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To Europeans, Indians were living demonstrations of wholly novel ways of being human—exemplary cases that were mulled over, though rarely understood completely, by countless Europeans. Colonists and stay-at-homes, intellectuals and commoners, all struggled to understand, according to the sociologist-historian Denys Delâge, of Laval University, in Québec, “the very existence of these relatively egalitarian societies, so different in their structure and social relationships than those of Europe.” Montaigne, Rousseau, Locke, Voltaire, Jefferson, Franklin, and Thomas Paine were among the writers who mulled over the differences between native and European ways of life; some pondered Indian criticism of European societies. The result, Delâge explained, was to promote a new attitude of “cultural relativism” that in turn fed Enlightenment era debates “about the republican form of government, the rearing of children, and the ideals of freedom, equality, brotherhood, and the right to happiness.”

Cultural influence is difficult to pin down in documents and concrete actions. Nevertheless it exists. In 1630 John Winthrop led what was then the largest party of would-be colonists from Britain—some seven hundred people—to Massachusetts, where they founded the city of Boston. As the expedition was under way, the deeply religious Winthrop explained his vision of what the new colony should become: “a citty upon a hill.” The city would be ruled by the principles of the Pilgrim’s God. Among these principles: the Supreme Deity loves each person equally, but He did not intend them to play equal roles in society:

GOD ALMIGHTY in his most holy and wise providence, hath soe disposed of the condition of mankind, as in all times some must be rich, some poore, some high and eminent in power and dignitie; others mean and in submission.

Winthrop’s ideal community, that is, was not a place of equal opportunity, nor a place where social distinctions were erased; the “mean” circumstances of the poor were “in all times” part of God’s plan, and could not be greatly changed (if poor people got too far behind, the rich were supposed to help them). The social ideal was responsible adherence to religiously inspired authority, not democratic self-rule.

The reality turned out to be different. Instead of creating Winthrop’s vision of an ordered society, the Pilgrims actually invented the raucous, ultra-democratic New England town meeting—a system of governance, the Dartmouth historian Colin Calloway observes, that “displays more attributes of Algonkian government by consensus than of Puritan government by the divinely ordained.” To me, it seems unlikely that the surrounding Indian example had nothing to do with the change.

Accepting that indigenous societies influenced American culture opens up fascinating new questions. To begin with, it is possible that native societies could also have exercised a malign influence (this is why the subject is not necessarily “pious” or “romantic primitivism,” as the Oxford historian Felipe Fernandez-Armesto has complained). Look to the Southeast, where, as Taylor has noted, “colonial societies sustained a slave system more oppressive than anything practiced in Europe” and “the slave-owners relied on Indians to catch runaways.” There, too, the native groups, descended from Mississippian societies, were far more hierarchical and autocratically ruled than the Algonkian- and Iroquoian-speaking groups in the Northeast. As Gallay has documented, indigenous societies cooperated fully with the slave-trading system, sending war captives to colonists for sale overseas. In the Northeast, by contrast, the Wendat (Huron) and Haudenosaunee either killed or, more common, adopted captives; involuntary servitude, though it occurred, was strikingly rarer.

On the map, the division line between slave and non-slave societies occurs in Virginia, broadly anticipating the Mason-Dixon line that later split slave states from free. The repeated pattern doubtless has to do with geography—southeastern climate and soil favor plantation crops like tobacco and cotton. And southern colonists’ preference for slavery presumably reflected their different ethnic, class, and religious backgrounds. But can one readily dismiss the different Indian societies who lived in these places? And if not, to what extent are contemporary American conflicts over race the playing out, at least in part, of a cultural divide that came into being hundreds of years before Columbus?

A few personal remarks: After the first publication of this book, a number of readers and researchers contacted me with observations and criticisms, many of which made their way into this updated and corrected edition. Some book reviewers, too, drew my attention to errors, which I have tried to fix. For this help, I thank T. Chad Amos, David B. Bieler, Alfred W. Crosby, Todd Follansbee, Daniel W. Gade, Berl Golomb, Bob Hart, Bruce Johansen, Jeff Kellem, Elias Levy, Barbara Mann, William H. McNeill, Daniel N. Paul, Victor Sanchez, Jeffrey Shallit, Ted Slusarczyk, Michael M. Smith, Rev. Steve Thom, Rick Uyesugi, and Ronald Wright. I am sure I have left out some names—not until relatively late in the process did I begin keeping records. A couple of people read all or part of the published book a second time after having read it a first time in manuscript. One of these gluttons for punishment, Frances Karttunen, gave my Nahuatl orthography a second critique (it is still imperfect, but I hope improved); I also profited from her other insights. William Denevan, too, went through everything again with blue pencil in hand. I am indebted to both. A number of bloggers weighed in, for which my especial thanks to James Hannam (Venerable Bede), Chris Price (Layman) and Laura Gjovaag (Tegan).

My gratitude to the Conference of Latin Americanist Geographers, which, under the direction of Antoinette WinklerPrins and Narciso Barrera Bassols, organized a special panel on
1491
at their annual congress in Michoacán, Mexico. On the panel were William Doolittle, Suzanna Hecht, George Lovell, Billie Lee Turner, William I. Woods, and again William Denevan. Through the auspices of Jerry Dobson (to whom my thanks) the proceedings will be published in the
Geographical Review
. Finally, I am saddened to note that just before this book appeared the archaeologist Jim Petersen, whom I had come to consider a friend, was murdered during a stupid robbery in the Amazon. I hope that in a small way this book reflects the infectious delight he took in unveiling the human story, and in explaining his discoveries—and those of his colleagues—to anyone who wanted to learn.

APPENDIX A

 

Loaded Words

Anyone who attempts to write or even speak about the original inhabitants of the Americas quickly runs into terminological quicksand. And the attempt to extricate writer and reader by being logical and sensitive often ends with both parties sucked deeper into the mire. The difficulties fall into two broad categories: names for individual groups of Indians, and names for social categories used to classify those groups. Most well known among the former is “Indian,” a term so long recognized as absurd that in the 1960s and 1970s social scientists moved to change it to “Native American” or, sometimes, “Amerindian.”

The change was well meaning, but not entirely successful. On a literal level, the replacement name is as problematic as the original. “Native American” is intended to refer to the peoples who inhabited the Americas before Columbus arrived and their descendants today. Literally, though, it means something else: as the activist Russell Means has complained, “Anyone born in the western hemisphere is a Native American.” Worse, the term introduces an entirely new set of confusions. “Indian” does not refer to the Inuit, Aleut, and other peoples of the far north, whose cultures, languages, and even physical appearance are so different from their neighbors to the south that researchers generally argue they must have come to the Americas in a separate, much later wave of migration (though still many centuries ahead of Columbus). But all of them are Native Americans, which eliminates a distinction found useful by both scholars and indigenous peoples themselves.

In conversation, every native person whom I have met (I think without exception) has used “Indian” rather than “Native American.” One day I said “Native American” when speaking to a Bolivian graduate student of indigenous descent. She shook her head dismissively at the phrase. “Aquí somos indios,” she explained. “Los ‘americanos nativos’ viven solamente en los Estados Unidos.”
We are Indians here. “Native Americans” live only in the United States.
“I abhor the term Native American,” Means declared in 1998. Matching his actions to his words, Means had joined and become prominent in an indigenous-rights group called the American Indian Movement. “We were enslaved as American Indians,” he wrote, “we were colonized as American Indians, and we will gain our freedom as American Indians, and then we will call ourselves any damn thing we choose.” (At the same time, the common British usage of “Red Indian” to distinguish American natives from “East Indians” is unwelcome.)

Historically speaking, both “Indian” and “Native American” are remote from the way America’s first peoples thought about themselves. Much as the inhabitants of the tenth-century Carolingian Empire did not describe themselves as “Europeans,” a name coined in the seventeenth century, the inhabitants of the Western Hemisphere in that same era did not think in terms of “Indians,” “Native Americans,” or any other collective hemispheric entity. Instead they regarded themselves as belonging to their immediate group—the Patuxet village in the Wampanoag confederation, for instance.

To a considerable extent, the same holds true today. When Russell Thornton, the UCLA anthropologist, kindly sent me some copies of his work, he enclosed his curriculum vitae, which identified him as a “registered member of the Cherokee Nation,” not as an Indian, Native American, Amerindian, or indigenous person. When I mentioned this to Thornton, he responded that only one experience united the diverse peoples of the Americas: being flattened by European incursions. “‘Indians’ or ‘Native Americans’ as a category both owe their existence to Europe,” he said.

For all these reasons, this book uses “Indian” and “Native American” interchangeably, with the latter serving mainly to avoid repetition.

Note, though, that I use these terms as cultural and geographical categories, not racial ones. “Indian” is the Western Hemisphere’s equivalent to “European,” not to “white” or “Caucasian.” Racial categories are inevitably problematic, because they are ostensibly biological—that is, they are supposed to be based on heritable physical characteristics like skin color—but in fact are heavily cultural, as demonstrated by the infamous “one drop” rule in the nineteenth-century southern United States, which proclaimed that men and women were Negroes, even when they could not be distinguished by whites from appearance, if any of their ancestors, no matter how remote, were African. Avoiding such inconsistency and ambiguity is easier if one eschews categorizing by race, which I have tried to do, except for the occasional rhetorical flourish.

In referring to particular groups of Indians—the Wampanoag or the Maya—I use a simple rule of thumb: I try to call groups by the name preferred by their members. This approach, which seems only courteous, is sometimes attacked as condescending. After all, the argument runs, people in the United States use the English labels “French” and “German” rather than
français
and
Deutsch.
To insist on using “proper” names for Indians is thus to place them in a special category of fragility. But this objection is not well thought out. Although English-speakers do speak of “Germans” rather than
Deutscher,
“French people” rather than
les français,
they tend to avoid insulting terms like “Kraut” and “Frog.” Many common names for Indian groups are equally insulting, or descended from such insults. Unsurprisingly, they are slowly being changed.