Mexico
Nov. 20 marks the anniversary of the 1910 Mexican Revolution, launched by Francisco I. Madero. Though intended as a democratic uprising against Porfirio Díaz, the revolution unleashed multiple regional revolts with differing goals, leading to a decade of turmoil, a million deaths, and mass migration to the United States.
Historically, the revolution followed earlier struggles that shaped Mexico: the 1810 independence movement and the mid-19th-century Reform era, which dismantled colonial structures and helped define a national identity. By 1910, various “Mexicos” — each with its own political and social concerns — entered the conflict, resulting in a fractured and violent civil war.
Over time, memory of the revolution evolved. Writers and historians helped craft a unifying narrative, and the government transformed the event into national myth through monuments, rituals, and public ceremonies. Despite the revolution’s internal conflicts, it came to symbolize a shared national origin — “our common mother.”
The author notes how the upheaval affected his own family, disrupting his maternal grandparents’ lives and shaping his father’s understanding of Mexico’s modern identity. Ultimately, la revolución remains a powerful force in the making of contemporary Mexico.
'Apostle of Democracy’ remembered
Francisco I. Madero, Mexico’s “apostle of democracy,” used Texas and San Antonio as the staging ground for the 1910 revolution against Porfirio Díaz. This November, the city will mark his legacy with the unveiling of a 7-foot statue—gifted by the state of Coahuila—and the release of Madero in Texas, a book by the late David Nathan Johnson.
Madero rose to prominence with La Sucesión Presidencial en 1910, which criticized Díaz’s long dictatorship and called for genuine political freedoms. His message resonated with Mexicans suffering from land loss, labor exploitation, and political repression under Díaz’s modernization program.
Arrested during his presidential campaign, Madero escaped to San Antonio, where he issued the Plan de San Luis Potosí. Declaring the 1910 election fraudulent, he named himself provisional president and called for a national uprising on Nov. 20, sparking the Mexican Revolution.
Though the revolution took a difficult path, Díaz eventually resigned. Madero became president but was soon overthrown and executed, becoming a martyr for democracy. His vision endured, resurfacing with Mexico’s move away from one-party rule in recent decades. Madero believed democracy was worth the struggle—and the sacrifice.
“Apostle of Democracy Returns”
Francisco I. Madero’s 1910 challenge to Porfirio Díaz’s long dictatorship led him into exile in San Antonio, a key setting for his preparations to launch the Mexican Revolution. A new book, Madero in Texas by David Nathan Johnson, and the unveiling of a Madero statue at HemisFair Park, highlight San Antonio’s historic role in this movement.
Madero had gained national attention with his book The Presidential Succession of 1910, which criticized Díaz and called for democratic elections, earning him the title “Apostle of Democracy.” When Díaz had him arrested during the campaign, Madero escaped, disguising himself as a railroad mechanic and fleeing to San Antonio on Oct. 8, 1910.
San Antonio had long-standing ties to the Madero family, and once there, Madero worked with allies to plan the revolt, purchase supplies, and evade Díaz’s agents. Important meetings were held at locations such as the Hutchins House, and on Oct. 27, Madero’s supporters secretly printed the Plan de San Luis Potosí at a local print shop—calling for Mexicans to rise against Díaz.
Although the initial revolutionary call did not spread quickly, Díaz was eventually toppled. Madero became president in 1911 but was later assassinated, sparking renewed revolutionary fervor and decades of political turmoil in Mexico.
With Mexico’s democratic shift in recent years, Madero’s vision has regained meaning. The new statue in HemisFair Park symbolizes the lasting importance of his time in San Antonio and his enduring legacy as Mexico’s apostle of democracy.
17th-century Mexican nun eloquently spoke out for women
In 1695, Mexico lost one of its greatest authors and early feminists, Sor (Sister) Juana Inés de la Cruz. Her writings include more than a hundred sonnets and ballads, plays, comedies, and songs, but she is best remembered for her defense of women’s intelligence and creativity.
Born in the mid-1600s, Juana Ramírez y Asbaje educated herself in her grandfather’s library and wrote poetry from an early age. Denied access to a university because she was a woman, she entered a convent, where she studied and wrote for more than 25 years.
Protected for a time by Mexico’s viceroy and his wife, Sor Juana engaged in theological and literary debates. When her patrons left for Spain, her enemies—chief among them the archbishop of Mexico—moved to silence her.
In La Respuesta (“The Answer”), Sor Juana defended women’s right to study and express themselves, arguing that denying women education deprived the church and society of wisdom. Her eloquent reasoning, couched in 17th-century style, still resonates as a powerful statement for women’s equality.
Although silenced in her lifetime, Sor Juana’s words continue to speak across the centuries, while those who opposed her have faded into footnotes.
Abridged Version:
Oh Death, Don’t Be Inhumane
By Gilberto Hinojosa
Across cultures, people must face death — but few celebrate it as joyfully as Mexicans do on Día de los Muertos.
A pre-Hispanic poem reminds us, “We do not truly die, because we live; and this makes us happy.” For the Aztecs, death was not an end but a continuation — the dead journeyed through Mictlán, the underworld, still connected to the living.
After the arrival of Europeans, disease and violence brought mass death to Native peoples, yet life and death remained deeply intertwined. Later, during the Mexican Revolution, soldiers faced mortality with courage and humor. One song pleads, “If they’re going to kill me tomorrow, let them kill me right away,” while another jokes, “When I die, comadre, make a jug of my clay — and if it sticks to your lips, it will be my kiss.”
Today, Mexicans still face death with the same blend of reverence and irony. As scholar María Teresa Pomar writes, “The Mexican lives side by side with death. He fears it, yet befriends it.”
So, borrowing from the old verse, we too might say:
Mira, Muerte, no seas inhumana, déjame vivir! —
“Look, Death, don’t be inhumane. Let me live.”
From violent union, through assimilation, to El Día de la Raza
By Gilberto Hinojosa
While the 400th anniversary of Columbus’s voyage drew protests from Native Americans who saw little to celebrate, El Día de la Raza (Oct. 12) marks something different—the birth of a new people and culture.
Most Mexicans are mestizos, descendants of Spanish and Native American ancestors. Early Spanish settlers, mostly single men, formed economic and personal relationships with Native Americans. Though often exploitative and violent, these interactions eventually produced a mixed population that blended races, languages, and traditions.
At first, mestizaje carried stigma, since interracial unions were outside marriage and viewed as illegitimate. Over time, the Catholic Church’s recognition of such unions and widespread intermarriage helped erase barriers. Cultural symbols like Our Lady of Guadalupe, combining Christian and Indigenous elements, further unified the population and softened racial prejudice.
Not all regions experienced this blending equally. In northern Mexico, where Native peoples were nomadic, cultural fusion came more slowly. Still, the growing mestizo population spread acceptance of racial and cultural mixture.
El Día de la Raza celebrates this long, often painful process — the creation of a new civilization born from two worlds, whose descendants, including Mexican-Americans, carry forward that blended heritage today.
The voyage in Columbus’s words
Christopher Columbus’ s1492 voyage marked a turning point in human history. To commemorate Columbus Day, here are highlights from his own journal, as recorded in one version of the “Medieval Source Book.”
Columbus sailed from Palos on August 3, 1492, commanding three ships—the Niña, Pinta, and Santa María—on a westward route to reach Asia. The journey was marked by difficulties: damaged equipment, restless sailors, and fears of never finding land.
By mid-September, the crew saw birds, patches of seaweed, and signs of nearby land, though these often proved false. The Admiral kept morale alive by adjusting recorded distances and offering words of faith. As tension grew, Columbus urged perseverance: “God, in whose hand is all victory, will speedily direct us to land.”
On October 11, the sailors saw carved wood, a cane, and other signs of vegetation. Late that night, Rodrigo de Triana aboard the Pinta sighted land. At dawn on October 12, 1492, Columbus and his men went ashore on an island he named San Salvador, claiming it for Spain.
What began as a voyage to the Indies became the first link in a new global age—an encounter that would forever alter the world.
Cultures of independence joined in celebration of Diez y Seis
San Antonio’s celebration of Diez y Seis highlights our city’s cultural convivencia — a coming together of diverse traditions.
The original revolt of September 16, 1810, began when Father Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla rang the church bells in Dolores, calling not to Mass but to revolution. His cry launched Mexico’s 11-year struggle for independence from Spain.
Hidalgo, a criollo (New World Spaniard), rose quickly in the church but saw opportunities blocked by Bourbon reforms that favored newly arrived Spaniards. These reforms centralized Spanish power, angering those in the provinces who had long enjoyed relative autonomy.
Hidalgo joined like-minded thinkers, including Doña Josefa Ortiz de Domínguez (“La Corregidora”), and gained support from mestizos and Indigenous people burdened by taxes and restrictions. When revolt came, they swelled the insurgent ranks.
Though Hidalgo was captured and executed, others like Morelos, Allende, and Guadalupe Victoria carried on until independence was finally declared in 1821.
The struggle’s ideals were not fully realized for decades, but the heroes of Diez y Seis remain symbols of courage and the universal fight for self-determination. Their cries of “¡Viva!” still echo in Mexico and among Mexican Americans across the Southwest.
Full Text:Hidalgo's grito
Abridged Version:
Hidalgo’s grito still calls out for independence today
On September 16, 1810, Father Miguel Hidalgo rang the church bells in Dolores and issued the grito that launched Mexico’s war of independence. His call for political inclusion and economic opportunity gave birth to a new people and a new nation.
That Mexicanness had deep roots — in the civilizations of the Aztec and Maya, and in the Spanish traditions of language, law, and religion. Out of conquest and cultural blending emerged a mestizo society and, by the late 1700s, a distinctly American identity.
Spain’s reforms privileged European-born Spaniards (Peninsulares) over native-born Criollos, fueling resentment. The Criollos, joined by mestizos and Indians, led the fight for independence. Hidalgo, Morelos, Allende, Doña Josefa, and others became the heroes whose names still resound each Diez y Seis with a thunderous “¡Viva!”
Independence was won, but full equality remained elusive. Even today, the struggle for inclusion and economic opportunity continues. For Mexican Americans, the legacy is personal: San Antonio residents themselves fought and sacrificed in the cause as early as 1813.
Then as now, Diez y Seis symbolizes the formation of a people and their demand to be heard. Hidalgo’s grito was more than a call to arms — it was a declaration of dignity and destiny that still echoes powerfully today.
Abridged Version:
Diez y Seis long a part of San Antonio history, celebrations
San Antonio has marked Diez y Seis de Septiembre for well over a century. Newspaper accounts from 1897 describe thousands gathering at San Pedro Springs to honor Father Miguel Hidalgo and Mexico’s independence.
Festivities included parades, oratory, patriotic music, and the reading of the Declaration of Independence. Leaders praised Hidalgo alongside Washington as champions of liberty and self-government. Speeches were delivered in both English and Spanish, reflecting the bilingual and bicultural character of the community.
The celebrations were filled with light, music, and food — chile stands, ribbons, and lanterns creating a scene likened to those in Monterrey, Saltillo, or Mexico City. Afterward, a ball at the pavilion continued the revelry late into the night.
The earliest reference to Diez y Seis festivities in San Antonio appears in 1869. Clearly, this commemoration has long been a vibrant part of the city’s history, linking local Mexican Americans to the universal ideals of freedom and independence.
Indian conquests began plight
Integrating Indians into its national
life is one of Mexico’s major challenges today — and has been since the
earliest days of the colony, as described by Fray Bartolomé de las Casas, who
landed on those shores on Jan. 5, 1548.
Evoking the basic human nature shared by
peoples of all races, Las Casas wrote extensively and railed, in church pulpits
and in the royal court, against the conquest and enslavement of Indians.
A modern humanist, Las Casas was
ultimately a theologian, and he argued to church and crown authorities that, if
they were going to baptize the Indians, they couldn’t treat them as inferior
human beings.
The Gospel, according to Las Casas, was
not about the comfort and reassurance of being saved, but about the challenge
of seeing the sufferings of Christ in the plight of others.
To make his point, as bishop of Chiapas,
Las Casas went so far as to refuse Communion and the absolution of sins to
anyone holding Indians as slaves or known for mistreating workers.
Originally, Las Casas came to the New
World in search of wealth and he exploited the Indians just like other
conquistadors. But once he saw the abuses and exploitation of the Indians, he
underwent a dramatic conversion, joined the Dominican order, and became the
Indians’ foremost defender.
Las Casas decried not just the evil done
by individuals, but the inherently unjust legal and economic structures created
by the Spaniards. In the local and regional economies, Spanish immigrants to
the New World took land for cultivation and demanded free Indian labor.
This objective required the creation of
separate worlds: the Spanish cities and la república de indios — the
Indian countryside governed by pre-Hispanic political traditions and only
marginally connected to the colonial and world economy. Some of that isolation
of the Indian world continues to the present.
The persistence of that marginal
connection of Indians to the wider economic world was evident to me on a recent
trip to Oaxaca in southern Mexico.
On the walk from the bus station to the
market in the provincial town of Tlacolula, I passed a worried Indian couple
coaxing, in the Zapotec language, a pair of goats. They had probably brought
the animals for sale at the market and had failed to secure the expected
income.
What was worrisome about this scene was
the economic marginalization.
The extreme effect of such
marginalization has hit the news as dozens of poor people in northern Mexico
have perished in the recent cold spell. But that same poverty is evident in the
swarms of youngsters and adults in the city trying to clean windshields and
selling gum and trinkets.
Today, Las Casas would be vehemently
decrying this marginalization and passionately calling for the expansion of
economic modernization, probably preaching social justice in the pulpits and in
the aisles of Congress and the stock market.
Las conquistas indígenas iniciaron la difícil
situación de la actualidad
Como integrar
a los indígenas en la vida nacional es uno de los principales desafíos de
México hoy en día, y lo ha sido desde los primeros días de la colonia, como lo
describió Fray Bartolomé de las Casas, quien llegó a estas tierras el 5 de
enero de 1548.
Alegando que
todos los pueblos y razas compartían la misma naturaleza humana, Las Casas
escribió extensamente y denunció, tanto en los púlpitos de la iglesia como en
la corte real, la conquista y esclavización de los indígenas.
Un humanista
moderno, Las Casas era básicamente un teólogo. Insistió ante las autoridades
eclesiásticas y de la corona que, si iban a bautizar a los indígenas, no podían
tratarlos como seres humanos inferiores.
El
Evangelio, según Las Casas, no trataba del consuelo y la tranquilidad de la
salvación, sino del desafío de ver el sufrimiento de Cristo en la difícil
situación de los demás.
Para
demostrar su punto, como obispo de Chiapas, Las Casas llegó al extremo de negar
la comunión y la absolución de los pecados a cualquiera que tuviera esclavos
indígenas o fuera conocido por maltratar a los trabajadores.
Originalmente,
Las Casas llegó al Nuevo Mundo en busca de riqueza y explotó a los indígenas
como lo hicieron otros conquistadores. Pero una vez que vio los abusos y la
explotación de los indígenas, sufrió una conversión radical, se unió a la orden
dominica y se convirtió en el principal defensor de los indígenas.
Las Casas
denunció no solo el mal cometido por individuos, sino también las estructuras
legales y económicas intrínsecamente injustas creadas por los españoles. En las
economías locales y regionales, los inmigrantes españoles en el Nuevo Mundo se
apropiaron de tierras para su cultivo y exigieron trabajo indígena gratuito.
Este segundo
objetivo requirió la creación de mundos separados: las ciudades españolas y “la
república de indios,” la zona indígena gobernado por tradiciones políticas
prehispánicas y solo marginalmente conectado a la economía colonial y mundial.
Parte de ese aislamiento del mundo indígena continúa hasta el presente.
La
persistencia de esa conexión marginal de los indígenas con el mundo económico
más amplio me resultó evidente en un reciente viaje a Oaxaca, en el sur de
México.
En el camino
desde la estación de autobuses hasta el mercado en la ciudad provincial de
Tlacolula, pasé junto a una preocupada pareja indígena que intentaba guiar, en
lengua zapoteca, a un par de cabras. Probablemente habían llevado los animales
al mercado para venderlos y no lograron obtener el ingreso esperado.
El uso del
zapoteco no me preocupó, ya que la mayoría de los hablantes de zapoteco también
hablaban español. Lo que sí era preocupante era la marginación económica.
En círculos
académicos y gubernamentales, esta marginación se conoce como la “economía
informal”, es decir, el intercambio de bienes y servicios que no puede
calcularse en el PIB y que, por lo tanto, queda fuera de la planificación y la
prestación de servicios.
El efecto
extremo de tal marginación ha aparecido en las noticias recientemente, ya que
decenas de personas pobres en el norte de México han perecido debido a la
reciente ola de frío. Pero esa misma pobreza es evidente en las multitudes de
jóvenes y adultos en la ciudad que intentan limpiar parabrisas y vender chicles
y chucherías.
Hoy, Las
Casas denunciaría vehementemente esta marginación y clamaría apasionadamente
por la expansión de la modernización económica, probablemente predicando la
justicia social en los púlpitos, en los pasillos del Congreso y en la bolsa de
valores.
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