A Most Convenient Myth

It has been repeatedly stated that the Spanish Crown imposed restrictions on the production and distribution of certain products in America in order to protect peninsular producers, as in the case of the royal decrees—that is, judicial sentences—of 1595 or 1699 prohibiting the planting of new vineyards and even ordering the uprooting of some already planted, which aimed to protect Andalusian winegrowers from competition. This, along with the royal monopolies on mercury, tobacco, gunpowder, playing cards, and salt, has often been cited as one of the causes of Creole resentment towards peninsular Spaniards and as one of the explanations for America's forced economic backwardness compared to Europe.

However, such a narrative—like all black-and-white stories of good versus evil—is misleading. Not only because it presupposes the idea, so in vogue among American Creoles, of America as a Horn of Plenty, of riches as enormous as they were inevitable, which only required, to be unleashed, freedom from Spain, the Church, and protectionist laws; but also because it proposes, in turn, an anachronistic solution (full market freedom) to a regime as mercantilist as all those of eighteenth-century Europe—including the proto-capitalist British one. In other words, it is a most convenient myth that, for the liberals of the 19th century, killed several birds with one stone: it defined the villains of the story, confirmed their faith in Progress, and invoked the reform program they subscribed to as the solution.

Hence, a mere anecdote from the biography of Don Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla has been used as the best example of this myth, providing it at the same time with a forceful poetic—almost karmic—image and undeniable proof of the liberal syllogism:

The Vineyards of Don Miguel Hidalgo

In Hidalgo's trial, after his capture in 1811, the interrogation records show that "prohibited" or "illegal" economic activities promoted by him as a parish priest were alluded to, which violated the letter of the Law and royal monopolies. What activities? These are detailed by the great Guanajuato historian Lucas Alamán, who knew Hidalgo and his surroundings well:

"Not very strict in his customs and not even very orthodox in his opinions, Don Miguel did not concern himself with the spiritual administration of his parishioners"—which he delegated to another priest—but rather he occupied himself "translating from French (something quite rare at that time, especially among ecclesiastics), he became fond of reading works on arts and sciences and eagerly promoted various agricultural and industrial branches in his parish. He greatly extended the cultivation of grapes, from which considerable harvests are made throughout that territory today, and propagated the planting of mulberry trees for silkworm breeding (of which eighty-four trees planted by him still exist in Dolores, at the place that has been named Las Moreras de Hidalgo, and the channels he had made for irrigating the entire plantation are preserved). He had also established a pottery factory, another brick factory, built tanning vats, and was setting up workshops for various crafts."

Later, Alamán would ironize that Hidalgo had little idea of what he was doing with these activities and that, in the same way he improvised with mulberry trees and silkworms, he had led his independence uprising: without rhyme or reason. But the point is that another great nineteenth-century historian, Carlos María de Bustamante—a true liberal—mentioned that the viceregal authorities had litigated against Hidalgo, forcing him to uproot the vineyards, drawing a causal line between the royal prohibition of planting vines and producing wine and the revolutionary attempt of September 1810.

And, while it is true that Miguel Hidalgo accumulated numerous grievances against the Crown and the viceregal government throughout his life (the expulsion of the Jesuits, which left him without teachers at the Colegio de San Nicolás; the couple of petty denunciations before the Inquisition, which caused him unnecessary headaches; the generalized bankruptcy due to the consolidation of royal bonds, which not only affected his properties but also drove his beloved brother Manuel to madness; plus a long etcetera of minor trifles); it is also true that, as Alamán argues and more recent historiography has shown, vineyards were planted, vines were cultivated, and local wines were consumed in New Spain.

Myth vs. Reality

In fact, today, we know that protectionist laws, by excessively taxing products from the Peninsula with alcabalas and sisas (sales and consumption taxes, respectively), caused an increase in demand for illegal products, whether locally produced or smuggled from abroad—by British or American merchants—which were offered at a better price. As was almost always the case with decrees and regulations coming from Madrid, in New Spain they were complied with all reverence… and not obeyed.

Similarly, if we dig into the specific episode of Hidalgo's illegal vineyards, we can see that the problem was never the general prohibition imposed by the Crown—because no one complied with it—but rather bureaucratic squabbles at the local level between Hidalgo and officials zealous of their small spheres of authority and their particular "commissions" and "perks," always suspicious of a priest "not very strict in his customs and not even very orthodox in his opinions," with a head always full of ideas, socially very active among the common people, and never too willing to cooperate with outrages.

If we're talking about historical narratives, I could venture a more faithful and representative one of our Mexico, albeit considerably less edifying. After all, the episode of Miguel Hidalgo's vineyards reminds us how Mexico hasn't changed much since it was called New Spain. Indeed, our laws—however well-intentioned and just they may claim to be—continue to be acknowledged without being complied with, and every initiative or business we undertake—including current Mexican wine producers—must necessarily encounter some obstacle, bribe, red tape, tax, or kickback, as arbitrary as it is absurd.

Perhaps this is a reason to appreciate even more that, in this context, there are adventurers and nonconformists like Hidalgo who dare to plant vines and make wine in Mexico, reclaiming five centuries of winemaking tradition and resistance against not only climatic obstacles but also those we impose on ourselves. Thus, to toast with a glass of Mexican wine—and a good one, because we're not here to tolerate rubbish just because it's ours—is to affirm our independence in more ways than one. Cheers and long live Mexico!