A Recipe for the Body: Chiropractic Medicine in Mexico (Part I)

 

Jethro Hernández Berrones

In the 1970s, Posada Press launched a book series for popular audiences that examined topics on science, religion, history, and society. In this series, chiropractor Ignacio Martínez Ugalde published Quiropráctica: La ciencia y técnica de curar con las manos, where he examined the history and foundations of chiropractic medicine. As in domestic health manuals of a century earlier, he also included a series of recipes for the body, “diverse techniques of chiropractic treatment”, like the following one.

Rheumatism. It is a rheumatic mesenchymal ailment with pain, fever, and osteo-articular deformities[. …] Adjustment or treatment. Adjustment should be oriented towards parts of the spine related to the elimination organs. The medial and lower part of the dorsal and lumbar zone are the ones invariable linked to these cases.”[1]

Martínez Ugalde’s work aimed at positioning chiropractic medicine as a new, safe, scientific, and regulated practice that Mexicans could consume in the last decades of the 20th century. However, his examples drew from the practice of chiropractic in the United States and around the world, ignoring its long history in Mexico (fig. 1).

Fig. 1. Francisco Montaño Pizarro in a chiropractic consulting room. Personal archives of Francisco Montaño Benet.

 

In spite of the long tradition of bodily manipulation for therapeutic purposes in Mexico dating back to pre-Colombian times, the technique disassociated from academic medicine during the colonial and early nationalist periods. Scholars usually associate these bodily manipulations with indigenous practices either preserved in communities with reduced contact with European culture or absorbed by surgery under the colonial model of medical education. Visible among the indigenous population, the sobador (masseur) and the huesero (bonesetter) disappeared from the professional landscape in urban medicine after the 17th century. They, however, continued healing communities in remote or secluded spaces, away from the surveillance of academic and governing institutions. Mexicans’ increasing mobility within the country in the first decades of the 20th century promoted the contact between indigenous and foreign medical cultures. Mexico City became a space of therapeutic encounters and healing opportunities where chiropractic medicine flourished.

Fig. 2. Celebration at the School of Chiropractic Medicine. Francisco Montaño Luna, second row from the top, fourth from the right. Manlio Fuentes, below from Montaño wearing glasses and looking to his right. Taken from “Historia de la quiropráctica en México. La primera ola: Los pioneros” in nova (junio, 2011), p. 20.

The study of the history of chiropractic medicine in Mexico still awaits its historian. This blog entry offers a few ingredients I found prospecting the archival mines of unorthodox healers in post-revolutionary Mexico in an attempt to aid in concocting a nuanced narrative of 20th century Mexican medicine. If bodily manipulations as treatment are common in many cultures, their modern formulation as a systematized body of knowledge belongs to Daniel David Palmer in the United States during the Progressive era.[2] The first chiropractors were American and South American and had studied Palmer’s system in the United States. They obtained a license to practice and offered their services in the early 1920s in Mexico City and the state of Nuevo León.[3] Francisco Montaño Luna, in 1921, and Manlio Fuentes were the first two Mexicans who graduated from the Palmer School of Chiropractic.[4]

Back in Mexico City in 1927, the first generation of chiropractors organized the Mexican Association of Chiropractic and the Hispano-American School of Chiropractic “David D. Palmer” (fig. 2).[5] If they had recipes to manipulate their patients’ bodies to relieve them from their discomforts, they also had a prescription for the body politic.  I detail this recipe in the next blog entry coming soon…

 

References:

[1] Ignacio Martínez Ugalde, La quiropráctica: Ciencia y técnica de curar con las manos” Colección Duda. (México, D. F.: Editorial Posada, S. A., 1974), 111, 126.

[2] An American healing system, chiropractic medicine has received some attention by historians. Holly Folk, The Religion of Chiropractic: Populist Healing from the American Heartland (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2017); Steven C. Martin, ““The Only Truly Scientific Method of Healing”: Chiropractic and American Science, 1895-1990″ Isis 85, no. 2 (1994): 207-27; Martin, Steven C. “Chiropractic and the social context of medical technology, 1895-1925”, Technology and Culture 34 (1993): 808-834; J. Stuart Moore, Chiropractic in America: The History of a Medical Alternative (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1993); Walter I. Wardwell, Chiropractic: History and Evolution of a New Profession (St. Louis: Mosby Yearbook, 1992); Walter I. Wardwell, “Chiropractors: Evolution to Acceptance”, in Norman Gevitz, Other Healers: Unorthodox Medicine in America (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1988), 157-191; and Gibbons, Russell W. “Physician-chiropractors: Medical Presence in the Evolution of Chiropractic” Bulletin of the History of Medicine 55, no. 2 (1981): 233-45

[3] Dr. S. Voquero was a South American who had studied at the Texas Chiropractic College; he established a practice in Nuevo León. Dr. L. M. Driver from the National School and Dr. C. E. Boswell of the Los Angeles College of Chiropractic established their practice in Mexico City before Clarence W. Weiant. Clarence W. Weiant, “The Chiropractor and Chiropractic in Mexico”, The Chiropractor & Clinical Journal 17, 6 (June, 1921), 16, 45, 47, 51; Joseph C. Keating, “Chronology of Chiropractic in Mexico”, June 22, 1998. https://www.institutechiro.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/02/Mexico_Chiro-in-chrono.pdf

[4] Roberto Luis Cerón, “Historia de la quiropráctica en México: La primera ola, los pioneros”, Nova (junio, 2011) 18-21.

[5] Manlio S. Fuentes and Francisco Montaño Luna’ correspondence to President of Mexico Emilio Portes Gil, January 18, 1927, Archivo General de la Nación, Secretaría de Educación Pública, Departamento de Psicopedagogía e Higiene, Box 35536, referencia 143, expediente 47, folios 1-6.

Visualizing the Plate: Reading Modernist Mexican Cuisine Through Colonial Botany

Lesley A. Wolff

Fig. 1: José Jernónimo Triana, Zamia muricate Willd, from J.C. Mutis, Drawings of the Royal Botanical Expedition to the New Kingdom of Granada (1783-1816), Royal Botanical Garden, Madrid.

The eighteenth century’s Age of Enlightenment signaled an era of standardization for the visual and textual colonial taxonomies of resources in the Americas. These illustrations were intended for export to European elites, many of whom would never touch foot in the Western hemisphere. In his late eighteenth century illustration of the species zamia, for example, José Jernónimo Triana showcased the rows of fleshy seeds hidden below leaves on the cusp of unraveling from the core (Fig. 1). Created for José Celestino Mutis’s Royal Botanical Expedition to the New Kingdom of Granada (1783-1816), this image and others like it (Figs. 2-3) appears at once orderly and geometric, a generalization of the species, with only minor imperfections providing specificity.

Fig. 2: José María Carbonell, Heliconia latispatha Benth, from J.C. Mutis, Drawings of the Royal Botanical Expedition to the New Kingdom of Granada (1783-1816), Royal Botanical Garden, Madrid.

These Enlightenment era illustrations, intended to train the European eye to “assess, possess, and order” the natural world of the Americas (Bleichmar 2009, 449), quietly espouse the slippery power of “visuality” (Mirzoeff 2011), in which the gaze is harnessed as a vehicle to control historical and social imaginaries. By demonstrating what we “know,” these illustrations also promote an amnesia of that which the Spanish empire does not want to remember. What at first glance appears to be an objective rendering of an indigenous cycad is instead a subjective, highly editorialized image that conflates stages of floral maturation and form (Bleichmar 2017, 146). Further, by extracting the species from its ecological context and setting it upon a bare, white background, Triana depicts the flora as nomadic, readily removed from its natural landscape and ripe for intellectual export to Spanish imperial stewardship. I suggest that the manner in which these imperial spectacles supplanted the realities of colonized lands and peoples have again today resurged in the zeitgeist by way of the scientific and objective knowledges that underscore global Modernist Cuisine.

Fig. 3: Francisco Javier Matis Mahecha, Brownea Rosa de Monte, from J.C. Mutis, Drawings of the Royal Botanical Expedition to the New Kingdom of Granada (1783-1816), Royal Botanical Garden, Madrid.

From the colonial era onward, Mexican cuisine has held a privileged place in the global and national imagination as a material signifier of the nation’s layered cultural past. In 2010, the nation’s foodways were declared Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity by UNESCO. Simultaneously, the new gastronomic guard of Modernist Cuisine took hold over restaurants across Mexico City. Most notably, chef Enrique Olvera’s modernist Mexican restaurant, Pujol, has been a consistent occupant on the list of the World’s 50 Best Restaurants since its opening in 2000 and has launched Olvera into global fame as the ambassador of Mexican cuisine to the Western gastronomic consumer.

This modernist attention to the innovation and intellectualization of cuisine has led the popular media to ask, “Is food art?” This question signals a curiosity about the chef-artist as facilitator of emotive and intellectual experiences rather than, or in addition to, gustatory ones. We see Olvera couched within this discourse in television shows like Chef’s Table (Netflix 2016), which depicts Olvera crafting dishes to the tune of classical music, like a sculptor modeling a Neoclassical figure. This grappling with the “genius” of the chef, however, masks complex relationships between the plated dishes and the cuisine’s perceived value. Much like colonial botany, modern gastronomy is not only about the pleasures of the palate, but also about the production of cultural knowledge rooted in extraction and re-contextualization.

As defined by Nathan Myhrvold, Modernist Cuisine emerged out of the striving toward innovation, discovery, and revelation of the original modernist restaurant, elBulli, in Catalonia, Spain, where chef Ferran Adriá became known for translating cookery into “concepts” (Myhrvold 2011, 39). Myhrvold invokes the term “Modernist” to equate this cuisine with the avant-garde artists of 19th century Europe. This is an approach to foodways that purports to be about newness and “discovery.” Yet, these notions are as old and fraught as “modernity” itself and the violent power structures upon which today’s globalized world was built (see Mignolo 2011).

Although Pujol resides in Polanco, the most exclusive neighborhood in all of Mexico City, the chef roots his gastronomic narrative in the impoverished economy of means out of which Mexican cuisine evolved. In short, the visual program that underscores Olvera’s modernist culinary empire has been built on the idea, the imaginary, of Mexico City’s working class—a community and landscape to which Olvera purports to be our guide. In his 2015 cookbook Mexico from the Inside Out, Olvera juxtaposes photographs of his dishes with portrayals of Mexican street vendors and outdoor markets. The viewer oscillates between elegant, closely cropped views of Olvera’s compositions and vibrant scenes of Mexico City’s working-class neighborhoods. These photographs offer up Olvera’s dishes as specimens for study, much like those of Spanish scientific expeditions three hundred years earlier.

Fig. 4: Green Salsa Salad. From Enrique Olvera, Mexico From the Inside Out (London: Phaidon, 2015), page 44.

The Green Salsa Salad shows the plate from above, such that the composition appears to be an ecology, a world unto itself (Fig. 4). The individual ingredients that comprise the dish, such as cilantro, fried scallions, and purslane sprouts, make themselves known, but the internal cohesion among the items also exhibits careful, deliberate composure. Nothing appears too heavily manipulated—even the small dices of serrano chiles and onions can see be discerned cube by cube, and individual flakes of kosher salt sparkle atop the white plate—such that the viewer can recognize the dish as an amalgam of its discrete parts, parts that harken back to the foodstuffs sold at the informal, open-air markets sporadically pictured throughout the cookbook. Likewise, the Bass al Pastor (Fig. 5) as well as the Fried Pork Belly (Fig. 6) showcase a taxonomy of ingredients that, rather than being wholly new, actually draw upon the artifice of colonial order seen in the Royal Botanical Expedition’s illustrations with blank backgrounds, overhead vantage points, and recognizable parts that comprise the whole.

Fig. 5: Bass al Pastor. From Enrique Olvera, Mexico From the Inside Out (London: Phaidon, 2015), page 54.

There is a frankness to Olvera’s dishes and the illustrations alike that render them self-evident, as though the images have been presented to us at their most honest, most vulnerable, and therefore most knowable state. We feel a connection to the “discovery” of these specimens as the triumph of human mastery over nature. Thus, societal values and morals reside at the very heart of these seemingly scientific renderings, a testament to the oft-overlooked reality that if food is indeed art, then it, too, is equally as capable of shaping the “visuality” of our socio-historical gaze.  

Fig. 6: Fried Pork Belly, Smoked White Kidney Bean Puree, and Purslane Salad. From Enrique Olvera, Mexico From the Inside Out (London: Phaidon, 2015), page 52.

Soledad Acosta de Samper: Botany, Food, and Gender in 19th Century South America

Vanesa Miseres

Fig. 1. Daguerreotype of Soledad Acosta (1880).
Cultura Banco de la República de Colombia.

Soledad Acosta de Samper (1833-1913) was one of the most renowned South American writers of the 19th century and critical to the construction of gendered notions of national identity in South America.  She worked as a translator, journalist, and author and spent much of her life traveling between Colombia, Peru, and Europe.  What is most notable about her, however, was her work as scientist, historian and novelist, writing more 45 historical and costumbrista novels.  However, her writings on plants, food, and science have largely been underexplored. 

 

Acosta’s father, the historian, scientist, and patriot of independence Joaquín Acosta, influenced her interests in history and science. The two shared deep curiosity in charting a range of scientific and historical topics related to the natural history of Colombia. While serving in the Colombian army, the senior Acosta conducted a scientific, territorial survey of New Granada. In the 1840s, he explored the western regions from Antioquia to Anserma, writing on a wide range of topics that included topography, natural history, and the native peoples. Acosta and the German naturalist Alexander von Humboldt maintained a long-term relationship, largely emanating from their mutual interest in mining in the Choco.

Fig. 2. Note where Humboldt includes Joaquín Acosta as one of his sources to create the “Carte hydrographique de la Province du Chocó […]” (Leitner, no pagination)

 

In Conversaciones y lecturas familiares of 1896, Soledad Acosta demonstrated her passion for and knowledge of botany by detailing the medical and alimentary uses of plants and exploring the native and imported flora of Colombia. As an adaptation of the Victorian educational Self Help genre, Acosta’s text is intended for women and it makes use of fiction to present readings and lessons in a rural setting. It is rooted in Colombia’s countryside. Acosta’s story takes place on a plantation where the landowning family entertains visits from a botanist and a priest who give lessons to the family’s children about science and religion. Some of the apprentices were young women who, under the tutelage of the male expert, engage in direct contact with scientific knowledge. During their walks on Sunday afternoons, they opened books from which they quote, and they repeat lessons from previous days. They also listened to and interact with topics such as the routes of tea from Asia to Europe, the origin of spices like pepper, vanilla, cinnamon or nutmeg, the importance of climate in the Andes for the cultivation of potato and maize, and the life and contributions of Carl Linnaeus and his Systema Naturae. Moreover, their “conversations and readings” feature female scientists in Great Britain and the United States– Mariana North and Febe Lankester, among others–as sources of inspiration for young Colombian women (Briggs 140). Many of these passages were previously published in her journal El domingo de la familia Cristiana as articles under a section titled “Botanical Notions.”  

Fig. 3. Charles Linnè, A General System of Nature. Vol. V. London: Printed for Lackington, Allen & Co., 1806. DeB Eb 1806 L.

 

Fig. 4. Priscilla Wakefield. An Introduction to Botany, in a Series of Familiar Letters, with Illustrative Engravings. London, Printed by and for Darton and Harvey, 1807. Michigan State University Libraries.

Acosta’s exploration of botany can be seen as a result of a period in the early 19th century when the topic was thought to be a suitable study for young women in the higher social classes.  Across Europe and the United States, botany was taught in schools and it became an amateur avocation. As Ann Shteir has noted: “The simplicity of the Linnaean sexual system for naming and classifying plants” encourage women to collect, draw, study, and teach their children about flowers and vegetables (Shteir 29). British female writers including Elizabeth and Mary Fitton, Maria Elizabeth Jackson, Jane Marcet, and Priscilla Wakefield wrote books to introduce young women to the study of botany (Rudolph 1346). However, unlike Soledad Acosta, few women became professional botanists and institutions, in their attempt to “modernize” botany as a science at the end of the century, started excluding women from the field.

 

Fig. 5. Index of Acosta’s journal El domingo de la familia cristiana (1889) with botany lessons listed. Biblioteca Digital Soledad Acosta de Samper. Many of these passages were previously published in her journal El domingo de la familia Cristiana as articles under a section titled “Botanical Notions.”

Acosta favored women’s connection to science over a more domestic approach to studying foodstuff, unlike her contemporary Argentine writer Juana Manuela Gorriti. In 1890, Gorriti published Cocina ecléctica, a recipe book compiled from contributors—many of them celebrated women writers themselves—across Latin America and overseas. They shared family, regional, and European dishes creating a Pan-American community through food. Although Acosta included recipes in her journal La Familia, her goal was to educate women as housewives beyond the practical understanding of food manipulation, through the principles of science that are not from personal or anecdotal experience. It was, though, a restricted project, since it does not include lower-class women who, in Conversaciones y lecturas, are presented as servants, always preparing ajiaco and other regional plates while the landowners’ daughters immerse in botany.

 

Fig. 6. Soledad Acosta’s Journal La familia’s recipes section.

What is noteworthy is that Acosta’s references to vegetal foods and medicines did not incorporate South American indigenous culinary or healing practices. At a time when the continent was trying to “civilize” itself by following European patterns, her approach to plants through science represented a desired connection with “progress.” Although female cooks and healers were traditionally a mainstay of health in communities around the world, women with such skills, especially healers, were feared and perceived as witches or monsters. Therefore, Acosta’s botanical discourse to refer to natural foodstuff and remedies can be seen as a gendered strategy to write and publish from a safe and acceptable space. Soledad Acosta shows the importance of women’s education in science was a key aspect in the construction of a modern national identity of South American citizens.

Fig. 7. Botany Drawing by Soledad Acosta in El libro de los ensueños de amor, album composed with her husband José María Samper.

 

 

 

Bibliography

Acosta de Samper, Soledad. Complete works available at the recently inaugurated Soledad Acosta de Samper Digital Library (National Library of Colombia and Universidad de los Andes): http://soledadacosta.uniandes.edu.co

Alzate, Carolina. Soledad Acosta de Samper y el discurso letrado de género: 1853-1881. Iberoamericana, 2015.

Austin, Elisabeth. “Reading and Writing Juana Manuela Gorriti’s Cocina ecléctica: Modeling Multiplicity in Nineteenth-Century Domestic Narrative.” Arizona Journal of Hispanic Cultural Studies, vol. 12, 2008, pp. 31-44.

Briggs, Ronald. The Moral Electricity Nineteenth-Century Nation Building and the Latin American Intellectual Tradition.

Burke, Janet and Ted Humphrey. “Soledad Acosta de Samper.” Nineteenth-Century Nation Building and the Latin American Intellectual Tradition. pp. 268-74.

Corpas, Isabel. Me he decidido a escribir todos los días: una biografía de Soledad Acosta de Samper, 1833-1913. Instituto Caro y Cuervo, 2018.

Leitner, Ulrike. “Sobre ríos y canales – Aspectos geográficos y cartográficos en el legado de Humboldt.”

http://www.hin-online.de/index.php/hin/rt/printerFriendly/251/466 Accessed on November 23, 2019.

Rudolph, Emanuel D. “Women in Nineteenth Century American Botany; A Generally Unrecognized Constituency.” American Journal of Botany, vol. 69, no. 8, Sep., 1982, pp. 1346-55.

Shteir, Ann B. “Gender and “Modern” Botany in Victorian England.”
 Osiris, vol. 12, Women, Gender, and Science: New Directions, 1997, pp. 29-38.

 

When Medicine is a Sin: Sex and Heresy in Colonial Mexico

Farren Yero

Laboring in the Mexican mining district of Real del Monte, José Antonio de la Peña met Manuel Arroyo in the summer of 1775. The two young men struck up a secret relationship, sharing a bed, a blanket, and a provocative cure for syphilis. It was the latter that landed Arroyo in an inquisitorial cell, charged with the crime of heresy.[1]  As the trial records indicate, de la Peña had received over thirty bocados (or mouthfuls), the term Arroyo used to describe acts of fellatio he performed upon his friend in order to treat his venereal disease. Their sex life, however, was not the problem. It was the men’s potentially heretical claim that “it is not a sin to suck human semen for reasons of health” that galvanized ecclesiastical authorities to intervene.

Fig. 1: Inquisition Case of Manuel Arroyo. Courtesy of the Bancroft Library, UC Berkeley.

 

The Holy Office of the Inquisition did police sexual proclivities.[2] However, maintaining religious orthodoxy remained their primary concern. For them, challenges to Catholic doctrine—including what might or might not constitute a sin—posed a far greater risk to the social order than clandestine sexual partners, even ones of the same sex. After all, if health demanded doctrinal exception—as Arroyo implicitly suggested—the Church would be hard pressed to preserve the strictures by which it managed its flock, a problem we continue to see play out over issues around access to contraception and abortion today. That Arroyo professed his oral ministrations to be acts of Christian duty only exacerbated the struggle to parse out the significance of his unusual claim.

 

According to Arroyo’s testimony, his acts were done to remove “bad thoughts” of women, prevent men from sinning with them in the first place, and—even more confounding for the judges—to heal. Arroyo insisted that, when aided by the medicinal effects of camphor and aguardiente (distilled spirits), these same benefactions were treatments for syphilis—an illness interpreted by Arroyo (and many others) as an outward symptom of impurities within. To prove this point, Arroyo recalled, for example, his quick recognition of the telltale pustules dotting his friend’s genitalia, a rash that purportedly required him to perform fellatio, employing a gargle of mixed herbs, in his words, “for his health, for his wellbeing, and for his remedy.” Though certainly damning, Arroyo did not shy away from these convictions. Instead, he worked tirelessly to convince his captors of their legitimacy, providing elaborate and intimate details of his time with de la Peña to defend his own knowledge and position as a healer.

 

When the local priest in Pachuca first learned of this strange ministry, he turned to a neighboring ecclesiastical judge, at a loss for what to do. Did something like this fall under the purview of the Inquisition? Or was this a matter for the civil authorities? Perhaps this was best left for the Protomedicato, the royal medical tribunal? Arroyo’s unorthodox assertions wove together the mind, the body, and the spirit, creating jurisdictional confusion and reflecting the myriad ways in which early modern patients and practitioners understood their relationship to health and disease. Because of this, his Inquisition case can tell us a great deal about how people made sense of their own bodies beyond the world of printed and professional medicine.

 

Read alongside indigenous-language volumes, such as the Chilam Balam, discussed by Ryan Kashanipour, and published tracts by natural philosophers, examined here by Heather Peterson, Inquisition documents can enrich our understanding of “different ways of knowing” the body, as Pablo Gómez puts it in his study of the Spanish Caribbean.[3] This is true for scholars working on both sides of the Atlantic. Early modern physicians throughout the world sought out and studied indigenous pharmacopoeia, such as chupirini or chinanteca, but Arroyo’s case suggests how patients themselves understood the value of such herbs and their relationship to disease. Translated primary source readers, such as Women in Colonial Latin America, can allow students the opportunity to weigh in on such cases, like that of Isabel Hernández, a midwife and healer, who appeared before the Inquisition in 1652.[4]

 

Of course, modern readers—not unlike colonial inquisitors—might question whether a remedy like Arroyo’s “bocado” can really be considered medical in nature. When caught, did the denounced simply turn to health to mask an otherwise compromising affair? We can’t necessarily rule it out. Yet, if Arroyo did make it up, then he also contrived a number of authorial forms to back it up as well. As he explained to the inquisitors, he knew that the remedy worked because a woman had performed it for him. To be sure it took effect, she would extract his semen for her doctor, who was able to then determine if it was, in his words, “damaged.” If this was not proof enough, Arroyo confessed that she had first learned this remedy through none other than her local priest. This kaleidoscope of evidence, regardless to what extent we believe him, suggests the complexities that underlay beliefs about medical efficacy at this time. We see similar kinds of invocations in other Inquisition cases, provided by the thousands of colonial subjects imprisoned at one time or another in the dungeons of the Inquisitorial Palace, a building that ironically enough, became the medical school for the Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México. Today, it houses museums to both institutions: mannequins lay prone, emulating the bodies from which doctors and judges sought secrets hidden within.

Fig. 2. Palace of the Inquisition, now the Mexican Museum of Medicine. Photo by the author. 

 

 

[1] BANC MSS 96/95m, 13:1 (1775). The Mexican Inquisition Collection. The Bancroft Library, University of California, Berkeley.

[2] On the question of sexual deviancy in this case, see: Zeb Tortorici, “Heran Todos Putos”: Sodomitical Subcultures and Disordered Desire in Early Colonial Mexico,” Ethnohistory (2007) 54 (1): 35-67.

[3] Pablo F. Gómez, The Experiential Caribbean: Creating Knowledge and Healing in the Early Modern Atlantic (Chapel Hill, University of North Carolina Press, 2017).

[4] Nora E. Jaffary and Jane E. Mangan, Women in Colonial Latin America, 1526 to 1806: Texts and Contexts, (Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 2018).