This article explores the reactions of white U.S. elite travelers to the greater Caribbean in the Gilded Age and progressive era. Focusing on the tropical port system that was the center of the region’s commodity export trade and simultaneously a center of visitor transit, it explores how visitors’ negative reactions, especially of disgust, fed into the politics of race and empire by attributing the effects of rapid globalization to non-white autonomy in the region.

This study charts the ineffective vigilante violence perpetrated by growers in the Rio Grande Valley of Texas to suppress farmworker activism from the mid-to-late 1970s and their abrupt shift in tactics with a 1980 strike in Hereford, Texas, toward the adoption of strictly nonviolent and tediously legalistic new methods associated with the neoconservative backlash. It does so in two major sections. In the first, grower violence is chronicled in detail that underscores both its rage and ineffectiveness. The second section shows how the New Right usurped the longstanding usage of physical violence against ethnic Mexicans in Texas, prompting conservatives to flock to the Republican banner due to the party’s ability to deliver on the New Right’s designs of defeating the cultural liberalism embodied by the civil rights movement of previous decades.

The Supreme Court issued its first decision on affirmative action in Regents of the University of California v. Bakke in 1978. Like most conflicts about civil rights in this era, the fight over affirmative action is presumed to involve primarily Black and White Americans. But Bakke cannot be understood without including Latino participants in the origin story. During the 1970s, Latinos’ rates of university enrollment increased more than those of any other group, especially in California, where the case originated. So when Bakke’s legal challenge threatened that access, Latino lawyers, students, and higher education advocates collaborated on a strategic defense of affirmative action. They drafted legal briefs, formed regional and national committees, and took to the streets. First in California and then in the East and Midwest, Latinos worked to shape the national discussion over the value of affirmative action and to protect their hard-won gains in higher education.

Birthright citizenship, as a common law principle, was a cornerstone of the American Republic at its founding.1 Like many “universal” rights at the time, it was presumed to apply to white people, routinely denied to enslaved people, and deeply contested for free people of color. After the Civil War, amid the effort to rebuild a fractured Union and answer the decades-long Black freedom struggle, Congress sought to affirm and extend the principle of birthright citizenship in the U.S. Constitution. In 1868, Congress recognized the ratification of the Fourteenth Amendment, extending citizenship to anyone born on U.S. soil. The language of the Fourteenth Amendment was clear: “All persons born or naturalized in the United States, and subject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United States and of the State wherein they reside.”2 This included—as the congressional record reveals—the children of immigrants regardless of race, nationality, or desirability of their parents.3

When Congress debated the wording of the Fourteenth Amendment, Chinese immigration was not at the forefront of legislators’ minds. They were primarily focused on granting citizenship to newly emancipated Black people while continuing to deny it to Native people living outside of America’s jurisdiction. Their ultimate choice of words reflected these desires. The first sentence of the amendment proclaimed, “All persons born or naturalized in the United States, and subject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United States and of the State wherein they reside.”1

On July 4, 1895, U.S. flags fluttered alongside red Chinese lanterns outside 753 Clay Street, the newly claimed San Francisco headquarters of the Native Sons of the Golden State (NSGS).1 Inside, NSGS president Chun Dick rose to speak. Standing at five feet two inches with short-cropped black hair, he shared that at least fifty men in NSGS were birthright citizens and ready to vote, and that more Chinese American voters would follow.2 Chun Dick, members of the Chinese community in attendance, their guests, and journalists in the room reflected a new political reality: Chinese American children, born in the United States, were coming of age and claiming a place in U.S. politics. Chinese immigrants constituted the largest racial minority in the state, and while many were ineligible to vote, their children who could were organizing to do so. Therefore, this moment on July 4 in San Francisco marked a turning point.

On October 7, 1888, approximately 176 Chinese passengers arrived in San Francisco aboard the S.S. Belgic. They carried laborer return certificates—documents that, until just days earlier, had guaranteed their right to reenter. But on October 1, President Grover Cleveland had signed the Scott Act into law, abruptly voiding those certificates. Officially, the act barred only Chinese laborers from returning. In practice, however, Chinese merchants and U.S.-born children of Chinese parents also traveled with laborer return certificates. They, too, would now be denied readmission.

Following the Wong Kim Ark decision in 1898, ethnic Chinese, other Asians, and almost all individuals born on U.S. soil secured the right to jus soli birthright citizenship. They could not, however, secure recognition of their citizenship without documentation, the key that linked birth to birthright. At a time when birth registration was not common, ethnic Chinese were able to establish U.S. citizenship in two main ways: through an order by a U.S. District Court or certification by U.S. immigration authorities.1 However, this documentation did not settle questions of the holder’s identity, immigration or citizenship status. Immigration inspectors generally doubted testimony given in these cases and believed that it was used to obtain fraudulent documentation of lawful immigration or citizenship status.

On July 11, 1924, the Lincoln reached Angel Island, the desolate and remote location of the infamous immigration station in California. Aboard the ship were nine Chinese wives, hopeful that they would soon reunite with their spouses who had preceded them to the United States. Until then, despite harsh immigration laws, many Chinese women had been admitted to the country because they were married to noncitizen merchants or to American citizens. Building on coverture principles that a man’s care and comfort were so important that his wife’s status should follow his, Chinese husbands had often argued successfully that their right to reunite with their families took precedence over existing immigration laws, which excluded Chinese immigrants because of their race. It was these laws, they contended, that had forced many Chinese migrants into transnational marriages in the first place. Despite these precedents, the immigration officers who inspected the women on the Lincoln rejected them all, regardless of their age, education, and class.

Current trends in suburban history incorporate questions about racial violence and exploitation formerly reserved for cities. They emphasize inequality but attribute its persistence to unequal terms of accessing suburbia rather than exclusion. Scholars should build on this insight to better historicize suburbs that do not fit existing frameworks. Specifically, they should bridge histories of climate change, capitalism, and gentrification. Doing so will ensure suburban history remains at the forefront for understanding present-day crises.