Pueblo Indians and Spanish Colonial Authority in Eighteenth-Century New Mexico [1 ed.] 9780816599066, 9780816530274

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Pueblo Indians and Spanish Colonial Authority in Eighteenth-Century New Mexico

Pueblo Indians and Spanish Colonial Authority in Eighteenth-Century New Mexico TRACY L. BROWN

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In memory of Kiyomi Kutsuzawa The University of Arizona Press © 2013 The Arizona Board of Regents All rights reserved www.uapress.arizona.edu Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Brown, Tracy L. Pueblo indians and Spanish colonial authority in eighteenth-century New Mexico / Tracy L. Brown. pages cm Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-8165-3027-4 (hardcover : alk. paper) 1. Pueblo Indians— Colonization. 2. Pueblo Indians— Social conditions. 3. Pueblo Indians— Government relations. 4. New Mexico— Colonization. 5. Spain— Colonies—America—Administration. I. Title. E99.P9B78 2013 978.9004'974—dc23 2013009663 Cover illustration: The inscription by Ramón García Jurado at El Morro National Monument reads: “On the 25th of the month of June, of this year of 1709, passed by here on the way to Zuni.” García Jurado was the alcalde mayor of Bernalillo in the 1730s; as such he represented Spanish civil authority to the Pueblo peoples living in the area. Parts of chapters 4 and 5 have been previously published as “A World of Women and a World of Men?: Pueblo Sorcery and Healing in Eighteenth-Century New Mexico,” in Women, Religion, and the Atlantic World, 1600–1800, ed. Daniella Kostroun and Lisa Vollendorf (University of Toronto Press, 2009), and as “Intimate Ties: Families, Kinship and Marriage in Eighteenth-Century Pueblo Communities,” in On the Borders of Love and Power: Families and Kinship in the Intercultural American Southwest, ed. David Wallace Adams and Crista DeLuzio (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2012), and have been reprinted with permission. Publication of this book is made possible in part by the proceeds of a permanent endowment created with the assistance of a Challenge Grant from the National Endowment for the Humanities, a federal agency.

Manufactured in the United States of America on acid-free, archival-quality paper containing a minimum of 30% post-consumer waste and processed chlorine free.

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CONTENTS

List of Illustrations

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Acknowledgments

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1 Pueblo Ethnohistory: Historical, Methodological, and Theoretical Concerns

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2 Foreign and Domestic Affairs: Pueblo Politics

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3 Pueblo Economies After Spanish Contact

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4 Commoner Men and Women: Alternative Paths to Power

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5 Intimate Relations, Cohabitation, and Marriage in Pueblo Communities

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6 Master Narratives, the US-Mexico Borderlands, and the American West

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Notes

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Bibliography

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Index

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ILLUSTR ATIONS

Figures 1.1 Native groups in and around seventeenth-century New Mexico 2.1 Cacique Oyi-tsa or Duck White, 1905 2.2 Acoma governor, 1891 3.1 The mealing trough, Hopi, 1906 3.2 A Hopi weaver, 1879 3.3 “The man with the hoe,” 1910 3.4 Pottery burners at Santa Clara, 1905 3.5 Zuni potter, 1903 4.1 Santa Fe, NM, 1885 4.2 Church at Santa Cruz, 1881 4.3 Grinding medicine, Zuni, 1903 5.1 Pueblo of Cochiti and vicinity 5.2 Pueblo of Tesuque 5.3 Bird’s-eye view of Isleta pueblo

5 23 28 67 68 72 89 91 110 114 122 139 148 154

Tables 3.1 Pre- and post-contact labor 4.1 Summary of extant Pueblo witchcraft investigations 5.1 Pueblo marriage rates, 1750 and 1811 5.2 Number of marriages performed by year for selected pueblos (at ten-year intervals)

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AC KNOW LEDG MENTS

It is a long and sometimes difficult process to earn a PhD, publish, and fi nd employment. The following individuals have provided friendship and mentoring along the way: Irene Silverblatt, Amy Den Ouden, Kiyomi Kutsuzawa, Elizabeth Mahan, Shannon Jackson, Orin Starn, Ralph Litzinger, Bill Reddy, Nancy Hewitt, Jane Mangan, Kim Wright Dixit, Rick Collier, Aimee Benson, Jeff Rosenthal, Paul Blanco, Haven White, Ann Massmann, Cherity Foat, Danny Ketterman, Holly Hedman, Erika Bsumek, and Alan Shackelford. Amy Den Ouden, Kiyomi Kutsuzawa, and I were advisees of Irene Silverblatt at the University of Connecticut, and, as such, received a rigorous, theoretically grounded training in anthropology and ethnohistory. We also learned a great deal from each other both inside and, perhaps even more so, outside of the classroom, so it was with great sadness that Amy and I learned of Kiyomi’s death from cancer in 2005. Surely, anthropology is less of a discipline without her contributions to it. I would like to acknowledge Ann Massmann and Nancy Brown Martinez at the Center for Southwest Research for their assistance with dissertation research. At the Autry National Center, where I worked as an archivist for several years after finishing my degree, I want to acknowledge Marva Felchlin and Stephen Aron. They were supportive of my work, allowing me to take time away from my archival duties to write. Central Michigan University has been my academic home since 2005. I have had the pleasure of working with many fine colleagues not only in anthropology but also in sociology and social work. Among all of them, I would especially like to acknowledge Chuck Hastings, who has been my mentor and friend since I arrived at CMU. Some of the material in chapter 5 was written for the “Love and Power” seminar, which took place in Albuquerque and Dallas during the 2009– 2010 academic year. I would like to thank the seminar participants for their helpful critiques and suggestions that made the end product a much stronger piece. I would especially like to acknowledge David Wallace

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Acknowledgments

Adams, one of the leaders of the seminar, for his ongoing support of my research and writing. I would like to thank Allyson Carter and the three anonymous reviewers of my manuscript at the University of Arizona Press. Allyson encouraged me for many years to submit something to the Press; it helped me to fi nish the book knowing that there was interest in the subject of Pueblo Indian ethnohistory. The anonymous reviewers of the manuscript provided helpful critiques and suggestions that made the manuscript much stronger than it would have otherwise been. Of course, the disclaimer that all interpretations and mistakes are mine applies. Finally, I would like to thank my family for encouragement and support. I would especially like to acknowledge Norm and Twyla Blanco, who have helped my husband, Paul, and me juggle work and family life in ways too many to list. Finally, and most importantly, thanks to my children, Ben and Madeline, and Paul, for love, patience, and support during the long process of writing this book.

Pueblo Indians and Spanish Colonial Authority in Eighteenth-Century New Mexico

CHA P TER ONE

Pueblo Ethnohistory Historical, Methodological, and Theoretical Concerns

Historical Scope of This Book The Pueblo communities of New Mexico and Arizona have been the subjects of anthropological and historical inquiry for over a century. With the absorption of much of northern Mexico into the polity of the American state following the US-Mexican war, anthropologists and other academics began living in and intensively studying these communities. Before 1848, the Pueblos lived under the colonial and imperial rule of the Spanish (1539–1821) and then the Mexican (1821–1848) governments, where they were also scrutinized. It is because the Pueblos have lived the last five centuries under three different governments, and have been the object of study and inquiry by academics since the late nineteenth century, that much information and analysis exists concerning the lives of people from the pre-contact (i.e., before 1539) to the contemporary period. However, the quantity and quality of this information and analysis varies, depending on the historical period. While there is a large body of archaeological studies of Pueblo people from the pre-contact period, and anthropologists and popular writers paid a great deal of attention to the American Southwest after 1848, much less has been written about Pueblo social life in the Spanish, or colonial, period (1539–1821). It is the goal of this book to present a portrait of Pueblo social life in this period, with particular focus upon the ways in which Pueblo people chose to negotiate

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Spanish colonialism in four social arenas: politics, economics, spirituality, and intimate relations. In the following chapters I argue that Pueblo individuals and communities developed multiple approaches to negotiate the new obligations and responsibilities that Spanish colonialism placed upon them. In the political and economic spheres of life, for example, elites frequently extended traditional governmental or economic practices, rather than radically altering them, to meet missionary and Spanish authorities’ demands to become Hispanicized, or to provide labor and goods. While the use of this tactic allowed Pueblo communities to maintain long-held practices, I also argue that its use resulted in a hardening of gender and class distinctions carried over from the pre-contact period. In chapter 4, I demonstrate that Spanish colonialism might provide new opportunities to build power and authority and to find alternative paths to power, particularly for those most negatively impacted by growing gender and class distinctions. In chapter 5, I find that Pueblos both accepted and rejected Spanish beliefs concerning intimate relations. In short, Pueblo people found many different ways to respond to Spanish colonialism, some of which were new and novel, while others represented efforts to retain practices and beliefs that had long been in place. For this reason, it is clear that social change and resistance to change occurred simultaneously in Pueblo communities. There was no unitary response to Spanish colonialism in those communities. In order to detect if the methods chosen to resist colonization were new or of long-standing practice, the social life of Pueblo communities before Spanish contact must be reconstructed. Thus, readers will find that I have woven discussions of the archaeological evidence concerning pre-contact Pueblo life throughout the book, and have compared those findings with information culled from the post-contact, Spanish documentation. This, then, is a book that challenges readers to look at Pueblo communities across traditional methodological boundaries and historiographical chronologies. Typically, Pueblo historiography is broken up into several periods, all of which contain their own complexities and may be further broken down into numerous “subperiods”: the pre-contact, colonial, Mexican, and American periods. Although I began my studies of the Pueblos as a colonial-period ethnohistorian, I became familiar with the archaeology of the Southwest and realized that the documentation revealed just as many continuities as differences between the pre- and post-contact period in Pueblo people’s lives. Thus, while Spanish contact altered the Pueblo social landscape in many ways, it did not lead to the radical loss of cultural practices that occurred in many other indigenous communities in the New World. Furthermore, the periodization of Pueblo history is based upon European—not Pueblo—perceptions of important

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events in what is now the US Southwest. I have often wondered if the Pueblos perceived the arrival of the Spaniards to be as important as, for example, the migrations out of Chaco or the arrival of Athapaskan neighbors. Until a time machine is invented, there is no way to definitively know the answer to this question; however, integrating evidence from the documentary sources and archaeological findings allows us to at least imagine that the answer to that question might be no.

Methodological Concerns As noted above, there is not much documentation concerning Pueblo communities or individuals in the colonial-period archive, and what documentation does exist varies in quantity and quality across the approximately two and a half centuries that Spaniards politically controlled New Mexico. For example, much of the documentary evidence presented in this book comes from the eighteenth century simply because there is very little sixteenth- or seventeenth-century documentation that contains detailed information about Pueblo communities. The documentation from the first 150 years of Spanish rule was largely destroyed in the Pueblo Revolt of 1680; all that remains are administrative reports written by civil and church officials and investigations and trials of New Mexican governors and officials for mismanagement of the province. Certainly, there are descriptions of Pueblo people and activities in these documents that I reference in this book, but the eighteenth-century archive contains a much richer and broader spectrum of documentation. It also contains firsthand accounts of Pueblo and Spanish interactions that are very difficult to locate in the sixteenth- and seventeenth-century documentation. Thus, at least as far as the colonial period is concerned, there is a bias in this book toward describing the social life of Pueblo communities in the eighteenth century. When combined with discussions about the archaeological record, the inevitable result is that I draw comparisons between the precontact period and the eighteenth century, with very little discussion of the intervening centuries. Perhaps more important than gaps in information is what the documentation itself allows us to see of Pueblo social life. One common criticism that is made of those of us who write about Pueblo history is that Pueblo communities are often presented as a unitary phenomenon. They are “the” Pueblos, as if nothing distinguished the many communities that the Spanish encountered along and near the Rio Grande after 1539. In reality, these communities were divided by language, religion, and kinship organization. Four separate and unrelated languages were spoken (Hopi, Tano, Keresan, and Zuni), and there were subgroups of languages within

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Tano (Tewa, Tiwa, and Towa).1 In some pueblos, the katsina cult was strong (Hopi, Acoma, Laguna); in others, it was weak or nonex istent (the northern Tiwa pueblos of Taos and Picuris; some Tewa pueblos).2 Some pueblos were matrilineal with clans, others were bilateral with moieties,3 and some had centralized authority, while others did not.4 While such differences may be frequently acknowledged in the historiographic literature, rare is the analysis that actually investigates what these differences meant (if anything) to Pueblo people or if such differences distinguished Pueblo communities greatly from one another. The difficulty, of course, is that the Spaniards— the ones responsible for the documentation upon which much of this book (and Pueblo history more generally) is based— did not at first see the differences in social organization that existed between Pueblo communities. They believed, as Edward Spicer writes, that they had found “a large number of villages of very similar character” along the 350-mile stretch of river valley from El Paso to Taos.5 Spaniards encountered similarly constructed adobe villages inhabited by sedentary agriculturalists (with the result that the Spaniards labeled them all “the Pueblos”), and they soon came to see that each village appeared to govern itself in a similar fashion. As I discuss in much more detail in chapter 2, early Spanish observations concerning Pueblo governance range from comments that no governance existed at all to some recognition that each village had a council of leaders whom no one seemed to fully obey. Even when Spanish authorities began to recognize differences in language, religion, or kinship organization, the documentation does not, as a whole, provide enough details to distinguish communities on the basis of these differences. It is not at all clear in the documentation that practicing the katsina cult, speaking one language as opposed to another, or having a clan versus a moiety caused one pueblo to function in measurably different ways from another. Of course, this was probably, in fact, the case; unfortunately, the documentation limits the degree to which historians can detect and analyze such differences in social organization. Yet, there were similarities that tied the indigenous groups that Spaniards came to call “the Pueblos” together. Spaniards were not completely wrong in that observation. They did all live as sedentary agriculturalists; they did govern themselves in a similar fashion even though each community was politically autonomous—there was no overarching political structure that tied all Pueblo communities together at the time of contact; and they did possess a similar set of cultural practices to some degree. The best scenario, of course, would be to balance the differences and similarities in an overall portrait of Pueblo life. But, because of the skewing of the documentation, Pueblo historians are left with an emphasis on the similarities while scrounging to dig up evidence of the differences in

Figure 1.1. Native groups in and around seventeenth-century New Mexico. John Kessell, Spain in the Southwest: A Narrative History of Colonial New Mexico, Arizona, Texas, and California. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 2002, 38.

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social organization across pueblos. In this book, I do discuss the detectable differences in practices and beliefs between Pueblo communities and individuals that I could locate in the documentation. But the fact of the matter is that there are still many issues addressed in the following pages about which I am only able to make broad generalizations. A second, related problem is this: since we are reliant upon what the Spaniards saw and documented in reconstructing Pueblo colonial history, how are the (individual and varied) voices of Pueblo people accessed? No unmediated Pueblo voice, or set of voices, exists in the documentation. Pueblo people were not literate at the time of contact, and, even after contact with Spaniards for over two hundred years, did not leave behind their own documentation concerning the colonial period. Thus, all information that we have concerning the Pueblos in the colonial period is fi ltered through the eyes and pens of Spanish observers. Obviously, this creates difficulties when trying to analyze how Spanish colonialism impacted Pueblo individuals and communities. How does the analyst interpret the “truth value” of Pueblo statements, since they are all filtered through a Spanish lens? If all such statements were, in essence, given under duress, are they not compromised and thus worthless in reconstructing Pueblo history? Such concerns are heightened by the way testimony was taken in colonial New Mexico. While there are documents in which it appears that a Pueblo individual’s testimony was transcribed at the moment it was given, there are just as many examples of documentation that were clearly created after the testimony was given. Either the testimony is simply summarized or it is presented as a direct quote, yet the entire document is written in the same hand (implying that the document was written down at the same time). Given such different presentations of testimony, how are we to know if the testimony is an accurate representation of what was actually said? Of course, such difficulties are not limited to reconstructing the histories of indigenous people in New Mexico, or even the entire New World. They exist to some degree whenever a situation of uneven power relations is under analysis. There are those who argue that, in such a situation, “subalterns” are never truly able to “speak.”6 If that is the case, then a history of Pueblo people during the colonial period cannot be written. Others suggest—and I agree with them—that historians must figure out a way to interrogate and negotiate such biases in the documentation, since these “partial views” are the only ones that we have of the life of subalterns.7 The way to interrogate and to negotiate such biases is to understand the purpose of the documents and the immediate contexts in which the documents were created, as well as the practices, beliefs, and motivations of those involved in the creation of the documents. A document noting that

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a decree was read at all Pueblo communities is much less contentious than one involving the investigation by Spanish authorities of the murder of one Pueblo individual by another, Pueblo practices of sorcery and healing, or the suspicion that Pueblo people are meeting to plan a revolt. In the first case, while the topic of the decree might be contentious (“all Pueblos must live with their spouses, in accordance with the Church’s prescriptions”), the actual reading of the decree is itself a rather straightforward event. It was either read or it was not. As a historian, I accept that this decree was actually read— especially if there is notation on the decree itself indicating that it was in fact read in Pueblo communities. However, it is a different matter altogether to interpret a document that concerns Spanish authorities’ efforts to enforce such a decree in Pueblo communities. While there are no formal investigations of whether or not people were living with their spouses in the Pueblo archive, what I have seen are decrees, local Spanish officials’ comments on trying to enforce such decrees, as well as Pueblo individuals’ acknowledgments that officials did read the decrees to them or patrolled Pueblo communities at night to make sure that all married people were properly at home together.8 In the reading of the decree in 1714 proclaiming that all “natives of the pueblos of this kingdom” ought to live with their spouses, the responses of the communities were noted. The communities of Laguna and Acoma replied that they “would immediately obey as Christians . . . and as loyal vassals of the king.”9 It is the last statement that, of course, is most problematic. A good historian does not take such a statement at face value. It is possible that some Pueblo people agreed that married people should not live with anyone but their spouses. Perhaps these people had themselves converted to Catholicism. Thus, such agreement might have actually been honestly proclaimed. But it is also possible that such individuals understood that they could manipulate Spanish authorities, and negotiate around colonial power, by uttering statements that appeared to support them in their efforts to impose the tenets of Christian marriage upon the Pueblo people. By appearing to put these tenets into practice, Pueblo people created the impression that they had given up their own spiritual practices and beliefs when, in fact, they had not. How does the historian determine which scenario they are dealing with? This is the point at which context and motivation must be taken into consideration. It is one thing if, during an interrogation, a Pueblo agrees that the only person one should live with is his or her spouse; it is another thing if it is spontaneously or voluntarily offered in a casual conversation about current events. I would be less doubtful of the statement in the latter case, because of the way the statement was made (spontaneously, without prompting) and the context in which it was made (casual conversation). If the statement seemed to have been uttered spontaneously,

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and was not prompted or made under any obvious pressure, my level of comfort with my interpretation increases. If I had some information from other documents to indicate that the individual making the statement was a confirmed Catholic, I might conclude that the statement was most likely truthful. However, I would certainly question the truth-value of such a comment taken during the course of an interrogation. My doubts would be increased if I had information about the declarant from other sources to indicate to me that he or she was, for example, known to be highly resistant to and critical of the imposition of Spanish authority. Regarding the marriage decree read to Pueblo people, I am doubtful that all of the people of Laguna and Acoma followed it. I would not use their comments as evidence that Pueblo people had accepted Catholic doctrine; it is simply too problematic, given the context in which it was uttered. In contexts where power is being imposed— an interrogation, a reading of a decree issued by authorities—acquiescence must be thoroughly assessed. It is the job of the historian to interrogate all evidence from his or her documents in just such a manner. With regard to the Pueblos, it is certainly the case that a vast majority of the information contained in the documentation is highly biased; thus, the work of interpreting those documents is necessarily a painstaking task. Furthermore, it is a highly interpretive one. This is undoubtedly obvious from the preceding discussion. Certainly, someone might come along after me and read the documents in a completely different way. I do not claim that the information presented in this book represents the one and only “Truth” about Pueblo people in the colonial period. Instead, it is simply one interpretation, based upon my personal reading of the documentation and my knowledge of Pueblo history and anthropology. There is always the chance that the portrait of Pueblo life that I have drawn here might be altered with the discovery of more documentation or through the use of different methodologies or theoretical stances. The only response I can offer to those who might criticize such an approach is that I have done my best in the pages that follow to make it clear on what bases I have constructed my interpretations of Pueblo actions, behaviors, and beliefs. I have provided details concerning the context in which documentation was constructed and motivations of the actors involved where there might be multiple interpretations made of the evidence I present. Such an approach to writing history is not necessarily orthodox. There are “traditionalists” within the historical profession who insist that a certain standard of proof be met by all practitioners.10 For example, in “Anything Goes: Mexico’s ‘New’ Cultural History,” Stephen Haber argues that, at its worst, such a highly interpretive approach can result in historians asserting just about anything that they want concerning their documentation. Their findings are not generated out of any sort of scientific

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methodology: they can neither be replicated nor falsified.11 He encourages historians to “embrace standards of proof rooted in the application of formal logic.”12 Yet, there are many historians who face the dilemma of attempting to reconstruct a narrative from fragmentary, biased evidence. In such a situation, it is not possible to “replicate” or “falsify” findings, because there are so few pieces of evidence to begin with. Thus, we are once again left to make a decision between simply abandoning the project of writing about indigenous people’s pasts or formulating a methodology that acknowledges the difficulties in writing such histories and provides alternatives to the traditional historical approach. In discussing his participation in the School for Advanced Research Seminar that resulted in the book Small Worlds: Method, Meaning, and Narrative in Microhistory, John Walton writes that one of the criticisms he received concerning his article on arson in the nineteenth-century American West was that he was “too cavalier” in interpreting the intentions, motives, and purposes behind cases of arson. In response, Walton acknowledges that his methodology is an interpretive one that involves risk taking. For him “empirical work is always contingent. At some point, we make a choice about what we want to believe (or hypothesize), and we justify that choice as best we can. In the end, inference is our business.”13 Such a statement (“inference is our business”) might make the more traditional-minded historian cringe. Microhistory and its close relatives like cultural history and ethnohistory are genres of historical writing in which methodologies have been devised to deal with fragmentary, biased evidence. But there remains great debate about how one is to write the histories of people who have left only fragmentary evidence behind, the value of the methodologies that have been devised to extract information from such fragmented evidence, and the possibility that such methodologies produce viable knowledge. In such a situation, all that the historian can do is state what his or her approach to writing history is, knowing that some readers will not be convinced by the interpretation of evidence that is presented. Not only might traditionalists object to the way evidence is interpreted in this book, they might also find problematic the fact that no linear, forward-looking narrative or story is told about how Pueblo communities changed over time. In other words, this book does not begin with Pueblo people in 1539 and end in 1821, addressing social change over time in a linear manner. Such an approach involves digging for micro details in the documentation in order to establish a coherent cause-and-effect chain of facts that, ultimately, forms the basis of a story about how Pueblo communities changed over two centuries of colonial domination. This approach to history writing, according to John Gaddis, “is the form of representation that most historians use.”14 I would never describe what I

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do in my own work as attempting to establish a cause-and-effect chain of facts about events in the past. I do not, in other words, write narrative history. I cannot write narrative history for the same reason that my work cannot be characterized as “scientific”: because I do not have enough evidence to do so. Instead what one finds in this book are portraits or snapshots of moments in Pueblo time and place drawn on the basis of the information that exists in the documentary record. In my mind, the documents represent windows onto the Pueblo cultural landscape, albeit biased ones. These portraits or snapshots are not arranged in chronological order; they are arranged with regard to topic: documents that address in some way political, economic, spiritual, or intimate relations are analyzed together to create meaningful statements about particular arenas of Pueblo social life in the eighteenth century. Social change, where it can be detected, is (largely) discussed in relation to these arenas of social life, not across them. I employ this methodology— creating portraits of Pueblo social life rather than stories of social change over time—because it is the only one that makes sense given the limitations of the colonial-period documentation.

Theoretical Concerns: State Making, “Compartmentalization,” and “Pueblofication” in the Borderlands The primary topic of this book is a study of the ways in which Pueblo people negotiated Spanish colonialism. One of the main goals of Spanish authorities in New Mexico was to build a stable colony on the frontier of New Spain. They could not do this if the people who were already living there were not in some way acknowledged and, ultimately, put under the thumb of Spanish power and authority. Thus, one of the main functions of the Spanish government in New Mexico was the control and monitoring of Pueblo individuals and communities. Spanish colonial policies concerning native people in New Mexico were created and applied via the very processes used to build a rudimentary bureaucracy in New Mexico and carry out the administrative functions of government. This means that, ultimately, the broader theoretical context from which this book is written is “state making.” In New Mexico, however, state power was weak. Spanish authorities lacked the political muscle to consistently and exhaustively impose their own beliefs and practices; as a result, state power had an uneven impact in Pueblo communities. In other words, state making in New Mexico did not proceed in a Weberian fashion: it did not involve exercising a “monopoly of legitimate force” through the use of a bureaucracy that

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functioned by “calculable rules” and claims over a definite territory secured by force.15 State making in New Mexico lacked all of these things: bureaucracy was rudimentary at best, the political borders of the province were never clearly defined in the colonial period,16 and, certainly, many people saw Spanish rule in the region as illegitimate (including some Spanish residents).17 New Mexico was not a place with elaborate state machinery, containing many layers of bureaucracy. Outside of Santa Fe, the governor and his alcaldes mayores (local governmental assistants), as well as missionaries, were the only representatives of state power that the Pueblo people encountered on any sort of regular basis. Inside of Santa Fe, the machinery of state government was not much more complex. This was because New Mexico was a province that was located thousands of miles from Spanish centers of power. It was a remote and isolated frontier area of the Mexican state (or New Spain, as it was called during the colonial period). Those men who agreed to move north and to run the province did so with only a rudimentary bureaucracy and with very little monetary or other types of support. Because of these factors, New Mexico was a province that, to a certain degree, operated upon the whims and the agendas of those few men in power— the governor and his assistants, as well as missionaries, to some degree. In New Mexico, “a governor’s powers were wide enough to permit an honest and energetic man to maintain discipline and secure justice, or to make it possible for a self-seeking official to become a local tyrant.”18 Some of these men were more intent on reshaping Pueblo social practices than others. For example, some New Mexico governors, such as López de Mendizábal (1659–1661), appeared to have little interest in making sure that Pueblo people formalized their unions in the Catholic Church. The investigation into his tenure is full of accusations that Pueblo people were cohabitating but not marrying, and that the governor and his assistants did not adequately punish this behavior. Part of his disinterest in the issue may have come from the fact that he wished to challenge the church’s authority in the province by not supporting their efforts to missionize the Pueblo population.19 Still, some of the men who governed New Mexico were intent upon correcting what they saw as “immoral” practices of the Pueblo population. As I discussed above, there were a number of New Mexico governors who issued proclamations to Pueblo communities concerning marriage in the eighteenth century, and a number of alcaldes mayores were known for patrolling Pueblo communities for cohabitation (or what the Spaniards labeled “concubinage”). By issuing such proclamations to Pueblo communities, Spanish authorities sought to purposefully shift Pueblo definitions of gender role, identity, and personhood. Thus, a Pueblo individual’s or community’s experience of the application of state power (be it in the

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realm of gender and sexuality or some other realm) depended to a great extent in New Mexico on who was governor, alcalde mayor, or missionary. It should be added, too, that Pueblo norms were altered or manipulated simply as a result of Pueblo efforts to negotiate Spanish colonial authority. For example, in chapters 2 and 3, I demonstrate that the methods used by Pueblo elites to govern their communities within the context of Spanish state making or to respond to requests for labor and commodities often led to the hardening of preexisting gender and class differences. It was not the goal of Pueblo elites to harden gender or class differences amongst themselves and commoners; however, that is ultimately what happened as elites worked out tactics to manage colonial authority and power in their communities. Thus, Spanish authorities— be they civil or religious— sought to remake Pueblo identities and communities in order to attain specific ends: wealth, the conversion of souls, and the creation of a new society in a “new world.” Sometimes, this remaking of identity and social life was simply a by-product of state-making efforts, while at other times it was the target of state-making efforts. Either way, it was through these types of activities— attempting to “correct” immoral, different, or unacceptable practices, to alter Pueblo government or to extort labor and crafts—that state power was imposed, albeit haphazardly.

Pueblo Responses to Spanish State Making: “Compartmentalization” It is fair to say that New Mexico was a gritty outpost of one state power or another until the mid-nineteenth century. Few Spaniards or Mexicans ventured north from more central areas to live there in the first three hundred years or so after contact, since Santa Fe offered little in the way of material comforts or intellectual stimulation. But after the US-Mexican war ended in 1848 and railroads were built through the area by the late nineteenth century, New Mexico saw a greater influx of Anglo tourists, travelers, anthropologists, and other visitors.20 These visitors and new settlers naturally wrote of their impressions of the landscape and people they encountered. A favorite topic of discussion, at least among Anglo travelers, was Pueblo reticence concerning their social practices and beliefs. Daniel Jones wrote that some of the Pueblos had “retained their ancient customs, remaining apart and never mixing with others” after visiting Santa Fe in 1851.21 In 1881, John C. Bourke noted that he was closely observed throughout his visits to Pueblo communities in order to prevent him from observing or inquiring about their beliefs or practices. “The Rio Grande Pueblos have become so shy and so timorous that . . . in all conversations with strangers, especially such as bear upon their

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religion or their prehistoric customs and their gentile divisions, they maintain . . . an absolute reserve . . .”22 It is clear from his reports that Bourke was frustrated with the Pueblos’ “reserve” concerning their belief systems and ritual practices. Yet, by the time Bourke visited the area, the Pueblos had experienced numerous waves (or cycles, in the words of Edward Spicer) of conquest— first the Spaniards, then the Mexicans, and finally the Anglos. Spanish and Mexican authorities, as well as American agents for the US government, had attempted to alter or even wipe out their cultural and religious practices. Their reserve is therefore understandable. But, it was not unique to Pueblo Indian communities; secrecy as a form of resistance to European domination was common in indigenous communities throughout the New World. Most, if not all, indigenous people attempted to hide traditional practices and beliefs from the prying eyes of missionaries or civil authorities at one time or another in order to preserve them (in addition to using other tactics to negotiate colonialism). What is different in the case of the Pueblos is that, by the end of the nineteenth century, tourists and other observers had singled them out as being excessively secretive—far more secretive than other Indian communities in the area. By the mid-twentieth century, anthropologists and historians had concluded the same thing: the Pueblos had developed a cultural “iron curtain”23 to protect their ways of life from being corrupted by the taint of Spanish, Mexican, or Anglo religious, political, and cultural beliefs. They argued that Pueblo culture was “frozen into extreme conservatism” as a result of contact— so much so that “their cultural pattern and essential way of life . . . remain[ed] far less changed than would be the case if they had been left entirely to themselves.”24 Pueblo historians and ethnographers labeled this form of resistance— characterized by a complete rejection of Spanish, Mexican, or Anglo ideas, practices, and extreme secrecy about their own practices and beliefs—“compartmentalization.” Edward Spicer was the first to use the term in 1954 to describe how Pueblo communities responded to Spanish contact. He wrote that “the general pattern of adjustment” of the Eastern Pueblos to Spanish contact was compartmentalization. “In this term we are summarizing the tendency of all the Eastern Pueblos to accept from the Spanish certain traits and trait complexes which remained peripheral to their major cultural interests and to resist traits which would have altered the main orientations of their culture. . . . [T]he ultimate result of contact [was] a native culture added to and modified in limited ways but not changed in fundamental structure.”25 Introduced ideas and material objects “were all employed to satisfy Pueblo interests, but they remained adjuncts rather than intricately linked elements in the whole. It is clear that they could have been abandoned, given a new set of conditions, without any important disruption

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of Pueblo culture.”26 The only two changes of any consequence that occurred as a result of contact were the abandonment of warfare and the development of ceremonial secrecy.27 Spicer theorized that the reason the Pueblos could select “material cultural elements . . . for specific advantages without changes taking place in other aspects of the culture” was because of the “strength and integration of the indigenous patterns.” By this he seems to have meant that the threads in the fabric of Pueblo culture were so tightly woven together that it could survive despite attempts to change it. Furthermore, Spanish efforts to suppress Pueblo ceremonialism resulted in the development of hostility toward the Spanish on the part of the Pueblos. Therefore, the Pueblos lost any interest in adopting their beliefs and practices and instead developed an extreme secrecy to preserve their own practices and beliefs.28 The methodology that Spicer used, in part, to reconstruct historic Pueblo societies is what has come to be called “upstreaming” in anthropology and archaeology. The term “upstreaming” means to reconstruct the past based on contemporary ethnographic description and analysis.29 Anthropologists first encouraged the use of this methodology beginning in the 1950s to reconstruct the pasts of those groups of people who did not leave behind written documentation. In other words, anthropologists were trying to find solutions to the dilemma of reconstructing the pasts of people who left limited evidence behind. Anthropologists argued that other methods besides traditional historiographical analysis had to be devised to figure out how these cultures “ha[d] come to be as they are.” Upstreaming was one of them.30 In “Making Inferences from the Present to the Past,” Edward Dozier argues for the use of upstreaming to reconstruct Pueblo history, although he never employs the term in the article.31 The purpose of the article is to explain how archaeologists working in the Southwest can use the ethnographic record to better understand Pueblo prehistory. Since “the kinds of social structures found among the Pueblos today appear to be extremely old,” it was not out of order to suggest that “probably all of the structures found in the Pueblos existed in prehistoric times.”32 This knowledge could aid archaeologists in, for example, understanding kiva use in the prehistoric period. “In the recent past and at present, the kiva was, and is, a kind of theatre open to the entire pueblo and to Indian visitors as well. . . . There is no reason to assume that the kiva was used in a different fashion in the past.”33 How can it be possible that no change in kiva use occurred over time, as Dozier states? Clearly, although he never directly states this, it is because Pueblo communities were, and are, compartmentalized. In other words, Dozier employed compartmentalization to justify the use of upstreaming as a methodology in his work: upstreaming in this context

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made sense because contact with the Spanish, Mexicans, and Anglos had not modified Pueblo culture in any significant way. For Dozier, the contemporary Pueblos were “mirrors of the nature of the prehistoric social organizations . . .”34 They were, in essence, living examples of what prehistoric social organization was like. Therefore, not only was it possible to make inferences from the present to the past; it was also logical to see the past in the present. The point that I want to make here is that compartmentalization paired with upstreaming is not an adequate theoretical and methodological basis upon which to explain how Pueblo people responded to Spanish domination. I do not wish to question the assertion that the Pueblos were secretive about their ways of life or tried to resist colonial domination; clearly they were and they did resist colonial and other forms of domination. Bourke’s and Jones’s comments alone attest to this fact.35 Nor do I wish to argue that Pueblo communities were not geographically or ideologically separate from Spanish communities in the colonial period, because they were. For the most part, Spaniards and Pueblos lived in their own communities and, as I discuss in the pages that follow, both maintained traditional beliefs and practices. But secrecy was not the only tool Pueblo people used to resist Spanish colonial authority, as Dozier and Spicer argue. In fact, Pueblo people used a range of tools and techniques to manage colonial authority in their lives and their communities. In chapters 2 and 3, I demonstrate that traditional political and economic practices were altered as Pueblo communities attempted to use them to respond to Spanish demands. In chapters 4 and 5, I demonstrate that Pueblo people sometimes did the opposite of what Spicer and Dozier theorized: they accepted the practices and beliefs of Spaniards and integrated them into their own lives. For example, some converted to Catholicism but continued to live in their home communities, as I discuss in chapter 5. Some Pueblos chose to live in Spanish towns and adopt somewhat Hispanicized lifestyles, as I discuss in chapter 4. Pueblos confronted and analyzed Spanish beliefs and practices in an effort to establish whether they had any value for them and their communities. Such efforts to negotiate colonial power meant that Pueblo communities became a mishmash of “traditional” and “adopted” beliefs and practices. Of course, there were many Pueblos who simply pretended to adopt Spanish beliefs and practices, while others rejected them outright. They could make choices about what to accept and what to decline because state power— Spanish colonialism—was weak in New Mexico. Colonial authorities were never able to completely negate the power of Pueblo people to make choices about what elements of the Spanish lifestyle they were going to accept or reject. Because this was so, a mixture of adopted and traditional practices and beliefs existed in Pueblo communities.

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This does not mean that these communities were suspended or frozen in a state of cultural stasis, where all outside beliefs and practices literally bounced off of the cultural iron curtain that surrounded them; nor does it mean that material and ideological additions merely existed as adjuncts to “true” or “pure” Pueblo practice that could be dropped without notice at any time. Adopted practices came to have meaning over time; thus, they became valuable to Pueblo individuals and communities over time. Pueblo communities were not frozen in time in the colonial period; instead, they were alive in their constant negotiation and management of Spanish colonialism. The source of Dozier’s and Spicer’s difficulties originate, I believe, from the fact that compartmentalization is an idea built upon a mid-twentieth century understanding of the culture concept. At that point, anthropologists typically argued that cultures were autonomous, internally consistent entities whose interactions were similar to “billiard balls striking each other on a billiard table.”36 This belief sounds very similar to the idea that Pueblo culture was compartmentalized behind a cultural iron curtain. Dozier and Spicer were trained and worked in the discipline in the midtwentieth century, when the “culture-as-billiard-ball” concept was in vogue; thus, they appear to simply have been analyzing Pueblo history using the theoretical and methodological tools available to them at that point in time. Nevertheless, because Dozier and Spicer perceived of culture as autonomous and internally consistent, they were unable to see that there might be discontinuity in cultural practice within a given group or society.37 The point is not to fault Dozier and Spicer for not seeing the supposed error in their ways. They were simply anthropologists of their time— analyzing Pueblo experiences with the tools provided to them by their discipline. To their credit, they did stress that resistance to the ethnocidal and genocidal policies of the states into which native communities had been variously incorporated (Spanish, Mexican, and American) was possible. Native communities had not, in fact, “vanished” as was predicted would happen at the turn of the twentieth century.38 The problem is that the argument that Pueblos were compartmentalized in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries continues to be made in Pueblo Indian historiography today. For example, Ramón Gutiérrez writes that compartmentalization occurred in the first decades of the eighteenth century, after several governors waged virulent campaigns to eradicate Pueblo religious practices.39 Jeannette Mobley-Tanaka argues that Pueblos employed one specific style of resistance during the colonial period: they “maintained a subversive discourse in hidden contexts, while masking their resistance in public displays”40 designed to, in essence, “trick” Spaniards into thinking that they had won their conformity and acquiescence. Finally, Ross

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Frank argues that compartmentalization actually occurred at the end of the eighteenth century with the hardening of racial lines between Spanish and Pueblo.41 That contemporary scholars repeat (whether knowingly or unknowingly) arguments made by Spicer and Dozier earlier in the century attests to their continuing influence on Southwest anthropology and history. This means that efforts must be made to disconnect Pueblo history from compartmentalization theory and the methodology of upstreaming, and alternatives must be devised and applied to the study of Pueblo history.

Pueblofication In this book, I argue that most Pueblo people lived with a system of beliefs and practices that, over time, became both Pueblo and Spanish in character. Pueblos did not dominate Spaniards, as perhaps Indian peoples did in Texas,42 but just as surely, Spaniards did not unilaterally dominate Pueblos. Instead, I like to think that Pueblos “danced” with Spanish power, sometimes being led by it, but also—at points—leading it. Hartman Lomawaima labels this dance with power “Hopification”: “the synthesizing process by which an idea or thing [in this case a Spanish belief or practice] became imbued with Hopi values.” He goes on to explain that “the fabric of Pueblo culture was and continues to be tough and flexible, giving wherever and whenever necessary, but scarcely tearing, much less shredding. The Pueblo allowed alien patterns to enter the weave, as they had for many centuries, but incorporated them into a truly Pueblo pattern.”43 While Lomawaima’s concept sounds a lot like compartmentalization, there is one major difference: the stress is placed on the flexibility of that fabric, which allows for outside beliefs and practices to be safely adopted, rather than its rigidity or ability to repel such beliefs or practices. For this reason, the concept, when applied, allows us to understand and explain the frequent evidence of syncretism in the colonial-period documentation: how it is an individual might, for example, convert to Catholicism yet continue to be perceived of and treated as Pueblo. In other words, from the perspective of the Hopi, Spanish values and practices were not unilaterally imposed upon them; rather, they were able to pick and choose which to adopt and integrate into their culture. Of course, the ability to pick and choose was probably easier at Hopi than, say, a Pueblo community located more closely to Santa Fe. Nevertheless, all communities practiced Hopification to some degree in the colonial period. This is not the same thing as arguing that “alien patterns” were at most seen as adjuncts or add-ons that could be dropped without consequence. The leaders of the Pueblo Revolt of 1680 called for a complete purging of Spanish beliefs and practices from Pueblo communities. This seems

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to imply that compartmentalization was in full force after the revolt. Yet, as Matthew Liebmann points out, Pueblos did not completely reject Spanish introductions even with the eradication of Spanish authority in the province. “In fact, following the revolt, Popé [leader of the Revolt] reportedly assured the people that if they followed the old practices they would ‘harvest a great deal of maize, many beans, a great abundance of cotton, calabashes, and very large watermelons and cantaloupe.’ ” The irony of this statement is, of course, that melons were an Old World introduction.44 Yet, after the revolt, melons were depicted as being representative of “Pueblo” culture. In other words, melons had become so accepted that they were no longer identified as being an adoption or an adjunct of Pueblo culinary practice and belief. I suspect that many of the “introductions” discussed by Spicer were perceived of in the same way: that is, while some may well have been completely rejected, and some seen only as adjuncts or add-ons that could be easily discarded, others became so integrated into Pueblo practices and beliefs that they were no longer seen as foreign but rather as simply “Pueblo.” According to compartmentalization theory, such a thing could never have happened in Pueblo communities. Pueblofication inherently rests upon a different concept of culture than does compartmentalization. Society itself is not bounded, and it is not a system composed of a set of homogenous rules and practices that all members follow without question. Instead, cultures in any one geographic location blend into each other, yet remain partially and recognizably distinct (no one would deny that Pueblo people are a distinct ethnic group); within any one of these cultures there are competing discourses over practice and belief. There is no one Pueblo culture, but simply a multiplicity of personally held sets of practices and beliefs— only some of which cohere to form the basis of a shared identity. This means that no rigid boundary separated ethnic groups in the colonial Southwest. Nor did Pueblo people exist outside of the realities of Spanish colonization of the region—which is what compartmentalization implies. This does not mean, however, that Pueblo people and Spanish colonizers formed a harmonious unity in the eighteenth century. What existed can best be described as an uneasy truce where interrelations, as well as efforts to retain common, shared identities (“Pueblo,” “Keresan,” “Isletan,” “Spaniard,” etc.), were constrained and shaped by highly unequal relations of power. It is clear that Pueblo people mounted a sustained and protracted negotiation of Spanish colonialism that, when coupled with weak state power, resulted in the practice of Hopification, or more broadly, Pueblofication.45 But, it is important to remember that Pueblofication was not the only response that Pueblos mounted to negotiate Spanish power and authority in their communities. As I discuss in the chapters that follow,

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Pueblo people used many tactics— Pueblofication being only one of them— to negotiate Spanish colonial power and authority. They were sometimes secret about their beliefs and practices, much in the way Spicer and Dozier described. They also expanded political, economic, ritual, and other social traditions to meet new demands and burdens placed upon them by contact; feigned loyalty to Spanish authorities and the teachings of the Catholic Church; tolerated Spanish practices and beliefs, especially those that paralleled their own; adopted those practices and beliefs that they found useful or attractive; and circumvented Spanish influence, or even resisted it outright, when it was not to their liking. Of course, I am not the first to argue that the agency of a subaltern people must be stressed, rather than their simple conformity to state power or nation-state rule. Contemporary theorizations of contact, colonization, and domination seek to recognize the messy nature of that experience— the plasticity of it. Indigenous people of the Americas borrowed or were forced to adopt the colonizer’s practices and beliefs; colonizers adopted the practices and beliefs of indigenous people. Sometimes a “middle ground” was created out of such interactions; at other times, entirely “new peoples” were born— ethnogenesis occurred. Such scenarios might be the result of the use of the “weapons of the weak” in different contexts and situations. Sometimes, however, a less happy scenario resulted: Indian peoples died defending their way of life, or were forced to assimilate to the degree that their cultures no longer existed. A few recently published studies of Pueblo people recognize the variability of their response to Spanish oppression. In her study of the Matachines dance in New Mexico, for example, Sylvia Rodriguez argues that “while religious compartmentalization is easily seen at Picurís, there is also evidence of fusion, as well as . . . the amalgamation or absorption of Catholic elements.”46 It is not because Pueblo people were compartmentalized that they survived Euro-American contact; it was, in fact, due to their ability to utilize and manipulate numerous tactics that allowed them to successfully respond to the demands of contact. The Pueblo-Spanish encounter was unpredictable, with new cultural forms arising and existing alongside tradition like scattershot across the landscape. We can construct, at best, a kaleidoscopic understanding of these scattershot cultural forms because the evidence is so fragmented. Trying to look at Pueblo history is indeed like looking through a kaleidoscope: what you see are fragments of cultural forms existing through pieces of time; it is impossible to perceive of, much less to present, a coherent and linear narrative of that history. Nevertheless, writing (and reading) Pueblo history is both necessary and important. The stories of the people who lived in the Southwest, and, indeed, in the so-called New World, have

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not been fully told. They will never be fully told: much has been lost to document destruction and to things left unrecorded. Nevertheless, a  commitment to the use of flexible methodologies and theories that promote the importance of placing native peoples at the center of history writing should go a long way toward building a body of information about colonial-period Spanish-Indian relations in the Southwest.

CHA P TER T WO

Foreign and Domestic Affairs Pueblo Politics

The goal of this book is to trace Spanish state-making’s impact on Pueblo individuals and communities. In all arenas of Pueblo social life, individuals were confronted with pressures to change their way of life and to adopt Spanish practices during the colonial period. In this chapter, I argue that the choices Pueblo individuals and elites made in response to such pressures resulted in an expansion, segmentation, and, ultimately, reinforcement of male-dominance and class segregation of the political sphere. The way that new responsibilities and burdens were handled by elites reveals that traditional (or pre-contact) forms of governance were expanded to meet the demands and responsibilities placed upon Pueblo communities by Spanish colonization; in other words, Pueblo elites and communities did not create new forms of governance to meet these demands. Instead, “alien patterns” of governance were allowed to enter the “weave” of Pueblo practices; they were then “incorporated into a truly Pueblo pattern” (or “Pueblofied”). As the practice of Pueblo governance expanded to meet Spanish demands, class and gender differences were reinforced. Class and gender difference already existed in Pueblo governance in the pre-contact period; these differences were carried over into the post-contact period and were strengthened as the political sphere itself expanded under the burden of Spanish contact. Pueblo male elites’ familiarity with—if not adoption of— Spanish ideologies concerning the proper role of women and men in politics further worked to harden such differences in the Pueblo political sphere.

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“All is Disorganized, for They Have No Rulers to Govern Them”: The Pueblo Political Sphere When Spaniards arrived in New Mexico in 1539, they needed supplies, labor, and tribute. They relied upon Pueblo communities to supply them with basic necessities because they could not transport everything they needed into the province; it would have been simply too massive an undertaking. This meant that Pueblo communities had to have a basic governing structure and process in place that would allow Spaniards orderly access to labor and goods. A governing structure and process was also necessary when Spanish civil authorities wished to launch civil or criminal investigations into the affairs of Pueblo communities, which they did regularly throughout the eighteenth century. In short, Spaniards needed at the very least one reliable representative for each Pueblo community that had the power to grant them access to needed people and resources. A better scenario would have been to have a full-blown bureaucracy— offices and administration—in place in each Pueblo community that could be held accountable to Spanish authorities. In the long run, the individuals that assumed the role of intermediaries between Spanish civil authorities and their communities inevitably gained a certain degree of power and recognition, even if this power and recognition was the result of Spanish colonization and domination. The difficulty with this scenario was that Spaniards, at least in the early years following contact, do not appear to have had a clear understanding of how governance and leadership functioned in Pueblo communities. On the one hand, they believed that Pueblo peoples were ruled by “natural law” because authority figures appeared to have no way to impose their will upon their people. Francisco Vázquez de Coronado wrote in 1540 that if he wanted to acquire some food or clothing from a pueblo, he had to contact a cacique (Indian chief) that then had to discuss it with the people of his community.1 Antonio de Espejo remarked in 1582 that “every pueblo in this province is ruled by three or four village leaders or chiefs and the cacique has as little power as the ordinary Indian; hence they are all equal.”2 Juan de Oñate, the first governor of New Mexico, wrote in 1599 that “their government is one of complete freedom, for although they have some chieftains they obey them badly and in very few matters.”3 An observer in the Oñate entourage explained that they did not follow any superior; rather, “they gather in some underground caves which they use as plazas for their games and dances. They come out of these places to dance in the plazas, but they do not show any par ticular respect or obedience for anyone among their people.”4 Fray Escalona, also part of the Oñate entrada, wrote that “all is disorganized, for they have no rulers to

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govern them.” Instead, “they govern themselves in an orderly manner through natural law.”5 On the other hand, some of these same men seemed to recognize that power and authority differentials existed in Pueblo communities. In 1540, for example, Coronado noted that an “assembly of the oldest men”6 governed Hopi and that Zuni also had “no rulers as in New Spain but [were] governed by a council of their oldest men.”7 At Acoma, Hernando de Alvarado and Fray Juan de Padilla wrote in 1540 that “the old men are the ones who have the most authority among them. We thought that they were witches because they said that they could rise to heaven and other things of the sort.”8 Hernán Gallegos noted in 1581 that the “caciques stand out readily.”9 Collectively, these comments depict Pueblo government forms as existing on a continuum ranging from a complete absence of governance and leadership to governance through an assembly of old men.10

Figure 2.1. Cacique Oyi-tsa or Duck White, 1905. Library of Congress, Prints & Photographs Division, Edward S. Curtis Collection, LC-USZ62-115125.

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There is, of course, any number of possible explanations for why such a confusing picture of Pueblo governance exists in the documentation. Spanish authorities did not necessarily have contact with the same Pueblo communities; therefore, they could have been observing a range of governmental forms. For example, although there were male governing elites in all Pueblo communities, archaeologists and historians now argue that the political infrastructure— or the basis of elite power—varied from community to community. At Hopi, there were caciques that were assisted by heads of ritual soldalities. These men were always chosen from certain lineages within clans. In other words, each clan was composed of numerous lineages, some more powerful than others. Governing elites came from these “core” lineages. Thus, power and authority was dispersed among numerous clans; it was not concentrated in the hands of a small group of male elites. It was the responsibility of these elites to watch over their community and ensure its welfare.11 In the Keresan pueblos to the east of Hopi, however, governing power and authority was not dispersed through a clan system; instead, important governmental and religious functions were handled by medicine societies. Each Keresan pueblo contained only a few medicine societies, and membership in each society was small. Because the leadership of these communities came from a limited number of medicine societies, each having only a small membership, power and authority was concentrated—much more so than at Hopi—in the hands of a few powerful men.12 Finally, the Tanoan pueblos possessed a dual chieftainship based on moiety division. Each community was split into two halves (or moieties), with each moiety governing for half the year. Thus, there were two sets of officials headed by a cacique in each Tanoan pueblo; power and authority rested in their hands. Moving from Hopi to the eastern pueblos, then, there was a shift from clan to medicine society to dual chieftainship as the basis for political power; and, there was a shift from power and authority being highly “dispersed” at Hopi to more “concentrated” in the Keresan and Tanoan communities.13 Thus, it is true that there were differences in the governing systems of Pueblo communities. The problem is that there is no indication in the documentation that Spanish authorities were aware of them. While certain pueblos (Hopi, Zuni, and Acoma) were each singled out as having an assembly of oldest men in charge, for example, this cannot be read to mean that they were the only communities that had such assemblies in place. We now know that all Pueblo communities had at least one group of governing elites. Why then did the Spaniards not document them at every pueblo they visited? What was the reason for this inconsistency in reporting concerning Pueblo governmental forms? Part of it was due, I would argue, to the fact that achieving a clear understanding of Pueblo

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governance was difficult in the first sixty years or so after contact because of the nature of the colonizing efforts during this period. Entradas into the region occurred only sporadically between 1539 (Coronado) and 1598 (Oñate); one imagines that this type of sporadic and oftentimes short-term contact was not conducive to acquiring a deep understanding of Pueblo governance. But more so than this, Spaniards did not “see” or had difficulty understanding Pueblo types of governance in the early post-contact period because they were simply unfamiliar with them. “Accustomed to persistent feudal relations themselves, where orders from above were given and duly followed, the Spanish only dimly perceived that Puebloan leaders . . . governed in another, more democratic manner, often engaging in lengthy tribal consultations and consensus-building before reaching a group decision.”14 Archaeologists have largely agreed that Pueblo communities occupied an intermediate position between egalitarianism (rule by consensus) and stratification in the pre-contact Southwest because their methods of governance often contained elements of both.15 There is little evidence, for example, of obvious markers of a stratified society in the Southwest archaeological record such as elite burials, residences or monumental architecture, differences in access to wealth, or representations of leaders. Instead, archaeologists argue that in many Southwest communities a “corporate-based leadership strategy” existed where “power [was] derived from a local group and individual prestige [was] deemphasized.” Communal architecture, knowledge as a source of power rather than the hoarding of material wealth, and a de-emphasis on personal status distinctions characterizes this mode of social organization.16 In such communities, “food production, communal ritual, public construction, shared power, large cooperative labor tasks . . . and suppressed economic differentiation” exists. “Despite the presence of large architectural spaces, individual leaders in such polities are relatively ‘faceless’ and ‘anonymous’ when it comes to representational art.”17 They are not depicted in murals or any sort of representational form, for example, nor are they distinguished in burial practices.18 They do not live in elite residences or distinguish themselves (by dress, for example) in everyday life.19 Given the de-emphasis on showy displays of power and inequality, one can understand why many Spanish authorities initially believed Pueblo communities lacked leadership and power inequalities. However, there are hierarchies and social complexities in societies that employ a corporatebased leadership strategy. It is simply that power is embedded in and derived from group association or affiliation and ritual rather than being acquired through individual acts of personal glorification. Leaders, whose power comes from possessing ritual knowledge and membership in a

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powerful clan, medicine society, or moiety—not from possessing wealth—may act as councils to make decisions that impact the social and economic well-being of the group. Power is shared rather than concentrated in one recognized individual, thus contributing to the impression that leaders are “faceless” or anonymous.20 “An archetype of corporate leadership is classic Teotihuacan, and even if the leaders of that great city were ‘faceless,’ no one is suggesting that they were not powerful or that inequality was minimal.”21 In some communities, the corporate-based strategy was supplemented by the use of elements of a “network-based” strategy involving leaders who placed greater emphasis on personal prestige and individualized power accumulation.22 In other words, these two strategies are never mutually exclusive, although it is often the case that “one mode tends to dominate.”23 In pre-Hispanic Southwest communities like the ancestral Pueblos, the corporate-based leadership strategy dominated.24 Because corporate-based leadership is not materially marked by such things as differences in dress, residence, and ownership of wealth objects, it can be difficult to detect. This helps to explain why some Spanish authorities believed there was minimal governance in Pueblo communities. However, Spanish authorities eventually came to understand the corporate-based leadership strategy and governance that existed in these communities (even if they did not call it that). At the time of contact, the “assembly of old men” that some Spaniards took note of generally consisted of a cacique, the cacique’s assistants, and a council made up of the heads of societies. War priests and their assistants carried out the decisions of the cacique and his council. Caciques were considered “inside” chiefs, the caretakers of the domestic affairs of their communities; war priests were considered “outside” chiefs, responsible for protecting their communities from “outside forces.” It was within this group of elites that power and authority rested; there was no one person with sole or absolute power in Pueblo communities— although, as I noted above, power and authority was more concentrated in the hands of fewer individuals in the eastern pueblos. Furthermore, political power and authority was based in different locations of the sociopolitical organization in each pueblo: at Hopi, clans ran the government; as one moved east from Hopi to the Keresan (and then Tanoan) pueblos, medicine societies and dual chieftainships ran the government. Religious and secular affairs were not separated in this form of government: elites were both religious and secular leaders of their communities. Pueblo governments were, therefore, theocracies.25 What Spaniards like Coronado, Hernando de Alvarado, and Fray Juan de Padilla were describing was this type of leadership—without realizing it, of course. Even though there is

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no evidence in the Spaniards’ comments of differences in political infrastructure or degree of dispersal or concentration of power and authority, there is evidence of a corporate-based leadership style: Pueblo elites governed through councils or assemblies of elder men so that no one individual appeared to hold absolute power in their communities. The Spaniards’ initial conclusions that Pueblos either had little or no government or were governed by a set of male elites reflected their struggle to understand the unfamiliar leadership strategy that existed in Pueblo communities. While eventually recognizing that there was leadership in place in pueblos, Spanish authorities nonetheless sought to impose a more familiar type of governance that would allow them the access to people and resources that they desired. They required that all Pueblo communities adopt a system of civil government made up of a governor, lieutenant governor, war captain, sheriff, ditch boss, and church warden that was to be freely elected on a yearly basis.26 By insisting Pueblo communities elect secular leadership, “the Spaniards proposed to separate the moral-ritual leadership which was at the heart and center of Indian communities from the administrative-executive leadership and to subordinate the former to the latter. This was a thorough turning upside down of the Indian systems.”27 The Spaniards intended for their imposed form of governance— one with obvious, elected leadership—to dominate whatever political process and structure was in place in Pueblo communities. However, what happened in reality was the opposite: caciques and their assistants continued to govern Pueblo communities via a corporate-based leadership strategy; governors were appointed by them and subordinated to them. Secular officials had no real power in Pueblo communities and made no policy decisions.28 The imposed Spanish system was simply incorporated into the traditional, corporate mode of governance, with caciques and their assistants directing the actions of governors and other imposed officials. These governors were charged with handling “outside” or Pueblo-Spanish affairs, while caciques and their assistants continued with their traditional duties.29 At Zuni, the war priest (or bow priest, as he was called) was most likely the person appointed to the governorship of the pueblo because he “was the most obvious leader.”30 As the “outside” chief, he would have been the most identifiable elite that Spaniards encountered at Zuni. In addition, I would argue that it made sense that he was appointed governor, since traditionally it was his duty as bow priest to deal with outsiders and outside forces. In short, the same elites served in both the traditional and secular government, thus ensuring that secular governance was integrated with traditional governance.

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Figure 2.2. Acoma governor, 1891. Library of Congress, Prints & Photographs Division, Charles F. Lummis, LC-USZ62-79652.

The Expansion and Segmentation of the Pueblo Political Sphere With a clearer picture in place of how Pueblo governments functioned, it is necessary to analyze further how governmental forms may have been altered in the post-contact period. In this section of the chapter I argue that, in addition to adopting a secular government, the arrival of the Spaniards in New Mexico in 1539 ultimately resulted in the creation of an extended and segmented “political sphere”—that realm of activity that

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had as its focus the guidance and administration of the life of Pueblo communities as a whole and included not only the secular and traditional government but also the roles that non-elites held in this arena. The expansion and segmentation of the political sphere was due to the fact that incorporation into the Spanish state resulted in new demands being placed upon Pueblo communities, which included requests for labor, tribute, and other material goods. I label these frequent negotiations with Spanish civil authorities and bureaucratic personnel “foreign relations.” As I will discuss below, the documentation shows that, Pueblo elites negotiated the imposition of new responsibilities and burdens by using traditional methods of governance: pre-contact forms of governance remained in place—in an expanded and segmented form—and were utilized to deal with novel situations that confronted the Pueblos after Spanish contact. Such was one tactic employed by Pueblo elites to manage new burdens placed upon them by Spanish contact. The Spanish—be they religious or civil authorities or simply neighbors— represented an intrusive population in the Pueblo world. They were “outsiders” to Pueblo people and their communities because they were ethnically distinct from them and did not have historical roots in the region. They sought to literally build their communities between and, in the case of the Franciscan missionaries, inside of Pueblo communities. They sought to physically and socially insert themselves into the Pueblo world and to, ultimately, dominate the landscape and Pueblo communities in ways no other ethnic outsider had ever attempted. Most alarmingly, these were not foreigners with whom the Pueblos could have benign or equitable relations, because Spanish authorities sought to remove their political sovereignty and subordinate them. This forced incorporation into the Spanish state required an expansion of Pueblo political activities and processes—in short, the Pueblo political sphere. It required that— at the very least—Pueblos expand foreign relations policies and procedures, because, for example, Spanish authorities and missionaries expected levels of labor and wealth extraction that Pueblo peoples had never before experienced or had not experienced in a very long time. Disputes between Spaniards and Pueblos over land and labor, the problems that Spaniards caused in Pueblo communities, Pueblo criminal activity that came to the attention of Spanish authorities—Pueblo elites had to deal with all of these issues (and more) in conjunction with Spanish civil and church authorities. Simply put, the amount of foreign relations matters that Pueblo elites had to attend to increased during the colonial period. The presence of Spanish missionaries, civilians, and civil authorities in and around Pueblo communities was the cause of this increase. Whether or not Pueblo people, either as a group or in part, had ever experienced political subordination and domination before Spanish

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contact is a matter of debate. If they had, it might be argued that Pueblo methods for dealing with the Spanish intruders, and the foreign policies they developed, did not require an expansion of the political sphere. In other words, perhaps Pueblo people were already dealing with intruders or foreigners in the pre-contact period, and the Spaniards were simply an addition to those groups. While Pueblo communities had maintained their political sovereignty and integrity in relation to other ethnically distinct indigenous groups in the Southwest region prior to Spanish contact, some archaeologists do argue for the presence, at certain points in time, of regional systems where political domination of one set of ancestral Pueblo communities by another may have occurred. If this is so, then that experience may have guided Pueblo elites in their efforts to manage their political affairs after Spanish contact in 1539. The Chacoan regional system (AD 900–1150) is, of course, the most obvious example of such a system, for it “represented the apex of social and political complexity in the northern Southwest.”31 Composed of a religious and ritual center in Chaco Canyon with many “great house” and smaller village outliers, the argument has been made that those outliers that were located in close geographic proximity to Chaco Canyon were under the direct political influence of leaders based in the canyon.32 These Chaco elites employed a corporate mode of leadership that emphasized “cooperative avenues of achieving social control, such as feasting, trade, and/or pilgrimage.” Local leaders and families at outlying great houses “imperfectly” adhered “to a set of architectural and ideological canons based in a widely shared cosmology most strongly elaborated at the center at Chaco Canyon.”33 Families from outlying towns supplied material goods as part of their participation in large communal events that were held in the canyon by elites, and that built upon and reinforced this shared identity.34 There was a reciprocal relationship between elites and commoners, even within the context of the production and exchange of wealth items. While there appears to have been an attempt to create a common identity over which both elites and commoners could create social bonds, Chaco elites were not above using more coercive strategies to attain political and ritual hegemony. There is evidence of isolated incidents of extreme violence in settlements located quite a distance away from Chaco, which has been read to be reflective of the influence of the Chaco Canyon leadership. Chaco leaders used their power to acquire tribute and labor in return, perhaps, for their protection of outlier communities.35 Sites located outside of the Chaco “halo” had weaker ties to the area and thus only experienced Chaco repression “episodically.”36 Chaco was abandoned by AD 1150. According to archaeologists who argue for seeing Chaco as a politically coercive regional system, this

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abandonment was followed by the development of similar systems in the Northern San Juan region, such as Aztec Ruins and Mesa Verde,37 although, again, the character of leadership in these systems is a matter of debate. These Northern San Juan region systems had failed by AD 1300, and the population relocated, at least in part, to what is now the contemporary Pueblo communities. Accepting that Chaco and the Northern San Juan region did represent episodes where one ancestral Pueblo community politically dominated others, the arrival of the Spanish might be seen, simply, as one more period of time where political elites would have had to extend their foreign relations responsibilities and skills. In other words, there is some evidence to suggest that the political sphere in Pueblo communities expanded and retracted through time to meet the demands of different situations of coercion and domination. While it may be true that the political sphere expanded and retracted over time, it is necessary to ask whether the experiences of Chaco and the Northern San Juan region could have shaped Pueblo consciousness and political processes by 1539. Because there was no Chaco-like phenomenon in the Pueblo world between AD 1300 and 1539— the year the Spaniards arrived—the best that can be said is that Pueblo peoples would have perhaps had some dim historical memory of political coercion and domination to assist them with managing Spanish colonization.38 Even if the oral histories present in 1539 in Pueblo communities retained suggestions on managing domination and subordination, there were some obvious differences between the form of political coercion imposed at Chaco or the Northern San Juan region and the Rio Grande region after Spanish contact. While both regimes may have sought labor and tribute, that labor and tribute was acquired via different mechanisms. Although the mechanisms through which elites acquired goods and labor at Chaco are not well understood, as described above, it is thought that such access was built upon a shared commitment to a common Chacoan identity and religion. Leaders acquired followers because they successfully constructed and maintained a shared identity with them via joint participation in large community feasts. Followers supplied all of the material necessary to carry out these large community events. And, as evidence shows, the amount of valued items contributed to such efforts was substantial.39 This is different from the Spanish practice of wealth acquisition and control, where Pueblo peoples were simply ordered to supply items to Spanish authorities on a regular basis. There was no shared identity or reciprocal relationship between Spaniards and Pueblos to “grease” the mechanisms of labor and wealth acquisition, as there was in the Chaco regional system. Thus, it appears that the Chaco experience could not have guided Pueblo interactions with Spaniards to a great degree. The experience of political domination was simply too far in the past, and too different in

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form and function, to meaningfully structure and guide Pueblo policy making concerning Spanish state-making practices. The political sphere expanded after 1539 to meet the demands placed upon Pueblo communities by Spanish contact, and became quite segmented in nature: a divide developed between the foreign- and domestic-relations segments of the sphere so the two frequently operated independently of each other. The colonial documentation shows that, in fact, the events and activities of the domestic sphere occurred mostly out of sight of both the pen and the eye of Spanish civil and religious authorities. Pueblo officials sought to secretly handle the investigation and punishment of Pueblo wrongdoers, suggesting that they wished to avoid Spanish intervention into the internal affairs of their communities. This was another strategy that Pueblo people used to negotiate Spanish colonization in the political sphere, and to maintain their political sovereignty (and is, of course, the tactic that was highlighted by Edward Dozier and Edward Spicer in their discussions of compartmentalization). There were numerous strategies Pueblo elites used to maintain this secrecy. First, they might require that community members maintain an absolute silence about certain events or activities that they knew would cause Spanish authorities concern. For example, in August 1797, Spanish authorities conducted an investigation at Sandia into the whippings of suspected witches, at least one of whom died from his beating.40 The whipping of the man who died had been carried out in 1796 and had been covered up by the entire pueblo, according to witness testimony. Members of the pueblo were told to keep the whipping a secret.41 His body was secretly buried in the church cemetery while the resident missionary was away in Bernalillo.42 Second, Pueblo elites made an effort to control when Spaniards would find out about certain events or activities that they might find troubling. There are cases where there is a long gap between the event and the investigation of the event in the Spanish documentation. Jerónimo Dirucaca of Picuris was investigated for sorcery and causing community disruptions in 1713.43 However, it became clear during the investigation that Dirucaca had been punished by Pueblo elites for indiscretions during the tenure of Governor de Vargas (1691–1697 and 1703–1704).44 This suggests that he had long been a problem to his community, but he only came to the attention of Spanish authorities years afterward. An investigation into peyote use at Taos occurred three to five years after community meetings about its use.45 According to the documentation, Pueblo elders held a meeting about the drug during the governorship of Don Felix Martinez (1715–1717), but Spanish authorities only found out about it and investigated it in 1720.46 Thus, it was only after the fact that the Spanish found out about these activities and investigated them, which shows that Pueblo communities attempted to keep their affairs private and their political sovereignty in place.

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Clarifying how Spanish officials found out about internal political matters that Pueblos attempted to keep secret sheds more light on the ways that Pueblo communities attempted to maintain this sovereignty. There is a difference between Pueblo elites asking for assistance from the Spanish authorities in dealing with disruptive people or events in their communities and the Spanish authorities simply taking it upon themselves to intrude into Pueblo communities to investigate such problems: in the first case, Pueblo people retained control over their communities; in the second case, they did not. Examples of both types of cases exist in the documentation. In the case of Jerónimo Dirucaca, for example, Pueblo officials alerted Spanish justices of his problematic behavior in 1713; however, some of the crimes he was accused of committing occurred long before 1713, indicating that he had long been a problem in the pueblo. This is not the only time that Pueblo officials turned to Spanish justice to remove disruptive government personnel. In 1757, the elites of the Isleta pueblo complained to the governor of New Mexico that the local fiscal (Indian aide to the church) had gone from house to house “causing disturbances.” The cacique had attempted to stop him, but was unable to do so. Because of this, the pueblo was “very lost”47 and asked for assistance from Spanish authorities. The same thing happened in 1788: Santa Clara Indians asked the governor of New Mexico to replace their governor because he was physically and verbally abusive.48 This might seem, at first, an odd action to take: Why would Pueblo elites rely upon the very system of government that sought to remove their sovereignty for assistance with conflict resolution? On the one hand, such requests for assistance allowed Spanish authorities access to Pueblo communities and the opportunity to compile information about those communities or to even intrude into the functioning of Pueblo government. On the other hand, like indigenous peoples throughout Latin America,49 Pueblo individuals and communities became very adept at manipulating the Spanish system of justice— a system that provided them with rights and legal protections— to their own advantage. After years of abusive behavior at Picuris, Pueblo officials most likely had grown tired of Dirucaca. They had probably attempted to deal with him in a number of different ways and had simply run out of options: having no other way to control Dirucaca, they brought Spanish civil officials into the matter. In other words, having an alternative source of power and authority to turn to in certain situations may have been a benefit to Pueblo communities—if they were able to control when, how, and to what extent that reliance on alternative sources of power took place. If they lost that control, then, of course, the political sovereignty of their communities might be jeopardized. But, if Pueblo elites managed to put Spanish power to their own use—to constrain it and channel it toward desired goals— such a tactic would not necessarily have been a threat to Pueblo sovereignty. Secrecy

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regarding Pueblo internal politics was warranted in some situations; in others, the opposite strategy was employed. In the three cases of power sharing discussed here, it is difficult to judge the effectiveness of such a strategy in maintaining political sovereignty. In the case of Isleta in 1757, the documentation does not reveal what happened to the fiscal.50 Thus, in this case, we cannot know if Isletan’s use of Spanish justice resulted in the desired end of the removal of the disruptive person. In the 1788 case at Santa Clara, the governor of New Mexico ordered that a new governor of the pueblo be elected. In the case of Dirucaca, Spanish officials pardoned him after he agreed to show them the location of some veins of silver; they also banished him from the pueblo and required that he pay the costs for of the trial.51 In these cases, it appears as though the Pueblo elites reached their goal, without a serious breach of political sovereignty. Even if Dirucaca was pardoned, he was permanently removed from his home pueblo of Picuris—which may have been the ultimate goal of the officials there. That Pueblo elites did sometimes rely upon Spanish justice to resolve internal disputes suggests that the corporate mode of leadership was still in place in Pueblo communities in the eighteenth century. Power was shared among the political elite in Pueblo communities, as is common in this style of leadership, but, if the situation was extreme enough, these elites were not above reaching out to other, geographically adjacent “power-holders” for assistance. Sometimes this tactic was effective in resolving disputes; sometimes it was not. While there are examples of Pueblo elites alerting Spanish officials to internal political matters, in a vast majority of the civil and criminal investigations that occurred in the eighteenth century, the documentation does not make it clear how Spanish officials were notified of problems in Pueblo communities. For example, the documentation does not clarify how authorities found out about peyote use at Taos or the whipping of the Sandia sorcerer. Governor Valverde penned the first document in the peyote case; he simply noted that he “[found] himself with the news that, in the pueblo of Taos, an Indian named Quara” had ingested peyote.52 In the whipping of the Sandia sorcerer, the first page of the document indicates that the alcalde mayor had investigated “the attacks that occur[red] daily” in Sandia—indicating only that he had known and investigated the problems that were occurring in the pueblo for some period of time.53 What most likely occurred is that Spanish officials were alerted by other Spaniards living in the area, or even by Sandia individuals who had varying motivations for wanting the Spanish to become involved in community disputes. However, even if a Sandia individual made the notification, it was not “official.” In other words, there is no evidence that Sandia elites came to Spanish officials for assistance with the support of their commu-

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nity, as in the Dirucaca investigation. Thus, such an investigation most likely would have been perceived of as a violation of political integrity by a majority of Sandia inhabitants. Once such investigations were launched, Spanish authorities often discovered that other activities were occurring that greatly concerned them and (in their minds) would have been cause and justification for further investigation. Such investigations often revealed additional information about the inner workings of Pueblo government—information that would assist Spanish authorities in their efforts to enforce their domination and control. For example, in many investigations it was discovered that Pueblo people were having secret meetings in their communities. In the post-Pueblo revolt world, the possibility of Pueblos meeting together secretly for any reason at all was cause for grave concern. Spanish authorities, in fact, had regulations preventing all vassals of the king—but especially “reduced” Indians—from holding such meetings.54 In the case of the Sandia whipping, it appears that at least two, if not three, meetings were held, not all of which were about sorcery in the pueblo. The first was about the whipping of Christopher, which, by all accounts, involved all of the people of the pueblo.55 A second meeting appears to have been held regarding Apaches causing problems at the pueblo. While most declarants who discussed this meeting indicated that all people of the pueblo attended,56 one declarant noted that it was only the men of the pueblo.57 A third possible meeting also may have been conducted concerning the whipping of a second sorcerer, Juan Luis.58 In the peyote case, Pueblos were accused of having meetings in Taos about not only the ingestion of the drug but also Quara’s accusation that the governor of Parral had prevented Spanish authorities from attacking the pueblo.59 Declarants interviewed by Spanish authorities reassured them that they were happy with the governor of New Mexico60 and that they had attended the meetings about the peyote use only to inform the alcalde mayor about them.61 They explained that the meetings were held to discuss the fact that Quara was crazy and that his pronouncements about the Spaniards wanting to kill the inhabitants of Taos were false.62 The discovery that certain Pueblo people were accusing the Spanish authorities of planning an attack would have required immediate action and would have cast suspicion on the Pueblo communities involved.63 Pueblo people understood this and, in some cases, worked very hard to reassure Spaniards that no such revolts were being planned (whether or not this was actually true) and that they were pleased with their Spanish overlords. Even when there was no evidence that any sort of revolt planning was occurring, Spanish authorities did not like the idea that Pueblos might be attempting to govern themselves without their guidance or knowledge. They wanted them to be transparent about what was going on in their communities and to rely upon the Spanish system of justice to resolve

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internal disputes. By creating this dependency upon Spanish justice, the Spaniards hoped to weaken and replace the mechanisms Pueblos used to maintain their political sovereignty and integrity. In the case of the whipping of the Sandia sorcerer in 1797, the alcalde mayor complained that Pueblo elders “trampled on” his “employment each day”64 —in other words, they were taking matters that should have been handled by Spanish authorities into their own hands. Investigators in this case asked questions about why Pueblo officials believed they had the right to punish suspected sorcerers (as opposed, one would imagine, to the local missionary or Spanish civil authorities).65 There are numerous other cases in the documentation for the eighteenth century concerning who had the right to power and authority in Pueblo communities, suggesting that this was an ongoing matter of concern for Spanish authorities. For example, an investigation over some stolen sheep in 1771 at Isleta turned into an inquiry into cacique power in that pueblo.66 The governor and war captain declared that the cacique was all-powerful and ruled like a king, never informing them or consulting them on matters. He also lied to the alcalde mayor about crimes community members committed, in order to prevent them from being punished. He encouraged them to speak Spanish in public but to continue to use and conserve their “primitive” language in private.67 Upon learning of the cacique’s actions, Spanish authorities interviewed other individuals about the nature of his authority at Isleta: Did he rule “through” or “as” the king in the pueblo? There were obviously grave consequences to answering this question, depending upon which preposition the cacique used to describe his authority. Ultimately, the governor of New Mexico removed the cacique from power.68 Other cases of a similar nature occurred early in the nineteenth century: in 1808, a complaint about an abusive alcalde mayor at Santa Ana evolved into an investigation into the fiscal’s power at that pueblo.69 In 1813, the friar at Zia was investigated for abuse because he got into an altercation with the governor of the pueblo over who had the authority to punish troublemakers.70 Spanish authorities were not simply interested in who held power and authority in Pueblo communities; they also wanted to understand how elites imposed their authority and power and for what ends they were used. In the peyote case at Taos, Spanish officials asked questions about who had called the meetings about peyote use, and why people attended the meetings.71 The massive 1793 investigation into secret meetings at the Tewa pueblos also revealed a search for similar information.72 Declarants were of course closely questioned about what had been discussed at the meetings. But they were also questioned about who had called the meetings, and why, specifically, they attended them. Interestingly, they provided similar explanations for the meetings compared to those involved

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in the Taos peyote case: they claimed that they were meeting to be counseled on how to live by the Ten Commandments, teach the children to pray, live as Christians, and assist in doctrina (among other things).73 Some explained that they had attended the meetings because they were ordered to do so by governmental officials, or simply because they were “crazy.”74 The secrecy surrounding internal political affairs and the gap in time between the actual occurrence of and investigation into the events described in these documents suggests that Pueblo elites strove to handle affairs internal to Pueblo communities secretly and apart from Spanish civil authorities. This is why it is proper to argue that a segmented political sphere existed in Pueblo communities in the post-contact period, one segment focused on internal affairs and one focused on external affairs having to do with Spanish colonizers (of course, other segments existed as well). When faced with having to live in close proximity with foreigners who sought to remove their political sovereignty from them, Pueblo communities responded by avoiding bringing Spanish officials into their internal affairs. They created a closed, internal sphere of politics that they worked to keep out of sight of the watchful eye of Spanish authorities. However, there appears to have been situations where Pueblo officials were not above turning to the system of Spanish justice if the problems became unmanageable. Of course, there were also times that Spanish officials intruded into this internal political sphere without the permission of Pueblo officials. Such intrusions impacted the political sovereignty of those pueblos— as in the case of the removal of the cacique at Isleta in 1771. What started out as an investigation about the theft of some sheep ended in Spanish authorities removing an Isletan government official. When questioned, Pueblo people often responded to this intrusion into the affairs of their communities by declaring their loyalty to the Spaniards: they reassured Spanish authorities of their commitment to the governor of New Mexico and maintained that no discussion of revolt had occurred. They proclaimed their devotion to the Catholic Church as well. Whether or not these declarations of loyalty were truthful is, of course, a matter of debate. Some Pueblo people were devout Catholics and were highly Hispanicized in the colonial period. Thus, in a number of cases, such declarations were honest and truthful. In others, however, the declarations were made to cover up the fact that Pueblo people were having discussions and meetings about matters that they wished to keep secret from Spanish authorities. In these cases, they told authorities what they thought they wanted to hear. This feigned loyalty was yet another strategy Pueblos employed to deal with efforts to diminish their political sovereignty, or, more broadly, to impose Spanish colonial authority.

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In the beginning of this chapter, I discussed the differences in governmental forms that existed in the post-colonial period; however, it is not clear from the documentation what impact such differences might have had on Pueblo styles of managing Spanish colonial authority and power. While there is evidence of a corporate-style leadership in the documentation (as noted above), unfortunately there is nothing to indicate how clan, medicine society, or dual chieftainship or dispersed versus concentrated power holding might have impacted or shaped the expansion and segmentation of the political sphere in Pueblo communities. We might then investigate if there was any variation at all in the use of segmentation, feigned loyalty, or power sharing in Pueblo communities—whether connected to these par ticular differences or not. For example, Hopi is a set of villages that had varying amounts of contact with Spaniards during the colonial period. This was the result of a number of factors, including the fact that Hopi was located approximately three hundred miles from Santa Fe. Nevertheless, Franciscan friars established a mission at Awatovi in the seventeenth century, which flourished until the Pueblo Revolt of 1680. Attempts were made to rebuild the mission after the revolt, but during the winter of 1700–1701, Hopis living in other towns sacked Awatovi.75 Thus, from the time of Awatovi’s destruction until the mid-nineteenth century, “Hopis successfully resisted foreign encroachment and domination. Hopi religious and political leaders maintained relative autonomy for their people beyond the era of Spanish control.” This is because of the message that the destruction of Awatovi sent to both Hopi and non-Hopi: “if you become a Christian and violate Hopi ethical standards you will be destroyed.”76 One wonders if, at communities like Hopi, segmentation and extension of the political sphere was always necessary given that Spanish contact was sporadic and uneven across the centuries of colonial rule. It appears that the Hopi villages experienced a more intense level of contact— especially with religious authorities— during the seventeenth as opposed to the eighteenth century. Therefore, although there is no documentation to conclusively prove it, it is logical to assume that segmentation and expansion of the political sphere at Hopi occurred more intensively during the seventeenth than the eighteenth century. As I discussed in the introduction, Hopis practiced “Hopification” during times of greater contact with Spanish (or American) authorities. Perhaps segmentation and expansion of the political sphere was one tactic Hopis used to carry out Hopification in the seventeenth century. It follows, then, that during the eighteenth century, Hopification would have been unnecessary. Other towns similarly located on the periphery of Spanish power and authority (such as Zuni, Acoma, and Laguna) probably also experienced periods where expansion and segmentation were more or less necessary. If the

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argument is that segmentation and extension were the result of contact with Spaniards, there would be less need for such tactics in those communities that experienced long periods of isolation from authorities located far away along the Rio Grande.

The Elite, Male Face of the Pueblo Political Sphere If there is one characteristic of the political sphere that appears consistently in the documentation, it is the predominance of elite men in that sphere. As I demonstrate below, the documentation shows that they occupied all offices in the governments of Pueblo communities in the eighteenth century, while women and “commoner,” or non-elite, men held “consultative” roles. Furthermore, commoner men appear much more frequently in the documentation than do Pueblo women, which suggests that women had the least amount of input into public, or observable, political affairs. Thus, the Pueblo political sphere appears to have been divided by class and gender differences. By this, I simply mean that a ranking of people, based on gender and power, prestige and authority, is evident in the documentation.77 Gender differences appear more sharply drawn than class differences in the political sphere, since commoner men (alongside male elites) played a more consistent role in both domestic and foreign relations investigations than did women. However, just because commoners, including women, had less input into political matters does not mean that in actuality they had no voice in managing those matters. Nor does it mean that they were, more generally, a subordinated group in their communities. Rather, the documentation provides evidence of what the Spaniards perceived of the political sphere; whether Pueblo people saw things in the same way is a matter I will consider below. As discussed at the beginning of this chapter, Spanish authorities frequently noted that the councils and assemblies they held with Pueblo people were all composed of elder males and that it was elder men (or elites) who had the most authority in Pueblo communities. Commentary about the absence of women at meetings that occurred in the immediate post-contact period only underscored the male dominance of such governance. When Coronado arrived at Hawikuh (Zuni) in 1540, he did not find any women present or any men younger than fifteen or older than sixty, “except two or three old men who remained in command of all the other young men and warriors.”78 An observer on the Coronado expedition explained that he could not provide any information about women’s dress because “the Indians keep them guarded so carefully that I have not seen any, except two old ones.”79 In 1582, Antonio Luján noted that in the Tiwa pueblos, “efforts were made to have the Indians come peacefully to us, but though they said they were our friends, they would not

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bring their women to the pueblos.”80 It is clear that what was going on in 1540 was that women were simply not participating in the foreign relations of their communities, at least not in a public way. For the most part, the eighteenth century documentation demonstrates that elite male dominance continued to exist in the Pueblo political sphere through the entire colonial period (with commoners playing diminished roles in that sphere based on gender and class). I base this assertion on my analysis of investigations whose focus and impact was community-wide, not discrete criminal acts committed by Pueblo individuals within specific Pueblo communities. I focus on this group of documents because I am investigating who governed Pueblo communities and how that governance was carried out, not isolated criminal or civil acts committed by individuals in those communities (whose cases also frequently involved Pueblo officials). My focus is therefore on the documentation concerning investigations that required that the formal machinery of government be set in motion, thus revealing most clearly how the governance of Pueblo communities was managed. An analysis of these investigations shows that elites were central to any investigation conducted by Spaniards, whether such investigations were initiated by Spaniards or Pueblos, or occurred in the domestic or foreign relations sphere of Pueblo politics. Commoner men and, to a lesser degree, women were consultants to elites in these investigations. The fact that there was a clear segmentation of the political sphere means that documentation is only available for certain activities that occurred in Pueblo communities. Documentation is lacking for the ways in which internal or domestic disputes were handled, since efforts were made to keep Spaniards out of these disputes and Pueblos themselves did not keep written records of their investigations. A much greater amount of documentation exists concerning Pueblo handling of foreign relations, since Spaniards documented their interactions with Pueblos. This necessarily means that there is much more evidence from Pueblo foreign relations in tracing which gender and class dominated the Pueblo political sphere. Nevertheless, when there is evidence of Pueblo domestic relations in the Spanish documentation, men dominated this segment of the political realm as well. Some of the cases have already been discussed in some detail in the previous sections of this chapter and thus will be briefly reviewed below (or not at all). Foreign Relations Documentation. “Foreign relations” documentation is, again, that documentation that concerns Pueblo interactions of any sort with Spaniards. As such, it contains investigations initiated by both Spanish and Pueblo individuals. In both types of investigations, Pueblo elites were at the forefront of the investigative process. One of the earliest post-revolt, Spanish-initiated investigations occurred in September 1695.

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The friar at the mission in Pecos pueblo, Diego Zeinos, accidentally shot an Indian resident.81 In order to save his reputation, the friar contacted Governor de Vargas about the incident and asked that he take declarations from Pecos inhabitants to prove that the shooting was accidental.82 Thus, according to the document, Pecos Indians went to Santa Fe to speak with the governor; they insisted that “they were not angry” with the friar and that the shooting had happened because the he did not know that the gun was loaded.83 The Indians who went to Santa Fe to represent their pueblo were “the lieutenant governor, alcaldes, captains of war, and the cacique Don Damian”—in other words, the governing elites of the pueblo.84 This pattern of elite male dominance in Spanish-initiated, foreign relations investigations repeats itself over and over again in the eighteenthcentury documentation. Spanish authorities relied upon Pueblo governmental officials to provide necessary information on a wide range of issues throughout the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. For example, in 1711, Governor Peñuela had Pueblo communities questioned about his and Juan de Ulibarri’s job per formance. Ulibarri was his general and first sergeant. Some “disaffected persons” had denounced both in Mexico City. Clearly, Peñuela felt his reputation was at stake, so he wanted Pueblo people to be questioned as to their feelings and perceptions of his and Ulibarri’s per formances. Representatives of each pueblo were called in groups to Santa Fe to give testimony. These representatives were, typically, caciques, governors, lieutenants, and captains of war. Pecos, for example, sent Governor Don Juan Tindes, Cacique Don Felipe Chistoe, Captain of War José Yuta, and alcaldes Agustin and Santiago. Governor Francisco Sicunviste, his lieutenant Antonio Inieste, Cacique Alonso Favile, and Captain Cristobal Flauta represented Jemez.85 This pattern of contacting Pueblo elites about official Spanish business was not just followed by civil authorities; in investigations into mission personnel, it was Pueblo male elites that were contacted for testimony. For example, an investigation into the functioning of missions in New Mexico was launched in 1750.86 Both Spanish citizens and members of Pueblo communities were interviewed in this investigation. When it came to extracting information from the Pueblos, governors, caciques, lieutenants, fiscals, and “other elders,” officials and “cabildo”87 members were consulted at each community. The same thing occurred in June 1755, when Fray Jacobo de Castro made a visita (inspection) of all the missions in New Mexico.88 The point of the visita was to make sure that the resident friar was upholding his duties, and that he was not abusing the members of his mission in any way. Thus, at Taos, he requested that the governor and the “rest of the officials of the Republic” appear before him to be questioned about the activity of the resident missionary Fray Andres García. Jacobo de Castro repeated this process at each of the Pueblo

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communities he visited: he requested that the governor and the rest of the officials come forth to be questioned. Pueblo governmental officials were also contacted about land disputes with Spaniards and land grants made to Spaniards. Two land grants to Spaniards were made at Taos pueblo in 1715–1716. Taos principals coordinated both grants.89 In 1724, the cacique, governor, and war captains of Santa Clara gave the Tafoya family possession of a tract of land that was located adjacent to the western boundary of their lands.90 This was done with the stipulation that the Tafoyas only use the land for pasturing their animals, not for agricultural purposes. The Pueblo officials did not want there to be competition over limited water resources to the land. However, as further documentation shows, the Tafoyas immediately began to cultivate the land, and even to irrigate it. In 1734, they submitted a petition to allow them to cultivate the land. In this investigation, Spanish authorities inspected the land in the presence of the “Indian governor, interpreter, and five other principals” from Santa Clara, as well as the Tafoya family. Ultimately, the authorities concluded that the Tafoyas had always illegally cultivated their land; formal permission to continue that cultivation was denied.91 The centrality of Pueblo governmental officials in land disputes is also evidenced late in the colonial period. In 1815, Spaniard Juan Antonio Baca complained that he was in a land dispute with Quintana, a resident of Cochiti pueblo. In an effort to resolve the dispute, he contacted the governor of the pueblo, who told him that “neither does he know anything, nor does he have anything to ask, nor do the people of his pueblo meddle in anything, and only Quintana and his friends are the trouble[makers], who, year after year, and day after day, the said Quintana keeps stirred up.”92 While there is no elaboration upon the governor’s statement concerning Quintana, it is clear that he had caused much trouble in the pueblo and the governor was attempting to wash his hands of any business related to him. Nevertheless, the fact that Baca contacted the Cochiti governor about his complaint (as well as the evidence from other land disputes) shows the centrality of male Pueblo elites in resolving those disputes in Pueblo communities. Pueblo officials also requested that Spanish authorities initiate investigations concerning land disputes with Spaniards. Many petitions requesting assistance were not actually written by Pueblo officials. This was largely due to the fact that Pueblos were generally not literate in the Spanish language; thus, they had to have Spaniards represent them to the appropriate authorities.93 In land transfers and disputes especially, a Protector de Indios (lawyer assigned to cases involving Pueblo Indians) often represented Pueblo petition filers. Nevertheless, it was the desire on the part of Pueblo officials to initiate such actions within their communities

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that resulted in the creation of these petitions, and it is clear that elites were central to all land transactions that occurred in Pueblo communities. For example, in 1704, the San Ildefonso governor and other “ministers of justice” petitioned the governor of New Mexico to void a grant that had been made to a Spaniard across the Rio Grande from their pueblo.94 Their protector, Captain Alphonso Rael de Aguilar, wrote the initial petition of the case in the name of his “clients.” A second petition, also penned by Rael de Aguilar, however, was written in the first-person plural: it begins “we, Mathias Cuntzi, native governor of the native Indians of this said pueblo of San Ildefonso, and the other ministers of justice . . .”95 Here, we see that a protector represented the community of San Ildefonso in its land dispute and that Pueblo officials were responsible for managing the dispute process. This pattern continued until the end of the colonial period. In 1815, José Alarigua, governor of Laguna, “and the chiefs thereof” appeared before Don José Manuel Aragon to ask him to write a statement explaining that he had allowed them to extend the lands of their community during his tenure as chief justice and war captain of the pueblos of Acoma and Laguna. They wanted proof that they had acquired the lands with his knowledge, in order to prevent them from being taken away from them after he left office.96 Thus, the evidence shows that male elites managed the foreign relations segment of the political sphere even when it was Pueblo communities themselves who initiated investigations (i.e., without Spanish prompting). While the foreign relations documentation contains much evidence of elite male dominance of the investigative process, it also reveals that commoner men played a regular role in investigations. In the 1732 investigation of Ramón García Jurado’s abuse of the office of the alcalde mayor of Jemez, Santa Ana, and Zia, for example, Captain Antonio de Uribarri interviewed twelve government officials and five commoner males.97 García Jurado submitted a petition to the governor of New Mexico complaining about the fact that the missionary at Zia had prevented the inhabitants of that pueblo from working for him. Uribarri then requested that “the principals of Santa Ana, Jemez, and Zia” appear before him to tell him what they knew about García Jurado’s activities in their communities.98 He then also interviewed men without titles about the same topic. In general, he sought to find out what kind of labor and crafts García Jurado was attempting to extract from the pueblos and what methods he used to carry out that extraction. The questions did not vary depending upon whether the declarant held office (i.e., Uribarri did not assume that governing officials knew more than commoner men). There are other investigations into alcalde mayor abuse at Pueblo communities in the colonial documentation. For example, in 1718, Cochiti, Santo Domingo, and San Felipe pueblos complained that their alcalde

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mayor physically and verbally abused them, and that his cattle trampled their land.99 Both elites and commoner men were interviewed in this investigation. The elites that were interviewed included the governor of Cochiti, his lieutenant, the Cochiti cacique, and, jointly, the elites of Santo Domingo. Three commoner men— eyewitnesses to the abuse—were also interviewed. Some of the investigations reveal that the complaints were actually false— either motivated or written by Spaniards who had disputes with the alcalde mayor in question.100 Whether legitimate or not, however, a vast majority of the complaints follow this pattern of elite males dominating the investigation, with the assistance of commoner males. Why certain commoner males were interviewed is usually never made clear. Of course, it likely was due in part to the fact that they had information about incidents or activities under investigation. The case of the 1797 whipping and death of a Sandia sorcerer (discussed above) reveals another consideration Spanish authorities took into account when deciding which commoner men to interview in their investigations: in that case, the Spanish investigator asked that the six Sandians who spoke the best Spanish be brought to him for questioning.101 But why were only commoner men interviewed? It seems logical to conclude that women would also have had information to contribute since they too lived in the pueblos, probably witnessed such incidents or activities, and (at least some of them) spoke Spanish.102 Yet, women are very rarely interviewed in the colonial documentation. Thus, there seems to have been some gender bias on the part of one or both sets of authorities (Pueblo, Spanish) when it came to determining who was chosen to participate in these investigations. Domestic Relations Documentation. “Domestic relations,” again, was that segment of the political sphere dedicated to inter- and intra-Pueblo relations. One type of documentation that reveals some information about how domestic relations were managed in Pueblo communities is the “secret meetings” investigations. As noted above, Spanish authorities investigated any evidence that Pueblos were conducting secret meetings. The investigation of internal Pueblo politics (as revealed by the secret meetings documentation) shows that male elites, and to a lesser extent commoner males, were the ones who managed internal affairs that were conducted in secret and apart from Spanish oversight; as a result, Spanish authorities interviewed male elites and commoners (but not Pueblo women) in their investigations of these affairs. For example, in 1712, Spanish authorities investigated two meetings that were held at San Juan and Cochiti.103 The governor of Tesuque, Domingo Romero, coordinated the San Juan meeting for the purposes of collecting chamois for a Spanish official. He called together “all the captains and heads of said pueblo,”104 who then requested that each house contribute at least one gamusa, or piece of chamois. In the second meeting, Christopher Quenpito (alias

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“Mariquita”) visited the “caciques and captains” of Cochiti pueblo to discuss whether they should request that a Protector de Indios be named.105 According to other extant documentation, Mariquita was an assistant to Domingo Romero. In 1712, Romero was named the governor and captain general of the nations of Tewas, Taos, Picuris, Keres, Acoma, and Zuni, as well as “the rest of the frontier of the north and west of this kingdom.”106 Thus, both meetings were arranged and attended by Pueblo male elites. The investigation into the meetings itself, however, contains numerous declarations by Pueblo men with no titles. It does not contain any declarations by women. These commoner men appear to have been interviewed because they had contributed chamois, had heard about the secret meetings, or both. Interpreters were used for all of the interviews, even when it was clear that the declarant was fluent in Spanish;107 thus, it cannot be that the commoner men were interviewed simply because they spoke Spanish fluently, as in previously cited cases. In an investigation into secret meetings held at Tewa pueblos in 1793,108 both elites and commoner men were interviewed even though declarants claimed that it was only “the principals” of the pueblos who attended the meetings.109 Forty-eight men—ten elites and thirty-eight commoners— were interviewed during the course of this investigation. No women were interviewed or involved. Spanish investigators sought to discover who organized and ran the meetings and what issues were discussed at them. Issues supposedly discussed at these meetings ranged from preventing cohabitation of unmarried couples to reminiscing about past military campaigns, although Spanish officials believed something more nefarious was being discussed. They argued that it was “morally impossible that said juntas were had for any of the ends cited in the declarations because their conduct is diametrically opposed to what they refer.”110 In other words, as far as Spaniards were concerned, the Pueblos actively sought to avoid living according to the teachings of the church and the desires of Spanish civil authorities; thus, to have meetings to ensure people were living by such standards seemed unlikely. The secret meetings documentation thus reveals that elite and (to a lesser extent) commoner men managed Pueblo domestic affairs. There is no evidence that Pueblo women acted as community officials in these documents; even when non-elites were interviewed in the course of investigations, they were all male. This means that commoner men were involved in domestic affairs issues, but that elites were the ones who managed such affairs. The investigations show that there was a governing structure in Pueblo communities and that elites manned that governing structure. The fact that the only people punished in the 1793 Tewa investigation were four governors, two lieutenants, and the two men who arranged the meetings points to the central part that Pueblo officials

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played in managing political issues in their communities. Investigators did interview commoner males—not because they had called or managed the meetings but because they had attended them and therefore knew what the meetings were about. Thus the document shows Pueblo elites managing political affairs with the assistance of commoner males. As I discussed earlier in this chapter, Pueblo officials sometimes involved Spanish authorities in internal political disputes in their communities. These documents also provide evidence that Pueblo elites managed domestic affairs with the assistance of commoner men. In addition, they contain rare evidence of women’s participation in political processes: a very few Pueblo women appear in some of these documents because they were targets of the “criminal” (in the eyes of the Spaniards) activity of the accused. In the 1713 investigation of former governor Jerónimo Dirucaca, Picuris elites were the ones who contacted Spanish authorities for help with ousting him from the pueblo. They accused Dirucaca of being a sorcerer, cohabitating with several women outside of marriage and instructing people to live as their ancestors had—not as Christians. He boasted that he had more power than the missionaries, the alcaldes mayores, and the New Mexico governor.111 It is clear that the officials of the pueblo felt this to be true, because they complained to Spanish authorities that they were “unable to speak” while he was in office.112 They requested that Spanish officials remove the cane of office from Dirucaca.113 Such power wielding by one individual had no place in a community with a corporate-based leadership strategy. Spanish authorities interviewed fifteen people: five elites (including Dirucaca), one Spaniard (an interpreter who knew the Picuris language and had been at the initial declaration of Lorenzo Coimagea, the primary complainant), five commoner men, and four women. The four women— including Dirucaca’s wife—were targets of Dirucaca’s magical aggression (or his “criminal” behavior): they claimed he had made them sick or threatened or “bewitched” them for various reasons.114 The commoner men were interviewed to gain information about Dirucaca’s activities. Thus, in this case, Pueblo elites took the initiative to contact Spanish authorities; commoner men provided information about Dirucaca’s activities in the pueblo to assist these elites in making their case to Spanish authorities; and Pueblo women who had some sort of interpersonal dispute with Dirucaca were also interviewed. It should be noted that these women were unable to travel to Santa Fe to make their declarations115 (perhaps unlike the men who testified in this case); thus, a Spanish official traveled to Picuris to do so. Why they were unable to travel to Santa Fe is not explained, but it may have had something to do with the fact that they were women.

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The “principals” of Isleta requested assistance from Spanish authorities in 1757 to handle a similarly disruptive person in their community. Isleta officials accused Raymundo, the fiscal of the pueblo, of causing disruptions by saying things that were contrary to their own will. Although what, exactly, Raymundo said is not made clear in the incomplete case file, the officials reached a point where the only action to take was to remove him from the pueblo. They contacted authorities to help them do so. The investigation ends abruptly; it is not clear if the principals achieved their desired end. In this case, the principals of Isleta wrote the initial petition; in addition, the governor, cacique, and captain mayor were interviewed. Finally, a woman, Barbara Antonio, was also interviewed. As with the Dirucaca case, Pueblo elites initiated the investigation and provided authorities with information about Raymundo’s activities in the pueblo. Barbara was interviewed because she, like the women involved in the Dirucaca investigation, was a target of Raymundo’s criminal behavior (she claimed he had “induced” or “captured” her, which I interpret to mean that he somehow convinced her to have sexual relations with him).116 The analysis of domestic politics, like foreign relations, demonstrates once again that elite men dominated the political sphere in their communities. All of the individuals who either initiated or were called upon by Spanish authorities about domestic issues were elites. All Pueblo elites named in these documents were male. In short, neither women nor commoner men played leadership roles in internal political disputes or foreign relations. This, however, does not mean that they had no role to play in politics. The evidence from the documentation indicates that commoner men were involved in both domestic and foreign relations. Pueblo women were interviewed about domestic issues if they had some sort of complaint to voice about the accused. In other words, women appear in these documents only when their personal disputes became entwined with the political affairs of the pueblo.117 Such a restriction on the participation of commoner men does not appear to have existed. Group Petition Evidence. Group petitions—for example, loyalty oaths made by entire pueblos to a Spanish governor or missionary, complaints about these same officials, or land transactions—were made so frequently that they had to have been a mundane part of Pueblo social life in the colonial period. They concerned both domestic and foreign relations, and it is in this documentation that most evidence of (especially) women’s participation in the political affairs of their communities can be located. The difficulty is that only indirect evidence of their participation exists— no woman (or commoner man, for that matter) is ever directly named as a participant in the creation of such oaths, land petitions, or other types

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of group petitions. For example, the 1726 cabildo records from Santa Fe contain three statements from Pueblo communities concerning the poor treatment of two past governors, Antonio Valverde (1717–1722) and Juan Domingo de Bustamente (1722–1731). One statement was issued by Fray Juan de la Cruz at the request of Christopher Mariquita, the governor and captain of all Indians of the kingdom, who appeared “before the viceroy in the name and voice of all the governors, caciques, and officials of the republic of all the pueblos of the kingdom of New Mexico”; a second was written and submitted “by the hand of” Fray Carlos Delgado for the “Indians of San Felipe”; a third was submitted by the governor and cacique of San Felipe “with all the people of this pueblo.”118 It is not entirely clear why two of these petitions came from San Felipe, or why Fray Delgado submitted one for the whole pueblo while officials of that pueblo submitted the other. Fray Delgado did include a comment that the reason why he was contacted to write the petition was because the pueblo lacked a protector, but this does not explain why the cacique and governor of this same pueblo felt it necessary to submit a separate petition (in the name of the entire pueblo) as well. Entire pueblos did not just complain about Spanish authorities, however. In another example of a group petition, the inhabitants of Santa Clara pueblo sent a letter to the governor of New Mexico in 1788 requesting that their own governor be removed because he was both verbally and physically abusive. The first line of the document states that “the children and natives of the pueblo of Santa Clara” were both “united” and “in agreement” that this should occur. Their advocate, Don José Campo Redondo, signed the letter.119 The difficulty with the group petitions is that they were signed by the people who wrote and submitted them, not by the entire group of people in whose name they were created. As the evidence shows, friars (and other Spaniards) frequently wrote petitions at the request of Pueblo individuals or groups who were not literate in the Spanish language. The composition of the groups who got together to request these petitions is therefore hidden. This makes tracing Pueblo women’s and commoner men’s political participation in the creation of the group petitions difficult. For example, in January 1706, Captain Rael de Aguilar submitted a certification in favor of Governor Cuervo y Valdés on behalf of the “Zunis, Queres [Keres], Teguas [Tewas], Hemes [Jemez], Thanos [Tanos], Pecos, Tiguas [Tiwas], Pecuries [Picuris], and Thaos [Taos].” According to the certification, the “Indian governors, chiefs, captains, and the other officials of justice” of these pueblos “all came together . . . asking me to hear them as their protector-general on certain subjects upon which they had conferred, and which had been dealt with and discussed in their pueblos by the old men, the chiefs, and the men, children, and women.”120 Don Domingo Romero

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spoke for everyone in this meeting with Rael de Aguilar, explaining that Cuervo y Valdés had treated them very well.121 Then, according to Rael de Aguilar, each Pueblo governor asked that Cuervo y Valdés be allowed to continue as governor of the province.122 Rael de Aguilar signed each of the names of the officials who were present at the meeting to the petition, since they could not do it themselves.123 Thus, the document implies that, at least at some point, the general population of these communities got together to discuss the governorship of Cuervo y Valdés, but that male elites submitted the official certification of those discussions. This appears to be what happened as well with San Felipe pueblo’s 1726 complaint about governors Antonio Valverde and Juan Domingo de Bustamente. This petition indicates that it is from “the governor [and] cacique, the elder Indians with all the people of this pueblo,” yet it is signed only by “Antonio Governor” and “Francisco cacique.”124 With regard to the way in which such group petitions were composed, a range of scenarios are possible and are in evidence in the documentation—from male elites requesting the petitions themselves without any apparent consultation from community members to petitions being the true work of whole communities. In a small number of cases, Pueblo individuals may not have written the petitions at all, as I noted above. Not only did literate people write petitions for Pueblo elites but also false accusations, or accusations written in the name of Pueblo peoples, were common in colonial New Mexico. There are numerous examples of friars composing complaints in the name of Pueblo communities that were never, in reality, requested by those communities. For example, in 1707, a petition was submitted to the governor of New Mexico from the pueblo of San Juan requesting that he remove their local alcalde mayor from office.125 The petition claimed that the alcalde mayor gave them many problems and “hated their friar.”126 The petition opens with the statement that the “Indians of San Juan, the governor, lieutenant, alcaldes, fiscals, caciques, and the rest of them” wish to complain about the alcalde mayor. The document is signed by four of the officials in what looks like the same hand. This might be read as evidence that someone other than the officials actually wrote the complaint, or it could be that one person signed all of the names because none of the officials could write in Spanish. Clarity is provided because the governor of New Mexico investigated the petition. The whole pueblo was ordered to appear before him in Santa Fe. When asked if anyone from San Juan had actually signed the complaint, “they all denied it. They say they never asked for Madrid to be removed [and] that he treats them well.”127 It was most likely the local missionary, not the pueblo or officials of San Juan, that actually wrote the petition. He had motivation, since, as the petition states, the alcalde

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mayor “hated” him. The governor of New Mexico appears not to have believed in the authenticity of the petition, because no charges were filed against the alcalde mayor. The evidence indicates that commoner men and Pueblo women participated in the decision making that involved entire pueblos and resulted in the petitions, but who they were and what they did exactly is not detailed. With regard to women specifically, an observer of Pueblo life who came to New Mexico with Oñate noted in 1601 that “they did not reach any decision without first consulting the women and getting their opinion.”128 In testimony given after the revolt of 1680, witnesses said that many Pueblos agreed that Spaniards ought to be killed, including and “particularly” the women.129 These comments, in addition to evidence from group petitions and domestic and foreign relations investigations, suggest that women, like non-elite men, held a consultative role in the Pueblo political arena after Spanish contact.130 The group petition evidence, like the foreign and domestic relations investigations, also shows that it was exclusively men who held office in Pueblo communities. When political elites are named in group petitions, they are always male. Looking at the way in which women and commoner men operated in the political sphere brings to light an important point about the way that the corporate mode of leadership functioned in Pueblo communities: while there was hierarchy and inequality of power, it was mediated by a commitment to consensus building on the part of governing elites. Governing elites made decisions that impacted the lives of all the people in their communities, but they did not make those decisions unilaterally or alone. By focusing specifically on women’s and commoner men’s participation in the political sphere, it becomes clear that power was shared— not only amongst governing elites (the “faceless” leaders) but also with community members.

Pueblo Women “Did Not Know of Foreign Things” Just because women held an informal or consultative role in the political sphere does not mean that they had no voice in political matters, nor does it mean that they did not hold central positions of authority, power, and prestige in other spheres of Pueblo life. The comments from Spanish authorities that indicate that women were always consulted on political matters means they had a voice in political affairs that impacted their communities. Why, then, do they appear so infrequently in the documentation? It simply may have been that it was not easy to observe their activities. Their absence from the documentation suggests, in other words, that their political participation was so ephemeral as to be unobservable. Spanish record keepers were not likely to witness elites speaking to their

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consultants (women, commoner men) about foreign or domestic relations or writing group petitions on an informal or inconsistent basis since they did not live in, and sometimes only had sporadic contact with, Pueblo communities. Commoner men appear more frequently in the records because they sometimes participated in formal political activities (like meetings) that were more likely to be investigated and observed by Spanish authorities. Comments made during a 1715 investigation of an alleged insurrection may also help to explain the rationale used to justify women’s consultative, and even hidden, role in the political sphere, at least in the post-contact period. In 1715 an inhabitant of Cochiti pueblo, Lorenzo Estense, went to Taos to barter for leather and other items.131 While there, a Taos man warned Estense to tell the governing elites at Cochiti that the reason why it had not rained and that the “sierras were burning” was because they treated their people too harshly132 and did not obey the elders.133 When Estense conveyed this message to the governor of Cochiti, he called a meeting. The alcalde mayor’s lieutenant, Antonio Baca, secretly eavesdropped on this meeting held by numerous governmental officials from Cochiti and Santo Domingo. One of the things Antonio Baca overheard was the men agreeing that the women Cochiti could not be told about Estense’s message.134 Christopher Coris, the governor of Santo Domingo, explained that the reason women were not told about what had been said at the meeting was “because they did not know about foreign things.”135 This is similar to the case of the Sandia sorcerer, who was whipped (and then died) with the agreement of the entire pueblo. Investigation of the incident revealed that women might have been excluded from a second meeting that was held concerning Apaches (or outsiders) at the pueblo.136 The documentation does not explicitly state what “foreign things” were being discussed at the meeting. However, Coris told Spanish investigators that when he learned about the Cochiti meeting, he sent his captain of war to Cochiti to ask for a meeting with the officials there. At that meeting, the Cochiti officials explained about the comment that the Taos man had made. Coris thought, after seeing the land on fire at Cochiti, that this was exactly what had happened after the 1680 revolt: there was fire, drought, and then sudden rainstorms that caused arroyos to form (and thus, one would assume, flash flooding). In other words, Coris believed that the desire to revolt because the elders punished the people too harshly was causing the drought at Cochiti. Perhaps, Coris testified, such desires had made God angry and so he did not send rain.137 The possibility that this is what the Cochiti meeting was about was reinforced by the testimony of a soldier from the El Paso presidio who claimed that he heard the Taos man say that people wished to revolt like they did in 1680.138 Thus, it appears that the reason for the Cochiti meeting was

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that the Taos man sent a message to Cochiti leaders that their people wanted to revolt due to poor treatment, and this desire to revolt was causing the drought. The explanation that political elites provided for excluding women from their meeting—that they did not know about “foreign things”—makes sense in the context of what has been argued in this chapter: women did not participate in the foreign affairs of their communities, except as consultants. However, no person involved in the case expressed this belief in their declarations; and it seems a bit of an exaggeration to say they had no knowledge of foreign relations matters. Even as consultants, they would have had some knowledge of the political issues impacting their communities. What the information from the investigation does reveal is that Pueblo elites felt that exposing Pueblo women to foreign things would jeopardize their own power and control over community affairs. The Cochiti governor and other declarants explained that they could not tell the women about the meeting because “they would lose respect seeing that [the governor] didn’t punish them” (because the man from Taos had warned them that the reason it had not rained and the “sierras were burning” was because he treated people too harshly).139 Christopher Mesteane explained that if the Taos man’s message were kept a secret, the women “would obey them . . . and not fail in their obedience.”140 Diego Jarecha echoed Mesteane when he declared that if the women found out about Pueblo leaders not punishing people, “they would not have respect or obey their orders, and the news would be spread, and they would not make house for them.”141 The declarants in this case appear to have been concerned that if women understood foreign things, there would be a breakdown of gender roles: women would lose respect for men if they saw them handle foreign relations issues poorly and, therefore, would not obey them or continue to fulfill their duties to take care of them. The document reveals that Pueblo elites sought to limit women’s access to power to their own (and perhaps to all Pueblo men’s) benefit. Like the other evidence discussed so far, this suggests that women were far from powerless in Pueblo communities and that, in fact, men sometimes feared they were powerful enough to upset the daily workings of those communities if they so chose. Based on this investigation, it appears that one reason why Pueblo women did not participate in foreign relations, at least not in a public way, was because male elites argued that they lacked experience with foreign things, and that it would have been difficult for them to gain this experience because Pueblo elites sometimes orchestrated Pueblo women’s exclusion from the political sphere for their own political or personal ends. After analyzing evidence concerning Pueblo governance and leadership, we are left with several questions: Why was Pueblo governance male

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dominated? Where might the belief that men had to actively exclude women from the political sphere come from? The most obvious answer, perhaps, is that male dominance in government was adopted from Spanish colonizers. In other words, colonization resulted in changes to, or even degradation of, women’s status in the Pueblo political sphere. Such arguments have been made in the literature concerning women and colonization.142 As I discuss in the next section of this chapter, there is evidence that Spanish authorities pressured Pueblo elites to adopt their practices in the political sphere and that Pueblo elites bowed to such pressures. However, ultimately, it cannot be argued that gender roles (or class divisions, for that matter) in the Pueblo political sphere were adopted wholesale from Spaniards. As I argue in the last section of this chapter, there is clear evidence that the roles Pueblo men and women played in politics were largely a carryover from the pre-contact period, although, of course, such differences could have been exacerbated by contact with Spaniards.

Spanish Influence on the Pueblo Political Sphere As I noted above, Spaniards had par ticular beliefs about governance that caused them to believe that Pueblos were governed by natural law, or at the very most, a group of elder males, in the period immediately following contact. They had trouble distinguishing a governing structure in Pueblo communities, because elites did not separate themselves out from the rest of the population of their communities by showy demonstrations of wealth or privilege. The Spanish therefore required that Pueblos install a visible, secular government in their communities. But they may also have exaggerated class differences between elites and non-elites and weakened corporate-style governance by insisting that they speak to governing elites whenever they came to a pueblo on official business and by expecting that only elites would initiate investigations into their own communities. Furthermore, Spanish authorities expected that the Pueblo officials they met with in their investigations would be male. In the patriarchal, colonial Spanish world, the proper place for women was at home, under the care and control of either fathers or husbands. “To be a Spanish woman [in New Mexico], regardless of one’s class, was to be concerned for one’s sexual purity and reputation, to guard one’s virginity, to marry, and to be content in matrimony.”143 New Mexico’s Spaniards were concerned to maintain honor and status. This meant different things for men and women, and these differences were justified based upon beliefs about the “natural” inclinations of the two sexes. For women, their reputation was the basis of honor and status; thus, it had to be protected at all times.

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Women had to maintain “the utmost discretion around men. Vergüenza [shame] brought a blush to a woman’s face when lewd matters were discussed and called for timidity around men.” Men, on the other hand, were required to be masculine and to exert control over their families in order to prevent members from besmirching their (and their family’s) honor.144 For both men and women, maintaining one’s honor was the only way to attain an acceptable status in society (for women: marriage into a “good” family; for men: possession of an honorable family and the respect of one’s community). Since one’s family was the source of honor and status, all members had to properly behave themselves at all times and do nothing to put that honor and status in jeopardy. The proper sphere of women was the home; the proper sphere of men was outside of the home. Thus, a Pueblo female in a position of political power would have appeared strange indeed to Spanish authorities. Spanish authorities made their expectations about proper gender roles in the political sphere clear: when a Santo Domingo woman carried a letter of complaint about the activities of a local Spanish lieutenant to the governor of New Mexico in 1792, that governor launched an inquiry into her “extraordinary” behavior. Most likely, Spanish authorities made it known long before 1792 that they expected that the governing elites of the Pueblo communities they dealt with would be male; however, the 1792 case is the only direct evidence in the documentation of this expectation. In February 1792, both the missionary at Santo Domingo and the “Indians of the Pueblo of Santo Domingo” filed separate complaints about Lieutenant Don Luis Baca.145 The missionary complained that Baca physically abused the inhabitants of Santo Domingo and forced them to work for him. He called Baca’s authority over the pueblo “despotic.”146 According to the group petition by the pueblo, one thing that Baca did was to require that inhabitants of the pueblo lend their horses to him for various tasks.147 One person that he required this of was a woman named Maria Tafoya.148 Tafoya explained in her own declaration that she had become so upset about Baca’s demands that she asked the missionary to give her a license to go and see the governor of New Mexico to complain. When she arrived at his cell to make her request, she claimed she found the entire pueblo— both men and women— gathered there, composing the group petition to the governor about Baca’s excesses. Somehow, by the time the petition was completed, she was given a commission to represent the entire pueblo at her meeting with the governor.149 The petition closed with a request that Baca be removed and included the comment that Tafoya had been given the “power to present this petition in the name of all the pueblo.”150 The petition was written on February 17, 1792. The very next entry in the record, dated February 18, 1792, is from Governor Concha, who asks that Tafoya’s commission—which Con-

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cha declared was “so extraordinary in a woman”—be investigated.151 Concha apparently found the fact that a female had delivered the petition worthy of investigation. Tafoya was forced to appear before the alcalde mayor of Santa Fe on February 18 to explain her actions. When asked how she was “called” to represent the entire pueblo in this matter, Tafoya insisted that “all the pueblo in common asked” her to do it, but that in particular it was “Baltasar Ventura, Juan Diego, Juan Domingo Coris, Sebastian, and [a second] Juan Diego.” This group included at least two pueblo officials: Ventura was the governor of the pueblo, and “Juan” (it is not clear which) was the captain of war.152 She was then asked why the “justices” had not come forward to complain, “if they found themselves so aggravated.”153 In other words, the alcalde mayor wanted to know why a non-elite woman had presented the petition, when normally it was the job of male elites to do so. Tafoya replied that they were afraid of their lieutenant but that they “remained resolute” in her coming to speak to the governor for the entire pueblo. On February 20, Concha interviewed the governor, captain of war, and other officials of Santo Domingo. They unanimously denied ever having a meeting with the missionary, or giving Tafoya the power to represent the pueblo. They proclaimed that they “absolutely ignore the conduct on the part of the referred India, since they did not give her the power she refers to.” Tafoya was then forced to appear again— this time in front of Concha and the Santo Domingo officials (confrontations were common when contradictory testimony existed in Spanish investigations). She was asked how she could say that “she had presented for the whole pueblo when the justices deny having given [the power] to her?” Tafoya’s only reply at this point was that she did not know what was in the petition and that she was simply the person who had delivered it.154 Thus, in her second interrogation, Tafoya denied everything that she said in her first interrogation: that she had taken an active part in the construction of the group petition and was given the power to represent the community’s grievances in front of the New Mexican governor. In the second interrogation, she claimed she was merely the person who transported the group petition—the contents of which she had no knowledge—to the governor’s office.155 This investigation is problematic for several reasons. On the one hand, there is an extant petition from the “Indians of the pueblo of Santo Domingo” that complains of labor abuses; on the other hand, there are several interviews where the officials of not only Santo Domingo but also San Felipe and Cochiti deny having anything to complain about or even having a meeting with the resident friar to begin with.156 One possible explanation for this disparity is that the friar wrote both his own

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complaint and the complaint of the pueblo on his own and then gave them to Maria Tafoya to deliver to the governor. Again, false accusations, or accusations written in the name of Pueblo peoples, were not uncommon in colonial New Mexico where civil and church officials struggled over access to, and control of, Indian labor and resources. However, several Spanish citizens of the jurisdiction were also interviewed and they all admitted to witnessing, or even taking part in, a meeting between the friar and four to ten members of the pueblo (including Baltasar Ventura, the governor; Juan, the captain of war; and Juan Diego) in the convent of Santo Domingo.157 Furthermore, the men Maria Tafoya lists as having given her the commission to represent the community are the same men that Spanish witnesses say were at the meeting. These pieces of evidence give credence to the story that at least some members of the pueblo met with the friar, composed a petition, and then asked Tafoya to carry the petition to the governor of New Mexico. If Tafoya was asked to carry a complaint concerning labor abuses to the governor of New Mexico, Santo Domingo officials had decided by the end of the investigation that they no longer wished to make the complaint. It may have been that the investigation into the matter was seen as an intrusion into Pueblo governance that elites wished to quash. They may have also decided that it was not in their best interests to even admit to asking Maria Tafoya to deliver their petition to Concha. Their strong denial of this request (they “absolutely ignore the conduct” of Tafoya) suggests that this was so; they may also have in part been reacting to Governor Concha’s comment that such a commission was “extraordinary in a woman” and required investigation and explanation.158 Whatever the reasoning behind such a strong dismissal of Tafoya’s actions, Concha’s words and actions quickly disabused Santo Domingo officials of the notion that it was acceptable to allow a woman to do something as minor as hand the governor a petition. Furthermore, even though Tafoya carried a petition from Pueblo elites to the governor, I would argue that her role was still consultative in nature and thus fell within the realm of traditional women’s political activities. If the group petition was authentic, and if Tafoya did carry the petition to the governor of New Mexico, the decision for her to do so appears to have been made by male elites. In her first interrogation, Tafoya testified that all the people of the pueblo were at the meeting and had given their permission for her to be their representative, but that it was “Baltasar Ventura, Juan Diego, Juan Domingo Coris, Sebastian, and Juan Diego” who had requested she do so “in par ticular.”159 Tafoya’s stress on the input of particular men in the decision strongly suggests that it was male elites who were managing the process of petition writing and delivery overall. Furthermore, Tafoya’s assumption of this role seems to have been a mat-

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ter of convenience. She happened to show up at the friar’s cell to ask for a license to complain about Baca to the governor of New Mexico at the same time that up to ten individuals were in the cell composing a group petition on the same subject. She does not appear to have assumed the role of delivery person because she was sought out to do so by male elites. In short, even in a case where a Pueblo woman played what might be described as a leadership role in foreign affairs, that role was temporary (i.e., it did not involve the assumption of political office), minor (involved the transport of a petition between Pueblo and Spanish officials), happened by chance, and was authorized by male elites. Without a doubt, Tafoya was a powerful woman in her community. This is reflected by the fact that she felt it proper to ask for a license to go to the governor and complain about the abusive alcalde mayor. However, her role in the entire affair as described in the document was, ultimately, consultative in the sense that she was assisting Pueblo elites—as women (and non-elite) men typically did. It may be that women and non-elite men assisted Pueblo elites in all sorts of ways but that this activity is not extant in the documentation (except for this one case).

Origins of Male Dominance in the Political Sphere Based on the evidence from the 1793 investigation, it appears plausible that Spanish beliefs about proper gender roles influenced the functioning of the Pueblo political sphere to some degree. But contact with Spaniards cannot completely account for the configuration of gender roles in the Pueblo political sphere, since, as I argue below, they so strongly resemble pre-contact practices. Thus, we must conclude that Spanish influences mixed in with already-existing ideologies concerning women’s place in the political sphere: the result was the belief that women “did not know of foreign things” and would never know of them if this were to cause them to disobey male elites. In other words, another tactic employed to manage Spanish authority in Pueblo communities was to simply tolerate certain Spanish beliefs and practices (male dominance), especially if they paralleled or reinforced Pueblo beliefs and practices. Male dominance of the political sphere, like expansion and segmentation, was a carryover from the pre-contact period. As I discussed above, segmentation and expansion of the Pueblo political sphere may have occurred to some degree before Spanish contact. Pueblo communities had foreign relations experience even before the arrival of the Spanish in 1539 due to the intercultural character of the Southwest. After contact, the documentation shows that the political sphere expanded and was segmented once again, especially in those Pueblo communities located closest to Spanish towns, due to the new burdens and responsibilities

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placed upon them by their integration into the Spanish state. In other words, no new forms of government were invented to negotiate Spanish colonization—traditional (pre-contact) offices or bureaucracy continued to function in the post-contact period, albeit on an expanded and segmented scale. This is true even though the Spaniards required that Pueblo communities elect or appoint a governor. As I discussed above, this office, or wing, of Pueblo government was subordinated to other traditional wings of the government; the governor did not rule Pueblo communities as Spaniards expected. Instead, traditional governance continued (i.e., the caciques and their war captains), and the governor was reduced to functioning as a mediator between Spanish authorities and Pueblo communities. The office was incorporated into already-existing governmental structures; it did not replace those structures. The office never functioned as the Spanish envisioned that it would or believed that it did in the colonial period. The incorporation of Spanish practices and beliefs must be added to the list of other strategies Pueblo communities used to carry out foreign relations policies while keeping the nuts and bolts of the traditional political bureaucracy in place. In short, this chapter has demonstrated that Pueblos used secrecy and feigned loyalty to manage Spanish colonial power as well as tolerance or even adoption of Spanish beliefs and practices to further their own ends and to keep political sovereignty intact. Thus, Spanish forms of and ideas about government, were, literally, subsumed by Pueblo; they were, in other words, “Pueblofied.” The same can be said about the male control of the political sphere. Pueblos did not adopt the idea of male domination of this sphere from Spaniards; such domination, in fact, predated Spanish contact, although it might very well be that contact with a heavily patriarchal and patrilineal society (colonial New Mexican Hispanic society) reinforced a commitment to male dominance in the Pueblo political sphere.160 It is clear that male dominance of some degree was already in place in the political sphere at the time of contact because women were absent from the earliest meetings with Spaniards and because when elites are mentioned in the immediate post-contact documentation, they are always male. Archaeological evidence also indicates that women’s status had begun to decline long before Spanish contact. As always, there is the problem of interpreting scant evidence, which often suggests contradictory conclusions about gender relations. Some data sets might suggest “complementary and relatively egalitarian relations, whereas other sets sugges[t] male domination and female powerlessness or exclusion from roles of power.”161 In short, pre-contact gender relations were inherently ambiguous and complex, thus making it difficult to generalize about them.162 Nevertheless, archaeologists have concluded that although there is a lack of evidence

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“for clear-cut, intensive male domination” in the Southwest generally, females “were more likely to suffer from lack of power than males.”163 There was a “declining relative status for many, but not all, women in the Southwest . . .”164 beginning long before Spanish contact. Suzanne Fish argues that unequal gender roles probably developed in Southwestern communities as they transitioned from hunting and gathering to agriculture beginning approximately three thousand years ago. When kin groups’ ability to control access to land and other resources is weakened, it is possible that some group (for example, elite men) will step in and appropriate that control. In the case of the Pueblo people, access to land and resources was traditionally tied to unilineal kin groups (e.g. matrilineages), which Fish argues prevented “accumulation by households and individuals.” This access may have been detached from kinship due to the development of a situation of “intensive production and heavy investment in agricultural improvements” (for example, the transition from hunting and gathering to agriculture). If a particular group acquired, for whatever reason, more productive land or the ability to deploy agricultural labor, that group could then manipulate these advantages to “accrue social benefits and status for the heads of households or other socioeconomic units and their male and female members” apart from rules of access based on kinship.165 Elite males in Pueblo communities were in such a position three thousand years ago: they had access to resources through their positions. They were given rights to fields, communal labor for their cultivation, and harvests of designated fields.166 They may have gained their positions based on kinship, but once in them, they could have used those positions to enrich themselves or choose beneficiaries in ways not dictated by kinship. In short, male domination in the Southwest might have originated with the development of “intensive production and heavy investment in agricultural improvements.” Evidence of a continuing decline in women’s status can be found in the centuries immediately preceding Spanish contact. Ancestral Pueblo women’s status appears to have declined during the Pueblo III (AD 1150– 1300) and Pueblo IV (AD 1300–1540) periods, when Pueblo communities were dramatically increasing in size.167 Evidence of violence against women— a strong indicator of their decreased or decreasing status—has been located in the La Plata River Valley in northern New Mexico in the eleventh through the fourteenth centuries. This area experienced an increase in population, causing a stress on available resources and requiring an increase in the production of food. Reproductive-aged women who either migrated or were kidnapped and brought into the area may have formed a class of indentured servants “to others who had the power to enforce domination of this subgroup.”168 People indigenous to the area would have had preferred access to food and resources when compared

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to newcomers and migrants. Based on studies of their remains, migrant women were expected to habitually perform certain food producing activities, such as grinding corn. They were also routinely battered and suffered violent deaths.169 Kelley Hays-Gilpin also argues that studies of the imagery employed in Pueblo petroglyphs and rock art suggests a loss of status during the Pueblo IV period. After the fall of Chaco, people eventually migrated into and formed villages in what are now the Santa Fe and Albuquerque regions. It was a time of movement and flux of populations of people: “people from different regions who probably spoke different languages came together to form multiethnic communities.” In this highly unstable environment, it should not be surprising to find that gender roles might have become more contested, “leading to a narrowing of sex roles in some cases or the overriding of sex roles by demands of increased productive specialization.” The contestation over gender roles resulted in them being depicted more frequently in the imagery created by Pueblo peoples. Hays-Gilpin notes that “gender symbolism is . . . especially frequent and graphically representational during Pueblo IV.”170 In other words, as gender roles became more contested, and thus more present in the everyday consciousnesses of Pueblo individuals, they felt the need to comment on them (in a sense) in their rock art and petroglyphs. With regard to politics in par ticular, archaeological evidence indicates that men predominated in this sphere before Spanish contact. In pre-Hispanic Pueblo communities, the “politico-ritual arena” was “articulated almost entirely by . . . men.”171 Prominent leaders were “largely men,” who, along with heads of economically successful households, were expected to contribute to large-scale public events such as feasting.172 At Hopi and in the eastern pueblos situated along the Rio Grande, officeholders were provided rights to fields and communal labor for their cultivation. This was done to offset the time demands of office, which involved offering “communal hospitality” and directing communal feasts. “[T]he benefits of the ability to control and disburse communal resources accrued differentially to these men.”173 Archaeological evidence suggests how men may have achieved this predominance in the political sphere. Hegmon, Ortman, and Mobley-Tanaka argue that by Pueblo IV, the household had decreased in importance as an organizing principle of Pueblo social life. Unit pueblo architecture (or apartments that contained living quarters, storage rooms, and kivas) was replaced by an “integrated community architecture” where orientation to public spaces like plazas was stressed over households. Food preparation was removed from the household and done publicly, also decreasing the importance of the household.174 Since the household (especially matrilineal households) was an arena in which women held status in Pueblo society,

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its loss of importance as an organizing principle of Pueblo life suggests a loss of status for those who ran the house—women. Kivas, the ceremonial and political centers of Pueblo life, were disassociated from households during Pueblo IV as well, meaning that women lost access to these important ceremonial spaces. According to Katherine Spielmann, from AD 1100–1300, ritually important rooms (kivas) were often either associated with or contained mealing bins, suggesting that women had direct and probably frequent access to this space. In the later period [AD 1300–1600], the nature of kiva use changed, however, and they appear to have become more ritually specialized. Domestic features like grinding bins were no longer associated with this kind of room, and a male-focused task, loom weaving, was confined to kiva locations.175

This change also resulted in the loss of access to information about the daily goings-on in the pueblo, which conducting daily activities in the kivas had previously provided women. Such changes, as Spielmann notes, “have important implications for women’s and men’s access to information, power, and prestige in prehistoric Southwestern societies.”176 Women now lived in communities “in which important decisions were made by men in structures to which women did not have access on a daily basis.”177 In short, women’s politico-ritual role was diminished: their role in ritual became less visible, and their access to information about political and ritual affairs (often closely intertwined) became restricted.178 Mobley-Tanaka associates women’s loss of kiva access with the increasing size of Pueblo communities. In their efforts to organize communities on a larger scale, Pueblo peoples may have moved from family to community control of ritual.179 When Pueblo communities were small scale, families controlled ritual activities; thus, kivas were built inside or as part of households. As communities grew larger, emphasis on individual households, and their duties and activities, was transferred to the community as a whole in order to integrate and keep those communities together. Thus, kivas were disassociated from households. Hays-Gilpin writes that such a loss may have represented an appropriation of female fertility on the part of Pueblo men. “The kiva . . . represents a womb, complete with sipapu-entrance to earth underworld as birth canal. . . . [E]thnographic research on Pueblo metaphors of birth and conception suggested that men’s activities in this symbolically feminine space might be seen as an attempt to co-opt or at least imitate female conception and birth.”180 Evidence of efforts to co-opt women’s power exists in the colonial period documentation as well: in the 1715 investigation at Cochiti and Santo Domingo, there seems to have been a concern over the power

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of women and the desire to corral it by not allowing women to know of the Taos man’s criticism of Cochiti leadership. Men were concerned that if women were allowed to know of foreign things, there would be a breakdown of gender roles: women would lose respect for men if they saw them handle foreign relations issues poorly, and therefore would not obey or “make house” for them. Perhaps the similarity is merely coincidental, but it could be that the idea that women must be rendered less powerful in order for men to become more powerful may have existed in both preand post-contact Pueblo communities, therefore structuring social relations in both periods. Even though women lost access to kivas in the pre- contact period at least in the matrilineal pueblos, they took care of ritual items used in those kivas.181 This may have worked to somewhat balance the loss of status that the lack of access to kivas implies. Another factor that may have provided women access to public affairs and helped to balance the loss of status was that outdoor grinding sites in open armadas, plazas, and rooftops were common. In other words, the research suggests that food preparation was displaced from kivas and houses to outdoor sites. Food was commonly prepared out in the open, as is evidenced by the remains of roasting pits, turkey pens, and mealing bins in the central plazas of Pueblo IV sites like Pindi and Arroyo Hondo. Thus, while women may have been increasingly denied access to kivas at this point in time, and the importance of the household was diminished, they participated in the public preparation of food. The location of this activity provided women with the opportunity to “observe and comment on village activities while doing their daily chores.”182 In short, archaeological analysis of the organization of space in pre-contact Pueblo communities suggests that by the time of Spanish contact women already played an informal, consultative role in the political arena. This behavior, like male dominance in the political sphere, was carried over into the post-contact period, as is shown by the available documentary evidence discussed in this chapter. Todd Howell concludes in his study of Zuni burials dated between 1300 and 1680 that Spanish colonization resulted in a further degradation of women’s status. By comparing grave furnishings and body preparation over time, Howell concludes that before Spanish contact, women held strong positions in both the ritual and domestic spheres. After contact, however, he found that the “matriline head position” was solely reflected in female burials. Thus, Howell concludes that “female access to leadership positions seems to have become more limited, perhaps due to the influence of Franciscan teachings (laden with concepts of gender inequality), the imposition of male civic offices, and the Spanish custom of dealing exclusively with male leaders.”183

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Male roles also narrowed with Spanish contact. Pre-contact male burials indicate that “male leadership roles were diverse,” as were women’s: many were associated with either ritual or warfare. But with contact, Howell found that grave furnishings strongly associated with warfare began to proliferate.184 Thus, he concludes that “male leadership roles associated with warfare, and perhaps ambassadorial affairs, became more important in the face of encroaching Spanish and Athapaskan cultures. The increased importance of war leaders in the Historic period is a predictable response to Athapaskan raiding and the Spanish presence.”185 This does not mean that men did not continue to be ritual specialists, however. Thus, both Pueblo men and women experienced a narrowing or restricting of life choices with contact. But it was the women who experienced it absolutely: unlike men, they were barred from becoming ritual specialists, and Howell argues that this loss of freedom resulted in a slip in status within their communities. Men, however, still had the same choices; it was just that these choices were now ranked in importance (warfare was ranked above ritual specialization). Given the available archaeological evidence concerning gender roles in the pre-contact and immediate post-contact Southwest, it is clear that a set of beliefs that justified men assuming elite positions in Pueblo governance (represented by the phrase “women did not know of foreign things”) was already in place when the Spaniards arrived in 1539; in other words, such beliefs were not adopted from Spanish colonizers. In fact, power inequalities between men and women most likely date back to the time of the transition to agriculture in the Southwest. Non-patriarchal, non-Western calculations of male and female duties, obligations, and responsibilities, and even of female subordination, have existed throughout the world and throughout time.186 Of course, what I have written here cannot fully explain why women experienced a decreasing status in the Southwest before Spanish contact, or why women, commoner men, and elites played the roles that they did in Pueblo government by the time of and after Spanish contact. Such practices would have been the result of a tangle of ideas concerning women, men, and politics, and there is simply no way to document this tangle of ideas in its entirety. Nevertheless, the available archaeological and documentary evidence does provide partial insight into the way in which Pueblo women and men negotiated Spanish contact and the pressures of colonization in the political sphere. They strove to practice Pueblofication: to manage the impact of new or outsider beliefs and practices on systems of traditional practices and beliefs that were already in place. I have demonstrated that in the political sphere, several different tactics were used to manage this impact—from secrecy to incorporation of outsider beliefs and practices

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(especially those that did not challenge beliefs and practices already in place). As a result of this management of Spanish colonial authority, governmental bureaucracy was expanded and segmented to a greater degree than it had previously been, and gender and class differences in the political sphere were reinforced. Pueblo people were clearly aware of the patriarchal beliefs of Spanish colonizers, as is evidenced by Maria Tafoya’s experiences at Santo Domingo in 1792. Spanish and Pueblo beliefs concerning the proper functioning of the political sphere mixed together resulting in the Pueblo forms of governance that are evidenced in the colonial documentation.

CHA P TER THREE

Pueblo Economies After Spanish Contact

In chapter 2, I discussed the impact of Spanish colonization in the political sphere of Pueblo social life. Efforts to colonize Pueblo people were part and parcel of Spanish state-making efforts in the region. In order to extend the edge of the Spanish state into what is now the American Southwest, Spanish authorities realized it was crucial that they bring indigenous populations under their control. Such efforts at control did not stop at the political sphere; they were carried out in all areas of Pueblo social life. In this chapter, I focus on efforts to carry out state making in the economic sphere, and the impact of such efforts on Pueblo peoples. By “state-making efforts in the economic sphere” I mean that the Spaniards who came to New Mexico—be they commoners, religious authorities, or secular authorities—attempted to enrich themselves and to support themselves and their families or missions by creating a nascent market system that relied (at least in part) upon the Pueblo labor and craft production. Spanish authorities and commoners expected Pueblo people to produce for this market, which meant that Pueblos had to be at least somewhat integrated into the market system. As I discuss below, there were numerous mechanisms by which Pueblo labor and products were secured for this market—from simple barter to forced extraction that amounted to a “kind of coerced ‘putting out’ system.”1 Pueblo communities were thus penetrated by a nascent market system— a system that was imposed upon them by Spanish contact.2 The goal of the rest of this chapter is to analyze the ways in which Pueblo people and communities were impacted by their integration into the

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Spanish market system and, more broadly, the Spanish state as it existed in New Mexico. In order to provide a basis for understanding what economic activities men and women did and whether changes in duties and responsibilities occurred as a result of the arrival of the Spanish, I first outline and compare the gendered division of labor in Pueblo communities in the pre- and post-contact period. I then discuss changes in men’s and women’s workloads that are detectable in the documentary record, as well as evidence that suggests that male elites came to control certain aspects of production, exchange, and distribution. The basic questions that I answer in this chapter include the following: How did Pueblo individuals and communities negotiate the new economic demands placed upon them as a result of Spanish contact? What, specifically, were these demands? And, finally, in what ways (if any) did the negotiation of Spanish power and authority in the economic sphere result in culture change in Pueblo communities? I argue that Pueblo people used the same tactics to respond to Spanish contact in the economic sphere as they did in the political sphere: they attempted to keep traditional practices in place as much as possible, expanding those practices (rather than creating new ones) to meet Spanish demands for goods and labor. As in the political sphere, preexisting social divisions—both gender and class—were reinforced as Pueblo communities attempted to meet the many economic demands that Spanish contact placed upon them. In short, Pueblofication occurred in the political as well as the economic spheres of Pueblo social life.

The Gendered Division of Labor in Pueblo Communities Before and After Spanish Contact A gendered division of labor, or an allocation of tasks based on gender, existed in Pueblo communities in both the pre- and post-contact periods in the Southwest. Some of the most enduring images of Pueblo people depict them performing different types of labor: men as corn farmers in the harsh Southwestern desert or women at the grinding stone, processing corn. Grinding was one of Pueblo women’s main economic roles in the pre-Hispanic period. Archaeological evidence concerning the period after the introduction of corn in the Southwest shows that “female adults spent considerable amounts of time grinding meal by kneeling and extending their arms across the metate.”3 In addition to grinding corn, Pueblo women also prepared other foods for consumption in their homes,4 tended to domesticated animals (the dog and the turkey)5 as well as small house gardens,6 and took care of children.7 Archaeological evidence shows that

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they also constructed houses,8 plastered kivas,9 assisted in the hunting of small game, and were midwives.10 Women also processed hides.11 While Pueblo men are known in both the archaeological and ethnographic record as being spinners and weavers,12 women spun and wove thread as well.13 However, how and what men and women wove differed in the pre-contact period: men wove blankets on vertical looms, while women wove belts on horizontal strap looms.14 Women worked “turkey feathers into blankets, capes, and ceremonial garments.”15 Women were also, of course, potters.16 While women were responsible for preparing food for the home, men were responsible for supplying woven blankets that were used as clothing.17 In addition to weaving, men worked stone and silver and knitted.18 Men also hunted19 and tended the fields.20 Archaeologists argue that a general continuity in gender roles between the pre- and post-contact periods in the Southwest existed based on “the apparent similarity of artifacts, features, and architecture through time and across region.”21 The documentary evidence from the eighteenth century generally supports this argument. For the colonial period, detail about Pueblo labor and craft production can be found especially in Spanish

Figure 3.1. The mealing trough, Hopi, 1906. Library of Congress, Prints & Photographs Division, Edward S. Curtis Collection, LC-USZ62-94089.

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Figure 3.2. A Hopi weaver, 1879. Library of Congress, Prints & Photographs Division, John K. Hillers, LC-USZ62-79332.

civil investigations into labor abuses, the documentation concerning residencias (investigations into the tenure of the outgoing governor) and visitas, and missionaries’ reports where complaints about labor abuses were aired and described. The work described in these documents includes a broad range of activities, the most frequent being weaving, spinning, tending fields, grinding and processing foodstuffs, and transporting

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goods. There are, however, difficulties in trying to piece together the nature of Pueblo gender roles. Given the nature of the documentation, the labor that is most frequently described is that which Pueblos provided for Spaniards; there is far less detail concerning the daily work that Pueblos performed in their homes and communities for their own and their families’ needs. Furthermore, while the different types of work that Pueblos did for Spaniards is frequently mentioned in the documentation, the gender of the workers is not. Nevertheless, the descriptions of labor that do contain detail about the gender of Pueblo laborers indicate that the pre-contact division of labor was largely maintained after Spanish contact in Pueblo communities. The types of labor that women are specifically and frequently mentioned doing in the documentation include acting as cooks for the friars22 and grinding corn and wheat into flour.23 Fray Sanz de Lezaún observed in 1760 that it was the women who ground wheat and corn by hand.24 Mothers taught their daughters to grind, “and the women, if they ha[d] daughters, compel[led] them to do the grinding.”25 Although corn grinding appears to have been solely the work of women, men, women, and children husked and shelled ears of corn. Fray Serrano explained how corn shelling and grinding was carried out in 1761: [W]hen corn is to be shelled for the soldiers’ rations, the alcalde or lieutenant asks for half a pueblo of Indians—men, women, and children— who go to the place where the corn is shelled, with great labor, by striking or rubbing one ear against another with the hands, producing in this way fifteen or twenty fanegas of corn. To this another task is added for both men and women, for out of the great amount of wheat or shelled corn they have to grind by hand fifteen or twenty fanegas into flour for the señor governor.26

Women’s activities that are mentioned far less in the documentary record include assisting with mass,27 tending to roosters,28 plastering and repairing the houses of Spaniards,29 and tending to small animals and gardens. Hide processing was also women’s work. While there is no direct documentary evidence concerning hide processing, bioarchaeologists argue that physical changes to women’s bodies that they have documented from the colonial period are consistent with this activity.30 Perhaps one of the most marked activities that women did in the eyes of Spaniards was house plastering. According to early observations in the province, both women and men worked together to build their villages, with women making the plastering mixture and building the walls and men bringing the wood and putting it into place.31 Believing that house construction was inappropriate work for women, Spanish authorities tried to force

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Pueblo men to adopt the task in its entirety with little success. “If we compel any man to work on building a house,” said Fray Alonso de Benavides, “the women laugh at him . . . and he runs away.”32 As just noted, archaeological evidence from the pre-contact period shows that both women and men were spinners and weavers. The little evidence in the documentary record concerning these tasks indicates that this pattern was only partially maintained in the post-contact period. With regard to weaving, there is evidence that both men and women wove. Isabel de Pantaleon of Santa Ana complained in 1738 that Bernabe Baca owed her a calf for an embroidered blanket she had made for him, and that he had not paid her for nine years.33 This complaint indicates that women continued to weave in the colonial period. The same was true for Pueblo men. In 1750 and 1751, certifications of the good work of the friars at pueblos were collected from Spanish citizens. Don Joseph Baca, alcalde mayor of Albuquerque, noticed that the sacristanes (those who cared for the church and the church’s objects) in Albuquerque wove when they were idle.34 Since Indian officials of the church were typically male in New Mexico,35 this comment can be read as evidence that men continued to weave after Spanish contact. Charles Lange argues that Pueblos adopted sheepherding from the Spaniards, and therefore “the men—the traditional weavers—shifted their medium from cotton . . . to wool and continued their work.”36 Fray Cayetano Fore also implied that men wove in his commentary about Cochiti pueblo: “the industry of the Indians of this nation is limited to weaving, and they make mantas [blankets] of wool and cotton with which they clothe their women.”37 Finally, the documentation indicates that children also wove for the friars.38 Thus, the slim evidence concerning the gender of Pueblo weavers indicates that men and women (as well as children) wove for Spaniards, as they had before Spanish contact. What items women and men wove may have changed in the colonial period, although the evidence of this change is sparse indeed. Traditionally, as noted above, men wove blankets on vertical looms for their wives to wear, while women wove belts on horizontal strap looms. However, as just noted, Isabel de Pantaleon complained in 1738 that she had produced an embroidered blanket for a Spaniard and had never been paid for it. This suggests that women, perhaps, had begun to weave blankets or cloth in the colonial period in addition to men. Evidence of spinning in the colonial record is just as sparse. The bit of evidence that exists indicates that Pueblo women spun thread; however, there is no indication that men continued to do so after Spanish contact. In 1732, Juan Morones declared that alcalde mayor Ramón García Jurado required twenty women from Santa Ana go to Bernalillo to spin wool for him.39 In 1750,

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Fray Carlos Delgado complained that Spanish officials compelled Pueblo women “to spin almost all the wool needed for . . . sheets and blankets.”40 There is no mention of men spinning wool or cotton in the documentary record. In summary, Pueblo women and men continued to weave in the colonial period, but women took on the additional task of weaving blankets. Women, but not men, also continued to spin thread. This shift in responsibilities—women now weaving blankets while men discontinued spinning—may have been due to Spanish influence. “[T]he view of spinning as the embodiment of womanly virtue no doubt appealed to the friars in their goal to ‘civilize’ the Pueblo peoples, and they instructed women to spin and weave.”41 Even so, this influence did not cause men to stop weaving. Women also produced ceramics for Spanish households and missions in the colonial period. All available archaeological evidence indicates that women alone were the potters in the pre-contact period,42 from the time that ceramics first appeared in the Southwest in AD 200.43 Early post-contact Spanish observations of Pueblo communities indicate that women were the ones who both produced and decorated pots.44 There is no evidence in the documentation that indicates post-contact, colonial pottery production ever involved men.45 This, coupled with the fact that Spaniards most likely believed that making pottery was “women’s work,” means that pottery production remained in the hands of women after contact. Spaniards were completely dependent upon Pueblo communities to supply them with ceramics. According to Trigg, the “vast majority of ceramics used by colonists and found on Spanish sites were of Pueblo manufacture.”46 “[S]herds usually constitute the most numerous class of artifacts recovered from early colonial sites, and from 96 percent to over 99 percent of ceramics recovered from seventeenth-century Spanish estancias were produced by Pueblo peoples.”47 Spanish dependency upon Pueblo ceramics manufacture continued into the eighteenth century. Frank notes that “archaeological and documentary evidence establishes that Pueblo pottery formed a common part of vecino [Spanish citizens] households” in the eighteenth century.48 “[T]he Pueblos of the middle Río Grande provided ceramic wares for a large part of the province.”49 Despite Spaniards’ heavy reliance upon Pueblo women potters for ceramics, information in the documentary record concerning this form of craft production is very sparse. Fray Pedro Serrano wrote in 1761 that alcaldes mayores “did not enter the pueblos except to force the Indians to weave, to barter, or to ‘gather pots, plates, jars, jugs, etc. or for ser vices and oppressions for the profit of the governors.’ ”50 An example of the

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forced extraction of pottery can be found in the investigation of alcalde mayor Ramón García Jurado in 1732.51 Although the document indicates that García Jurado required Pueblos within his district make pottery for him, it provides no other detail except that Pueblos were not compensated for their labor or for the pottery itself. It does not describe how Spaniards gained access to Pueblo women’s labor and crafts; it does not even indicate that Pueblo women were the producers of the pottery that García Jurado acquired. Given this evidence, it appears as though women’s roles in the economic sphere were maintained after Spanish contact. Women continued to grind, process hides, prepare and cook food, tend domestic animals and gardens, take care of children, construct houses, plaster kivas, spin, weave, and pot.

Figure 3.3. “The man with the hoe,” 1910. Library of Congress, Prints & Photographs Division, Detroit Publishing Company Photograph Collection, LC-USZ62-104602.

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The only difference between the two periods appears to be that women may have taken up blanket or cloth weaving after the arrival of the Spaniards. Men’s roles in the economic sphere also remained largely the same. Men, as noted above, continued to weave (but not spin) and to clothe their families, tend to fields (including sowing wheat and corn and threshing wheat),52 fish using a sweep net,53 work on detachments or patrols for Spaniards,54 clean ditches, and shear and care for flocks.55 One of the most frequent male duties mentioned in the documentation is the transportation and hauling of goods.56 Fray Juan Sanz de Lezaún provided some detail concerning hauling in 1760: “The Indians haul [tithes] gratis, and at the proper time take their own in wagons to the villa of Santa Fe. I counted thirty-six wagons at one time, and the pueblos which had none delivered the tithes on horses or on their own backs for a distance of thirty-four leagues, or downstream from Taos a distance of thirty leagues. All this they do, as I have said, without any pay whatsoever.”57 Fray Trigo noted that in 1754, two men (typically the husbands of the grinding women) hauled wood each week to the missions.58 Table 3.1 summarizes Pueblo men and women’s work roles in the preand post-contact period. As the table shows, there are a number of— mostly male— activities for which I do not have information and am therefore unable to definitively chart whether changes to those activities occurred over time. However, where there is clear archaeological and documentary information on women’s and men’s work duties, work roles appear to have remained consistent over time. The only postcontact changes to Pueblo work roles that I could locate in the colonial documentation were that men no longer spun thread and women took up weaving blankets. Thus, it appears that the Pueblo gendered division of labor remained in place after Spanish contact— except with regard to weaving and spinning. This may have been due to the fact that Pueblo men’s and women’s work roles closely matched Spanish work roles; where they did not (e.g., weaving and spinning), pressure was placed upon them to change their practices. Pueblo women performed many of the same duties around their households, as did Spanish women: Spanish women were supposed to be proficient in the “domestic arts” such as cooking, cleaning, spinning wool, embroidery, and lace making.59 Thus, Pueblo women’s work at food preparation and cooking, childcare, tending gardens, potting, and weaving most likely would have been seen as acceptable and not worthy of comment. The same was true for Pueblo men. Spanish men in New Mexico held occupations appropriate to Western, patriarchal societies. They were largely farmers, artisans, or day laborers.60 Most of the work that Pueblo men did (hunting, tending fields, silversmithing, and stoneworking) would

Table 3.1. Pre- and post-contact labor Women:

Pre-contact

Post-contact

Performed grinding

Yes

Prepared and cooked food

Yes

Tended domestic animals

Yes

Tended house gardens

Yes

Cared for children

Yes

Spun thread/wove (belts)

Yes (belts and blankets)

Constructed houses

Yes

Plastered kivas

Yes

Hunted game

?

Midwives

?

Hide processors

Yes

Potters

Yes

Men:

Pre-contact

Post-contact

Spun thread/wove

Wove only

Made clothing

Yes

Hunted

?

Tended fields

Yes

Silversmithing, stoneworking, knitting

?

?

Fishing with sweep nets

?

Detachments/patrols

?

Care of animals (cattle, sheep, etc.)

?

Ditch cleaning

?

Burden bearing (hauling goods, water, wood etc.)

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have been seen as appropriate to Spanish colonizers. The work that was not acceptable—“women’s work” such as spinning or weaving—was, as just noted, discouraged, most likely in the same way that Spaniards discouraged women from plastering houses. The pressure to change practices sometimes worked (as in the case of spinning and weaving) and sometimes did not (as in the case of house plastering).

Increased Workloads and Shifting Responsibilities While it is clear that the tasks that each gender performed remained relatively constant through time, the amount of time that was allocated to gendered tasks changed during the colonial period. In general, both women and men worked more once contact occurred as a result of the demands placed upon Pueblo communities by Spanish authorities for labor and commodities. In this section of the chapter, I provide evidence to show that Pueblo women and men experienced a significant increase in workload following the commencement of full-scale Spanish colonization in 1598. In the process of making this argument, I will, where evidence allows, provide details concerning the tasks that Pueblo men and women spent more time at in the post-contact period (as compared to the pre-contact period). I will also discuss—where the evidence allows—how much of an increase in workload Pueblo people experienced and how it impacted them. Burdensome Labor. As in the rest of colonial Latin America, there were numerous ways in which Spaniards in New Mexico legally acquired access to indigenous labor and crafts. Encomienda (a “grant” of Indians from whom one could require tribute in exchange for teaching Catholic doctrine, military support, and “the other benefits of European civilization”61) operated in New Mexico throughout the seventeenth century. Grants were initially made to the conquerors of the kingdom— those soldiers who participated in the conquest in the early seventeenth century. Only thirty-five such grants were made in New Mexico, and they could be passed from father to son for three generations. Only converted Indians could be assigned to an encomendero, and encomenderos were to avoid making tribute payments too onerous or converting tribute payments into forced labor.62 Encomenderos were only allowed to collect corn, cloth, or hides; they were not supposed to collect any other items. It is perhaps not surprising that New Mexican encomenderos regularly violated these regulations by, for example, converting debts of tribute into labor obligations.63 Repartimiento (a grant of access to native people’s labor with no requirement to teach Catholic doctrine or Spanish values and beliefs) also operated in seventeenth-century New Mexico. In the seventeenth century, only

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encomenderos and governors were given the right of repartimiento. They were supposed to reimburse Pueblos for their labor; however, this appears to have rarely occurred. Thus, Pueblo people were obligated to provide tribute to encomenderos and to work for encomenderos and governors throughout the seventeenth century.64 Encomienda was not reestablished in New Mexico after the 1680 revolt; repartimiento, however, continued to be available to Spanish governors and alcaldes mayores throughout the eighteenth century.65 In addition to encomienda and repartimiento, Pueblo people were also forced to participate in the repartimiento de efectos (“distribution of goods”) in New Mexico throughout the colonial period.66 In this system, the local alcalde mayor distributed goods to Pueblo communities in exchange for needed supplies such as grain, sheep, and mantas. Pueblo people rarely wished to participate in such exchanges; they were essentially forced to accept the items that alcaldes mayores brought to their pueblos in exchange for needed commodities. In some cases, Pueblo people were forced to produce goods out of raw materials distributed to their communities (e.g., wool to weave blankets), resulting in the development of a “kind of coerced ‘putting-out’ system.”67 Finally, missionaries also had the authority to require that Pueblo men and women work for them for free and provide them with needed goods. They were only supposed to ask Pueblos to perform those tasks “necessary for the ‘church and the convenience of the living quarters, and in those things with greatest moderation.’ ” Pueblo people who worked for the missionaries without pay were exempt from paying tribute to their encomenderos in the seventeenth century. New Mexico governors sometimes attempted to regulate the number of unpaid Pueblo laborers that any one missionary could require work for him— a source of continual conflict between the two parties. Missionaries could also require Pueblo people to work for them for a wage if they could not complete all required tasks with unpaid labor; however, as with the secular repartimiento, this compensation was rarely paid.68 Of course, all of this labor and production of goods for Spaniards was added to Pueblo women’s and men’s production and labor for their own households and communities.69 Thus, there were four separate legal systems of forced extraction of labor and goods in operation at one point or another in colonial New Mexico (encomienda, repartimiento, repartimiento de efectos, and mission extraction of labor and goods). Three of these systems (repartimiento, repartimiento de efectos, and mission extraction) operated simultaneously in the eighteenth century. Based upon this information alone, it seems reasonable to conclude that Spanish colonization must have resulted in some increase in workload for both men and women in Pueblo communities. But how much of an increase occurred? And how did it impact

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Pueblo individuals and communities: Was it burdensome to them, or did they easily fit new demands for goods and labor into their daily work routines? It is necessary to answer these questions to get a sense of how Spanish colonization impacted the economic sphere in Pueblo communities. There has been some debate about this issue in the historiography of New Mexico, with some historians and archaeologists arguing that labor and commodity demands were easily met by Pueblo Indians in both the seventeenth70 and eighteenth centuries,71 while others argue that such demands were, in fact, burdensome to Pueblo people.72 Whether or not Spanish demands numerically increased the hours per day that any one Pueblo worked or the number of fanegas of corn that any one Pueblo community supplied Spaniards, one could make the argument that any labor or craft production Pueblos did for Spaniards was burdensome because it was required of them—it was not done voluntarily. That they could determine how to meet their obligations or were paid for their labor or goods—factors that are sometimes taken into account when assessing whether Spanish demands were burdensome— seems irrelevant. At any rate, when Pueblo labor and production in the colonial period is looked at in as comprehensive a fashion as the available evidence allows, there seems no question that labor burdens increased— because Pueblos simply had to work more and produce more goods to meet Spanish demands. For example, with regard to hides, Spielmann and Hawkey report that in the seventeenth century, “thousands of antelope and bison are listed among the property of various New Mexican governors when they left office.” Rawhides were exported south to mining communities, where they were made into bags used to haul ore.73 While these hides were acquired from Pueblo communities, Spaniards might also trade with Plains Indians to acquire them. In fact, most of the hides acquired from Pueblos had probably come from their trade with Plains Indians.74 Pueblo people also processed hides for Spaniards: they painted them and made leather out of them.75 Spielmann and Hawkey conclude that at the Salinas pueblos, for example, “the number of hides involved in tribute, in addition to those used by the Salinas Pueblos themselves, would have been far greater than hides processed in the pre-contact period for local use and inter-pueblo exchange.”76 In fact, one of the most requested types of labor extracted via the repartimiento in the seventeenth century was hide processing.77 Thus, Pueblo people had to acquire more hides for Spaniards (either by themselves or through increased trade with Plains Indians) and they had to process more hides for Spaniards in the seventeenth century than they had in the pre-contact period.78 Another type of labor that increased after contact was pottery making. As I discussed above, Spaniards were heavily reliant upon Pueblo

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populations for ceramics. Again, the “vast majority of ceramics used by colonists and found on Spanish sites were of Pueblo manufacture.”79 Pottery “constitute[s] the most numerous class of artifacts recovered from early colonial sites, and from 96 percent to over 99 percent of ceramics recovered from seventeenth-century Spanish estancias were produced by Pueblo peoples.”80 One wonders who produced all of this pottery, and what impact this demand for pottery had on Pueblo communities. There is one difference that distinguishes hide processing from pottery making: hides were acquired through either encomienda or repartimiento, but ceramics were not. Women did not spend their time making pots on weekly labor rotations. Rather, ceramics production would have been done in Pueblo communities, during the individual’s “free time”— or separately from encomienda or repartimiento requirements. If Pueblo women were producing pots during their weekly labor rotations carried out at the houses, farms, or ranches of governors and alcaldes mayores, or at the missions, some evidence of that production would have been found at those sites. No archaeological evidence of ceramic production at Spanish sites has ever been found.81 There is also no documentary evidence that ceramics were used as encomienda payments in the seventeenth century, like there is for hides.82 In short, Spaniards did not obtain ceramics through either encomiendo or repartimiento in the seventeenth century or repartimiento in the eighteenth. Unlike hides, pottery was acquired outside of the formal, “legal,” documented mechanisms of forced labor and crafts extraction throughout the entire colonial period—probably through barter or even theft.83 In fact, by the early nineteenth century, this method of extraction was quite common. Governor Chacón complained in 1803 that there were many vecinos who continually bartered and traded with Pueblos and poor Spaniards via contracts drawn up with “malice, deceit, and bad faith.”84 Barter and theft were not the only ways that Spaniards could acquire needed supplies apart from formal mechanisms and institutions in the eighteenth century. Sometimes they simply forced Pueblo people to give them what they wanted. For example, Martin García was accused of forcing Galisteo residents to provide him with supplies without any remuneration in 1710; when one individual refused to do so, García hung him from a roof beam and beat him.85 García was a soldier from the Santa Fe presidio, not a missionary, governor, or alcalde mayor; as such, he did not have access to repartimiento and therefore had no right to ask Pueblo people to supply him with goods. Spanish vecinos acquired labor in this way as well. In 1718, Taos Indians accused the mulatto servant of vecina Francisca Equijosa of verbally abusing them and attacking them while they worked in her wheat field in Santa Cruz.86 When Spanish authorities investigated the incident, Equijosa’s neighbors reported that it was

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common knowledge that she, and perhaps other Spaniards of the village, had been in the habit of asking Taos Indians to work for them,87 “a practice of dubious legality that was much frowned upon by the authorities.”88 The point is that if only some areas of Pueblo labor and production are analyzed, there is a risk of presenting a skewed portrait of eighteenthcentury labor practices and their impact upon Pueblo individuals and communities. Be it consensual (e.g., barter, trade, or sale) or nonconsensual (theft or force), such “borrowing” of labor or extraction of goods apart from repartimiento would have further increased Pueblo people’s workloads. Therefore, this extra labor and craft extraction must be taken into consideration when attempting to measure the impact of Spanish work demands upon Pueblo communities. To acquire a clearer understanding of the impact of non-repartimiento labor and goods requests upon Pueblo people, one need only to look more closely at ceramics production.89 As already pointed out, Spaniards did not produce pottery for their households in the colonial period. They acquired all of their pottery for domestic use from Pueblo people through repartimiento, sale, barter, or trade. By the end of the eighteenth century (1790), the Spanish population was at 16,358 people90 who resided in approximately 2,357 families.91 The Spanish population had surpassed the Pueblo by approximately 1780; this trend of growth in the Spanish population and decline of the Pueblo population continued to the end of the colonial period.92 Manufacturing pots for 2,357 families must have been a time-consuming task. In 1803, Governor Chacón described the many different types of ceramics that Pueblo women produced: “the craft of potter [produces] ordinary crockery as well as pots, cooking pots, stew pots, bowls, etc. The women of the pueblos practice it without using a wheel but by hand with the patience that is their way. Afterward they fire it with manure, without using any ingredient for a glaze because of lack of knowledge of this material.” This pottery “formed a common part of vecino households during the eighteenth century.”93 Each Spanish family would have owned several pieces of ceramics, and pottery breaks, so families would most likely have needed to acquire numerous pieces over time. However, not all Pueblo women were involved in colonial-period pottery production for Spaniards because not all pueblos produced pottery for intra-community trade.94 Communities that were not involved in ceramics production would have supplied other items like hides to Spaniards. In other words, nonparticipation in one type of craft production did not result in a lessened workload for Pueblo people.95 A market for Pueblo ceramics had also developed to the south of New Mexico by the late eighteenth century. Although there is no archaeological evidence to indicate what types of pottery ended up in Mexico, changes in the size, shape, and decoration of pots and a decline in workmanship

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indicates that Pueblo women were attempting to compete in these markets by the end of the century.96 Changes in pottery design and shape indicate that Pueblo potters were attempting to conform their wares to the tastes of non-Pueblo people. Sloppiness in execution indicates that they were attempting to increase levels of production of pottery. And since it was women who made the pots, it was women who were most impacted by the (sometimes) coerced production of ceramics: Fray Bernal noted in 1794 that “particularly in the Tewa nation, the women labor harder than the men, and their common work is to make things of pottery, by hand and without any instruments whatever. . . .”97 In short, pottery production may not have been burdensome in the early seventeenth century, when the Spanish population was low and Pueblo women were not producing ceramics for a market, but by the end of the eighteenth century, it is clear that production demands had increased markedly as demographics shifted and markets developed. In addition to production for Spaniards and a developing market, Pueblo women made pottery for their own households, communities, distant Pueblo relations, and non-Pueblo Indian people living in or on the periphery of New Mexico. Pueblo men and women produced for long-distance trade long before the arrival of the Spaniards. Spielmann argues that men produced lithics and projectile points for trade while women produced ceramics, although the mechanics of women’s and men’s trade networks differed. Men traveled long distances on their own for trade, while women interacted with trading partners at ceremonies or as part of their circulation as marriage partners (which, of course, could also have involved long-distance trade).98 Such trading continued into the colonial period. Pueblo-Apache trade relations were established in about 1525; Spaniards witnessed trading fairs between the two groups in the colonial period. “Every summer at the pueblos of Taos, Pecos, and Picuris, the Apaches arrived with their dog-laden trains to exchange hides, meat, tallow, and salt for cotton blankets, pottery, maize, turquoise, and breadstuffs.” 99 Throughout the colonial period, Pueblo people provided these items not just to Apaches but also to other Indian groups with whom they had trading relations, such as the Comanche, Navajo, and Ute, as well as to their close and extended families and other acquaintances.100 In addition to the Apache, pottery was specifically traded with the Comanche, the Ute, and the Navajo. Again, not all Pueblo women produced pottery for this trade.101 This evidence suggests that ceramics production for groups other than Spaniards was occurring throughout the colonial period at the same time as production for Spaniards. In other words, a whole new level of pottery production— production for Spaniards—was added to traditional or already-existing types of production. Furthermore, as is noted above,

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Pueblo women used rudimentary technology to produce ceramics in their communities. It required time, skill, and training to produce useful, high-quality ceramics with such rudimentary technology.102 Observations of early nineteenth-century New Mexican life confirm that Pueblos spent a considerable amount of time making pottery. “In 1807 Zebulon Pike commented that a ‘vast quantity’ of pottery was made by the ‘civilized’ [Pueblo] Indians, as the Spaniards think it more honorable to be agriculturalists than mechanics. . . .”103 These observations indicate that once Spaniards arrived in New Mexico, the demand for ceramics never waned— even after Mexico achieved independence from the Spanish Crown in 1821. Although the specific numbers of pots that Pueblo women produced for Spaniards in the colonial period can never be known, because household pot counts do not exist in the colonial documentation and because it is very difficult for archaeologists to estimate the numbers of vessels at a given site,104 the information presented here strongly suggests that a significant burden was added to Pueblo women’s workdays, especially when it came to the production of ceramics. Unfortunately, detailed information on the ways in which Pueblo people met demands for other types of labor or commodities after contact is not available. I discussed the gendered division of labor above, listing all of the tasks that both men and women did in Pueblo communities. I have provided evidence to show that more time was spent at pottery making and hide processing, but there is no evidence available to determine whether women and men spent more time at the other tasks that were typically required of them. Nevertheless, based on the findings concerning hide processing and pottery making, what appears to have happened after contact was an “intensification of previous activities” such as pottery making and hide processing, not a “marked change in the nature of activities that women [and men] were undertaking.”105 This intensification of activity did not occur consistently across all Pueblo communities. There were many factors that impacted the amount of labor or craft production any one community supplied to Spanish authorities. For example, the demographic chaos that followed contact impacted how much labor and craft production Spanish authorities could expect from any one Pueblo community.106 Because the number of Pueblo individuals authorities employed on a weekly basis was based on population figures, hypothetically at least, the number of Pueblo laborers working for Spanish authorities had to drop as the colonial period progressed.107 The number of missionaries and other personnel who were authorized to use Pueblo labor also varied throughout the colonial period. The province was broken up into six to eight districts, each overseen by one alcalde mayor; thus, the number of alcaldes mayores serving in the province varied

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from six to eight. Sometimes the alcalde mayor office was left vacant; thus, it is possible that the amount of labor or commodities any one Pueblo individual had to provide to an alcalde mayor varied, making such labor turns more or less burdensome over time. The same can be said of missionaries, who also required labor and commodities from Pueblo people. If a mission was left vacant— and they frequently were— then Pueblo people in the vicinity of that mission would have been free of the obligation to provide commodities or labor to the resident friar.108 Whether it was individuals or households who were supposed to pay tribute through encomienda shifted over time,109 and sometimes, entire pueblos were exempt from encomienda, as was San Juan at the turn of the seventeenth century.110 In short, while there was a general increase in workload between the beginning and the end of Spanish colonization, there were certainly periods within that sweep of time where Spanish demands were more or less intensive and thus burdensome to Pueblo people or even entire Pueblo communities.

Labor Disputes and the Distribution and Exchange of Crafts In addition to changes to the Pueblo gendered division of labor and workload, cases concerning disputes over Pueblo labor and crafts occur with some regularity in the colonial-period documentation. Such disputes illustrate the types of labor and crafts that were typically requested by Spaniards as well as the mechanics of how Pueblo communities responded to requests for labor and crafts. Up until this point, all investigations into Pueblo social life have shown that when faced with the pressure to accommodate Spanish demands, Pueblos responded by employing and expanding traditional mechanisms already in place (rather than, for example, creating new mechanisms). In the last chapter, I demonstrated that pressures placed on political processes in Pueblo communities resulted in an expansion and segmentation of the political sphere—not an alteration of its functions. Up to this point in this chapter, I have shown that Pueblo communities responded similarly to pressures placed upon them due to Spanish contact in the economic sphere: Pueblos did not alter their gendered division of labor after Spanish contact, for the most part. Instead, they met the increased demands for labor and crafts using the division of labor already in place at the time of Spanish contact. In order to further understand how Pueblo communities may (or may not) have been impacted in the economic arena, I next investigate how it was that Spaniards actually gained access to Pueblo people’s labor and crafts. As I briefly noted above, there were various formal systems in place throughout the colonial period that provided Spanish access to Pueblo labor and goods (such as encomienda, missionary and secular repartimiento,

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and repartimiento de efectos). In addition, Spaniards acquired labor and goods outside of these formal channels of access, sometimes using coercion to do so. In the next section of this chapter, I will discuss what happened when a request for crafts or labor went wrong and was then subject to investigation by Spanish authorities. An examination of all of these investigations made in the eighteenth century reveals two things: First, male elites handled disputes over labor and goods in cases where such disputes had arisen as a result of Spaniards requesting goods or labor from Pueblo communities as a whole. However, individual Pueblo men and women handled their own disputes in cases where they had entered into agreements with individual Spaniards to conduct some form of commerce. Typically, they voiced their complaints during a governor’s visita of their community, relying on the governor to quickly resolve such complaints. The only thing that explains this pattern of elite versus individual management of disputes is the issue of “foreign relations”: clearly, Pueblo officials perceived community-wide efforts to meet Spanish demands as a matter of politics or, more specifically, “foreign relations.” Politics and economics were not separate spheres of life in Pueblo communities— even though I treat them separately in this book for analytical purposes. Individual or one-time disputes over labor or goods were not, however, perceived in this manner, so elites were not involved in resolving these disputes. In addition to representing Pueblo communities involved in labor disputes with Spaniards, male elites also managed the community-wide distribution and exchange of goods and labor to Spaniards. Thus, as in the political sphere, the responsibilities of elites grew in the economic sphere of life as it was extended and expanded to meet Spanish demands for goods and labor. The question then becomes: How did Pueblo people interpret the growing responsibility of male elites in both the political and economic sphere? Logically, it can be argued that the acquisition of new responsibilities conferred power and authority to Pueblo elites in ways not previously seen or experienced in pre-contact Pueblo communities. Did the assumption of new responsibilities, in effect, create or deepen class division in those communities? In chapter 2, I also addressed at length the changes to gender relations that occurred in the political sphere as a result of Spanish contact. In the following section of this chapter, I will return to the issue of gendered social relations by investigating whether male elite assumption of greater responsibilities impacted women’s status in the economic sphere. Labor Disputes. While there are many documents in the New Mexican archives that contain bits and pieces of very general information about the use and abuse of Pueblo labor in the colonial period, there are far fewer documents that actually provide any sort of detail about the

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specific processes that Spaniards followed to extract labor from Pueblo communities. That information is found in documents that contained interviews of Pueblo (and sometimes Spanish) witnesses of the ways in which repartimiento and other methods of labor extraction were carried out. There are only five investigations concerning pueblo-wide requests for labor where actual interviewing of Pueblos occurred and, therefore, where mechanisms of labor extraction are clearly laid bare.111 In three of the five investigations, male officials presented themselves together and were interviewed with the aid of an interpreter.112 In the two cases where Pueblos were interviewed individually and not in groups,113 no women appeared even though some of the labor in question was labor that they would have typically done, like potting and spinning. Much like cases concerning Pueblo politics, male elites were interviewed as well as commoner men, but not commoner women. In July and August 1750, for example, Custodian Varo ordered an investigation concerning the state of New Mexico’s missions.114 Declarations were taken at fifteen missions concerning everything from whether the missionary in residence compelled the inhabitants to speak Spanish to what types and how much labor from inhabitants the missionary required. At each community, Pueblo governors, caciques, lieutenants, fiscals, and elders were interviewed together—in other words, male elites. Each group of officials was asked specifically about how much clothing their community wove for their friar; questions were also asked about the amount of sowing they did for the missions. Most gave information on the numbers of blankets (used for clothing) that they provided. The fact that they sowed for the missions implies that the grains that were collected as a result were also processed for the friars. Certainly, the friars were not responsible for grinding the wheat or corn that the Pueblos provided them. Thus, it is most likely that grinding, in addition to sowing and weaving, were tasks completed by the Pueblo communities that were the focus of this investigation. Even though commoner men and women completed this work for the friar, only male elites were interviewed about their activities. Just five years later, Fray Jacobo de Castro conducted a visita of all of the pueblos. This time, eighteen pueblos were visited and interviewed about the activities of their resident missionary.115 Again, at each pueblo, only the governor and other officials appeared in front of Castro to be questioned—no commoners (male or female) appeared. At San Juan, the officials admitted that their father had asked them to grind wheat for a Spanish citizen that was a friend of his; Castro reprimanded the friar and told him that he could not order the Indians to grind for him for any reason.

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Finally, the 1792 labor case involving María Tafoya, discussed in chapter 2, also evidences male elite control of repartimiento requests for labor. This case depicts a Pueblo woman representing herself concerning some aspect of her own labor, or at least the implements she owned to carry out labor (horses). However, hers was not an autonomous voice, as I argued in chapter 2. Male elites controlled the complaint process overall, including rescinding support for Tafoya’s claim that they gave her the authority to represent the entire community to the New Mexico governor— an action that put her in a very difficult predicament with Spanish authorities. Rather than representing evidence of women’s participation in politico-economic processes in Pueblo communities, Tafoya’s actions appear anomalous. Furthermore, many other labor complaints (not just the alcalde’s abusive use of Tafoya’s horses) were filed in this case. Only male elites were interviewed about these complaints. In the two cases where individual Pueblos, rather than groups of male elites, were questioned about labor abuses, only elite and commoner men were interviewed. Alcalde mayor Ramón García Jurado was accused of labor abuses in 1732.116 The initial complaint alleged that García Jurado had requested that some Pueblo Indians fish for him during holy week. In his response to the allegations, García Jurado complained that Fray Diego Espinosa had prevented Zia Indians from complying with this request; he also complained that there were other friars in his jurisdiction that interfered with his authority over Pueblo communities.117 The complaint mushroomed into separate church and civil investigations of García Jurado’s activities in Pueblo communities in his jurisdiction. Fray Antonio Gabaldon wrote a long report on García Jurado’s labor abuses,118 and civil officials interviewed both Pueblo officials and commoner men of the communities involved in the dispute. Numerous types of labor were in dispute including fishing, hauling, trading hides for finished skins, weaving, spinning, potting, and sowing. All of the labor was done without pay, a violation of repartimiento regulations. Even though women did some of the labor at issue (spinning, potting, and most likely some weaving), no women were interviewed in the course of the investigation. Just one year later, alcalde mayor Bernabe Baca was accused of, among other things, labor abuses at Acoma and Laguna.119 Both women’s and men’s labor were at issue: Baca was accused of requiring people to weed his fields, make adobe, and haul goods such as pottery and corn.120 One assumes that the corn and pottery Baca wanted hauled away were grown or produced at Acoma and Laguna. Despite the evidence of women’s labor in this investigation, no woman testified about the labor she did for the alcalde mayor, as was the case with the García Jurado investigation. Instead, male officials from each of the pueblos involved individually

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testified about their labor. Several commoner males also testified. Thus, the one group of individuals that was consistently interviewed in all of the investigations concerning repartimiento labor was male elites. Male elites were interviewed in all five investigations, either together or individually, and in three of them, they were the only people interviewed. In investigations where commoners were interviewed, only men appeared. No women appeared in any of these investigations, despite the fact that their labor was often under dispute. This pattern, of course, closely matches the pattern of elite male dominance of political processes in Pueblo communities. Because this is so, it suggests that male elites saw requests for repartimiento or mission labor as part and parcel of their foreign relations dealings; thus, they treated such requests as they treated any other matter having to do with foreign relations. Whether this was based upon pre-contact tradition is hard to ascertain with certainty. There is one possible case of group control of women’s labor in the Southwest archaeological record, but it only weakly resembles the situation that existed between Spaniards and Pueblo communities in the colonial period. As discussed in chapter 2, the La Plata River Valley in northern New Mexico experienced an increase in population in the eleventh through the fourteenth centuries, causing a stress on available resources that required an increase in the production of food. Reproductive-aged women who migrated into the area by force or choice may have formed a class of indentured servants “to others who had the power to enforce domination of this subgroup.”121 People indigenous to the area would have had preferred access to food and resources when compared to newcomers and migrants. Based on studies of their remains, the underclass of migrant women were expected to habitually perform certain food producing activities, such as grinding corn. While this case shows that certain individuals or groups of people may have sought to control access to women’s labor and crafts, such practices do not appear to have been widespread in the pre-contact Southwest. As Hegmon states, “with the possible exception of the horrific La Plata case, I know of no archaeological evidence of elite control of others’ labor in the Southwest, though such evidence would be difficult to come by except in extreme cases where laborers were abused.”122 Given this evidence, it appears as though Pueblo communities were confronted with a new type of demand for labor in the colonial period. The way that they responded was to first categorize the issuers of such demands as outsiders; they then dealt with them as they would any other outsider group. In other words, such demands were funneled through traditional mechanisms and processes (those falling under the category of “foreign relations”); new mechanisms were not constructed to handle such requests for labor. However, by doing so, Pueblo elites came to manage certain as-

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pects of labor practices of their communities when they had not done so in the pre-contact period. In other words, while the method used to deal with labor demands of Spaniards was not new, the ultimate effect of those requests was; elites now managed labor, at least in part, where they had not done so before contact. Thus, the cases discussed here illustrate how attempts to carry out Pueblofication could sometimes lead to the creation of a new practice. This occurred as part and parcel of daily and quotidian efforts to negotiate the imposition of state power; as such, it was not something that individuals necessarily noticed or acknowledged. The assumption of more responsibilities on the part of one group (elites) most likely accentuated class division as the colonial period progressed as well. Pueblo community response to demands for goods and labor also demonstrates that the political and the economic spheres were closely integrated in Pueblo communities and that traditional mechanisms for dealing with foreign relations were in place and utilized during the colonial period in the economic, as well as the political, spheres. Most likely, commoner men and women acted as consultants to elites during these investigations, as they did in other matters having to do with foreign relations. In these investigations, however, we see that, at the very least, some commoner men were given voice (but women were not). Unfortunately there is nothing in the documentation that reveals why certain commoner men were interviewed but not commoner women. What this evidence does do is reinforce the findings of chapter 2: a strict male dominance of foreign relations matters existed in Pueblo communities in the eighteenth century. The Distribution and Exchange of Pueblo Crafts. I have discussed the ways in which Pueblo communities attempted to respond to Spanish demands for labor; a closely related topic is, of course, the distribution and exchange of crafts that Pueblos produced with their labor. When studied in isolation, the way that Pueblo communities responded to demands for crafts (such as pottery and leather) closely parallels their response to labor demands. While individualized transactions between Pueblos and Spaniards, as well as inter- and intracommunity trade, occurred in the colonial period, Pueblo elites managed the distribution of crafts to Spaniards. This elite management of craft distribution, like the elite management of labor demands and disputes, was an alteration of the norm; as I will discuss below, there is no evidence that elites managed the distribution and exchange of crafts in any context in the pre-contact period. Therefore, in certain contexts, Spanish contact resulted in elite management of the distribution of crafts where it had not existed before. In what follows, I will use pottery production as an example of the ways in which elites came to manage the production of crafts in the post-contact

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period because pre-contact pottery production and exchange are (somewhat) well documented by archaeologists. The overall consensus of archaeologists is that there is little to suggest male elite control of the exchange and distribution of pottery in the pre-contact period. Three basic modes of pottery production were practiced in the pre-contact Southwest: 1) “unspecialized household production, in which each household [made] pottery for its own use; 2) dispersed individual specialization, in which a few individuals or households [made] pottery for an entire community; and 3) community specialization, in which individual specialists, aggregated in a limited number of communities, produce[d] pottery for regional distribution.”123 As noted above, this means that Pueblos produced crafts for people other than those living in their immediate households and that Pueblo people in general participated in both local and regional exchange networks long before Spaniards arrived in New Mexico in 1539. Archaeological evidence also suggests that women working in their households—without elite control— carried out all types of pre-contact pottery production. This is true no matter what area of the Ancestral Pueblo region one is referencing. Hegmon, Hurst, and Allison write that “although some have argued that social hierarchies were present in the northern Southwest during the ninth century, there is no evidence of the kind of elite control of production [of pottery] or well-developed administrative complexity that may have been present in later periods. Thus, the production context is assumed to have been one of independent producers rather than producers attached to elites or government institutions.” The scale of production was “fairly limited, involving nothing larger than interhousehold work groups.” Pottery producers were part-time specialists “who were not totally dependent on others for their sustenance.”124 This was true even if pottery production occurred above the needs of the household for the purposes of exchange. The household was the basic unit of production when individuals made pottery for their own households, when a few individuals made pottery for a community, or when a few individuals in a few communities made pottery for an entire region.125 Spielmann argues that women controlled the exchange of the crafts they produced. During Pueblo I (AD 700–900) in the Ancestral Pueblo region, “ceremonial feasting may have created a demand for the import of certain decorated pottery . . . presumably, it was women who did the cooking and serving, using vessels made by other women and obtained through down-the-line or direct exchange among women. . . . We can infer that the intensity of women’s production of and exchange for items used in ceremonies . . . increased as the tempo of ceremonial activity increased.” She states that she assumes that “women made and decorated most of the

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Figure 3.4. Pottery burners at Santa Clara, 1905. Library of Congress, Prints & Photographs Division, Edward S. Curtis Collection, LC-USZ62-136609.

pots, that men made most of the projectile points, and that producers had control over the local distribution of their products.”126 Judith Habicht-Mauche’s findings concerning the Northern Rio Grande region (the area north of Albuquerque; also part of the Ancestral Pueblo region) in the fourteenth and early fifteenth centuries are similar to Spielmann’s. She argues that craft production during this period “appears to have remained largely a household industry under the control of individual artisans and their families.” Pottery production became part of a developing regional system: pottery was produced in increasingly large quantities for trade between communities. Despite the development of large-scale regional networks, exchange was not managed by elites: Most of the materials exchanged between districts were relatively utilitarian craft products and raw materials whose distribution does not appear to have been limited to any par ticular segment of society. Also, there is no archaeological evidence at Arroyo Hondo or at the other large early Classic period pueblos in the [N]orthern Rio Grande of wealth accumulation, architectural differentiation, or other status differences one would generally associate with the control of valuable

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commodities within a ranked or stratified society. Furthermore, no evidence of centralized workshops or storage facilities ha[s] been identified from any of these sites.127

Archaeologists argue that these types of large-scale regional networks are typically controlled by “the village leadership or a specific group of elite individuals” but that this model “does not fit the data from the northern Rio Grande. . . .”128 Graves and Spielmann reach the same conclusion concerning the lack of elite control over ceramics exchange in their study of the Salinas region from AD 1400–1600.129 They argue that leadership in the protohistoric (or period immediately preceding Spanish contact) Rio Grande was corporate-based, due to the fact that there is no archaeological evidence that leaders sought to build individual prestige through wealth accumulation or control over labor.130 What did occur, at least in some pueblos (such as Gran Quivira) in the Salinas region, was ceremonial feasting.131 This was an opportunity for those who held ritual knowledge to conduct ceremonial activities that would have enhanced their prestige and power. However, these elites did not control the system of longdistance exchange in ceramics that developed as a result of their efforts to conduct large feasts. Ceremonial feasting, as one can imagine, required the acquisition and use of large amounts of ceramics. Elites did not control or manage this exchange. “Although long-distance exchange appears to have been a significant prestige-enhancing activity in the protohistoric period, a prestige goods economy did not develop.”132 Perhaps the production and exchange of ceramics was managed by male elites at Chaco from the eleventh through the thirteenth centuries. Women living along the Chuska slope, for example, produced ceramics for the residents of Chaco Canyon and for ceremonies occurring in ritual centers of Chaco Canyon. Mills writes that “potters in the Chuska area made many of the vessels found at Chaco Canyon sites. Between AD 1040 and 1200, about 30 percent of all ceramics were made in the Chuska area.”133 Spielmann writes that Chuska—located fifty to sixty kilometers away—may have supplied up to one thousand vessels per year to Chaco, an amount that “appears staggering” to those familiar with the subject.134 Chaco Canyon lacked wood for firing and so relied on “outlier communities” like the Chuska slope for their ceramics needs. Not only did Chaco Canyon residents rely upon residents of the Chuska slope to supply their everyday needs, they also looked to them to bring pottery to Chaco Canyon for ceremonial feasting.135 “Given the mecca-like nature of Chaco Canyon, it is not unreasonable to expect that yearly pilgrimages might have been made from pueblos in the San Juan Basin, during which vessels were traded.”136 Women were not only responsible for providing

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ceramics for ceremonial feasting but also for producing the food that was served in the bowls during these ceremonial occasions.137 Male elites controlled neither the production for nor distribution of ceramics to Chaco. The consensus among Chacoan specialists is that “production of goods was household-based”; they see little evidence for “elite control of production of special goods.”138 Evidence of the exchange of other crafts—while scant— further supports the assertion that elites did not control the distribution and exchange of crafts in the pre-contact period. In addition to ceramics, Spielmann addresses the exchange of projectile points, lithic raw material, and ornaments. In discussing all three items, she writes that although the literature on ceramics is “voluminous,” scant attention has been paid to lithics, with the exception of obsidian. In addressing the exchange of these items, she writes that “women made and decorated most of the pots, that men made most of the projectile points, and that producers had control over the local and long-distance distribution of their products.”139 In other words, both men and women exchanged locally and long distance; Spielmann argues that the “extent and intensity” of women’s and men’s interactive networks were similar—although she cannot definitively demonstrate

Figure 3.5. Zuni potter, 1903. Library of Congress, Prints & Photographs Division, Edward S. Curtis Collection, LC-USZ62-112233.

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that women traveled widely throughout the Southwest, as did men.140 Thus, the only evidence of one group of Pueblos controlling the labor (and one would assume the crafts) of another group is the La Plata case mentioned above. Since there are no other known examples of such labor control, and all other evidence in the archaeological record points to individual control over craft exchange in the pre-contact period, it is safe to conclude at this point in time that elites did not manage the distribution or exchange of crafts before the arrival of the Spanish. There is clear evidence in the documentary record that these precontact forms of distribution and exchange continued to occur in the colonial period. In other words, there is evidence that indicates that individuals—not elites— controlled the exchange of their crafts in both local and long-distance (or regional) trade. For example, individual-toindividual craft exchange occurred in the post-contact period, as it had in the pre-contact period. In his 1738 inspection of the pueblo communities, numerous Pueblo women appeared before Governor Don Henrique de Olavide y Micheleña to complain about not being reimbursed for goods that they made. Isabel de Pantaleon from Santa Ana actually called all of the officials of her pueblo as witnesses to the fact that Bernabe Baca owed her a calf for an embroidered blanket she had given to him, and that he had owed her for “nine years and three visitas.” Baca was told this “by the whole pueblo through an interpreter.” Baca, however, complained that he only owed her a bison skin and no more; thus, according to the document, Pantaleon was not compensated. Several other women made complaints in this visita as well. María of Cochiti never received a piece of land that she purchased with chamois, a moose, and a hide, and Isabel of Picuris demanded a shawl from Felipe of San Ildefonso that she purchased with two chamois, cloths, and a calf.141 In Governor Mendoza’s 1742 visita of Isleta pueblo, Lucia complained she had not been compensated for hides and chamois she sold to vecino Francisco Trujillo.142 Pueblo men had disputes with Spaniards as well. Numerous men came forward to complain about not receiving payments for everything from horses to blankets in both the 1738 and 1742 visitas. They also sometimes labored for Spaniards (other than missionaries, alcaldes mayores, or governors) for pay, as I discussed earlier in this chapter. For example, Miguel from San Felipe complained in 1738 that he had brought a horse to Cienguilla for Pedro García and had never been compensated for it, while Thomas Archuli of Jemez demanded an axe and knife from Captain Juan Gonzales for delivering a mule to Zuni for him.143 The evidence also indicates that Pueblo males traded or sold crafts made by women, such as pottery. In 1745, during the visita of Governor Codallos y Rabal, a man named Diego from San Ildefonso pueblo claimed

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that Juan de Dios of Chimayó owed him for a large water jar that he sold him; in that same year, an Tesuque male claimed that a Santa Fe Spaniard named Valentina owed him for a large jar that he sold her.144 Pueblo men did not make ceramics in the colonial period (or before Spanish contact). Thus, these men must have acquired their ceramics from women for exchange, but the documentation does not reveal how they did so. However, because the men are not described as possessing a title and they only exchanged a small number of wares, it does not seem likely that such individualized exchange is evidence of male control of the distribution of women’s crafts. Instead, this is evidence that in certain (but not all) circumstances, Pueblo women independently produced ceramics above the needs of their households and then relied on men to distribute their crafts. Perhaps Pueblo men sometimes acted as intermediaries between close female relatives and Spaniards (or others) in the exchange of ceramics, returning whatever “profits” they received to the original producers. Perhaps they acquired some small portion of the ceramics female relatives produced for exchange, keeping the profits of those exchanges for themselves. In short, sometimes Pueblo men distributed Pueblo women’s crafts with the consent of the women themselves. These Pueblo men were not elites attempting to control the trade in ceramics. Exchange between individuals also occurred in the colonial period during trading fairs, fiestas and ceremonials, or whenever there was a need for goods.145 Kinship ties frequently formed the basis of networks of exchange between Pueblo individuals; the ritual needs of communities also stimulated exchange. Both Pueblo men and women participated in this type of informal, individualized exchange that occurred within pueblos and between pueblos.146 Women from Santa Clara, San Ildefonso, and Nambé were all known to produce certain types of pottery for use in this type of exchange.147 Groups of Pueblo men also conducted trade with non-Pueblo Indian people who lived in adjacent regions of the Southwest. The Comanche, with whom the Pueblos traded at Taos trade fairs, Comanche camps, and outside of their individual communities, desired “wheat bread, cornmeal, and other agricultural products such as dried apples and melons. Occasionally they requested pottery. . . .” This pattern was repeated with the Ute: “unless Utes were contacted at trade fairs, trade was conducted in the fall and by small groups of Tewa men led by a man with knowledge of southern Colorado.” These men traded cornmeal, wheat flour, dried fruit, tobacco, sugar, and coffee. “Additionally, Santa Clarans brought pottery, and San Juan traders supplied pottery and woven goods.”148 The Pecos traded “maize and other agricultural produce as well as . . . painted cotton blankets, pottery, and local turquoise” with the Apache for “products of the buffalo.”149 The goods were transported on horseback or by burro.

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“Large willow wicker baskets were used to transport the goods. The flour was placed at the bottom with the bread above, and the pottery and woven goods were tied to the top of the load.”150 At least among the Tewa, trading parties that traveled to, for example, Comanche or Ute camps were typically composed of “about six to twenty men who had something to exchange and a desire to go. They, in turn, would also carry the produce of fellow villagers.” The leadership of these trading parties “was ephemeral and fell to individuals who knew the area to be traversed” and who could speak the local language. These trading trips were not undertaken on a regular basis; such expeditions typically were not conducted on a yearly basis. This description of the organization of Pueblo trading parties does not suggest that male elites arranged them. Rather, it suggests that Pueblo men (no matter their class status) organized them on an ad hoc basis whenever they happened to have a surplus of items to exchange—for example, after harvests or at the end of winter—if there were surpluses. Furthermore, there is no evidence that goods were “mass produced” for this long-distance exchange, as they sometimes were for Spanish consumption. Pueblo men were not exchanging goods on a mass scale in order to enrich themselves. Pottery, as just noted, was transported tied to the tops of loads of goods. This suggests only a few pieces were transported and exchanged on any given trip.151 This evidences suggests that crafts were acquired for long-distance trade in the same way as the goods that individual Pueblo men and women traded, bartered, or sold to Spaniards. Men produced certain crafts themselves or acquired them from female relatives on a voluntary basis. Both men and women attended trading fairs, such as those that occurred at Taos and Pecos, suggesting that women might participate in trade with non-Pueblo groups if that trade did not involve long-distance travel.152 As noted above, women participated in long-distance trade in the pre-contact period, but the method of that participation is not known (whether they actually traveled long distances themselves to trade or utilized male couriers to do the trading for them— as clearly occurred in the colonial period). Unlike the individual and inter- and intracommunity sale, barter, or trade of crafts, the documentary evidence indicates that Spanish authorities’ requests for goods made to entire communities were overwhelmingly controlled by male elites. In chapter 2, I noted that from the very beginning of the colonial period, Spanish officials relied on Pueblo communities to supply them with food and other necessities. When a Spanish official appeared at a community asking for assistance, it was always a Pueblo “chief” (probably a cacique) or one of his assistants who announced to the pueblo that items were needed; it was also these same officials who collected the items.

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This remained true in the eighteenth century. For example, in the 1732 investigation of Ramón García Jurado’s abuse of Pueblo Indian labor at Jemez, Santa Ana, and Zia,153 García Jurado explained that in order to gain access to labor and crafts, he contacted the governors of Santa Ana, Zia, and Jemez. For example, he contacted the governors and asked them if they would help him prepare his land for planting. They then sent a number of teams of oxen that worked for two days “breaking the land” for him.154 The most evidence that Pueblo male elites managed Spanish acquisition of labor and crafts from their communities comes, however, from the testimony in this investigation concerning weaving. A number of witnesses explained that the alcalde mayor sent wool to the governors of the pueblos to be woven into cloth. Agustin Blanco, the captain of war of Zia, explained that the wool the alcalde mayor sent “[was] in the power of the governor of the pueblo.”155 The governor of Jemez declared that, at the present time, he had enough wool “in his power” to make four pieces of cloth and six blankets and that individuals of his pueblo had spun enough thread for another two pieces of cloth.156 Antonio Guchipana, the captain of war of Jemez, explained that while he did not know where the wool came from, “at the present they have it in the governor’s house.”157 Nicholas Suco, the cacique of the pueblo, also testified that the wool was in the governor’s house.158 At the end of the investigation, the officials of all three pueblos were ordered to appear and to explain how much they (or members of their community) were owed for weaving cloth and blankets for the alcalde mayor; this was done because Spanish officials clearly believed that García Jurado had required too much unpaid labor or asked for too many material goods from Pueblo communities. In order to rectify this situation, García Jurado was ordered to reimburse these communities for labor and crafts they had supplied him. Three governors appeared (their pueblos are not specified); each explained how many blankets and pieces of cloth their communities wove for García Jurado. For example, Joseph Chapoca testified that in the first year he was governor, his community wove two pieces of cloth and ten blankets. In the second year, they wove four more pieces of cloth and mantas.159 The Pueblo testimony in this investigation reveals that the alcalde mayor delivered wool to the governors, who then delivered it to individuals of their communities to spin and weave into cloth and blankets; the finished items were then delivered back to the Pueblo governors who returned it to García Jurado. The fact that the governors stored the wool in their houses and that they knew exactly how many pieces of cloth and blankets their communities produced shows that they had managed the entire process. The same evidence of elite male management of craft distribution can be found in the 1792 investigation in which María Tafoya was asked to

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represent Santo Domingo concerning their complaints about the alcalde mayor Luis Baca.160 In that investigation, Fray Jayme Canalis complained that one of the things that Baca required the inhabitants of Santo Domingo to do was to supply carts for hauling corn. Canalis explained that Baca had put Ventura Pacheco, the governor of the pueblo, in the stocks for sending two carts for the task rather than the six as had been requested. After this incident, the governor supplied whatever it was that Baca asked for, in order to avoid spending more time in the stocks.161 An ex-governor of the pueblo verified Canalis’s complaint, declaring that Pacheco had indeed been put in the stocks for not supplying Baca with carts.162 At Easter time in 1792, Baca sent a message to the governor once again requesting carts to haul corn. The governor supplied the carts, ruining (according to the friar) the Easter celebration.163 Baca himself admitted to putting the governor in the stocks, not because he did not supply carts but because he did not send oxen to help with building the bridge at San Felipe.164 In this document, we see more evidence that Spanish authorities contacted male elites when they needed labor or goods from Pueblo communities. These elites held the key to this access. The García Jurado investigation of 1732 also indicates that pottery was acquired in the same way as cloth or carts. Fray Antonio Gabaldon complained that the alcalde mayor never came to the pueblos in his jurisdiction unless “he was moved by his own interests to order them to make pots, jars, . . . and other trifles.”165 Don Diego, the cacique of Zia, complained that the people of his pueblo had “made pots, jars, pans, and the rest on many occasions” and then “brought them to his house and he did not pay anything.”166 Agustin Blanco, past governor of Zia, explained that the same thing occurred during his tenure: García Jurado ordered him to make pottery on two different occasions “being governor,” and that “they brought them to his house and he did not pay anything.”167 I assume that Blanco himself did not make all the pottery that the alcalde mayor wanted; rather, the comment implies that García Jurado ordered Blanco—because he was governor—to have the pots made by members of his pueblo and then delivered back to him, just as he had done as far as woven cloth was concerned. An investigation into alcalde mayor abuse at Acoma and Laguna one year later also indicates that Spanish authorities acquired pottery from pueblo communities.168 The governor of Acoma declared that Bernabe Baca forced members of his pueblo to transport “jars, pots, plates, and cups” for him without pay.”169 This means, then, that craft production and distribution was managed by male elites in the post-contact period. Pueblo elites did not control access to labor or the distribution of the products of labor in any other type of inter- or intracommunity exchange involving Pueblo or non-Pueblo groups in the colonial period. While non-

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Pueblo indigenous groups living in the region acquired Pueblo goods (including ceramics) through trade, this trade, as I have demonstrated, was not managed by Pueblo elites. Thus, even in the more formal, longdistance trade involving other indigenous groups in the area that preexisted and continued to occur after Spanish contact, individuals still controlled access to their labor and to the products of their labor. The only real similarity between this long-distance exchange and the Spanish repartimiento in blankets, cloth, or pottery was that men handled the distribution of goods in both types of exchange. However, the same group of men were not involved in the two types of exchange, and the repartimiento contained the potential for coercion that traditional forms of long-distance exchange did not. In long-distance exchange, commoner men exchanged women’s crafts with the consent of women; in the repartimiento, elite men distributed men’s and women’s crafts with or without their consent. In short, the type of production and distribution done for the repartimiento had no real analogy to other production or distribution practices in Pueblo communities. Why Pueblo elites controlled the distribution of crafts for repartimiento, when they did not control such distribution in any other context, is not explained in the documentation. But the same argument concerning why elites managed labor disputes with Spaniards can be made with regard to craft distribution to Spanish authorities. Because such distribution involved Spaniards, it was considered to be a matter of “foreign relations.” Thus, it fell under the purview of elites in Pueblo communities. However, the analysis of craft distribution and exchange brings to light a contradiction. This analysis shows that not all exchange with Spaniards was managed by elites: commoner women and men, in fact, engaged in commerce with Spaniards on their own, as I demonstrated above. This evidence requires that a qualification of the argument be made: clearly, not all interactions with Spaniards (economic or otherwise) required elite management. Inspections or visitas were less formalized and more common than a one-time, civil investigation into the abuse of labor or craft distribution at a specific pueblo. As such, they were forums where minor disputes between individuals—not between whole pueblos or the leadership within a given pueblo— could be quickly resolved.170 Because these inspections did not necessarily impact the political, economic, social, geographic, or religious integrity of Pueblo communities as a whole, and did not involve the forced extraction of resources from those communities, individual Pueblo men and women were allowed to voice their own grievances if they had them (rather than have elites do it for them). However, those transactions that impacted or had the potential to impact entire pueblos— such as Spanish demands for labor or crafts from entire communities—were managed by elites, as I have demonstrated

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here. This probably explains why there is no evidence of Pueblo elites managing long-distance exchange in the pre-contact period. Even though such exchange involved foreigners, it did not contain the potential for coercion or forced extraction of labor or crafts or the possibility that entire communities would be called to produce for outside individuals or groups. Richard Ford has written that in the Southwest, “regional trade is a form of foreign policy.”171 Before the arrival of the Spanish, trade was the basis of social ties to non-Pueblo communities. Such ties were important because they created “webs of social and economic ties that buffer[ed] people in many ways against difficult conditions for survival” in the desert Southwest.172 These ties, therefore, had to be carefully created and maintained over long periods of time. In the colonial period, two types of trade developed with Spaniards: consensual and non-consensual. Individual Pueblos traded with individual Spaniards on a consensual basis, just as they traded with other Pueblos and non-Pueblo Indian peoples in the precontact period. But Spaniards also forcibly extracted goods from entire Pueblo communities—a thing that had never happened before. This forcible extraction was “Pueblofied.” Because elite men dealt with foreign policy issues in their communities, and regional trade was interpreted as foreign policy, elite men came to be responsible for managing forcibly created, community-level economic ties with Spanish authorities. Spanish contact thus reinforced class differences that existed in Pueblo communities before contact. Furthermore, Pueblo division of labor was gendered; it was underwritten and buttressed by the idea that men took care of activities that occurred outside of the home.173 Regional trade was considered to be part of the political arena that existed outside of the home; thus, men— not women—were the conspicuous actors in this arena. Ultimately, it is not that commoner men and women had no voice when it came to representing themselves in disputes over their crafts. They did have a voice when those disputes involved individual and discrete economic transactions with other individuals. However, when it came to community-level extraction, male elites assumed control over that extraction. Pueblo commoners (men and women) did not fully control access to, or distribution of, their labor or crafts in the colonial period as they had before Spanish contact.

Class and Gender Inequalities in Pueblo Communities From the evidence presented in this chapter, it appears that male elites were given the opportunity to enhance their power and authority as the control of certain types of commoner men’s and women’s production, exchange, and distribution of crafts fell into their hands. However, the

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growth of elite men’s power and authority was not based upon privately owning the means of production or hoarding large quantities of wealth derived from ownership of the means of production, as we are used to seeing in capitalist societies. This is true even though elites were in a position to become the owners of the means of production and to amass material wealth in their positions as intermediaries between their communities and Spanish authorities. Instead, their ability to require individuals to produce crafts for them in limited circumstances (for distribution to Spaniards) and their overall management of the extraction process enhanced their power and authority and emphasized class division within Pueblo communities. In addition, elites amassed knowledge of Spanish authority structures and processes that they could then use to their (and their community’s) advantage. This also conferred power and authority upon them. Thus, class division in Pueblo communities was not defined by one group of people (the “haves”) exclusively controlling access to resources to the detriment of all others (the “have nots”).174 That class was not defined in this way was due, at least in part, to the fact that Pueblo land tenure practices were not severely disrupted or destroyed by Spanish contact, as occurred in so many other areas in the New World. All Pueblos— regardless of their standing in society—retained access to the means of production that provided them with the basic necessities of life. In Peru, however, Spanish authorities successfully imposed new concepts of private property ownership and land tenure that destroyed traditional kinship practices—practices that had guaranteed everyone access to land and other basic resources— and removed land from communities. When this happened, a class of impoverished Indian peasants with no access to land was created.175 Pueblo communities held land jointly too; under this system, no one could be denied access to basic necessities such as land. However, unlike in Peru, this system remained intact throughout the entire colonial period. This meant that Pueblo commoners retained access to basic resources throughout the colonial period. Because this was so, there was no way for any Pueblo person or group to be cut off from land or other basic necessities. This is not to say that Spaniards did not steal Pueblo lands; they surely did. Nor is it to say that poverty was not an issue in colonial New Mexico; it surely was. Nevertheless, Pueblo communities retained ownership over parcels of land that today forms the basis of contemporary Pueblo reservations. Pueblos clearly perceived of divisions amongst themselves, but being a political elite was not correlated with having the ability to prevent people from gaining access to needed resources or to privately own the means of production. Despite the fact that elites were essentially facilitating Spanish exploitation of labor and forced extraction of goods from Pueblo communities,

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they were not seen as “sellouts,” nor were they resented for the power and authority that they held. Instead, it was the opposite: the evidence suggests that Pueblo commoners appreciated the fact that elites acted as intermediaries between them and Spanish authorities. Thus, class became more defined in Pueblo communities as a result of one group of people performing a task that people in general found distasteful. The documentary record provides some insight into popular perceptions of elites in Pueblo communities. As discussed above, in December 1733, the elites of Acoma and Laguna filed a complaint against their alcalde mayor for abusive behavior.176 Bernabe Baca had told them that the local missionary was “shit” and that when replacements arrived in the province they could ask for a new one.177 He also accused the people of Laguna of being witches and thieves, which caused the pueblo to be “stirred up.”178 The cacique of Laguna complained that the lack of agreement between himself, the alcalde mayor, and the friar made it difficult for residents to live in a way that “the king” would approve of; he therefore asked that the alcalde mayor be replaced.179 Thus, in the mind of the cacique, it was not the missionary that was the problem but the alcalde mayor. Furthermore, the cacique implies in his comments that Pueblo people valued harmony among their Spanish and Pueblo leaders. Because this is so, it seems logical to conclude that Pueblo people would have valued leadership that could deliver and maintain harmonious social relations in their communities. Another investigation of the alcalde mayor’s activities at Isleta in 1771 revealed that residents appreciated leadership that not only smoothed relations between Spaniards and their communities but also managed Spanish interference into Pueblo community affairs.180 As discussed in chapter 2, the cacique of the pueblo wrote a complaint that stated that the alcalde mayor, Mariano Beitia, had whipped a boy whom he suspected of stealing some of his sheep. Because of this, he claimed that the pueblo wanted the alcalde mayor relieved of his post.181 In the course of investigation, the governor of New Mexico ordered a “secret inquiry” into the cacique’s power at the pueblo because testimony revealed that he had written the complaint against the alcalde mayor without consulting other governing elites, had encouraged Isletans to maintain their native language, and had claimed to rule as a king—rather than for the king.182 The governor of New Mexico wanted to understand what, specifically, was the nature of the cacique’s power and authority in the pueblo. When interrogated, the Isleta governor, captain mayor, and two unnamed inhabitants declared that the cacique ruled as a king, whom inhabitants obeyed without question. Furthermore, he interceded on the behalf of members of their community when the alcalde mayor attempted to punish Isletans for their wrongdoings (as in the case of the ewes); this en-

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couraged them to recommit crimes. He also privately encouraged them to speak their native language, while publicly telling them that it was important to speak Spanish. For these reasons, they “loved and esteemed” the cacique.183 Based on this information, the governor of New Mexico ordered that the cacique be removed from his post at Isleta.184 It is difficult to tell if all of the accusations against the cacique were legitimate, because the governor and war captain also accused him of writing the original complaint without the agreement of the rest of the pueblo’s leadership. Perhaps they were upset at not being consulted on the writing of the complaint and therefore embellished or invented stories about him. However, in his declaration, the alcalde mayor stated that he was told by the lieutenant of Belen that an Isletan Indio had “let it slip” (se deslizó) to him one day in the community house that the “cacique was their king.”185 Although one Spaniard related this story to another, it does not appear that the lieutenant had gathered this information under conditions of duress (as was the case with the investigation at hand). He was simply in the community house talking with an Isletan Indian who, by mistake, gave him information about the nature of the cacique’s power—information that corresponded to what Spanish authorities found in their own investigation of the Isleta cacique. Thus, even if some of the details of the case were embellished or even concocted, I believe the investigation gives some indication of the nature or character of the Isleta cacique’s power and authority as well as commoner perceptions of him (he was “loved and esteemed”). What does not exist in the document is any indication that the love and esteem people felt for the cacique resulted in dissension between commoners and elites over disparities in power and authority. Nor did being an elite confer superiority upon an individual or group in relation to all others. I could find no evidence in the documentation that elites were perceived of as superior beings due to the important work that they performed or the power and authority that they held over commoners. Conversely, being a commoner did not mean that a person was automatically considered to be socially impoverished or inherently inferior. This does not mean that commoners did not seek authority or power in their communities (as I will demonstrate in the next chapter) or that Pueblo society was inherently egalitarian in its outlook; it simply means that such status seeking is not in evidence in the documentation that sheds light on popular perceptions of Pueblo leadership or that concerns the economic and political spheres in Pueblo communities. In short, the attitudes and practices described here are consonant with the corporatestyle of leadership that existed in Pueblo communities, as discussed in chapter 2: it was knowledge (for example, of systems of economic exploitation and how to manage them), not access to material goods, that, in part, formed the basis of political power in Pueblo communities both

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before and after Spanish contact; political power was not marked by showy displays of wealth or standing in one’s community, and office holding—while important and necessary—was not something that bestowed an automatic superiority or prestige upon a person or group of individuals above all others. Pueblo people disconnected power and authority from prestige and superiority. There was clearly a gendered component to the hardening of class difference in Pueblo communities. While it is true that both women and commoner men lost a certain degree of control over their labor and the products of their labor, in some instances—for reasons that are not entirely clear— commoner men, but not commoner women, were allowed to come forward in community-wide investigations to express grievances or present evidence concerning the Spanish extraction of their labor and goods. Furthermore, elites—those people whose responsibility it was to manage the extraction of labor and goods from their communities—were always men. I cannot argue that such differences were the result of colonization in Pueblo communities, because, as I discussed in chapter 2, gender inequalities preexisted the arrival of the Spanish. However, it does appear as though gender inequalities were reinforced or even heightened during the colonial period. Growth in consultative activities in not only the political but also the economic sphere may have served as a counterweight to the growth and impact of class and gender inequalities. By this I mean that such inequalities created restrictions in commoner men’s and women’s lives; they therefore sought ways to offset those restrictions by expanding traditional practices or creating new opportunities for themselves in different arenas of social life. It is logical to assume that the responsibilities of commoner men and Pueblo women in managing the functions of the economic sphere grew, as did the responsibilities of male elites. Because the economic and political spheres were deeply intertwined, Pueblo women and commoner men most likely served as consultants to elites on economic as well as political issues. Perhaps there was some power and authority attached to being a vocal consultant to Pueblo elites. If so, such activity may have mitigated some of the difficulties created by growing class and gender inequalities. Other activities may have provided commoner men and women with opportunities to mitigate the impact of growing gender and class inequalities in their lives. In the pre-contact period, for example, prominent men from economically successful households (even those organized matrilineally) would have been expected to contribute food and other items to large-scale, ceremonial events. As described above, for example, men carried and traded women’s crafts long distance; perhaps some of this work involved trade having to do with these ceremonials. Women in these house-

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holds may have gained recognition as well through their work in marshaling extra production, storing that production, and organizing labor and events. Female heads of matrilineal households “might have had opportunities to invest agricultural resources toward social gains.” Pueblo individuals may have had the ability to gain status outside of the strictures of kinship through, for example, sodality participation, although archaeological evidence on this point is very scant. They may have also worked to detach rights to land from kinship in the pre-contact period. “Situational advantages” such as productivity of land or the ability to deploy labor may have given certain individuals an advantage that was then manipulated to accrue social benefits.186 In other words, Pueblo individuals sought to manipulate embedded social structures and processes to acquire social status and sought to create alternative paths to power and authority in the pre-contact period. In this way, they negotiated restrictions that class and gender inequalities placed upon their lives. They did the same in the post-contact period.

CHA P TER FOUR

Commoner Men and Women Alternative Paths to Power

In chapters 2 and 3 of this book, I discussed the ways in which Spanish state making impacted both the political and economic spheres in Pueblo communities. In both spheres, men’s and women’s responsibilities increased even as elite men, commoner men, and women continued to carry out traditional economic and political roles. In the political sphere, women and commoner men continued to act as consultants to political elites much as they had done in the pre-contact era, while political elites spent increasing amounts of time managing the political fallout of Spanish domination and state-making efforts within their communities. In the economic sphere, Pueblo women and men continued to produce and exchange crafts in much the same way that they had before Spanish contact. However, the amount of labor and crafts that they were required to provide or produce increased due to Spanish demands, and Pueblo elites took over the management of labor and craft production for Spaniards. As I have discussed at length in the previous two chapters, the Pueblo documentation is dominated by the voices of Pueblo male elites and, to a lesser degree, commoner men. This makes it very difficult to know how commoner men, and especially Pueblo women, felt about the changes to their lives and communities that occurred after Spanish contact. There is, however, one group of documents where Pueblo women and commoner men appear and are interviewed regularly: the documentation on sorcery and healing. Women and commoner men are not just spoken about by Pueblo elites; they are interviewed and given voice in these records (albeit in a context in which they were being investigated for what was considered to be criminal activity in the eyes of Spanish authorities). In this

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chapter, I first analyze sorcery and healing simply to shed light on Pueblo women’s and commoner men’s daily lives. Second, I compare and contrast Pueblo men’s and women’s sorcery and healing to demonstrate that such practices varied in predictable ways along the lines of gender. I argue that the “hardening” of gender and class distinctions in the political and economic spheres— caused by the combining of Spanish and Pueblo beliefs and practices—led Pueblo women to seek out alternative paths to empowerment in the ritual sphere outside of their home communities with a new group of outsiders (Spanish women). Commoner (as well as elite) men, on the other hand, used sorcery and healing to empower themselves in the political sphere— a traditional arena of activity— or to even resist Spanish domination within their home communities. I argue that this pattern exists in the documentation because, as I demonstrated in chapters 2 and 3, men had ways to be powerful in the political and economic spheres in their home communities, while women generally did not. Women, therefore, sought out opportunities to gain power, authority, and prestige outside of their home communities—particularly with Spanish women. Thus, while colonization imposed burdens upon Pueblo communities, it also provided opportunities to engage in status-seeking activities. At the end of the chapter, I analyze a second, much smaller set of documents that contain information about several Pueblo women and men that appear to have attained some level of power outside of formal political channels in their home communities. However, as is the case with sorcery and healing, they appear to have done this in different ways: women acquired power and authority due to the accumulation of wealth, ties to powerful men, or mixed ethnic heritage, while there were some commoner men who appear to have used sorcery to empower themselves in the political sphere in very similar ways to elite men. They even sometimes used their power to resist Spanish domination, as I will discuss below. By looking at both types of documentation (representing sorcery and healing done by both powerful Pueblo women and commoner men), it is possible to begin to get a sense of the ways in which Pueblo individuals responded to and negotiated changes to their lives after Spanish contact.

Pueblo Sorcery and Healing Much has been written about the fact that Spaniards brought their own brand of “witchcraft” to the New World, and that this belief system collided with indigenous practices already in place.1 In New Mexico, sorcerers— defined at Zuni as “people whose nature it is to plot the deaths of those who arouse their jealousy or resentment”2— existed before the

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arrival of Spaniards and functioned as part of a larger complex of practices meant to deal with jealousy, sickness, and death. In other words, while some Pueblo people might act as sorcerers, making people ill through “working on bits of hair, nails, excrement, or clothing, or by shooting foreign objects into their bodies,” there were others who were members of religious or esoteric societies who were specialists in curing illness and in divining answers to difficult questions or locating lost or stolen objects.3 Sorcerers also had their own clandestine society in Pueblo communities, but it operated in tandem with other societies devoted to healing and illness in Pueblo communities. The Spaniards lumped the practices of sorcery and healing under the term “witchcraft” (“hechicera/o” and “hechicería” in the New Mexican documentation) whether or not Pueblos did so themselves.4 Once labeled in such a way, these practices were criminalized and prosecuted by Spanish authorities, resulting in the investigations that are at the center of this chapter.5 There are seven extant witchcraft investigations, all occurring in the first thirty years of the eighteenth century. I describe them as “investigations” and not, for example, “trials” because no formal meeting of lawyers, judges, accused, and accusers occurred, where a sentence or decision in the case was ultimately handed down. When a witchcraft accusation came to light, people were interviewed, evidence was weighed, and decisions about guilt or innocence were made over a span of time. An examination and comparison of practices that are evident in these investigations reveals that Pueblo women and men used their power to either heal or do harm for different ends. As I demonstrate below, Pueblo women practiced what I have labeled “interpersonal” sorcery and healing: their Spanish clients came to them seeking the resolution of personal, individualized problems such as illness or poverty. What the documents also reveal is that relations between Pueblo women and their Spanish clients were often troubled and that the Spanish clients used accusations of witchcraft to resolve these troubles. Pueblo men, on the other hand, often practiced politicized sorcery. By “politicized” sorcery, I specifically mean that Pueblo men used their powers to influence political and governmental processes in Pueblo communities or to resist Spanish domination. For example, in several cases cited below, Pueblo men used their powers to defy the authority of elders in their communities and to encourage community members to resist Spanish rule. By labeling women’s practices as interpersonal and men’s as politicized, I do not in any way mean to imply that Pueblo women’s activities were less important or of less consequence to their communities than Pueblo men’s activities.6 Nor do I mean to imply that there were no interpersonal dimensions to men’s practices or political dimensions to women’s practices. I demonstrate that Pueblo women and their clients— typically

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Spanish women in Spanish towns—formed communities that were underwritten by race and class divisions and that Spanish women made a conscious effort to maintain those divisions in their relationships with Pueblo women. Thus, the investigations concerning Pueblo female healers and sorcerers reveal the ways in which Spaniards attempted to maintain a race and class hierarchy against Indian “others,” which is certainly a political issue. I also acknowledge that there was an interpersonal dimension or dynamic to Pueblo men’s practices in that they used their power to manage problems they were having with people. The point is that I use the labels “interpersonal” and “politicized” witchcraft merely to highlight the main motifs that run through men’s and women’s practices of sorcery and healing. The labels are meant to say something about the character of men’s and women’s practices, not about the value of men and women to their communities. Besides men and women using their powers for different purposes (interpersonal versus politicized), the investigations reveal that Pueblo men and women sometimes operated in different social spheres and wielded different levels of power in their communities. If one simply looks at whom the accused and accusers were in each of the seven investigations, six out of seven extant cases related to Pueblo sorcery and healing show that accusations remained within gendered boundaries: men accused men whereas women accused women. Furthermore, in the investigations involving women, the accusers were always Spanish women living in Santa Fe, while the accused parties were Pueblo. This was not the case in the men’s investigations: in those cases, the accuser could be either Spanish or Pueblo, and the accuser did not live in Santa Fe but near the community in which the accused resided. I argue at the end of this chapter that the reason that Pueblo men and women used their powers for different ends (interpersonal versus politicized), in different locations (Spanish versus Pueblo communities), and upon different groups of people (Spanish women living in Spanish towns versus Spanish and Pueblo peoples residing in or near Pueblo communities) is due to the fact that Pueblo women did not hold office in Pueblo government (as discussed in chapter 2); therefore, they could not appropriate those offices to wield power over their home communities or to influence local politics, as did Pueblo men. This simply was not an avenue that was open to them. Since they did not participate in this powerful and prestigious arena within their home communities, they found locations outside of their communities to wield power and gain prestige. Both the target and location of their sorcery and healing reflected their marginal status in Pueblo politics: the less powerful in Pueblo communities (women) operated amongst the less powerful in Spanish towns (women).

Numerous Spanish and Pueblo women and men (including a governor and the church cantor) from Isleta and surrounding area

Santa Fe (S) San Ildefonso (P) Santa Ana (P)

Isleta (P)

Antonia Luján (SF)/Francisca Caza (PF), both of Santa Fe

Francisco Tafoya (PM)/Pedro Munpa (PM), both of San Ildefonso

Ramón García Jurado of Bernalillo (SM)/Francisco and Lucas Morones of Santa Ana (PM)

Alonzo Rael (SM)/Four Isleta Indios (PM&PF): Melchor Trujillo, Juan the cacique, and two women under Juan’s control

S = Spanish; P = Pueblo; F = female; M = male

Ramón Garcia Jurado, alcalde mayor (SM)

Picuris (P)

Lorenzo Coimagea (PM)/Jerónimo Dirucaca (PM), both of Picuris

Francisco Tafoya, church fiscal (PM); numerous women (PF)

Antonia Luján and other Spanish women of Santa Fe

Numerous Picuris individuals (PM&PF)

Doña Leonore Dominguez of Santa Fe (SF)

Santa Cruz de la Cañada (S)

Leonore Dominguez of Santa Fe (SF)/3 San Juan Indias (PF): Catherina Rosa, Angelina Pumazho, Catarina Luján

Numerous Spanish women of Santa Fe

Name, Ethnicity, Gender, and Residence of the Bewitched

Santa Fe (S)

Location of Alleged Witchcraft

Juana de Apodaca of Santa Fe (SF)/ Felipa de la Cruz of Tesuque (PF)

Name, Ethnicity, Gender, and Residence of Accuser and Accused

Table 4.1. Summary of extant Pueblo witchcraft investigations

SANM 6: 977–96 SANM 7: 35– 46

1733

SANM 6: 336–55

SANM 5: 165– 83

SANM 4: 841– 84

SANM 4: 74–109

Bandelier Papers, 2, 4

Archival Designation

1732

1725

1715

1713

1708

1704

Date of Investigation

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The group of people that Pueblo men bewitched and killed was not limited to one gender or ethnicity, as was Pueblo women’s sorcery and healing. Thus, Pueblo women’s power had a narrower range of effectiveness than did Pueblo men’s: unlike men’s, it was homogenous in its target, its purpose, and its location.

Interpersonal Sorcery and Healing: Pueblo and Spanish Women of Santa Fe, 1715 It is possible to find evidence of interpersonal sorcery and healing in the 1715 investigation of Francisca Caza, a San Juan Indian living in Santa Fe.7 According to Caza, Antonia Luján, her Spanish next-door neighbor, approached her numerous times for assistance with various personal problems.8 In the specific incident under investigation in this case, Luján complained to Caza that she “was very poor” and that “she did not even have a shirt” to wear. Caza therefore offered to make her a drink of water and powdered shell that, if ingested, would induce God to “give her clothes”9 or help her to find deerskin with which to purchase clothing.10 The use of “economic witchcraft,” or the location of lost objects or objects of value for clients, was common across colonial Latin America.11 Caza apparently specialized in this type of witchcraft and she must have been good at it, for despite her Indian origins, Caza was better off in a material sense than Luján. In offering her assistance in locating wealth she told Luján that “she would be equal to her,” implying that she was wealthier than Luján.12 Caza’s mother also declared that she and her daughter were “rich” in her testimony to Spanish officials.13 While not denying that she had complained to Caza about her poverty, Luján told authorities that she refused the powdered drink offered by Caza, saying to her, “look, we Spaniards follow the law of God.”14 Soon after this conversation, Luján told authorities that she began to experience “grave pains” over her entire body. She then concluded that Caza had bewitched her. Caza, however, explained to authorities that Luján never rejected her offer of a poverty cure. Nor did she insist to Caza that, as a Spaniard, she was a strict follower of the laws of God and was therefore not interested in using witchcraft to end her poverty. As is often the case in witchcraft investigations, Spanish investigators were confronted with two versions of the same event. Both Luján and Caza had reason to stretch the truth. On the one hand, Luján may have told authorities that she made the comment in order to try and distance herself as much as possible from any connection to the practice of witchcraft— an unlawful and immoral activity.15 On the other hand, Caza may have denied that Luján made the comment in order to make Luján look more culpable for the events that took place. In the end, it appears that authorities believed

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Figure 4.1. Santa Fe, NM, 1885. Library of Congress, Prints & Photographs Division, LC-USZ62-42710.

Luján’s version of events given that ultimately they did not investigate Luján, even though she admitted in the same declaration that she had returned to Caza for a cure after she got sick.16 It is possible that Luján’s elite status as a devout Catholic of Spanish origins protected her from prosecution, while Caza’s Indianness made her vulnerable to it.17 That Luján was not prosecuted may also have been due to the fact that civil authorities were more interested in pursuing Indian religious transgressions than the transgressions of the Spanish population at that point in time. All of the Pueblo witchcraft investigations occurred within the first thirty years or so following the 1692 reconquest of New Mexico.18 Punishing such transgressions might therefore have been a matter of “national security” in the minds of Spanish authorities. Finally, civil authorities may have believed that prosecuting witchcraft use amongst the Spanish population was the responsibility of the Inquisition, which restarted its operation in 1706 in the province.19 While the investigation reveals Caza’s attempt to resolve a personal problem of Luján’s (her poverty), difficulties also existed between Caza

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and Luján. In her only declaration in the investigation, Luján simply stated that she became ill after she rebuffed Caza’s offer to cure her of her poverty and that she therefore returned to her some months later for a cure; she never articulated why she thought she became ill. Luján may have believed that Caza made her sick because she refused her effort to help her find her way out of her poverty. However, Luján may have had a second reason for believing that Caza wanted to do her harm. When asked by Spanish officials at the end of her interview if she had anything else to add, Luján commented offhandedly that she suspected that Caza also had an affair with her husband.20 The implication of the statement is that Caza made her ill out of sexual jealousy. Caza knew of her suspicions. According to Caza, when Luján asked her to cure her illness, Caza offered to do so by acquiring a special “herb” from Galisteo. When Caza was unable to procure the herb, Luján got very angry and yelled at her, saying that Caza had cured her in the past, but because she had slept with her husband, the illness had returned.21 Thus, one of the interpersonal problems that existed between Luján and Caza was the fear of adultery and sexual jealousy. The two women used witchcraft or the witchcraft accusation to try to resolve the issue: Luján, at least, believed that Caza was managing her sexual jealousy of Luján by making her sick; Luján used the witchcraft accusation to Spanish authorities to put an end to Caza’s machinations. Luján’s behavior raises a perplexing question: Why ask the person whom you suspected had bewitched you to cure you of the resulting illness? She may have believed, as did many people across Latin America, that at least the bewitcher’s permission—if not the bewitcher’s actual participation—was required for the cure to be effective. In cases such as this, Spaniards “continued to have faith . . . in the Indian healers who were ultimately the very source of their bedev ilment.”22 If this was, in fact, what Luján believed, one might argue that Caza had the upper hand in this situation: Luján was in the grip of her power. She could not free herself of that grip without Caza’s assistance. However, a strong case for the opposite argument can be made. Luján was Spanish, so she had access to a legal institution that had the capability to investigate her concerns and to punish the wrongdoer if the investigation resulted in a conviction. The fact that Luján turned Caza over to Spanish civil authorities indicates that she remained unhappy, despite Caza’s efforts to cure her of her various ailments. She ultimately turned to the Spanish system of justice to resolve that unhappiness. Luján thus used state power to “cure” her dissatisfaction with Caza. In this sense, judicial authority acted in a similar manner to witchcraft in Luján’s life: it was a power that Luján could employ to manage and resolve her personal problems. Judicial authority was, in other words, a “sanctioned magical force.”23

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Caza, on the other hand, lacked such resources; she could not go to Spanish authorities to “cure” her difficulties with Luján— a woman who may have been her sexual rival or, at the very least, was very difficult to deal with when a cure failed or could not be carried out.24 Spanish authorities, I suspect, would not have been very sympathetic to an Indian sorceress’s complaints about her difficult clients. Instead, Caza had to attempt to resolve her personal difficulties with Luján outside of the realm of Spanish judicial authority. If judicial power functioned as a “sanctioned magical force” in the lives of Spaniards, sorcery, conversely, was a form of unsanctioned justice for Pueblo people.25 Luján appears to have understood that Pueblo people used sorcery to achieve justice (or other desired ends) “extra judicially.” She believed Caza bewitched her because she was jealous of her. But, other scenarios are possible. Caza may have never slept with Luján’s husband but was simply afraid she would go to authorities if she did not try to cure her of her illnesses. If this was the case, her method of managing Luján via curing was successful for a time. Luján did not complain to Spanish authorities until three or four years after the poverty cure, which suggests that the two women attempted to work out their differences extra judicially.26 A second interpersonal problem that existed between the two women was race and class prejudice. Luján’s insistence that the reason she rejected Caza’s cure for her poverty was because, as a Spaniard, she followed the laws of God implies that she believed Spaniards were a group of people to which Caza did not belong—no matter how wealthy Caza was or how Hispanicized. Recall that Caza had some material wealth, due to the successful practice of economic witchcraft. The implied meaning of the comment was that Luján’s racial and class superiority would always trump Caza’s material wealth as an index of status in Santa Fe. A strict racial and class hierarchy operated in colonial New Mexican society, as it did elsewhere in Latin America. Indian peoples occupied the lowest rung in the racial hierarchy, followed by mixed-bloods. Spaniards— those with pure blood— occupied the top rung.27 Furthermore, race and class superiority were tightly wound together in colonial New Mexico. In the “normal” order of things, those people with racial purity (Spaniards) were also supposed to be the wealthiest, living in fine houses with Indian servants. Indians were supposed to be in lowly, subservient occupations; they were not supposed to be responsible for lifting Spaniards out of poverty. Indians were not supposed to have more wealth than Spaniards either, no matter what the situation. The situation that Luján found herself in with Caza was indeed anomalous.28 The comment “we Spaniards follow the law of God” implies that Luján possessed a heightened awareness of the backwardness of the situation but that she nevertheless believed

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that her race and class status ultimately trumped Caza’s wealth (and perhaps her power to cure her of her ailments) in the social hierarchy of Santa Fe. Thus, this investigation reveals the interpersonal nature of Pueblo women’s sorcery and healing. Caza used her powers to help resolve not only the personal problems of her clients (Luján’s poverty and her illnesses) but also her difficulties with her clients (her jealousy over the fact that her lover was married to Luján). Luján’s denunciation of Caza to authorities ultimately served to put an end to this troubling relationship. Authorities investigated her charges of adultery and sorcery: Caza and her mother were thoroughly interrogated and then imprisoned. Unfortunately, her mother died while in prison.29 While Luján and Caza had an established relationship, this relationship was volatile due to both sexual jealousy and the race and class norms that governed New Mexican society. Of course, all relationships between Spaniards and Pueblos were vulnerable to disruption due to the unequal levels of power that structured them. This par ticular relationship was especially vulnerable due to Caza’s perplexing “social location.”30 Simply put, her economic status, which appeared to be based upon her practice of economic witchcraft, did not match her race. The investigation thus reveals the delicate play of power that resulted from this mismatch of statuses and highlights the types of difficulties that shaped Spanish and Pueblo women’s interpersonal relations. It also reveals the political dimensions of both the practice of sorcery and the witchcraft accusation itself: whether intentional or not, this activity appears to have aggravated interracial “fault lines”31 that underwrote the relationships between Spanish and Pueblo women in colonial New Mexico.

Strange Conversations: Santa Fe, 1708 Fears of adultery, as well as race and class prejudice, were also at the heart of a second witchcraft investigation of Pueblo women in 1708.32 In May 1708, Doña Leonore Dominguez, resident of Santa Fe and wife of Miguel Martin, accused three Pueblo women from San Juan of bewitching her and making her sick. Dominguez claimed that the bewitching happened at the church in Santa Cruz on Holy Thursday. While at prayer, she noticed a San Juan woman named Catherina Luján next to her. She heard Luján ask Catherina Rosa, a second San Juan woman, if Dominguez was the wife of Miguel Martin. When she replied that she was, Rosa and her daughter Angelina Pumazho said to Luján, “Now.” Luján replied, “Not yet.” Dominguez got up off of her knees in terror and began to run from the church, falling down. Rosa insisted to Luján, “It would be better

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now.” Rosa then approached Dominguez and placed her hand on her back “beside her heart.” Almost immediately, Dominguez later testified, she began to experience itching over her entire body, and the sickness had not left her since that day. Dominguez testified that at the time of the incident, she assumed that the reason for the woman’s actions was that she was attempting to steal the buttons from the cape that Dominguez was wearing.33 The papers from the investigation make it clear that the four women had known each other for quite some time and had an established relationship. Yet, Dominguez was not above believing that the women might attempt to literally steal the clothing from her back, evidencing the class and race prejudice that circumscribed Pueblo/Spanish relationships in New Mexico. Her focus on the buttons on the cape implies that Dominguez suspected the San Juan women were jealous of her material wealth. That Dominguez held such beliefs should not be surprising, given her relatively high status in Santa Fe society, as is evidenced by the “Doña” attached to her name. But what about the strange conversation that the three San Juan women had in the church? Why did they ask if Dominguez was the wife of Miguel

Figure 4.2. Church at Santa Cruz, 1881. William Henry Jackson, Courtesy Palace of the Governors Photo Archives (NMHM/DCA), 14351.

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Martin? While Dominguez does not offer an explanation for the commentary in her initial accusation, the first question that Angelina Pumazho was asked in her interrogation was whether she “had illicit intimacy with Miguel Martin.”34 Thus, Dominguez must have extra judicially told Spanish investigators that she believed Pumazho was her husband’s mistress. This suspicion was not voiced anywhere in the public record before Pumazho’s testimony. However, the fact that it was this suspicion—and not fear of theft—that drove Dominguez to make the accusation is made clear in her second declaration to Spanish officials. When asked why she was suspicious of the Pueblo women, she answered that it was because she believed that “Rosa’s daughter Angelina was having an affair with her husband, or had one.”35 Thus, as far as Dominguez was concerned, she had been bewitched due to sexual jealousy: the mother (Rosa) of the woman having an affair with her husband (Pumazho) had made her ill. Investigators tried to get to the bottom of the matter by questioning Rosa several times about the incident. When asked why she had touched Dominguez in church, Rosa replied that she had not touched or approached her, but she did want “to find out what malady the said Leonore was suffering from and to try to cure her.”36 In her third interrogation, Rosa explained that she was afraid Dominguez would make a witchcraft accusation because Spanish women always thought that their illnesses were a result of being bewitched.37 Perhaps Rosa knew of Dominguez’s suspicions concerning her daughter. Thus, it appears as though Rosa was attempting to thwart a witchcraft accusation by trying to cure Dominguez of her illness in the Santa Cruz church. As in the Caza/Luján witchcraft investigation, the people involved in this investigation appear to have known each other for quite some time. While the investigation was conducted from Santa Fe, the incident in question happened at the Santa Cruz church and involved both Spanish and Pueblo women from the neighboring village of San Juan. Two people in the investigation shared pseudogenealogical ties: Catherina Luján, one of the Pueblo women in the Santa Cruz church, was the goddaughter of Dominguez’s brother-in-law Tomás Girón.38 Angelina Pumazho also had a Spanish godparent named Martin Fernandez.39 It was not uncommon for ties of god parentage to link Spanish and Pueblo inhabitants of New Mexico,40 and it is clear that such ties bound together the Spanish and Pueblo community in and around Santa Cruz. In addition to ties of god parentage, it appears that Dominguez and her husband, Miguel Martin, knew Catherina Luján, Angelina Pumazho, and Catherina Rosa well enough to visit them at their homes.41 Prior to the incident at the church, Dominguez claimed that she had asked her husband to take her to Luján’s house to get some lime but that he had instead tricked her and taken her to Catherina Rosa’s house. Once there,

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Rosa offered her some roasted meat and bean cakes. When Dominguez refused because she was fasting, Pumazho’s godfather, Martin Fernandez, told her, “eat what they give you, it won’t hurt you, because this Indian woman [pointing at Pumazho] is your husband’s mistress.”42 This comment, of course, only confirmed Dominguez’s suspicions that her husband and Pumazho were having an affair. Dominguez and Martin must have had some acquaintance with Luján, Pumazho, and Rosa for this particular incident—the visit, if not the comment about Pumazho—to take place. Perhaps they had traveled to their residences in the past to acquire other foodstuffs. Yet, despite these ties, Dominguez appears to have believed that the San Juan women were beneath her— that they were capable of robbery motivated by jealousy over material wealth. This investigation, like the Luján/Caza investigation, reveals that Pueblo women used sorcery and healing to try to resolve the personal problems of their Spanish acquaintances. While Dominguez did not hire Rosa to cure her of anything, Rosa believed her to be sick in the Santa Cruz church and attempted to heal her. Rosa also used sorcery to manage her difficulties with Dominguez: she claimed that she did not know what Dominguez’s malady was but wanted to cure it to prevent her from making a witchcraft accusation against her. The relationship between Dominguez and the San Juan women was poisoned by fears of adultery as well as race and class prejudice— as was Antonia Luján’s and Francisca Caza’s. Dominguez did not know what Rosa was attempting to do by approaching her in the Santa Cruz church, but she surmised that Rosa may have wanted to steal her clothing or was trying to hurt her in some way because Rosa’s daughter was having an affair with her husband. By making a witchcraft accusation against the women, Dominguez’s fears were fully investigated. These findings suggest that making a witchcraft accusation to Spanish authorities may have been a roundabout way for women to punish their sexual rivals. While Pueblo women used sorcery and healing to deal with interpersonal problems in their relationships with Spanish women, Spanish women used the witchcraft accusation to resolve troubling issues in their relationships with Pueblo women. Thus, again, we see in this investigation the interpersonal nature of Pueblo women’s sorcery and healing.

“They Should Be an Example to All the Other Insolent and Coarse People”: Santa Fe, 1704 As with the Caza/Luján and Dominguez/Rosa investigations, race and class prejudices strongly shaped the interpersonal relations between accused and accuser in the third and final extant witchcraft investigation involving women from the colonial period archives. In 1704, Spaniard

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Juana de Apodaca accused Felipa de la Cruz, a Tesuque woman, of telling people that she and her daughter were witches. Apodaca complained that since the accusation caused her great problems with her husband and hurt her reputation as an upstanding vecina (citizen) of Santa Fe, she wished to have her accusation investigated to clear her good name. Apodaca also wanted the accused to be punished, to make her an example to other “insolent, coarse people.”43 The investigation into the matter revealed that de la Cruz had attempted to cure a woman who had been bewitched by Apodaca.44 De la Cruz also told the sick woman that Apodaca was her bewitcher.45 The news apparently got back to Apodaca, for de la Cruz claimed that each time she subsequently returned to try and cure the sick woman, Apodaca “hurt” the woman.46 Apodaca and de la Cruz became tied up in a sorcery showdown of sorts. The fact that de la Cruz essentially stole one of Apodaca’s clients apparently caused Apodaca to turn de la Cruz in to the Spanish authorities. The interpersonal problem between the accused and accuser in this investigation was not, as in the other cases, sexual jealousy, but rather the fact that they were rival sorcerers/healers: de la Cruz essentially stole Apodaca’s client. Apodaca was so angry that she turned de la Cruz in to the authorities. But Apodaca could not reveal the entire reason behind her accusation to authorities— she could not accuse de la Cruz of stealing her client or of witchcraft—because then she too might be accused of witchcraft. Instead, she simply complained that de la Cruz called her a witch. This complaint was a safe alternative to the other possible accusations that Apodaca could make against de la Cruz and it was something authorities would have investigated: of course, being labeled a witch might put one’s devotion to the Church in question, but the label was also a racial slur because of the taint of “Indianness” that close proximity to witchcraft implied. The irony of this situation is that Apodaca was not of pure Spanish descent. In a 1706 Inquisition investigation that I discuss below, her husband described her as a mestiza, the daughter of a mestiza mother and Spanish father, and her son-in-law described her as an India.47 Apodaca, like many people living in Santa Fe, may have been of mixed blood, but she perceived of herself as “Spanish” and clearly sought to make sure that others saw her as Spanish too. Apodaca’s efforts to mask her involvement in witchcraft may have prevented Spanish authorities from investigating her in 1704,48 but she was not so lucky in 1706. In that year, she was questioned by officers of the Inquisition as part of a broader inquiry into the conduct of numerous Spanish, mulatto, and mestizo women and men in Santa Fe.49 It is interesting to note that Apodaca was concerned to deny any involvement in witchcraft and to strenuously proclaim her adherence to the Catholic faith. While ill, Apodaca claimed that “La Lozana” offered her cures.

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Her response, according to her testimony, was to tell the healer that “she did not believe in these things, but in God.” When La Lozana asked if her daughter believed in the power of witchcraft, Apodaca responded that “she knew nothing of these illusions and witchcraft.”50 These responses sound very similar to Antonia Luján’s proclamation that as a Spaniard, she only followed the laws of God. This evidence reveals that, even if anger over the loss of a client was what motivated Apodaca to file a complaint against de la Cruz in 1704, class and race prejudice still structured her relationships with Pueblo women. I have no doubt that Apodaca believed de la Cruz to be “coarse” and “insolent”— a Pueblo Indian to whom an upstanding citizen of Santa Fe should have no connection. Yet, perhaps ironically, Apodaca was not above learning Pueblo healing methods and using them to assist people and generate an income for herself. This was not uncommon in Santa Fe, as the 1706 Inquisition investigation reveals. Many mestizo and Spanish women appeared to have used Indian healing methods to cure themselves and their acquaintances of their illnesses (be they health related or social in nature). The three investigations profiled here reveal the existence of an interracial “female network” in Spanish towns often built upon the exchange of ideas and practices concerning curing and sorcery. Some Spanish women did not just pay Pueblo women to heal them of their problems (Luján); some actually learned Pueblo methods of healing and even sorcery (Apodaca). Such networks were common in Latin America, as scholars of gender and religion of this region have demonstrated.51 However, race and class prejudice underwrote the relationships that existed between Pueblo and Spanish women. No matter how helpful Pueblo women had once been, no matter how close the Spanish and Pueblo women were, race and class prejudices shaped their interrelations and made them unstable. Such prejudices were exposed once their relationships began to break down over fears of adultery, competition over clients, or other problems. In the three witchcraft cases involving women exclusively, the accuser was Spanish, the accused Pueblo. All three investigations took place in Spanish towns, where the witchcraft itself took place. These investigations are not, then, about Pueblo community politics or even interpersonal relations between Pueblo women in their home communities; they are instead about the types of relations that Pueblo and Spanish women formed in Spanish towns and the role that witchcraft and the justice system played in shaping, managing, and resolving problems in those relationships. The problems that developed in the relationships between Spanish and Pueblo women varied (e.g., sexual jealousy, anger at being labeled a witch, and discomfort over a lack of material wealth). However, the ways in which tensions were resolved were strikingly similar: the three Spanish accusers eventually turned to Spanish authorities to re-

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solve difficulties they were having with Pueblo sorceresses. The Pueblo accused did not have this option. Both their race and their (in the eyes of Spaniards) illegal and immoral activities put them at a distinct disadvantage in trying to use the Spanish system of justice to resolve their problems. Instead they typically attempted to manage their difficulties with their accusers through the use of more sorcery, an unsanctioned type of justice. While none of the accused was punished formally, Caza’s house was searched and all of the accused were imprisoned and subjected to interrogation by Spanish civil authorities. And, of course, Caza’s mother died in prison while being investigated for her role in her daughter’s activities.52 Thus, the costs of practicing this personal form of sorcery and healing were high for Pueblo women.

Pueblo Sorcerers and “Politicized” Witchcraft: Picuris, 1713 By comparing female to male-dominated witchcraft investigations, it is possible to see the ways in which witchcraft usage varied by gender. In 1713, Don Lorenzo Coimagea, principal Indian of Picuris pueblo, accused Jerónimo Dirucaca, the governor of Picuris pueblo, of a number of egregious acts. As discussed in chapter 2, Dirucaca spoke against the missionary of the pueblo, telling people that he did not believe anything the priest had said but only what his ancestors taught. Second, Dirucaca bragged that he had cohabitated with women and no friar or alcalde had been able to stop him. Finally, he had used witchcraft to kill four women “because they did not agree with his wishes,” which was a euphemistic way of saying they refused to have sexual relations with him.53 Coimagea argued that the Picuris leaders were “unable to speak” while Dirucaca was governor of the pueblo, which meant that Dirucaca saw himself as all-powerful and was ruling the pueblo without taking the leaders’ opinions into consideration.54 In fact, Dirucaca had made it clear that he believed he had more power than the governor of New Mexico and that “only the king [of Spain] was equal to him.”55 According to another declarant, he told people that “the law of the Spanish was one and what he told them was another.”56 The leadership of the pueblo had been unable to do anything about Dirucaca’s behavior “for he was like God.”57 Thus, Dirucaca disregarded the ruling elite of his own pueblo and also the power of the Spanish state. He disregarded the teachings of the church, too, and insisted that others do the same. He emphasized that it was not necessary for the Picuris people to live like Christians: they need not obey the law of God or avoid idolatry, cohabitation, or witchcraft. The fact that Dirucaca could cohabitate with several women without facing any sort of punishment and could kill people at will with sorcery

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was evidence of his power. In declaration after declaration, Picuris residents described the fact that Dirucaca had slept with a mother and at least one of her daughters (who was his “intended” and with whom he lived outside of the state of matrimony).58 Dirucaca used sorcery to bend women to his will, or to kill them if they refused his advances.59 Furthermore, a voluminous amount of evidence of his sorcery was found in his home, including fetishes, sticks, bird bones, and animal skins.60 Finally, the fact that Dirucaca was indeed a force to be reckoned with also comes from the 1704 Apodaca/de la Cruz investigation discussed earlier in this chapter. According to a declarant in the investigation named Doña Catarina, Apodaca told her that she had made her ill with the assistance of Dirucaca and so to cure her it was necessary for him to be present. However, for reasons that are not quite clear, Dirucaca never performed the cure.61 That Apodaca, a Spanish woman living in Santa Fe, knew of Dirucaca— a Pueblo sorcerer from Picuris— speaks to Dirucaca’s reputation. Because Dirucaca had done these things, and had lived openly as a sorcerer, Coimagea insisted that he be removed from office while the Spanish authorities investigated the matter.62 Coimagea was supported by all of the elders of the pueblo in his calls for Dirucaca to be removed from his post as governor. In his initial accusation, Coimagea explained that he had been called to speak out in the name of all the elders.63 Thus, the entire leadership of the pueblo had united to request the assistance of Spanish authorities. Dirucaca’s extreme behavior might help to explain the existence of this investigation to begin with. As I argued in chapter 2, one of the explanations for the lack of documentation concerning the internal political life of Pueblo communities specifically might be that this life was consciously hidden from the prying eyes of Spanish authorities. The fact that Pueblo elders turned to Spanish authorities to help them in ousting Dirucaca from power is an indication of just how much a problem he was for the Picuris community as a whole. They were willing to risk the intervention of the Spanish into their private affairs to remove him from office. Picuris elders had attempted to remove Dirucaca in the past, who, based on the testimony given, had been in power at least since the time of the governorship of Diego de Vargas (1691–1697 and 1703–1704).64 He could not be removed by traditional means; Pueblo elders thus had to turn to an outside authority to do so. Dirucaca was able to escape any form of punishment by leading Spanish authorities to several veins of silver located near Picuris. For this he was pardoned of all crimes. However, he was warned that if he relapsed, he would be recharged. He was also banned from ever living in the pueblo again, which effectively removed him from office.65

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Killer Shamans In order to better understand Dirucaca’s behavior, it is useful to compare him to the “killer shamans” of lowland South America. According to Frank Salomon, shamanism was a “stateless form of political process” that flourished in peripheral regions of empire in the colonial period outside of the reach of Spanish authority.66 By “stateless form of political process” he means that “intragroup conflicts were commonly expressed and political preeminence established through a complex of magical aggression and cure [in] numerous South American lowland societies lacking states or hereditary chieftaincies.”67 In other words, in smallscale, nonstate societies, sorcery could become politicized in the sense that a person might use it to establish political power, influence, and control in their communities, as well as to both stoke and resolve community-wide conflict. Spanish authorities sought to prosecute such activity, not only because they perceived it to be immoral but also because they understood that it might be transformed into a form of politics that was out of their control. Yet, by doing so they legitimized shamanistic power: conducting witchcraft investigations made it plain that “they fully believed in the accused man’s magical efficacy.”68 One killer shaman profiled by Salomon was accused of committing twenty-four acts of magical aggression against immigrant cattle ranchers and community members for not paying him enough respect.69 This killer shaman had formerly been an officer of the local government but claimed that people hostile to him—including those friendly with the immigrant cattle ranchers—had him removed from office.70 There was, in other words, a community fission created between the immigrants (or newcomers) and the old guard (represented by this killer shaman). While in office he used witchcraft to prevent outsiders from settling down in his community and influencing the political and social life of that community. According to witnesses, eighteen of the twenty-four bewitched individuals eventually died. For this, he was removed from office. Certainly there are parallels between this case and Diurcaca’s activities at Picuris: Dirucaca, too, saw himself as all-powerful—to the point that other leaders were silenced in their efforts to participate in the political processes of their community. He saw himself as godlike and as powerful as the king of Spain. In his capacity as governor of Picuris, he encouraged resistance to both the Spanish state and church. While the investigation does not contain evidence of it, it is not difficult to imagine that he threatened political rivals with magical aggression. Both the lowland region of South America and New Mexico were peripheral regions

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of empire, where Spanish power was weak or was inconsistently applied to subject populations. This resulted in traditional political processes— dominated by men who used sorcery to bolster their political power— being left in place long after colonization had taken place, even as other aspects of social life were changing. Men who desired to “plot the deaths of those who arouse[d] their jealousy or resentment” remained powerful despite the efforts of Spanish authorities to rid Pueblo communities of such individuals. In the case of the killer shaman profiled by Frank Salomon, the community members attributed their survival to the efforts of a “curing shaman” who worked diligently to detect the accused man’s sorcery. This curing shaman equated the troubled social order under the accused to an “ ‘illness’ that could be ‘cured.’ ”71 In New Mexico, Picuris, too, could be said to have been a “diseased” social order under Jerónimo Dirucaca— a community elder that used the Spanish-imposed office of governor for both sanctioned and unsanctioned ends, even killing those who did not bend to his will. Getting rid of Dirucaca could thus be equated to ridding Picuris of a disease, of “curing” Picuris of its social ills.72 The combination of shamanic power and the office of the governor must have, indeed,

Figure 4.3. Grinding medicine, Zuni, 1903. Library of Congress, Prints & Photographs Division, Edward S. Curtis Collection, LC-USZ62-51437.

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made Dirucaca a very powerful person at Picuris. When he used his power for unsanctioned ends, it caused many problems. Dirucaca was not the only Pueblo man to practice politicized sorcery— sorcery used to influence local political processes or resist Spanish domination. Several other extant, male-dominated witchcraft investigations reveal Pueblo sorcerers behaving in similar ways. The Tafoya/Munpa investigation at San Ildefonso in 1725 revealed that Pedro Munpa bewitched Francisco Tafoya, the fiscal of the San Ildefonso mission, at some point before the actual investigation took place.73 Tafoya whipped Munpa and his son for conducting sorcery; Tafoya was then bewitched a second time in revenge. Tafoya then went to Munpa and asked him for a pardon. Clearly, like some of the women discussed above, he believed that the only way to regain his health was to seek a pardon from the person who had made him sick. Munpa, however, did not make it easy for Tafoya, for he told him that he must deny “the law of the Spanish” and acknowledge that “only he was God” in order to receive the pardon. The fiscal was also required to acknowledge that it was only through Munpa that “the creatures lived, the plants grew, and rain fell.”74 Of course, making the fiscal acknowledge that he was God reflects Munpa’s desire to challenge Spanish and church authority, since fiscals were Pueblo officers and assistants of the missions. This was not the only wrong committed by Munpa, according to his own testimony. He had also bewitched Tafoya’s wife, as well as numerous people in other Pueblo communities, and killed at least four people in the pueblo of Jacona. One of the women he bewitched had made him sick by ensorcelling his food. He admitted to teaching his skills to his brother and to another resident of Jacona and to having practiced sorcery since he was a young man.75 He agreed to turn over his “idols” to the authorities, although upon searching his residence, they could not find them.76 Such accusations and admissions indicate that Munpa— like Dirucaca—had long-standing difficulties with many people, both in his own pueblo and neighboring pueblos, and that he was a well-known sorcerer. In the third investigation evidencing sorcerers who encouraged resistance to Spanish power, Ramón García Jurado, the Spanish alcalde mayor discussed in chapters 2 and 3, accused Santa Ana resident Francisco Morones of making him sick with witchcraft in 1732. There are no details provided concerning the dispute that existed between these two men; however, the fact that García Jurado was the local representative of the Spanish judicial system strongly suggests that Morones sought to resist state power in some way through his actions. The penalty for doing so was high: when Morones would not admit to making García Jurado ill, he had him placed in the stocks overnight without food or water.

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When that did not result in a “confession,” García Jurado had Morones whipped fifty times in total and he sheared his head.77 Morones was bedridden as a result of the physical torture that he suffered at the hands of García Jurado.78 García Jurado then sought out a “curing shaman” to uncover who it was that had bewitched him.79 Finally, in 1733, a Pueblo sorcerer from Isleta, Melchor Trujillo, bewitched the governor of the pueblo, the lead singer of the mission, and numerous other Spanish and Pueblo peoples living in or near the pueblo. The lead singer subsequently died. That a number of the targets of Trujillo’s sorcery were government and mission officials suggests he was attempting to influence the political life of his home pueblo. The same investigation revealed that Juan, the cacique of Isleta, controlled a coterie of sorcerers (some of them women) who bewitched people at his command.80 Several declarants explained that, “if they had bewitched it was by order of Juan the cacique . . . and it was he who governed them.”81 The implication is that Juan, like Dirucaca, used his office for unsanctioned ends, forcing those who followed him to commit magical aggression against anyone who challenged his power at Isleta. Thus, witchcraft cases involving Pueblo and Spanish men provide evidence of the types of politico-religious disputes that occurred within Pueblo towns in the colonial period because the accused was always a resident of a Pueblo community. If the accuser— the target of the Pueblo sorcerer—was not Pueblo, he either worked in a Pueblo town (as in the case of García Jurado) or lived near one (Melchor Trujillo was denounced by several Spanish men living near Isleta). The purpose of their sorcery was, again, often political: to influence political processes in home communities (as in the cases of Dirucaca, Trujillo, and Juan the cacique) or to resist state or church power (as with Dirucaca, Morones, and Munpa). Many of the investigations revealed that the actions of the accused had caused community-wide discord: a number of the sorcerers had bewitched whole groups of people and used witchcraft to influence governmental functioning in their home pueblos. Finally, the investigations reveal that the impacted communities were so desperate to rid themselves of these Pueblo sorcerers that they turned to an outside, colonizing authority— the Spanish system of justice— to accomplish this task. Spanish civil authority was only too keen on investigating and prosecuting such claims. They did not want “rogue” authority to predominate in Pueblo communities.

Gendered Sorcery in the Pueblo World Three gendered patterns of the Pueblo deployment of sorcery and healing emerge from the witchcraft investigations profiled in this chapter.

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The first relates to the location of the activity: female sorceresses and healers operated in Spanish communities while male sorcerers and healers operated in Pueblo communities. Second, the target of the sorcery varied according to the gender of the witch: Pueblo women operated exclusively amongst Spanish women whereas Pueblo men operated amongst Pueblo and Spanish men and women. Finally, the purpose of the sorcery varied across gender lines: Pueblo women in general practiced interpersonal sorcery and healing whereas Pueblo men practiced politicized forms of sorcery. The point is not to prove that men’s and women’s practices were mutually exclusive but rather to ask what conclusions about Pueblo social life can be drawn based on the existence of these three patterns. The location and target of Pueblo women’s activity— outside of Pueblo communities and amongst non-Pueblo women— suggests that their power was circumscribed within Pueblo communities in ways that male power was not. In other words, the findings from the witchcraft documentation suggest that Pueblo women operated in a narrower social sphere in their home communities than did Pueblo men. This is, of course, the same conclusion that I reached in chapters 2 and 3. Pueblo women’s political and economic activities were confined to certain roles both before and after Spanish contact, but it appears as though such gendered divisions were made more distinct and rigid by changes wrought in their communities by Spanish colonization and state making. I argue in this chapter that the resulting confinement to narrow political and economic roles may have caused some Pueblo women to seek out other arenas to exercise power and to gain prestige and authority— and that sometimes new opportunities for such status seeking appeared as a result of Spanish contact. Spanish colonization (in concert with certain Pueblo practices and beliefs) restricted women to certain social arenas and roles yet simultaneously provided opportunities for them to  empower themselves— outside of their communities with Spanish women. Because of these opportunities, they learned to move fluidly between Spanish and Pueblo communities, sometimes even choosing to live in Santa Fe (as in the case of Caza). The fact that some female accused were fluent in Spanish also provides evidence of this social fluidity.82 This response to the impact of Spanish colonization on Pueblo women’s lives is similar to what Susan Kellogg found in her study of Tenochca Mexica women’s participation in Spanish legal institutions. “The legal arena was one in which women were particularly present— almost as if they were compensating for their loss of power and authority in other realms of their lives.”83 Thus, Pueblo women’s activities in the ritual sphere provide evidence of how they responded to the changes ultimately caused by Spanish colonization in their home communities. In

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other words, it provides evidence of the ways in which they practiced Pueblofication: they negotiated restrictions placed upon their lives but also took advantage of opportunities provided to them by the presence of a foreigner or outside group residing nearby. Pueblo male accused, on the other hand, emerge from the investigations as being more firmly rooted in their home communities, be they elite or commoner in status. Many of the accused did not speak Spanish, requiring interpreters when interrogated,84 and did not move fluidly between Spanish and Pueblo communities. This explains why the Spanish men and women that were the targets of male sorcerers were also attached to Pueblo communities: they either lived near or worked in them. Pueblo males bewitched those Spanish men who happened to enter their realms of power—which were their home communities. They did not move fluidly between Spanish and Pueblo communities because they did not need to. Unlike Pueblo women, they already had a social arena in their home communities where they could be powerful. They did not need to seek that elsewhere. This statement applies to both elite and commoner men: while it is clear that elite men dominated the political sphere of Pueblo life, commoner men, as I have demonstrated, also had a voice in political affairs to a degree that women generally did not. Thus, it should not be surprising to find that in the witchcraft investigations involving men, both elites (Dirucaca and Juan the cacique) and commoners (Munpa, Morones, and Trujillo) were accused of practicing sorcery. Whether elite or commoner, it appears that some men chose legitimate methods to gain power in the political sphere (attaining office and acting as consultants), while others chose illegitimate or unsanctioned methods (sorcery). Some of these men used their power to resist Spanish domination (Dirucaca, Munpa, and Morones). Commoner males may have increasingly sought power in the political sphere using such illegitimate methods as class differences hardened due to Spanish colonization, although proving this inference is difficult without more evidence of the intention of the men involved in this activity. The ends to which Pueblo men and women put their powers also provide evidence of a gendered division of activity. The Pueblo witchcraft investigations profiled in this chapter reveal that Pueblo sorceresses and healers were hired to solve the personal difficulties of Spanish women, such as illness or poverty (as in the Luján/Caza investigation, or the case of Felipa de la Cruz). Sometimes Pueblo women used sorcery or healing to resolve their own personal difficulties (as in the cases of Catherina Rosa, who tried to heal Leonore Dominguez so she would not go to authorities and accuse her of bewitching her, or Francisca Caza, who may have made Antonia Luján sick because she was married to her lover). This is why I have labeled women’s practices as “interpersonal.” Male

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healers, like their female counterparts, were also hired to cure illness. The 1703 declaration of Felipe Moraga—located with the papers from the 1706 Inquisition case described above—provides us with an example of a male healer. Felipe Moraga sought out Juan “el Carpintero,” a San Juan Indian, to cure him of his blindness.85 He paid Juan and a female assistant named Michaela for numerous cures, which ultimately failed to work. However, there are far more men in the documentation who used sorcery and political office to their own benefit— as in the cases of Jerónimo Dirucaca, Pedro Munpa, and Melchor Trujillo. They were also menaces to their communities in the sense that many of them had bewitched or killed a whole network of people and/or used formal office holding to resolve their own personal grudges or to control local political processes. Because of their actions, their home communities had become “diseased.” It is for these reasons that I have labeled men’s practices as “politicized.” While it is clear that female accused could be well known for their skills in Spanish communities (both Caza and Felipa de la Cruz had numerous clients, according to the documentation) they were not menaces to those communities—they generally did not kill or make entire networks of people ill. I could locate only one instance of a Pueblo woman using sorcery with the intent to kill in the extant documentation. De la Cruz had, according to some witnesses, burned an idol in order to kill a Spanish woman living in Santa Fe.86 Thus, Pueblo women do not appear to have been as motivated as men to use sorcery to make other people ill or kill them. Furthermore, Pueblo sorceresses did not hold public office in their communities of operation; therefore, they did not have the same ability as Pueblo males (like Jerónimo Dirucaca or Juan the cacique) to use their powers to disrupt the social order of their communities to the point that they were “diseased.” Finally, there is no evidence that they used sorcery to resist state or church power, as did Dirucaca and Munpa.87 Clearly, there were political dimensions to women’s sorcery, for the investigations unearthed racial and class prejudices that existed between Pueblo and Spanish women. However, this is a different kind of politics than that found in male-dominated investigations. Ethnohistorical reconstruction of how power functioned historically in Pueblo communities helps to explain the existence of the patterns concerning the locations, targets, and purposes of Pueblo men’s and women’s sorcery. Since, as I have already discussed in chapter 2, women did not hold formal office but instead had an informal or consultative role in this sphere of society, it makes sense that one would find Pueblo men— but not Pueblo women— using politicized witchcraft in Pueblo communities in the extant colonial documentation. Because they did not

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hold formal office, Pueblo women had no platform from which to wield community-wide power in order to influence political processes or to lead broad-scale resistance against state and church authorities in Pueblo communities. Men were the ones who held political power publicly. As such class and gender differences hardened during the colonial period due to Spanish contact, it may be that Pueblo women sought out realms where they could be more fully empowered: with Spanish women in Spanish towns like Santa Fe, despite the racial and class prejudices that existed between them. It may have also motivated commoner men to seek out illegitimate or unsanctioned avenues to gain power in the political sphere. As I argued in chapter 2, such gendered divisions in Pueblo social life were a carryover from the pre-contact period. What was also a carryover was women’s active participation in the ritual sphere. Recall that Todd Howell wrote of the powerful positions women held in the ritual sphere of life before Spanish contact (discussed in chapter 2). He noted that their power was obvious based upon the grave furnishings and body preparation at Zuni between 1300 and 1680. After contact, it appeared to him that women lost position in the ritual realm. The evidence from the witchcraft documentation suggests, perhaps, that this loss of position was not necessarily absolute. The documents suggest that Pueblo women were simply carry ing on as they always had, now with Spanish outsiders. Perhaps the arrival of Spaniards allowed them to continue their traditions in a small way, even as Spanish authorities attempted to limit their access to leadership positions and to destroy Pueblo practices and beliefs more generally. Furthermore, it may be that women were prominent in the ritual sphere in the pre-contact period for some of the same reasons that they were in the post-contact period: they did not have access to political office or power. The point of this chapter thus far has been to show that the same patterns found in the overall corpus of documentation from colonial New Mexico, and discussed in chapters 2 and 3, can also be found in the witchcraft documentation. That is, women did not participate in formal political processes in their home communities; rather, they were active in the background, as political consultants. Elites (and to a lesser extent, commoner men) were the political actors of their communities. The result, as we have seen in this chapter, is that Pueblo women found ways to circumvent, at the very least, prohibitions on public political activity by becoming powerful outside of those communities. Both commoner and elite men used sorcery to continue to try to influence the political sphere inside of their home communities. In short, Pueblo women’s and men’s activities in the ritual sphere provide evidence of how these groups of people responded to the changes caused by Spanish colonization in their

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home communities (or practiced Pueblofication). The next section of the chapter describes other status-seeking activities in which Pueblo men and women engaged.

Powerful Pueblo Women and Commoner Men In addition to sorcery and healing, women and commoner men found informal, unsanctioned ways within their own communities to acquire autonomy, power, and prestige. As I discuss below, the evidence from this documentation actually broadens the patterns of political activity established in this chapter and, more generally, in this book. Here, we have several examples of women’s actions having consequences in the political arena, and we see men as political actors outside of their home communities. In chapter 2, I discussed María Tafoya, the woman who was called to bring a petition to the New Mexico governor complaining about alcalde mayor abuses at the Santo Domingo, San Felipe, and Cochiti pueblos, so I will not review her case here. We can see evidence of women’s informal influence in Pueblo communities in several other extant investigations into Pueblo community affairs. In the 1718 investigation of physical abuse at Cochiti, Diego Seicochic, the governor of the pueblo, explained that he had gone to lieutenant Antonio Baca to complain about a land dispute and that Baca had suddenly punched him for no reason.88 The person with whom he was in litigation over land was Causicha, “wife of Sebastian Cameschia and daughter of Juanotilla the coyota.” Apparently he and Causicha had been arguing over the land for some time, and prior to him going to Baca to complain about the dispute, she had come to him and told him his “cane [baton of office] had no force” and that he was “like a slave.” He retorted that “she did not respect the governor or any of his officials.”89 She had then gone to Baca to complain about him. There is an extant will for a “Juanotilla, de calidad coyota” 90 from Cochiti from 1747.91 If this Juanotilla is the same woman cited as Causicha’s mother in the above investigation,92 then we can use the will to give us more of a sense of the kind of family from which Causicha came. Apparently Juanotilla was quite wealthy. Angelina Veyna compared Juanotilla’s estate with a number of Spanish and Pueblo women’s estates and found that “she owned a more ample and varied amount of goods than most of them. . . . It does appear that, by New Mexican standards of the time, Juanotilla was economically stable. Moreover, Juanotilla’s estate settlement indicates that she personally owned two servants.”93 Thus, it could be that Causicha came from a wealthy family. Even if this Juanotilla is not Causicha’s mother, it turns out that Causicha was the sister

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(or half sister) of the alcalde mayor Manuel Baca (Antonio Baca’s father).94 One could argue that the fact that she was related to the local representative of Spanish justice in the area gave her some level of influence within the community that she lived— at least enough to challenge the authority of the governor of Cochiti. A similarly influential coyota named Juana Hurtado lived at Zia in 1727. In this year, her son, Juan Galvan, was caught living with a Zia woman.95 He was ordered to move out of her house, but he soon returned and was caught in the woman’s house very late at night. Soon after, Juana Hurtado had words over the incident with the alcalde mayor in the door of the church after Sunday mass. Thus, the alcalde mayor dispatched his lieutenant to collect Hurtado from her house and bring her to the casas reales. Having done that, he attempted to put Hurtado in the stocks, telling her “she should respect justice.”96 She attempted to run; the alcalde mayor grabbed her by her hair and then the governor of Zia stepped in and grabbed the alcalde mayor, forcing him to release her. According to Spaniards who lived in the area, Hurtado was generally known throughout the pueblo as “a gossip” who “customarily entangled” herself in the affairs of “the ministers and alcaldes mayores.”97 She was also publicly cohabitating with another resident of the pueblo, with whom she had illegitimate children. Clearly, she was not behaving as a person of her gender should, and the Spaniards wished her to know this. The priest of the pueblo, Fray Montaño, told her that if she wanted to work out the problems her son was causing, she should do it “with humility and submission.”98 But there was more involved than just putting a woman in her place in instructing Hurtado how to correctly behave. Her imprisonment had caused a pueblo-wide disturbance: upon hearing about it, all of the inhabitants of Zia had “descended to collect horses,” apparently in an attempt to flee the pueblo.99 Zia itself had been in a disturbed state for some time, due to the friar whipping several inhabitants for not attending doctrina,100 and Hurtado’s treatment at the hands of the Spanish only seemed to make things worse. Several vecinos of the area noted in their declarations that Hurtado had been left alone to live openly and unmarried with her lover because she had actually threatened apostasy if anyone tried to remove her.101 Quite a bit is known about Hurtado’s upbringing and early life, and a review of this information might provide more explanation as to the sources of her power within the pueblo. According to James Brooks, she was the daughter of a Zia woman and a Spaniard— Captain Andres Hurtado. Her mother had most likely been Hurtado’s servant. At age seven, she was kidnapped during a Navajo raid on her father’s ranch and was not released for twelve years. After being ransomed from captivity by her

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half brother, she petitioned and received a grant of land very near to the pueblo of Zia. James Brooks argues that her years in captivity seem to have facilitated “economic exchanges between potential enemies,”102 for the Navajo frequently visited her throughout her life. This economic interchange may help to explain her financial status at the time of her death. Hurtado was quite well off when she died in 1753. Her will listed many personal belongings, land, and houses.103 Thus, she was a wealthy woman— a person of mixed ancestry with ties to Pueblo, Navajo, and Spanish communities. She was also the niece of the governor of Zia.104 All of these factors “allowed her the opportunity to occupy a privileged niche” in her community,105 giving her the ability to cause a lot of problems within her pueblo if she chose to do so. Pueblo women may not have held formal political positions in the pueblos, but they did retain a voice in the internal affairs of these communities. Their power seems to have been based on one, or a combination, of several common factors: wealth, a kinship tie to a man of political power, or mixed ancestry. It is unusual that wealth seems to have been a source of power for both Hurtado and Juanotilla, given the general lack of evidence that Pueblos sought to hoard wealth as a symbol of power in colonial New Mexico (as discussed in chapters 2 and 3). But such proclivities seem less out of place if we remember that Pueblo society was syncretic in nature by the eighteenth century—the product of efforts to “Pueblofy” Spanish influences. While many Pueblos may have eschewed the idea that the amount of material goods one owned was a marker of one’s status and value, others may have embraced this idea. In other words, Pueblo individuals and communities interpreted and interpolated outside influences in many different ways. While many Pueblos desired to strongly subsume such influences within the weft and weave of traditional political and economic processes, others adopted such influences as their own and outwardly lived their lives by them. Two of the women discussed here—Juanotilla and Juana Hurtado— were also of mixed descent. Illegitimacy was, of course, a stigma in New Mexico— especially among the Spanish— as it was in other areas of Latin America.106 Despite this, illegitimacy or mixed ancestry did not prevent either New Mexican Spaniards or (it appears) Pueblos from attaining wealth or positions of power. In the seventeenth century, for example, “many mestizos and mulattoes” held office in Spanish communities.107 Thus, mixed ancestry could be both a blessing and a curse in colonial New Mexico. Spaniards could gain nothing from claiming mixed ancestry, but mixed ancestry could open doors to power and wealth within Pueblo communities. Perhaps ties to the Spanish were valued in certain situations, or allowed for the easier acquisition of material goods. This .

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was certainly the case for Juana Hurtado, who had ties to three different communities: the Pueblo, the Navajo, and the Spanish. These ties, as just noted, allowed her to acquire wealth and status. Whatever role wealth, race, and ethnicity played in the lives of the women discussed here, the few documents in which women were active participants shed light on the nature of their prestige, power, and influence within Pueblo communities. While their power and influence was unofficial—that is, Pueblo women did not operate from legitimate positions of recognized power or status—they did influence the shape and character of social life within Pueblo communities. Their influence was, I imagine, quite like the power that women held in Maya society. Matthew Restall argues that “Maya society contained an essentially patriarchal structure of representation that is visible in the two predominant Maya social units, the family and the cah [municipal officers].”108 Women were denied access to civil and religious office; thus, “female political activity was necessarily unofficial and consequently lacking in prestige”— but not in “potency.”109 In disputes over “Spanish sexual predacity,” both Maya and Spanish men sought to “use women as weaponry in a male battle of wills, thereby subordinating women to male control while still recognizing female potency.”110 In the Pueblo case, the comments— discussed in chapter 2— of the Cochiti men about not wanting the women of the pueblo to know about their secret meetings because they would not respect their authority hints at this same potency: if Pueblo women had no influence at all, Pueblo men would not need to hide things from them. That this informal political activity is not documented in the colonial archive is another parallel between the Pueblo and the Maya case. Restall points out that because Maya female political activity was lacking in prestige, it is now hidden from us—“an audience dependent upon the male cabildo notaries.”111 Political activity that required the use of formalized structures of power and prestige was recorded in the Maya documentary record, thus becoming visible to researchers.112 Political activity that did not require the use of formalized structures of power and prestige was not recorded. Thus, it is, for the most part, hidden from researchers. Certainly Pueblo women are largely absent from the New Mexican documentation. We are left with very thin evidence to re-create their activities and their beliefs. What evidence there is suggests that women operated in consultative and informal ways in the politics of their own communities. As a result, they found alternative paths to power, sometimes outside of their home communities with Spanish women in Spanish towns, or within their home communities via the possession of wealth, a tie to a powerful man, or mixed ancestry. They used both traditional (sorcery/

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healing) and nontraditional (wealth) ways to secure alternative paths to power in their home communities. Commoner men, too, can be found in powerful positions outside of the witchcraft documentation. In the investigation into the secret meeting held at Cochiti concerning the Cochiti governor’s treatment of his people in 1715,113 the person who complained about the governor was a man from Taos named Antonio Tunza. As I discussed in chapter 2, Tunza’s message that Cochiti was suffering from drought because the people wanted to revolt prompted a secret meeting in which the officials discussed the matter and agreed that the women should not be notified about what was going on. I bring the case up again here because it is not clear why Tunza was the deliverer of this message. It appears from the documentation that Tunza was simply a citizen of the pueblo—he is labeled a “vecino” in the document.114 He had no title. He was just someone several men from Cochiti, who had gone to Taos to barter goods, had met up with. Lorenzo Estense testified that he and two other men were sitting on the bank of a river when Tunza came up to them and asked them to dinner. After a discussion at dinner about the fact that there was drought at Taos, he issued the warning that if the Cochiti governor did not stop punishing his people so harshly, the drought would continue.115 He also complained about the lieutenant at his own pueblo and in Picuris. Lorenzo Estense testified that he was the one to tell the Cochiti governor of Tunza’s message; his response was to immediately call the officials of the pueblo together to discuss the matter.116 Who was Tunza? Estense testified Tunza sought them out: he approached them as they were sitting on the bank of a river. This implies that Tunza acted with premeditation: he knew the Cochiti men were in Taos, and he sought them out to bring his message to Cochiti authorities. His message was taken very seriously in Cochiti. Perhaps the fact that he was from Taos had something to do with it: Taos was, after all, the location from which the 1680 revolt was planned. Cochiti officials may have been afraid of any message coming out of that pueblo concerning revolt. Even though this investigation mentions nothing about witchcraft, Tunza may have been someone at Taos who could prophecy or had the power to know what was going on in people’s minds—in short, a sorcerer. Whoever he was, this commoner man had the power and authority to deliver an extremely upsetting message to Cochiti officials—in essence, to interfere in the political activities of that pueblo. The same questions can be asked about the investigation of peyote use at Taos pueblo in 1720. In that case, Juan del Alamo, Antonio Quara, and Christopher Teajaya called a meeting of the entire pueblo concerning the possibility that the governor of New Mexico was planning to attack

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Taos and kill residents there.117 Quara claimed that he had Spaniards under observation for quite some time and that they had met (supposedly to plan the attack).118 Declarants claimed that the men told them that the only thing that had deterred the New Mexican governor was that the governor of Parral had advised him not to do it.119 Pueblo officials who attended this meeting denounced the trio’s declaration, saying it was “silly words” and that no one should believe it.120 The three men’s credibility was low because they had ingested peyote before calling the meeting. Juan del Alamo acquired the drug from Awatovi (Hopi) and had given it to Quara and Teajaya.121 In fact, Quara had taken it at least one other time and had stirred up the pueblo by telling people that Utes were in the area.122 Declarants told Spanish investigators that the drug was supposed to help find lost things, even lost loves.123 No one specifically declared that it was because of the drug that the men knew the New Mexican governor planned to attack the pueblo, but the juxtaposition of the two stories implies that this was their belief. Who were Juan del Alamo, Quara, and Teajaya? Juan del Alamo is described as an interpreter124 and member of the Tiwa nation who had lived at Isleta and then Hopi before the peyote incident at Taos.125 In the aftermath of the 1680 revolt, Tewa, Tiwa, Tano, and Keres refugees migrated to Hopi, where they lived in the villages of Hano on First Mesa and Payupki on Second Mesa. Isletans were amongst those who had migrated to Hopi. It appears that del Alamo was one of the Isletan refugees who had lived at Hopi. Many of these refugees had returned to their home pueblos by the time this investigation occurred in 1720.126 Less information is available for the two other men involved in this incident. Teajaya is described as a young boy from Taos. Quara was also from Taos;127 there is no other information about him. What was del Alamo even doing at Taos, given that he was a resident of Isleta? And why was it possible that he, Quara, and Teajaya were able to summon all of the people to a meeting? Both Isleta and Taos are part of the same language group (Tiwa); thus, there was a connection between these two pueblos. Del Alamo’s presence at Taos suggests there was an easy commerce between the two communities; perhaps, as in the case of Tunza, del Alamo was a known medicine man at Taos who was able to influence people (like Quara and Teajaya) and call community-wide meetings, even though he was from Isleta. Certainly Spanish authorities believed he was the one who had instigated the entire episode, because he was the only one punished. He received fifty lashes, while Quara and Teajaya received nothing but a stern warning that they would be punished if they ever got caught up in something similar again.128 Comparing the activities of powerful commoner men and women shows a similar societal division to the one found in the witchcraft documenta-

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tion. Powerful commoner men function in a similar manner as elite men: they appear to have had the authority—perhaps derived from sorcery—to influence the political dynamics of Pueblo communities. However, unlike in the witchcraft documentation, these men were not just influential in their home communities; they were able to have cross-community influence as well, for reasons that are never made clear. They did not function in Spanish communities like Pueblo female sorcerers and healers, but they did attempt to influence the political arena in Pueblo communities in which they did not formally reside. Thus, this documentation shows commoner males continued to seek power, prestige, and authority in an enlarged (i.e., Pueblo-Pueblo) political arena. Pueblo women who did not practice sorcery or healing, on the other hand, attained power and authority in Pueblo communities through wealth, mixed ancestry, or a kinship tie to a man of political power. Furthermore, unlike the female sorcerers described above, there is slight evidence that they may have attempted to influence the political dynamics of their home communities. Causicha told the governor that his cane of office had no force, and he was “like a slave.” These comments were made within the context of a private land dispute, so it is hard to know what they actually meant. Why the governor was like a slave is not clarified, nor is it clear over whom or what the governor’s cane lacked power. Did Causicha mean he had no power over her in the land dispute? Or, that he lacked power in the pueblo more generally? If it is the latter, then perhaps she was attempting to thwart governmental authority and power in general; as such, this would be the only example in the Pueblo documentation of a woman attempting to influence politics in her home community. More clearly, Pueblo women’s actions might have (unintended?) political consequences. When Hurtado was imprisoned for complaining about her son’s treatment, the entire pueblo threatened to flee in protest. Of course, there is no evidence that Hurtado knew her complaints would lead to such protests; if she did, then we might argue that she too was attempting to influence political processes— even “foreign relations”—in her home community. Even without such knowledge, Hurtado was a prominent enough person in the community that her mistreatment caused pueblo-wide discord. The point of this chapter has been to shed light upon the lives of Pueblo women and commoner men, since much of the documentation concerning Pueblo communities in the colonial period is dominated by the words and deeds of elite males. The small amount of documentation that provides information about their lives shows that non-elites in Pueblo communities sought alternative paths to power. But men and women sought this power in different ways: less powerful men (those without elite status) sought to use sorcery to influence political processes at home or in other Pueblo communities. Pueblo women, on the other hand, conducted ritual

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activity with Spaniards outside of their home communities or, within their communities, had power due to a tie to a powerful man, mixed ethnicity, or wealth. I have argued that the reason for non-elites seeking such alternative paths to power was due to the gender and class divisions that existed in Pueblo communities. The evidence reveals that both women and men were able to challenge these divisions. In some cases, new and novel paths to power were taken, such as utilizing material wealth to secure a position of power within one’s home community. In others, Pueblo people’s attempts to find alternative paths to power remained gendered in familiar ways: commoner men sought power in the political sphere while women sought power, prestige, and authority in other spheres (such as ritual), perhaps due to their exclusion from politics. Ritual was an arena that women had been powerful in even before Spanish contact; thus, they extended their influence within this sphere to include women in Spanish communities. Like male elites profiled in chapters 2 and 3, Pueblo sorceresses chose the familiar method of simply expanding traditional practices (rather than creating new ones) to negotiate restrictions placed upon them in their home communities. The documentation also reveals that Pueblo commoners, both men and women, were negotiating restrictions placed upon them by Spanish domination in tandem with Pueblo power structures that were gendered and classed in nature. While it is true that colonization ultimately placed restrictions on Pueblo people, in limited circumstances, it simultaneously provided opportunities to circumvent Pueblo power structures (as in the case of Pueblo female sorcerers and healers and their Spanish clients). And, though it is true that Pueblo power structures placed restrictions on people, tradition also provided both non-elite men and women the tools to respond to such restrictions. In the final chapter of this book, I will discuss the impact of Spanish state making in one final sphere of Pueblo life: their intimate relations.

CHA P TER FI V E

Intimate Relations, Cohabitation, and Marriage in Pueblo Communities

The pueblo of Cochiti was rocked by a shocking and unusual murder in the spring of 1773.1 On the morning of April 16, María Francisca and her mother, María Josefa, asked María Francisca’s husband, Agustín, to accompany them on a trip to the mountains outside of Cochiti. The Jemez mountains sit just northwest of the pueblo, and they have long been visited by residents of Cochiti to gather plants for “food, medicine, raw materials for basketry, dyes, and other purposes.”2 On this day, the women told Agustín that they were making the trip to search for roots with which to dye clothing. While root gathering was not a typical male task in Pueblo communities (as discussed in chapter 2), the two women convinced Agustín to accompany them by telling him they needed assistance in carry ing the plants they planned to collect. Perhaps Agustín also agreed to go because he wished to protect his wife and mother-inlaw from being kidnapped or killed by Navajo or Comanche raiders— a common fear at Cochiti in the 1770s.3 Whatever his motivation for accompanying the women, the trio started out for the mountains early on the morning of the 16th, “sneaking away” while everyone else in the pueblo was cleaning the acequia. Once in the mountains, Agustín asked his wife to delouse him. He put his head in her lap, in the folds of her skirt, and quickly fell asleep. It was at this point that María Francisca took the tie with which her husband had fastened his braid and placed it around his neck. She took one end of the hair tie, her mother took the other end, and the two women proceeded to strangle

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Agustín. María Josefa then took a large knife and stabbed him in the neck and side.4 To explain the disappearance of Agustín, María Francisca told Cochiti authorities that he had gone to the mountains on Friday, April 16, but had not returned with them. Upon hearing this, the captain of war ordered local resident Lorenzo Chayu to search for Agustín. Chayu soon located Agustín’s body; he did not touch the body, but returned to the pueblo to report what he had found. Eventually, the body was brought to the father of the church at the pueblo and both María Francisca and her mother María Josefa were questioned about what happened.5 In numerous declarations to the alcalde mayor taken after Agustín’s body had been found, María Francisca admitted that she had planned her husband’s murder with her mother and she provided a motive for carrying out the crime. After marrying Agustín in the church at Nambé on January 26,6 she explained that she was “brought to”— or forced to take up residence at—Tesuque.7 This had violated the promise her husband had made to her that when they married he would not remove her from her home community. Tesuque was Agustín’s home pueblo. It was located across the Rio Grande from María Francisca’s home, and its people spoke a different language from the people of Cochiti. María Francisca was clearly afraid that she would be forced to live there after her marriage, a thing that had apparently occurred despite Agustín’s promise to her. Agustín had also promised to love her and treat her with tenderness “and that in all of this he had failed.”8 This failure was symbolized by his inability or unwillingness to provide materially for her. Prior to the murder, María Josefa asked her daughter if “her husband had given her shawls, belts, and shoes.” When María Francisca replied that he had not, her mother sympathized with her, saying “you poor little thing, he has given you nothing.”9 María Francisca stressed in her declarations that her husband had left her “without aid or shelter” and that due to this cruelty, and her mother’s growing anger over her treatment, she decided to murder him.10 After initially telling her not to do it, her mother agreed to assist her with the murder.11 After the declarations were taken, and with the permission of the father of the church, the alcalde mayor and his assistants had Agustín’s body disinterred to determine his exact cause of death. The officials determined that his stab wounds were serious enough to cause his death.12 This case is unusual for a number of reasons. It is one of only a few extant murder cases involving Pueblo people, and it is the only one that involves Pueblo women as perpetrators of the crime. It is also unusual in that it gives rare insight into changing Pueblo perceptions of coupling and uncoupling (the “marital tie”), kinship, and the rights, responsibilities, and duties that men and women assumed when they formed consensual

Figure 5.1. Pueblo of Cochiti and vicinity. Denver Public Library, Western History Collection, W. Henry Brown, X-30186.

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unions with one another.13 By the eighteenth century, a complex mix of both traditional and imposed kinship systems and beliefs concerning marriage and the family structured family life in Pueblo communities of New Mexico. These beliefs and systems of descent shaped perceptions of how families were to operate and what character intimate relations between men and women were supposed to take on. In this case, María Francisca, from the matrilineal pueblo of Cochiti, married Agustín, from the bilateral pueblo of Tesuque; both had also adopted Spanish beliefs concerning kinship, marriage, and the family to some degree. This, then, was a “mixed” marriage— one that crossed the boundaries of three separate kinship systems (Spanish and those systems found at Cochiti and Tesuque) and two cultures (Pueblo and Spanish). Because of the differing expectations created by the kinship systems and cultural traditions at play in these mixed marriages, conflict and violence was a clear possibility. In previous chapters, I have sought to demonstrate the ways in which Pueblo people negotiated Spanish contact in the political, economic, and ritual spheres of their lives. I will do the same in this chapter, concentrating here upon Spanish efforts to regulate Pueblo marital and intimate practices (or, relations in the “domestic” sphere). I conclude that Spanish authorities were only somewhat successful in their efforts to impose their conception of the proper marital tie and patriarchal beliefs upon Pueblo individuals. Some Pueblo individuals did adopt these beliefs and attitudes: María Francisca and Agustín did marry in the church and there is documentary evidence of their adoption of patriarchal attitudes. As in other cases where patriarchal ideologies are adopted, María Francisca was placed in a subordinated, dependent position in her marriage to Agustín. However, I argue that, despite similar exposure to Spanish ideologies, a majority of Pueblos continued to cohabitate and most probably retained kinship practices that did not contain a bias toward male inheritance or power. In short, what the documentation concerning intimate relations in Pueblo communities reveals is that, in this sphere, as in all others discussed in this book, Pueblo people picked and chose on an individual basis which Spanish ideas and practices to adopt and manipulate (“Pueblofy”) and which to reject. This picking and choosing, combined with state power that waxed and waned over the colonial period, meant that the overall impact of Spanish influences in Pueblo communities was inconsistent. In what follows, I first detail Spanish efforts to regulate Pueblo intimate relations. I then present an analysis of the documentary evidence concerning Pueblo intimate relations in order to demonstrate that some Pueblo individuals adopted Spanish norms concerning kinship, marriage, and family life. In the last section of the chapter, I place this evidence of adoption of Spanish norms in the broader context of statistics concerning rates of Pueblo-Pueblo and Pueblo-Spanish marriages in the Catholic

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Church and Pueblo-Spanish cohabitation in order to show that the adoption of Spanish beliefs and norms most likely did not occur on a broad scale in Pueblo communities. That this is so is reinforced by the fact that ethnographic studies of contemporary kinship practices show that Pueblo individuals and communities have only recently adopted non-Pueblo (i.e., Hispanic or even American) kinship practices. Thus, as in the economic, political, and ritual spheres of life, Pueblo individuals accommodated, adapted to, and negotiated Spanish power as they picked and chose which Spanish ideas and practices to adopt and which to reject.

Regulating Pueblo Intimate Relations According to Fray Alonso de Benavides, Franciscan friars were committed to instilling a commitment to Christian marriage in the Pueblo population from the first days of conquest. His memorial concerning his missionizing efforts in New Mexico was first published in 1630 and revised in 1634. In it he told a story about an old Taos woman who attempted to pollute the minds of young women who were living with their husbands as the church dictated. In particular, she sought to pervert certain good Christian women who lived alone with their husbands, as our holy mother church commands. In order to pervert them to her will she invited them to go out to the country and both on going and returning, all day long, she preached her loathsome ideas to them. But the good Christian women never wanted to agree with her, and while returning to the pueblo in the afternoon, the sky being clear and calm, a bolt of lightning from the heavens struck and killed her in the midst of the good Christians whom she was trying to corrupt and teach such bad doctrine.14

After her death, according to Benavides, everyone flocked to the church, and the Father taught about the sacrament of holy matrimony. The result: “those who were living in secret concubinage got married. . . .”15 Whether this story is true, or simply a fantasy concocted by the Father in order to make the missionary enterprise in New Mexico look more successful than it actually was,16 it does show that the marital practices of Pueblo peoples were of concern to Spanish authorities in New Mexico. After the Pueblo Revolt of 1680 and the Spanish reconquest of New Mexico in 1692, Spanish civil authorities and Franciscan friars tried to impress upon the Pueblos how important it was for them to marry in the church or to return to the people they had married before the 1680 revolt.

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Friars noted that there was very little interest in marriage in the pueblos and that few who had separated from their spouses were inclined to reunite with them. In 1694, Fray Miguel de Trizio reported that in Santo Domingo, “neither voluntarily nor after my having spoken to them many times in the church have any of them come to me to request the holy sacrament of matrimony and thereby leave their evil condition.”17 Other friars had little better news to report in that year. At Zia and Santa Ana, Fray Juan Alpuente reported that, while a few inhabitants had asked to be married, and a few who had been living with women other than their wives had returned to their wives, “there are others who neither leave their present condition nor marry, no matter how much the father tells them to do so, and that is the largest portion of them.”18 Friars thus complained in 1696 that the Pueblos continued “in their depraved concubinage.”19 Those that did agree to marry were typically Pueblo officials, who, according to the friar at Pecos, were “men who would likely attempt to ingratiate themselves with the Spanish authorities.”20 Efforts to put an end to Pueblo cohabitation continued into the eighteenth century. In 1706, members of the Santa Fe cabildo wrote a letter of support for Governor Cuervo y Valdés in which they said that he “dealt with public sin effectively”— especially cases of cohabitation, some of which were seven, nine, or even eleven years old.21 Governor Flores Mogollón issued a detailed order concerning marriage in Pueblo communities in April of 1714, as discussed in the introduction to this book.22 The governor was upset to discover that many married Pueblo couples lived separately after being married in the church.23 This would not do: couples were supposed to live in the same house. The husband was supposed to “feed and maintain” his wife and assist her in her work. The wife was supposed to care for her husband and the house. Flores Mogollón ordered the missionary fathers to unite all couples living apart and his alcaldes mayores to announce the order in their jurisdictions. The penalty for not following this order was fifty lashes in the pillory and two months in prison for the first offense; for the second, the person would be sent to an obraje (workshop) for four years of hard labor. At the end of the document are notations from the governor’s alcaldes mayores that this order was indeed read at the Tewa pueblos, at Taos and Picuris, at Isleta, Laguna, Acoma, and Halona (Zuni), and, fi nally, at San Felipe, Santo Domingo, and Cochiti. The governor’s assistants, such as the alcaldes mayores, also policed Pueblo communities to try to stop cohabitation. As has been discussed in other chapters, Ramón García Jurado functioned as alcalde mayor for the Keres jurisdiction (Zia, Santa Ana, and Jemez pueblos) between 1727 and 1732. His willingness to police Pueblo intimate relationships is evidenced by the fact that, as discussed in chapter 4, he investigated Juan

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Galvan and Juana Hurtado for cohabitation in 1727 at Zia24 and patrolled the pueblos in his jurisdiction to prevent that practice. He was still patrolling pueblos for cohabitation in 1732. In an investigation into his labor abuses,25 Governor Cruzat y Góngora’s assistant, Antonio de Uribarrí, prepared an interrogatory that included a question that asked whether García Jurado had punished “public sin.”26 In the actual interviews, Uribarrí reworded the question to ask specifically if García Jurado had investigated whether people were cohabitating. Numerous Pueblo declarants verified that García Jurado had patrolled their pueblos to try to catch people cohabitating outside of marriage and to punish them. One year after García Jurado was investigated for labor abuses in the Keres jurisdiction, Bernabe Baca, the alcalde mayor of Acoma and Laguna, was investigated for the same issue. As in the García Jurado investigation, several declarants were asked if Baca had administered justice in the pueblos and if he had prosecuted “public sin.”27 The cacique of Acoma complained that Baca was not fulfilling his duties because he not only failed to assist the father of the mission in directing them toward “the road to heaven” so that they would not “lose their souls,” but he also failed to punish those living in “concubinage.”28 Baca retorted in his written statement that the charges that the people of Acoma and Laguna made were false and that they lied about him precisely because he did punish some of them for living together outside of marriage and even made a few of them marry.29 Thus, while there is evidence that Spanish authorities attempted to regulate Pueblo intimate relations, it is spotty. Two factors help to explain the spotty nature of evidence of regulation. First, not all governmental officials were keen upon wiping out immoral intimate practices. Such regulation waxed and waned over the colonial period based upon the strength of the personal commitment of individual governors and missionaries to wipe out practices like cohabitation. For example, Governor López de Mendizábal (1659–1661) refused to punish Pueblo people who were living together outside of marriage.30 His efforts must be compared to someone like Fray Benavides, who was keenly interested in eradicating concubinage from Pueblo communities. The result was that the amount of regulation of Pueblo kinship and marital practices and beliefs and family life rose and fell across the eighteenth century, depending upon the proclivities of those Spanish officials and missionaries that were in power. Spanish authorities that had most contact with Pueblo people carried out this regulation: the governor’s alcaldes mayores, the local face of secular authority, and missionaries, who lived in Pueblo communities. Even with a strong personal commitment to eradicating practices such as cohabitation, Spanish authorities and missionaries always lacked the resources to carry out full-scale morality campaigns. The province of

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New Mexico was located on the far northern frontier of New Spain, thousands of miles from any center of Spanish power or resources. Spanish government in New Mexico was thus skeletal at best: it consisted of the governor and his assistants who worked with very little financial support or bureaucratic assistance. The same can be said of the missionary enterprise in New Mexico: it was run with a skeletal bureaucracy and little financial support. This made the consistent regulation and monitoring of Pueblo social life difficult at best. Thus, Pueblo ability to successfully resist the imposition of Spanish norms concerning marriage and intimate relations was in part due to the fact that state power was weak in colonial New Mexico, making it difficult for Spanish officials to impose beliefs and force social change in Pueblo communities. A second reason for the spotty nature of the regulatory documentation is simply that much documentation is missing from the colonial archives of New Mexico;31 therefore, there may have been more evidence of regulation in the archives at some point in time in the past. Given the general lack of monetary resources and personnel to monitor Pueblo communities, however, I am skeptical that, even with a more complete archive, the picture that I have drawn here of a spottily applied state power would be much altered. Nonetheless, it is a reminder that any generalization made about Pueblo (or Spanish) social life in the colonial period must be read keeping in mind that locating more documentation might alter such generalizations.

Kinship, Family, and the Marital Tie in Pueblo Communities Despite the discontinuous nature of Spanish regulation of Pueblo family life, there is evidence that such efforts had begun to shape Pueblo perceptions of intimate relations by the late eighteenth century. The few extant cases that contain information about Pueblo perceptions of kinship, family life, and intimate relations reveal that some individuals had adopted Spanish beliefs and norms concerning these issues.

Mariticide at Cochiti I began this chapter with a description of the investigation into the murder of Agustín from Tesuque pueblo. In order to understand why his wife María Francisca murdered him, it is necessary to discuss the mixed character of their marriage. Two kinship systems existed in Pueblo communities at the time of Agustín’s murder in 1773. The western New Mexican Pueblo communities of Hopi, Zuni, Acoma, and Laguna, and the Keresan

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communities (including Cochiti, María Francisca’s home) in eastern New Mexico were matrilineal and matrilocal; descent was calculated through the female line and couples were expected to live with the wife’s family after marriage. However, the eastern Tanoan Pueblo communities (including Tesuque, Agustín’s home) were bilateral and ambilocal— that is, men and women in those pueblos calculated their descent through both their mothers and fathers and couples could choose to live with either the wife’s or the husband’s family after marriage.32 The type of descent calculation practiced by a Pueblo community fell along the lines of language: the Keresan-speaking communities were matrilineal, whereas the Tano communities were bilateral.33 In short, in 1773, disparate language and kinship systems existed in Pueblo communities. María Francisca and Agustín came from two different pueblos that did not share the same language or practice the same system of descent. The fact that Agustín and María Francisca’s marriage was a mixed one was one of the sources of their difficulties. In matrilineal and matrilocal pueblos like María Francisca’s home pueblo of Cochiti, marriage or partnership was not “necessarily intended to last for life.”34 This was reflected by the ease with which men and women formed and broke up their partnerships. According to early Spanish observers at Zuni, a western matrilineal pueblo, “when a man wished to marry, arrangements were made by those who governed. Men indicated whom they wanted to marry by weaving a blanket and placing it in front of the woman. This made her his wife.”35 According to another observer in New Mexico in 1601, if a man liked a woman, he spoke with her and gave her some blankets. She then took him to her house, “for the women own the houses,” and they lived together for several months. If she got pregnant, then they might stay together for life. If not, the couple broke up and she made her availability known by wearing several roses in her hair.36 Both men and women seemed to have been free to dissolve such arrangements; in fact, Spaniards noted that “if a woman no longer wished to be married, she [simply] piled her husband’s belongings outside the home and he returned to his parents’ dwelling.”37 The explanation for the ease with which such unions were formed or broken up lies with the fact that the marital tie itself was not strong in matrilineal communities like Cochiti. Marital ties are typically weak in matrilineal and matrilocal societies, because descent is traced through the mother. This means that, in a marriage, the father does not have a strong claim to children, for children belong to the wife and the wife’s family; in fact, “strong ties between husbands and children” threaten kinship groups organized via matrilineal descent. So, too, do strong ties between husbands and wives.38 Since husbands have weak status and paternity is not an issue in matrilineal groups, there is no need to “tie a woman permanently in marriage

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to a man.”39 Women living in matrilineal groups are typically free to enter and leave marital unions and their sexuality is generally less controlled than, for example, in patrilineal societies where paternity of children is an issue. There is not much to tie a husband to a wife either. With no claim to children and no status in the family that he marries into, men, too, are free to enter and leave such marital unions. Ethnographers familiar with the kinship practices of matrilineal Pueblo communities make it clear that this was true even into the twentieth century. Fred Eggan notes that in mid-twentieth century Hopi communities, “the relations between spouses are nonreciprocal, tenuous, and brittle, in contrast to the enduring relations between relatives by blood.”40 Matrilocal residence, where it exists, also weakens marital ties. In communities with matrilocal residence, the husband moves in with his wife’s family. If the marriage does not take, it is the husband who leaves; he typically returns to his mother’s home. [Pueblo] men moved from house to house according to their stage of life. During childhood boys lived with their mothers, and at adolescence they moved into a kiva to learn male magical lore. When they had mastered these skills, and were deemed worthy of marriage by their kin, they took up residence in their wife’s home. A man nonetheless remained tied to his maternal home throughout his life. For important ceremonial events, men returned to their maternal households.41

As a result of men’s close, lifelong link to the maternal household, some Spanish observers argued that “the Pueblo Indians had . . . no home life”— in other words, husbands and wives did not share strong marital ties within a jointly managed home. Their orientation was always toward their mothers’ households, not toward the tie that existed between them. The fact that males had heavy ceremonial duties outside of the household only further weakened their ties to their wife and her family: “the men lived somewhat apart and concentrated their activities in their respective kivas, from which the women were more or less banned.”42 Males had strong positions in their mothers’ households due to their descent from them, but in their wives’ households, where the tie was strictly a marital (not blood) tie, husbands held a weaker status. Because of these characteristics, matrilineal households are typically described as being “female-dominated.”43 As such, women “owned the domestic hearth, exercised authority over those that lived within it, and at death passed on the edifice to their daughters. The female household head was custodian of its rights and possessions: the agricultural plots their husbands and sons worked, all food and seed reserves, and the sacred fetishes and ritual objects of the clan.” Spaniards noticed this dominance

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over the household by women. Spaniards that accompanied Juan de Oñate to New Mexico in 1598 noted that Pueblo men “did not reach any decision without consulting the women and getting their opinion.” 44 Fray Alonso de Benavides noted in 1634 that “[the woman] always commands and is the mistress of the house, and not the husband.” 45

“He promised that he would not remove her from her pueblo”: The Forced Relocation of María Francisca In the 1773 investigation into the death of Agustín, it became clear that one of the reasons that María Francisca was unhappy was because she was forced to move to Tesuque after her marriage to Agustín. The fact that María Francisca had left Cochiti to live with her husband at Tesuque indicates that María Francisca and Agustín did not have a “typical” Cochiti marriage. If they had, Agustín would have moved to Cochiti to take up residence with María Francisca and her mother María Josefa. Instead, María Francisca complained in her declarations that she had been “brought” to Tesuque after her marriage to Agustín,46 despite the fact that Agustín had promised not to do so.47 She explained that “when Agustín had sought to marry her, he promised that he would not remove her from her pueblo.”48 To make matters worse, Cochiti officials also pressured her to live in Tesuque: both she and Agustín were told to leave the pueblo and return to Tesuque by April 18.49 Thus, she explained that she had killed Agustín so that “she would not have to return to Tesuque.”50 María Josefa also gave the same reason for killing Agustín: when asked what the motive for the crime was, she replied that is was “because he wanted to take her daughter to Tesuque.”51 The implication of this testimony is that Agustín had to promise María Francisca that he would not remove her from her pueblo to get her to agree to marry him. Agustín must have understood that it was Cochiti tradition for a newly married couple to live with the wife’s family, and he appears to have promised María Francisca that they would follow that tradition after marriage. Despite this agreement, Agustín and María Francisca did not practice matrilocality after their marriage. Because María Francisca moved to Tesuque, perhaps they abided by the postmarital residence rules of that community. While this may be true, it does not explain why María Francisca was forced to move. At Tesuque, people lived in bilateral extended families where descent was calculated through both the mother and father. If Tesuque functioned like other bilateral communities across the world (and there is no evidence to suggest that they did not52), residence immediately after marriage could be either with the wife’s or the husband’s family.53 In short, Agustín was raised in a community where matrilocality was most likely practiced. Why, then, did he feel the need to

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Figure 5.2. Pueblo of Tesuque. Library of Congress, Prints & Photographs Division, Historic American Buildings Survey/Historic American Engineering Record/Historic American Landscapes Survey, HABS NM, 25-TESUP, 1–5.

force his wife to move to Tesuque, when he could see she really did not want to, and the postmarital residence rules of his own community allowed for couples to live with the wife’s family? While Cochiti officials appear to have played some role in at least forcing María Francisca to stay in Tesuque after her marriage, both daughter and mother made it clear in their declarations that Agustín was the person who had initially forced María Francisca to move to the pueblo. He, not Cochiti officials, was the focus of their anger. It is likely that Agustín was motivated to behave in the way that he did for a number of reasons. I would argue that his “strong-arming” María Francisca into moving to Tesuque was due, in part, to him being influenced by Spanish patriarchal, patrilineal norms concerning family formation and marital ties. Whether intentional or not, the actions of Cochiti officials appear to have reinforced these norms. Spaniards calculated descent bilaterally, as did Tesuque individuals. Unlike Tesuque, however, there was a strong patrilineal bias to this calculation within the families of colonial Spanish New Mexican society. Children calculated their descent through both their mothers and fathers, and

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females as well as males inherited property from both of their parents. But male children, especially male children of the upper class, were favored in terms of inheritance and property. In other words, bilateral descent calculation was enshrined in law,54 but in everyday life, Spaniards practiced patrilineality: male children received land, property, and other forms of wealth at the expense of female children because it was believed that they carried on the family line.55 Furthermore, Spanish families were patriarchal in character: paternal authority governed them. In colonial New Mexico, as in Latin America more generally, Spanish law made it clear that both women and children were under the guardianship of the father in families. Both male and female children were legally under the control of fathers as long as they were single and lived under their roofs, no matter what their age. The only way a father’s control was rescinded was by legal emancipation via marriage, or voluntary or court-ordered emancipation.56 As far as wives were concerned, “in return for the support, protection, and guidance her husband was legally required to provide, a wife owed him nearly total obedience. Compelled to reside with him, she became subject to his authority over every aspect of her life, relinquishing sovereignty over most of her legal transactions, property, and earnings, and even her domestic activities.”57 This does not mean that all women in Spanish society were subject to this paternal authority at all times in their lives. Widows, for example, were sometimes able to escape this authority: their husbands had died, and thus, they exercised “complete sovereignty over their legal acts.”58 If they were wealthy because they used or controlled community property from their marriage or valuable dowries, they might be quite powerful in Spanish society.59 Unlike in the political sphere, there is little archaeological or documentary evidence to suggest a strong commitment to an ideology of male dominance in Pueblo families before Spanish contact. Many communities were matrilineal and matrilocal in orientation; in those communities, women (and children) were not under the control of husbands or fathers. While there is no colonial-period eyewitness testimony regarding how bilateral descent functioned in the eastern pueblos, there is no documentary or archaeological evidence to suggest that a strong ethic of male control prevailed in bilateral families. Thus, while both the pueblo of Tesuque and Spanish society in New Mexico were bilateral in the calculation of descent, what they did not share was a strong bias toward male inheritance and leadership in families found in Spanish society. Bilaterality allowed flexibility in postmarital residence and thus alone would not have caused Agustín to force María Francisca to live at Tesuque. Bilaterality with some commitment to an ideology of male dominance and control, however, might. Agustín’s insistence that his wife live

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with him at Tesuque bespeaks of a particularly patriarchal attitude, a commitment to the idea of a husband’s power over his wife. He wanted to live in his home community. Since wives were “compelled” to live with their husbands in patriarchal families, it may be that Agustín felt justified in forcing María Francisca to do as he wanted. This commitment to male dominance may have resulted in part from his adoption of Spanish attitudes concerning the proper roles of men and women in marriages and families, since there was no such tradition of male control at Tesuque or in other Pueblo communities. Such an adoption of Spanish attitudes would have been easy for Agustín because he lived in Tesuque, a pueblo that had “become more accepting of the colonists’ patrilineal and patrilocal ways” due to its close geographic proximity to Santa Fe.60 While it is impossible to reconstruct who specifically lived or spent time in Tesuque in the early 1770s due to scant archival evidence from the pueblo, it is clear that he was influenced by Spanish practices and beliefs because he married in the Catholic Church. He, like María, was a convert to Christianity. Because Tesuque was located close to Santa Fe, there would clearly have been Spaniards living near or passing through the community on a regular basis. At the very least, he would have had regular contact with the priest from Nambé, of which Tesuque was a visiting station, and could have learned Spanish modes of authority from this individual. Thus, both Agustín and María Francisca felt the influence of a third system of descent in their already mixed marriage.

He Had Failed to Provide Her with “Aid and Shelter”: Material Support in Pueblo Intimate Relations Analyzing the second cause of María Francisca’s unhappiness— Agustín’s inability or unwillingness to materially provide for her—illustrates that Agustín was not the only person in the marriage to adopt Spanish attitudes concerning intimate relations and family to a degree. There is no evidence to suggest that in matrilineal Cochiti society, husbands were expected to provide materially for their wives as an indication of their love and respect for them.61 Though it is true that early Spanish observers of Pueblo life commented that men cultivated corn to support their wives and children,62 because wives in matrilineal communities were firmly ensconced in their mothers’ families, they did not need to rely solely on their husbands for food or other basic necessities. In other words, the husband’s material support of his wife was deemphasized in matrilineal pueblos. Thus it does not make much sense to argue that such support was the (or even a) symbol of the husband’s respect and love for his wife in matrilineal pueblos. Love and respect must have been measured in

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different terms in these communities, if they were measured at all. Yet, María Francisca complained that Agustín failed to provide for her material needs. He had failed to provide her with “aid and shelter”;63 specifically he had not given her shawls, belts, and shoes.64 This was an important enough issue to be a topic of discussion between María Francisca and her mother. María Josefa specifically asked her daughter if Agustín had indeed provided these things for her. Upon finding out that Agustín had not provided her daughter with these things, María Josefa expressed sympathy to her daughter.65 Thus, according to her lawyer’s statement, María Francisca “found herself without aid or shelter, and due to this cruelty . . . she did the only thing she could.”66 Not providing shawls, belts, and shoes seems a trivial complaint; however, it was most likely meant to be a metaphor for Agustín’s inability to more generally provide for her. This attitude concerning material support reflects the orientation of someone who had acclimated at least somewhat to Spanish New Mexican society, not someone who adhered strictly to an ethic of matrilineality. Women in Spanish New Mexican society were essentially the wards of their husbands; as such, they were dependent upon their husbands for material support. It was the duty of the patriarch to provide for his family—including his wife. María Francisca clearly perceived of Agustín as her provider. She seems to have taken to heart the idea expressed in proclamations like the one Flores Mogollón issued in 1714 and read aloud in Pueblo communities: that it was the husband’s duty to “feed and maintain” his wife. It is not clear why Agustín failed to provide materially for María Francisca. Nonetheless, it is clear that María Francisca expected Agustín to properly support her and was extremely unhappy when he did or could not. The fact that María Francisca did ultimately move to Tesuque points to an acclimation to Spanish beliefs and practices concerning marriage and family life as well. In Spanish New Mexican society, the wife owed her husband “nearly total obedience”67 in return for material support. As I discussed above, women were not the wards of husbands in Pueblo matrilineal society; there is no evidence to indicate that they were wards of their husbands in bilateral society, either. María Francisca, however, appears to have believed that she lived under these conditions. As a good and “obedient” wife, she felt compelled to move to Tesuque even though it was not her wish to do so.

Mariticide in Matrilineal Societies María Francisca’s desire for material goods and her “obedience” to Agustín are not the only pieces of evidence that suggest that she had assimilated Spanish beliefs about marriage. Given the way in which matrilineality

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and matrilocality structured the marital tie between men and women at Cochiti during the colonial period, María Francisca’s solution to the problems in her marriage—the murder of her husband— also reflects this acclimation. If María Francisca were operating by the belief that the marital tie between she and Agustín could be easily broken, as was typical in matrilineal and matrilocal societies, she would not have needed to murder her husband to put an end to their relationship. Obviously María Francisca must have been very unhappy to commit such an act, but, more so than this, she must have felt that she had no other way to end the relationship. Such a feeling concerning marriage would not be logical in a matrilineal society, with its ease in ending intimate relationships. It is not too difficult to understand, however, how a woman might feel trapped in a relationship in a patriarchal, Catholic society, where there was no way to legally or morally end an unhappy marriage. In other words, María Francisca’s actions and feelings appear to reflect a perception of marriage that more closely resembled a Spanish, Catholic union than a union created in a matrilineal and matrilocal society. When Agustín forced her to move to Tesuque and then failed to fulfill his duties toward her, she killed him in order to terminate the relationship. This, of course, was an extreme action to take. As acknowledged at the beginning of this chapter, other factors may have motivated María Francisca to make the choices that she did. Were the case richer in detail, a more complete picture of what happened might be painted. However, more information would not, I believe, negate the importance that perceptions of kinship, marriage, and family played in shaping María Francisca’s behavior. Such perceptions formed, I would argue, a background script to her thought processes: she was not always consciously aware of them, yet they shaped her daily actions and thinking nonetheless.68 In January 1779, both María Francisca and her mother were shot and then hung in the gallows of Santa Fe, after spending almost six years in prison while lawyers debated the proper sentence for their crime.69 María Francisca and Agustín’s actions and beliefs reveal the difficulties inherent in intercultural marriages in eighteenth century Pueblo communities. Agustín’s forcibly moving María Francisca to Tesuque and her begrudging obedience in this matter, María Francisca’s complaints that Agustín did not provide properly for her despite the fact that husbands did not traditionally do so at Cochiti, and her decision to murder Agustín to end the unhappy marriage when, typically, divorce was an easy affair, all reflect two individuals trying to navigate the difficult terrain of a marriage structured by competing and conflicting beliefs concerning kinship, intimate relations, and family life. Three systems of descent—matrilineality, bilaterality, and bilaterality with a “patrilineal twist”—all operated in this marriage. Spanish and Pueblo beliefs and practices concerning intimate

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relations and family life also influenced María Francisca and Agustín. Given this complicated mix of beliefs and practices, it is not surprising that conflict arose between these two people. Different and conflicting systems of descent and cultural traditions structured their perceptions of what a proper marriage was supposed to be. Due to their inability to reasonably resolve the confl icts that arose, María Francisca decided to murder her husband with the help of her mother.

“La Mala Vida” at Isleta An investigation of a woman’s drowning at Isleta contains themes similar to those found in the Cochiti murder case.70 On June 8, 1731, a resident of the pueblo named Joseph notified Juan Gonzalez Bas, alcalde mayor of Isleta, that Melchor Trujillo’s wife, Catarina, had drowned. Bas must have known both Trujillo and his wife, because the fi rst question he asked Joseph was how that could have happened, when Catarina was such a good swimmer. Joseph replied that she had drowned in a local river where the water was not that deep, and “without swallowing any water.”71 On June 20, Bas interviewed a second resident of Isleta, Mateo, who explained that he was in his field next to the river on the day of Catarina’s death. His daughter notified him that Catarina had drowned, so he ran to the river where he found Melchor Trujillo crying and hugging his three children. He asked Trujillo where Catarina was, and he replied that she had entered the river to bathe where it was not very deep, leaving her clothing on the bank. Mateo located Catarina’s clothing and saw the body in the water. He notified Trujillo, who immediately went into the river and retrieved the body. Afterward, Mateo measured the depth of the water in which Catarina drowned; he found it to be only as deep as his calves. However, he did note that the water became very deep only a short distance away from the spot where Catarina had drowned. He also told Bas that Trujillo’s shirt was wet up to the waist and elbows, and that he had seen Trujillo move Catarina’s clothing.72 These statements imply that foul play had occurred: they imply that Mateo believed that Trujillo had drowned his wife in the deep water and then moved her dead body to shallow water. He then moved her clothing to a location on the river’s bank parallel to the shallow water to cover up what he had done.73 Subsequent testimony revealed further suspicious details. Numerous witnesses who viewed the body after it was removed from the river claimed that Catarina’s neck looked as though it had been broken,74 that there was no water in her body as you might expect to find with someone who had drowned,75 and, finally, that Trujillo had kept her body covered76

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Figure 5.3. Bird’s-eye view of Isleta pueblo. Cobb Memorial Photography Collection, 1880–1942, 000-119-0513, Center for Southwest Research, University Libraries, University of New Mexico.

and buried the body very quickly.77 Taken together, all of the evidence suggested that Trujillo had drowned his wife. Thus, Bas, in addition to investigating how Catarina’s death occurred, also asked many declarants if Trujillo had given “la mala vida” (“the bad life”) to his wife. A number of these declarants claimed that he had an affair;78 that he had beaten and generally mistreated Catarina;79 and one declarant insisted that he and Catarina were fighting before she had gone into the river.80 The lieutenant of the pueblo also told Bas that he had patrolled Isleta trying to catch Trujillo with his mistress and that he had indeed, on one occasion, been successful in doing so.81 Beyond this being an investigation into an unhappy marriage resulting in death, this case has another parallel with the Cochiti murder case that becomes clear in Trujillo’s declarations. Trujillo spends most of his declarations defending himself against the charge that he gave Catarina “la mala vida.” In his first declaration, taken on June 30, he insisted that he had never had an affair and that he loved and esteemed his wife, “treating her as he should, and it is noted by all the soldiers and citizens that she was always well dressed with good blankets.”82 In a second, written statement, undated but most likely produced between June 30 and

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July 10, Trujillo again stressed how well he had treated Catarina. This time he insisted that all the Spanish citizens (vecinos) living in the jurisdiction, including Captain Luis Garza, could verify his statement.83 Clearly, in Trujillo’s mind, the measure of his good treatment of Catarina was the material support that he provided to her. Like María Francisca of Cochiti, Trujillo was impacted by the Spanish belief that husbands “maintained” their wives. The difference between María Francisca and Trujillo is that she came from a matrilineal pueblo, while he (like Agustín) resided in a bilateral pueblo. However, this should not have made a difference in how the issue of material support of wives was viewed (as opposed to kinship calculation mattering with regard to the issue of postmarital residence). Dozier writes that contemporary bilateral households in the Tewa communities of the east are composed of an “old couple and a number of their children.” There is flexibility in this arrangement because there are no strict rules regarding how many or which relatives on both sides should be included or allowed to reside in the household. All the work of the household is shared amongst its members,84 and the oldest married son or daughter typically assumes the household leadership. As noted above, after marriage, a couple has a choice about residence: they may reside with the husband’s or the wife’s family. After establishing themselves, they may even form their own independent household. Children who remain with their households after marriage are provided house sites or houses and use rights to land; children who move away are provided movable property. If a divorce or death occurs, the spouse that moved at marriage returns to his or her natal household, giving up all rights to membership and resources from the former spouse’s household. The only qualification to this generalization is when a death happens where children are involved. In this circumstance, the spouse retains rights to his or her exspouse’s land and house through their children. In a divorce, children stay with the wife, whether or not she moved at marriage.85 As in the matrilineal communities, marital ties are weak because, even after marriage, the stress is on one’s relationship with consanguineal kin (birth family). For example, newly married couples acquire property (house and lands) through the family with which they reside; they are not acquired independently. If the wife moves to the husband’s family compound, it is the husband’s family’s land and house that she will live in. If the marriage dissolves, spouses do not live independently of their natal families; they return to them. This means that, as in matrilineal societies, “the husband and wife never are united into one family. Their fundamental affiliations remain with their consanguineal kin, and if a conflict between these two lines becomes bitter, each will adhere to his own family and the marriage will dissolve.”86 Because of this stress upon

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the relationship to one’s consanguineal kin—not to one’s spouse—Pueblo women living in bilateral communities had economic support to fall back on if they and their spouses were unable to support themselves or if their marriages failed. They did not need to rely upon their spouses’ or their spouses’ families for clothing, food, or other basic necessities, if those things were in short supply. In short, the extended family provided a buffer against hard economic times in Pueblo communities. This was true whether the community was matrilineal or bilateral in orientation. Thus, Trujillo’s insistence that he could not have given his wife “la mala vida” because he provided well for her hints at an acceptance of Spanish patriarchal beliefs concerning the family. Providing well for one’s wife would not have been a measure of good treatment in traditional bilateral (or matrilineal) communities. That Trujillo attempted to use Spanish opinion concerning his treatment of his wife to back up his defense of himself also indicates that he, like María Francisca and Agustín, managed his marriage to Catarina according to Spanish perceptions and definitions of what a proper marital tie entailed. It would make no sense for him to ask that Spanish citizens living in the area verify his good treatment of Catarina unless the character of their union followed Spanish idioms to some degree. In fact, that all of the Isletans interviewed by Bas understood what he meant when he asked them if Trujillo had given his wife “la mala vida” means that they at least understood—if not shared— Spanish definitions of the proper marital tie. Trujillo must also have been aware of the importance of the Spanish opinions in criminal investigations involving Pueblo people: that assertions of his good character would be much more believable to Spanish justices investigating this case if they were made by his Spanish— not Pueblo—neighbors. Indeed, this is the only criminal investigation in a Pueblo community that I know of which involves a Pueblo defendant calling upon his Spanish neighbors to verify his good character. Trujillo understood and was able to manipulate the Spanish justice system as well as Spanish idioms of what defined a proper marital tie to his benefit. Perhaps this is one reason why he was not charged with Catarina’s murder, and was released from custody within two months of the death of his wife.87 Another reason for his not being charged with the murder appears to have been a lack of evidence in the case. The governor of New Mexico took over the investigation of the case in early July 1731. His assistant, Antonio Perez Velarde, wrote in his remission of papers to the governor on July 3 that he could not assign blame in the case and would therefore not investigate it any further.88 The governor ordered Trujillo’s release only a week later, stating that there was not enough evidence in the case to show he was guilty of the crime and that he had four orphaned children to take

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care of.89 Of course, what constituted a lack of evidence in the case must be taken into consideration. Gonzalez Bas interviewed eight witnesses from Isleta, all of whom expressed some level of suspicion of Trujillo: one Spaniard and seven native Isletans. Thus, it was not that there were no witnesses; it is just that there were not enough “trustworthy” witnesses— in other words, Spaniards. Pueblo Indians were not considered to be trustworthy or viable witnesses, at least not in this case.90 By the time that this investigation occurred in the early eighteenth century, Isleta (like Agustín’s home community of Tesuque) was a highly Hispanicized community—probably one of the most Hispanicized of all Pueblo communities at that point in time. Since the 1700s, Isleta “has been closely surrounded with Spanish neighbors.”91 This close relationship with the Spanish faction of New Mexican society is evidenced by the fact that Isletans did not participate in the 1680 revolt and that they fled south to El Paso with their neighbors immediately after the revolt. Given the highly Hispanicized character of Isleta at the time of the Trujillo investigation, it would not have been very difficult for an inhabitant of the pueblo to adopt Spanish ways of thinking and lifestyle. Furthermore, Isletans, as noted above, calculated descent bilaterally. Because Spaniards also practiced bilateral descent (of course, with a patrilineal and patriarchal “twist”), it would have been easy for someone like Trujillo to graft Spanish beliefs and practices about kinship and marriage onto Isletan beliefs and practices. This is true even though the Spaniards that lived near Isleta had less than a positive opinion of its inhabitants. Trujillo’s appearance in a second criminal investigation just two years following the death of his wife demonstrates that he led a truly sycretic existence. In February 1733, he, along with a number of other Isleta residents, was investigated for witchcraft by, once again, Gonzalez Bas— as discussed in chapter 4.92 Trujillo was accused of not only bewitching five people in Isleta, but also of taking peyote.93 Unfortunately, details beyond these accusations concerning Trujillo’s behavior are thin because the trial record is incomplete and focuses more on the activities of the cacique of the pueblo (also accused of witchcraft). Nevertheless, just the fact that he was accused of witchcraft and of using peyote points to the possibility that Trujillo—while living a highly Hispanicized lifestyle— also sought to maintain certain, traditional Isletan (or at least “non-Spanish”) beliefs. In other words, he lived syncretically, mixing Isletan and Spanish belief systems together, as did María Francisca and María Josefa of Cochiti and Agustín of Tesuque. The development of patriarchal attitudes concerning the family and women’s place in the family as a result of state-making processes or colonialism has been shown to lead to a decrease in women’s status in many places in the world.94 In both the bilateral and matrilineal communities

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of New Mexico, the structural basis for women’s economic independence lay in the family. In both types of communities, extended families provided support to women throughout their lives so that they did not become dependent upon their husbands in marriage. When women became separated from their families—when those ties were weakened or severed in favor of the marital tie, as happens in patriarchal societies— they could become economically dependent upon husbands and thus subject to their authority. The documentation from the colonial periods shows what happened in Pueblo communities experiencing a shift to patriarchal social relations: women sometimes lost control of their ability to make decisions for themselves (such as where they would live after marriage), to provide for themselves, or to end their intimate relationships. As a result of these shifts, violence in intimate relations may have become more common in Pueblo communities, as occurred across Latin America more generally during the colonial period.95 Pueblo women were not the only ones who experienced new stresses in their lives with the shift toward patriarchal social relations. Melchor Trujillo seems to have been especially keen on emphasizing that he provided for his wife. As in other areas of Latin America, Pueblo men “may have lived in fear of public exposure of any failure to live up to gender ideals of honor, including the ability to support a wife and family.”96 Such expectation also may have resulted in violence against women. In Toluca Valley (Mexico), “many late colonial cases of violence were rooted in indigenous wives’ expressions of concern over whether their husbands were fulfilling their economic obligations and husbands’ resentment over wives questioning their status.”97 Perhaps the same can be said about Pueblo communities: women like María Francisca (and maybe Catarina) came to expect that their husbands would provide support; when it was not forthcoming, it became a matter of contention and a source of violence. As noted above, Hispanic women lived in autonomous households with their husbands and children. In return for the husbands’ support and protection, women (and children) owed absolute obedience to them. This was not the scenario in which Pueblo women found themselves before Spanish contact, as I discussed above. However, the documentation shows that by the eighteenth century, some Pueblo women were living under conditions of “intensive” male domination in patriarchal households.

Cohabitation in Pueblo Communities Thus far, the focus of this chapter has largely been on analyzing the beliefs that shaped formalized unions between Pueblo men and women (meaning

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those married in the Catholic Church). The point of analyzing these formalized unions is to show that there is some evidence to suggest that beliefs and practices concerning intimate relations changed under the influence of Spanish regulation of these practices. However, by looking at investigations and complaints concerning what Spaniards labeled “concubinage” (living together outside of the bonds of sacramental marriage), it becomes apparent that Pueblo people also resisted the adoption and assimilation of Spanish notions of the proper marital tie. In a statement written on August 22, 1727, Ramón García Jurado complained that he found Juan Galvan with an Indian woman named Magdalena in the middle of the day in Zia.98 He had previously warned Galvan about his behavior, telling him that he must separate from her, that he was living in a “bad state” and “in scandal” with her. In other words, the two were not married, yet were carry ing on a sexual relationship and even may have been living together. Despite these warnings, however, he found Galvan with the woman in the middle of the day brazenly ignoring his warning to him. García Jurado therefore immediately banished Juan Galvan to Santa Fe for three months for his transgressions.99 When García Jurado returned to patrol the pueblo on the night of August 31, the governor informed him that Galvan had returned to Zia on August 28. He therefore sent for Galvan, who upon arriving was put in the headstocks.100 Juana Hurtado, Galvan’s mother, tried to intervene on his behalf, which only caused García Jurado to become angrier and to investigate her activities in the pueblo as well. García Jurado discovered that she, like her son, had been cohabitating for quite some time with someone in the pueblo who was married and with whom she had several children.101 Several Spanish citizens of the jurisdiction explained that both the captain and the lieutenant of the pueblo— assistants to García Jurado—had caught her in this man’s company.102 These statements make it clear that patrolling Zia for what the Spaniards considered Pueblo sexual excesses was carried out not only by the alcalde mayor but also by his assistants, and that both Galvan and Hurtado were known violators of Spanish prohibitions against cohabitation outside of marriage. However, what both Hurtado and Galvan were probably doing was forming unions with partners in the traditional Zia way. Pueblo people did not, of course, form intimate ties to one another before Spanish contact by marrying in the Catholic Church. They “married” by simply moving in with one another, and they dissolved these unions just as easily. Zia (like María Francisca’s Cochiti) was a Keresan-speaking pueblo that was both matrilineal and matrilocal in orientation. Partnerships were easily formed and broken apart and were not considered sinful or scandalous if done without the benefit of the sacrament of marriage. Furthermore, while some women (such as María Francisca) may have adopted

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patriarchal standards concerning marriage and the home, other Pueblo women (like Hurtado) continued to hold places of power in the domestic arena. Though Hurtado’s behavior may have been “impudent” by Spanish standards, it was most likely normal from the standards of her own community. That both Hurtado and her son chose to cohabitate with their significant others rather than marry them, and that they both refused to end their relationships even when pressured to do so by Spanish authorities, demonstrates that some Pueblo people maintained traditional beliefs concerning the home and women’s and men’s places and power in intimate relations. Spanish authorities (such as García Jurado) attempted to monitor or even extinguish such practices; however, their efforts were often only mildly successful because, as I discussed above, resources and manpower were in short supply in New Mexico. This means that there were probably many Pueblo couples cohabitating in their communities in the colonial period, as I discuss below.

Pueblo Marriage Rates in the Eighteenth Century I conclude this chapter with a discussion and analysis of Pueblo marriage rates in the Catholic Church, as well as the incidence of other types of intimate relationships Pueblo individuals engaged in, to give some sense of the degree to which Spanish beliefs and practices concerning marriage, family, and kinship were adopted. The most obvious place to look for evidence of intercultural relationships is the marriage registers of the local parishes that served Pueblo communities. Here, one might find evidence of Pueblo individuals who had assimilated Spanish beliefs and practices concerning kinship, marriage, and the family into their lives to some degree and were thus faced with challenges similar to those confronted by María Francisca and Agustín and Catarina and Melchor Trujillo. My assumption is that those Pueblos who chose to marry in the church had converted to Christianity and had adopted Spanish/Catholic attitudes concerning marriage, family, and kinship at least to some degree.103 Research into the Archdiocese of Santa Fe’s marriage registers indicates that only a few Pueblo individuals married in the Catholic Church in the eighteenth century.104 In table 5.1, I have compiled the rates of marriage for a number of Pueblo communities over time. I constructed the statistics by using censuses to acquire numbers of “marriageable” people in a given Pueblo community for a certain year,105 then comparing that figure with the numbers of marriages actually conducted in that year (as indicated in the Archdiocese’s marriage registers).106 I defined marriageable people as individuals listed in the census as single men, single women, widows, and widowers. I was only able to construct statistics for a Pueblo

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community if I had a census and marriage register for matching years. This, of course, greatly limited the number of years and communities for which I could actually calculate such rates, given the amount of missing documentation from the archives of the Archdiocese and the spotty record-keeping efforts of friars and civil authorities throughout the eighteenth century.107 Despite these constraints, the numbers clearly show that only a very few Pueblo people were married in the Catholic Church. As the table indicates, marriage rates for the years 1750 and 1811 rarely rose above 10 percent for any given Pueblo community; out of fi fteen entries in the table, only four pueblos had marriage rates at or above 10 percent (Acoma, Nambé, San Ildefonso, and Santa Ana). A case can be made that these figures are representative of Pueblo marriage rates generally, over time. If one compares the number of marriages performed in 1811 with nearby years for the pueblos of Cochiti, Picuris, San Ildefonso, Sandia, Santa Clara, or Taos (as reported in the table footnotes), one can see that the number of marriages performed from year to year remained fairly stable. If one takes a longer view of the issue by looking at the marriage registers of Pueblo communities over the entire eighteenth century, the conclusion does not change. I selected the pueblos of Picuris, San Felipe, and San Ildefonso for enumeration in table 5.2 because they are the three communities that have marriage registers for the entire eighteenth century and early nineteenth century. The rest of the Pueblo communities lack such a wide span of documentation. The information in this table shows that the numbers of marriages that took place in 1750 and 1811—as depicted in table 5.1— are representative of the century as a whole. In the case of Picuris, for example, two marriages took place in that pueblo in 1750, while none took place in 1811. Table 5.2 shows that Picuris marriage rates never increased from the levels reported for 1750 and 1811 in the entire eighteenth century. The highest number of marriages performed in one year at Picuris was six (1815)—not a significant increase from the 1750 and 1811 levels. Even though I do not have data concerning the numbers of marriageable people for Picuris through the entire eighteenth century and thus cannot calculate exact marriage rates, it is clear that most Picuris individuals never married in the Catholic Church. Six marriages in one year is simply not many, no matter how many people resided at Picuris in 1815 or any other year. San Felipe and San Ildefonso report similarly (low) numbers of marriages taking place throughout the eighteenth century. I noted at the beginning of this chapter that missionaries found that few Pueblo people wished to return to marriage or get married after the reconquest of New Mexico in 1692. Things clearly did not change as the century progressed, as the tables indicate. Further commentary from

45

108

Pojoaque

San Felipe

90

80

Picuris

Sandia

25

Nambé

70

136

Isleta

San Ildefonso

48

Solteros

120

Cochiti

1811 census

San Ildefonso

50

Picuris4

5

91

Acoma1

1750 census

Solteros (Single men)

95

80

120

50

84

27

135

69

Solteras

65

92

Solteras (Single women)

Table 5.1. Pueblo marriage rates, 1750 and 1811

9

4

14

3

6

0

9

5

Viudos

26

15

22

Viudos (Widowers)

10

4

14

7

12

4

15

15

Viudas

29

68

Viudas (Widows)

204

158

256

105

182

56

295

137

Total

146

159

273

Total

Marriage Rate .00 .01

AASF Marriage Register 06 7

.03 .10 .009

10 11

1

8

5

9

.01

.00

08 1

.11

3

2

.05

.02

.103

Marriage Rate

4

2

142

AASF Marriage Register

66

160

86

Santa Clara

Santo Domingo

Taos

90

161

68

64

24

9

3

12

28

14

6

14

228

344

143

152 .01 .02 .00

113 14

15

0

4

.28

2112

Census for Acoma lists both “doctrineros” (defi ned by the person taking the census as those assisting with the doctrina for three years or more without failure) and single men and women (“solteros” and “solteras”). I used the single men and women category in this table, assuming that they were counted again as doctrineros. 2 The marriage register figure indicates number of marriages performed in the year in question. At Acoma, for example, fourteen marriages were conducted in 1811, or twenty-eight people were married. 3 Marriage rates were calculated by dividing total number of people married by total number of single people in the community. In the case of Acoma, fourteen marriages were performed, or twenty-eight people were married. Thus, twenty-eight was divided by 273 to obtain the figure of .10. 4 The census for Picuris lists both doctrineros and solteros. I used the doctrinero figure in this table, because there were only five solteros listed— not a reliable figure. 5 The census for San Ildefonso did not break down the soltero or viudo categories by sex. I therefore listed everyone under “single men.” 6 There are no Cochiti marriage records for the year 1811. The record for the year nearest 1811 (1810) was used instead. Other years are shown as follows: 1806: 5 marriages; 1807: 0 marriages; 1808: 0 marriages; 1809: 1 marriage. 7 Isleta had a very ethnically mixed population. There were only two marriages that could be classified as “Pueblo” in that year (last names are not given and/or the participants are labeled “yndio”; another seven were performed, but the race of the participants was not given and could not be determined). 8 There are no Picuris marriage records for the year 1811; therefore, I used the 1810 figure. Number of marriages conducted in 1815: 6. 9 One of the marriages involved a woman from Santa Ana. 10 This represents the year 1812 in San Ildefonso. 1808: 1; 1813: 1. 11 This represents the year 1809 in Sandia; 1812: 1. 12 One of the marriages involved a man from San Felipe. 13 This represents the year 1809 in Santa Clara; 1814: 2. 14 One of the marriages involved a man from San Felipe. 15 This represents the year 1808 in Taos; 1818: 7.

1

62

Santa Ana

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Table 5.2. Number of marriages performed by year for selected pueblos (at ten-year intervals)

Picuris1

No. of marriages performed

San Felipe2

No. of marriages performed

San Ildefonso3

No. of marriages Performed

1726

2

1726

4

1726

7

1736

1

1736

4

1736

3

1746

1

1746

2

1746

2

1756

4

1756

6

1756

9

1766

2

1766

3

1766

4

1776

1

1776

0

1776

4

1786

1

1786

4

1786

5

1796

3

1796

3

1796

1

1805

0

1806

0

1806

3

1815

6

1814

6

1816

1

1

Picuris marriage registers exist for the years 1726–1837. Numbers were not given for 1806 or 1816, so I used the closest figures available (1805 and 1815). 2 San Felipe marriage registers exist for the years 1726–1814. I do not have numbers for 1806 or 1816. In 1806, one marriage was performed, but the race of the participants could not be determined. I therefore did not include that marriage in this table. 3 San Ildefonso marriage registers exist for the years 1700–1853. I only included figures from 1726 forward in order to be consistent with the other pueblos in the table, both of whose registers begin in the year 1726.

the documentary record supports this fi nding. In 1760, Fray Sanz de Lezaún reported that cohabitation was very common among Pueblo peoples.108 Kessell, citing an entry from the baptismal register from Pecos in 1804, writes that Fray Diego Martínez Arellano complained that “all the Indians . . . live publicly in concubinage because the officials, both Spaniards and Indians, tolerate it. . . .”109 In 1820, Fray Guevara made the same complaint when he wrote that, even at this late date, Pueblo men were in “commerce with many women.”110 What explains the low marriage rates in Pueblo communities? Certainly, and obviously, there was resistance to the adoption of Spanish norms concerning family, kinship, and marriage, resulting in low Pueblo-Pueblo marriage rates in the Catholic Church. Furthermore, racism prevented a vast majority of Spaniards from considering Pueblo people as acceptable marriage partners, making Spanish-Pueblo marriages an extremely rare event in colonial

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New Mexico (and thus contributing to the low marriage rates of Pueblo people overall).111 Spanish New Mexicans were generally very status conscious. Marrying a Pueblo Indian— a person of a “lower” race—had deleterious effects on an individual’s social standing in the Spanish communities of New Mexico.112 The very few numbers of Spanish-Pueblo marriages in the AASF marriage registers can be accounted for by this fact. The statistical and ethnohistorical evidence suggests, then, that few Pueblos married in the Catholic Church, and, therefore, that the experiences of María Francisca and Agustín and Miguel Trujillo and his wife Catarina were not representative of Pueblo people as a whole. However, the fact that there was a high number of informal, intimate relationships between Pueblos and Spaniards in the colonial period casts doubt on the veracity of this assumption. Spanish officials complained of this intermixing consistently through the eighteenth century. Unfortunately, it is not possible to construct statistical evidence of this intermixing since there was no effort by Spanish officials to numerically document such relationships. Baptism registers are available for the colonial period; however, as with the marriage registers, friars did not consistently note the race of the children born in their parishes. Thus, it is not possible to use the number of mestizo children born in the colony as a basis from which to estimate how many Spanish-Pueblo extramarital relationships occurred. Nevertheless, there is consensus in the historiography of colonial New Mexico that formal marriage rates between Pueblo individuals or between Pueblos and Spaniards were low, and cohabitation and informal relationships between Pueblos and Spaniards were common.113 Low marriage rates cannot, then, be used as the only barometer of the extent to which the Pueblo population was Catholic in the colonial period or had accepted, at least to some extent, Spanish beliefs concerning marriage, the family, and kinship. Informal intimate relationships between Spaniards and Pueblos were far more common in colonial New Mexico than church-sanctioned marriages and they—like sacramental marriage— could be vectors for the adoption of Spanish beliefs. For example, a Pueblo individual might have found himself or herself in a relationship with a Spaniard at some point in his or her life, or witness to such a relationship, which then worked to shape his or her intimate relations with other Pueblo individuals. I can imagine that there were Pueblo women who became acclimated to the idea that their partners (be they husbands or not) provide for them materially but rejected the idea of sanctioning their relationships in the Catholic Church. Thus, low marriage rates in Pueblo communities cannot be interpreted to mean that María Francisca and Agustín’s or Catarina and Melchor Trujillo’s experiences were unusual in colonial New Mexico. Instead, it appears likely that

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many Pueblo couples found themselves negotiating the same rocky terrain of competing value systems in their familial and intimate relationships.

Conclusion The balance of both an acceptance and rejection of Spanish rules concerning cohabitation and marriage outlined in this chapter is a reflection of the ebb and flow of state power in New Mexico as well as the ability of Pueblo people to decide what Spanish ideologies to accept or reject even under conditions of colonialism. Due to a lack of resources and commitment on the part of secular or religious personnel, state making was carried out in an inconsistent manner in the realm of intimate relations. This left gaps in the application of state power, and thus allowed Pueblo people the “wiggle” room to choose different methods to resist and to negotiate Spanish attempts to reshape their intimate relations. Sometimes Pueblo people chose to adopt Spanish ideologies as their own—perhaps grafting them onto traditional ideologies or allowing them to replace tradition altogether. But in many cases, they simply disregarded Spanish ideologies concerning intimacy and intimate ties and continued to live in familiar and traditional ways. Whatever their choice, Pueblo people devised thoughtful and useful ways to respond to the pressures that colonialism placed upon them. In many cases, it is clear that they were attempting to retain traditional practices and beliefs even as Spanish authorities sought to erase them.

CHA P TER SI X

Master Narratives, the US-Mexico Borderlands, and the American West

It has been the goal of this book to challenge methodological boundaries and historiographical chronologies by integrating archaeological and ethnohistorical findings about the Pueblos in pre- and post-contact New Mexico. I have presented their experiences across traditional historical periods, from the pre-contact period through the eighteenth century. In order to reconstruct these experiences, I have negotiated gaps in information about the Pueblos in the documentary record of colonial New Mexico. I hope that my efforts to bridge both traditional periodizations of Pueblo history and gaps in information challenge the idea that a chronological “master narrative” can be created about Pueblo communities in the colonial period. In contrast I have drawn portraits of Pueblo social arenas, based on bits and pieces of information. The difference between the two methods is very much like what differentiates movies from photos: movies depict activity through time, while photos capture discrete moments in time. Critique of master narratives is not new, of course. In the discipline of history, one of the main critiques of master narratives is that they have traditionally been exclusionary in nature. They have consistently left out the voices of the subjugated, as those in power have sought to control the writing and dissemination of historical information. One need only look at the way in which Columbus is typically portrayed in high school textbooks to see that this is so. Very few, if any, mention or have a sustained discussion of “how Columbus treated the lands and the people he ‘discovered.’ ”1Another problem with such narratives is that they often simply

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end up being wrong. New information is discovered that discredits or contradicts them, or known events or issues cannot be logically placed or analyzed within them.2 The colonial-period historiography of Pueblo people contains numerous master narratives that are inaccurate simply because they are too narrow in their approach to the topic. One of those master narratives portrays Pueblo people as compartmentalized through time, as I discussed at length in chapter 1. It is true that Pueblos were secretive about their beliefs and practices, much in the way Edward Spicer and Edward Dozier described. In chapter 2, I discussed the segmented nature of the Pueblo political sphere, arguing that Pueblo authorities sought to keep Spaniards ignorant of internal domestic affairs. They also frequently pretended to be loyal to the Spanish governor and Catholic Church in an effort to conceal their true intentions and motivations in various situations. If I were to write only about these particular aspects of Pueblo politics, I might be able to conclude that these communities were, in fact, “compartmentalized.” But secrecy regarding Pueblo practices and beliefs was not the only tactic Pueblos employed to negotiate Spanish authority. They also expanded political, economic, and ritual traditions to meet demands and burdens placed upon them by contact, and they also sometimes conformed practices to Spanish expectations, especially when those expectations aligned with their own practices and beliefs. Women did not, for example, participate overtly in politics involving Spaniards, in part because they had always held a consultative position in that sphere, but it is also the case that they did not participate because Spanish authorities found it unacceptable. In chapter 3, I argued that Pueblos responded to Spanish demands for access to labor and goods by categorizing such requests as “foreign relations” issues and then treating them as any other foreign relations matters would have been treated. As I discussed in chapter 4, Pueblo women continued to excel in the ritual sphere after Spanish contact, much as they had before contact occurred. They worked to actively circumvent negative Spanish influences in their lives in this sphere. Pueblo men also used their ritual-political role to both actively resist Spanish domination and build power and authority for themselves. But these were not the only tactics employed to negotiate Spanish colonialism. As I demonstrated in chapter 5, Pueblo people chose a range of responses to Spanish domination in the sphere of marital and intimate relations—from adopting the Catholic Church’s notion of a legitimate marriage to the complete rejection of such beliefs and practices. By describing this range of responses to Spanish domination, I have sought to demonstrate that it was not because their lives were compartmentalized from the outside world that Pueblos were able to maintain themselves as a distinct set of communities apart from the Spanish; rather,

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it was because they were able to successfully negotiate colonial power and authority—using multiple tactics, including Pueblofication—that they were able to do so. I do not mean for this generalization, however, to stand as a replacement master narrative for compartmentalization. First, it lacks the neatness and ease of an argument that proposes one explanation (compartmentalization) for how it is Pueblos have survived almost five centuries of Euro-American contact. Master narratives, by their very nature, do not invite investigation or debate: they are closed-ended statements. To say that Pueblos responded in many different ways to EuroAmerican contact is an open-ended statement: it leaves open the possibility that researchers may discover in the future that Pueblos used other tactics with different impacts than the ones discussed in this book to negotiate Spanish colonization. While I have tried to capture the complexities of practices and beliefs that developed after Spanish contact, I do not claim that nothing else of value can be said or written about Pueblos in the colonial period. Master narratives do, however, make such a claim: they have attained their status because they supposedly explain in totality some period in time, some issue, or some event. They “sanitize” the “messy history lived by . . . actors.”3 A master narrative exists that describes not only how Pueblos responded to Spanish colonization but also the nature of Pueblo-Spanish relations in the colonial period. An often-repeated argument is that Spanish policy toward Pueblo Indians shifted from “crusading intolerance” in the seventeenth century to “pragmatic accommodation” in the eighteenth.4 In the seventeenth century, Franciscan friars used harsh disciplinary tactics to force Pueblos to convert to Christianity.5 Spanish civil authority went no more easily on the Pueblo peoples. “In the beginning, the Spaniards had demonstrated military superiority over the Pueblos in sieges and pitched battles . . . and then dominated the natives for most of the seventeenth century.6 But in the eighteenth century, Pueblo-Spanish relations were far more conciliatory than they had been in the previous century. The 1680 revolt was at the bottom of much of the goodwill that the Spaniards showed Pueblo peoples in the eighteenth century. Returning to reestablish the colony in 1692, Spanish civil and church authorities took a much more careful approach toward the Pueblos.7 They realized they could not use the harsh tactics of the past century to force Pueblos to convert to Christianity and to become “civilized.” Those tactics had led to the revolt, an experience that the Spanish authorities, both secular and religious, had no desire to repeat in the eighteenth century. “The Spanish reconquest established a milder and somewhat more permissive yoke on the Pueblos.”8 Another important factor underwriting the accommodation between Pueblo and Spaniard was the issue of raiding. As Elizabeth John notes, the hope of returning friars and civil authorities was

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that “the Pueblos had by now suffered so much at the hands of bárbaros that they would be humbly grateful to live again under Spanish protection.”9 In fact, Spaniards and Pueblos fought side by side in many battles against nomadic raiders throughout the century.10 Finally, Spaniards and Pueblos formed cultural ties that bound them together in the eighteenth century. “Increasingly, at least along the Rio Grande and its tributaries, they joined in ritual co-parenthood (compadrazgo) and lived in close proximity (vecindad), becoming compadres and vecinos.”11 In short, the consensus is that missionizing and colonizing efforts were much more strenuous in the seventeenth century than in the eighteenth, thus Pueblo-Spanish relations shifted from crusading intolerance to pragmatic accommodation.12 Even rehabilitated versions of borderlands theory and history continue to stress accommodation and conciliatory relations in the eighteenth century. While Stephen Aron and Jeremy Adelman write that new borderlands theory must work to describe “the variegated nature of European imperialism and of indigenous reactions to colonial encroachments,”13 their depiction of eighteenth-century SpanishIndian relations does not stray far from convention. “Rather than create vassal subjects through conquest, eighteenth-century [Spanish] envoys went north with instructions to imitate the French and English patterns of signing treaties with Indians, implying a mutual relationship between autonomous peoples and abandoning the principle of paternalistic pacification,”14 which had held sway in the seventeenth century. While I have no doubt that Spaniards approached the colonization of Pueblos more gently upon their return to New Mexico after the revolt (or at least after de Vargas had subdued Pueblo communities), that Pueblos and Spaniards together defended the province from raiding, or that the two groups formed familial and familiar bonds through co-parenthood, I question the generalization that Pueblo-Spanish relations shifted from “crusading intolerance” to “pragmatic accommodation” between the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. This master narrative—proposed initially by historians in the early twentieth century and then regularly repeated and elaborated upon by others as described above15 — does not hold up under scrutiny. “Pragmatic accommodation” did not rule all social interaction between Spaniard and Pueblo in the eighteenth century, nor was all Pueblo-Spanish interaction in the seventeenth century characterized by “crusading intolerance.” Sometimes, Pueblos did “pragmatically” accommodate Spaniards—in both centuries. But, it is also certainly the case that they did not always accommodate or acquiesce to Spanish demands, no matter what century is under consideration. No one sentiment ruled all (or even most) Spanish and Pueblo interaction in the colonial period, just as Pueblos had more than one reaction to Spanish colonization besides compartmentalization. If asked, no historian or anthropologist (including

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the ones I just cited) would deny that this is true. Yet, there is something seductive about being able to explain the messy nature of lived experience through the use of one neat generalization, and so, the pursuit of such generalizations continues. Historians and anthropologists are beginning to challenge master narratives about other areas in the US-Mexico borderlands and American West besides New Mexico. For example, in writing about the experiences of native people in Colony Ross in northern California, Kent Lightfoot argues that the Franciscans “have been portrayed in the academic literature as highly destructive to traditional native cultures, in contrast to the more benevolent Russian merchants.” In fact, the missions were so destructive to native cultures in California in general that they were destroyed by the late 1800s and early 1900s. Thus, the master narrative for native people in California is the opposite of that of the Pueblos in New Mexico: rather than being compartmentalized and resisting Spanish domination completely, the cultures of California Indians had “faded out” or “become . . . hopelessly intermingled and confused,” as to defy anthropological categorization by the turn of the twentieth century. Lightfoot characterizes such statements about native life as “one dimensional” and argues that “the outcomes of colonial encounters are never quite so simple.”16 In fact, California Indians survived contact. “Today every major language grouping incorporated into the Franciscan missions is represented by descendant Indian communities.”17 In Texas, a totally different situation from either California or New Mexico existed. There, according to Juliana Barr, Spaniards at best stood on equal footing with native groups in struggles over control of material and political resources—they did not dominate native people, and they did not control them. This was because Texas was populated with powerful nomadic tribes who had more to gain from diplomatic relations with each other than with Spaniards. To them, Spaniards were—like themselves— a band “in an equal, if not weaker position to struggle for subsistence and survival in the region. In fact, the Spanish presence in ‘Texas’ often had little relevance to the region’s predominant native political and economic relations.” Thus, “the region that the Spaniards called Texas thus differed from many of New Spain’s frontiers because Indians not only retained control over much of the province but also because they asserted control over Spaniards themselves. The region’s eighteenthcentury history is not one of Indian resistance, but of Indian dominance.”18 When taken together, the more recent scholarly attention paid to Indians and Spaniards in the American Southwest and West paints a complex picture of their interactions. Such complexity warns against the value or possibility of creating sweeping generalizations about people, places, or events in this period of early American history.

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It is not just the master narratives concerning native people in the Southwest that ought to be scrutinized, of course. Historians have written highly nuanced studies that challenge the centrality of master narratives used to tell the story of the creation and development of the US-Mexico borderlands and the American West (of which Pueblo studies are part and parcel).19 This includes critiques that have been made of what is, perhaps, the grandest of all of the master narratives: Frederick Jackson Turner’s highly influential frontier thesis. Turner argued in 1893 that American movement west was inevitable, even “triumphalist.” The thesis justified America’s “aggressive” advance, its wrestling of “half a continent away from Britain, France, Spain, Mexico, and hundreds of American Indian societies during its first century of existence.” For Turner, and for many historians who followed in his footsteps, the frontier was the “outer edge of a wave . . . a meeting point between savagery and civilization.”20 Thus, one of the goals of the historian was to trace how the frontier was advanced, or how “civilization” won out over “savagery.” A second goal was to examine how frontier life shaped the character of the people living there. Turner believed that “a group’s place of origin shaped its character and that national character might be modified by occupational or environmental influences.”21 One of Turner’s protégés, Hubert Eugene Bolton, made a career out of studying the Hispanic frontier in the Southwest. Much like Turner’s focus on how the Anglo-American frontier shaped American character, Bolton sought to explain how the Hispanic frontier shaped Spanish character. He also saw the Hispanic frontier as a line between the civilized and the savage; in his formulation, Spaniards—like Anglos—were civilized.22 He exhibited “unabashed affection for his subject, describing the history of the borderlands as ‘picturesque’ and ‘romantic.’ ”23 Hispanics were not “savages” but “heroic figures” that carried out the colonization of the region. “The high drama of exploration and international rivalry captivated him. . . .”24 John Francis Bannon, Bolton’s protégé, emulated his advisor in his own writings on the subject. He extolled “the virtues of the Spaniard’s achievements in the Southwest— among them the Herculean work of the friars—in efforts to balance an Anglophile explanation of early American history.” He continued to do so even after scholars began to focus on the “less flattering aspects of the Spanish colonial experience.”25 Neither historian paid much attention to Indian peoples (or the savages) who inhabited the region, and when they did, they “slighted the negative impact of Spanish colonization” upon them.26 For example, Bannon argued that the punishment Governor Oñate meted out to Acoma people after the 1598 revolt was justified because “a Pueblo Revolt, such as the famous one of 1680, might well have developed early, had Oñate adopted less stern policies.”27

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Clearly, historians and anthropologists have simply dismissed some of the central aspects of Turner’s thesis: the idea of the frontier being a line between civilization and savagery, the dismissal of Indian people as being savages, and the unimportance to the telling of the history of the USMexico borderlands region. What has followed from these critiques is an effort to develop new lines of inquiry about the history of the US-Mexico borderlands and the American West that emphasize “the accommodation between invaders and indigenes and the hybrid residuals of these encounters.”28 My argument here is that this book, as well as Barr’s, Lightfoot’s, and others who attempt to reimagine Spanish-Indian relations, must be seen to fall within these broader efforts to change how it is we study and understand the history of the US-Mexico borderlands and American West. From my work, as well as work from people like Barr and Lightfoot, it is clear that such relations varied greatly. It is also clear that efforts must be made to ensure that Indian perspectives remain at the center of this rehabilitation of the historiography of the US-Mexico borderlands and American West—no matter how difficult it is to find them in the documentary and archaeological evidence or to reconstruct their perspectives from that evidence. It was they who were present before any European stepped foot on the North American continent; therefore, their histories and their experiences must be central to any retelling of the history of the US-Mexico borderlands and the American West.

NOTES

Chapter 1 1. Kenneth Hale and David Harris, “Historical Linguistics and Archaeology,” in Handbook of North American Indians: Southwest, ed. Alfonso Ortiz (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution, 1979). 2. Charles Adams, The Origin and Development of the Pueblo Katsina Cult (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1991). According to Adams, the katsina cult appeared in the Southwest right before Spanish contact occurred. It involves masked dancers who act as intermediaries between Pueblos and their gods. Fertility, rain, and ancestor worship are all tied together and are major themes of this society. 3. Robin Fox, The Keresan Bridge: A Problem in Pueblo Ethnology (New York: Berg, 2004). The western and Keresan pueblos were matrilineal, while the eastern Tanoan groups were bilateral. 4. Trudy Griffin-Pierce, Native Peoples of the Southwest (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2000), 44– 46. 5. Edward Spicer, Cycles of Conquest: The Impact of Spain, Mexico, and the United States on the Indians of the Southwest, 1533–1960 (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1962), 153. 6. Gayatri Spivak, “Can the Subaltern Speak?” in Marxism and the Interpretation of Culture, ed. Cary Nelson and Lawrence Grossberg (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1988). 7. Patricia Galloway, “How Deep Is (Ethno-) History?: Archives, Written History, Oral Tradition,” in Practicing Ethnohistory: Mining Archives, Hearing Testimony, Constructing Narrative (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2006), 9. 8. For such a decree, see SANM 4: 1014–17. For comments on trying to enforce such decrees, see the investigation of the alcalde mayor Ramón García Jurado, SANM 6: 1010–127. 9. SANM 4: 1016. 10. I of course mean the historical profession broadly defined: those trained in the discipline of history, as well as those trained in other disciplines that write history (such as ethnohistorians).

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11. Stephen Haber, “Anything Goes: Mexico’s ‘New’ Cultural History,” Hispanic American Historical Review 79, no. 2 (1999): 326. 12. Ibid., 330. 13. John Walton, “Arson, Social Control, and Popular Justice in the American West: The Uses of Microhistory,” in Small Worlds: Method, Meaning, and Narrative in Microhistory, ed. James Brooks, Christopher R. N. DeCorse, and John Walton (Santa Fe, NM: School for Advanced Research, 2008), 118. 14. John Lewis Gaddis, The Landscape of History: How Historians Map the Past (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 104. 15. Max Weber, “Basic Sociological Concepts,” in The Essential Weber: A Reader, ed. Sam Whimster (London: Routledge, 2004), 356. 16. The territory of New Mexico was ill defined in the colonial period. There was no secure and mapped-out, contiguous border of the region, and there would not be one until 1848 and the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo—long after the colonial period ended in 1821. 17. For a detailed discussion of Spanish government in New Mexico, see Marc Simmons, Spanish Government in New Mexico (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1990). 18. France Scholes, “Civil Government and Society in New Mexico in the Seventeenth Century,” New Mexico Historical Review 10 (1935): 75. See also Simmons, Spanish Government in New Mexico: 53– 87, 159–92. 19. France Scholes, Troublous Times in New Mexico, 1659–1670 (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1942). 20. For a discussion of the growth of tourism and its impact on the area, see Marta Weigle, Alluring New Mexico: Engineered Enchantment, 1821–2001 (Santa Fe: Museum of New Mexico Press, 2010); Leah Dilworth, Imagining Indians in the Southwest: Persistent Visions of a Primitive (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution, 1996). 21. Daniel Webster Jones, Forty Years Among the Indians: A True Yet Thrilling Narrative of the Author’s Experiences Among the Natives (Salt Lake City, UT: Juvenile Instructor Office, 1890), 48. 22. Edward Dozier, “Rio Grande Pueblos,” in Perspectives in American Indian Culture Change, ed. Edward Spicer (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1961), 164. 23. Edward Dozier, “Spanish-Catholic Influences on the Rio Grande Pueblo Religion,” American Anthropologist 60 (1958): 447. 24. Erik Reed, “Aspects of Acculturation in the Southwest,” Acta Americana 2 (1944): 65. 25. Edward Spicer, “Spanish-Indian Acculturation in the Southwest,” American Anthropologist 56 (1954): 665. 26. Ibid., 670. 27. Ibid., 669. 28. Ibid., 676–77. Quote is on page 676.

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29. William Fenton coined the term in the 1950s. He also called it the “direct historic approach”; William Fenton, “The Training of Historical Ethnologists in America,” American Anthropologist 54, no. 3 (1952). 30. Ibid., 329. 31. Florence Hawley-Ellis introduced the concept of upstreaming to Dozier while he was a graduate student at UCLA. Marilyn Norcini, Edward P. Dozier: the Paradox of the American Indian Anthropologist (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2007), 103. 32. Edward Dozier, “Making Inferences from the Present to the Past,” in Reconstructing Prehistoric Pueblo Societies, ed. William A. Longacre (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1970), 209. Spicer also used upstreaming liberally in his own work. See Spicer, Cycles of Conquest. 33. Dozier, “Making Inferences from the Present to the Past,” 210. 34. Ibid., 205. 35. For studies on secrecy in Pueblo society, see Elizabeth Brandt, “The Role of Secrecy in a Pueblo Society,” in Flowers of the Wind: Papers on Ritual, Myth and Symbolism in California and the Southwest, ed. Thomas C. Blackburn (Socorro, NM: Ballena Press Anthropological Paper No. 8, 1977); Elizabeth Brandt, “Egalitarianism, Hierarchy and Centralization in the Pueblos,” in The Ancient Southwestern Community: Models and Methods for the Study of Prehistoric Social Organization, ed. W. H. Wills and R. Leonard (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1994). 36. William Roseberry, Anthropologists and Histories: Essays in Culture, History, and Political Economy (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1989), 85. 37. For a similar critique of compartmentalization, see Paul Kroskrity, “Language Ideologies in the Expression and Representation of Arizona Tewa Ethnic Identity,” in Regimes of Language: Ideologies, Polities, and Identities, ed. Paul Kroskrity (Santa Fe, NM: School of American Research Press, 2000); Evelyn Hu-DeHart, Yaqui Resistance and Survival: The Struggle for Land and Autonomy, 1821–1910 (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1984). 38. David Hurst Thomas, Skull Wars: Kennewick Man, Archaeology, and the Battle for Native American Identity (New York: Basic Books, 2000). See chapter 9 especially for a brief discussion of the “vanishing Indian” stereotype. 39. Ramón Gutiérrez, When Jesus Came, the Corn Mothers Went Away: Marriage, Sexuality, and Power in New Mexico, 1500–1846 (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1991), 164. 40. Jeannette Mobley-Tanaka, “Crossed Cultures, Cossed Meanings: The Manipulation of Ritual Imagery in Early Historic Pueblo Resistance,” in Archaeologies of the Pueblo Revolt: Identity, Meaning, and Renewal in the Pueblo World, ed. Robert Preucel (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2002), 78. 41. Ross Frank, From Settler to Citizen: New Mexican Economic Development and the Creation of Vecino Society, 1750–1820 (Berkeley: University of California

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Press, 2000), 211. It is interesting to note that while Frank and Gutiérrez argue that compartmentalization developed in the eighteenth century during times of increased pressure and discord between Spaniards and Pueblos, Dozier argues that compartmentalization waned in the eighteenth century because of the relaxation of “Spanish-Catholic” pressures. This allowed Pueblos to revive and reorganize their ceremonies, with some secret dances eventually being performed out in the open; Dozier, “Rio Grande Pueblos,” 95. 42. Juliana Barr, Peace Came in the Form of a Woman: Indians and Spaniards in the Texas Borderlands (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2007). 43. Hartman Lomawaima, “Hopification: A Strategy for Cultural Preservation,” in Columbian Consequences: Archaeological and Historical Perspectives on the Spanish Borderlands West, ed. David Hurst Thomas (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1989), 97. See also many of the contributions in Robert Preucel, Archaeologies of the Pueblo Revolt: Identity, Meaning, and Renewal in the Pueblo World (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2002), 20. 44. Matthew Liebmann, “Signs of Power and Resistance: The (Re)Creation of Christian Imagery and Identities in the Pueblo Revolt Era,” in Archaeologies of the Pueblo Revolt: Identity, Meaning, and Renewal in the Pueblo World, ed. Robert Preucel (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2002), 134. 45. “Pueblofication” is “Hopification” applied to all Pueblo communities. See Robert Preucel, “Writing the Pueblo Revolt,” in Archaeologies of the Pueblo Revolt: Identity, Meaning, and Renewal in the Pueblo World, ed. Robert Preucel (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2002), 20. 46. Sylvia Rodriguez, The Matachines Dance: Ritual Symbolism and Interethnic Relations in the Upper Río Grande Valley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1996), 89. Chapter 2 1. George Hammond and Agapito Rey, eds. and trans., Narratives of the Coronado Expedition, 1540–1542 (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1940), 147. 2. George Hammond and Agapito Rey, eds. and trans., The Rediscovery of New Mexico, 1580–1594: The Explorations of Chumascado, Espejo, Castaño de Sosa, Morlete and Leyna de Bonilla and Humana (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1966), 193. 3. Ibid., 484. 4. Ibid., 627. 5. Ibid., 695. 6. Hammond and Rey, Narratives of the Coronado Expedition, 109. 7. Ibid., 263– 65. 8. Ibid., 183. 9. Hammond and Rey, The Rediscovery of New Mexico, 92.

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10. Peter Whiteley describes the fi rst observations of Hopi in much the same terms. Peter Whiteley, “The Interpretation of Politics: A Hopi Conundrum,” in Rethinking Hopi Ethnography (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1998), 82– 83. 11. Fred Eggan, Social Organization of the Western Pueblos (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1950), 106–9. 12. Edward Dozier, The Pueblo Indians of North America (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1970), 150– 62. 13. Ibid., 162–76. See also Trudy Griffin-Pierce, Native Peoples of the Southwest (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2000), 42– 46. 14. Hammond and Rey, Narratives of the Coronado Expedition, 157. 15. Barbara Mills, ed. Alternative Leadership Strategies in the Prehispanic Southwest (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2000); Gary Feinman, Kent Lightfoot, and Steadman Upham, “Political Hierarchies and Organ i zational Strategies in the Puebloan Southwest,” American Antiquity 65, no. 3 (2000). 16. Barbara Mills, “Alternative Models, Alternative Strategies: Leadership in the Prehispanic Southwest,” in Alternative Leadership Strategies in the Prehispanic Southwest, ed. Barbara Mills (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2000), 10. 17. Gary Feinman, “Dual-Processual Theory and Social Formations in the Southwest,” in Alternative Leadership Strategies in the Prehistoric Southwest, ed. Barbara Mills (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2000), 213–14. 18. Timothy Earle, “Economic Support of Chaco Canyon Society,” American Antiquity 66, no. 1 (2001): 27. 19. Ibid., 28. 20. Feinman, “Dual-Processual Theory and Social Formations in the Southwest,” 214–15; Michelle Hegmon, “Beyond the Mold: Questions of Inequality in Southwest Villages,” in North American Archaeology, ed. Timothy Pauketat and Diana DiPaolo Loren (Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishers, 2005), 228. 21. Hegmon, “Beyond the Mold,” 228. 22. Feinman, “Dual-Processual Theory and Social Formations in the Southwest,” 213–14. 23. Mills, “Alternative Models, Alternative Strategies,” 11. 24. Feinman, “Dual-Processual Theory and Social Formations in the Southwest,” 208. 25. Edward Spicer, Cycles of Conquest: the Impact of Spain, Mexico and the United States on the Indians of the Southwest, 1533–1960 (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1962), 379– 82; Dozier, The Pueblo Indians of North America, 187–90. 26. Spicer, Cycles of Conquest, 380–92; Dozier, The Pueblo Indians of North America, 189; Marc Simmons, “History of Pueblo-Spanish Relations to 1821,” in Handbook of North American Indians: Southwest, ed. Alfonso Ortiz (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution, 1979), 183. Hopi was the only Pueblo community that did not eventually implement a civil or secular government based on the

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Spanish model; Eggan, Social Organization of the Western Pueblos, 220. Hopi was located the farthest from Spanish centers of power in the colonial period; thus, remained isolated from and highly resistant to Spanish influence; J. O. Brew, “Hopi Prehistory and History to 1850,” in Handbook of North American Indians: Southwest, ed. Alfonso Ortiz (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution, 1979). 27. Spicer, Cycles of Conquest, 387. 28. Ross Frank, From Settler to Citizen: New Mexican Economic Development and the Creation of Vecino Society, 1750–1820 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000), 10. 29. Spicer, Cycles of Conquest, 392. 30. Edmund Ladd, “Zuni Social and Political Orga ni zation,” in Handbook of North American Indians: Southwest, ed. Alfonso Ortiz (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution, 1979), 489. While Zuni is being discussed here, one wonders if war priests at other pueblos were appointed to the post of governor as well. 31. Catherine Cameron and Andrew I. Duff, “History and Process in Village Formation: Context and Contrasts from the Northern Southwest,” American Antiquity 73, no. 1 (2008): 30. 32. Ibid., 35. 33. Ibid., 34. 34. Catherine Cameron and H. Wolcott Toll, “Deciphering the Organization of Production in Chaco Canyon,” American Antiquity 66, no. 1 (2001); Earle, “Economic Support of Chaco Canyon Society.” 35. Cameron and Duff, “History and Process in Village Formation,” 35. 36. Ibid., 36. While a strong case for seeing Chaco as a regional center that politically dominated outlying settlements has been made, it must also be stressed that the argument that Chaco was nothing more than an important religious center that lacked strong ties to great houses in the region has also been articulated; ibid., 34. 37. Ibid., 41– 43; Debra Martin, “Violence Against Women in the La Plata River Valley (A.D. 1000–1300),” in Troubled Times: Violence and Warfare in the Past, ed. Debra Martin and David Frayer (Australia: Gordon and Breach Publishers, 1997); Debra Martin and Nancy Akins, “Unequal Treatment in Life as in Death: Trauma and Mortuary Behavior at La Plata (A.D. 1000–1300),” in Ancient Burial Practices in the American Southwest: Archaeology, Physical Anthropology and Native American Perspectives, ed. Douglas R. Mitchell and Judy L. Brunson-Hadley (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2001); Timothy Kohler and Kathryn Kramer Turner, “Raiding for Women in the Pre-Hispanic Northern Pueblo Southwest?” Current Anthropology 47, no. 6 (2006). 38. Today, Pueblo peoples remember Chaco as “a wonderful, awful place where ‘people got power over people. What happened in Chaco was not right for Pueblo people (today), and Chaco is remembered that way (today)’ ”; Cameron and Duff, 51. This is probably the type of memory people had of Chaco after

Notes to Pages 31–35

181

1539. While emotionally compelling, it is not detailed enough to have guided Pueblo elites in their construction of policies to deal with Spanish authorities. 39. Barbara Mills, “Gender, Craft Production and Inequality,” in Women and Men in the Prehispanic Southwest: Labor, Power, and Prestige, ed. Patricia Crown (Santa Fe: School of American Research Press, 2000), 323; Katherine Spielmann, “Gender and Exchange,” in Women and Men in the Prehispanic Southwest: Labor, Power and Prestige, ed. Patricia Crown (Santa Fe: School of American Research Press, 2000), 361– 62; Louise Lamphere, “Gender Models in the Southwest: A Sociocultural Perspective,” in Women and Men in the Prehispanic Southwest: Labor, Power, and Prestige, ed. Patricia Crown (Santa Fe: School of American Research Press, 2000), 395; Karen Harry, “Ceramic Specialization and Agricultural Marginality: Do Ethnographic Models Explain the Development of Specialized Pottery Production in the Prehistoric American Southwest?” American Antiquity 70, no. 2 (2005): 305. 40. SANM 14: 128–74. 41. Ibid., 130, 159. 42. Ibid., 141, 145. 43. SANM 4: 841–84. 44. Ibid., 858. 45. SANM 5: 986–1004. 46. Ibid., 995. 47. NMO 2, #42. 48. SANM 12: 50–54. 49. See, for example, Steve Stern, Peru’s Indian Peoples and the Challenge of Spanish Conquest: Huamanga to 1640 (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1993). 50. This is very common in the Pueblo colonial period documentation. Many cases end abruptly and do not contain information on how investigations were resolved. 51. SANM 4: 880–82. 52. SANM 5: 986. 53. SANM 14: 129. Declarants claim in the document that both the father of the mission and the alcalde mayor were notified within two days of the incident but neither chose to investigate it (138, 160); however, Spanish officials did not believe this and argued that the alcalde mayor knew nothing of the incident (162). 54. SANM 13: 242. 55. SANM 14: 137, 141, 159. 56. Ibid., 139. 57. Ibid., 151. 58. Ibid., 142. Witch execution was a “common and widespread Pueblo phenomenon” in the pre-contact Southwest, and attempts to continue the tradition in the post-contact period have been documented; J. Andrew Darling, “Mass

182

Notes to Pages 35–41

Inhumation and the Execution of Witches in the American Southwest,” American Anthropologist 100, no. 3 (1999). Will Roscoe describes the case of Nick Dumaka, who was tried at Zuni for witchcraft in 1892; Will Roscoe, The Zuni Man-Woman (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1991), 98–122. 59. SANM 5: 990. 60. Ibid., 995. 61. Ibid., 994. 62. Ibid., 989–1000. 63. There are other secret meeting investigations or information concerning such meetings in the documentation. See SANM 4: 377–458 (1712), SANM 5: 92–114 (1715), SANM 13: 237–326 (1793), SANM 15: 74 (1803), SANM 16: 576–85 (1808), AASF 53: 823–26. 64. SANM 14: 129. 65. The response was that the whipping was done by consensus of the entire pueblo; ibid., 137, 140–41, 159–60. 66. Ibid., 662–86. 67. Ibid., 676–78. 68. Ibid., 684–86. 69. Ibid., 576–85. 70. SANM 17: 745–55. 71. See SANM 5: 992–97. 72. SANM 13: 237–326. Ross Frank has a lengthy discussion of the case in his book. See chapter 5 in Frank, From Settler to Citizen. 73. Such claims are made frequently from frames SANM 13: 261–314 of the document. 74. See, for example, SANM 13: 243. 75. Brew, “Hopi Prehistory and History to 1850,” 519. 76. Scott Rushforth and Steadman Upham, A Hopi Social History: Anthropological Perspectives on Sociocultural Persistance and Change (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1992), 105. 77. For a discussion of the term “class,” see Raymond Williams, Keywords: A Vocabulary of Culture and Society (New York: Oxford University Press, 1983), 60– 69. 78. Hammond and Rey, Narratives of the Coronado Expedition, 171. 79. Ibid., 177. 80. Ibid., 203. 81. SANM 2: 455–64. 82. Ibid., 456. 83. Ibid., 458–59. 84. Ibid., 459. 85. BN 6, #4. 86. BN 8, #80.

Notes to Pages 41–46

183

87. This term means “town council.” It is very rarely used when discussing or referencing Pueblo government. Santa Fe had a cabildo [see Marc Simmons, Spanish Government in New Mexico (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1990)]. But I have never seen Pueblo government described as having a cabildo— except in this document. For this reason, I assume that “cabildo members” simply references members of the Pueblo governing elite; it does not actually mean that Pueblo communities had cabildos. 88. BN 9, #31. 89. Myra Ellen Jenkins, “Taos Pueblo and Its Neighbors: 1540–1847,” New Mexico Historical Review 41 (1966): 91. 90. Spanish authorities were required to contact Pueblo officials about granting Spaniards land that was adjacent to their communities. 91. Ralph Twitchell, The Spanish Archives of New Mexico, vol. 1 (Cedar Rapids: Torch Press, 1914), 280– 82. 92. Works Progress Administration translation of Spanish Archives of New Mexico Series I, document #1358 (hereafter cited as WPA translation of SANM I, document number). 93. Sometimes petitions were written in the name of Pueblo people without their consent. This will be discussed below. 94. WPA translation of SANM I, #1339. 95. Ibid., 13. 96. Twitchell, The Spanish Archives of New Mexico, 1: 180– 81. 97. SANM 6: 1010–1127. 98. Ibid., 1023. 99. SANM 5: 702–13. 100. See, for example, SANM 7: 562–605 and SANM 11: 1103–22. 101. SANM 14: 136. 102. I discuss the fact that there is evidence that Pueblo women were fluent in Spanish in chapter 4. 103. SANM 4: 377–458. 104. Ibid., 405. 105. Ibid., 419. 106. BN 6, #3. 107. SANM 4: 423. This was common practice in colonial New Mexico. 108. SANM 13: 237–326. 109. See, for example, ibid., 243. 110. Ibid., 323. 111. SANM 4: 845, 848. 112. Ibid., 842. 113. Spanish authorities gave canes of office to Pueblo governors; thus, Dirucaca must have been in possession of one of these canes. 114. SANM 4: 877–80.

184

Notes to Pages 46–52

115. Ibid., 877. 116. NMO 3, #42. 117. Leslie Offutt found a similar pattern in her research. Leslie Offutt, “Women’s Voices from the Frontier: San Esteban de Nueva Tlaxcala in the Late Eighteenth Century,” in Indian Women of Early Mexico, ed. Susan Schroeder, Stephanie Wood, and Robert Haskett (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1997). 118. BN 7, #8. 119. SANM 12: 50–54. 120. Charles Hackett, ed. and trans., Historical Documents Relating to New Mexico, Nueva Vizcaya, and Approaches Thereto, to 1773 (Washington, DC: Carnegie Institute, 1937), 3:366. 121. Ibid. 122. Ibid., 368. 123. Ibid., 369. 124. BN 7, #8. 125. SANM 4: 67–70. 126. Ibid., 67. 127. Ibid., 69. 128. George Hammond and Agapito Rey, eds. and trans., Don Juan de Oñate: Colonizer of New Mexico, 1595–1628, 2 vols. (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1953), 635. 129. Cheryl J. Foote and Sandra K. Schackel, “Indian Women of New Mexico, 1535–1680,” in New Mexico Women: Intercultural Perspectives, ed. Joan Jensen and Darlis Miller (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1986), 30. 130. Foote and Schackel come to the same conclusion about women’s participation in Pueblo politics; ibid. 131. SANM 5: 92–114. 132. Ibid., 99, 102. 133. Ibid., 100. 134. Ibid., 96. “No lo sepan las mujeres.” 135. Ibid., 105. “Y que el mandar que no supiesen las mujeres lo platicado en la junta fue acausa de que no estubieran en ynteligenzia de que los estraños.” 136. SANM 14: 151. 137. Ibid. 138. Ibid., 110. 139. Ibid., 96, 99. “No lo digan a naide [nadie?] ni lo sepan las mujeres porque me perderan el respecto viendo que no los castigo.” 140. Ibid., 99. “Porque les ovedezieran lo que les mandavan y no les faltasen a la ovedienzia.” 141. Ibid., 101. “No los tendrian respeto ni ovedezerian sus mandactos y que correria la voz entre unos y otros y no avian casos de ellos.”

Notes to Pages 53–59

185

142. See, for example, Eleanor and Mona Etienne Leacock, eds. Women and Colonization: Anthropological Perspectives (Westport, CT: Praeger, 1980); Irene Silverblatt, Moon, Sun and Witches: Gender Ideologies and Class in Inca and Colonial Peru (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1987). 143. Ramón Gutiérrez, When Jesus Came, the Corn Mothers Went Away: Marriage, Sexuality, and Power in New Mexico, 1500–1846 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1991), 190. 144. Ibid., 209. 145. SANM 13: 25–52. 146. Ibid., 27. 147. Ibid., 46–48. 148. Ibid., 46. 149. Ibid., 45–50. 150. Ibid., 48. 151. Ibid., 49. 152. Ibid., 43. 153. Ibid., 50. 154. Ibid., 51. 155. In fact, it may not have been uncommon for non-elites to carry petitions to authorities. In 1819, elites of Sandia pueblo sent two commoner men to deliver a complaint about their alcalde mayor to the governor of New Mexico (SANM 19: 638–71; see frames 641–45 for the commoner men’s explanation of what happened). Perhaps Tafoya and Santo Domingo elites were just following a traditional Pueblo practice. 156. SANM 13: 33–40. 157. Ibid., 40–44. 158. Ibid., 50–51. 159. Ibid., 49. 160. Spaniards formally practiced bilaterality (calculation of descent from both parents). However, in practice, they practiced patrilineality in the sense that, in terms of bequeathing property, sons were strongly favored. I discuss this in more detail in chapter 5. 161. Patricia Crown, “Gendered Tasks, Power and Prestige in the Prehispanic Southwest,” in Women and Men in the Prehispanic Southwest: Labor, Power, and Prestige, ed. Patricia Crown (Santa Fe: School of American Research Press, 2000), 40. 162. Crown, “Gendered Tasks,” 12. 163. Ibid., 40. 164. Ibid., 13. 165. Suzanne Fish, “Farming, Foraging, and Gender,” in Women and Men in the Prehispanic Southwest: Labor, Power and Prestige, ed. Patricia Crown (Santa Fe: School of American Research Press, 2000), 193.

186

Notes to Pages 59–63

166. Ibid., 186. 167. Crown, Women and Men in the Prehispanic Southwest: Labor, Power and Prestige; Alison Rautman, “Changes in Regional Exchange Relationships During the Pithouse-to-Pueblo Transition in the American Southwest: Implications for Gender Roles,” in Women in Prehistory: North America and Mesoamerica, ed. Cheryl Claassen and Rosemary A. Joyce (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1997). 168. Martin, “Violence Against Women,” 67. 169. Ibid., 69. 170. Kelley Hays-Gilpin, “Gender Ideology and Ritual Activities,” in Women & Men in the Prehispanic Southwest: Labor, Power, and Prestige, ed. Patricia Crown (Santa Fe: School of American Research Press, 2000), 134. 171. Peter Whiteley, “The Interpretation of Politics: A Hopi Conundrum.” Man (N.S.) 22 (1987): 699. What Whiteley writes concerning power in Hopi society is true for Pueblo society in general. See, for example, Elizabeth Brandt, “The Role of Secrecy in a Pueblo Society,” in Flowers in the Wind: Papers on Ritual, Myth and Symbolism in California and the Southwest, ed. Thomas C. Blackburn (Socorro, NM: Ballena Press, 1977), 11–28. 172. Fish, “Farming, Foraging, and Gender,” 192. 173. Ibid., 186. 174. Michelle Hegmon, Scott Ortman, and Jeannette Mobley-Tanaka, “Women, Men and the Organization of Space,” in Women and Men in the Prehispanic Southwest: Labor, Power, and Prestige, ed. Patricia Crown (Santa Fe: School of American Research, 2000), 80. 175. Katherine Spielmann, “Glimpses of Gender in the Prehistoric Southwest,” Journal of Anthropological Research 51, no. 2 (1995): 97–98. 176. Ibid. 177. Hegmon, “Women, Men and the Organization of Space,” 81. 178. Jeannette Mobley-Tanaka, “Gender and Ritual Space During the Pithouse to Pueblo Transition: Subterranean Mealing Rooms in the North American Southwest,” American Antiquity 62, no. 3 (1997): 446. 179. Ibid. 180. Hays-Gilpin, “Gender Ideology and Ritual Activities,” 110. 181. Mills, “Gender, Craft Production and Inequality,” 335. 182. Hegmon, “Women, Men and the Organization of Space,” 80– 81. Women’s and men’s roles in the production and distribution of food (and other items) will be discussed at length in chapter 3. 183. Todd Howell, “Tracking Zuni Gender and Leadership Roles Across the Contact Period,” Journal of Anthropological Research 51 (1995): 144. 184. Ibid., 143. 185. Ibid., 144. 186. See, for example, Silverblatt’s discussion of Inca forms of subordination in Silverblatt, Moon, Sun, and Witches.

Notes to Pages 65–67

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Chapter 3 1. Frank, From Settler to Citizen, 27. 2. On the seventeenth-century New Mexican economy, see Heather Trigg, From Household to Empire: Society and Economy in Early Colonial New Mexico (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2005). For the eighteenth century, see Frank, From Settler to Citizen. 3. Patricia Crown, “Women’s Role in Changing Cuisine,” in Women and Men in the Prehispanic Southwest: Labor, Power, and Prestige, ed. Patricia Crown (Santa Fe: School for American Research Press, 2000), 224. 4. James Potter, “Pots, Parties, and Politics: Communal Feasting in the American Southwest,” American Antiquity 65, no. 3 (2000): 485; Crown, “Women’s Role in Changing Cuisine,” 223. 5. Foote and Schackel, “Indian Women of New Mexico, 1535–1680,” 18. 6. Fish, “Farming, Foraging, and Gender,” 182. 7. Foote and Schackel, “Indian Women of New Mexico, 1535–1680,” 18; Brian Shaffer, Karen Gardner, and Joseph Powell, “Prehistoric and Ethnographic Pueblo Gender Roles: Continuity of Lifeways from the Eleventh to the Early Twentieth Century,” in Reading the Body: Representations and Remains in the Archaeological Record, ed. Alison Rautman (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2000), 145; Crown, “Gendered Tasks,” 28. 8. Women did everything except cutting, transporting, and placing roof beams; Steven R. James, “Change and Continuity in Western Pueblo Households During the Historic Period in the American Southwest,” World Archaeology 28, no. 3 (1995): 439; Foote and Schackel, “Indian Women of New Mexico, 1535–1680,” 18. 9. James, “Change and Continuity in Western Pueblo Households,” 440. 10. Shaffer, Gardner, and Powell, “Prehistoric and Ethnographic Pueblo Gender Roles,” 145; Crown, “Gendered Tasks,” 10. 11. Katherine Spielmann and Diane E. Hawkey, “Age, Gender, and Labor: A Bioarchaeological Analysis of Missionized Pueblos,” in Managing Archaeological Data and Databases: Essays in Honor of Sylvia W. Gaines, ed. Jeffrey L. Hantman and Rachel Most (Tempe: Arizona State University Department of Anthropology Anthropological Research Paper 55, 2006), 124. 12. Hays-Gilpin, “Gender Ideology and Ritual Activities,” 107. 13. Mills, “Gender, Craft Production, and Inequality,” 328. 14. Barbara Mills, “Gender and the Reorganization of Historic Zuni Craft Production: Implications for Archaeological Interpretation,” Journal of Anthropological Research 51, no. 2 (1995): 151; Foote and Schackel, “Indian Women of New Mexico, 1535–1680,” 21. 15. Foote and Schackel, “Indian Women of New Mexico, 1535–1680,” 21. 16. Mills, “Gender, Craft Production, and Inequality”; Spielmann, “Gender and Exchange”; Foote and Schackel, “Indian Women of New Mexico, 1535–1680”;

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Notes to Pages 67–71

Barbara Mills and Patricia Crown, eds., Ceramic Production in the American Southwest (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1995). 17. Potter, “Pots, Parties, and Politics,” 485. 18. Mills, “Gender and the Reorganization of Historic Zuni Craft Production,” 151. 19. Mills, “Gender, Craft Production, and Inequality,” 327. 20. Trigg, From Household to Empire, 45. 21. Shaffer, Gardner, and Powell, “Prehistoric and Ethnographic Pueblo Gender Roles,” 139. 22. BN 7, #8; AASF 52: 718; BN 9, #31; Hackett, Historical Documents, 3:466. 23. BN 9, #44; Hackett, Historical Documents, 3:430, 459– 68, 471, 485. 24. Hackett, Historical Documents, 3:417. 25. Mamie Ruth Tanquest-Miller, Pueblo Indian Culture as Seen By the Early Spanish Explorers (Los Angeles: University of Southern California School of Research Studies Number 18, Social Science Series Number 21, 1941), 13. 26. Hackett, Historical Documents, 3:485. 27. SANM 13: 27; Frederick Hodge, George Hammond, and Agapito Rey, eds., Fray Alonso de Benavides’ Revised Memorial of 1634 (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1945), 67. 28. AASF 52: 718. 29. Hammond and Rey, Don Juan de Oñate, 654. 30. Spielmann and Hawkey, “Age, Gender, and Labor,” 123. 31. Tanquest-Miller, Pueblo Indian Culture, 8. 32. Hodge, Hammond, and Rey, Fray Alonso de Benavides’ Revised Memorial of 1634, 36. 33. NMO 1, #30. 34. BN 8, #76. 35. Charles Lange, Cochiti: A New Mexico Pueblo, Past and Present (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1990), 216–17. 36. Ibid., 110. 37. Quoted in ibid., 164. 38. BN 8, #76. 39. SANM 6: 1090. 40. Hackett, Historical Documents, 3:427. 41. Trigg, From Household to Empire, 125. 42. A large number of archaeologists of the Southwest that argue that production of ceramics in the pre-Hispanic period was carried out exclusively by women. For a comprehensive discussion of those sources, see Mills and Crown, Ceramic Production in the American Southwest, 12; Katherine Spielmann, Jeannette L. Mobley-Tanaka, and James M. Potter, “Style and Resistance in the Seventeenth Century Salinas Province,” American Antiquity 71, no. 4 (2006): 624–27.

Notes to Pages 71–76

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43. W. H. Wills, “Pithouse Architecture and the Economics of Household Formation in the Prehistoric American Southwest,” Human Ecology 29, no. 4 (2001): 480; James M. Skibo and Eric Blinman, “Exploring the Origins of Pottery on the Colorado Plateau,” in Pottery and People: A Dynamic Interaction, ed. James Skibo and Gary Feinman (Salt Lake City: University of Utal Press, 1999), 175. 44. Tanquest-Miller, Pueblo Indian Culture, 13. 45. Cross-culturally, women are typically the potters because potting can more easily fit into the daily routines of those people who are tied to camps or base settlements; Patricia Crown and W. H. Wills, “The Origins of Southwestern Ceramic Containers: Women’s Time Allocation and Economic Intensification,” Journal of Anthropological Research 51, no. 2 (1995): 175. Men typically become involved in pottery production when it becomes a significant source of income in state level societies; Spielmann, Mobley-Tanaka, and Potter, “Style and Resistance,” 626. Pueblo men now produce ceramics for the market. At Zuni, men appear to have entered production in the 1970s; Mills, “Gender and the Reorganization of Historic Zuni Craft Production,” 155. Men may have entered production as early as the late nineteenth century in other pueblos; ibid.,154. 46. Trigg, From Household to Empire, 131. 47. Ibid., 141. 48. Frank, From Settler to Citizen, 158. 49. Ibid., 174. 50. Quoted in ibid., 158. 51. SANM 6: 1010–1127. 52. SANM 6: 1041; SANM 5: 812; Tanquest-Miller, Pueblo Indian Culture, 12; Hackett, Historical Documents, 3:459–71. 53. SANM 6: 1038. 54. SANM 13: 25–52. 55. Hackett, Historical Documents, 3:427, 471. 56. SANM 6: 1010–1127; Hackett, Historical Documents, 3:471, 473. 57. Hackett, Historical Documents, 3:471. 58. Ibid., 459– 68. 59. Trigg, From Household to Empire, 96–98, 124. See chapter 5 for a general discussion of Spanish New Mexican households. 60. Although this varied somewhat by ethnicity. See Gutiérrez, When Jesus Came, the Corn Mothers Went Away, 204. 61. Karen Spalding, Huarochirí: An Andean Society Under Inca and Spanish Rule (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1984), 124; Trigg, From Household to Empire, 136. 62. Trigg, From Household to Empire, 137–39. 63. Ibid., 139. 64. Ibid., 121–22. 65. Frank, From Settler to Citizen, 8. 66. Trigg, From Household to Empire, 145; Frank, From Settler to Citizen, 25.

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Notes to Pages 76–78

67. Frank, From Settler to Citizen, 27. 68. Trigg, From Household to Empire, 122. See chapters 5–7 for a more detailed description of encomienda and repartimiento in the seventeenth century. 69. Pueblo individuals had to contribute labor to community projects, such as ditch cleaning and maintenance. 70. David Snow, “A Note on Encomienda Economics in Seventeenth-Century New Mexico,” in Hispanic Arts and Ethnohistory in the Soutwest, ed. Marta Weigle (Santa Fe: Ancient City Press, 1983), 350. While arguing that labor demands were easily met, Snow acknowledges that tribute levies could be “very oppressive” during years when crops failed in the seventeenth century. 71. Frank argues that while demands were not burdensome at the beginning of the eighteenth century, pottery production for Spaniards became exploitative at the end of the eighteenth century because there was an increasing demand for the item outside of New Mexico. Frank, From Settler to Citizen, 21–30. 72. David Weber, The Spanish Frontier of North America (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1992), 125. Trigg, From Household to Empire, 137–38. Elinore Barrett, Conquest and Catastrophe: Changing Rio Grande Pueblo Settlement Patterns in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2002), 69; Elizabeth John, Storms Brewed in Other Men’s Worlds: The Confrontation of the Indians, Spanish, and French in the Southwest, 1540– 1795 (College Station: Texas A&M Press, 1975), 149. 73. Spielmann and Hawkey, “Age, Gender, and Labor,” 123; Trigg, From Household to Empire, 187. 74. Trigg, From Household to Empire: Society and Economy in Early Colonial New Mexico, 46, 103, 147, 189. 75. Ibid., 110, 116, 155. 76. Spielmann and Hawkey, “Age, Gender, and Labor,” 123. 77. Katherine Spielmann et al., “ ‘. . . being weary, they had rebelled’: Pueblo Subsistence and Labor Under Spanish Colonialism,” Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 28 (2009): 117; Trigg, From Household to Empire, 145. 78. According to Trigg, at least in the seventeenth century, both Spanish households and Pueblo communities processed rawhides. Of course it was the “help” living or working in the households of Spaniards, and not the Spaniards themselves, who were the ones to perform this task. Thus, other individuals besides Pueblo women performed hide processing; this meant that Pueblo women were not the only ones who supplied hides for Spanish consumption. Nevertheless, the processing that Pueblo women did for Spaniards appears to have been substantial, given the documented demands for leather and chamois; Trigg, From Household to Empire, 106–17. 79. Trigg, From Household to Empire, 131. 80. Ibid., 141. 81. Ibid., 107, 131.

Notes to Pages 78–80

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82. Ibid., 141. 83. Ibid. Snow argues that extraction of tribute apart from encomienda or repartimiento occurred as early as 1600 in New Mexico; Snow, “A Note on Encomienda Economics,” 350. 84. Frank, From Settler to Citizen, 120. 85. AGN PI 36, #2. 86. SANM 5: 801–13. 87. SANM 5: 807. 88. Myra Ellen Jenkins, “Some Eighteenth-Century New Mexico Women of Property,” in Hispanic Arts and Ethnohistory in the Southwest, ed. Marta Weigle (Santa Fe: Ancient City Press, 1983), 337. 89. I focus on pottery production (as opposed to other types of production or labor such as hauling, hide processing, corn processing, and the like) because it is the type of production most studied and analyzed in the secondary literature. 90. Gutiérrez, When Jesus Came, the Corn Mothers Went Away, 167. 91. Alicia Tjarks, “Demographic, Ethnic and Occupational Structure of New Mexico, 1790,” The Americas 35, no. 1 (1978): 72, 77. The number of Spanish families in New Mexico was calculated from two of Tjarks’s tables. Table 8 (p. 72) provides the total number of “nuclear” families in Albuquerque (925), Santa Fe (512), and Santa Cruz (460), as well as the “neighbors” of Zuni (97). Table 12 (p. 77) provides the total number of families of “neighbors” living near San Juan (288) and Picuris (75). I include these families of “neighbors” near Pueblo communities in my overall calculation of Spanish families in New Mexico because these were most likely Spaniards. Pueblos typically lived in Pueblo communities; Spaniards were not allowed to live in Pueblo communities, so they frequently lived near them to have convenient access to their labor and crafts. The overall figure probably underrepresents the Spanish population, since Tjarks does not provide numbers of families living near all twenty-one Pueblo communities, just the three listed here. 92. Gutiérrez, When Jesus Came, the Corn Mothers Went Away, 167. 93. Frank, From Settler to Citizen, 158. 94. Richard Ford, “Barter, Gift or Violence: An Analysis of Tewa Tribal Exchange,” in Social Exchange and Interaction, ed. E. M. Wilmsen (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Anthropology Papers #46, 1972), 40. 95. For example, Spielmann et al. argue that Pueblo response to labor demands made by Spaniards in the early seventeenth century varied in the Salinas region, based on such factors as the availability of resources and labor. Spielmann et al., “ ‘. . . being weary, they had rebelled,’ ” 112. 96. Frank, From Settler to Citizen, 169, 173. 97. Ibid., 172–73. 98. Spielmann, “Gender and Exchange,” 373–75, 377. 99. Rautman, “Changes in Regional Exchange Relationships,” 112.

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Notes to Pages 80–85

100. Ibid., 102. 101. Ford, “Barter, Gift or Violence: An Analysis of Tewa Tribal Exchange,” 28, 32, 39, 40. 102. Trigg, From Household to Empire, 131. 103. Snow, “A Note on Encomienda Economics,” 101–2. 104. Trigg, personal communication. 105. Spielmann and Hawkey, “Age, Gender, and Labor,” 125. In central New Mexico in the seventeenth century, “the impact of tribute and labor demands . . . was considerable” although this impact varied from pueblo to pueblo. For example, Pecos women appear to have been less burdened than women at Gran Quivira; ibid., 123, 127. 106. For a discussion of population loss and impact of this loss on Pueblo communities, see Barrett, Conquest and Catastrophe; Mark Lycett, “Spanish Contact and Pueblo Orga ni zation: Long Term Implications of European Colonial Expansion in the Rio Grande Valley, New Mexico,” in Columbian Consequences: Archaeological and Historical Perspectives on the Spanish Borderlands West, ed. David Hurst Thomas (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1989). 107. Frank writes that the amount of labor and goods that missionaries could extract was based upon the “population of the pueblo and the quality of its lands”; Frank, From Settler to Citizen, 24. The same was essentially true for secular authorities, whether they had rights to encomienda, repartimiento, or both. 108. Scholes, “Civil Government and Society,” 91. For variation of missionary personnel in the province, see Jim Norris, After ‘the Year Eighty’: The Demise of Franciscan Power in Spanish New Mexico (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2000); France Scholes and Lansing Bloom, “Friar Personnel and Mission Chronology, 1598–1629,” New Mexico Historical Review 19 (1944); France Scholes and Lansing Bloom, “Friar Personnel and Mission Chronology, Part Two,” New Mexico Historical Review 20, no. 1 (1945). 109. H. Allen Anderson, “The Encomienda in New Mexico, 1598–1680,” New Mexico Historical Review 60, no. 4 (1985): 365. Of course, individual payment of tribute would have garnered Spaniards much higher amounts of tribute than payments made by households. 110. Ibid., 359. 111. SANM 6: 1010–1127; SANM 7: 216–57; BN 8, #80; SANM 13: 25–52; BN 9, #31. 112. BN 8, #80; SANM 13: 25–52; BN 9, #31. 113. SANM 6: 1010–1127; SANM 7: 216–57. 114. BN 8, #80. 115. BN 9, #31. 116. SANM 6: 1010–1127. 117. Ibid., 1010–11. 118. Ibid., 1013–19.

Notes to Pages 85–90

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119. SANM 7: 216–57. 120. Ibid., 232. 121. Martin, “Violence Against Women,” 67. 122. Hegmon, “Beyond the Mold,” 222. 123. Quote is from Michelle Hegmon, Winston Hurst, and James R. Allison, “Production for Local Consumption and Exchange: Comparisons of Early Red and White Ware Ceramics in the San Juan Region,” in Ceramic Production in the American Southwest, ed. Barbara Mills and Patricia Crown (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1995), 33. See also Mills and Crown, Ceramic Production in the American Southwest; Crown, Women and Men in the Prehispanic Southwest. 124. Hegmon, Hurst, and Allison, “Production for Local Consumption and Exchange,” 32. 125. Harry, “Ceramic Specialization,” 296; Hegmon, “Beyond the Mold,” 222; Hegmon, Hurst, and Allison, “Production for Local Consumption and Exchange,” 32; Michelle Hegmon et al., “Production of San Juan Red Ware in the Northern Southwest: Insights into Regional Interaction in Early Puebloan Prehistory,” American Antiquity 62, no. 3 (1997): 453; Wesley Bernardini, “Kiln Firing Groups: Inter-Household Economic Collaboration and Social Organization in the Northern American Southwest,” American Antiquity 65, no. 2 (2000): 374; C. Dean Wilson and Eric Blinman, “Changing Specialization of White Ware Manufacture in the Northern San Juan Region,” in Ceramic Production in the American Southwest, ed. Barbara Mills and Patricia Crown (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1995), 64; Barbara Mills, “The Organization of Protohistoric Zuni Ceramic Production,” in Ceramic Production in the American Southwest, ed. Barbara Mills and Patricia Crown (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1995), 223; Melissa Hagstrum, “Household Production in Chaco Canyon Society,” American Antiquity 66, no. 1 (2001): 287; Kohler and Turner, “Raiding for Women,” 1041; Spielmann, “Gender and Exchange,” 351. 126. Spielmann, “Gender and Exchange,” 360, 351. 127. Judith Habicht-Mauche, “Changing Patterns of Pottery Manufacture and Trade in the Northern Rio Grande” in Ceramic Production in the American Southwest, ed. Barbara Mills and Patricia Crown (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1995), 192. 128. Ibid. 129. William Graves and Katherine Spielmann, “Leadership, Long Distance Exchange, and Feasting in the Protohistoric Rio Grande,” in Alternative Leadership Strategies in the Greater Southwest, ed. Barbara Mills (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2000). 130. Ibid., 46. 131. Ibid., 55. 132. Ibid., 55, 58. 133. Mills, “Gender, Craft Production, and Inequality,” 323.

194

Notes to Pages 90–96

134. Spielmann, “Gender and Exchange,” 361. 135. Mills, “Gender, Craft Production, and Inequality,” 324. 136. Spielmann, “Gender and Exchange,” 362. 137. Ibid., 374. 138. Quote in Kohler and Turner, “Raiding for Women,” 1041. See also Cameron and Toll, “Deciphering the Organization of Production in Chaco Canyon,” 11; Earle, “Economic Support of Chaco Canyon Society,” 33; Hagstrum, “Household Production in Chaco Canyon Society,” 50; H. Wolcott Toll, “Making and Breaking Pots in the Chaco World,” American Antiquity 66, no. 1 (2001): 59– 60. 139. Spielmann, “Gender and Exchange,” 351, 369–70. 140. Ibid., 377. 141. NMO 1, #30. 142. Bandelier Papers 2, #3. 143. NMO 1, #30. 144. David Snow, “Spanish American Pottery Manufacture in New Mexico: A Critical Review,” Ethnohistory 31 (1984): 101. The actual claims in the case are at SANM 8: 426, 444. 145. Ford, “Barter, Gift or Violence,” 36. 146. Rautman, “Changes in Regional Exchange Relationships,” 102. 147. Ford, “Barter, Gift or Violence,” 40– 41. 148. Ibid., 31–32. 149. John Kessell, Kiva, Cross, and Crown: The Pecos Indians and New Mexico, 1540–1840 (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1987), 136–37. 150. Ford, “Barter, Gift or Violence,” 32. 151. Ibid., 28. 152. Rautman, “Changes in Regional Exchange Relationships,” 102. 153. SANM 6: 1010–1127. 154. Ibid., 1067. 155. Ibid., 1033. 156. Ibid., 1054. 157. Ibid., 1059. 158. Ibid., 1061. 159. Ibid., 1082– 83. 160. SANM 13: 25–52. 161. Ibid., 26. 162. Ibid., 35. 163. Ibid., 27. 164. Ibid., 32. 165. SANM 6: 1019. 166. Ibid., 1031. 167. Ibid., 1033. 168. SANM 7: 216–57.

Notes to Pages 96–106

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169. Ibid., 232. 170. Although group complaints were made within the context of a visita. For example, Codallos y Rabal heard a complaint by “el comun de los Indios” of Santa Clara in 1745. They complained they had cleaned an acequia and wanted to be paid for it (SANM 8: 419). However, individual men and women fi led a great majority of complaints heard in the extant visitas. And it is not clear who made up the “comun de los Indios” that made this complaint; given the evidence presented in this chapter and chapter 1, it was most likely male elites. 171. Ford, “Barter, Gift or Violence,” 43. 172. Melissa Hagstrum, “Creativity and Craft: Household Pottery Traditions in the Southwest,” in Ceramic Production in the American Southwest, ed. Barbara Mills (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1995), 289. 173. Rautman, “Changes in Regional Exchange Relationships,” 102. 174. In other words, this is not “class” in the Marxist sense of the term: “class divisions . . . center on those who, through their control over the means of production, can extract surplus products or labor from those who do not”; Silverblatt, Moon, Sun, and Witches, xix). While elites could extract surplus products and labor from commoners, this could only be done in limited circumstances and was not accompanied by them controlling the means of production. 175. Ibid. See especially chapters 6 and 7. 176. SANM 7: 216–57; ultimately, the governor of New Mexico decided there was no substance to the complaint, 216. 177. Ibid., 228, 238. 178. Ibid., 227. 179. Ibid., 230. 180. SANM 10: 662– 86; again, what we see is Pueblo authorities sometimes inviting Spanish interference, as in chapter 2, while at other times attempting to diminish it, as discussed here. In other words, Pueblos manipulated Spanish interference to suit their needs. 181. Ibid., 664– 65. 182. Ibid., 670. 183. Ibid., 676–78. 184. Ibid., 685. 185. Ibid., 681. 186. Fish, “Farming, Foraging, and Gender,” 192–93. Chapter 4 1. Silverblatt, Moon, Sun, and Witches. 2. Dennis Tedlock, “Zuni Religion and World View,” in The Handbook of North American Indians, ed. Alfonso Ortiz (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution, 1979), 506. 3. Ibid.

196

Notes to Pages 106–110

4. For information on Pueblo witchcraft, see Tedlock, “Zuni Religion and World View”; Will Roscoe, The Zuni Man-Woman (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1991), 102– 4; and Elsie Clews Parsons, Pueblo Indian Religion, 2 vols. (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1996). 5. This history makes it difficult to write about Pueblo healing, curing, and ritual practices today, since any terminology one might choose to describe these activities has pejorative connotations to greater or lesser degrees. When generalizing about Pueblo practices of sorcery and healing, I do use the term “witchcraft” simply for ease of writing and analysis. I do not, of course, mean the term in any pejorative sense. 6. In other words, my use of the terms “interpersonal” and “politicized” witchcraft in this chapter should not be correlated with the idea of a “personal/ political” split, so thoroughly criticized by feminists. Interpersonal relationships had political implications, and political processes had interpersonal dimensions in the Pueblo world, as I will point out in this chapter. Nor should the terms be read to mean that Pueblo women exclusively inhabited a private or personal realm that had little political impact on, or implications for, their communities, while men inhabited a public realm of power and politics. In this chapter, I do argue that Pueblo men and women sometimes (but not always) inhabited different social arenas; however, what I do not argue here is that these social arenas can be correlated with a public/private split. These points will be elaborated below. 7. SANM 5: 165– 83. 8. Ibid., 176. 9. Ibid., 170. 10. Ibid., 175. 11. Few argues that “economic sorcery”— or the location of wealth for clients—was big business in colonial Guatemala. Martha Few, Women Who Live Evil Lives: Gender, Religion, and the Politics of Power in Colonial Guatemala (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2002), 104. 12. SANM 5: 166. 13. Ibid., 173. Few points out that female sorcerers were not necessarily poor and, therefore, that the Inquisition did not necessarily always target poor women as has been generally argued; see Few, Women Who Live Evil Lives, 103. 14. SANM 5: 166. 15. As Laura Lewis correctly argues, “proximity to Spanishness and Spaniards indicated conformity to proper colonial values. Conversely, proximity to Indians and Indianness marked a potent and nonconforming supernaturalism.” Laura A. Lewis, Hall of Mirrors: Power, Witchcraft, and Caste in Colonial Mexico (Durham: Duke University Press, 2003), 4. 16. SANM 5: 166– 67. 17. Elite status protected women from prosecution in other areas of Latin America as well. Few, Women Who Live Evil Lives, 114.

Notes to Pages 110–112

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18. The Pueblo Revolt occurred in 1680, driving all Spaniards from the province. They returned in 1692 to reestablish the Spanish colony. 19. In eighteenth-century New Mexico, civil authorities—not the Inquisition— handled witchcraft cases involving Indian peoples. Indian peoples were formally removed from the jurisdiction of the Inquisition throughout Latin America in 1571; after that time, control over the prosecution of Indian sacrilege fell to the bishop’s or archbishop’s office. Richard Greenleaf, “The Inquisition and the Indians of New Spain: A Study in Jurisdictional Confusion,” The Americas 22, no. 2 (1965): 141. With no vicar general to oversee such cases in New Mexico, and little interest on the part of Franciscan missionaries in pursuing such cases, civil power began to assume jurisdiction over witchcraft as early as 1708. Richard Greenleaf, “The Inquisition in Eighteenth-Century New Mexico,” New Mexico Historical Review 60, no. 1 (1985): 34. Governors’ assistants, such as the alcaldes mayores, handled the investigative work themselves; governors then read the resulting papers and made decisions regarding the guilt, innocence, and punishment of the accused. These investigations did not mimic Inquisitorial procedure, as they might in other areas of Latin America, nor did they focus on the same sorts of issues as the New Mexican Inquisition. The latter institution typically prosecuted cases of bigamy, sexual morality, and heresy amongst the Spanish and mixed-blood population of New Mexico. Pueblo peoples were typically prosecuted by civil authorities for sorcery and curing. Ibid. 20. SANM 5: 167. Caza denied the accusation, ibid., 172. 21. Ibid., 176. 22. Lewis, Hall of Mirrors, 160. 23. Ibid., 8. 24. According to Caza, Luján called her a “perra hechicera” (lousy witch) when she told her she could not procure the herb from Galisteo to cure her. She also threw a shoe through Caza’s mother’s window because she advised Caza to stay away from her. SANM 5: 176. 25. By unsanctioned justice or power, I mean that which is not attached to appropriate people or office or is used for negative purposes. 26. Gaps between the time of the witchcraft and witchcraft accusation itself are common, indicating that many accused and accusers attempted to work things out in this manner. See Few, Women Who Live Evil Lives, 110. 27. Gutiérrez, When Jesus Came, the Corn Mothers Went Away, 194. Douglas Cope argues that, in Mexico City, only black slaves were below Indians in status. Douglas Cope, The Limits of Racial Domination: Plebian Society in Colonial New Mexico (Madison: The University of Wisconsin Press, 1994), 24. There were few people of African descent in New Mexico during the colonial period, leaving Indian peoples to occupy the lowest rung in the racial hierarchy. 28. Lewis also points out that the “normal” racial order was sometimes upended in other parts of Mexico in Hall of Mirrors, 199, fn. 120.

198

Notes to Pages 113–119

29. SANM 5: 183. 30. Lewis uses this phrase to describe the case of Juana Isabel, whose “skin color, genealogy, and social affiliation were contradictory” according to her neighbors, in Hall of Mirrors, 103. 31. The term is Few’s. Few, Women Who Live Evil Lives, 110. 32. SANM 4: 74–109. Ralph Twitchell includes an English translation of this document— one that is faithful to the original—in The Spanish Archives of New Mexico, vol. 2 (Cedar Rapids: Torch Press, 1914), 142– 63. 33. Ibid., 145. 34. Ibid., 147. 35. Ibid., 152. 36. Ibid., 148. 37. Ibid., 162. 38. Ibid., 148, 149. 39. Ibid., 157. 40. Francis Levine, Our Prayers Are in This Place: Pecos Pueblo Identity over the Centuries (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1999), 87– 88. 41. Ibid., 85, 91–92. 42. Twitchell, The Spanish Archives of New Mexico, 2:152. 43. “Claim made by Juana de Apodaca against Miguel Garatuza and Felipa de la Cruz,” Bandelier Papers 2, 4. 44. Ibid. 45. Ibid. 46. Ibid. 47. AGN Inquisición 735. 48. The case was turned over to church authorities, but there is no evidence they pursued an investigation into the matter. Bandelier Papers 2, 4. 49. AGN Inquisición 735. According to Greenleaf, this investigation represents the first post-reconquest activity by the Holy Office. Greenleaf, “The Inquisition in Eighteenth-Century New Mexico,” 118–22. See also Greenleaf, “The Inquisition and the Indians of New Spain,” and France Scholes, “The First Decade of the Inquisition in New Mexico,” New Mexico Historical Review 10, no. 3 (1935). 50. AGN Inquisición 735. 51. For example, see Lewis, Hall of Mirrors, 118–22. 52. Both Caza and Caza’s mother were imprisoned; Caza was eventually released. Two of the three San Juan women Dominguez accused were imprisoned and then released when authorities decided that Dominguez’s charges were baseless. No charges were fi led against Felipa de la Cruz or Juana de Apodaca. Pueblo men accused of witchcraft also died in prison. While there are no extant papers concerning the investigation of “Felipe Indio” of the Tiwa nation of Isleta, there is a scrap in the archive that indicates he was accused of witchcraft and died in prison (SANM 6: 792–93).

Notes to Pages 119–125

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53. SANM 4: 841– 84. Quotes are from frame 841. This case is also discussed in chapter 2. 54. Ibid., 841– 42. 55. Ibid., 860. 56. Ibid., 856. 57. Ibid., 856. 58. Ibid., 843. 59. Ibid., 855. 60. Ibid., 861. 61. Bandelier Papers 2, 4. 62. SANM 4: 842. 63. Ibid., 855. 64. Ibid., 861. 65. Ibid., 880– 82. 66. Frank Salomon, “Shamanism and Politics in Late Colonial Ecuador,” American Ethnologist 10, no. 3 (1983): 414. 67. Ibid., 413. 68. Ibid., 422. 69. Ibid., 418. 70. Ibid., 418. 71. Ibid., 419. 72. Ibid., 420. 73. SANM 6: 336–55. 74. Ibid., 337. 75. Ibid., 347. 76. Ibid., 349–50. 77. The case is located at SANM 6: 977–96. This is not an actual witchcraft investigation, but rather documents concerning Ramón García Jurado’s attempts to get his son and several other men out of jail. These men had helped to whip and then arrest Francisco Morones in an attempt to get him to confess to bewitching García Jurado—which he did do, as a result of the physical punishment. 78. SANM 6: 985. 79. Ibid., 989–90. 80. The case is located at SANM 7: 35– 46. 81. Ibid., 46. 82. Caza is described in the documentation as an “India Ladina,” which meant an Indian person who was very Hispanicized in appearance and competent in the Spanish language (SANM 5: 166). This is not surprising, given that she lived in Santa Fe. Spanish authorities describe two of the three San Juan Indias accused by Doña Leonore Dominguez (Catharina Rosa and Catharina Luján) as being ladinas who were fluent in Spanish (SANM 4: 84– 85). Authorities described Felipa de la Cruz, the accused in Apodaca’s investigation, as speaking Spanish very well (Bandelier Papers 2, 4).

200

Notes to Pages 125–129

83. Susan Kellogg, “From Parallel and Equivalent to Separate but Unequal: Tenocha Mexica Women, 1500–1700,” in Indian Women of Early Mexico, ed. Susan Schroeder, Stephanie Wood, and Robert Haskett (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1997), 136. 84. Jerónimo Dirucaca used an interpreter for his declaration (SANM 4: 858), as did Pedro Munpa (SANM 6: 346) and Juan the cacique (SANM 7: 39); there is no indication that Francisco Morones used an interpreter. None of these men are described as ladino, and Juan the cacique had to reassure Spanish authorities that he was capable of being sworn properly, which leads me to believe that authorities were unsure of his ability to understand the judicial proceeding that was to follow. Melchor Trujillo’s declaration is not extant; however, he appears in another case from Isleta in which he was suspected of murdering his wife, Catarina (1731; SANM 6: 804–28). In that investigation, he is described as being ladino and competent in Spanish (833, 834). This case is discussed at length in chapter 5. Out of all of the accused, Trujillo appears to have been the only one able to easily move between Spanish and Isletan society. 85. AGN Inquisición 735. This is merely a declaration, not a formal investigation. For this reason, it has not been included in the table of extant witchcraft investigations. I have not been able to locate any other evidence of male healers in the documentation, although this of course does not mean they did not exist. 86. Bandelier Papers 2, 4. 87. For case studies that argue that women did use witchcraft to thwart state or church power in colonial Latin America, see Silverblatt, Moon, Sun, and Witches, chapters 9 and 10; Ruth Behar, “Sex and Sin, Witchcraft and the Dev il in Late-Colonial Mexico,” American Ethnologist 14 (1987); Ruth Behar, “The Visions of a Guachichil Witch in 1599: A Window on the Subjugation of Mexico’s Hunter-Gatherers,” Ethnohistory 34, no. 2 (1987); Ruth Behar, “Sexual Witchcraft, Colonialism, and Women’s Powers: Views from the Mexican Inquisition,” in Sexuality and Marriage in Colonial Latin America, ed. Asunción Lavrin (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1989). 88. SANM 5: 703. 89. Ibid., 708. 90. The term “coyota” was applied to people who were the progeny of genízaros and Spaniards. Thus, Juanotilla may not have been born to Pueblo parents, but she— and another coyota I discuss below—was ethnically Pueblo: that is, she lived as a Pueblo. Thus, I think it is acceptable to speak of her as (at least somewhat) representative of Pueblo women’s experience within their home communities. 91. There are several analyses of Juanotilla’s will, but none make a connection to Cameschia: Angelina Veyna, “ ‘It Is My Last Wish That . . .’ A Look at Colonial Nuevo Mexicanas through Their Testaments,” in Building with Our

Notes to Pages 129–131

201

Own Hands: New Directions in Chicana Studies, ed. Adela de la Torre and Beatríz M. Pesquera (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993); Deena González, “Juanotilla of Cochiti, Vecina and Coyota Nuevomexicanas in the Eighteenth Century,” in New Mexican Lives: Profiles and Historical Stories, ed. Richard Etulain (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2002). There are a number of articles that have been written on the wills of Spanish women in colonial New Mexico. See Jenkins, “Some Eighteenth-Century New Mexico Women of Property”; Rosalind Rock, “ ‘Pido y Suplico’: Women and the Law in Spanish New Mexico, 1697–1763,” New Mexico Historical Review 65, no. 2 (1990); Richard Ahlborn, “The Will of a New Mexico Woman in 1762,” New Mexico Historical Review 65, no. 3 (1990); Yolanda Leyva Chávez, “ ‘A Poor Widow Burdened with Children’: Widows and Land in Colonial New Mexico,” in Writing the Range: Race, Class, and Culture in the Women’s West, ed. Elizabeth Jameson and Susan Armitage (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1997); Angelina Veyna, “Women in Early New Mexico: A Preliminary View,” in Chicana Voices: Intersections of Class, Race, and Gender, ed. Teresa Córdova (Austin: Center for Mexican American Studies, University of Texas, 1986). 92. There is no information in the will that links Juanotilla with Cameschia (will can be found at SANM I, 1: 1332–38). Cameschia is not mentioned as an heir in the will. There could be several explanations for this: it may be that not all of Juanotilla’s children were mentioned in the will; perhaps some had predeceased her and thus were not listed as heirs. Or Cameschia may have also gone by more than one name, one of which may have been a Hispanicized name, and thus might actually be one of the children mentioned in the will. 93. Veyna, “ ‘It Is My Last Wish That . . . ,’ ” 102. 94. SANM 5: 705. 95. Case is at SANM 6: 524– 41. 96. SANM 6: 525–26. 97. Ibid. 98. Ibid., 535. 99. Ibid., 527. 100. Ibid., 540. 101. Ibid., 530, 532. 102. James Brooks, “ ‘This Evil Extends Especially to the Feminine Sex’: Negotiating Captivity in the New Mexico Borderlands,” Feminist Studies 22, no. 2 (1996): 286. 103. Will is at SANM I, 1: 1365–73. 104. SANM 6: 527. 105. Brooks, “ ‘This Evil Extends Especially to the Feminine Sex,’ ” 287. 106. Andrew Knaut, The Pueblo Revolt of 1680: Conquest and Resistance in Seventeenth-Century New Mexico (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1995). See especially chapter 7.

202

Notes to Pages 131–137

107. Ibid., 140. 108. Matthew Restall, “ ‘He Wished It In Vain’: Subordination and Resistance Among Maya Women in Colonial Yucatan,” Ethnohistory 42, no. 4 (1995): 580. 109. Ibid., 581. 110. Ibid., 584. 111. Ibid., 581. 112. Ibid., 586. 113. SANM 5: 92–114. 114. Ibid., 107. 115. Ibid., 99. 116. Ibid., 102. 117. SANM 5: 986–1004. 118. Ibid., 996. 119. Ibid., 990, 991. 120. Ibid., 993, 994. 121. Ibid., 989, 992, 997. While the drug is described as peyote in the document, one declarant claimed that it was not peyote, but rather some other “herb” del Alamo brought to the pueblo from Hopi (989). The Spanish investigator noted that the drug was called “em” in the Tiwa language (1001). 122. Ibid., 993. 123. Ibid., 989. 124. Ibid., 991, 997. Tiwa is the language spoken at Taos. 125. Ibid., 1002. 126. Peter Whiteley discusses this investigation, with par ticular focus on the use of peyote at Taos, in “Re-imagining Awat’ovi,” in Archaeologies of the Pueblo Revolt: Identity, Meaning, and Renewal in the Pueblo World, ed. Robert Preucel (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2002). 127. SANM 5: 989. 128. Ibid., 1001–2. Another case that would fit into this discussion is the 1793 secret meetings investigation in the Tewa pueblos (discussed in chapter 2). Frank covers this case thoroughly, so it is not necessary for me to do the same here— except to say that it also includes information on the machinations of commoner men in the Pueblo political sphere. See Frank, From Settler to Citizen, 209–22. Chapter 5 1. This case is located SANM 10: 752– 88. The sentence in the case appears at SANM 10: 859– 66. Brief discussions of this case, many of which focus on the peculiar sentencing of the accused, appear in Charles Cutter, The Protector de Indios in Colonial New Mexico 1659–1821 (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1986), 75; Gutiérrez, When Jesus Came, the Corn Mothers Went Away, 191, 205; John Kessell, Spain in the Southwest: A Narrative History of

Notes to Pages 137–141

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Colonial New Mexico, Arizona, Texas, and California (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 2002), 290–92; Robert Torrez, UFOs Over Galisteo And Other Stories of New Mexico’s History (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2004), 67–70. John Kessell provides a longer and more detailed narration of the case in John Kessell, “Death Delayed: The Sad Case of the Two Marías, 1773– 1179,” New Mexico Historical Review 83, no. 2 (2008). 2. Lange, Cochiti: A New Mexico Pueblo, Past and Present, 149. 3. According to Elizabeth John, New Mexico governor Pedro Fermín de Mendinueta waged war against the Navajo by early 1774. He expected the pueblos of the Keres district, including Cochiti, to help carry out these campaigns. Five hundred Comanches raided Cochiti just three months after the murder took place. John, Storms Brewed in Other Men’s Worlds: 474–75. See also James Brooks, Captives and Cousins: Slavery, Kinship, and Community in the Southwest Borderlands (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2002). 4. SANM 10: 756, 762, 764. 5. SANM 10: 753–55. No last names are provided for any of the defendants. 6. Tesuque was a “visiting station” of Nambé, which means that the missionary who resided at Nambé was responsible for all official church business from Tesuque. Kessell, “Death Delayed,” 163. 7. SANM 10: 756. 8. Ibid., 767. 9. Ibid., 762. 10. Ibid., 768. 11. Ibid., 756. 12. Ibid., 758. 13. In this chapter, when I discuss “kinship,” I mean to specifically refer to the calculation of descent. “Marriage” refers to the tie between husband and wife that was sanctioned by the Catholic Church as well as any of the more informal intimate relationships that may have occurred between men and women in colonial New Mexico. I also use the terms “cohabitation” and “intimate relations” or “relationships” to refer to these non-church-sanctioned partnerships. “Families” and “family life” are used to specifically reference the social group composed of spouses or partners and their children as well as the relationships that existed between members of this group. 14. Hodge, Hammond, and Rey, Fray Alonso de Benavides’ Revised Memorial of 1634, 159. 15. Ibid. 16. Benavides wrote the memorial for the king of Spain, in part, to convince him that the missionary enterprise in colonial New Mexico was a worthy one. Because of the need to justify continued financial support for his missionizing efforts in New Mexico, Benavides is known to have inflated the figures of the numbers of Pueblos baptized, as well as elaborated upon many of the details of his experiences in New Mexico. See ibid., 12; Peter Forrestal, trans., Benavides’

204

Notes to Pages 142–145

Memorial of 1630 (Washington, DC: Academy of American Franciscan History, 1954), x. 17. J. Manuel Espinosa, The Pueblo Indian Revolt of 1696 and the Franciscan Missions in New Mexico: Letters of the Missionaries and Related Documents (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1988), 129. 18. Ibid., 131. 19. Ibid., 221. 20. Norris, After ‘The Year Eighty,’ 37. 21. AGN PI 36, #2. Cabildo letter, dated September 15, 1706. France Scholes transcription, p. 5. 22. SANM 4: 1014–17. 23. This may indicate a continuation of the post-reconquest state of affairs— that missionaries were unsuccessful in uniting married couples that had split after the 1680 revolt. 24. The case is at SANM 6: 524– 41. 25. The case is at SANM 6: 1010–1127. 26. Ibid., 1026. 27. The case is at SANM 7: 216–57. For questions about “public sin,” see frames 225 and 232. 28. Ibid., 235–36. 29. Ibid., 246. 30. Scholes, Troublous Times. 31. Henry Putnam Beers, Spanish and Mexican Records of the American Southwest: A Bibliographical Guide to Archive and Manuscript Sources (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1979). 32. Fox, The Keresan Bridge, and Eggan, Social Organization of the Western Pueblos, debate when and why matrilineality, as opposed to bilaterality, developed in Pueblo communities. However, a number of Pueblo anthropologists argue that there has never been a tradition of unilineal descent in the Tano pueblos. See Edward Dozier, The Pueblo Indians of North America, 165; Alfonso Ortiz, The Tewa World: Space, Time Being, and Becoming in a Pueblo Society (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1969), 6, 58, 130. 33. There are four unrelated languages spoken in the Pueblo communities of Arizona and New Mexico: Hopi, Zuni, Keresan, and Tanoan. Both the Tanoan and Keresan language have numerous branches. See Kenneth Hale and David Harris, “Historical Linguistics and Archaeology,” 170–77. 34. Foote and Schackel, “Indian Women,” 27. 35. Mamie Tanquest-Miller, Pueblo Indian Culture, 8. 36. Hammond and Rey, Don Juan de Oñate, 2:636. 37. Foote and Schackel, “Indian Women,” 27. 38. Linda Stone, Kinship and Gender: An Introduction, 3rd ed. (Boulder: Westview Press, 2006), 126. Of course, this does not mean that fathers and children did not love or feel connected to one another, but rather that structurally

Notes to Pages 146–149

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the place of the father and husband in matrilineal families can be a problematic one. 39. Ibid., 155. 40. Eggan, Social Organization of the Western Pueblos, 44. 41. Gutiérrez, When Jesus Came, the Corn Mothers Went Away, 15–16. 42. Adolph Bandelier quoted in Lange, Cochiti, 368. 43. For example, Gutiérrez writes that the matrilineal household in Pueblo communities like Cochiti was “preeminently a female domain of love and ritual.” Gutiérrez, When Jesus Came, 14. 44. Hammond and Rey, Don Juan de Oñate, 2:635. 45. Quoted in Gutiérrez, When Jesus Came, the Corn Mothers Went Away, 15. 46. SANM 10: 756. 47. Kessell says he “spit in the face of a matrilocal society.” Kessell, “Death Delayed,” 162. 48. SANM 10: 767. 49. Ibid., 762. No explanation for the actions of Cochiti officials is provided in the documentation. Pueblo individuals were not free to move from community to community. For example, at marriage, the couple was supposed to notify the father where they were to reside, whether “in the woman’s house or the man’s house.” Census books were then altered to indicate choice of residence. Missionaries kept close tabs on couples so that they could check up on them to make sure they were living together after marriage and to be able to locate them if they needed to punish them (AASF 48: 747– 48). Pueblo authorities, like the missionaries, kept track of who was in their communities as a matter of routine. Cochiti officials may have wanted to deter nonresidents like Agustín from spending long periods of time in the pueblo. Although there is no evidence to suggest this, it may also have been that María Francisca was a “troublemaker” and Cochiti officials were using her marriage to Agustín as an excuse to remove her from the pueblo. 50. SANM 10: 763. 51. Ibid., 765. 52. In other words, there is no eyewitness testimony of how bilateral kinship functioned in Tewa communities in the colonial-period documentation; only comments about matrilineality in the western pueblos. It is not clear why this is; perhaps the Spaniards simply found matrilineality more exotic than bilaterality (the form of descent that they practiced) and thus more worthy of comment. 53. Stone, Kinship and Gender, 170–71. 54. Susan Kellogg, Law and the Transformation of Aztec Culture, 1500–1700 (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1995), 105– 6. 55. In other words, in reality, Spaniards practiced patrilineality in New Mexico. Gutiérrez, When Jesus Came, the Corn Mothers Went Away, 230. Linda Stone argues that there is very little difference between a bilateral descent calculation

206

Notes to Pages 149–154

with a patrilineal bias and patrilineal descent calculation. Stone, Kinship and Gender, 174. 56. Silvia Marina Arrom, The Women of Mexico City, 1790–1857 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1985), 57–58. 57. Ibid., 65. 58. Ibid., 58. 59. There have been numerous articles written on this subject with regard to colonial New Mexico. See, for example, Ahlborn, “The Will of a New Mexico Woman in 1762,” 319–55; Jenkins, “Some Eighteenth-Century New Mexico Women of Property,” 335– 45. 60. Kessell, “Death Delayed,”162. 61. Such a belief would have been foreign in bilateral communities like Agustín’s as well, as I discuss below. 62. Tanquest-Miller, Pueblo Indian Culture, 16. 63. SANM 10: 768. 64. Ibid., 762. 65. Ibid. 66. Ibid., 768. 67. Arrom, Women of Mexico City, 65. 68. There are a number of ways to understand the idea of a “background transcript.” In this context, I simply mean it to be those normative ideas and practices shared by many (but not necessarily all) of the individuals who lived in Cochiti. For an overview of the ways in which the idea of shared practices and beliefs have been theorized, see Terry Eagleton, Ideology: An Introduction (New York: Verso, 1991), and Williams, Keywords. 69. The sentence appears at SANM 10: 864– 66. Kessell provides a complete accounting of why it took six years for the case to be adjudicated. Kessell, “Death Delayed,” 161– 67. 70. The case is located at SANM 6: 804–28. 71. Ibid., 804. 72. Ibid., 805. A second declarant in the investigation, as well as Gonzalez Bas himself, measured the water around Catarina’s body and found the same thing, ibid., 806, 813. 73. It is not clear why Trujillo would have wanted to move Catarina to shallow water if he had, indeed, drowned her. Leaving her in deep water would have made her death more understandable; the fact that she was found in shallow water made several witnesses and declarants suspicious since they argued that she could not have drowned in such shallow water. 74. Ibid., 809. 75. Ibid., 804, 805, 806, 810. 76. Ibid., 810. 77. Ibid., 809.

Notes to Pages 154–160

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78. Ibid., 809, 811, 812. 79. Ibid., 808, 809, 812. 80. Ibid., 811. It is not clear how this declarant knew that Trujillo and Catarina were fighting before they went into the river. 81. Ibid., 812. 82. Ibid., 819. 83. Ibid., 824. 84. Edward Dozier, “The Pueblos of the Southwestern United States,” Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 90 (1960): 156. 85. Ibid., 157. 86. Ruth Benedict, “Marital Property Rights in Bilateral Society,” American Anthropologist 38 (1936): 372. 87. SANM 6: 824. Trujillo was banished to Albuquerque for two months upon his release from custody. 88. Ibid., 822–23. 89. Ibid., 826. 90. According to Charles Cutter, it was not uncommon to discount or discredit the testimony of Indians and other individuals who occupied the lower classes in the New World. See Charles Cutter, The Legal Culture of Northern New Spain (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2001), 117. 91. Florence Hawley Ellis, “Isleta Pueblo,” in ed. Alfonso Ortiz, Handbook of North American Indians: Southwest (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution, 1979), 354. 92. The case is at SANM 7: 35– 46. 93. Ibid., 37. 94. See, for example, Leacock, Women and Colonization. 95. Susan Kellogg, Weaving the Past: A History of Latin America’s Indigenous Women from the Prehispanic Period to the Present (New York: Oxford University Press, 2005), 75. 96. Ibid., 76. 97. Ibid., 75. 98. The case is at SANM 6: 524– 41. It is discussed at length in chapter 4. 99. Ibid., 524. 100. Ibid., 525. 101. Ibid., 527, 529, 530, 532. 102. Ibid., 527, 529, 532. 103. While it is true that there were most likely many “fake” conversions— done, for example, to gain access to food and other resources held by missionaries— such conversions did not require individuals to marry. To take the extra step of marrying in the Catholic Church indicates, in my mind, some commitment to Spanish notions of family and kinship. For more on “fake” conversions, see Knaut, The Pueblo Revolt of 1680, chap. 3.

208

Notes to Pages 160–164

104. The marriage registers for Pueblo communities are located at AASF 26–33. 105. I could not use the censuses themselves to gather information on the numbers of Pueblos married in the Catholic Church because they do not differentiate between couples formally married in the church as opposed to those who were simply cohabitating. For example, in the massive 1750 census, each entry from each Pueblo community begins with the name of the head of household (always male, unless it was a household led by a widow); it is followed by the name of his partner, listed as “su muger.” Translators of this census interpreted this to mean “his wife.” Whether these women were “wives” in the formal or informal sense of the term, however, is not clear and cannot be determined from the census data itself. The original 1750 census is at BN 8, #81; for a translation, see Virginia Langham Olmsted, comp., Spanish and Mexican Censuses of New Mexico, 1750–1830 (Albuquerque: New Mexico Genealogical Society, 1981). For a list of eighteenth-century censuses, see Gutiérrez, When Jesus Came, the Corn Mothers Went Away, 173. 106. The missionaries who compiled the marriage registers were not consistent when it came to identifying the race of the people they were marrying— thus making it difficult at times to know if the individuals listed in each entry were actually Pueblo, non-Pueblo Indians, mestizos, or even Hispanics who sometimes married in the Pueblo mission churches. I therefore determined the race of individuals based upon the categorization employed by missionaries (i.e., “Yndio/a,” “Español/a”) or, when that was not given, the presence or absence of last names. A Pueblo last name, when given, was of course quite distinctive from a Spanish last name (for example, the name “Caititigua,” which appeared in the San Felipe register in 1756, versus “Baca” or “Roibal”). I was therefore able to determine the race of some individuals by the last names recorded in the documentation. I interpreted entries with no last name— a frequent occurrence— to mean that the individuals involved were Pueblo. Missionaries frequently did not provide the last names of the Pueblo individuals they married because they were not fluent in Pueblo languages and could not spell out what to them were complicated and odd-sounding names. If witnesses to the marriage were listed and could be determined to be Pueblo, I assumed the individuals marrying were also Pueblo even if there was no clear indication of their race (because Pueblo witnesses would most likely not be used at a Spanish wedding due to class and race prejudice of the period). If the titles “don” or “doña” were used, the individuals were assumed to be Spanish. 107. There are no complete eighteenth-century AASF marriage registers for either Spanish or Pueblo communities in New Mexico. Nor were censuses carried out on a regular basis. 108. Hackett, Historical Documents, 3: 475. 109. Kessell, Kiva, Cross, and Crown, 421. 110. AASF 45: 299.

Notes to Pages 165–170

209

111. I could only locate ten such marriages in all of the marriage registers for Pueblo communities of the eighteenth century. Some of these marriages involved non-Pueblo Indian people (i.e., Apaches) and Spaniards. 112. Knaut, The Pueblo Revolt of 1680, 136–51. 113. Ibid. See also Trigg, From Household to Empire, 195–97. Chapter 6 1. James W. Loewen, Lies My Teacher Told Me: Everything Your American History Textbook Got Wrong (New York: Simon & Schuster, 2007), 53. See also Michel-Rolph Trouillot, “Good Day Columbus: Silences, Power and Public History (1492–1892),” Public Culture 3, no. 1 (1990). 2. This is certainly true of the story students are told about how the federal government acquired (what is now) the US borderlands and the American West for white settlement. Students in my classes, for the most part, know nothing of this history and are therefore often surprised and dismayed to learn “what really happened.” 3. Trouillot, “Good Day Columbus,” 4. 4. John Kessell, “Spaniards and Pueblos: From Crusading Intolerance to Pragmatic Accommodation,” in Columbian Consequences Volume 1: Archaeological and Historical Perspectives on the Spanish Borderlands West, ed. David Hurst Thomas (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1989). 5. Ibid., 128. See also Kessell, Kiva, Cross, and Crown; Knaut, The Pueblo Revolt of 1680. 6. Kessell, “Spaniards and Pueblos,” 129. 7. This was of course after Governor Diego de Vargas spent four years “reconquering” Pueblo peoples. Between 1692 and 1696, many Pueblo peoples still actively resisted Spanish domination. This active resistance ended with the failed 1696 revolt. See Elinore Barrett, Conquest and Catastrophe, 83–90, for a succinct summary of this period. See also J. Manuel Espinosa, The Pueblo Indian Revolt of 1696, for a comprehensive collection of documents concerning the 1696 revolt. 8. Albert Hurtado, “The Underside of New Mexico: A Review Essay,” New Mexico Historical Review 68, no. 2 (1993): 184. 9. John, Storms Brewed in Other Men’s Worlds, 104. 10. Ibid., 148. 11. Kessell, “Spaniards and Pueblos,” 129–30. 12. For the same argument, see Weber, The Spanish Frontier of North America, 141. 13. Jeremy Adelman and Stephen Aron, “From Borderlands to Borders: Empires, Nation-States, and the Peoples in Between in North American History,” American Historical Review 104 (1999): 816. 14. Ibid., 832.

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Notes to Pages 170–172

15. See Scholes, Troublous Times; France Scholes, Church and State in New Mexico, 1610–1650 (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1942); Ralph Twitchell, Old Santa Fe: The Story of New Mexico’s Ancient Capital (Santa Fe: Santa Fe New Mexican Publishing Corporation, 1925); Hubert Bancroft, History of Arizona and New Mexico, 1530–1888 (San Francisco: The History Company, 1889); Lansing Bloom, “A Glimpse of New Mexico in 1620,” New Mexico Historical Review 3, no. 3 (1928); Lansing Bloom, “The Governors of New Mexico,” New Mexico Historical Review 10, no. 2 (1935); Lansing Bloom, “The Vargas Encomienda,” New Mexico Historical Review 14, no. 3 (1939). 16. Kent Lightfoot, Indians, Missionaries, and Merchants: The Legacy of Colonial Encounters on the California Frontiers (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006), 8–9. 17. Ibid., 11. 18. Juliana Barr, “Beyond Their Control: Spaniards in Native Texas,” in Choice, Persuasion, and Coercion: Social Control on Spain’s North American Frontiers, ed. Jesús de la Teja and Ross Frank (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2005), 150. 19. The literature is large. For an early, groundbreaking work, see Patricia Limerick, The Legacy of Conquest: The Unbroken Past of the American West (New York: W. W. Norton and Company, 1987). For a recent analysis of the state of research on the American West, with a focus on California, see Stephen Aron, “Convergence, California, and the Newest Western History,” California History 86, no. 4 (2009). 20. Donna J. Guy and Thomas E. Sheridan, “On Frontiers: The Northern and Southern Edges of the Spanish Empire in the Americas,” in Contested Ground: Comparative Frontiers on the Northern and Southern Edges of the Spanish Empire, ed. Donna J. Guy and Thomas E. Sheridan (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1998), 7–9. 21. David Weber, “A New Borderlands Historiography: Constructing and Negotiating the Boundaries of Identity,” in Alta California: Peoples in Motion, Identities in Formation, ed. Seven Hackel (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2010), 215–16. 22. Ibid. 23. David Weber, “The Idea of the Spanish Borderlands,” in Columbian Consequences Volume 3: The Spanish Borderlands in Pan-American Perspective, ed. David Hurst Thomas (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution, 1991), 5. 24. David Weber, “Turner, the Boltonians, and the Borderlands,” in Myth and History of the Hispanic Southwest: Essays by David J. Weber (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1988), 36. 25. Arnoldo De Leon, “Whither Borderlands History? A Review Essay,” New Mexico Historical Review 64, no. 3 (1989): 353. 26. Weber, “John Francis Bannon and the Historiography of the Spanish Borderlands: Retrospect and Prospect,” in Myth and History of the Hispanic

Notes to Pages 172–173

211

Southwest: Essays by David J. Weber (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1988), 60. 27. John Francis Bannon, The Spanish Borderlands Frontier (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico, 1974), 38. 28. Adelman and Aron, “From Borderlands to Borders,” 815.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Archival Sources Archives of the Archdiocese of Santa Fe (cited as AASF reel number: frame number) Marriages Archivo General de la Nación, Mexico City (cited as AGN by volume, document number) Provincias Bandelier Papers (cited by reel number: frame number) Biblioteca Nacional, Mexico City (cited as BN by volume number, document number) New Mexico Originals, Bancroft Library, University of California, Berkeley (cited as NMO by volume number, document number) Spanish Archives of New Mexico, Center for Southwest Research, University of New Mexico, Albuquerque (cited as SANM reel number: frame number) Land Records (SANM I) Provincial Records (SANM II) (Records in the land series will have a “Series I” designation; provincial records, or Series II records, are cited as “SANM reel number: frame number[s].”)

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INDEX

Page numbers with suffi x “p” and “t” indicate photographs and tables, respectively. Alvarado, Hernando de, 23, 26 ambilocal kinship groups. See bilateral kinship American period (after 1848): about Pueblo life in, 1–3; retention of native customs, 12–13 American West, history and settlement, 9, 171–173, 209n2 Ancestral Pueblo region, 59, 88–90 Apaches, 5, 35, 51, 80, 93 Apodaca, Juana de, 116–119, 198n52, 199n82 Aragon, Don José Manuel, 43 Arellano, Diego Martínez (Fray), 164 Arroyo Hondo pueblo, 62, 89 Athapaskan arrival and encroachment, 3 Awatovi (Hopi), 134 Aztecs, 31

Acoma pueblo: compliance with Spanish decrees, 7–8; dealing with Spanish authority, 38–43; internal governance, 22–26; internal politics, 43–47; katsina cult, 4; kinship, 144–145; labor abuses, 85–86, 96–100, 143; map of settlements, 5; marriages, 162t; revolt of 1598, 172 Adelman, Jeremy, 170 adultery, 111, 113, 116, 118 Agustín of Tesuque, 137–140, 144–145, 147–153, 155–157, 160, 165, 205n49 Alamo, Juan del, 202n121 Alamo, Juan Luis del, 35, 133–134 Albuquerque, 60, 70 alcaldes mayores (assistant to the New Mexican governor): abuse of powers, 42–44, 55–57, 85, 92, 95–96, 100–101, 123–124, 185n155; investigation of witchcraft, 197n19; participation in pueblo domestic relations, 46–47; policing marriage and cohabitation, 141–143, 159– 160; power sharing with Pueblo elites, 36; removal from office, 49–51; role and responsibilities, 11–12, 119; role in encomienda and repartimiento, 70–72, 76–78, 81–82. Allison, James R., 88 Alpuente, Juan (Fray), 142

Baca, Antonio, 129 Baca, Bernabe, 70, 85, 92, 96, 100, 143 Baca, Don Joseph, 70 Baca, Don Luis, 54, 57, 96 Baca, Juan Antonio, 42, 51 Baca, Manuel, 130 Bannon, John Francis, 172 Bas, Gonzalez, 153–154, 156–157, 206n72 Beitia, Mariano, 100 Benavides, Alonso de (Fray), 70, 141, 147, 203n16

227

228 Bernal, Juan (Fray), 80 bilateral kinship: descent calculation, 205n55; differences between pueblos, 3–4, 145, 155–158, 175n3, 204n32, 205n52; marriage and gender roles, 147–150; Spanish patriarchal influence on, 151–153; Spanish practice of, 185n160. See also kinship Bolton, Hubert Eugene, 172 Bourke, John C., 12–13, 15 burial ritual, 25, 62–63 Bustamente, Juan Domingo de, 48–49 cabildo (town councils), 41, 48, 132, 142, 183n87 caciques (Indian chiefs): imposition of Spanish governance on, 27, 58; Oyi-tsa [Duck White], 23p; role in encomienda and repartimiento, 94–96; role in pueblo governance, 22–27, 36–37, 100–101; role in Spanish investigations and land disputes, 41–44; role in visitas, 84; use of sorcery, 124, 126–127. See also domestic relations; foreign relations; group petitions; Pueblo elites/leadership California native peoples, 171 Cameschia, Causicha, 129–130, 200n90, 201n92 Canalis, Jayme (Fray), 96 Castro, Jacobo de (Fray), 41–42, 84 Catholic Church/Catholicism: about Pueblo acceptance of, 7–8; baptismal registers, 165; conversions and marriage, 7, 150, 160, 207n103; declarations of loyalty to, 37; economic pressure to convert, 75; forced conversions, 169; impact on kinship patterns, 152; Inquisition investigations, 110, 117–118, 196n13, 197n19; maintaining Pueblo values and practices, 17; marriage registers, 160–166. See also missionaries

Index Caza, Francisca, 109–113, 126–127, 198n52, 199n82 ceremonialism: exchange of crafts, 93, 102–103; feasting, 88, 90–91; garments, 67; kinship ties, 146–147; maintaining secrecy, 13–14, 32, 168; role of the kiva, 61. See also compartmentalization Chacoan regional system (AD900– 1150): assessing the importance of, 180n36, 180n38; defined/described, 30–31; population migration after the fall, 3, 60; pottery-making and crafts, 78–79, 90–91 Chacón, Fernando de, 78, 79 Chistoe, Don Filipe (cacique), 41 Chuska pueblo, 90 clan system, 4, 24–27, 38, 146–147 class: defined, 195n174; impact of colonial authority on, 11–12, 21; inequities within communities, 98–103; interracial marriage, 165; pueblo governance and, 39–40. See also gender/gender roles; Pueblo commoners; Pueblo elites/ leadership Cochiti pueblo: complaints against Spanish, 43–45, 129–130; gender roles, 42; murder investigation (1773), 137–153; population and marriage records, 162t; role of women, 61–62, 132–133; rumors of revolt, 51–52; spinning and weaving, 70 Codallos y Rabal, Joaquin, 92 cohabitation (“concubinage”): defined, 203n13; enforcement of Spanish decrees, 11–12, 130, 159–160; investigation of accusations, 46; prevalence in Pueblo communities, 164–166; resistance to Spanish and Catholic practices, 140–144. See also marriage and intimate relations Coimagea, Don Lorenzo, 46, 119–120 colonial period (1539–1821): about Pueblo life in, 1–3; absence/ limitations of documentation, 3–8;

Index establishing Spanish authority and control, 10–12; labor disputes, 82–87; legal systems, 76–77; methodology in reconstructing Pueblo history, 8–10; regulation of marriage and relations, 140–144; retention of customs. See compartmentalization; sharing beliefs and powers (Pueblofication), 17–21; Spanish and Pueblo population, 79; trade and exchange of goods, 78–79, 92, 98. See also Pueblo governance; Spanish state-making Comanches, 80, 93–94, 137, 203n3 commoners. See Pueblo commoners compadrazgo (co-parenthood), 170 compartmentalization (retention of native practices): and accommodation of Spanish influence, 82, 141, 169–170, 173; inaccuracies in the master narrative, 168–171; manipulating the Spanish system, 33–34; resistance to Spanish intrusion, 12–20, 37; revival of Pueblo culture and ritual, 178n41. See also ceremonialism; Pueblofication; Pueblo governance; segmentation Concha, Fernando de la, 54–57 Coris, Christopher, 51 Coris, Juan Domingo, 55–57 corn: grinding for meal, 60, 66, 67p, 69, 84, 86; male role in cultivation, 66, 73, 77, 150; trade with nonPueblo Indians, 93, 96 Coronado, Francisco Vázquez, 22–23, 26, 39–40 corporate-based leadership, 25–27, 30, 34, 38, 46, 50, 53, 90 crafts. See economic activities Cruz, Felipa de la, 116–119, 126–127, 198n52 Cruz, Juan de la (Fray), 48 Cuervo y Valdés, Fernando, 48–49, 142 culture concept, 16 “curing” shamans, 122–123

229

Delgado, Carlos (Fray), 48, 70 “direct historic approach.” See “upstreaming” Dirucaca, Jerónimo, 32, 33, 34, 46, 119–120, 126–127, 200n84 divorce/dissolving a marriage, 145–147, 152, 155 domestic relations (interactions within/between pueblos): avoiding Spanish intervention, 32; elite dominance in decision-making, 47; male domination, 39–40; secret meetings, 44–46; Spanish assistance, 46–47; use of group petitions, 47–50. See also group petitions; Pueblo governance Dominguez, Doña Leonore, 113–116, 126–127, 198n52, 199n82 Dozier, Edward P., 14–17, 19, 32, 155, 168, 177n31, 178n41 dual chieftainships, 24, 26, 38 economic activities: barter, 65, 71, 78–79, 94; coercion and forced extraction, 65, 76, 80, 83, 97–98; corn as medium for trade, 93, 96; elites control of trade, 87–98; gender roles, 92–93, 102; hides, processing/trading, 67, 69, 72, 74t, 77–78, 79, 80, 81, 85, 190n78; pottery and ceramics production, 67, 71–75, 77–81, 85, 87–94, 96–97, 189n45, 190n71; projectile points, 80, 89, 91; silversmithing and stoneworking, 67, 73–75; Spanish state-making and, 65–66; spinning and weaving, 67–68, 70–71, 73–75, 84, 85; trade with non-Pueblo Indians, 77, 93–94, 98. See also encomienda; pre-contact period; repartimiento economic witchcraft, 108 egalitarianism (rule by consensus), 25, 50, 58, 101, 182n65 Eggan, Fred, 146 El Camino Real, 5 elites. See Pueblo elites/leadership

230 El Paso, 4, 157 encomendero, 75–76 encomienda (“grant” of Indians requiring tribute), 75–78, 82–83, 190n70, 191n83, 192n107, 192n109 Equijosa, Francisca, 78–79 Escalona, Juan de (Fray), 22 Espejo, Antonio de, 22 Espinosa, Diego (Fray), 85 ethnic groups/ethnicity: “coyota”, 129–130, 200n90; implications of mixed heritage, 130–132, 135–136; population migration and, 60; Pueblo peoples, defined, 18; sorcery and, 105, 109; Spaniards as “outsiders”, 29–30. See also race/ racial discrimination Favile, Alonso, 41 Fermín de Mendinueta, Pedro, 203n3 fi scales (Indian aid to the Church), 33–34, 36, 41, 47, 49, 84, 108, 123 Flauta, Cristobal, 41 forced labor. See encomienda; repartimiento Fore, Cayetano (Fray), 70 foreign relations (interactions with Spaniards or other non-Pueblo groups): commoner role in, 47; contacts and patterns of, 40–42; defined/described, 29, 40; dominance of elites, 43–44; expansion of elites’ responsibilities, 31, 39; gender/class differences, 39–40; group petitions, 47–50; labor disputes, 82–87; land disputes, 42–43; origins of male dominance, 57–64; regional trade, 98; repartimiento as matter of, 97–98; responding to Spanish domination, 168–169; role of women, 52–53, 135. See also group petitions; Pueblo governance Franciscan missionaries. See missionaries frontier thesis, Frederick Jackson Turner, 172–173

Index Gabaldon, Antonio (Fray), 96 Galisteo pueblo, 78, 111, 197n24 Gallegos, Hernán, 23 Galvan, Juan, 130–131, 143, 159 García, Andres (Fray), 41 García, Martin, 78 García Jurado, Ramón, 43, 70, 72, 85–86, 95–96, 123–124, 142–143, 159, 199n77 Garza, Luis, 155 gender/gender roles: division of labor, pre-contact, 66–70; division of labor, post-contact, 70–75; ideals of honor and status, 53–54, 158; impact of colonial authority on, 11–12, 21, 75–82; importance of the kiva, 60–62, 146; inequities within communities, 98–103; labor disputes, 83–87; origins of male dominance, 57–64; paths to power and authority, 129–136; pre-contact period, 149–150, 158; pueblo governance and, 39–40, 43, 52–53; sorcery and healing, 106–109, 119, 123; Spanish reliance on male dominance, 41–42, 53–57; witchcraft investigations, 124–129. See also class/societal roles; matrilineal kinships; women Gran Quivira pueblo, 90, 192n105 group petitions: complaints against Spanish authority, 48–50; land petitions/disputes, 47; loyalty oaths, 7, 19, 37–38, 47, 58, 168; role of women, 50. See also domestic relations; foreign relations Guchipana, Antonio, 95 Guevara (Fray), 164 Gutiérrez, Ramón, 16, 177n41, 185n143, 189n60, 205n55, 208n105 hides, processing/trading, 67, 69, 72, 74t, 77–78, 79, 80, 81, 85, 190n78 home construction/plastering, 67, 69–70, 72, 74t Hopification. See Pueblofication Hopi language, 204n33

Index

231

Hopi pueblos: internal governance, 4, 24; isolation from Spanish influence, 179n26; kinship, 144–145; map of settlements, 5; resistance to foreign intrusion, 38 Hurtado, Andres, 130 Hurtado, Juana, 130–131, 143, 159

matrilineal kinship; patriarchal/ patrilineal society kivas: about the role and importance, 14–15; decreased importance, 60–61; role in male passage to maturity, 146; women’s loss of access, 61–62, 67, 72

illegitimacy, 130, 131, 201n92 indentured service, 59, 86 Inquisition investigations, 110, 117–118, 196n13, 197n19 Isleta pueblo, 154p; drowning of Catarina Trujillo, 153–158, 200n84; marriage rates within the church, 162t; practice of sorcery, 124; relationship to colonialism, 18; Spanish investigation of affairs, 32–37, 47, 100–101

Laguna pueblo: compliance with Spanish decrees, 7–8; dealing with Spanish authority, 38–43; internal politics, 43–47; katsina cult, 4; kinship, 144–145; labor abuses, 85–86, 96–100, 143; map of settlements, 5 land ownership/land disputes, 29, 42–44, 47, 99, 103, 129, 131, 135 Lange, Charles, 70 language: differences between Pueblo communities, 3–4, 134, 138, 145, 204n33; literacy in Spanish, 42, 48, 199n82; maintaining the native, 36, 100–101; trading with non-Pueblo groups, 94 La Plata River Valley, 59, 86, 92 loyalty oaths, 7, 19, 37–38, 47, 58, 168 Luján, Antonia, 109–113, 126–127 Luján, Antonio, 39 Luján, Catherina, 113–116, 199n82

Jemez Mountains, 137 Jemez pueblo, 43, 48, 95, 142 Jones, Daniel Webster, 12, 15 Juanotilla “de calidad coyota”, 129–131, 200n90, 201n92 katsina cult, 4, 175n2 Keresan language, 3–4, 145, 159, 204n33 Keres/Keresan pueblos: following 1680 revolt, 134; internal governance, 24–26, 44–45, 48, 142–143; kinship, 144–145, 159, 175n3; map of settlements, 5; relationship to Spanish colonialism, 18–19 “killer” shamans, 121–124 kinship: about the different types of, 3–4, 144–145; children in, 148–149; descent calculation/ pattern, 140, 152–153, 157, 185n160, 203n13, 205n55; marriage and family, 137–140, 144–148, 150; Spanish patriarchal influence on, 148–150; trade and exchange of goods, 93. See also bilateral kinship; marriage and intimate relations;

male-dominance. See gender/gender roles María Francisca of Cochiti, 137–140, 144–145, 147–153, 157–160, 165, 205n49 María Josefa of Cochiti, 137–138, 147, 151, 157 marriage and intimate relations: about changing perceptions of, 137–140; adultery, 111, 113, 116, 118; divorce/ dissolving a marriage, 145–147, 152, 155; enforcement of Spanish decrees, 7; exercise of governmental powers, 11–12; illegitimate children, 140, 144–145, 150; influence of Spanish regulation on, 158–160; investigations of violence

232 marriage and intimate relations (cont.) in, 144–158; mixed kinship, 140, 144–145, 150; race/racial discrimination and, 164–166, 208n106; sorcery and extramarital sex, 119–120; Spanish regulation of, 140–144. See also cohabitation; kinship marriage records, Pueblo, 160–166, 208nn105–106 Martinez, Don Felix, 32 master narrative, Pueblo: compartmentalization tactics, 168–169; contradictions and inaccuracies, 167–168; response to colonization, 169–171 matrilineal kinship: children in, 204n38; class and gender differences, 103; decline in women’s status, 59–64, 157–158; differences between pueblos, 3–4, 149, 155–156, 204n32, 205n52; marriage and gender roles, 144–147; property ownership and wealth, 59, 103, 155–156; Spanish patriarchal influence on, 150–153, 159–160. See also gender/gender roles; kinship matrilocal post-marital residence rule, 145–146, 149, 152, 159 Mayan society, 132 medicine societies, 24, 26, 38 Mendizábal, López de, 11, 143 Mendoza, Gaspar Domingo de, 92 Mesa Verde, 31 Mesteane, Christopher, 52 Mexican period (1821–1848): about Pueblo life in, 1–3; independence from Spain, 81; retention of native customs, 12–13; Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, 176n16 missionaries: as source of documentation, 68–69; destruction of native culture, 62, 141–142, 171; extraction of labor and goods, 75–76, 81–82, 192n107; forced conversions, 169, 207n103; inflation of numbers of Pueblos conversions,

Index 141, 203n16; intrusion into pueblo life, 29; jurisdiction over witchcraft, 197n19; mission at Awatovi, 38; pueblo secrecy and resistance to, 13; regulation of marriage and cohabitation, 143–144, 161–166, 204n23, 205n49, 208n106; state-making role, 11. See also Catholic Church/Catholicism mixed heritage. See ethnic groups/ ethnicity; race/racial discrimination Mogollón, Flores, 142, 151 Montaño (Fray), 130 Morones, Francisco, 123–124, 126–127, 199n77 Munpa, Pedro, 123, 126–127, 200n84 Nambé pueblo, 93, 138, 158, 161, 162t, 203n6 narrative history: interpretive approach, 8–10; Pueblo master narrative, 167–171 natural law, 22–23, 53 Navajos, 80, 130–131, 137, 203n3 New Mexico: Ancestral Pueblo period, 59; colonial period documentation, 3–10; destruction of kinship practices, 99–100; encomienda and repartimiento, 75–76; establishment of Spanish authority, 10–12, 15–16, 22–23, 65, 143–144; Inquisition investigations, 197n19; missionary efforts, 84, 141; race and class hierarchy, 112–114, 131–132; reconquest after Revolt of 1680, 110, 141, 161, 169–170; territory defined, 176n16; territory map, 5 Northern Rio Grande region, 89 Northern San Juan region, 31 Olavide y Micheleña, Don Henrique de, 92 Oñate, Juan de, 22–23, 25, 50, 147, 172 Pacheco, Ventura, 96 Padilla, Juan de (Fray), 23, 26

Index patriarchal/patrilineal society: adaptation of kinship, 157–158; adaptation of pueblo marriage, 152; influence over pueblo communities, 146–150; pre-contact evidence, 58; Spanish descent calculation, 185n160, 205n55. See also kinship Pecos pueblo, 41, 48, 80, 93–94, 142, 164, 192n105 Peñuela, Marqués de, 41 periodization in Pueblo history, 1–3 Peru, Spanish colonialism in, 98 petroglyphs and rock art, 60 peyote use, 32, 34–37, 133–134, 157, 202n121 Picuris pueblo: cohabitation, 142; compartmentalization, 19; internal governance, 4; marriage rate, 161–164; resistance to Spanish intrusion, 32–34, 45–46; trade and exchange of goods, 80; witchcraft investigations, 119–123 Pike, Zebulon, 81 Pindi pueblo, 62 Plains Indians, 5, 77 Pojoaque pueblo, 162t Popé (Pueblo leader of 1680 revolt), 18 pottery and ceramics production, 67, 71–75, 77–81, 85, 87–94, 96–97, 189n45, 190n71 pre-contact period (before 1539): about Pueblo life in, 1–3; ceremonial events, 102; dealing with foreigners/intruders, 30; division of labor, 69, 74; gender relations and roles, 128; gender roles, 58–59, 62–64, 73, 86–87; governance practices, 21, 25, 29; hide processing, 77; kinship, 103; political sphere, 53, 57–58, 83, 104; pottery production, 71, 87–92; spinning and weaving, 67, 70; trade and exchange of goods, 80–81, 92–94, 98; witch execution, 181n58. See also Chacoan regional system; economic activities

233

projectile points, 80, 89, 91 Protector de Indios (lawyer for Indians), 42–43, 45, 48 Pueblo commoners: class inequalities, 98–103; gender differences, 39, 47–51, 63, 84–85, 87; paths to power and authority, 129–136; relationship with elites, 30; role in distribution of goods and trade, 97–98, 104; role in governance, 39–40, 43–46, 85–87; role in ritual, 105 Pueblo elites/leadership: about the selection of, 23–24; clan system, 4, 24–27, 38, 146–147; control of labor and trade, 87–98; dual chieftainships, 24, 26, 38; medicine societies, 24, 26, 38; moiety divisions, 4, 24, 26; political power and authority, 98–103; roles and responsibilities, 26–27; roles in decision-making, 39–40; Spanish control over, 36–37, 41; war priests/ captains, 26, 27, 36, 41, 63, 84, 180m30. See also caciques Pueblo families. See kinship Pueblofication: absorbing Spanish system into Pueblo life, 17–21, 58; defined, 178n45; differences between communities, 131; economic activities, 65–66, 98; leading to new practices, 86–87; marriage and intimate relations, 140–144; political sphere, 38–39, 63–64; role in master narrative, 168–171; sorcery and healing, 125–129. See also ceremonialism; compartmentalization; segmentation Pueblo governance: cabildo (town councils), 41, 48, 132, 142, 183n87; class differences, 12, 39–40, 98–103; corporate-based leadership, 25–27, 30, 34, 38, 46, 50, 53, 90; dealing with outsiders, 29–30; differences among communities, 24–27; expansion to meet Spanish

234

Index

Pueblo governance (cont.) demands, 28–29, 32; impact of colonial authority on, 38–39; imposition of Spanish forms over, 21, 27; interactions with Spaniards. See foreign relations; interactions with/within pueblos. See domestic relations; lack of understanding by Spanish, 22–24; natural law, 22–23, 53; power sharing with Spanish, 33–37; role of women, 50–53, 107; as theocracy, 26. See also Chacoan regional system; compartmentalization Pueblo I (AD 700–900), 88–89 Pueblo III (AD 1150–1300), 59 Pueblo IV (AD 1300–1540), 59–62 Pueblo Revolt of 1680: about the goals of, 17–18, 50; destruction of documentation, 3; encomienda and repartimiento following, 75–76; Isleta participation in, 157; mission at Awatovi, 38; population migrations following, 134; reconquest of New Mexico following, 141–142, 169–170, 197n18. See also revolt/insurgency Pueblo Revolt of 1696, 209n7 Pueblos: distinguishing features, 3–4; documentation, interpreting the, 4–10; establishing Spanish control, 10–12; retention of customs. See compartmentalization; sharing beliefs and power; Pueblofication. See also specific pueblo by name Pumazho, Angelina, 113–116 Quara, Antonio, 34, 35, 133–134 Quenpito, Christopher (aka “Mariquita”), 44–45, 48 race/racial discrimination: marriage and, 164–166, 208n106; mixed heritage, 105, 112, 117, 197n19; Pueblo/Spanish relationships, 106–107, 110–119. See also ethnic groups/ethnicity

Rael de Aguilar, Alphonso, 43, 48–49 raiding, protection of pueblos from, 63, 130, 137, 169–170, 203n3 Redondo, Don José Campo, 48 repartimiento (“grant” of access to Indian labor), 75–79, 82–86, 97, 191n83, 192n107 repartimiento de efectos (distribution of goods), 76, 82–83 residencias (review of New Mexico governor’s performance), 68 revolt/insurgency, fear of, 7, 35–36, 51–52, 133–134, 172. See also Pueblo Revolts Rio Arriba settlements, 5 Rio Grande pueblos, 3, 12, 60, 71, 89–90, 170 ritual practices/activities. See ceremonialism; Pueblofication Romero, Don Domingo, 44–45, 48–49 Rosa, Catherina, 113–116, 126–127, 199n82 sacristanes (church caretakers), 70 Salinas pueblo, 77, 90, 191n95 Sandia pueblo, 32, 34–36, 44, 51, 161–162t, 185n155 San Felipe pueblo, 43–44, 48–49, 55, 92, 129, 142, 161–164 San Ildefonso pueblo, 43, 93, 123, 161–164 Santa Ana pueblo, 36, 43, 70–71, 92, 95, 123, 142–143, 161–163t Santa Clara pueblo, 33–34, 42, 48, 89p, 93, 161–163t, 195n170 Santa Fe, 110p; cabildo actions, 142, 183n87; during early colonial period, 12; influence in Pueblo communities, 17, 38, 41; marriage registers, 160–166; migration of population to, 60; power of Spanish women in, 107; as Spanish center of power, 11, 47–49, 150; tithes from the pueblos, 73; witchcraft and sorcery investigations, 109–119

Index Santo Domingo pueblo, 43–44, 51, 54–56, 61–62, 64, 85–96, 129, 142, 163t Sanz de Lezaún, Juan (Fray), 69, 73, 164 segmentation/secrecy: addressing Spanish demands, 28–29; dealing with outsider intrusions, 29–32; maintaining secrecy, 32–33; power sharing with Spanish, 33–39. See also ceremonialism; compartmentalization; Pueblofication Serrano, Pedro (Fray), 69, 71 shamanic powers, 121–122 sheep/sheepherding, 70, 74t, 76 silversmithing and stoneworking, 67, 73–75 slaves/slavery, 129, 135, 197n27 sorcery and healing: about documentation on, 6–7, 104–105; defined/described, 105–106; gender and practice of, 106–107, 109; as path to empowerment, 132–133; shamanic power, 121–124. See also witches/witchcraft Spanish colonial officials. See alcaldes mayores; Governors (by name) Spanish market system, 65–66 Spanish state-making: establishing authority and control, 10–12; impact on gender patterns, 124–125; impact on kinship patterns, 157–158; pueblo economic activities, 65–66; pueblo politics and, 31; retention of native practices, 12–17, 104–105; sharing beliefs and powers, 17–21. See also colonial period Spicer, Edward, 4, 13–17, 18–19, 32, 168 spinning and weaving, 67–68, 70–71, 73–75, 84, 85 Tafoya, Francisco, 104, 108, 123, 127 Tafoya, Maria, 42, 54–57, 64, 85, 95–96, 129

235

Tano languages (Tewa, Tiwa, Towa), 3–4, 204n33 Tano/Tanoan pueblos, 5, 24–26, 134, 144–145 Taos pueblo, 4, 32–37, 41–42, 51–52, 78–80, 94, 133–134, 161 Tenochca Mexica, 125 Tesuque pueblo, 138, 140, 144–145, 147–150, 203n6 Texas native peoples, 17, 171 Tindes, Don Juan, 41 trade and exchange of goods. See economic activities “traditionalist” narrative history, 8–10 Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, 176n16 Trigo, Manuel de San Juan Nepomuceno (Fray), 73 Trizio, Miguel de (Fray), 142 Trujillo, Catarina, 153–155, 206n73 Trujillo, Melchor, 124, 126–127, 153–157, 200n84, 206n73 Turner, Frederick Jackson, 172–173 Ulibarri, Juan de, 41 unilineal kinship groups. See matrilineal kinship “upstreaming”: defined, 14, 177n29; Dozier’s introduction to, 177n31; reconstructing Pueblo history, 14–15, 17; Spicer’s use of, 177n32 Uribarrí, Antonio de, 43, 143 US-Mexican War, 1, 12 US-Mexico borderlands, 10, 170–173, 209n2 Utes, 80, 93–94, 134 Valverde y Cosio, Antonio, 34, 48–49 Vargas, Diego de, 32, 41 Velarde, Antonio Perez, 156 Ventura, Baltasar, 55–57 visitas (inspections), 41, 68, 83–84, 92, 97, 195n170 witches/witchcraft: executions, 181n58; gender and the practice of, 124–129; Inquisition investigations, 197n19; investigations, sorcery by

236 witches/witchcraft (cont.) men, 119–124, 200n84; investigations, sorcery by women, 109–119, 199n82; investigations, summary of cases, 108t; punishments, 32, 34–36, 44, 198n52, 199n77. See also sorcery and healing women: exclusion from pueblo governance, 50–53, 107; indentured service, 59, 86; loss of status, 59–62; origins of male dominance, 57–64; paths to empowerment, 104–105; position in matrilineal families, 145–147; practice of interpersonal sorcery, 106–107, 109; property ownership and wealth, 59, 103, 155–156; protecting the honor

Index and status of, 53–54; status in Spanish society, 150–151. See also economic activities; gender/gender roles; kinship; marriage and intimate relations Zeinos, Diego (Fray), 41 Zia pueblo, 36, 43, 85, 95–96, 130–131, 142–143, 159–160 Zuni language, 3–4, 204n33 Zuni pueblo: arrival of Spanish, 39–40; dealing with Spanish authority, 38–39, 47–48; internal governance, 23–27, 44–47; kinship, 47–48, 144–145; map of settlements, 5; pottery production, 189n45; practice of ritual and “witchcraft”, 105–106, 128

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Tracy L. Brown received her PhD from Duke University in 2000. She is an associate professor of anthropology at Central Michigan University in Mt. Pleasant, MI. Her research interests include American Indian ethnohistory and gender, race, class, colonialism, and state making in the US borderlands. Her publications include: “ ‘Abominable Sin’ in Colonial New Mexico: Spanish and Pueblo Perceptions of Same-Sex Sexuality,” in Thomas Foster, ed., Long Before Stonewall: Histories of Same-Sex Sexuality in Early America (NYU Press, 2007); “A World of Women and a World of Men? Pueblo Sorcery and Healing in Eighteenth-Century New Mexico,” in Lisa Vollendorf and Daniella Kostroun, eds., Gender and Religion in the Atlantic World (1600–1800) (University of Toronto Press, 2009); and “Intimate Ties: Families, Kinship and Marriage in EighteenthCentury Pueblo Communities” in On the Borders of Love and Power: Families and Kinship in the Intercultural American Southwest (University of California Press, 2012).