Life in a Venezuelan Oil Camp By: Miguel Tinker Salas

November 23, 2019November 23, 2019 Richard Barnes

The below was published in 2015 in the Harvard Review of Latin America (link below the article). Some of his observations do not comport with my own experience (Jim Crow type arrangements and treatment may have prevailed in his camp, but not in mine; not all westerns were insensitive to the American Indian, witness Fort Apache and many others; the sentiments in the limerick at the end became all-too-prevalent by the mid-sixties, but were not based on fact or economic reality, etc.); however, overall, Mr. Tinker comes close and I won’t distract further from his narration.

Life in a Venezuelan Oil Camp

Tío Conejo Meets Uncle Sam

By Miguel Tinker Salas

**Workers dig a well in Caripito. Photo courtesy of the University of Louisville.**

View the photo gallery.

I grew up in a Venezuelan oil camp. Eversince I can remember, I have heard both Spanish and English spoken all around me or conveyed through music or films. With my family, I ate traditional Venezuelan arepas, cachapas, carne mechada (shredded beef), fried plantain, and black beans, but invitations to dinners at friends’ houses often meant sampling curry goat, roti and thali, borscht, or U.S.- style barbecues.

In many ways, Caripito, the oil town where I was raised, embodied the changes occurring throughout Venezuela after the discovery of oil. In 1930, the Standard Oil Company of Venezuela built a port facility and began work on a refinery in this town, in the state of Monagas in eastern Venezuela, to process oil from fields in Quiriquire, Jusepin and Temblador. The promise of the oil attracted Venezuelans from throughout the country; many caripiteños (people of Caripito) had roots in the adjacent state of Sucre. In succeeding decades, people from Trinidad, Italy, Lebanon and even a handful of Russian exiles also made their way to Caripito. By 1939, Caripito had a population estimated at about 5,000 people, some 300 of whom were “white Americans.” In Caripito, as in most oil camps, to be white increasingly became synonymous with being a U.S. expatriate. By 1960, the total population had soared to a little over 20,000 people.

At an early age I became acutely aware of how different the oil camp experience was from the rest of Venezuela. After several years of living in the residential enclave, and seeking to avoid the demanding social expectations of the camp, my parents moved to Los Mangos, a neighborhood of Caripito. However, they also recognized the importance of straddling both worlds, and my mother dutifully drove me everyday to the company school and our family selectively participated in many camp activities.

After oil was discovered in 1914, Venezuelan production was concentrated in the interior of the country, where infrastructure and sanitary conditions had improved little since the 19th century. To ensure operations, foreign companies took charge of basic services including electricity, water, sewage, roads, housing, health services, schooling and a commissary. In these rural areas, the companies supplanted the state, and local communities became dependent on foreign enterprises for basic services.

Standard Oil Company of Venezuela (laterCreole Petroleum, a subsidiary of Standard Oil Company of New Jersey), and Shell Oil built residential camps to house their employees. In classic Jim Crow fashion, the companies created distinct areas for foreigners, typically white U.S. employees or “senior staff,” Venezuelan professionals or “junior” staff, and more modest housing for workers. The senior staff clubs included a pool, golf course, tennis and basketball courts, as well as bowling alleys while the workers club typically had a baseball field, a bolas criollas court (bocce), a bar and a dance floor. In spite of this hierarchy, by the 1950s the camps became symbols of U.S.-sponsored “modernity,” with orderly communities, higher salaries and access to a full range of services that sharply contrasted with conditions found in the local Venezuelan settlements.

The camps represented an improvised and largely transitory society made up of residents from different parts of the United States and Venezuela. The camps allowed Venezuelans to interact with people from other regions, races and countries. With few if any roots to the local community, workers were frequently transferred between camps, and the company promoted an esprit de corps among its employees that centered on an all-encompassing corporate culture. Company practices favored hiring family members, thus handing down values such as the “American way of life” from generation to generation.

t despite their artificial nature, the camps left an enduring legacy in Venezuelan culture and society. For the generations that worked in the oil industry, the camps reinforced their image as a privileged sector of Venezuelan society. Just as importantly, the camps were sites of cultural and social exchange, with the “American way of life” influencing everything from politics to values. Those employed in the industry expected the Venezuelan state to be the guardian of this distinctive lifestyle. Many residents retained a collective nostalgia for the experience of the camps, overlooking the racial and social hierarchy that prevailed and the detachment that existed from Venezuelan society.

Caripito was typical of this oil town culture. The same ships that navigated the San Juan River to load oil also brought an array of U.S. fruits and canned products for sale in the camp commissary. I still recall the amazement of eating individually wrapped red Washington apples for the first time, or savoring crisp Mexican tortillas that came in vacuum-sealed metal cans. Long before McDonalds appeared in Venezuela, the soda fountain at the company club regularly served the “all American meal” consisting of hamburgers, fries, and Coke. The Venezuelan diet quickly incorporated U.S. culinary preferences and tastes.

Like other children in the camps, I went to a bilingual company school that incorporated both the Venezuelan and U.S.-mandated curriculum. To a certain extent, exposure to a bicultural milieu shaped the consciousness and personal sensibilities of people like myself who inhabited the camps or its environs. Beyond simply the ability to speak both languages, the camps conveyed the importance of dealing with difference. This experience, however, was not shared equally, and it usually fell on the Venezuelans to learn English. Besides understanding English, familiarity with U.S. norms and customs proved essential for Venezuelans seeking to advance in the company. Interacting with foreigners became natural, but so did the imposition of a social racial hierarchy reinforced by U.S. expatriates at the top of the social order.

Festivities in oil camps highlighted the extent to which the camps represented self-contained enclaves of U.S. culture in the heart of Venezuela. Seldom if ever questioned, the pervasive influence of the U.S. oil industry made political and cultural ties with the north appear normal. Celebrations of the 4th of July melded with Venezuelan independence on the 5th of July, becoming shared events that allowed politicians and company officials to make largely perfunctory claims of solidarity. Expatriates, especially from Texas, saw the occasion as an opportunity to prepare Southwest-style barbecues where local beer flowed freely. Uncle Sam, the benevolent father figure that later morphed into a symbol of U.S. imperialism, mixed freely with Tío Conejo, a shrewd rabbit from a Venezuelan folk tale who regularly outwits his tiger nemesis, Tío Tigre.

Other festivities, however, diverged from Venezuelan traditions for which no parallel activity existed. During Halloween, children dressed as Mickey Mouse, cowboys, ghosts and witches wandered throughout the senior camp asking for candy from befuddled Venezuelans. Thanksgiving celebrations by the U.S. expatriate community, which often included public gatherings, and the consumption of frozen turkeys imported from the United States, remained an exclusively foreign activity. Venezuelans outside of the oil industry had no connection to these events. A traditional Christmas in Venezuela had always included building a Nativity scene, but in the oil camps, this practice was slowly displaced by ornament-laden imported pine trees. To add to the festive mood, the oil company typically decorated a nearby oil well or water tower with colored lights in the shape of a Christmas tree, with adjacent loudspeakers playing seasonal melodies.

Shortwave radios allowed expatriates—and some oil camp Venezuelans—to keep track of events in the United States and important news quickly spread. This was long before the Internet or cable television made speedy news a fact of life. I can recall seeing my U.S. teacher at the Cristóbal Mendoza grammar school break down in tears when the school loudspeaker announced the assassination of President John F. Kennedy.

Another way of connecting to U.S. culture was through movies shown at the camp club; Spanish subtitles allowed the Venezuelan audience to follow the action without paying second thought to the overt racism present in many of the U.S. Westerns that stereotyped Mexicans and Native Americans. Many of my U.S. classmates at the camp shared LP records that came with a coonskin cap, plastic musket, and powder horn and recounted the exploits of Davy Crocket starring Fess Parker.

Venezuelans who did not live in the camp or work in oil sought entertainment in the San Luis movie house in La Sabana across from the Creole Petroleum refinery. I straddled both worlds, and loved to watch Mexican cowboy (charros) films or the comedy of Cantinflas and Tin Tan in the old-fashioned movie house that featured a range of seating from common wooden benches to higher-priced chairs. Outside the theater, my friends and I looked forward to savoring corn empanadas de cazón (dried shark), a local favorite in eastern Venezuela, made by an Afro-Venezuelan woman.

The importance of oil to the U.S. economy and military thrust Venezuela into the midst of the Cold War. In 1962, Peace Corp volunteers were assigned to Caripito to teach English in secondary schools and promote U.S. values. In case their efforts failed, Green Beret advisors gathered intelligence and trained the Venezuelan National Guard. In 1962, guerrillas launched an offensive in eastern Venezuela. The U.S. military advisors assigned to Caripito asked my local Scout troop to report on “suspicious activity,” including spent cartridges we might find as we hiked through the rainforest. To assuage discontent, the town’s poor also received sacks of grain from the Alliance for Progress and from Caritas, a Catholic charity. As I accompanied my parents into some of the poorest neighborhoods of Caripito to distribute food packages it became evident that oil had not benefited all sectors of society equally. The camps highlighted the existence of two Venezuelas, one benefiting from oil, and one for which the promise of oil remained elusive.

Oil never fully transformed Venezuela, but rather it created the illusion of modernity in a country where high levels of inequality persisted. The camps became a tangible symbol of this disparity. Local residents resented the inequities in lifestyle; businesses complained about closed markets; the government worried about divided loyalties; and the left viewed them as part of U.S. exploitation of Venezuela’s labor and resources. During the 1970s, popular protest singer Ali Primera wrote Perdóname Tío Juan (Forgive me Uncle John):

Having successfully created a trained and acculturated labor force imbued with company values, even the oil companies believed the camps had outlived their usefulness. Despite their eventual integration into local communities, the lived experiences of those employed in the industry coalesced with the perspectives of mid dle- and upper-classes that viewed oil as the guarantor of their status. Attempts to recapture the illusory sense of modernity experienced during this period inform many of the political divisions that characterize contemporary Venezuela.

Es que usted no se ha paseado
por un campo petrolero/ usted no ve que se llevan
lo que es de nuestra tierra/
y sólo nos van dejando
miseria y sudor de obrero/
y sólo nos van dejando/
miseria y sudor de obrero.

(You have not visited an oil camp, you do not see that they take what belongs to our land, and all they leave us is misery and the sweat of our worker’s and all they leave us is misery and the sweat of workers.)

Miguel Tinker Salas is Professor of Latin American History and Chicano/a Latino/a Studies at Pomona College in Claremont, California. He is the author ofVenezuela, What Everyone Needs to Know (Oxford University Press, 2015) and The Enduring Legacy: Oil, Culture and Society in Venezuela (Duke University Press, 2009), among other books.

Venezuelan crew on the way to work in Caripito

Camp School in Caripito. Author is seated on floor, second from right.

American investment and industry, especially oil and ore, dramatically improved purchasing power in numerous Venezuelan sectors.

https://revista.drclas.harvard.edu/book/life-venezuelan-oil-camp

Thankfulness, Data, and Commentary

November 15, 2019November 15, 2019 Richard Barnes

Thankfulness

From a column by Scott Johnson on his friend, the late Peter Collier:

“Peter reflected long and deeply on his days as a radical. My favorite of these reflections is his essay ‘Coming Home,’ in Second Thoughts: Former Radicals Look Back at the Sixties.

“In this essay Peter recalled the trip he took with this laconic father to South Dakota, where his father had been born, while his father was dying. During one long stretch of Nevada highway, his father announced: ‘You know, I’m glad I was born a South Dakotan and an American. I’m glad I saw the beginning of the twentieth century. I’m glad I lived through the Depression and the War. I think these things made me a stronger person. I’m glad I came to California, because I met your mother there. I’m glad we had you for a son.’

“Peter commented: ‘It was the longest speech I’d ever heard him make…It was a moment of acceptance and affirmation by someone whose life had often been disfigured by hard work and responsibility and for whom words had never come easily. What he said and how he said it was so different from the chic bitterness and facile nihilism of my radical friends that I was shaken. It was like hearing speech, real and authentic speech, for the first time in years.'”

I was drawn to Mr. Johnson’s column because I had recently thanked God for having been born in Venezuela, for my Venezuelan-citizen mother and American-citizen father, for having worked in Puerto Rico, where I met my wife, and for the children He had blessed us with. A spirit of thankfulness had stirred within me and I can only wish for that to occur more frequently.

Recently a dear aunt passed away in Venezuela. She was utterly selfless, having sacrificed to enable her grandson to emigrate to the United States, knowing she would never see him again on this earth. I am glad I knew her and that I knew her mother. And that such a people still pull me to imitate that which is good.

Data

The data speaks for itself: #Socialism destroys wealth pic.twitter.com/uiVjgUK0sL
— Prof. Steve Hanke (@steve_hanke) November 10, 2019

Commentary

As a reminder, for the most part, this blog leaves current events and commentary to other mediums, which are plentiful. However, every once in a while, we will publish or report or link to a commentary or report on the current situation in Venezuela. The link below is one of a series penned by Christian K. Caruzo, born in Venezuela, and witness to its deterioration.

https://www.breitbart.com/national-security/2019/10/13/my-socialist-hell-20-years-of-decay-in-venezuela/

Venezuela then and now

An Empire Named San Tomé

November 8, 2019November 8, 2019 Richard Barnes

I am unable to track down the author of the below. It was an email which found its way to me.

Having read it several times I can attest to his description of life in an American camp, in this case, a petroleum camp, Mene Grande, a Gulf Oil subsidiary. Refer to my prior post, “Memories of San Tomé” (November 2, 2019) for more detail.

The email was written in Spanish by Vinicio Guerrero Méndez, whom I’ve done my best to track down, but with no success. Since his email was clearly sent as a “blast”, I am confident he would be pleased with my translating and sharing it here.

As you read, you will become aware of his subtle (or maybe not so subtle) narration which, in effect, builds a stupendous contrast with life in Venezuela today, where scarcity is the everyday experience of the majority, especially the poor.

Many are the souls alive in Venezuela (or in exile) today who recall better times.

Tuesday, 21 October, 2014.

In 1930, long before I was born, Juan Vicente Gómez [for more on Gómez, see my July 22, 2019 post, “Apple Foot: A Road Trip to Mérida”] had paid off all foreign debt, as a posthumous homage to Simón Bolivar on the centenary of his death. But he cared not for the education of his people, he outlawed all opposition political parties, and he severely punished delinquency, while amassing a fortune of more than 155 million Bolivars.

When I was born in the hospital of San Tomé (a petroleum camp), General Marcos Pérez Jiménez governed the destinies of our country where he had established a political dictatorship, but his mandate was characterized by the growth of the petroleum industry via concessions to American [U.S.A.] companies, which opened the way for contractors, American and Venezuelan, which in turn abundantly increased resources and countless job placements to the residents of nearby villages, towns, and scattered populations. Great and grand public works were realized, and also corruption. He too left no foreign debt.

The process of my birth cost three Reals (“tres reales”, about 30 Venezuelan cents) and this was discounted from my father’s pay up to six pay periods, with no interest. Medicines were available in abundance and were prescribed to us at no charge.

What’s so strange is that even former president Jaime Lusinchi worked there. [Dr. Lusinchi was president in the 1980’s. He was socialistic and Venezuela continued her descent during his tenure. Lusinchi knew better.]

The doctors were honorable and totally dedicated to their profession: men such as Dr. Tulio Briceño Mass who was my godfather and eventually became the Director of Dermatology at the Vargas Hospital in Caracas.

As far back as I can remember, my father’s car ran on gasoline assigned by the company, even though my father was a laborer. His assigned car was changed for a new one every three years. Should any mechanical fault have arisen, he would take it to the “Motor Pull” [pool] for repair and while they worked on it, the company would assign him a used car replacement. Repairs rarely took a week, depending on the fault. We did not pay for fuel, which would be provided merely on the basis of my father’s signature.

Also, included with his vehicle, was a complete toolbox of the brand “Snap-On”.

As far as living, the camp was divided into two sectors: North Camp and South Camp. In the South Camp lived technicians and laborers and in the North Camp lived the Americans and any Venezuelan with a professional degree or who, over time, acquired a responsible position. In other words “the chiefs”.

In the South Camp, the living quarters were all the same. Of course, the North Camp’s quarters were more commodious and nicer-looking. But we did not lack any services such as gas, water, electricity, phone, etc. We either paid nothing for these, or, if we did pay, it was a token amount.

The same applied to schooling: it was without cost, and so were the books and the transportation. My mother made our uniforms, or dusters, as we used to call them.

We studied eight hours per day and we also took music classes so as to not forget our national hymn nor the Alma Llanera. We had religious conferences at least once per week and they invited us to mass on Sundays.

As for food, we were serviced by a large commissary which was well stocked with all the basics and more. I remember we would buy various brands of milk: Rosemary, Klim, and whatever other brand of the thousands stocked there. Without exaggeration, we’d sometimes exit the commissary with two full cartloads of goods.

My father received a salary as well as regular bonuses and even an additional sum in January, called, if I remember correctly, “liquids”. This was a payment to help employees who might have overextended themselves during the Christmas season. With these “liquids” funds, my mother would take us to Curazao every other year or so to buy clothing made by the Empire.

We had excellent recreational and sporting sites all over, as in Medina Park, etc.

In Carnival our celebrations gained the reputation of being the best in Venezuela and were known as The Black Gold Carnival.

On Easter Week we all went to Mass and we rejoiced when father Arias would rebuke us.

Christmas was a portent because the departments would strive to be the best when it was their turn to host mass that day. They gave away candy, “pastelitos,” firecrackers, fireworks, and innumerable gifts. There was always money for Santa Claus or the Child Jesus (by the way, I was 15 when I learned that both were my parents).

And then, as if the above were not enough, on the 6th of January, the Magi made their appearance.

I asked for the moon in my letters to Child Jesus: whether pistols, or “chácaras” [noisy toys]. I could not begin to imagine how there were so many toys at such low prices in that toy store that was at the other side of the commissary.

My father was sent to Mexico for a training course, all expenses paid. He brought me a beautiful Longines watch as a souvenir. In these days, should I use the watch, they’d call me “El mocho.” [dude; dandy; not a compliment today].

When we’d visit the baseball stadium, Francisco Pinto, “Owl Face”, was the Sporting Section boss and neither teams nor uniforms were ever lacking when celebrations took place. Even Enzo Hernandez (may he rest in peace) hit a homer and I said, this guy is going to be a major leaguer [he played for the San Diego Padres in the 1970’s].

As you can see, it was very hard living with those American imperialists.

Note: If a resident of that era can add or correct something in the above, I would be grateful.

This plaque commemorates the beginnings of the Venezuela oil exploration in 1914, a century before Mr. Guererro’s email. The site of the above photo is on the coast of Lake Maracaibo and Mene Grande (Gulf Oil) also had massive investments there. It is now a scene of desolation.

Alma Llanera is one of the few “typical” songs or pieces of music that are known throughout the world. I heard it played in Saudi Arabia (Khobar). It is a landmark song, whose composition coincides with the beginnings of oil exploration in Venezuela: 1914. To begin to appreciate Venezuela, you might parcel out two minutes and see the video.

Memories of San Tomé

November 2, 2019November 2, 2019 Richard Barnes

The video posted below is 15 minutes, and if you are interested in an American’s reflections about camp life in Venezuela, you’ll appreciate it. You will find Mr. Howland’s commentary low key but compelling. He reminds me much of that generation of men I grew up with.

The camp was built by the Mene Grande Oil Company, a subsidiary of the Gulf Oil Company. It was located near the town of El Tigre, about 60 miles north of Ciudad Bolivar which lies on the Orinoco River, and about 120 miles northwest of San Félix, which is also also on the Orinoco, only further east. It was about 160 miles northwest of El Pao.

He mentions the South Camp. In Mene Grande the North Camp was the “staff” camp, mostly populated by Americans in its early history. The South Camp was the labor camp. But both were well run and fondly remembered by its inhabitants.

This was “nationalized” in 1975 along with the rest of the oil and iron ore industries.

Some comments below the video say much:

“I was born in Caripito Monagas State in January 1959 and 6 months after being born we arrived in San Tomé where I grew up. Many are the good memories of a town that I consider was an example of society. I thank Mr. Howland for that beautiful video [which goes back over] 80 years of existence.” [emphasis mine]

“Hello Mr. Howland. Your videos bring back many wonderful memories. I lived with my parents in El Tigrito and graduated from San Tomé Staff School in 1953. I saved a little boy’s life in the club pool for which Mene Grande gave me a watch when I graduated.”

“Jake — amazing video. As the Venezuelans would say, it was “muy emocionante” to see such old footage of our beloved camp.”

I have an email that was forwarded to me and am hoping to receive permission to post it. Meanwhile, I’ll only post the mildly sardonic conclusion:

“As you can see, it was very difficult living with those American imperialists.”

To learn just a tad of the massive American investment in Venezuela and a time when conservative outlooks and mores somewhat ruled the day, you might want to parcel out the 15 minutes it takes to watch

Some “ground level” photos of areas alluded to in the film (am a bit surprised at the dearth of readily available photos, as this was well-known site):

What About Spain and the Reformation?

October 26, 2019October 26, 2019 Richard Barnes

Five hundred and two years ago, on October 31, 1517, an Augustinian monk named Martin Luther posted ninety-five theses on the door of the Castle Church in Wittenberg. This was a common action in this university town and was intended as an invitation to debate and discuss.

Instead, a conflagration ensued and the world was transformed.

The event was preceded by the labors of men such as Jan Has (John Hus), and John Wycliffe, both of whom lived in the 14th century, and also William Tyndale, whose labors were greatly influential to the translators of both the Geneva Bible (the version first brought to America’s shores) as well as the later Authorized (King James) version.

The Reformation came “in the fullness of time.” The peoples of the world, especially Europe, were “ready” to seek, find, and act upon the Truth.

The following quotes will serve to remind us that, absent the Reformation, especially the work of John Calvin and the the Genevan reformers, we would have been a very different people and place:

“[Calvinists] are the true heroes of England. They founded England, in spite of the corruption of the Stuarts, by the exercise of duty, by the practice of justice, by obstinate toil, by vindication of right, by resistance to oppression, by the conquest of liberty, by the repression of vice. They founded Scotland; they founded the United States; at this day they are, by their descendants, founding Australia and colonizing the world.” — French atheist Hippolyte Taine (1828-1893)

“Calvinism has been the chief source of republican government.” — Lorraine Boettner

“In Calvinism lies the origin and guarantee of our constitutional liberties.” — Goren van Prinsterer

“[John Calvin] is the father of America. He who will not honor the memory and respect the influence of Calvin knows but little of the origin of American liberty.” — Historian George Bancroft

“John Calvin was the virtual founder of America.” — German historian Leopold von Ranke

When we speak of the Reformation we think of men like Martin Luther, John Calvin, John Knox, Ulrich Zwingli, and many such others, mostly hailing from Switzerland, England, Holland, Scandinavia, Germany, and France.

And then there is Spain.

Perhaps the most known Spanish Reformation names are the remarkable Casiodoro de Reina and Cipriano de Valera, the erudite and pious men who translated and revised the entire Bible into Spanish from the original languages. The Reina-Valera version was first published in 1569, less than a decade after the Geneva Bible and four decades before the Authorized (King James). And it remains to this day as influential to the Spanish speaking peoples as the King James is to the English speaking.

Both men, at different times, pastored a Spanish protestant church in London. Valera translated Calvin’s Institutes into Spanish. From his introduction to the Institutes: “Therefore, open your eyes, O Spaniards, and forsaking those who deceive you, obey Christ and His Word which alone is firm and unchangeable for ever. Establish and found your faith on the true foundation of the Prophets and Apostles and sole Head of His Church.”

Both men died in exile after productive lives, despite hardships.

Spain, like her fellow European countries (including Italy, but that’s beyond today’s post), was also ripe for the Reformation. Reformistas Antiguos Españoles is a magisterial, 21-volume work which offers biographies and writings of Spanish reformers, including Juan Valdés, who, in 1529, published Diálogo de Doctrina Cristiana (Dialogue of Christian Doctrine) the first protestant book to be published in Spain. He also translated much of the New Testament from the original languages into Spanish. You could say he was the William Tyndale of Spain. An extraordinary man, as were many others of his compatriots.

Other examples of the spiritual fervent in Spain before and after Luther include the fact that there was at least one protestant congregation in Spain, established around 1510, years before the 95 theses were posted. Also, Adrian Saravia, born in the Spanish Netherlands to a Spanish father and a Flemish mother, fled to England and became one of the English Bible’s (Authorized) translators.

Another powerful indication predates 1517 by almost three centuries: Spain’s open mindedness and piety can be inferred by knowing a bit about the thirteenth-century Spanish king, Alfonso the Wise, who ordered the Bible be translated into Castilian Spanish and thus began to standardize the language. I understand there is still an extant copy of that Bible but to date have not succeeded in finding it. It was this king who laid the groundwork for the Siete Partidas, which includes large portions of the Old Testament in Castilian Spanish and which became the basis for law in Spain and her colonies until the catastrophic French Revolution’s incursions. For more on the Siete Partidas, refer to my May 11, 2019 post, “Simon Bolivar III — Influences.”

To begin to appreciate this king, however imperfect, the following was the instruction behind the Siete Partidas: “The Law-Maker should love God and keep Him before his eyes when he makes the laws, in order that they may be just and perfect. He should moreover love justice and the common benefit of all….If [the ruler] should make a bad use of his power … people can denounce him as a tyrant, and his government which was lawful, will become wrongful.” But this does not justify anarchy. “The union of all men together, those of superior, middle, and inferior rank” would determine what course to take in case of tyranny. This presaged John Calvin’s “lesser magistrates” theories, which we have institutionalized in the United States (federal, state, county, township, governor, sheriff, etc.) by three centuries, and anticipated our Fairfax Resolves and our Declaration of Independence by five!

The Spanish Inquisition, was energetically pressed by Pope Leo X, whose hatred for Luther was undisguised, not to say unhinged. He became alarmed at the incursions of the “Lutheran heresy” into Spain (apparently unaware that the “heresy” had resided in Spain for centuries before Luther) and he forcefully pressed the Spanish Inquisition whose first auto de fé took place in 1559, decades after the launching of the great explorations, including Columbus (1492), Cortés (1519), and others. If you read Columbus unfiltered by modern historians you would be forgiven if you thought he too was a Protestant.

My point is that, while the Reformation fostered unmistakable and long-lasting impact and influence on English and French America, it also affected Spanish and Portuguese America. An influence later truncated, if not extinguished by the Inquisition, which, unfortunately, had severe impact on Spain and its colonies, and even on the Roman Catholic Church in Spain, whose developing “evangelical” component was snuffed out.

As I’ve noted several times in this blog, North, Central, and South America have more in common with one another than is usually assumed. Granted, in some regions one would have to dig much deeper under the surface to find that shared background. For one thing, the French atheistic revolutionary influence forcefully invaded the Spanish colonies centuries ago in contrast to the English, who greatly delayed that infiltration.

Nevertheless, I do hope we will one day see the fruits of the common ancestry of the Reformation. Perhaps within the lifetimes of our children and grandchildren.

May you enjoy Reformation Sunday, October 27, and Reformation Day, October 31.