ultimately, and in other work like hers, is the ability to say that writing against
the grain, that is, whipping past Turner, Bolton, or any number of others, is
no longer the motive. Creating a new vision of a new West is more to the
point, and with this work, we are approaching that goal.
Bibliography
Allen, Paula Gunn. The Sacred Hoop: Recovering the Feminine in American Indian
Traditions. Boston, 1986.
Anzaldua, Gloria. Borderlands!La Frontera: The New Mestiza.San Francisco, 1987.
Castaneda, Antonia. "Women of Color and the Rewriting of Western History: The
Discourse, Politics, and Decolonization of History." Pacific Historical Review 61
(November 1992): 501-33.
Castillo, Ana. So Far from God. New York, 1993.
Cisneros, Sandra. Woman Hollering Creek. New York, 1991.
Cronon, William. Changes in the Land: Indians, Colonists, and the Ecology of New Eng-
land. New York, 1983.
Caspar de Alba, Alicia. The Mystery of Survival and Other Stories. Tucson, 1993.
Guerin-Gonzales, Camille. Mexican Workers and American Dreams: Immigration,
Repatriation, and California Farm Labor, 1900—1939. New Brunswick, N.J.,
1994.
hooks, bell. Talking Back: Thinking Feminist, Thinking Black. Boston, 1988.
Huginnie, Andrea Yvctte. "'Strikitos': Race, Class, and Work in the Arizona Copper
Industry, 1 870-1920." Ph.D. diss., Yale University, 1992.
Kolodny, Annette. The Land before Her: Fantasy and Experience of the American Fron-
tiers, 1630-1860. Chapel Hill, 1984.
Limerick, Patricia Nelson. The Legacy of Conquest: The Unbroken Past of the American
West. New York, 1987.
Marx, Leo. The Machine in the Garden: Technology and the Pastoral Ideal in America.
New York, 1964.
Matsumoto, Valerie. "Desperately Seeking 'Deirdre': Gender Roles, Multicultural
Relations, and Nisei Women Writers of the 1930s." Frontiers: Journal of
Women's Studies 12 (1991): 19-32.
Pascoe, Peggy. "At the Crossroads of Culture." Women's Review of Books 7(5) (1990):
22-23.
Perez, Emma. Gulf Dreams. Berkeley, 1996.
Ruiz, Vicki. Cannery Women, Cannery Lives: Mexican Women, Unionization, and the
California Food Processing Industry, 1930-1950. Albuquerque, 1987.
Sandoval, Anna. "Binding the Ties: Toward a Comparative Study of Chicana and
Mexicana Literature." Ph.D. diss., University of California, Santa Cruz, forth-
coming.
Slotkin, Richard. Regeneration through Violence: The Mythology of the American Fron-
tier, 1600-1860. Middletown, Conn., 1973.
Smith, Henry Nash. Virgin Land: The American West as Symbol and Myth. Cam-
bridge, Mass., 1950.
White, Richard. Land Use, Environment, and Social Change: The Shaping of Island
County, Washington. Seattle, 1980.
9 Concluding Statements
Through the Prism of Race:

The Meaning of African-American
History in the West
Quintard Taylor
The new western history, with its emphasis on race, class, and gender,
owes much—as David G. Gutierrez, Susan Lee Johnson, Arnoldo De
Leon, and other contributors to this volume have acknowledged—to the
innovative scholarship on African-American history and the black studies
that emerged in the 1970s and 1980s. Ironically, the scholarship they
praise remains focused largely on the South or the East, since the experi-
ences of African Americans west of the ninety-eighth meridian have yet to
be addressed in any systematic, comprehensive manner. Unlike Asian-
American, Chicano, or much of nineteenth- and twentieth-century Na-
tive American history, areas that are axiomatically "western" in orientation
even if their field of historical vision originates from across the Pacific, the
Bering Strait, or the Rio Grande, the African-American past in the West
continues to be viewed by western regional historians and historians of
African America as an interesting footnote to a story focused elsewhere.
This dearth of black western scholarship is particularly surprising consid-
ering the size of the black population. As early as 1870, African Americans
constituted 12 percent of the region's population, some 284,000 people,
and resided in every state and territory in the "West.1
Reconstructing black western history is imperative not simply because
of the commendable desire to celebrate the region's rich ethnic diversity or
to "correct" prevailing stereotypes. We must, in addition, ask often dis-
turbing questions about relations of power among the various diverse peo-
ples of the region, relations that found expression at different times in
conflict, cooperation, and accommodation. The Los Angeles riot of 1992,
as Gail Nomura indicated in her essay on Asians and Asian Americans in
289
the region, made the nation aware of the complex relationships between
peoples of color in the modern urban West. Yet the multiple sources of
that relationship are rooted in five centuries of encounter of racially and
culturally diverse peoples both as individuals and as distinct populations.
African-American history in the West affords one opportunity to examine
those shifting relationships, to provide a different prism for viewing the
entire western experience. Moreover, western black history tests the valid-
ity of western exceptionalism as originally advanced by Frederick Jackson
Turner and as posited in a quite different context by many "new West" his-
torians. Was the West significantly different for African Americans? Given
the paucity of research on blacks in the region, a preliminary answer must,
of necessity, rest on superficial and inconclusive evidence. Yet that answer
suggests both yes, if we note the success of post—Civil War western blacks
in gaining and keeping voting rights everywhere in the region except
Texas, and no, if we consider the emergence of postbellum discriminatory
legislation symbolized by antimiscegenation statutes and public school
segregation in states as diverse as Montana, Arizona, and Kansas. Such am-
biguity arising from African-American history in the West surely compli-
cates the region's past.2
That complication begins with the earliest African arrivals in the re-
gion. Accounts of Estevan, the black slave who ventured to New Spain's
northern frontier in 1539 in the futile search for the fabled Seven Cities
of Cibola, or of Isabel de Olvera, who was a member of the Juan Guerra
de Resa colonization expedition to New Mexico in 1600 and who became
the first free black woman to enter the West (predating by nineteen years
the landing of twenty Africans at Jamestown), should be removed from the
"contributions" school of ethnic history and allowed to suggest myriad
possibilities for reconceptualizing the region's past. Estevans travels, for
example, initiated the meeting of Indian and Spanish cultures, which
shaped much of the region's history. Moreover, Estevan, Isabel de Olvera,
and the hundreds of other Spanish-speaking black settlers who populated
cities and towns from San Antonio to San Francisco and who in 1781 were
a majority of the founders of Los Angeles, the greatest of the West's cities,
confirm the "multicultural" West as the meeting place of diverse races and
cultures long before the arrival of nineteenth-century English-speaking
settlers. From the sixteenth through the eighteenth centuries, people of
African ancestry who migrated to what now constitutes the West were far
more likely to have moved north from central Mexico rather than west
from the Atlantic slope. Their experiences call for a reinterpretation of
Spanish-Mexican history in the Southwest to illustrate the enigmatic role
of race in shaping social and cultural traditions in colonial and postcolo-
THROUGH THE PRISM OF RACE • 291
nial Mexican society. Those traditions, in turn, confounded Anglo sensi-

bilities on proper racial attitudes long after the Treaty of Guadalupe Hi-
dalgo established American sovereignty over the region.3
African-American history in the West often reveals paradoxes and
ironies as in Revolutionary Era Texas, where the liberty of Anglo slave-
holders was in direct opposition to the freedom of black people. Mexico's
constitution of 1821 renounced black slavery and proclaimed political
equality for all of the nation's inhabitants. The promise of freedom and
equality proved a powerful attraction for fugitive slaves and free blacks
"from the states." The Sabine River became a political and racial frontier
for the small number of intrepid African Americans who arrived in Mexi-
can Texas in the 1820s. Many were fugitive slaves, but the immigrants also
included free blacks determined to live under what they viewed as Mexi-
can liberty rather than American tyranny. Samuel H. Hardin, for exam-
ple, wrote that he and his wife had moved to Texas because Mexico's laws
"invited their emigration" and guaranteed their right to own property.
Yet the aspirations of free blacks and their supporters for a free, racially
tolerant Texas soon conflicted with the goal of southern white planters
to transform the Mexican province into an empire for slavery. By 1835
Texas slaveholders had duplicated the slave system of the United States,
increasing the servile population to 10 percent of English-speaking Tex-
ans. With growing numbers of slaveholders demanding the protection of
their property while openly selling black slaves, Anglo Texans and the
Mexican government were on a collision course that would lead to the
Alamo.4
African Americans would soon be engulfed in the tumultuous cre-
ation of independent Texas. For many Texas slaves the flag of Mexico
rather than the revolutionaries' "lone star" seemed the banner of liberty. In
February 1836, one month before his siege of the Alamo, General Anto-
nio Lopez de Santa Anna, commander of the Mexican Army, queried gov-
ernment officials in Mexico City about the liberation of the slaves. "Shall
we permit those wretches to moan in chains any longer in a country whose
kind laws protect the liberty of man without distinction of cast or color?"
Minister of War Jose Marfa Tornel provided an answer on March 18.
While affirming that "the philanthropy of the Mexican nation" had
already freed the slaves, he informed the commanding general to grant
their "natural rights" including "the liberty to go to any point on the
globe" that appealed to them, to remain in Texas, or to move to another
part of Mexico. The Mexican Army seemed poised to become a legion
of liberation. As that army crossed the Colorado and Brazos Rivers
moving into the region heavily populated by slaves, the boldest of the
bondspeople took flight toward Santa Anna's forces both when they
marched into Texas and when they retreated. In return for Mexican pro-
tection, these fugitives served as spies, messengers, or provocateurs for
their liberators.5
The victory of the Texas revolutionaries over the Mexican Army set in
motion political forces that in the next decade succeeded in adding all of
Mexico's northern territories to the United States. But it also initiated the
status decline of the free blacks who had sought refuge in Texas, and it
fixed African slavery as the predominate labor system. With the guarantee
of governmental protection, the "peculiar institution" of Texas grew from
three thousand African Americans held in bondage in 1835 to a quarter of
a million slaves three decades later.
African-American agricultural history on the high plains provides the
prism through which to explore William Deverell's theme of the West as
the "place to witness the limits of the American promise of success and up-
ward mobility." On a thousand-mile frontier from North Dakota to Ok-
lahoma, African-American homesteaders, propelled by the twin desires for
land and "political freedom" in the West, confronted the broad, virtually
treeless Great Plains. The Langston City Herald, the newspaper for the
most famous all-black town in Oklahoma Territory, proclaimed as much
in 1893 when it called on southern blacks to avail themselves of the last
chance to secure "free homes" on government domain. "Everyone that can
should go to the [Cherokee] strip . . . and get a hundred and sixty, all
you need . . . is a Winchester, a frying pan, and the $15.00 filing fee."
In Graham County, Kansas, in 1879, Logan County, Oklahoma, in 1891,
or Cherry County, Nebraska, in 1904, African-American women and men
tried and often failed to "conquer" the plains. One gets a sense of this
daunting challenge through the eyes of one settler, Willianna Hickman,
who wrote excitedly of navigating across the plains by compass in the sum-
mer of 1878, destined for the first of these high plains black settlements:
Nicodemus, Kansas. When fellow emigrants exclaimed, "There is Nicode-
mus!" she anxiously surveyed the landscape. Expecting to find buildings
on the horizon, she said: "I looked with all the eyes I had. 'Where is
Nicodemus? I don't see it.'" Her husband responded to her question by
pointing to the plumes of smoke coming out of the ground. "The families
lived in dugouts," she dejectedly recalled. "We landed and struck tents.
The scenery was not at all inviting and I began to cry."6
Success for black western farmers rested on a tenuous foundation of
ample credit and rain. The absence of either could spell disaster. Gilbert
Fite did not have black farmers in mind when he wrote: "Rather than re-
alizing their Jeffersonian dreams establishing a successful farm and living a
happy, contented life . . . [fanners] were battered and defeated by

nature and ruined by economic conditions over which they had no con-
trol. Many western pioneers . . . who filed on government land soon
found that natural and human-made barriers defeated their hopes and as-
pirations." Yet the statement reflected the experience of a disproportion-
ate number of black agriculturalists on the high plains. Moreover,
statistics indicated that the general poverty of black homesteaders from
the South prevented their acquiring the land necessary to sustain their
farming efforts in the West. In Oklahoma, the state that received the
largest number of African-American homesteaders, black farm ownership
peaked at 13,000 in 1910. Perhaps more telling, 38 percent of these farm-
ers had less than 50 acres. In a region where large landholding was a ne-
cessity, the small size of these farms ensured a rapid exit from western
agriculture.7
Yet the experiences of black homesteaders in northwestern Nebraska
suggest that farm size alone did not ensure success. The Kinkaid Home-
stead Act of 1904, which threw open thousands of acres of the Sandhills
region of Nebraska, provided the last opportunity for black homesteading
in the state. Recognizing the arid condition of the land, the federal gov-
ernment provided homestead claims of 640 rather than 160 acres. The
first African American to file a claim, Clem Deaver, arrived in 1904.
Other blacks followed, and by 1910 twenty-four families filed claim to
14,000 acres of land in Cherry County. Eight years later 185 blacks held
40,000 acres. Yet in a pattern much like that in Oklahoma, Kansas, and
eastern Colorado, black farm families, unable to render the land produc-
tive enough for sustainable incomes, began leaving the isolated region in
the early 1920s for Denver, Omaha, or Lincoln. The disappearance of
black homesteaders from the high plains constitutes one of many crucial
areas in need of scholarly investigation.8
Nowhere are the possibilities of re-envisioning the West through the
prism of African-American history greater than in an assessment of
the struggle of people of color for their civil rights. Patricia Nelson
Limerick and Gary Y. Okihiro have called for a reorientation of civil rights
history away from the southern movement of the 1950s and 1960s to in-
corporate the longer campaigns of people of color in the West. As Okihiro
wrote elsewhere in this volume, "Racial minorities, in their struggles for
inclusion and equality, helped to preserve and advance the very privileges
that were denied to them." The long black struggle for civil rights in the
West is an example. That struggle, so identified with twentieth-century
southern history, was already engaged in the West a century before Rosa
Parks's fateful refusal to relinquish her seat on a Montgomery, Alabama,
bus in 1955. Its multiple sources include the legal and extralegal cam-
paigns of California African Americans to free Robert Perkins, Biddy Ma-
son, Archy Lee, and numerous other slaves held in the state in the 1850s,
their efforts to repeal discriminatory laws, and their sponsorship of four
statewide conventions between 1855 and 1865 to present their political
grievances.
Indeed, California's "Rosa Parks" emerged when the rest of the nation
was still in the throes of the Civil War. On April 17, 1863, Charlotte
Brown was ejected from a San Francisco streetcar because of her race. In
her subsequent suit against the Omnibus Company for $200 in damages,
the jury awarded her just five cents (the cost of the fare). Three days after
the trial she was again ejected from an Omnibus streetcar, and she brought
a second suit for $3,000 in damages; this suit ended on January 17, 1865,
with a jury awarding her $500. When she was forced to file suit a third
time, the Omnibus Company in October 1866 finally rescinded its policy
of exclusion.9
That civil rights struggle intensified during "western" Reconstruction.
Black westerners were understandably anxious that the Reconstruction
process in the ex-Confederate states ensure political participation for the
ex-slaves, but they also understood their own grievances. Denial of the
right to vote and exclusion from public schools, the jury box, public trans-
portation, and accommodations were painful reminders of the limitations
on black freedom despite the formal end of slavery in 1865. For western
blacks, Reconstruction meant obtaining full citizenship within their states
and territories as well as urging comparable rights for the freedpeople of
the South.
The right to vote epitomized complete African-American political
emancipation. In 1865 black women and men in Virginia City, Nevada,
initiated a series of meetings, which led to the formation of the Nevada
Executive Committee, to petition the next legislature for voting rights.
The following year a convention of black men meeting in Lawrence,
Kansas, challenged the widely held idea that black voting was a privilege
that the white male electorate could embrace or reject at its pleasure. Then
the convention issued this warning to the Euro-American majority in
the state: "Since we are going to remain among you, we believe it unwise
to ... take from us as a class, our natural rights. Shall our presence con-
duce to the welfare, peace, and prosperity of the state, or ... be a cause
of dissension, discord, and irritation [?] We must be a constant trouble in
the state until it extends to us equal and exact justice."10
The victory that black westerners gained in their campaign for suf-
frage in Colorado Territory had national implications. Between 1864 and
1867, Colorado Territory's 150 African Americans, including Lewis and

Frederick Douglass Jr., sons of the national civil rights leader, waged a re-
lentless campaign to press Congress to delay statehood for the territory
until their suffrage rights were guaranteed. William J, Hardin, who had
arrived in Denver in 1863, quickly assumed the leadership of this effort,
contacting Massachusetts Senator Charles Sumner by letter and telegram
to outline the grievances of the territory's African Americans. Hardin is-
sued an ominous warning in his February 1866 letter to Senator Sumner
when he declared, "Slavery went down in a great deluge of blood, and I
greatly fear, unless the american [sic] people learn from the past to do jus-
tice now & in the future, that their cruel prejudices will go down in the
same crimson blood." Senator Sumner declared his opposition to Col-
orado statehood after reading the black leader's telegram before the U.S.
Senate.11
The debate over black suffrage restrictions in Colorado prompted
Congress to pass the Territorial Suffrage Act in January 1867, which gave
black male residents the right to vote. Consequently Colorado blacks and
those in the remaining territories were guaranteed suffrage months before
similar rights were extended to African Americans in the southern states
and three years before ratification of the Fifteenth Amendment ensured
similar rights for African American men in northern and western states.
Yet the suffrage campaign revealed the ambiguities and contradictions of
nineteenth-century western reform movements. Leading white Republi-
can advocates of black voting rights—leaders such as Nevada Senator
William Stewart, a sponsor of the Fifteenth Amendment—nonetheless
opposed Chinese voting rights. But so did much of California's African-
American leadership. Philip A. Bell, a veteran of both the New York abo-
litionist movement and the antebellum California civil rights campaign
and editor of the San Francisco Elevator, was unequivocally blunt regard-
ing Chinese suffrage. "We make no issue in the Chinese question," Bell
declared during the post—Civil. War black suffrage campaign in his state.
"Let them 'paddle their own canoe.'" Respective leaders of the parallel suf-
frage campaigns in Kansas for women and for black men bitterly resented
the linking of their two reforms on an 1867 Kansas referendum and cor-
rectly predicated that both would fail. Yet when women were allowed
to vote in Wyoming Territory in 1869 and Washington Territory in
1883, African-American women quickly embraced their new civic
responsibilities.12
The struggle for civil rights intensified in the twentieth century, par-
ticularly after the arrival of World War II—era black defense workers and
their families in the urban West, increasing the region's African-American
population 33 percent from 1.3 million to 1.8 million between 1940 and
1950.13 Determined to challenge local and national racial restrictions and
obtain a double victory over the Axis and Jim Crow, black activists rein-
vigorated moribund civil rights organizations (the Seattle chapter of the
National Association for the Advancement of Colored People increased
from 85 to 1,550 members between 1941 and 1945) and launched a full-
scale assault on western citadels of racial discrimination, including some of
the most powerful labor unions in the nation. In Seattle the enlarged black
community, supported by white and Asian allies and ultimately the federal
government, challenged the exclusionary practices of the International As-
sociation of Machinists (IAM) Local 751, prompting the local to admit
people of color and white women on a nondiscriminatory basis at Boeing
Aircraft and forcing the IAM itself to remove its color bar at its national
convention in 1946. A similar campaign by black shipyard workers against
the International Boilermakers' Union in Portland, in the San Francisco
Bay area, in Los Angeles, and in Honolulu led to the union's postwar ad-
mission of African-American workers and put in place important legal
precedents that would be used in the 1960s and 1970s to challenge work-
place discrimination throughout the nation.14
World War II—era efforts were mere preparation, however, for the civil
rights activity that exploded onto the western scene in the 1960s. From
San Antonio to Seattle, African Americans took to the streets as an integral
part of the national campaign that attempted to eradicate racism, em-
power black communities, and achieve the full and final democratization
of the United States. The Seattle "Movement," for example, an entirely lo-
cal effort mounted by blacks and sympathetic whites and Asians, em-
ployed sit-ins, economic boycotts, protest marches, and other forms of
nonviolent demonstration to confront the three major grievances of the
black community—job discrimination, housing bias, and de facto school
segregation. When Reverend John H. Adams, a local civil rights activist,
proudly proclaimed in 1963 that the civil rights movement had "finally
leaped the Cascade Mountains," he was simply confirming the rise of a
nonviolent crusade that had already engaged the energies and aspirations
of thousands of Seattleites. Although the "direct action" efforts of western
black civil rights activists and their allies did not eliminate all of their racial
grievances, the campaign nonetheless demolished decades-old barriers to
opportunity and equality throughout the region, confirming what nine-
teenth-century black westerners had long known: the struggle for racial
justice was not simply a southern campaign but had to be waged in every
corner of the nation including the American West.15
The study of race, ethnicity, and the interaction of the various "cul-
tures" constitutes a crucial pillar of the "new" western history. In an influ-

ential article published in 1986, Richard White argued that the peculiar
pattern of race relations in the region provides much of the foundation for
western distinctiveness. Without it the West "might as well be New Jersey
with mountains and deserts." African-American history in the West af-
fords us the opportunity to test the validity of that thesis. It also signals a
challenge to African-Americanist historians to write truly "national" his-
tory and to western regional historians, as Limerick has urged, to define
the West as a reflection of its complex, varied, paradoxical history of dom-
inance and resistance, of conflict, competition, and cooperation, of success
and failure, rather than as a collage of heroic stereotypes.16
Notes
1. See U.S. Bureau of the Census, Negro Population in the United States,
1790-1915 (Washington, D.C., 1918), 43, 44. W. Sherman Savage's Blacks in the
West (Westport, Conn., 1976) remains the only synthesis of black history in the re-
gion, although it ends, in classic Turnerian fashion, in 1890. Virtually all other history
of African Americans in the region can be found in articles or in the few monographs
usually on nineteenth-century black soldiers, histories of individual states, or twenti-
eth-century urban communities. See for example William L. Leckie, Buffalo Soldiers:
A Narrative of the Negro Cavalry in the West (Norman, 1967); Alwyn Barr, Black Tex-
ans: A History of Negroes in Texas, 1528-1971 (Austin, 1973); Albert S. Broussard,
Black San Francisco: The Struggle for Racial Equality in the West, 1900—1950
(Lawrence, 1993); or Quintard Taylor, The Forging of a Black Community: Seattle's
Central District from 1870 to the Civil Rights Era (Seattle, 1994).
2. See for example Donald A. Grinde Jr. and Quintard Taylor, "Red vs. Black:
Conflict and Accommodation in the Post Civil War Indian Territory, 1865-1907,"
American Indian Quarterly 8 (Summer 1984): 211-29, and Quintard Taylor, "Blacks
and Asians in a White City: Japanese Americans and African Americans in Seattle,
1890-1940," Western Historical Quarterly 22 (November 1991): 401-29. I am in-
debted to my colleague Jeff Ostler for sharing his ideas and preliminary findings for a
forthcoming article he and Robert Johnston are writing on "exceptionalism" and the
new western history.
3. For an example of that impact, see Arnoldo De Leon, They Called Them
Greasers: Anglo Attitudes toward Mexicans in Texas, 1821—1900 (Austin, 1983), and
Neil Francis Foley, "The New South in the Southwest: Anglos, Blacks, and Mexicans
in Central Texas, 1880-1930" (Ph.D. diss., University of Michigan, 1990). On Este-
van, see A. D. F. Bandelier, ed., The Journey of Alvar Nunez Cabeza de Vaca (New
York, 1905), 8-9, 30-34, 53-54, and John Upton Terrell, Estevanico the Black (Los
Angeles, 1968). Isabel de Olvera is described in Carroll L. Riley, "Blacks in the Early
Southwest," Ethnohistory 19 (Summer 1972): 257. The black founders of Los Ange-
les are profiled in Jack D. Forbes, "Black Pioneers: The Spanish-Speaking Afroameri-
cans of the Southwest," Phylon 27 (Fail 1966): 234. The literature on blacks in
colonial Mexico is extensive and sophisticated. Representative examples are Gonzalo

Aguirre Beltran, "The Integration of the Negro into the National Society of Mexico,"
in Race and Class in Latin America, ed. Magnus Morner (New York, 1970), 11-27;
Colin Palmer, Slaves of the White God: Blacks in Mexico, 1570—1650 (Cambridge,
Mass., 1976); and Patricia Seed, "Social Dimensions of Race: Mexico City, 1753,"
Hispanic American Historical Review 62 (November 1982): 569-602.
4. The Hardin quotation appears in George Ruble Woolfolk, The Free Negro in
Texas, 1800-1860: A Study in Cultural Compromise (Ann Arbor, 1976), 23. See also
Paul Lack, The Texas Revolutionary Experience: A Political and Social History,
1835-1836(College Station, Tex., 1992), chap. 12, and Randolph B. Campbell, An
Empire for Slavery: The Peculiar Institution in Texas, 1821—1865 (Baton Rouge,
1989), chaps. 1,2.
5- Quoted in Lack, The Texas Revolutionary Experience, 244.
6. See Langston City Herald, 15 June 1893, 4. The Hickman quotation appears
in Glen Schwendemann, "Nicodemus: Negro Haven on the Solomon," Kansas His-
torical Quarterly 34 (Spring 1986): 14. Willianna Hickman's initial response to
Nicodemus supports Anne Hyde's claim that women often viewed the West far dif-
ferently than men, often correctly sensing far less economic opportunity and far
greater danger. See Anne F. Hyde, "Cultural Filters: The Significance of Perception in
the History of the American West," Western Historical Quarterly 24 (August 1993):
360-61 (reprinted this volume, pages 175-201). For a detailed discussion of black
settlement on the high plains, see Nell Irwin Painter, Exodusters: Black Migration to
Kansas after Reconstruction (Lawrence, 1986); Robert G. Athearn, In Search of
Canaan: Black Migration to Kansas, 1879—80 (Lawrence, 1878); and James D. Bish,
"The Black Experience in Selected Nebraska Counties, 1854-1920" (Master's thesis,
University of Nebraska at Omaha, 1989).
7. The Fite quotation appears in Gilbert C. Fite, "A Family Farm Chronicle,"
in Major Problems in the History of the American West, ed. Clyde A. Milner (Lexing-
ton, Mass., 1989), 431—32. See also Jimmie Lewis Franklin, Journey toward Hope: A
History of Blacks in Oklahoma (Norman, 1982), 22-23. It should be noted that some
farmers, such as Nebraska homesteader Robert Anderson, became the epitome of suc-
cess. Anderson's claim of 160 acres in Box Butte County in 1884 grew to 1,120 acres
by the end of the century. "I lived alone, saved, worked hard, lived cheaply as I could,"
recalled Anderson in his 1927 autobiography, satisfied with his status as one of the
most prosperous farmers in the state. The Anderson quotation appears in Daisy An-
derson Leonard, ed., From Slavery to Affluence: Memoirs of Robert Anderson, Ex-Slave
(Steamboat Springs, Colo., 1967), 57. See also Darold D. Wax, "Robert Ball Ander-
son, Ex-Slave: A Pioneer in Western Nebraska, 1884-1930," Nebraska History 64
(Summer 1983): 163-70.
8. Bish, "The Black Experience in Selected Nebraska Counties," 157, 209-20.
9. See Robert J. Chandler, "Friends in Time of Need: Republicans and Black
Civil Rights in California during the Civil War Era," Arizona and the West 24 (Win-
ter 1982): 333-34.
10. Quoted in the Kansas Tribune, 28 October 1866, 2. See Elmer Rusco, "Good
Time Coming?"Black Nevadans in the Nineteenth Century (Westport, Conn., 1975),
73-75.
11. See Eugene Berwanger, The West and Reconstruction (Urbana, 1981),
145-55, and Eugene Berwanger, "William J. Hardin: Colorado Spokesman for Racial
Justice, 1863-1873," Colorado Magazine 52 (Winter 1975): 55-56.
12. Philip Bell's statements appear in Leigh Dana Johnsen, "Equal Rights and
the 'Heathen Chinee': Black Activism in San Francisco, 1865-1875," Western His-
torical Quarterly 1] (January 1980): 61. See also Berwanger, The West and Recon-
struction, 132-33, 166-68; T. A. Larson, "Wyoming's Contribution to the Regional
and National Women's Rights Movement," Annals of Wyoming 52 (Spring 1980):
2—15, and T. A. Larson, "The Woman Suffrage Movement in Washington," Pacific
Northwest Quarterly 67 (April 1976): 52-55.
13. The black population of the West grew more rapidly than the entire popula-
tion of the region, which registered a 26 percent gain, yet the black percentage of the
total population remained virtually unchanged—from 4.9 percent in 1940 to 5.2 per-
cent ten years later. There was also a significant intraregional shift of African-Ameri-
can residence. Oklahoma, for example, lost 23,346 black residents in the decade while
Washington gained 23,267. See U.S. Bureau of the Census, Sixteenth Census of the
United States: 1940, Population, vol. 2, Characteristics of the Population, part i (Wash-
ington, D.C., 1943), 52; and U.S. Bureau of the Census, Census of Population: 1950,
vol. 2, Characteristics of the Population, part 1, United States Summary (Washington,
D.C., 1953), 1-106.
14. On Seattle, see Taylor, The Forging of a Black Community, 164—65, 170. For
a discussion of the campaigns in Portland, Los Angeles, San Francisco, and Honolulu,
see Alonzo Smith and Quintard Taylor, "Racial Discrimination in the Workplace: A
Study of Two West Coast Cities during the 1940s," Journal of Ethnic Studies 8
(Spring 1980): 35-54; Broussard, Black San Francisco, 158—65; and Beth Bailey and
David Farber, "The 'Double-V Campaign in World War II Hawaii: African Ameri-
cans, Racial Ideology, and Federal Power," journal of Social History 26 (Summer
1993): 831-35.
15. The Adams quotation appears in Larry S. Richardson, "Civil Rights in Seat-
tle: A Rhetorical Analysis of a Social Movement" (Ph.D. diss., Washington State Uni-
versity, 1975), 77. There is a growing body of literature on the black civil rights
movement in the 1950s and 1960s. One of the few firsthand accounts of the civil
rights movement in the West is Lubertha Johnson and Jamie Coughtry, Lubertha
Johnson: Civil Rights Efforts in Las Vegas, 1940s—1960s: An Oral History Interview
(Reno, 1988). See also Elmer R. Rusco, "The Civil Rights Movement in Nevada," in
Nevada Public Affairs Review. Ethnicity and Race in Nevada, ed. Elmer R. Rusco and
Sue Fawn Chung (Reno, 1987), No. 2, 75-81; Mary Melcher, "Blacks and Whites
Together: Interracial Leadership in the Phoenix Civil Rights Movement," Journal of
Arizona History 32 (Summer 1991): 195-216; Robert A Goldberg, "Racial Change
on the Southern Periphery: The Case of San Antonio, Texas, 1960-1965," Journal of
Southern History 49 (August 1983): 349-74; W. Edwin Derrick and J. Herschel Barn-
hill, "With 'All' Deliberate Speed: Desegregation of the Public Schools in Oklahoma
City and Tulsa, 1954 to 1972," Red River Valley Historical Review 6 (Spring 1981):
78-90; Doris Pieroth, "With .All Deliberate Caution: School Integration in Seattle,
1954_1968," Pacific Northwest Quarterly 73 (April 1982): 50-61; Joseph N. Crow-
ley, "Race and Residence: The Politics of Open Housing in Nevada," in Sagebrush
and Neon: Studies in Nevada Politics, ed. Eleanore Bushnell (Reno, 1973), 55-73;
Franklin, Journey toward Hope, chap. 8; and Taylor, The Forging of a. Black Commu-
nity, chap. 7.
16. See Richard White, "Race Relations in the American West," American
Quarterly 38 (1986): 396—97, and Patricia Nelson Limerick, The Legacy of Conquest:
The Unbroken Past of the American West (New York, 1987), 349.
Reintroducing a Re-envisioned West

Anne F. Hyde and William Deverell
As we write this, that summer in Logan, where we first talked about these
varieties of significances, seems a long time ago. Yet the debates sparked
there continue to invigorate historical discussion. Ironically, though the
conference was supposed to commemorate the centennial of Frederick
Jackson Turner's frontier thesis, Turner did not seem to be a big presence.
Although the participants of the symposium wore nametags that read
"Frederick Jackson Gutierrez" and "Anne Hyde Jackson Turner," none of
us seemed very worried about where we stood in that debate. Some writ-
ers honored Turner, some attacked him, but most of us never mentioned
him at all, even though we had been told by the organizers of the confer-
ence that we would be like Turner—young historians taking our stands on
the significance of the West in American history.
Perhaps in part because the idea of emulating Turner was so intimi-
dating, all of us hoped that our ideas would initiate discussion on a variety
of Wests rather than propose the final word on Turner. We hoped that our
talks in Logan might spark interesting commentary, find their way into
western history bibliographies, and initiate further work by scholars at all
levels of the profession. Sometimes you get what you wish for, and our
talks did create immediate debate—among ourselves, among the com-
mentators, and among the people watching the show. And the show be-
came heated. At a session for graduate students, some wondered how a
group of people who could argue so passionately and so publicly could still
eat, drink, and tell jokes together. It was a good question. We do feel pas-
sionately about these issues, but we also feel that there is enormous room
for debate, development, and changing ideas among colleagues who share
a powerful mutual respect. This debate began with the commentaries
REINTRODUCING A RE-ENVISIONED WEST « 301
about our work at the conference and continues with the discussion pub-
lished in this book.
A place as varied as the West, and a process as complex as its history,
can never be captured in a single definition or paradigm. It all depends, of
course, on where you stand and in whose shoes you are standing. How-
ever, this place and its continuing process are worth arguing about. As Bill
Deverell put it in his essay, these are "Fighting Words." As less an attempt
at the last word and more a kind of inverted introduction, we close this
volume with some ideas about how we might think about recent scholar-
ship on the American West and why it is important.
Perhaps more so than our colleagues who study other regional subsets
of America, western historians remain fixed (some would say fixated) on
regional definition and regional identity. Each of the essays and the com-
mentaries responding to them is concerned, to some degree, with ques-
tions about "whose West" we are talking about, "what West" we are
choosing to define our focus, and "where is the West" we are discussing.
Of course too much attention paid to such questions can result in long
discussions that inevitably get in the way of substantive analysis. However,
our group contemplation of these problems created some compelling in-
sights.
David G. Gutierrez tackles the question of "whose West" very
squarely in his essay, "Significant to Whom?" He argues that the very use
of the word significant re-creates modes of analysis that place one group in
relation to a dominant group, that is, how Mexican Americans are signifi-
cant to Anglo Americans. Gutierrez refuses to play this game, choosing in-
stead to write a powerful historiographical essay. Gutierrez effectively
argues that a "history" constructed by Anglo Americans who won the war
of conquest, thus giving them the privilege "to explain what had occurred
there," rendered Mexican Americans "insignificant as human beings." He
then points out the crucial work of several generations of Mexican-Amer-
ican historians to recover a past of significance. This work of excavating
history from the weight of myth had more importance than simply cor-
recting the historical record: it had profound political consequences be-
cause it gave Mexican Americans a voice and a story, which they used to
create the Chicano movement in the 1960s and 1970s, in which the ques-
tion of "whose West" took on an entirely new meaning.
Gutierrez takes his argument one crucial step further. He argues that
the history of ethnic Mexicans is now driving the most crucial parts of
western history by fundamentally reconfiguring the way identity is deter-
mined. Identity is a formulation of relationships between peoples, politi-
cal structures, and histories—and it is always changing. In a West that is,
and always has been, a world of majority minorities, looking seriously at

the way in which peoples have created themselves is crucial. This history
has demanded new categories of analysis and a rejection of traditional
methodologies that created hegemonic explanations. The significance of
Mexican Americans, Gutierrez says finally, is that through the recovery of
their history, the entire concept of "mainstream" and "minority" has been
demolished.
In a similar way, Susan Lee Johnson points out the way that the tradi-
tional equation of "the West" and "the man's West" has allowed us to re-
main ignorant of large parts of western history. Her essay is, in simplest
terms, a critique of the entire premise of western history as identifiably
man's history—a gold rush camp that lasted a century. In a deftly handled
theoretical discussion, she argues that because the West is perceived as a
"preserve for white masculinity," the identities and histories of people who
do not fit into this category are ignored, even though several decades of
women's history and ethnic history have demonstrated that other kinds of
people were present. She worries too (as should we all) that western
women's historians and historians of ethnic minorities have been so busy
carving out a place for themselves in this heavily white male world that
they have forgotten to see the crucial relationships between various
groups. By wondering again about "whose West" it was, Johnson reminds
us to remember the complexity inherent in the stories we all tell.
Johnson also offers some solutions to the problem of western place. By
looking at several classic texts and taking the gender issues in them seri-
ously, she demonstrates a powerful new way of seeing the West. Instead of
a place where genders and races are oddly separate in their loci of action
and in the ways they are portrayed, the West could provide us some clues
about how much static notions of gender have "reinforced relations of
domination." She argues that precisely because the West was a place of hy-
per-masculinity and of "disrupted gender relations," where women packed
pistols and generals were revered for their long cinnamon-scented hair, we
can disentangle what gender might mean and how it affects what people
do. Gender might even, Johnson hopes, allow us to see the real complex-
ity of western history that has been buried underneath a dominant myth.
David Rich Lewis likewise wonders about both "who" and "where" in
his essay, "Still Native," arguing that the Native American place in the
American West is as significant now as ever. Lewis takes his cue from a
blind spot in Turner's work. Noting that Turner considered Native Amer-
icans "of little significance," Lewis not only effectively demonstrates the
vitality of Native American life and community in the twentieth century
REINTRODUCING A RE-ENVISIONED WEST « 303
but also highlights the vibrancy in scholarly work. Turner is rendered

naive and his thesis so environmentally determined as to have missed the
forest for the trees.
The straightforward and intelligent essay Lewis has written presents
issues that force any latter-day Turner to rethink the role and presence of
Indians in the "postfrontier" West. Throughout, the emphasis is on Indian
persistence and perseverance in this century. Lewis is careful to insist that
"Native American" is itself far too generic a category to provide more than
a general overview of Indian history and life; yet he nonetheless offers a
brief but compel! ing passage on the symbolic role Native Americans con-
tinue to play—for better or for worse—in contemporary American cul-
ture. One persistent cause of trouble, Lewis notes, is easy to spot:
"Euro-Americans have placed American Indians outside history, relegat-
ing them to an idealized past that never existed, refusing to allow them to
be or become modern." In other words, Turner's West of marginalized In-
dians lives on in geographies of today. The essay closes with an assessment
of the scholarship that is coming out of native communities and that
might bring Native Americans out of Turner's imaginary woods and into
the present—where they have always been.
Gail M. Nomura plays with similar ideas. Her essay, "Significant
Lives," demonstrates that "which West" is determined by "whose West"
one inhabits. Where Johnson and Lewis talk about the unseen places cre-
ated by gender and race, Nomura speaks in terms of a more regimented
cartographic axis. Her essay is particularly useful in reorienting geography.
Recall that Turner thought explicitly in an east-west direction; that was
how the country had to move, that was how the trees had to fall in order
for the theory to hold together and explain the lockstep of Manifest Des-
tiny. Nomura reminds us—and insists that we not forget again—that east
to west is only one trajectory among many. West to east is a truly signifi-
cant journey into the history of the American West, and within those by-
ways of ocean, land bridges, and commercial exchange is the real story of
western America's Asian "significances."
Questions of place drive Susan Rhoades Neel's essay, "A Place of Ex-
tremes," in which she ponders the work of the new regionalist historians
who insist on the role of the environment in determining the history of
the West. She worries that the tendency in much of this new history is to
make nature do all the work, to make the "facts" of place explain every-
thing. Neel shows that the regionalists' clear answers to the big questions
of "where" and "what"—west of the one hundredth meridian and arid-
ity—have real limitations. Aridity is culturally biased because it assumes
that lack of water is a problem and that lushness is normal, but not every-
one sees it that way. In fact, Neel points out that major parts of the West
are not particularly arid. She argues for replacing the trait of aridity with
extreme variability and unpredictability, and she further suggests that we
don't know enough about the western environment to make it a central ac-
tor in the western drama. Her essay ends with an important warning to
western and environmental historians that nature cannot carry history any
more than history can carry nature.
Another essay that takes western place and western places seriously is
Anne F. Hyde's "Cultural Filters." In many ways, the essay itself is a piece
of time travel to a series of different places. Hyde starts out by accompa-
nying early western explorers on their journeys. Stunned, amazed, even
speechless at the sights presented before them, these early interpreters of
the region had to search for descriptive language. When they did find lan-
guage, it often reflected what explorers had been told they should find.
The West had been imagined long before it had been explored, and con-
sequently, it lived up to expectations—not because image matched reality
but because there was no alternative. Hyde notes that the West has always
been saddled with such expectations. At the heart of so much of this tau-
tology was the marriage of national fulfillment and western dreams. The
formulas were simple: Anglo farmers formed the center of a virtuous
American nation that had to spread to the Pacific; therefore the West had
to be good for farming and must be described as so.
Hyde's essay is complex in that it wrestles with all varieties of percep-
tion and wanders through a long period, essentially from horseback views
of the region to superhighway journeys. It demonstrates that culture dri-
ves vision and perception, that culture demands certain realities imposed
by racial, commercial, or other filters. These filters are hard to remove, as
Hyde shows. But in comparing Anglo-American views of the West
through time with those of other groups, she has initiated a discussion that
promises to cast much-needed light on this important aspect of western
history and historiography. As Hyde points out, different visions indicate
different Wests, different truths, different histories.
William Deverell had the somewhat unenviable task of really asking
"who," "what," and "where," of describing ^significance of the West in
the history of the United States. Whereas the rest of us could dodge the
question, Deverell had to face it squarely. Is there one West, a place that
can be described by a "supernarrative" like Turner's, or are there many
Wests, creating a collage that defies a narrative approach? Wisely, and per-
suasively, Deverell argues that the West is neither and both. Undeniably,
many different people have inhabited the West and have used and inter-
REINTRODUCING A RE-ENVISIONED WEST • 305
preted it in different ways. Any community's or person's definitions of

"West" and its significance vary in distinctive ways. Deverell points out
that historians know too much about the histories of women, men, envi-
ronments, ethnic groups, and political groups to deny the fact of a variety
of Wests. However, something larger is there. Deverell senses that none
of us can completely deny the attraction of the big picture, that there is a
West that holds together in a coherent way. Physically, the West stands dis-
tinctively. Its extremes of wet and dry, high and low, arable and sterile, ur-
ban and rural, demand more of its residents, no matter who they are. He
hints at a new "supernarrative," the story of the imposition of power to use
and interpret such a distinctive place.
Using the concept of the ward and guardian, Deverell explains that
looking at the way in which the broadest conception of state wields power
over all of the people living in and moving through the West might help
us out of our dilemma. Everyone, from a Chinese railroad worker to a
mine owner to a tribal medicine man to a lettuce picker to a sod-house
farmer to an urban schoolteacher, felt the power of the state. In fact,
Deverell argues that the state made everyone into some sort of a depen-
dent, telling when and how much to plant, mine, marry, pick, eat, water,
and build. Deverell says finally that the West's significance might be that
it is the place where the American faith in progress and success came to a
grinding halt despite the fact that the West was also the place where the
state had invested heavily to make sure that it worked. Thus, the region is
both West and Wests, an idea of promise and progress that foundered on
a variety of realities.
Deverell does us a great service by suggesting that the source of "fight-
ing words" is our exhilaration at the possibilities and our frustration with
our failure to live up to them in this place and process that is the West.
Our failures as historians are just as clear. These essays demonstrate that
despite a century of arguing about the "who," "what," and "where," we
have a lot of work to do. It is our hope that the result of these essays and
the commentary they inspired is a renewed sense of the West as a region
that is as significant as it is complex. Accepting complexity and approach-
ing it with new tools will create a new West—which, like the old West,
will demand our redoubled attentions and our thoughtful re-envisionings.
Contributors
The Editor
Clyde A. Milner II is the editor of the Western Historical Quarterly and a
professor of history at Utah State University. He has written on a range of
subjects, including the work of eastern Quakers among the Plains Indians and
the role of memory in creating a western identity. He is the editor of Major
Problems in the History of the American West and the coeditor, with Carol A.
O'Connor and Martha A. Sandweiss, of The Oxford History of the American
West.
The Authors
Allan G. Bogue is Frederick Jackson Turner Professor of History emeritus at
the University of Wisconsin-Madison. He has been president of the Organi-
zation of American Historians, the Agricultural History Society, the Eco-
nomic History Association, and the Social Science History Association. He is
the author of many books on American western and political history and has
recently completed a biographical study of Frederick Jackson Turner.
Richard Maxwell Brown is Beekman Professor of Northwest and Pacific His-

tory emeritus at the University of Oregon. He was 1991—92 president of the
Western History Association and a consultant to the National Commission
on the Causes and Prevention of Violence in 1968-69. Among his publica-
tions are Strain of Violence: Historical Studies of American Violence and Vigi-
lantism and No Duty to Retreat: Violence and Values in American History and
Society.
Arnoldo De Leon is C. J. "Red" Davidson Professor of History at Angelo

State University. His books include They Called Them Greasers, The Tejano
Community, 1836-1900, and with Kenneth L. Stewart, Tejanos and the Num-
bers Game.
William Deverell is an associate professor of history in the Division of the

Humanities and Social Sciences at the California Institute of Technology
307
and adjunct associate professor of history at the University of California, San

Diego. He is the author of Railroad Crossing: Ca.lifornia.ns and the Railroad,
1850—1910 and coeditor of California Progressivism Revisited.
Dan Flores is A. B. Hammond Professor of Western History at the Univer-

sity of Montana. He has written extensively on the environmental history of
the American West. His works include Caprock Canyonlands: Journeys into the
Heart of the Southern Plains and Jefferson and Southwestern Exploration.
Deena J. Gonzalez is an associate professor of history at Pomona College

and the chair of Chicano Studies at the Claremont Colleges. Her publica-
tions include Refusing the Favor: The Spanish-Mexican Women of Santa Fe,
1820—1880 (forthcoming) and Dictionary ofLatinas in the United States.
David G. Gutierrez is an associate professor of history and the codirector of

the Southwest History Project at the University of California, San Diego. He
is the author of Walls and Mirrors: Mexican Americans, Mexican Immigrants,
and the Politics of Ethnicity and the editor of Between Two Worlds: Mexican
Immigrants in the United States.
Albert L. Hurtado is an associate professor of history at Arizona State Uni-

versity. The Organization of American Historians awarded him the Billington
Prize for his book Indian Survival on the California Frontier (1988). He has
published articles in Pacific Historical Review, Western Historical Quarterly,
and other scholarly journals and is writing a biography of the borderlands his-
torian Herbert Eugene Bolton.
Anne F. Hyde is an associate professor of history at Colorado College and is

the author of An American Vision: Far Western Landscape and National Cul-
ture, 1820-1920.
Peter Iverson is a professor of history at Arizona State University. His books

include The Navajo Nation, Carlos Montezuma, The Plains Indians of the Twen-
tieth Century, The Navajos, and When Indians Became Cowboys.
Susan Lee Johnson is an assistant professor of history at the University of

Colorado at Boulder. Her first book, on gender and race relations in the Cal-
ifornia Gold Rush, is forthcoming from W. W. Norton. Her essay published
in the Western Historical Quarterly and reprinted in this collection received
the Joan Jensen—Darlis Miller Award from the Coalition for Western
Women's History and the Don D. Walker Award from the Western Literature
Association.
David Rich Lewis is an associate professor of history at Utah State University

and the associate editor of the Western Historical Quarterly. He is the author of
Neither Wolf Nor Dog: American Indians, Environment, and Agrarian Change.
CONTRIBUTORS • 309
He is now engaged in research and writing on Native American gambling in

the twentieth century.
Patricia Nelson Limerick, a professor of history at the University of Col-

orado, Boulder, is the author of Desert Passage? and The Legacy of Conquest:
The Unbroken Past of the American West. She also edited, with Clyde A. Mil-
ner II and Charles E. Rankin, Trails: Toward a New Western History.
Sucheta Mazumdar is an assistant professor of history at Duke University.

Her publications include Sugar and Society in China: Peasants, Technology, and
the World Market (forthcoming). She also coedited Making Waves: Writings by
and about Asian American Women and is the founder-editor of the South Asia
Bulletin: Comparative Studies of South Asia, Middle East, and Africa.
Susan Rhoades Neel is an associate professor of history in the Department of

History and Philosophy at Montana State University. Her first book is on
Echo Park and the rise of modern environmentalism. She is presently re-
searching and writing on tourism and the commodification of nature in Yel-
lowstone National Park.
Gail M. Nomura is director of the Asian/Pacific American Studies Program

and a faculty member of the Program in American Culture and Residential
College at the University of Michigan. She has coedited two anthologies—
Frontiers of Asian American Studies and Bearing Dreams, Shaping Visions:
Asian Pacific American Perspectives—and has published numerous chapters
and articles on the history of Asian Americans.
Gary Y. Okihiro is the director of Cornell University's Asian American Stud-

ies Program and a professor of history. He is the author of Margins and
Mainstreams: Asians in American History and Culture and Cane Fires: The
Anti-Japanese Movement in Hawaii, 1865—1945.
Robert W. Righter is a professor of history at the University of Texas at El

Paso. Included among his books are Cruciblefor Conservation: The Creation of
Grand Teton National Park and The Making of a Town: Wright, Wyoming. He
has published articles in many journals, including "National Monuments to
National Parks: The Use of the Antiquities Act of 1906," in the Western His-
torical Quarterly.
Vicki L. Ruiz is a professor of women's studies and history at Arizona State

University. She is the author of Cannery Women, Cannery Lives and the coed-
itor of Western Women: Their Land, Their Lives, Women on the U.S.-Mexico
Border, and Unequal Sisters: A Multicultural Reader in U.S. Women's History.
Forthcoming is From Out of the Shadows: A History of Mexican Women in the
United States, 1900-1990.
Martha A. Sandweiss is director of the Mead Art Museum and an associate

professor of American Studies at Amherst College. A former curator of pho-
tographs at the Amon Carter Museum, she has written widely on western
photography and art. She is the author of Laura Gilpin: An Enduring Grace
and the editor of Photography in Nineteenth-Century America. With Clyde A.
Milner II and Carol A. O'Connor, she coedited The Oxford History of the
American West, which received the Western Heritage Award of the National
Cowboy Hall of Fame.
Quintard Taylor is a professor of history at the University of Oregon. He is

the author of The Forging of a Black Community: Seattle's Central District from
1870 through the Civil Rights Era and In Search of the Racial Frontier: African
Americans in the American West, 1528—1990 (forthcoming).
Barre Toelken is a professor of English and history and is the director of the
Folklore Program and the American Studies Graduate Program at Utah State
University. A former president of the American Folklore Society, he is the au-
thor of The Dynamics of Folklore and of -Morning Dew and Roses. He also has
published more than fifty articles on folklore, folksong, Native American and
ethnic traditions, and related topics.
Elliott West is a professor of history at the University of Arkansas, Fayette-

ville. A specialist in the social history of the West and the frontier, he is the au-
thor of Growing Up with the Country: Childhood on the Far-Western Frontier
and The Saloon on the Rocky Mountain Mining Frontier.
Index
Abbott, Carl, 9 Bad Day at Black Rock (film), 29

Academic history of the West, 20-21, Baron, Dennis, 53n. 37
231 Bartlett, Richard A., 17-18, 279
Adams, Herbert Baxter, 3-4, 6 Battle of Litde Bighorn, 263-64
Adaptation, cultural, 133 Battle of Washita, 282
African-American history in the West, Bean, Babe. See Mugarrieta, Elvira
289-99. See also Blacks Virginia
Akaka Joint Resolution, 146—47 Bear Flag Revolt, 98
Alarcon, Norma, 267, 270, 285 Begay, Fred, 252
Alaska, 113, 131, 137, 155n. 3 Bell, Philip A., 295
Alaska Native Claims Settlement Act Berkhofer, Robert F. Jr., 13, 241
(1971), 219 Bierstadt, Albert, 37, 189, 190-91, 202,
Allen, Paula Gunn, 231, 285-86 204
Allen, William, F., 4, 5 Billington, Ray A., 4-5, 13, 15-16, 91
Almaguer, Tomas, 76, 79, 80 Black Legend, 68
American Federation of Labor (AFL), Blacks: in colonial Mexico, 297n. 3; labor
170 of, 295-96 (see also Slavery); settlements
American Indian Movement (AIM), 225, of, 292-93, 299n. 13; suffrage of,
243 294-95
American West, 94, 125, 255, 257-58, Blacks, western: farmers, 292-93; history
265-66, 269, 272, 279, 284-85; signif- of, 289-90 (see also African-American
icance of, within the history of the U.S., history in the West); scholarship about,
29-66 289; Spanish-speaking settlers, 290
Americanization era, 241 Blew, Mary Clearman, 56-60
Anti-Asian movement, 141, 170 Boas, Franz, 248, 250
Anzaldua, Gloria, 81, 270, 285 Bodmer, Karl, 189,204
Apache (Indians), 220, 227 Borderlands: consciousness of, 270; histo-
Aridity: as culturally biased concept, 112; ry of, 95, 284-85
as definition of the West, 30, 111-16, Brooks, James, 97, 100
125-26, 131 Brown, Charlotte, 294
Arreola, Daniel D., 90 Brown, Elsa Barkley, 269, 271
Artistic renditions of the West, 37, Brown, Richard M., 13; commentary,
189-91, 196 56-61
Asian Americans: communities of, 143; Bryce, James, 33
groupings of, 143; history of, 145 Buaken, Maunel, 144-45, 151
Asian Americans in the West, 135-73 Buel,J. W., 159-60
Autobiography: Mexican-American, 79; Bulosan, Carlos, 145
new western, 56—61. See also Blew, Bureau of Indian Affairs. See United States
Mary Clearman; Kittredge, William; Bureau of Indian Affairs
Stegner, Wallace Butler, Judith, 268-69
311
312 INDEX
Cable Act (1922), 170 Custer, George Armstrong, 264—66, 269,

Camatillo, Albert R, 76-77 271,272-73,281-82,286
Carrier, Jacques, 251—52 Cuvier, George, 159
Castaneda, Antonia, 81, 91, 97, 98, 258,
286 Daniels, Roger, 141
Catlin, George, 189, 204 Davis, W. N. Jr., 8, 14
Cea, Helen Lara, 97-98 Dawes Act, 42, 241
Chamberlin, Thomas C., 4 Deadwood Dick in Leadville; Or, A Strange
Chan, Sucheng, 148 Stroke for Liberty, 261-62, 271
Chavania, Jesus, 75 Defensive frontier psyche, 141
Cheyenne (Indians), 227, 264 De Leon, Arnoldo, 76; commentary,
Chicano movement, 74—78, 86n. 15, 90-96, 289
87-88n. 24, 92 Demographic change, 47—48, 153—55
Chicano studies, interdisciplinary, de Olvera, Isabel, 290
89n. 33; sexism in, 88n. 26 Deverell, William, 56, 63, 292; conclud-
Chicanos: civil rights struggle of, 80; coming statement, 300-305
munities of, 91, 93; historiography of, De Voto, Bernard, 125, 127, 178
88n. 26, 97 Differential consciousness, 270. See also
China, 137, 139, 141, 148, 159, 163, 164 Sandoval, Chela
Chinatowns, 161, 165—66 Dingus, Rick, 192, 194
Chinese Exclusion Act, 143, 165, 170 Dinosaur, Colo., 105
Citizenship, 42; and language acquisition, Dinosaur National Monument, 104,
44 105-6
Civil Liberties Act (1988), 145-46 Discrimination, 296; against African-
Civil rights movements, 78, 80, 93; Americans, 290, 296; against Asians,
African-American, 293-94, 295, 296, 136, 142-43, 169-71; against Native-
299n. 15; Chicano, 80; Mexican- Americans, 225
American, 73 Disneyland, 61—62, 65
Clark, DanE., 15-16 Diversity, western, 208, 258; environmen-
Clark, Thomas D., 15, 16 tal, 110, 114, 127, 132 (see also
Class, 10-11, 45, 98, 289. See also Race, Environment, extremes in western);
and class ethnic, 90, 154, 208, 289, 290
Climate, 112, 126, 181 Douglass, Frederick Jr., 294
Columbia River, 126, 137, 226
Columbian Exposition, xi, 140 Echo Park, Colo., 104, 105-6
Comanche (Indians), 100, 220, 227 Economic development, 13, 219—23
Commerce with Asia, 137, 148-49 Education legislation, 171-72, 290
Competdrazgolcomadrazgo, 97—101 Ely, Richard, 5-6
Control: federal, 40; over natural Emi, Frank, 150
resources, 11. See also Native Emmons, David, 131, 206
Americans, and control of natural Environment: characteristics of western,
resources 107, 131, 182; destruction of western,
Cooper, James Fenimore, 260 110, 183; extremes in western, 113,
Creel, H. G., 139 125—26, 129 (see also Diversity, west-
Cronon, William: and environmental his- ern); history of, 13, 59, 117-19,
tory, 117, 123n. 23, 129n. 9; as neo- 127-29, 133; in shaping the West,
Turnerian, 115; and western history, 105-24; study of, 19,35
46, 118-20,284 Environmental historians, new western,
Cultee, Charles, 248 133
Cultural filters, 175-211 Erdrich, Louise, 209-10, 231, 248
Cultural studies, 19, 83, Erlich, Gretel, 127
Culture: American, 175—76; Hispano, in Estevan, 290
northern New Mexico, 90 Ethnic history, 290
Curtis, Edward, 253 "Ethnic relations" in the West, 82
INDEX • 313
Ethnic studies, 284, 286 significance of, 10, 16, 39, 97, 255-88,
Ethnicity, 10 289; subordination of, 87n. 24
Ethnocentrism, 16, 64, 112, 131 Genizaros, 99
Ethnohistory, 13, 230 Gentlemens'Agreement (1908), 170
Eurocentrism, 138, 140 Geography, western, 175-76, 179, 181;
Exceptionalism, 33 early assumptions of, 178
Exclusion of minorities, 143-44, 162, Gibson, Arrell M., 17-18
165, 169, 294 Goetzmann, William H., 176, 206
Expansion, American, 68—69 Gonzalez, DeenaJ., 79, 80, 81, 91; com-
mentary, 283-88
Pages, Pedro, 98 Goodwin, Cardinal, 18
Failure: due to victimization, 43; roots of, Grand Canyon, 209
44 Grange, the, 10-11
Fair Play Committee (FPC), 149-50 Great American Desert, 178-79, 181
Family: and its role in the westward move- Great Basin, 179-80, 193, 196
ment, 10; histories (see Blew, Mary Great Plains, 179-80, 187, 195, 206,
Clearman; Kittredge, William) 292
Fatal Environment, The (Slotkin), 259, Great Plains, TMWebb), 106-7
263-66, 262-73, 276n. 20 Great Salt Lake Valley, 111
Feminist theory, 81-82, 256, 267-69, Greeley, Horace, 37, 185
270 Green River, 105-6
Filipinos, 143-45, 148, 151, 170 Green River, Wyo., 127
Films, western, 261. See also Movies Guerin-Gonzales, Canaille, 79, 285
Fite, Gilbert, 42, 244, 292 Gutierrez, David G., 90, 92, 95, 97,
Flagg, James Montgomery, 187 289
Flores, Dan, commentary, 130-34 Gutierrez, Ramon A., 79, 80, 91, 93, 95,
Fowler, Loretta, 245 98, 99, 208
Fremont, John C., 98, 179-80, 204
Frontier: as concept, 11—12, 16, 17, 30, Hafen, LeRoy, 18
31, 108; as definition of the West, 36, Halleck, H. W., 137
111, 116, 196, 260; dynamism of, Harjo, Joy, 231,245
247-48; end of, 109, 241; era of, 279; Hawaii, 115, 137, 140-41, 146, 148,
history of, 109; visions of, 249-50, 152-53, 155n. 3
253—54, 25. See also Frontier thesis; Hawaiian Sugar Planters' Association
Myths, frontier; Turner, Frederick (HSPA), 169-70
Jackson Hawaiians, 136, 146-49, 169
Frontier experience, 213, 227, 259, Hawgood, John A., 19
282 Hayden, Ferdinand V., 181
Frontier thesis, xi, xiii, 5, 12, 15, 20, 116, Hero/heroine, western, 57, 114, 200-261,
118, 119, 131, 175, 213, 256, 263; and 268, 271-72. See also Custer, George
relevance to experience of ethnic Armstrong
Mexicans, 91. See also Turner, Frederick Higginbotharn, Evelyn Brooks, 267, 269
Jackson Hine, Robert V., 17-18
Hirabayashi, Gordon, 145—47
Galarza, Ernesto, 72, 92 Historians, new western, 285
Gambling, 222 Historical scholarship, political nature of,
Gates, Henry Louis, 83 83
Gaus, John M., 9-11 Historiography: Chicano, 88n. 26, 97;
Gender: as cultural filter, 176, 183; histor- Mexican-American, 77; western, 79,
ical monographs on, 101—2, n. 2; and 206, 266, 279, 286
inequality, 62; and politics, 267; and History: Chicana, 80; Chicano, 75—76,
power, 279, 281; and race, 101, 91, 94-95, 97; Mexican-American, 91,
258-60, 264-65, 269-71; and sex, 93, 95; Native-American, 13, 215,
268-69, 276 n. 19, 280-81, 285; 229-30, 241; new western, 34, 47, 65,
314 INDEX
History (Cont.) Kinkaid Homestead Act (1904), 293

106, 110, 116, 125, 154, 183, 286-87, Kinzel, Regina, 259
289, 296 Kirkland, Caroline, 183, 260
Hofstadter, Richard, 35, 50n. 14 Kittredge, William, 56, 58-60
Hollywood, Calif., 29-30, 220 Kolodny, Annette, 176, 259, 284
Homestead Act (1862), 42 Krappe, Alexander Haggerty, 253
Honolulu, Hawaii, 138, 146
hooks, bell, 269, 286 Labor: African-American, 295 (see also
Hopi (Indians), 221, 227, 251 Slavery); Asian/Asian-American, 143,
Horseman, Reginald, 69-70 148-49, 161, 162, 169-70, 172; bond-
Hurtado, Albert L., commentary, 279-83 ed, 99-100; Native-American, 220-21;
Hyde, Anne F., 70, 202-5, unions, 144, 170, 172, 296
206—7,209—10; concluding statement, Lamar, Howard, 13, 147
300-305 Land: importance of, 5, 20, 41; and lan-
guage, 44—45; Native-American control
Identity: Chicano, 75; collective, 78; gen- of, 216-19; as Native-American sym-
dered, 279-80; Mexican-American, 91; bol, 245-46; use in the West, 117, 119,
national, 36, 54n. 43; native, 215, 245; 185
regional, 62; tribal, 216, 219 Landownership, 42, 217
Images, western, 12, 47, 54 n. 42, 66, 203 Landscape, western, 183—85; as artistically
Imagination, American, 32, 46, 284 significant, 189; commercial possibili-
Immigrants, Chinese, 159-66 ties of, 190-91, 195, 197; control of,
Immigration, Asian: in mid-19th century, 186
146; restrictions (see Immigration laws) Latina Americans. See Mexican Americans
Immigration Act (1917), 170 Lensick, Judy Nolle, 5 In. 23
Immigration Act (1924), 142, 170 Lewis, David Rich, 242, 245, 247-48
Immigration laws, 142-44, 148, 153, Lewis and Clark, 126, 135, 177-78
160, 165, 170-71 Limerick, Patricia Nelson: and civil rights
Indenturement, 98-101 history, 293; commentary by, 61—66;
Indian Claims Commission Act (1946), on conquest, 114, 117, 119; and fron-
224 tier history, 23; on regionalism, 108—9;
Indian Gaming Regulatory Act (1988), and western history, 52n. 31, 32, 122n.
222 13, 195,284-85,297
Indian Reorganization Act (1934), 215, Lipstitz, George, 36
218 Literature: Native-American, 210, 231,
Indians. See Native Americans 248—49; new western, 56—61; western,
Individualism, 29, 108 210,261,267,271
Influence, Asian, on Western civilizations, Littlebear, Dick, 44-45
139-40 Long, Stephen Harriman, 178, 202
International Association of Machinists Los Angeles, Calif., 92, 95, 113, 125, 138,
(IAM), 296 154, 165, 289-90
Internment of Japanese Americans, Louisiana Purchase, 17, 177
145-47, 149-50 Lyman, Stanford M., 168
It's Your Misfortune and None of My Own
(White), 19 MacDonald, Ranald, 250
Iverson, Peter, commentary, 241—47 Majority-minority society, 153
Makino, Kinzaburo, 172
Jacobs, Wilbur R., 13, 49n. 4 Manifest Destiny, 33, 38, 43, 68-70, 181,
Japanese-Mexican Labor Association 184
QMLA), 170 Mankiller, Wilma, 216, 243
Jefferson, Thomas, 37, 42, 47, 177-78 Maryboy, Mark, 225
Johns Hopkins University, 3—4, 5—6, 22 Mazumdar, Sucheta, commentary,
Johnson, Susan Lee, 81, 279-80, 282, 158-68
284-87, 289 McNickle, D'Arcy, 218, 231, 243
INDEX 315
McWilliams, Carey, 70, 77, 93 land, 216—19; and control of natural

Merk, Frederick, 7, 9, 12, 18 resources, 220-23, 226; and ecology,
Mexican-American War, 67, 69-70 252-53; education of, 216; factionalism
Mexican Americans in the West, 67-104 among, 216, 225; as farmers and ranch-
Mexican Cessesion, 79 ers, 244; gaming enterprises of, 222;
Mexico, 69-70, 71,94, 125 and gender roles, 280-82; intellectual
Mier y Teran, Manuel, 69 heritage of, 248-54; languages of,
Miller, Alfred Jacob, 203 250-51; leadership among, 243-44;
Milner, Clyde A, II: preface, vii—ix; intro- migration among, 244, 249—50; persis-
duction, xi—xiii tence of, 214—16; political sovereignty
Minorities in the West, 22. See African- of, 224-26; population growth among,
American history in the West; Asian 216; and science, 251-52; stereotypes
Americans in the West; Chicanos, com- about, 227—29 (see also Misperceptions
munities of; Mexican Americans in the of Native-American cultures); studies
West (see also Exclusion of minorities) about, 229—31; and symbolism, 226,
Misperceptions: of Native-American cul- 245; urbanization of, 215; in the West,
tures, 214, 227; of the West, 30, 181, 38, 213-54; as writers, 209, 243 (see
206, 208-9 also Literature, Native-American)
Mississippi Valley, 181 Naturalization, 142-43
Missouri River, 19, 34, 137, 177-78, Navajo (Indians), 34, 177, 216, 220, 225,
226 226,249,250-51
Monroy, Douglas, 79, 80, 91, 97, 98 Neel, Susan Rhoades, 125, 126, 127-29,
Montalvo, Garci Ordonex de, 280 130-34
Montejano, David, 79, 80 Neo-Turnerians, 17, 115
Moraga, Cherrie, 81 New regionalism, 1 ] 6-18. See also New
Moran, Thomas, 37, 189, 192 western regionalism
Morison, Samuel Eliot, 20 New social histoiy of the West, 13, 19,
Mormons, 112, 163-64, 180 76
Movies: portraying Indians, 220, 227-29; New West, 17, 37, 287, 290. See also Old
western, 261 West
Moy, Afong, 159 New Mexico, 13, 33, 80, 91, 95, 98, 117
Mugarrieta, Elvira Virginia, 271—72, New western regionalism, 106—11. See also
287 New regionalism
Multiculturalism, 48, 136, 153-55, 169, Nostrand, Richard L., 90
290 Novick, Peter, 79, 82
Mumford, Lewis, 110, 133
Murrieta, Joaqum, 271 Okihiro, Gary Y., commentary, 168—73
Myths: of the American West, 12, 14, 32, "Old Spanish Southwest," 70-71
36, 57-58, 94, 144, 195, 202, 244, Old West, 11, 17, 29, 241, 283-84
265-66, 271-72 (see also Mispercep- Omi, Michael, 78
tions, of the west); cowboy, 57, 59, 227, Oral histories: of Asian immigrant
244, 285; frontier, 36, 94, 254, 263, women, 151; of Native Americans, 231;
273 (see also Frontier; Frontier thesis); of Southeast Asian refugees, 151
of geographical knowledge, 177-78; Organizations, Pan-Indian, 215, 224,
surrounding Mexican Americans, 71, 225; voices of, 231
284 (see *z/f»"Spanish fantasy heritage"); Orientalism, 158-59, 166
surrounding Native Americans, 226-27, O'Sullivan, Timothy, 192-94
229 Ozawa, Takao, 142, 170
Narrative, new western, 118—20 Pacific Basin, 137, 138

Nash, Gerald D., 19 Pacific Northwest, 113, 114, 131,
Nationalism, 21 148-49,219
Native Americans: art of, 245; businesses Page Act (1870, 1875), 160
of, 221; church of, 243; and control of Palmer, William Jackson, 182-83, 207-9
316 INDEX
Pascoe, Peggy, 81, 163, 284 thesis, 107; "Genuine," 110; and the
Paxson, Frederic L., 8, 14-16 new western history, 120n. 1
Perception of the American West, Remington, Frederic, 106, 189, 196,
175—211; and control over the land- 257
scape, 187—88; as a cultural shaper, Resources, 116; control over, 11; wasted,
176-97; history of, 176-77, 195, 205; 16, 17; water, 226. See also Native
as influenced by gender, 202, 204; as Americans, and control of natural
influenced by medium of exchange, resources
188-95, 203-4; as influenced by modes Riegel, Robert E., 15-16
of transportation, 185—88; as influenced Righter, Robert W., commentary,
by popular culture, 205; Native- 125-29
American, 208-10; women's, 183-84. Riley, Denise, 267, 268-69
See also Misperceptions of the West Rios-Bustamante, Antonio, 91
Philippines, 138, 144, 149 Rister, Carl, 18
Pike's Peak, Colo., 206-7, 209 Robbins, William, 50n. 10, 51n. 18
Place vs. region, 130—34 Rocky Mountains, 107, 114, 178,
Poetry, 37, 273; Asian immigrant, 151—53 179-80, 182, 185, 190
Polygamy: in China, 163—64; Mormon, Rodriguez, Richard, 227
163-64 Rojo, Trinidad A., 143, 149
Pomeroy, Earl, 13, 18-19 Roosevelt, Theodore, 11, 36, 253, 257
Poverty, 216, 223 Royce, Josiah, 110
Powell, John Wesley, 15, 27, 42, 111 Ruiz, Vicki L., 80-81; commentary,
Power, 31, 289, 38-39, 46, 97, 296; eco- 97-103, 285
nomic, 109; and gender, 279, 281; indi-
vidual, 63-64; and knowledge, 82; Said, Edward, 158
national, 40; political, 83, 225-26; Sanchez, George L, 72-74, 77, 92
state, 31, 39, 41; unequal, across races Sandoval, Chela, 267, 270, 285
and classes of women, 100 Sandweiss, Martha A., commentary,
Pretty on Top, Janine Pease, 243 202-5
Preuss, Charles, 180 San Francisco, Calif., 125, 138, 160,
Prostitution, Chinese, 159-61, 163 165-66
Pycior, Julie Leininger, 92—93 Santa Fe "Trails" symposium, 19
Scharff, Virginia, 50n. 11
Race: and class, 45, 98-99, 264, 277n. 34; Schivelbusch, Wolfgang, 185
as emphasis in new western history, Scholars, Mexican-American, 76, 77, 79,
289. See also African-American history 80-81,91,97
in the West; Asian-Americans in the Scott, Tacheeni, 252
West; Chicanos, communities of; Self-identification, 21
Gender, and race; Native-Americans Sex. See Gender, and sex
Race relations, 168, 171, 294, 296 Seymour, Samuel, 182
Racism, 68, 70, 83, 141, 160, 242, 247, Sheridan, Phil, 265
258, 294, 296. See also Anti-Asian Sierra Nevada Mountains, 113, 114, 180,
movement; Black Legend; Manifest 184, 190
Destiny. Silko, Leslie Marmon, 209, 231, 248-49
Reagan, Ronald, 32, 52n. 32, 213, 215, Slavery: African-American, 291-94;
241 Chinese, 164—65
Reconstruction, 294 Slotkin, Richard, 259, 263-66, 269, 272,
Regional history, 33, 54 n. 43, 81, 134, 276n. 20, 279
289; as course offering, 9; Mexican Smith, Henry Nash, 12, 176, 259-61,
Americans and Mexicans in, 76, 81. See 266, 268, 279, 284
also Regionalism Social history, 13, 22, 76, 83, 97, 128,
Regionalism, 4, 106-11, 132, 274n. 4; as 254. See also New social history of the
counterparadigm to Turner's frontier West
INDEX • 317
Soule, Frank, 160 253; at RadclifTe College, 7, 10; on

Southwest, The, 77, 85n. 8, 94, 180, 190, region, 112n. 5; at the University of
196-97, 249 Wisconsin, xii, 3-8, 13, 14, 22
"Spanish fantasy heritage," 70-71, Tydings-McDuffie Act (1934), 170
85 n. 8
Spicer, Edward, 242, 245 Underbill, Ruth M., 222
Stanley, John Mix, 189-90, 203 Union Pacific Railroad, 186
Stegner, Wallace, 13, 33, 56-57, 111, United States Bureau of Indian Affairs,
131 141, 143,218,223-24,251
Stereotypes, 12, 32, 38, 84, 227-29, 289, United States Supreme Court, 142—43,
297 170-72
Stillman, Deanne, 46 Ute (Indians), 112,219
Tapahonso, Luci, 243, 245
Tape, Mamie, 170-71 Vallejo, Mariano, 161
Tape, Mary McGladery, 170-71 Virgin Land (Smith), 259-60, 263
Tape decision, 170—71 Vogel, Virgil, 251
Taylor, Quintard, xiii, 66n. 4; concluding
statement, 289-300 Wash, William, 244
Teaching of western American history, Washington alien land law, 143-44.
3-14, 20, 255-59, 267, 282. See also Watkins, Carleton, 192-93, 203
Turner, Frederick Jackson Watt, James, 213-14, 241
Tejanos, 80, 90, 91 Webb, Walter P.: and aridity, 111,
Termination era, 241 125-26, 131; and The Great Plains,
Territorial Suffrage Act (1867), 295 18-19, 106-7; and regionalism, 12,
Texas, 33, 69, 80, 90, 91, 95, 107, 113, 106-7, 109, 115-16, 175-76; and
131 western history, 13, 133-34
Texas Revolution 69, 291-92 Welch, James, 209, 231, 248
Textbooks of western history, 3, West, Elliott, 34, 116; commentary,
14-20 205-11
Thind, Bhagat Singh, 142 West, The: artists of, 189-94, 196, 204;
This Bridge Called My Back (Anzaldua & definition of, 34, 49nn. 4&5, 50n. 13,
Moraga), 81-82 106, 111-16, 125, 260, 302-6; excep-
Thoreau, Henry David, 37, 253 tionalism in, 33, 107, 109; expansion
Toelken, Barre, commentary, 247—54 of, 33, 68-69, 179; experience of, 114;
Tourism in the West, 208-9 exploration of, 177—78; visions of, 179;
Toy, Ah, 160, 166 women's history/historians of, 257—58,
Transportation as cultural filter, 176, 267
184-86 Western history, 30, 46-47, 110, 127-28,
Tuan,Yi-Fu, 127, 131 130, 210, 244, 255-56, 265, 267, 270,
Turner, Frederick Jackson: and centennial 284-87; development of the field of,
conference, 30; contemporaries of, 215, 8-9, 13, 65-66; exceptionalism in, 109;
correlation papers of, xii; criticism of, intellectual, 259; and nature, 105-24;
12, 15-16, 108; and environment, race as analytical framework in, 94; sig-
106-8, 132; and the frontier thesis, vii, nificance of, 20-24
xi-xiii, 5, 12, 15, 20-22, 37, 67, 90, Westward movement, 9, 16—17, 260; rea-
107-8, 118-20, 175; at Harvard, 7-9; son for, 10
as historian, 21-23, 47, 129; influence White, Richard, 19-20, 32, 49n. 5,
of, 12-18, 128, 133-34; and interdisci- 114-15, 128,206,284,296
plinary approach, 230; and interpreta- Whitman, Walt, 37, 263, 272-73,
tions of the West, 9-13, 46, 109-11, 286
1 18-20, 131; as lecturer, 9-11; on Wild West, 29, 220, 227, 257, 263, 284,
Native Americans, 213, 2)5, 247-48, 287
318 INDEX
Winant, Howard, 78 Western, 243, 256-57, 266-67, 270,

Women: black, 290; Chicana and 286-87
Mexicana activist, 80; Chinese, 159-68; Women's studies, 266-68
and the family, 242-43; historians, Woodward, C. Vann, 53n. 40
80-81, 266-67; history of, 13, 22 (see Worster, Donald, 109-10, 111, 115, 117,
also Women, in the West); Indian, as 122n. 13, 125, 127, 176, 206
leaders, 243; inequality of, 162; and Writers, Native-American, 209, 243. See
perceptions of the West, 183-84, 298n. also Literature, Native-American
6; relationship between Spanish- Wunder, John R., 7
Mexican and Indian, 98-99; in the
West, 16,255-88 Yakima Indian Reservation, 141, 143
Women's history, 13, 100, 256-57, 279; Yampa River, 105

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A New

Richard Maxwell Brown

Special concluding statement by

New York Oxford * Oxford University Press 1996

and associated companies in

Copyright © 1996 by Clyde A. Milner II

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Center. Shannon Hoskins, the center's associate director, oversaw many

University Press provided much encouragement. We were fortunate to

Logan, Utah Clyde A. Milner II

Introduction: Envisioning a Second Century of Western History

1. The Course of Western History's First Century Allan G.Eogue 3

2. Fighting Words: The Significance of the American West in the

3. Significant to Whom?: Mexican Americans and the History

4. A Place of Extremes: Nature, History, and the American West

5. Significant Lives: Asia and Asian Americans in the U.S. West

6. Cultural Filters: The Significance of Perception Anne E Hyde 175

7- Still Native: The Significance of Native Americans in the History

8. "A Memory Sweet to Soldiers": The Significance of Gender

Through the Prism of Race: The Meaning of African-American

Reintroducing a Re-envisioned West Anne E Hyde

Many people, especially many Americans, have a passion to honor any-

American historians have been so praised and pounded—revived, revised,

The Course of Western

After the annual meeting of the American Historical Association in

derstood. Billington suggested also that Turner's "decision to explain the

for the Northwest." He added: "This . . . has long been an ambition of

Turner and the Course

graduate offering, accompanied by a graduate seminar in American his-

Examining regional history offerings in 1990, Carl Abbott suggested

Western History as Course

The spread of population [scribbled Gaus] is fundamental in explaining

Later Turner referred to the occupation of the Black Hills as a "betrayal" of

as a "class in a region." The passage of the Granger laws, John Gaus

The frontier [was] important—settlement pressing forward into the

While Turner's career proceeded, great collections of monographs, period-

in Indian claims cases nurtured ethnohistory, with its enhanced under-

And send us good historians to restore the many blots

The Textbook Writers

Viewing frontiers east of the Proclamation Line of 1763 as European

sive stages of economic development described by Turner were more typi-

"emergent American nation . . . surging with incredible velocity and ir-

scholarly trends than Webb's or Pomeroy's volumes was John A. Haw-

Significance of Western History

Although ranging from regional psyches to the pragmatism of book top-

In regional terms, the academic history of the West demonstrated that

was interdisciplinary. Graduate students at Johns Hopkins absorbed large

grams of professional associations or to give lectures at other institutions

survey course in western history disappears? Will western historians shrink

the criticism of Hermann Von Hoist, a University of Chicago professor, in Frederick

22. Ibid., 19, 24 May 1920.

"Somebody's always looking for something in this part of the West,"

with care. Shared facility with words notwithstanding, screenwriters and

ran a shared, unspoken certainty: the historical West—place, process,