Visiting the Metropole: Muslim Colonial Subjects in the United States, 1904–1927

Visiting the Metropole: Muslim Colonial Subjects in the United States, 1904–1927 Abstract This article describes a series of visits by Muslim Moros from the Southern Philippines to the United States between 1904 and 1927. It argues that, situated in relation to one another, these visits demonstrate the tensions of representation in an imperial community and the coproduced character of colonial identities. In early 1927, an uprising occurred in the Sulu Archipelago, a fragmentary island chain running between the Southern Philippines and British North Borneo. Led by a local chieftain named Datu Tahil, the minor revolt was a reaction against colonial taxation schemes in this Muslim-majority region. Similar scenes—a local leader retreating to a fortification with his followers in protest, the authorities besieging the area—had become commonplace in the Muslim South. During four decades of U.S. sovereignty, groups in Mindanao and Sulu repeatedly contested the universalizing agendas of the colonial state. The predictability of unrest meant that by 1927 the American press rarely remarked on news of a conflagration in the region. Yet Tahil’s revolt appeared in the Atlanta Constitution, Chicago Daily Tribune, and Los Angeles Times, among other newspapers. The sudden interest arose from the participation of one of Tahil’s wives, Princess Tarhata Kiram, who had been educated in the United States at the University of Illinois. The Constitution despaired at her “reversion to type,” explaining that the “thin veneer of culture” provided by an occidental education “wore off when she got back among her own primitive people.”1 Understanding this visceral sense of cultural betrayal involves placing the incident within the larger story of the U.S. colonial project to transform its first Muslim subjects. Despite a recent influx of scholarly interest in the entangled histories of the United States and the Muslim world, America’s colonial occupation of the Islamic Philippines remains an obscure topic. Technically part of the Philippines, Western Mindanao and the Sulu Archipelago were trouble spots for the Spanish Empire for over three centuries. On the eve of the Spanish-American War in 1898, large swathes of the Mindanao interior and countless islands reaching towards the North Borneo coast remained effectively outside of colonial control. Never Christianized like the populations of Luzon and the Visayas, the thirteen groups of “Moros” (who inherited the designation of Catholic Spain’s Islamic foes from the Reconquista) interacted primarily with the other Muslim societies of Maritime Southeast Asia rather than the Christians to the north.2 Othered as piratical savages in Spanish and Filipino lore, these Muslim groups were structured around densely layered ethnic kinship networks and confessional identities resistant to the homogenizing effects of colonial Catholicism. This was what the U.S. military encountered when its forces arrived in Mindanao and Sulu during the summer of 1899.3 Eager to avoid simultaneous campaigns against Muslims in the south and Filipino nationalists in the north, the United States ratified a treaty with the Sulu Sultanate, co-opted leading Maguindanao figures, and initially left the restive Maranao population around Lake Lanao to its own devices. U.S. Army units were stationed in Mindanao and Sulu from 1899 onwards, but it was not until the collapse of the First Philippine Republic in 1902 that the military turned its attention back to the Muslim South. Captain John Pershing directed extensive operations in the Lanao region in 1902–1903, and the so-called Bates Treaty between U.S. colonial authorities and the Sulu Sultanate was abrogated in 1904. The establishment of the Moro Province on June 1, 1903 marked the official partitioning of the region from the remainder of the American Philippines. Acting in joint civil-military capacities, a series of army officers oversaw the province and justified its existence through reference to popular anthropological notions about the savage character of the Muslim Malay. Many of those stationed in the Muslim South were veterans of frontier conflicts with Native American groups and used their previous experience for comparative context.4 Mindanao and the Sulu Archipelago remained under direct military control until 1914, a phase mired in a toxic mixture of resistance, collaboration, and sporadic massacre. Between 1914 and 1921, the Wilson Administration pushed for the Filipinization of the renamed Department of Mindanao and Sulu, although this process was slowed once Republicans returned to power in the 1920s. In practical terms, Filipinization in the Southern Philippines meant replacing U.S. government agents with Christian Filipino ones, a move that did nothing to ease tensions with Muslim populations already chafing at the notion of being consumed by the nascent Philippine nation-state. By 1927, when Tarhata Kiram and Datu Tahil rebelled against authorities on the island of Jolo, the Muslims of the Southern Philippines were caught between the incorporative desires of Filipino nationalists and the U.S. colonial permanency espoused by officials like Governor General Leonard Wood.5 The literature on this period wrestles with a variety of issues. Many scholars from the Philippines focus on placing Muslim experiences and identities into larger histories of Philippine nationhood. The progressive historicism of authors like Samuel Tan in the 1970s, 80s, and 90s argued for the distinctiveness of individual Muslim societies under the umbrella of a wider story about national integration.6 Patricio Abinales later questioned this position and demonstrated that the “patchwork apparatus of agencies” comprising the colonial state and fluid Muslim identities during the American period made sociopolitical outcomes far from certain at the time of independence.7 Other writers like Thomas McKenna and Cesar Majul have penned impressive regional histories, exploring evolving relations between rulers and ruled.8 North American scholars writing about the Islamic Philippines have generally focused on the character of U.S. colonialism there. The pioneering efforts of the missionary-scholar Peter Gowing detailed the structures of governance in Mindanao and Sulu between 1899 and 1921, but occasionally glossed over the less savory qualities of the colonial encounter.9 More recently, Michael Hawkins has done extensive work investigating the epistemological foundations of colonial rule in the Muslim South, while Karine Walther has incorporated the occupation of Mindanao and Sulu into a transnational study of U.S. anti-Islamic attitudes in the long nineteenth century.10 While these multidisciplinary contributions have all added further texture to our understandings of colonial rule in the Southern Philippines, the topic remains understudied and overlooked by students of U.S. foreign relations. This essay seeks to amend this oversight by exploring an unstoried aspect of the U.S.-Moro relationship: the experiences of Muslims from Mindanao and Sulu who visited the United States. While the aforementioned works all cover aspects of colonial rule and identity within the Philippines, I study instances where Muslims travelled outside the colony to metropolitan settings, in the process contributing to larger conversations about the United States and the Islamic Philippines. I argue that, situated in relation to one another, these visits demonstrate the tensions of representation in an imperial community and the coproduced character of colonial identities. Whereas Moros at the 1904 Louisiana Purchase Exposition were subsumed into totalizing western discourses about ethnocultural capacity, those visiting outside of the fairgrounds were portrayed as colonized “men on the make”—puzzled and awed by the marvels of the metropole, yet at least partially open to “civilization.” In the early 1920s, colonial officials and the media deployed Tarhata Kiram’s education as evidence that twenty years of U.S. colonialism had transformed Moro barbarism into a preference for Western fashions and a receptivity to the university classroom. Their triumphant outlook vanished in the face of Kiram’s anti-colonial revolt on Jolo, replaced by a pessimistic return to racial essentialism. This arc of representation can be tracked alongside prominent discourses operating in an early twentieth century world saturated by colonial rule. The first and most apparent of these is the adoption by U.S. administrators, politicians, fair planners, and journalists of the late Victorian penchant for importing, organizing, and displaying non-white peoples as a form of public spectacle. Organizers of the St. Louis World's Fair utilized what Bernard Cohn describes as the “museological modality” of empire to create a “monumental record” of Muslim civilization in the Southern Philippines.11 This historicizing of difference allowed organizers, through living and non-living exhibits alike, to promote Social Darwinian fables about prehistory, evolution, and the positive moral implications of empire.12 Beyond the Philippine Reservation, public reactions to elite Moro visitors like the Sultan of Sulu revealed the “double vision” of U.S. colonial discourse, which was marked by the “repetitious slippage of difference and desire.”13 As we shall see, ideological superstructures of racialized power both cautiously encouraged and delimited colonial mimicry. This tense ambivalence was at its most stark when Tarhata Kiram experienced what Edward Said calls a “reflexive moment of consciousness” that allowed her, from a space between appropriation and rejection, to comprehend the flimsy foundations of colonial subjectivities and identities in a way that her American interlocutors could not.14 In sequencing these stories about subjecthood, this essay departs from many previous examinations of the topic by demonstrating how American and Muslim actors negotiated Moro identities from within the United States rather than solely on the edges of overseas territories, generating another link in the larger project of collapsing metropole and colony into a unitary field of analysis.15 The following sections also complicate the tendency of scholars to write empire out of U.S. domestic history in their examination of how the popular press and general public enthusiastically embraced the notion of visiting Muslims from the Southern Philippines as colonial wards. Displaying Moros The U.S. public formally encountered their new Muslim subjects for the first time in St. Louis. The Samal and Maranao Moros who made the long trip from Mindanao to Missouri lived within the Philippine Reservation at the 1904 Louisiana Purchase Exposition, which organizers designed as a grand tribute to the morally edifying qualities of colonial empire. The othered bodies of colonized peoples had long been a staple in the royal courts, travelling circus shows, and museums of Europe, although the art of human display arguably did not reach its zenith until the latter-half of the nineteenth century. During this period, national competition and colonial aggrandizement gave rise to international expositions. At these showcases, spectators judged colonized peoples against symbols of Euro-American progress and “time became global.”16 The fairs also provided empire-builders with spaces to create a didactic vision of colonial empire: western modernity rescued benighted races while simultaneously revealing untapped resources through new technologies. The human zoos of London, Paris, Berlin, and other European cities developed alongside a growing fascination with the products of “primitive” civilizations. “New forms of expertise associated with evolutionary forms of natural history and ethnology,” writes Tony Bennett, “sought to arrange a different kind of show through the studied manipulation of bones, skulls, teeth, carcasses, fossils and artifacts, representing what were believed to be the dead or dying customs and practices of colonized peoples.”17 In this “necrology practiced on the living,” Eurocentric notions of racial advancement or torpor comingled with the colonial imagination to produce ethnographic spectacle.18 For the sober-minded anthropologists and ethnologists who legitimized these manufactured scenes, non-white peoples and their cultural products were windows onto a vanishing past and validated panoptic notions of progress. For the ticket-seller and the general public, they were titillating demonstrations of exoticism that reinscribed commonly held racial-hierarchical beliefs.19 The intricately-plotted ethnographic showcase that the Samal and Maranao found themselves amidst in St. Louis had links not only to European colonial ethnography, but also a series of fairs held in the United States during the decade prior. The Anthropology Building and living exhibits of the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago promoted powerful evolutionary messages, encouraging fairgoers to consider Anglo-Saxon “physical and cultural achievements” against the detritus of conquered Native American peoples. The racial logics of the frontier blended with consumerist fantasies in the implication that chosen Native groups who adopted signifiers of civilization—from the bespoke suit to the sewing machine—could perhaps escape extinction.20 At the 1898 Trans-Mississippi and International Exposition in Omaha, the recent U.S. victory over the Spanish in Cuba and Philippines suffused the proceedings with an air of imperial triumphalism. The most popular attraction at the fair proved to be the Indian Congress, a meeting place for and showcase of indigenous peoples “self-consciously modeled after colonial exhibits at recent European world’s fairs.”21 At Buffalo’s 1901 Pan-American Exposition, “living ethnological displays” of Native Americans served as celebrations of hemispheric dominance.22 The Filipino Village there anticipated the 1904 Philippine Reservation, with press reports calling the site a “representation of actual life in this most interesting new possession of the United States”—actual life in this case involved daily performances by village residents and a guard of U.S. soldiers “to give a military glamor to the scene.”23 Fair organizers in St. Louis drew from these antecedents and designed their performative spaces to highlight similar representational binaries of assimilation and abjection. Plans for what became the Philippine Reservation began just as the Pan-American Exposition ended in 1901, when Civil Governor of the Philippines William Howard Taft sent an official communiqué to the Louisiana Purchase Exposition Company (LPEC) expressing interest in securing “a suitable exhibition of the resources of the Philippines.”24 The War Department authorized Taft to set aside funds to defray expenses for the Philippine exhibit. Although fighting was ongoing throughout the archipelago, U.S. officials and collaborating Filipino elites looked ahead to 1904 as a chance to make the case for empire. Even at this early stage, the fair’s chief publicist Charles Monroe Reeves projected that the exhibit would be thirty to forty acres in size.25 In the summer of 1902, Taft brought W. P. Wilson, director of the Philadelphia Commercial Museum, on board as head of the newly formed Philippine Exposition Board (PEB). The Philippine Commission gave the PEB impressive powers, placing at its disposal an array of government bureaus and transportation networks. Meanwhile, the exposition board urged colonial officials to form committees to secure collections for the PEB that “would illustrate the habits, customs, and life of the people.”26 In the Muslim South, the sizeable job of creating a representational record of Moro civilization fell upon two men: Albert Ernest Jenks and Gustavo Niederlein. Jenks collected the living exhibits for the exposition. A Michigan-born academic whose expertise in anthropology was self-taught, he came to the Philippines via his work with Bureau of American Ethnology. Initially serving with the Bureau of Non-Christian Tribes under the anthropologist David Prescott Barrows, Jenks soon became head of the Ethnological Survey.27 Niederlein, a globetrotting German botanist, perennial exposition participant, and Wilson’s deputy in Philadelphia was in charge of the non-living items. Both men were given carte blanche by the authorities in Manila to scour the archipelago for material, human and otherwise. Niederlein carried with him a letter from Governor Taft instructing all bureaus, governors, and provincial officials to extend him “every assistance in your power in the very important task [of] preparing exhibits for the Philippine part of the St. Louis Exposition.”28 Albert Jenks began assembling living participants in November 1902. In Zamboanga, capital and administrative hub of the region, Jenks secured a small group of Samal Moros, who agreed to travel to St. Louis under the supervision of an American expatriate named Frederick Lewis.29 Jenks and his wife Maud found a second group of Muslim participants during a journey the couple took to the Lanao region, a site of intermittent warfare between the U.S. Army and Maranao Moros opposed to colonial rule.30 The following year, Gustavo Niederlein made hundreds of stops on his collection tour of the Philippines. He arrived in the Sulu Archipelago in October 1903, disembarking on the island of Jolo. With the aid of a European merchant named S. A. Korczki, Niederlein meticulously catalogued and purchased the material culture of the Tausūg Moros. The botanist-turned-ethnographer returned to the United States with a trove of weapons, household items, clothes, and natural products.31 Although he visited the Philippines briefly in May 1903, W. P. Wilson spent the majority of his time preparing the grounds of the Philippine Reservation in St. Louis. Expanded to forty-seven acres and located in the southwest corner of the exposition, visitors accessed the exhibit by three bridges crossing over Lake Arrowhead, an artificial body of water encircling it on two sides.32 The largest of the bridges deposited spectators into a miniature replica of Manila’s walled city. Further on in the central plaza were buildings devoted to education, forestry, mining, agriculture, wild game, and ethnology. The “non-Christian” groups of the archipelago lived along the shore of Lake Arrowhead and in the forest surrounding the central plaza. Fair planners categorized and displayed the peoples of the Philippines based on their perceived level of civilization, with the Muslims of Mindanao falling somewhere between the supposedly prehistoric Negritos and the comparatively refined Visayans.33 The Samal and Maranao participants left Mindanao in late 1903. Accompanied by their manager Frederick Lewis, the Samal group consisted of nineteen men, eleven women, five boys, and five girls. From the port at Zamboanga, they travelled north to Manila, where they partook in test exhibitions. According to exposition documents, the stopover gave them “an opportunity of seeing their first city of any size, and [to become] accustomed to the ways of modern civilization.” Thirty-eight Maranao Moros and their manager C. H. Wax soon joined the Samal in the Philippine capital, and together they crossed the Pacific.34 Once in St. Louis, the two groups resided along the northern section of Lake Arrowhead. Organizers modeled the Samal village on buildings from Magay, the Muslim sector of Zamboanga, and went to great lengths to maintain realism. The Samal built their dwellings from a combination of nippa, rattan, and bamboo, and with no nails. Their managers allowed them, in the words of LPEC President David Francis, to construct their homes “in accordance with their own peculiar style of architecture.” The village included several small residences, an administrative building displaying ethnographic curiosities, and a theatre for public performances. Reservation managers scrapped a planned second village for the Maranao shortly after initial construction. The living exhibit opened to the public on June 18, 1904.35 Doubling as employees and display objects, the Moros had robust routines. The village theatre staged hourly performances featuring men playing gongs and doing a shield and spear dance called the “Moro-Moro.” In the mornings, Samal boys raced canoes, rode the “chutes” (waterslides), or dove into Lake Arrowhead for coins thrown by spectators. When not at the theatre, Moro women wove items that were later sold in the central plaza.36 The men engaged in “their native industries and occupations,” which meant fishing and pearl diving in the lake. Samal and Maranao youth attended the model schoolhouse run by Pilar Zamora, a Christian Filipino instructor brought from the elite Government Normal School in Manila. Teachers instructed Muslim students separately because of their perceived unruliness, although press coverage depicted the school as a practical illustration of how modern pedagogical techniques were redeeming backwards peoples.37 Visitors even watched the Moros eat their meals, bringing the most mundane daily rituals under the surveilling eye of the crowd. The final report of the PEB boasted that the Samal and Maranao groups followed a diet similar to what they ate on Mindanao and that the Moros had “no complaints.”38 Capitalizing on the popularity of the native villages, newspaper reporters routinely covered them—often with a liberal dose of racial commentary. In the Pittsburgh Dispatch, Martha Root claimed the Moros “were not bred so dull they cannot learn” but “so far … have been immune from the epidemic called civilization.” Drawing from stock phraseology, Root described the Samal and Maranao as the “fiercest of all tribes,” and called their village a “primitive Atlantic city, where the inhabitants practically live in the water.”39 William E. Curtis, one-time head of the Latin American Department at the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition, saw the Moros as remarkable athletic specimens superior to the Christian Filipinos. They were, Curtis claimed, an “interesting problem for [the] ethnologists and sociologists … [who would] watch their development under a liberal government and the educational privileges the Yankees [had] introduced in the southern islands of the Philippine archipelago.” The reporter assured readers that the exhibit was “an object lesson for the information and edification of the American people” while also being “accurate and quite true to life.”40 Elsewhere, the Washington Post reported on how the playgrounds of the fair became a space where American and Moro children played, bringing out “the contrast between democratic America and the Filipino caste system.”41 Echoing exposition managers, press accounts simultaneously presented the Moros as prehistoric relics, martially impressive specimens, and human clay waiting to be shaped by colonial institutions. Fair organizers and colonial officials placed the Mindanaoan Muslims within a representational constellation mapping the benefits of empire. As early as 1902, Governor Taft spoke of the “moral effect” the exhibit would have on the wards of the state, and how their participation in the fair would be “a very great influence in completing pacification and in bringing Filipinos to improve their condition.”42 Head of the Department of Anthropology W. J. McGee was similarly self-righteous. “The primary motives of expositions are commercial and intellectual,” he wrote, “yet the time would seem to be ripe for introducing a moral motive among the rest—and save incidentally, in the department connected with education, there is little place for the revelation of the moral motive except in the Department of Anthropology.”43 Bestowing upon LPEC endeavors the veil of academic legitimacy, McGee’s racial cartography placed American bourgeois culture at the apogee of human development. With this guiding notion, he collapsed continental expansion, Native American removal, and overseas empire into a single moral-racialist scape.44 McGee believed members of the public could easily follow “the course of human progress … in a general way from the ethnic and cultural types assembled on the grounds under the Department of Anthropology, in the Philippine display, and in some of the attractions on The Pike.”45 On November 26, a week before the fair closed, President Theodore Roosevelt toured the Philippine Reservation. He watched members of the Constabulary perform drills, studied the collections at the Ethnology Building, and met with Samal and Maranao chiefs.46 Numerous Moro display items earned official plaudits, and the Samal leader Datu Facundo received a gold medal for the quality of his participation. Two Muslims died from beriberi in St. Louis during the exposition, while another expired from heat exhaustion after a prolonged theatric display.47 For supporters of overseas expansion, the reservation was an unmitigated triumph. “It is the first attempt of the United States to exploit a colony, and without doubt it is the best colonial exhibit ever brought together,” gushed William E. Curtis in the Chicago Record-Herald.48 Enthusiasm aside, returns on the insular government’s investments proved meager, disposing of collected materials and promotional material was problematic, and a museum based on the exhibit in Manila, originally intended to be permanent, closed quickly.49 Positioned within the museological modality of U.S. colonial empire, the Muslims in St. Louis came under a gaze that exceptionalized their supposed savage qualities yet also sought to incorporate them into chronicles of reform. In the Philippine Reservation and other sites of ethnographic spectacle at the fair, controlling the complex array of racial and cultural tropes proved difficult for fair officials. Herbert Stone, who headed publicity for the PEB, gave the official line, declaring that “the one thing that has stood in the way of the proper development of any colonial possession by its governing country has been the fact that a lack of knowledge of the real conditions and affairs of their colonies has blocked the way of the legislation most necessary for such development and exploitation.” Referencing Rudyard Kipling’s famous poem, he believed the reservation would correct this issue and allow the American public to realize “just what is meant by the ‘White Man’s Burden.’”50 Those opposed to the annexation of the Philippines, meanwhile, used the emphasis on otherness evident in the native villages and material displays to highlight the dangers of bringing irredeemable primitives into the national fold.51 The 1904 World’s Fair in St. Louis did not resolve the tension between “the sense that colonists and colonized were separated by an unbridgeable gap” and the possibility of cultural progress.52 Back in the Philippines, military authorities questioned the utility of displaying Moros and civilian members of the colonial government worried that the presentation of “semi-civilized” peoples would hinder the modernization of the archipelago.53 The preceding discussion illustrates the first distinct effort on American soil to stage-manage Muslim subjects and to incorporate them into a narrative of civilizational reconfiguration, an understudied relational element beyond histories of warfare in the jungles of Mindanao and Sulu. Metropolitan Sojourns A series of Muslim visits outside of the midway between 1904 and the early 1920s deepened the American public's notion of Moros as imperial wards. Press fixations on the capacities of Muslim visitors to absorb U.S. culture threw into stark relief the frictions and contradictions of colonial mimicry. This concept, derived from the work of Homi K. Bhabha, reasons that colonial encounters inevitably feature elements of cultural impersonation, wherein the colonized subject attempts to adopt the “customs and norms” of the colonial overseer without ever being able to “fully emulate … ‘whiteness.’”54 Implicit in these “performative identity strategies of passing and mimicry” are not only representations of domination and submission, but also subversive suggestions about the “contingency and context dependence” of racial, cultural, and gendered hierarchies.55 The concept has well-established roots in literary studies, and has been mined by historians of European empires seeking to explain the coproduced, bilateral character of colonial environments.56 In studying the American Philippines, Warwick Anderson has deployed mimicry to describe the development of public health regimes, so frequently unsettled by the native “imitator of hygiene” and the precarious racial certainties of dislocated colonial officials. “An awareness of mimicry,” he writes, “might also inadvertently challenge the boundaries of citizenship in the colony.”57 What of imitation in metropolitan settings? As shown, the fairgrounds were spaces of anthropological moralism and imperial race-mapping. Within these physical and representational boundaries, Muslims were picaresque savages, recipients of colonial beneficence, or some combination of each. There was, in other words, an inbuilt circumscription in both their presentation by others and presentation of self. American writers produced expansive reckonings of how visiting Moros absorbed, mimicked, or rejected the material and intellectual markers of “civilization” only after they left the shores of Lake Arrowhead for the United States proper. The U.S. public first met their nation's Islamic subjects outside of the fairgrounds on a chaperoned trip from St. Louis to Washington. On August 7, 1904, Frederick Lewis, now manager of the Moro Village, received a telegram from the White House extending an invitation to Datu Facundo and some of his followers to visit President Roosevelt in Washington. The three Moros and four Igorots chosen by their American handlers for the journey intended to tell the president of “the appreciation which their people [felt] for the changes from their old system to the present form of government, inaugurated by the United States.”58 Those publicizing the visit emphasized links between the Moros and conquered Native American populations. The visitors were, according to Insular Bureau chief Clarence R. Edwards, “about on a par … with some of the Indians in this country … they are as much objects of interest in Manila as they are in America.” He extended this comparison, claiming that the Moro and Igorot tribesman also imagined Roosevelt as their “Great White Father.”59 Facundo and his companions travelled overnight and arrived in Washington on the morning of August 9. Crowds massed at the train station and outside their Third Street hotel. The Washington Post followed the arrival closely, paying special attention to the group’s sartorial choices. Spectators hoping to witness exotic fashions from the Mindanao littoral and Cordilleran mountainside were disappointed to see the Moros and Igorots mostly clothed. In aping occidental styles of dress, the visitors “took away from the day … one-half of the interest and all of its picturesque character.” The traditionally-garbed Moro was “as alluring as a new toy and as entertaining as a pet monkey,” yet in Western clothes had “a hobo appearance that no amount of stage setting [could] redeem.” The paper was similarly disappointed that Datu Facundo insisted on wearing shoes during the visit, sneering that neither “the Moro nor the Igorrote foot [was] made for the ordinary shoe of civilization.”60 Here we see in miniature the “imperial nostalgia” Michael Hawkins writes of in his study of the Moro Province: the urge to foment cultural reproduction running up against the urge to see “untamed” Moros escape “the regulating gaze of modernity.”61 In contrast to later writings on traveling Moros, a sense of disenchantment colored the account. After years of sensational reports from the Southern Philippines and the theatricality of St. Louis, the dull mimicry of the suits landed with an unceremonious thud. “A shoe of moderate length, almost six inches wide at the toe and tapering almost to a point at the back of the heel would be the style for these most recent wards of the nation,” the Washington Post concluded flatly.62 Accompanied by “mentors” from St. Louis whose goal it was to “prevent them from committing any social faux pas,” the group toured the War Department, the Naval Yards, and the Treasury Department. At the last of these, the Igorot chief Antonio expressed his new hybrid identity by giving a rendition of “My Country, ‘Tis of Thee” for an assembled crowd of seven hundred, while at the War Department Facundo declared any resistance against the colonial state in the Philippines to be hopeless. The United States had “more guns in the navy than there were Moro warriors in the Island of Mindanao,” he informed onlookers.63 At the White House, Facundo swore fealty to President Roosevelt, who told his visitors through a translator of the American people’s wish to aid them in their development. Parallels with depictions of Native Americans again appeared in the Washington Post’s account of Facundo’s conversation with Roosevelt, written in the literary style of pidgin English later referred to as “Tonto Speak” or “Tonto Talk”: “Tell great white Chief that me know big chief who fight Americanos,” Facundo reportedly said. “Me go back home and get head of chief. This stop little chiefs. Me go right now.”64 With illustrative paternal intent, Roosevelt replied that he appreciated the offer but that U.S. troops in Mindanao were “entirely able to master the rebellious chief” themselves.65 Roosevelt maintained an active interest in his Muslim colonial subjects, entertaining Datu Sansaluna at the White House in 1907. Son of the famed Maguindanaoan royal Datu Ali, the young noble came to the United States under the auspices of the Jamestown Exposition in Norfolk. In media accounts, Sansaluna was a transitional figure whose aspirations were tempered by the ethnographic impulse to view Moros as a barely containable martial race. Seeking a college education in the metropole, reserving rooms at the New Willard Hotel, and travelling with his own private secretary, Sansaluna was in some ways a revised version of Facundo and his companions. The Washington Evening Star commented on his royal lineage and was impressed when he gifted Roosevelt a double-edged kris belonging to Datu Ali that had been ceremonially passed down within the Maguindanao Sultanate for 280 years.66 Embedded notions of oriental otherness, however, remained present in news stories. The actions and colorful dress of the “Moro Prince” signified difference, according to the Washington Post. The paper suggested Sansaluna had nearly killed a Christian Filipino guide at the exposition for claiming the Maguindanaon had five wives. Sansaluna commented it was “bad enough to be stared at by the crowds without being pointed out as the husband of five women,” illustrating the gaps between the American fascination with polygamous Muslims and Sansaluna’s longing to pass as a westernized gentleman.67 During the grand tour of the United States by Sultan Jamalul Kiram II in 1910, colonial mimetic desire coalesced further with enshrined concepts of Asian and Islamic otherness. Kiram, titular head of the Tausūg Moros of the Sulu Archipelago, had long been the public face of the Islamic Philippines. He was the first Muslim leader U.S. forces negotiated with in 1899, satirical plays were staged about his life in New York City, and his “harem” endlessly fascinated the metropolitan public.68 Ruling from his modest residence at Maibun, Jolo, Kiram had limited power, which was eroded by the colonial government and the machinations of an interchanging series of Tausūg datus. His letters from the period show a leader constantly concerned about his legitimacy.69 U.S. military and civilian officials alike often dismissed Kiram’s abilities, with J. Franklin Bell, commander of U.S. forces in the Philippines during the lead-up to Filipinization, describing the Tausūg ruler as a “weakling—mentally, morally and physically … Unlike most of the leaders of the Moros he is timid, weak, vacillating and very much afraid of responsibility.”70 Despite such misgivings, Kiram managed to retain his role (in a politically limited way) until his death in 1936. The sultan arrived in New York City aboard the ocean liner St. Louis on September 24, 1910. Hugh Scott, the one-time military governor of Sulu, greeted him at the docks. With Kiram were Hadji Mohammad Panglima Mulian, Hadji Tahib, Salip Maydano, and Hadji Gulamu Rasul. Initial coverage of the entourage emphasized the mystique, grandeur, and subversive sexuality of the Asiatic potentate abroad. The Los Angeles Times speculated (incorrectly) that the Sultan was bringing hundreds of thousands of dollars in pearls and intended to pay upwards of $25,000 for a “choice Southern California girl” to add to his harem. The newspaper further reported (also incorrectly) that Kiram’s lustful nature had led him to proposition Alice Roosevelt with marriage during her visit to the Philippines, offering the president “a large price for his daughter.”71 Multiple outlets picked up on rumors of the “famous pearls,” with the Boston Daily Globe claiming their worth at $500,000 and predicting that the Treasury Department would deal with the matter harshly if they were declared at customs.72 When questioned by Hugh Scott on the subject during disembarkation, Kiram claimed he had sold $100,000 of pearls during his stay in England and had none remaining with him.73 These questions of hidden treasure and licentiousness vanished during Kiram’s multi-city tour; the press replaced them with an instructional tale about colonial subjecthood and cultural osmosis. A reporter from the New York Times relished how awed Kiram and his coterie were by the sites and sounds of the metropolis. Travelling to the Astor Hotel, the Tausūg dignitaries “hardly said a word … they simply looked and marveled at the wonderful site.” Viewing the city from the top of the Times Building, the travelers “could not find words to express their delight.” When they passed Wallack’s theatre, where George Ade’s satire about Kiram had its run, the sultan regretted not witnessing “what he looked like on stage.”74 The party taxied around Manhattan and Brooklyn, visiting Central Park, the Bowery, and Grant’s Tomb. In Chicago, the industrial frenzy of the meatpacking district, made infamous by Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle four years prior, also impressed Kiram. Amidst the noise and stink, the sultan inquired as to whether he was allowed to slaughter an animal and claimed he planned on using the methods he witnessed upon returning to Jolo.75 During Kiram's trip, the media again identified clothing as a means by which to gauge Moro civilizational receptivity and to “absorb distant cultures into familiar frameworks.”76 The Chicago Daily Tribune reported that while in New York, the sultan had “fell prey” to an unscrupulous merchant who had sold him ill-fitting pants. The problem was apparently corrected when Kiram visited a Chicago clothier and purchased a seven-dollar pair of trousers that were “cut off right and hung straight.”77 Still, other outlets claimed Kiram was “doubtful about civilization’s sartorial mandates,” with a winking suggestion that a wild and unclothed Malay tribesman still lurked beneath the façade of domestication. As Philippa Levine has shown, the “containment” represented in shifts from “undress to dress”—from “traditional” to “modern” garb—signified success across the colonized world. This compulsion ran up against the paradoxical and predictable desire of the colonizer to see “natural” versions of the colonized other, a longing satisfied most readily by the visual immediacy of strange clothing and partial or complete nakedness.78 Kiram’s encounters with Euro-American fashions illustrate these related phenomena, demonstrating that even the apt pupil of civilization never strayed far from fairground inscriptions of difference. Kiram’s tour also involved what was becoming a customary visit to the White House, where he briefly met with President Taft and congratulated “the government of a great people” for doing “all possible to make him happy” despite the visit being unofficial.79 While in Washington, Kiram grandiloquently stated that his mission in the United States was to “learn of the world for my people.” Playing to the national pride of his audience, the sultan claimed he wanted to tell the Tausūg “fully of the nation of which they have become a part.”80 The U.S. press remarked on the visit with characteristic racial condescension, observing that it was the first time the “fiercest fighting strain” of Malays had seen “civilization.” The Washington Post was impressed that “there was not a sign of the uncouth, of the bizarre, of the savage” about the Moros. The reporter believed this to be evidence that good manners were “a matter of intention, not convention,” implying “civilized” comportment was the exception in the Southern Philippines.81 The Christian Science Monitor was more explicit about the moral effects of colonial rule on the Moros, noting that “his little dark brown majesty” could spread the word about the benefits of western technology and encourage participation in industrial education so that automobiles, “talking machines,” and agricultural equipment could be extensively introduced to the region.82 The sultan and his companions left the continental United States on October 5, departing from San Francisco en route to Honolulu, Manila, and, finally, Jolo. The tutelary fantasy of the Moro’s journey from jungle primitive to ideal colonial subject reached its pinnacle in the figure of Princess Tarhata Kiram. A niece of the sultan, she was born on Jolo in 1904 shortly after the establishment of the Moro Province. Military authorities identified her at a young age as the type of Muslim woman the colonial state wanted to nurture. The lowly status of women in the Islamic Philippines was a cause célèbre for many Americans. In popular accounts, the average Moro woman was a pitiful creature, perpetually immiserated by the rapacious polygamy of the community patriarchs. John Pershing, the third governor of the Moro Province, blamed the “degrading slavery of concubinage and polygamy” for the worst social ills in the region.83 At the same time, officials defeminized Muslim women who proactively resisted the colonial order and described them as indistinguishable from the Moro men they fought alongside.84 The colonizers, with their Victorian sensibilities, chafed at the notion of plural marriage, with many believing it could only be corrected through educating Moro women. To this end, authorities opened the Cotabato Girls School in 1913 and a female-only dormitory school on Jolo in 1916. By teaching Muslim girls “personal cleanliness, housekeeping, cooking, embroidery, and English,” administrators believed they could reproduce North American gender norms in Mindanao and Sulu. Women would still serve in a subordinate domestic role, but multiple marriages would cease and the Moros would inch closer to civilization.85 At Cotabato, Pershing claimed, Muslim teenage girls flourished under “the elevating moral influence of the American Christian woman.”86 On a regional level, government schools increasingly displaced traditional centers of learning (pandita schools) as the primary agents of cultural reproduction.87 Although Sulu society remained male-dominated, authorities recognized the influential role played by women from elite families. This was evident, for instance, in the deference paid to the sultan’s mother Inchy Jamela. In 1914, ten-year-old Tarhata Kiram was sent to the exclusive Normal School in Manila to receive “training in domestic science and other appropriate branches.”88 The civilian rulers in the newly formed Department of Mindanao and Sulu viewed scholarships for Muslim youth to study outside of their communities as a primary means of reshaping the region.89 Governor Frank W. Carpenter hoped that bringing Moro girls into contact with the dominant Christian culture of the north would help assimilate them into acceptable “beliefs, standards and ideals” and advance a unified Filipino national identity.90 Authorities further embedded this educational patronage model when control of Muslim issues passed to the Bureau of Non-Christian Tribes in 1920.91 After she graduated from the Normal School, the Bureau of Insular Affairs encouraged Tarhata Kiram to enroll in a metropolitan post-secondary institution. She chose the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, becoming the first women from the Islamic Philippines to attend school in the United States. Already commonplace in European empires, educating promising students from colonized populations was a means by which to shape future leaders.92 For Kiram, Illinois was to be a sort of finishing school for a process begun in Manila—the transition from “Moro” to “Muslim Filipino.” In absorbing first the culture of the Christian North and then that of the U.S. overseers, Kiram represented the first generation of Muslim youth raised to be national subjects within a colonial community. This, at least, was the idealized version. As authorities hoped, Tarhata Kiram did represent the “new” Moro citizen—tolerant to Christian Filipinos and an enthusiastic consumer of Euro-American culture—but not without complications. Still a teenager, Kiram arrived in Illinois at the end of August 1919, accompanied by her friend and roommate Carmen Aguinaldo, daughter of the revolutionary leader Emilio Aguinaldo.93 The Washington Herald reported that Kiram came to the country looking “to acquire as much as possible of American training and ideas” and that she had chosen a Midwest college because it would allow her a “greater opportunity to mingle with and meet everyday Americans.”94 Her time at the University of Illinois was busy. Beginning her studies in the School of Music, Kiram soon switched to the College of Liberal Arts and Sciences, where she took courses in history, economics, political science, and trigonometry. She adopted a Western style of dress, owning numerous dresses, skirts, and fur coats. As per the fashion of the time, Kiram kept her hair in a bob and was light-heartedly referred to as “the One and Only Sulu Flapper” by her peers. She was immensely popular on campus, regularly attending parties and dances, and living a life typical of the well-heeled American college student.95 Keenly aware of American stereotypes regarding the Islamic Philippines, Kiram joked with her friends about going juramentado. The term, adopted from the Spanish and meaning “one who takes an oath,” referred to Muslims who “ran amuck” in suicidal attacks on outsiders. The specter of the juramentado loomed large in sensational press reports about the Moros throughout the colonial occupation of the Muslim South.96 In the comparatively liberal campus setting, Tarhata took up smoking, kept abreast of the latest fashions, and dated American men. The press delighted in depicting her as a lapsed Muslim, whose love of Western culture led her to decry the “silly Moslem custom” of praying towards Mecca and embrace the condescending nickname “Hattie the Head-Hunter.”97 These reports played into the long-standing—and contradictory—belief among advocates of empire that the religious fanaticism of the Moros covered up an imperfect grasp of Islam.98 According to this logic, Kiram’s experiences were an instructive guide on how easily the Moro character was transformed by American influences. Kiram returned to the Sulu Archipelago in 1924 after five years in the Midwest, ostensibly a colonial success story and evidence that in just two decades under U.S. stewardship a “backwards” people could be redeemed. This narrative was rapidly destabilized when Kiram resurfaced three years later during a revolt on Jolo. In 1926, Kiram became the fourth wife of Datu Tahil, son of the famed Datu Jokanain and one the leading figures at the Battle of Bud Bagsak in 1913. After Bagsak, Tahil made peace with the government and for a time served as third member of the Sulu provincial board. However, after being outmaneuvered by a rival, he turned against state taxation policies and built a fortification at Patikul, east of Jolo town.99 On the orders of Sulu district governor Carl Moore, the Philippine Constabulary was sent to Patikul. Knowing that Tarhata Kiram was inside with her husband, the Constabulary forces did not approach the cotta. There was a tense standoff lasting several days, which only ended once word filtered back that Kiram had escaped Patikul via a tunnel. On January 27, 1927, thirty-five of Tahil’s followers died in a brief but intense firefight with the Constabulary. Tahil was taken into custody soon thereafter, while Tarhata Kiram was arrested and charged with sedition on February 4.100 Reaction in the United States to the princess’s perceived betrayal was swift and condemnatory. The Atlanta Constitution declared that she had backslid into savagery “despite the best efforts of the University of Illinois and other agencies of American culture to send her back to the Philippines thoroughly and incurably Americanized,” suggesting that any accumulated civilizational cachet had been replaced by defeminized barbarism. The press described the reversion in physical terms, with clothing as an anchor point. According to the Los Angeles Times’ Elizabeth Walker, who visited Kiram while she was under house arrest, the princess had replaced her “fashionable foreign clothes” with a traditional sarong. She filed her teeth and grew her hair out, leading Walker to describe her as “a slatternly creature in native garb” who “scandalized [her] sophisticated American neighbors.”101 Subsequent reports echoed the notion that Tarhata had turned her back upon “all the advantages given her,” giving shape to a cautionary tale about the limits of assimilation.102 The lone voice of protest against Kiram’s treatment in the press was a letter to the Chicago Daily Tribune from Margaret C. Stoll, a friend from the University of Illinois. Although supportive, Stoll’s message was hardly without its own racial undercurrents. “[Kiram] is a cultured, refined, and keen witted woman, who, against the odds of century-old oriental customs, is struggling to maintain her thoroughly occidental ideas,” she wrote, still framing the issue as a question of mimicry.103 Tarhata Kiram responded to condemnations of her character with a thoughtful and measured editorial. Published in the Los Angeles Times, the piece explained the revolt as a byproduct of unjust power dynamics in Sulu. Governor Carl Moore, Kiram wrote, was not only the chief executive in the region, but also acted as superintendent of schools and justice of the peace, thereby usurping “the prerogatives of the other officials, who are being converted into mere pawns on the chessboard.” Kiram characterized her defiance to this as a direct result of her American education, where she was taught “that the true essence of free government is that all powers should not be vested in one man.” She mused that it was “the experience of all colonial governments that the most troublesome elements in a subjugated country belong to the educated class, particularly those educated abroad. It is axiomatic that you cannot make a slave of a man after educating him.”104 This sanguine response suggests Tarhata Kiram possessed a deeper comprehension of the paradoxes inherent in the relationships between colonial officials, Western education, and colonized elites than her detractors in the U.S. press. So eager to produce a model colonial subject, supporters of overseas rule were swift to abandon the notion as an impossibility when met with resistance. In an interview after her arrest, Kiram showed a continued interest in the United States, inquiring about the famous Leopold and Loeb murder case and how certain friends in Illinois were faring. She explained her return to traditional Tausūg garb as a pragmatic means of becoming “a power” among her people and helping to rescue them from impending Christian domination of their lands.105 Imperial Communities The Muslims displayed in St. Louis vanished from the historical record after departing the fair. Mainly members of the peasantry, we can surmise that they returned to homes along the Mindanao littoral and the small villages dotting Lake Lanao, where they spent their lives under U.S. or Christian Filipino rule. Their documentary remains are spectral and fragmentary, comprising not much more than fleeting mentions in the U.S. press and the odd souvenir photograph from the exposition.106 With the exception of Datu Facundo, the fair participants were not from the elite families whose children were targeted for acculturation. Perhaps unsurprisingly, it is easier to track the Kirams, neither of whom ever returned to the United States. The sultan died in 1936, a long-serving but increasingly irrelevant figure in a sultanate whose real power vanished under U.S. sovereignty. The succession struggle that took place after his death provided an opportunity for the commonwealth government of the Philippines—a transitional entity meant to usher forth decolonization—to withdraw recognition from the sultanate entirely, completing a process that began decades earlier with the abrogation of the Bates Treaty.107 The short-lived rebellion of 1927 sidelined Princess Tarhata Kiram only briefly, and by the early 1930s she had reappeared in the U.S. and Filipino press agitating for the return of certain islands and territories in British North Borneo to the Sultanate of Sulu. Later in the decade she became a special agent for the Bureau of Non-Christian Tribes, leading raids against outlaws and completing her return to the colonial fold.108 She remained active in public life until her death in 1979, in many ways typifying the younger generation of Islamic elites in the U.S. period who gradually came to imagine themselves as “Muslim Filipinos.” Understanding the reality of a hegemonic Christian North in the wake of independence, these men and women attempted to stake positions for their peoples as minority groups within a multiethnic nation-state. In her later years, Tarhata Kiram acted as a consultant on Islamic affairs to the Philippine government, married two more times, and even composed some music. Five years after her death she was officially commemorated when her portrait appeared on a three-peso stamp.109 Studying portrayals of Muslims from the Southern Philippines as they travelled through the United States enriches our understanding of a triangular series of colonial relationships (Moro, American, Filipino) generally studied only through the lens of Philippine national identity, U.S. colonial governance, or the character of military rule in Mindanao and Sulu. Examining these experiences demonstrates their shifting utility to proponents of empire. The Samal and Maranao populations became shorthand for a type of civilizational beneficence developed between the fairgrounds of Europe and the conquests of the American West—the racially suspect but martially proud savage people guided through firm-but-fair means towards a brighter future. The proclamations of fair organizers and reactions of spectators suggest a contradictory fascination with transforming the Moros, a mournful desire to maintain them in their “natural” state (on evidence during the Washington visit), and skepticism about their capacity for change. Sultan Jamalul Kiram II’s visit to the United States shared some of these resonances, but contained intimations of the “man on the make”: an oriental mimic seeking to emulate and potentially reproduce occidental cultural tropes. A decade hence, his niece Tarhata Kiram’s enthusiastic embrace of U.S. collegiate life became the best evidence that tutelage could help a Muslim subject reach the antechamber of civilization. Her rejection of the colonial order after returning to Jolo closed the representational loop, with U.S. newspapers describing Kiram in the same terms they had the “fierce Mohammedans” of the Philippine Reservation. How these Muslim groups would continue to progress or regress under U.S. guidance was never settled and they disappeared from public view after the Second World War. When examined in conventional military histories, the Moros appear as a fearsome adversary vanquished by U.S. military grit rather than a subject population groomed for some form of membership in the Greater United States.110 The foregoing analysis of U.S.-Moro relations suggests colonial identity formation and contestation was not merely a product of the imperial frontier, but also occurred in metropolitan settings. Studying these encounters and integrating them into wider histories of U.S. overseas expansion challenges the tendency to describe empire as something that happened elsewhere, and, more specifically, sheds new light on how Muslims from the Southern Philippines saw themselves in relation to U.S. colonialism and how they were imagined by Americans. Examining Moro experiences helps explain the tensions and contradictions of life within the permeable borders of a nascent imperial community. Like many other groups past and present—Filipinos, Haitians, Puerto Ricans, Native Americans, Pacific Islanders, deterritorialized laborers, detainees—the peoples of the Islamic Philippines existed in a liminal space skirting the boundaries of subjecthood and citizenship. These stories suggest that in the early twentieth century the United States struggled with many of the same issues faced by other colonial powers, feeling the push and pull of integrationist and rejectionist desires. If the United States never developed as extensive or long-lived an imperial community as the British or French, it still took steps to simultaneously bind and distance its subjects through familiar racialized metrics. In participating in this transcolonial economy of ideas, Americans drew from common indices of civility: extravagant anthropological displays, fixations on how subject populations dressed, convictions about the benefits of an occidental education, discussions about the limits of benevolent assimilation, and so forth.111 Far from being any sort of secret, the United States, intent on reforming its foreign subjects, publicly discussed and debated the nebulous space that these Muslims occupied. Footnotes 1 “That Wild Little Sulu Flapper We Couldn’t Tame,” Atlanta Constitution, March 6, 1927, F6. 2 The term “Moro” has a tumultuous history, and some still consider it an unpleasant colonial byproduct. In recent decades, Islamic political groups and social organizations in the Philippines have reappropriated the word and used it to denote the entire body of Muslims in the country. I use it in this same spirit of inclusiveness and where appropriate acknowledge the important ethnic subdivisions found among the Muslims of the Southern Philippines. 3 Patricio N. Abinales and Donna J. Amoroso, State and Society in the Philippines (New York, 2005), 69–70; Najeeb M. Saleeby, The History of Sulu (Manila, PI), 240–44; Agustin Santayana, La Isla de Mindanao su Historia y su Estado Presente (Madrid, ES,1862); Francisco Combés, Historia de Mindanao y Jolo (Madrid, ES, 1897). 4 Moshe Yegar, Between Integration and Secession: The Muslim Communities of the Southern Philippines, Southern Thailand, and Western Burma/Myanmar (New York, 2002), 213–40; David Prescott Barrows, A Decade of American Government in the Philippines, 1903–1913 (New York, 1914), 54–59; Joshua Gedacht, “‘Mohammedan Religion Made It Necessary to Fire’: Massacres on the American Imperial Frontier from South Dakota to the Southern Philippines,” in Colonial Crucible: Empire in the Making of the Modern American State, ed. Alfred W. McCoy et al. (Madison, WI, 2009), 397–409. 5 Peter G. Gowing, Mandate in Moroland: The American Government of Muslim Filipinos, 1899–1920 (Quezon City, PI, 1983), 260–69; Francis Burton Harrison, The Corner-Stone of Philippine Independence: A Narrative of Seven Years (New York, 1922), 75–91. 6 Samuel K. Tan, “Understanding Philippine Culture Through the Filipino Muslims and Other National Minorities,” in Selected Essays on the Filipino Muslims (Marawi City, PI, 1982), 154; Samuel K. Tan, Decolonization and Filipino Muslim Identity (Quezon City, PI, 1989); Samuel K. Tan, The Critical Decade, 1921–1930 (Quezon City, PI, 1993); Samuel K. Tan, The Muslim South and Beyond (Quezon, PI, 2010). 7 Patricio N. Abinales, Orthodoxy and History in the Muslim-Mindanao Narrative (Quezon City, PI, 2010), 3; Patricio N. Abinales, Making Mindanao: Cotabato and Lanao in the Formation of the Philippine Nation-State (Quezon City, PI, 2000); Patricio N. Abinales, “American Military Presence in the Southern Philippines: A Comparative Overview,” East West Center Working Papers, Politics and Security Series 7 (2004): 1–20. 8 Thomas M. McKenna, Muslim Rulers and Rebels: Everyday Politics and Armed Separatism in the Southern Philippines (Berkeley, CA, 1998); Cesar Adib Majul, Muslims in the Philippines (Quezon City, PI, 1973); Cesar Adib Majul, “Islam and Philippine Society: The Writings of Cesar Adib Majul,” Asian Studies: Retrospective Issue 1 46, no. 1/2 (2010). 9 Gowing, Mandate in Moroland; Peter G. Gowing, “Moros and Indians: Commonalities of Purpose, Policy and Practice in American Government of Two Hostile Subject Peoples,” Philippine Quarterly of Culture & Society 8, no. 2/3 (1980): 125–49; Peter G. Gowing, “Muslim-American Relations in the Philippines, 1899–1920,” in The Muslim Filipinos: Their History, Society and Contemporary Problems, ed. Peter G. Gowing and Robert D. McAmis (Manila, PI, 1976), 372–82; Peter G. Gowing, Muslim Filipinos: Heritage and Horizon (Quezon City, PI, 1979). 10 Michael C. Hawkins, Making Moros: Imperial Historicism and American Military Rule in the Philippines’ Muslim South (Dekalb, Il, 2013); Michael C. Hawkins, “Managing a Massacre: Savagery, Civility, and Gender in Moro Province in the Wake of Bud Dajo,” Philippine Studies 59, no. 1 (2011): 83–105; Michael C. Hawkins, “Masculinity Reborn: Chivalry, Misogyny, Potency and Violence in the Philippines’ Muslim South, 1899–1913,” Journal of Southeast Asian Studies 44, no. 2 (2013): 250–65; Karine V. Walther, Sacred Interests: The United States and the Islamic World, 1821–1921 (Chapel Hill, NC, 2015). 11 Bernard S. Cohn, Colonialism and its Forms of Knowledge: The British in India (Princeton, NJ, 1996), 10. 12 Tony Bennett, Pasts Beyond Memory: Evolution, Museums, Colonialism (London, UK, 2004), 19. 13 Homi K. Bhabha, The Location of Culture (London, UK, 1994), 86. 14 Edward W. Said, Culture and Imperialism (New York, 1992), 264. 15 Alfred W. McCoy, Francisco A. Scarano, and Courtney Johnson, “On the Tropic of Cancer: Transitions and Transformations in the U.S. Imperial State,” in Colonial Crucible: Empire in the Making of the Modern American State, ed. Alfred W. McCoy and Francisco A. Scarano (Madison, WI, 2009), 24–33. 16 Anne McClintock, Imperial Leather: Race, Gender, and Sexuality in the Colonial Contest (London, UK, 1995), 58. 17 Bennett, Pasts Beyond Memory, 14. 18 Bernard McGrane, Beyond Anthropology: Society and the Other (New York, 1989), 111. 19 On U.S. fairs, see James Gilbert, Whose Fair? Experience, Memory, and the History of the Great St. Louis Exposition (Chicago, IL, 2009); Paul Kramer, “Making Concessions: Race and Empire Revisited at the Philippine Exposition, St. Louis, 1901–1905,” Radical History Review 73 (1999): 74–114; Bonnie M. Miller, “The Incoherencies of Empire: The ‘Imperial’ Image of the Indian at the Omaha World’s Fairs of 1898–1899,” American Studies 49, no. 3/4 (2008): 39–62; Robert Rydell, All the World’s A Fair: Visions of Empire at American International Expositions, 1876–1916 (Chicago, IL, 1984); Robert Rydell et al., Fair America: World’s Fairs in the United States (Washington, DC, 2000). The literature on European expositions and the visual culture of colonialism is vast. Some useful works include Paul Greenhalgh, Ephemeral Vista: The Expositions Universalles, Great Exhibitions, and World’s Fairs (Manchester, UK, 1988); David Ciarlo, Advertising Empire: Race and Visual Culture in Imperial Germany (Cambridge, MA, 2011); Dana S. Hale, Races on Display: French Representations of Colonized Peoples 1886–1940 (Bloomington, IN, 2008); Anne Maxwell, Colonial Photography and Exhibitions: Representations of the ‘Native’ and the Making of European Identities (London, 1999); Sadiah Qureshi, Peoples on Parade: Exhibitions, Empire, and Anthropology in Nineteenth-Century Britain (Chicago, IL, 2011); Van Tran, “How ‘Natives’ Ate at Colonial Exhibitions in 1889, 1900 and 1931,” French Cultural Studies 26, no. 2 (2015): 163–75. 20 Mona Domosh, “A ‘Civilized’ Commerce: Gender, ‘Race,’ and Empire at the 1893 Chicago Exposition,” Cultural Geographies 9, no. 2 (2002): 189–97. 21 Sarah J. Moore, “Mapping Empire in Omaha and Buffalo: World’s Fairs and the Spanish-American War,” Bilingual Review 25, no. 1 (2000): 115. 22 Ibid., 121. 23 “Filipino Village,” Atlanta Constitution, January 20, 1901, B7; “The Pan-American Exposition: The Ethnological Building,” The Phrenological Journal and Science of Health (April 1901): 3–4. 24 Letter from C. H. Huttig to Charles Reeves, December 10, 1901, folder 12, box 2, Charles Monroe Reeves Papers, State Historical Society of Missouri, Columbia, Missouri (hereafter SHSM-C). 25 Ibid.; Memorandum, “States, Territories, and Possessions,” folder 12, box 2, Charles Monroe Reeves Papers, SHSM-C. 26 Report of the Philippine Exposition Board to the Louisiana Purchase Exposition (St. Louis, MO, 1904), 6; W. P. Wilson, “The Philippines at St. Louis,” The Booklovers Magazine 4, no. 1 (1904), 3–5. 27 Mark Soderstrom, “Family Trees and Timber Rights: Albert E. Jenks, Americanization, and the Rise of Anthropology at the University of Minnesota,” The Journal of the Gilded Age and Progressive Era 3, no. 2 (2004), 179–80. 28 “Dr. Gustavo Niederlein—Special Commissioner of Philippine Islands for the World’s Fair,” World’s Fair Bulletin 3, no. 12 (1902): 30; Circular Letter of Governor Taft and Information and Instructions for the Preparation of the Philippine Exhibit for the Louisiana Purchase Exposition to be Held at St. Louis, Mo., U.S.A., 1904 (Manila, PI, 1903), 11. 29 Maud Huntley Jenks, Death Stalks the Philippine Wilds: Letters of Maud Huntley Jenks (Minneapolis, MN, 1951), 171. 30 Guy T. Viskniskki, “The Filipino Conquest of America,” Toledo Times-Bee, July 17, 1904. Louisiana Purchase Exposition Scrapbook 196, Missouri History Museum Library and Research Center, St. Louis, Missouri (hereafter LPE Scrapbook #, MHM-LRC). 31 “Interesting Relics for World’s Fair,” Binghampton Leader-Chronicle, October 10, 1903. LPE Scrapbook 113, MHM-LRC. 32 The Philippine Reservation was the largest single exhibit at the exposition, costing over a million dollars (close to $30,000,000 by present valuation), with nearly one hundred buildings, 75,000 catalogued exhibits, and 1,100 people on display. Herbert S. Stone, “Philippine Exposition: World’s Fair, St. Louis, 1904,” SHSM-C. 33 Rydell, All the World’s A Fair, 157. 34 Report of the Philippine Exposition Board, 34; A listing of the names of Moro participants can be found in Nancy J. Parezo and Don D. Fowler, Anthropology Goes to the Fair: The 1904 Louisiana Purchase Exposition (Lincoln, NE, 2007), 415–16. 35 David R. Francis, The Universal Exposition of 1904, Vol. 1 (St. Louis, MO, 1913), 571; Report of the Philippine Exposition Board, 34–35. 36 “Free Pictorial Map of the Philippine Exposition,” folder 154, The Louisiana Purchase Exposition Collection, SHSM-C; Daily Official Program—World’s Fair, 25 April 1904 (St. Louis, MO, 1904). 37 Francis, Universal Exposition, 571; Wolcott Calkins, “Teaching the Brown Man,” Boston Evening Transcript, April 27, 1904; LPE Scrapbook 196, MHM-LRC. 38 Report of the Philippine Exposition Board, 571. 39 Martha L. Root, “In the Philippines and on the Pike,” Pittsburgh Dispatch, June 26, 1904; LPE Scrapbook 196, MHM-LRC. 40 William E. Curtis, “The Curtis Letter,” New York Globe, August 3, 1904; LPE Scrapbook 196, MHM-LRC. 41 “Savages at the Fair as Snobs,” Washington Post, September 10, 1904, 6. 42 “The Philippine Display,” World’s Fair Bulletin 3, no. 7 (1902): 21. 43 W. J. McGee, “Anthropology,” World’s Fair Bulletin 5, no. 4 (1904): 4. 44 Parezo and Fowler, Anthropology Goes to the Fair, 39. 45 W. J. McGee, “Strange Races of Men,” The World’s Work (August 1904): 5188. 46 “The President of the United States Visits the World’s Fair,” World’s Fair Bulletin 6, no. 2 (1904): 3. 47 Report of the Philippine Exposition Board, 42, 48; “No Shower Baths During Hot Days,” St. Louis Republic, July 29, 1904, 8. 48 William E. Curtis, “Huge Exhibit by Isles,” Chicago Record-Herald, October 22, 1904; LPE Scrapbook 196, MHM-LRC. 49 Kramer, “Making Concessions,” 78–79, 106–8. 50 Stone, “Philippine Exposition: World’s Fair, St. Louis, 1904,” SHSM-C. 51 Rydell, All the World’s A Fair, 174. 52 Bennett, Pasts Beyond Memory, 9. 53 Tasker Bliss, The Annual Report of the Governor of the Moro Province—For the Fiscal Year Ended June 30, 1907 (Manila, PI, 1907), 34; Paul Kramer, The Blood of Government: Race, Empire, the United States and the Philippines (Chapel Hill, NC, 2006), 340. 54 Mori Ram, “White But Not Quite: Normalizing Colonial Conquests through Spatial Mimicry,” Antipode 46, no. 3 (2014): 736. 55 Shompa Lahiri, “Performing Identity: Colonial Migrants, Passing and Mimicry Between the Wars,” Cultural Geographies 10, no. 4 (2003): 409; Ram, “White But Not Quite,” 736. 56 Frances Gouda, “Mimicry and Projection in the Colonial Encounter: The Dutch East Indies / Indonesia as Experimental Laboratory, 1900–1942,” Journal of Colonialism and Colonial History 1, no. 2 (2000). 57 Warwick Anderson, “Going through the Motions: American Public Health and Colonial ‘Mimicry,’” American Literary History 14, no. 4 (2002): 711–12. 58 Francis, Universal Exposition, 571; “Igorrotes to be Clad,” Washington Post, August 9, 1904, 2; “Igorottes on Way,” Washington Post, August 8, 1904, 1. 59 “Igorrotes to be Clad,” Washington Post, August 9, 1904, 2. 60 “Dattos See Capital,” Washington Post, August 10, 1904, 2. 61 Hawkins, Making Moros, 125. 62 “Dattos See Capital,” Washington Post, August 10, 1904, 2. 63 Ibid.; “Filipinos Return from Washington,” St. Louis Republic, August 12, 1904, 8. 64 “Dattos See Capital,” Washington Post, August 10, 1904, 2; Some Native American chiefs at St. Louis had already toured the White House. The use of pidgin language to depict “savages” was further popularized in film and television. See Jacquelyn Kilpatrick, Celluloid Indians: Native Americans and Film (Lincoln, NE, 1999). 65 “Dattos See Capital,” Washington Post, August 10, 1904, 2. 66 “At the White House,” Washington Evening Star, November 2, 1907, 1. 67 “Moro Datto Comes Here,” Washington Post, August 2, 1907, 2; “Too Much Matrimony,” Washington Post, October 13, 1907, 15. 68 Memo from Elwell Otis to John Bates, July 3, 1899, folder 1, box 2, John C. Bates Papers, United States Army Heritage and Education Center, Carlisle, Pennsylvania; George Ade, The Sultan of Sulu: An Original Satire in Two Acts (New York, 1903); Perry E. Gianakos, “George Ade’s Critique of Benevolent Assimilation,” Diplomatic History 7, no. 3 (1983): 223–25. 69 Letter from Sultan Jamalul Kiram to O. J. Sweet, September 16, 1901, Hugh Lenox Scott Papers, Manuscript Division, Library of Congress, Washington (hereafter LOC-MD). 70 Letter from J. Franklin Bell to Francis Burton Harrison, January, 1914, Burton Norvell Harrison Family Papers, LOC-MD. 71 “Sultan Sails Hither,” Los Angeles Times, July 24, 1910, 1. 72 “Sultan of Sulu is Here to See Taft,” Boston Daily Globe, September 24, 1910, 16. 73 “New York’s Marvels Awe Sultan of Sulu,” New York Times, September 25, 1910, 1. 74 Ibid.; “Hadji Takes Pickles with his Ice Cream,” Boston Daily Globe, September 26, 1910, 1. 75 “Chicago’s Pants Win Sulu Sultan,” Chicago Daily Tribune, October 1, 1910, 9. 76 Victoria L. Rovine, “Colonialism’s Clothing: Africa, France, and the Deployment of Fashion,” Design Issues 25, no. 3 (2009): 44. 77 “Chicago’s Pants Win Sulu Sultan,” Chicago Daily Tribune, October 1, 1910, 9. 78 Philippa Levine, “States of Undress: Nakedness and the Colonial Imagination,” Victorian Studies 50, no. 2 (2008): 212–13. 79 “Sultan Has to Wait,” Washington Post, September 27, 1910, 2. 80 “Whole World One Big School to Him Says Sulu Sultan,” Christian Science Monitor, October 6, 1910, 7. 81 “The Sultan’s Manners,” Washington Post, September 28, 1910, 6. 82 “What the Sultan is Taking to Sulu,” Christian Science Monitor, October 22, 1910, 30; “The Lure of America for the Far East is Growing,” New York Times, October 2, 1910, SM13. 83 John J. Pershing, The Annual Report of the Governor of the Moro Province, for the Fiscal Year Ended June 30, 1913 (Zamboanga, PI, 1913), 70–71. 84 Florence Kimball Russel, A Woman’s Journey Through the Philippines (Boston, MA, 1907), 97–98; Carl N. Taylor, “Powder Keg in Mindanao,” Today Magazine, March 7, 1936, 3–4; Michael C. Hawkins, “Managing a Massacre: Savagery, Civility, and Gender in Moro Province in the Wake of Bud Dajo,” Philippine Studies 59, no. 1 (2011): 83–105. 85 Vivienne SM. Angeles, “Philippine Muslim Women: Tradition and Change,” in Islam, Gender, and Social Change, ed. Yvonne Yazbeck Hadda and John L. Esposito (Oxford, UK, 1998), 212–13. 86 Pershing, Annual Report 1913, 29–30. 87 Jeffrey Ayala Milligan, Islamic Identity, Postcoloniality, and Educational Policy: Schooling and Ethno- Religious Conflict in the Southern Philippines (New York, 2005), 43. 88 Frank W. Carpenter, Report of the Governor of the Department Mindanao and Sulu (Philippine Islands) 1914 (Washington, DC, 1916), 351. 89 Ibid. 90 Angeles, “Philippine Muslim Women,” 213. 91 “Development Program: Bureau of Non-Christian Tribes Scholarships,” 1931, folder 2, box 30, Joseph Ralston Hayden Papers, Bentley Historical Library, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, Michigan (hereafter BHL). 92 A. J. Stockwell, “Leaders, Dissidents and the Disappointed: Colonial Students in Britain as Empire Ended,” The Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History 36, no. 3 (2008): 487–507; Kelly Duke Bryant, “Social Networks and Empire: Senegalese Students in France in the Late Nineteenth Century,” French Colonial History 15, no. 1 (2014): 39–66. 93 The Chicago Daily Tribune depicted the two as being “stunned” by the “enchanted world” of Chicago, but also noted they felt “more at home” when taken to the city's busy markets, which reminded Kiram of “the cock fights at home.” “Glories of Loop Amaze 2 Little Filipino Maids,” Chicago Daily Tribune, August 28, 1919, 5; “They Find Chicago a Wonder City,” Chicago Daily Tribune, August 28, 1919, 5. 94 “Princess of Sulu Visits Washington on Way to Illinois College Where She Hopes to Learn About America,” Washington Herald, September 8, 1920, 6. 95 “Rise of Princess Recalls Coed Days,” Boston Daily Globe, March 31, 1932, 10. 96 Joshua Gedacht, “Holy War, Progress, and ‘Modern Mohammedans’ in Colonial Southeast Asia,” The Muslim World 105, no. 4 (2015): 450. 97 “That Wild Little Sulu Flapper We Couldn’t Tame,” Atlanta Constitution, March 6, 1927. 98 Henry O. Dwight, “Our Mohammedan Wards,” The Forum, March 1900, 27–28. 99 Sixto Y. Orosa, The Sulu Archipelago and its People (Yonkers, NY, 1931), 54; Constabulary Report, March 19, 1927, folder 27, box 28, Joseph Ralston Hayden Papers, BHL. 100 “Princess Missing After Moro Battle,” Washington Post, February 3, 1927, 3; “Sultana of Sulu, Once U.I. Co-Ed, Stalks Bandits,” Chicago Daily Tribune, February 6, 1938, 15. 101 Elizabeth Walker, “Moro Princess Explains Her Reversion to Type,” Los Angeles Times, February 6, 1927, 12; Elizabeth Walker, “Co-Ed From Chicago Holds Sulu Island in Defiance of America,” Boston Daily Globe, February 6, 1927, C1. 102 L. B. Johnson, “Co-Ed Reveals How Royal Dreams Faded,” Chicago Daily Tribune, February 9, 1927, 1; “Moro Princess Outcast,” Los Angeles Times, February 7, 1927, 4. 103 Margaret C. Stoll, “Voice of the People: A Portrait of Princess Tarhata,” Chicago Daily Tribune, February 18, 1927, 8. 104 “Princess Blames Moore,” Los Angeles Times, February 18, 1927, 7. 105 Elizabeth Walker, “Moro Princess Explains Her Reversion to Type,” Los Angeles Times, February 6, 1927. Apart from the Kirams, other elite Muslims also filtered into the United States. Abdullah, son of Maguindanao ruler Datu Piang, visited San Francisco in 1912, ostensibly “hunting” for an American bride. Gulamu Rasul, a member of Kiram’s retinue in 1910, returned to U.S. shores in 1919 to study at George Washington University. He eventually married an American woman named Alma Stewart. See Richard Barry, “Datto Abdulah Piang—Wife Hunting in America,” Evening Standard, March 6, 1912, 12; “Capital Girl Stirs Ire of Moro Wife,” Washington Post, 30 March, 1922, 2. 106 The afterlives of the fair are explored in Parezo and Fowler, Anthropology Goes to the Fair, 358–90. 107 Yegar, Between Integration and Secession, 231. 108 “Sulu Princess Claims Islands in South Seas; Calls on British to Give Them to Philippines,” New York Times, March 30, 1930, 1; Letter from Akuk Sangkula to Frank Murphy, January 6, 1934, folder 34, box 29, Joseph Ralston Hayden Papers, BHL; “Sulu Princess Offers to Visit Outlaws, Try to End Killings,” Boston Daily Globe, March 13, 1941, 21; “Sulu Princess Gets Posts,” New York Times, December 6, 1947, 6. 109 National Historical Institute, Historical Markers: Regions V-X11 (Manila, PI, 1994), 82. 110 Military-centered accounts include James Arnold, The Moro War: How American Battled a Muslim Insurgency in the Philippine Jungle (New York, 2011); Andrew Bacevich, “Disagreeable Work: Pacifying the Moros, 1903–1906,” Military Review 62, no. 6 (1982): 49–61; Charles Byler, “Pacifying the Moros: American Military Government in the Southern Philippines, 1899–1913,” Military Review 85, no. 3 (2005): 41–45; George William Jornacion, “The Time of Eagles: United States Army Officers and the Pacification of the Philippine Moros, 1899–1913” (PhD diss., University of Maine, 1973). The notion of the “Greater United States” is explored at length in Daniel Immerwahr, “The Greater United States: Territory and Empire in U.S. History,” Diplomatic History 40, no. 3 (2016): 373–91. 111 Literature on the question of imperial citizenship in the British Empire is well developed. See Sukanya Banerjee, Becoming Imperial Citizens: Indians in the Late-Victorian Empire (Durham, NC, 2010), 1–35; Anthony Pagden, “Fellow Citizens and Imperial Subjects: Conquest and Sovereignty in Europe’s Overseas Empires,” History and Theory 44, no. 4 (2005): 28–46; Siew-Min Sai, “Educating Multicultural Citizens: Colonial Nationalism, Imperial Citizenship and Education in Late Colonial Singapore,” Journal of Southeast Asian Studies 44, no. 1 (2013): 49–73. Recent histories of Asian migration to the United States are beginning to probe the contours of colonial and national citizenship. See Rick Baldoz, The Third Asiatic Invasion: Migration and Empire in Filipino America, 1898–1946 (New York, 2011); Rick Baldoz and César Ayala, “The Bordering of America: Colonialism and Citizenship in the Philippines and Puerto Rico,” Centro Journal 25, no. 1 (2013): 76–105; Paul A. Kramer, “Imperial Openings: Civilization, Exemption, and the Geopolitics of Mobility in the History of Chinese Exclusion, 1868–1910,” The Journal of the Gilded Age and Progressive Era 14, no. 3 (2015): 317–47. © The Author 2017. Published by Oxford University Press on behalf of the Society for Historians of American Foreign Relations. All rights reserved. For permissions, please e-mail: journals.permissions@oup.com. http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Diplomatic History Oxford University Press

Visiting the Metropole: Muslim Colonial Subjects in the United States, 1904–1927

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Blackwell Publishing Inc.
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© The Author 2017. Published by Oxford University Press on behalf of the Society for Historians of American Foreign Relations. All rights reserved. For permissions, please e-mail: journals.permissions@oup.com.
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0145-2096
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1467-7709
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10.1093/dh/dhx062
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Abstract

Abstract This article describes a series of visits by Muslim Moros from the Southern Philippines to the United States between 1904 and 1927. It argues that, situated in relation to one another, these visits demonstrate the tensions of representation in an imperial community and the coproduced character of colonial identities. In early 1927, an uprising occurred in the Sulu Archipelago, a fragmentary island chain running between the Southern Philippines and British North Borneo. Led by a local chieftain named Datu Tahil, the minor revolt was a reaction against colonial taxation schemes in this Muslim-majority region. Similar scenes—a local leader retreating to a fortification with his followers in protest, the authorities besieging the area—had become commonplace in the Muslim South. During four decades of U.S. sovereignty, groups in Mindanao and Sulu repeatedly contested the universalizing agendas of the colonial state. The predictability of unrest meant that by 1927 the American press rarely remarked on news of a conflagration in the region. Yet Tahil’s revolt appeared in the Atlanta Constitution, Chicago Daily Tribune, and Los Angeles Times, among other newspapers. The sudden interest arose from the participation of one of Tahil’s wives, Princess Tarhata Kiram, who had been educated in the United States at the University of Illinois. The Constitution despaired at her “reversion to type,” explaining that the “thin veneer of culture” provided by an occidental education “wore off when she got back among her own primitive people.”1 Understanding this visceral sense of cultural betrayal involves placing the incident within the larger story of the U.S. colonial project to transform its first Muslim subjects. Despite a recent influx of scholarly interest in the entangled histories of the United States and the Muslim world, America’s colonial occupation of the Islamic Philippines remains an obscure topic. Technically part of the Philippines, Western Mindanao and the Sulu Archipelago were trouble spots for the Spanish Empire for over three centuries. On the eve of the Spanish-American War in 1898, large swathes of the Mindanao interior and countless islands reaching towards the North Borneo coast remained effectively outside of colonial control. Never Christianized like the populations of Luzon and the Visayas, the thirteen groups of “Moros” (who inherited the designation of Catholic Spain’s Islamic foes from the Reconquista) interacted primarily with the other Muslim societies of Maritime Southeast Asia rather than the Christians to the north.2 Othered as piratical savages in Spanish and Filipino lore, these Muslim groups were structured around densely layered ethnic kinship networks and confessional identities resistant to the homogenizing effects of colonial Catholicism. This was what the U.S. military encountered when its forces arrived in Mindanao and Sulu during the summer of 1899.3 Eager to avoid simultaneous campaigns against Muslims in the south and Filipino nationalists in the north, the United States ratified a treaty with the Sulu Sultanate, co-opted leading Maguindanao figures, and initially left the restive Maranao population around Lake Lanao to its own devices. U.S. Army units were stationed in Mindanao and Sulu from 1899 onwards, but it was not until the collapse of the First Philippine Republic in 1902 that the military turned its attention back to the Muslim South. Captain John Pershing directed extensive operations in the Lanao region in 1902–1903, and the so-called Bates Treaty between U.S. colonial authorities and the Sulu Sultanate was abrogated in 1904. The establishment of the Moro Province on June 1, 1903 marked the official partitioning of the region from the remainder of the American Philippines. Acting in joint civil-military capacities, a series of army officers oversaw the province and justified its existence through reference to popular anthropological notions about the savage character of the Muslim Malay. Many of those stationed in the Muslim South were veterans of frontier conflicts with Native American groups and used their previous experience for comparative context.4 Mindanao and the Sulu Archipelago remained under direct military control until 1914, a phase mired in a toxic mixture of resistance, collaboration, and sporadic massacre. Between 1914 and 1921, the Wilson Administration pushed for the Filipinization of the renamed Department of Mindanao and Sulu, although this process was slowed once Republicans returned to power in the 1920s. In practical terms, Filipinization in the Southern Philippines meant replacing U.S. government agents with Christian Filipino ones, a move that did nothing to ease tensions with Muslim populations already chafing at the notion of being consumed by the nascent Philippine nation-state. By 1927, when Tarhata Kiram and Datu Tahil rebelled against authorities on the island of Jolo, the Muslims of the Southern Philippines were caught between the incorporative desires of Filipino nationalists and the U.S. colonial permanency espoused by officials like Governor General Leonard Wood.5 The literature on this period wrestles with a variety of issues. Many scholars from the Philippines focus on placing Muslim experiences and identities into larger histories of Philippine nationhood. The progressive historicism of authors like Samuel Tan in the 1970s, 80s, and 90s argued for the distinctiveness of individual Muslim societies under the umbrella of a wider story about national integration.6 Patricio Abinales later questioned this position and demonstrated that the “patchwork apparatus of agencies” comprising the colonial state and fluid Muslim identities during the American period made sociopolitical outcomes far from certain at the time of independence.7 Other writers like Thomas McKenna and Cesar Majul have penned impressive regional histories, exploring evolving relations between rulers and ruled.8 North American scholars writing about the Islamic Philippines have generally focused on the character of U.S. colonialism there. The pioneering efforts of the missionary-scholar Peter Gowing detailed the structures of governance in Mindanao and Sulu between 1899 and 1921, but occasionally glossed over the less savory qualities of the colonial encounter.9 More recently, Michael Hawkins has done extensive work investigating the epistemological foundations of colonial rule in the Muslim South, while Karine Walther has incorporated the occupation of Mindanao and Sulu into a transnational study of U.S. anti-Islamic attitudes in the long nineteenth century.10 While these multidisciplinary contributions have all added further texture to our understandings of colonial rule in the Southern Philippines, the topic remains understudied and overlooked by students of U.S. foreign relations. This essay seeks to amend this oversight by exploring an unstoried aspect of the U.S.-Moro relationship: the experiences of Muslims from Mindanao and Sulu who visited the United States. While the aforementioned works all cover aspects of colonial rule and identity within the Philippines, I study instances where Muslims travelled outside the colony to metropolitan settings, in the process contributing to larger conversations about the United States and the Islamic Philippines. I argue that, situated in relation to one another, these visits demonstrate the tensions of representation in an imperial community and the coproduced character of colonial identities. Whereas Moros at the 1904 Louisiana Purchase Exposition were subsumed into totalizing western discourses about ethnocultural capacity, those visiting outside of the fairgrounds were portrayed as colonized “men on the make”—puzzled and awed by the marvels of the metropole, yet at least partially open to “civilization.” In the early 1920s, colonial officials and the media deployed Tarhata Kiram’s education as evidence that twenty years of U.S. colonialism had transformed Moro barbarism into a preference for Western fashions and a receptivity to the university classroom. Their triumphant outlook vanished in the face of Kiram’s anti-colonial revolt on Jolo, replaced by a pessimistic return to racial essentialism. This arc of representation can be tracked alongside prominent discourses operating in an early twentieth century world saturated by colonial rule. The first and most apparent of these is the adoption by U.S. administrators, politicians, fair planners, and journalists of the late Victorian penchant for importing, organizing, and displaying non-white peoples as a form of public spectacle. Organizers of the St. Louis World's Fair utilized what Bernard Cohn describes as the “museological modality” of empire to create a “monumental record” of Muslim civilization in the Southern Philippines.11 This historicizing of difference allowed organizers, through living and non-living exhibits alike, to promote Social Darwinian fables about prehistory, evolution, and the positive moral implications of empire.12 Beyond the Philippine Reservation, public reactions to elite Moro visitors like the Sultan of Sulu revealed the “double vision” of U.S. colonial discourse, which was marked by the “repetitious slippage of difference and desire.”13 As we shall see, ideological superstructures of racialized power both cautiously encouraged and delimited colonial mimicry. This tense ambivalence was at its most stark when Tarhata Kiram experienced what Edward Said calls a “reflexive moment of consciousness” that allowed her, from a space between appropriation and rejection, to comprehend the flimsy foundations of colonial subjectivities and identities in a way that her American interlocutors could not.14 In sequencing these stories about subjecthood, this essay departs from many previous examinations of the topic by demonstrating how American and Muslim actors negotiated Moro identities from within the United States rather than solely on the edges of overseas territories, generating another link in the larger project of collapsing metropole and colony into a unitary field of analysis.15 The following sections also complicate the tendency of scholars to write empire out of U.S. domestic history in their examination of how the popular press and general public enthusiastically embraced the notion of visiting Muslims from the Southern Philippines as colonial wards. Displaying Moros The U.S. public formally encountered their new Muslim subjects for the first time in St. Louis. The Samal and Maranao Moros who made the long trip from Mindanao to Missouri lived within the Philippine Reservation at the 1904 Louisiana Purchase Exposition, which organizers designed as a grand tribute to the morally edifying qualities of colonial empire. The othered bodies of colonized peoples had long been a staple in the royal courts, travelling circus shows, and museums of Europe, although the art of human display arguably did not reach its zenith until the latter-half of the nineteenth century. During this period, national competition and colonial aggrandizement gave rise to international expositions. At these showcases, spectators judged colonized peoples against symbols of Euro-American progress and “time became global.”16 The fairs also provided empire-builders with spaces to create a didactic vision of colonial empire: western modernity rescued benighted races while simultaneously revealing untapped resources through new technologies. The human zoos of London, Paris, Berlin, and other European cities developed alongside a growing fascination with the products of “primitive” civilizations. “New forms of expertise associated with evolutionary forms of natural history and ethnology,” writes Tony Bennett, “sought to arrange a different kind of show through the studied manipulation of bones, skulls, teeth, carcasses, fossils and artifacts, representing what were believed to be the dead or dying customs and practices of colonized peoples.”17 In this “necrology practiced on the living,” Eurocentric notions of racial advancement or torpor comingled with the colonial imagination to produce ethnographic spectacle.18 For the sober-minded anthropologists and ethnologists who legitimized these manufactured scenes, non-white peoples and their cultural products were windows onto a vanishing past and validated panoptic notions of progress. For the ticket-seller and the general public, they were titillating demonstrations of exoticism that reinscribed commonly held racial-hierarchical beliefs.19 The intricately-plotted ethnographic showcase that the Samal and Maranao found themselves amidst in St. Louis had links not only to European colonial ethnography, but also a series of fairs held in the United States during the decade prior. The Anthropology Building and living exhibits of the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago promoted powerful evolutionary messages, encouraging fairgoers to consider Anglo-Saxon “physical and cultural achievements” against the detritus of conquered Native American peoples. The racial logics of the frontier blended with consumerist fantasies in the implication that chosen Native groups who adopted signifiers of civilization—from the bespoke suit to the sewing machine—could perhaps escape extinction.20 At the 1898 Trans-Mississippi and International Exposition in Omaha, the recent U.S. victory over the Spanish in Cuba and Philippines suffused the proceedings with an air of imperial triumphalism. The most popular attraction at the fair proved to be the Indian Congress, a meeting place for and showcase of indigenous peoples “self-consciously modeled after colonial exhibits at recent European world’s fairs.”21 At Buffalo’s 1901 Pan-American Exposition, “living ethnological displays” of Native Americans served as celebrations of hemispheric dominance.22 The Filipino Village there anticipated the 1904 Philippine Reservation, with press reports calling the site a “representation of actual life in this most interesting new possession of the United States”—actual life in this case involved daily performances by village residents and a guard of U.S. soldiers “to give a military glamor to the scene.”23 Fair organizers in St. Louis drew from these antecedents and designed their performative spaces to highlight similar representational binaries of assimilation and abjection. Plans for what became the Philippine Reservation began just as the Pan-American Exposition ended in 1901, when Civil Governor of the Philippines William Howard Taft sent an official communiqué to the Louisiana Purchase Exposition Company (LPEC) expressing interest in securing “a suitable exhibition of the resources of the Philippines.”24 The War Department authorized Taft to set aside funds to defray expenses for the Philippine exhibit. Although fighting was ongoing throughout the archipelago, U.S. officials and collaborating Filipino elites looked ahead to 1904 as a chance to make the case for empire. Even at this early stage, the fair’s chief publicist Charles Monroe Reeves projected that the exhibit would be thirty to forty acres in size.25 In the summer of 1902, Taft brought W. P. Wilson, director of the Philadelphia Commercial Museum, on board as head of the newly formed Philippine Exposition Board (PEB). The Philippine Commission gave the PEB impressive powers, placing at its disposal an array of government bureaus and transportation networks. Meanwhile, the exposition board urged colonial officials to form committees to secure collections for the PEB that “would illustrate the habits, customs, and life of the people.”26 In the Muslim South, the sizeable job of creating a representational record of Moro civilization fell upon two men: Albert Ernest Jenks and Gustavo Niederlein. Jenks collected the living exhibits for the exposition. A Michigan-born academic whose expertise in anthropology was self-taught, he came to the Philippines via his work with Bureau of American Ethnology. Initially serving with the Bureau of Non-Christian Tribes under the anthropologist David Prescott Barrows, Jenks soon became head of the Ethnological Survey.27 Niederlein, a globetrotting German botanist, perennial exposition participant, and Wilson’s deputy in Philadelphia was in charge of the non-living items. Both men were given carte blanche by the authorities in Manila to scour the archipelago for material, human and otherwise. Niederlein carried with him a letter from Governor Taft instructing all bureaus, governors, and provincial officials to extend him “every assistance in your power in the very important task [of] preparing exhibits for the Philippine part of the St. Louis Exposition.”28 Albert Jenks began assembling living participants in November 1902. In Zamboanga, capital and administrative hub of the region, Jenks secured a small group of Samal Moros, who agreed to travel to St. Louis under the supervision of an American expatriate named Frederick Lewis.29 Jenks and his wife Maud found a second group of Muslim participants during a journey the couple took to the Lanao region, a site of intermittent warfare between the U.S. Army and Maranao Moros opposed to colonial rule.30 The following year, Gustavo Niederlein made hundreds of stops on his collection tour of the Philippines. He arrived in the Sulu Archipelago in October 1903, disembarking on the island of Jolo. With the aid of a European merchant named S. A. Korczki, Niederlein meticulously catalogued and purchased the material culture of the Tausūg Moros. The botanist-turned-ethnographer returned to the United States with a trove of weapons, household items, clothes, and natural products.31 Although he visited the Philippines briefly in May 1903, W. P. Wilson spent the majority of his time preparing the grounds of the Philippine Reservation in St. Louis. Expanded to forty-seven acres and located in the southwest corner of the exposition, visitors accessed the exhibit by three bridges crossing over Lake Arrowhead, an artificial body of water encircling it on two sides.32 The largest of the bridges deposited spectators into a miniature replica of Manila’s walled city. Further on in the central plaza were buildings devoted to education, forestry, mining, agriculture, wild game, and ethnology. The “non-Christian” groups of the archipelago lived along the shore of Lake Arrowhead and in the forest surrounding the central plaza. Fair planners categorized and displayed the peoples of the Philippines based on their perceived level of civilization, with the Muslims of Mindanao falling somewhere between the supposedly prehistoric Negritos and the comparatively refined Visayans.33 The Samal and Maranao participants left Mindanao in late 1903. Accompanied by their manager Frederick Lewis, the Samal group consisted of nineteen men, eleven women, five boys, and five girls. From the port at Zamboanga, they travelled north to Manila, where they partook in test exhibitions. According to exposition documents, the stopover gave them “an opportunity of seeing their first city of any size, and [to become] accustomed to the ways of modern civilization.” Thirty-eight Maranao Moros and their manager C. H. Wax soon joined the Samal in the Philippine capital, and together they crossed the Pacific.34 Once in St. Louis, the two groups resided along the northern section of Lake Arrowhead. Organizers modeled the Samal village on buildings from Magay, the Muslim sector of Zamboanga, and went to great lengths to maintain realism. The Samal built their dwellings from a combination of nippa, rattan, and bamboo, and with no nails. Their managers allowed them, in the words of LPEC President David Francis, to construct their homes “in accordance with their own peculiar style of architecture.” The village included several small residences, an administrative building displaying ethnographic curiosities, and a theatre for public performances. Reservation managers scrapped a planned second village for the Maranao shortly after initial construction. The living exhibit opened to the public on June 18, 1904.35 Doubling as employees and display objects, the Moros had robust routines. The village theatre staged hourly performances featuring men playing gongs and doing a shield and spear dance called the “Moro-Moro.” In the mornings, Samal boys raced canoes, rode the “chutes” (waterslides), or dove into Lake Arrowhead for coins thrown by spectators. When not at the theatre, Moro women wove items that were later sold in the central plaza.36 The men engaged in “their native industries and occupations,” which meant fishing and pearl diving in the lake. Samal and Maranao youth attended the model schoolhouse run by Pilar Zamora, a Christian Filipino instructor brought from the elite Government Normal School in Manila. Teachers instructed Muslim students separately because of their perceived unruliness, although press coverage depicted the school as a practical illustration of how modern pedagogical techniques were redeeming backwards peoples.37 Visitors even watched the Moros eat their meals, bringing the most mundane daily rituals under the surveilling eye of the crowd. The final report of the PEB boasted that the Samal and Maranao groups followed a diet similar to what they ate on Mindanao and that the Moros had “no complaints.”38 Capitalizing on the popularity of the native villages, newspaper reporters routinely covered them—often with a liberal dose of racial commentary. In the Pittsburgh Dispatch, Martha Root claimed the Moros “were not bred so dull they cannot learn” but “so far … have been immune from the epidemic called civilization.” Drawing from stock phraseology, Root described the Samal and Maranao as the “fiercest of all tribes,” and called their village a “primitive Atlantic city, where the inhabitants practically live in the water.”39 William E. Curtis, one-time head of the Latin American Department at the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition, saw the Moros as remarkable athletic specimens superior to the Christian Filipinos. They were, Curtis claimed, an “interesting problem for [the] ethnologists and sociologists … [who would] watch their development under a liberal government and the educational privileges the Yankees [had] introduced in the southern islands of the Philippine archipelago.” The reporter assured readers that the exhibit was “an object lesson for the information and edification of the American people” while also being “accurate and quite true to life.”40 Elsewhere, the Washington Post reported on how the playgrounds of the fair became a space where American and Moro children played, bringing out “the contrast between democratic America and the Filipino caste system.”41 Echoing exposition managers, press accounts simultaneously presented the Moros as prehistoric relics, martially impressive specimens, and human clay waiting to be shaped by colonial institutions. Fair organizers and colonial officials placed the Mindanaoan Muslims within a representational constellation mapping the benefits of empire. As early as 1902, Governor Taft spoke of the “moral effect” the exhibit would have on the wards of the state, and how their participation in the fair would be “a very great influence in completing pacification and in bringing Filipinos to improve their condition.”42 Head of the Department of Anthropology W. J. McGee was similarly self-righteous. “The primary motives of expositions are commercial and intellectual,” he wrote, “yet the time would seem to be ripe for introducing a moral motive among the rest—and save incidentally, in the department connected with education, there is little place for the revelation of the moral motive except in the Department of Anthropology.”43 Bestowing upon LPEC endeavors the veil of academic legitimacy, McGee’s racial cartography placed American bourgeois culture at the apogee of human development. With this guiding notion, he collapsed continental expansion, Native American removal, and overseas empire into a single moral-racialist scape.44 McGee believed members of the public could easily follow “the course of human progress … in a general way from the ethnic and cultural types assembled on the grounds under the Department of Anthropology, in the Philippine display, and in some of the attractions on The Pike.”45 On November 26, a week before the fair closed, President Theodore Roosevelt toured the Philippine Reservation. He watched members of the Constabulary perform drills, studied the collections at the Ethnology Building, and met with Samal and Maranao chiefs.46 Numerous Moro display items earned official plaudits, and the Samal leader Datu Facundo received a gold medal for the quality of his participation. Two Muslims died from beriberi in St. Louis during the exposition, while another expired from heat exhaustion after a prolonged theatric display.47 For supporters of overseas expansion, the reservation was an unmitigated triumph. “It is the first attempt of the United States to exploit a colony, and without doubt it is the best colonial exhibit ever brought together,” gushed William E. Curtis in the Chicago Record-Herald.48 Enthusiasm aside, returns on the insular government’s investments proved meager, disposing of collected materials and promotional material was problematic, and a museum based on the exhibit in Manila, originally intended to be permanent, closed quickly.49 Positioned within the museological modality of U.S. colonial empire, the Muslims in St. Louis came under a gaze that exceptionalized their supposed savage qualities yet also sought to incorporate them into chronicles of reform. In the Philippine Reservation and other sites of ethnographic spectacle at the fair, controlling the complex array of racial and cultural tropes proved difficult for fair officials. Herbert Stone, who headed publicity for the PEB, gave the official line, declaring that “the one thing that has stood in the way of the proper development of any colonial possession by its governing country has been the fact that a lack of knowledge of the real conditions and affairs of their colonies has blocked the way of the legislation most necessary for such development and exploitation.” Referencing Rudyard Kipling’s famous poem, he believed the reservation would correct this issue and allow the American public to realize “just what is meant by the ‘White Man’s Burden.’”50 Those opposed to the annexation of the Philippines, meanwhile, used the emphasis on otherness evident in the native villages and material displays to highlight the dangers of bringing irredeemable primitives into the national fold.51 The 1904 World’s Fair in St. Louis did not resolve the tension between “the sense that colonists and colonized were separated by an unbridgeable gap” and the possibility of cultural progress.52 Back in the Philippines, military authorities questioned the utility of displaying Moros and civilian members of the colonial government worried that the presentation of “semi-civilized” peoples would hinder the modernization of the archipelago.53 The preceding discussion illustrates the first distinct effort on American soil to stage-manage Muslim subjects and to incorporate them into a narrative of civilizational reconfiguration, an understudied relational element beyond histories of warfare in the jungles of Mindanao and Sulu. Metropolitan Sojourns A series of Muslim visits outside of the midway between 1904 and the early 1920s deepened the American public's notion of Moros as imperial wards. Press fixations on the capacities of Muslim visitors to absorb U.S. culture threw into stark relief the frictions and contradictions of colonial mimicry. This concept, derived from the work of Homi K. Bhabha, reasons that colonial encounters inevitably feature elements of cultural impersonation, wherein the colonized subject attempts to adopt the “customs and norms” of the colonial overseer without ever being able to “fully emulate … ‘whiteness.’”54 Implicit in these “performative identity strategies of passing and mimicry” are not only representations of domination and submission, but also subversive suggestions about the “contingency and context dependence” of racial, cultural, and gendered hierarchies.55 The concept has well-established roots in literary studies, and has been mined by historians of European empires seeking to explain the coproduced, bilateral character of colonial environments.56 In studying the American Philippines, Warwick Anderson has deployed mimicry to describe the development of public health regimes, so frequently unsettled by the native “imitator of hygiene” and the precarious racial certainties of dislocated colonial officials. “An awareness of mimicry,” he writes, “might also inadvertently challenge the boundaries of citizenship in the colony.”57 What of imitation in metropolitan settings? As shown, the fairgrounds were spaces of anthropological moralism and imperial race-mapping. Within these physical and representational boundaries, Muslims were picaresque savages, recipients of colonial beneficence, or some combination of each. There was, in other words, an inbuilt circumscription in both their presentation by others and presentation of self. American writers produced expansive reckonings of how visiting Moros absorbed, mimicked, or rejected the material and intellectual markers of “civilization” only after they left the shores of Lake Arrowhead for the United States proper. The U.S. public first met their nation's Islamic subjects outside of the fairgrounds on a chaperoned trip from St. Louis to Washington. On August 7, 1904, Frederick Lewis, now manager of the Moro Village, received a telegram from the White House extending an invitation to Datu Facundo and some of his followers to visit President Roosevelt in Washington. The three Moros and four Igorots chosen by their American handlers for the journey intended to tell the president of “the appreciation which their people [felt] for the changes from their old system to the present form of government, inaugurated by the United States.”58 Those publicizing the visit emphasized links between the Moros and conquered Native American populations. The visitors were, according to Insular Bureau chief Clarence R. Edwards, “about on a par … with some of the Indians in this country … they are as much objects of interest in Manila as they are in America.” He extended this comparison, claiming that the Moro and Igorot tribesman also imagined Roosevelt as their “Great White Father.”59 Facundo and his companions travelled overnight and arrived in Washington on the morning of August 9. Crowds massed at the train station and outside their Third Street hotel. The Washington Post followed the arrival closely, paying special attention to the group’s sartorial choices. Spectators hoping to witness exotic fashions from the Mindanao littoral and Cordilleran mountainside were disappointed to see the Moros and Igorots mostly clothed. In aping occidental styles of dress, the visitors “took away from the day … one-half of the interest and all of its picturesque character.” The traditionally-garbed Moro was “as alluring as a new toy and as entertaining as a pet monkey,” yet in Western clothes had “a hobo appearance that no amount of stage setting [could] redeem.” The paper was similarly disappointed that Datu Facundo insisted on wearing shoes during the visit, sneering that neither “the Moro nor the Igorrote foot [was] made for the ordinary shoe of civilization.”60 Here we see in miniature the “imperial nostalgia” Michael Hawkins writes of in his study of the Moro Province: the urge to foment cultural reproduction running up against the urge to see “untamed” Moros escape “the regulating gaze of modernity.”61 In contrast to later writings on traveling Moros, a sense of disenchantment colored the account. After years of sensational reports from the Southern Philippines and the theatricality of St. Louis, the dull mimicry of the suits landed with an unceremonious thud. “A shoe of moderate length, almost six inches wide at the toe and tapering almost to a point at the back of the heel would be the style for these most recent wards of the nation,” the Washington Post concluded flatly.62 Accompanied by “mentors” from St. Louis whose goal it was to “prevent them from committing any social faux pas,” the group toured the War Department, the Naval Yards, and the Treasury Department. At the last of these, the Igorot chief Antonio expressed his new hybrid identity by giving a rendition of “My Country, ‘Tis of Thee” for an assembled crowd of seven hundred, while at the War Department Facundo declared any resistance against the colonial state in the Philippines to be hopeless. The United States had “more guns in the navy than there were Moro warriors in the Island of Mindanao,” he informed onlookers.63 At the White House, Facundo swore fealty to President Roosevelt, who told his visitors through a translator of the American people’s wish to aid them in their development. Parallels with depictions of Native Americans again appeared in the Washington Post’s account of Facundo’s conversation with Roosevelt, written in the literary style of pidgin English later referred to as “Tonto Speak” or “Tonto Talk”: “Tell great white Chief that me know big chief who fight Americanos,” Facundo reportedly said. “Me go back home and get head of chief. This stop little chiefs. Me go right now.”64 With illustrative paternal intent, Roosevelt replied that he appreciated the offer but that U.S. troops in Mindanao were “entirely able to master the rebellious chief” themselves.65 Roosevelt maintained an active interest in his Muslim colonial subjects, entertaining Datu Sansaluna at the White House in 1907. Son of the famed Maguindanaoan royal Datu Ali, the young noble came to the United States under the auspices of the Jamestown Exposition in Norfolk. In media accounts, Sansaluna was a transitional figure whose aspirations were tempered by the ethnographic impulse to view Moros as a barely containable martial race. Seeking a college education in the metropole, reserving rooms at the New Willard Hotel, and travelling with his own private secretary, Sansaluna was in some ways a revised version of Facundo and his companions. The Washington Evening Star commented on his royal lineage and was impressed when he gifted Roosevelt a double-edged kris belonging to Datu Ali that had been ceremonially passed down within the Maguindanao Sultanate for 280 years.66 Embedded notions of oriental otherness, however, remained present in news stories. The actions and colorful dress of the “Moro Prince” signified difference, according to the Washington Post. The paper suggested Sansaluna had nearly killed a Christian Filipino guide at the exposition for claiming the Maguindanaon had five wives. Sansaluna commented it was “bad enough to be stared at by the crowds without being pointed out as the husband of five women,” illustrating the gaps between the American fascination with polygamous Muslims and Sansaluna’s longing to pass as a westernized gentleman.67 During the grand tour of the United States by Sultan Jamalul Kiram II in 1910, colonial mimetic desire coalesced further with enshrined concepts of Asian and Islamic otherness. Kiram, titular head of the Tausūg Moros of the Sulu Archipelago, had long been the public face of the Islamic Philippines. He was the first Muslim leader U.S. forces negotiated with in 1899, satirical plays were staged about his life in New York City, and his “harem” endlessly fascinated the metropolitan public.68 Ruling from his modest residence at Maibun, Jolo, Kiram had limited power, which was eroded by the colonial government and the machinations of an interchanging series of Tausūg datus. His letters from the period show a leader constantly concerned about his legitimacy.69 U.S. military and civilian officials alike often dismissed Kiram’s abilities, with J. Franklin Bell, commander of U.S. forces in the Philippines during the lead-up to Filipinization, describing the Tausūg ruler as a “weakling—mentally, morally and physically … Unlike most of the leaders of the Moros he is timid, weak, vacillating and very much afraid of responsibility.”70 Despite such misgivings, Kiram managed to retain his role (in a politically limited way) until his death in 1936. The sultan arrived in New York City aboard the ocean liner St. Louis on September 24, 1910. Hugh Scott, the one-time military governor of Sulu, greeted him at the docks. With Kiram were Hadji Mohammad Panglima Mulian, Hadji Tahib, Salip Maydano, and Hadji Gulamu Rasul. Initial coverage of the entourage emphasized the mystique, grandeur, and subversive sexuality of the Asiatic potentate abroad. The Los Angeles Times speculated (incorrectly) that the Sultan was bringing hundreds of thousands of dollars in pearls and intended to pay upwards of $25,000 for a “choice Southern California girl” to add to his harem. The newspaper further reported (also incorrectly) that Kiram’s lustful nature had led him to proposition Alice Roosevelt with marriage during her visit to the Philippines, offering the president “a large price for his daughter.”71 Multiple outlets picked up on rumors of the “famous pearls,” with the Boston Daily Globe claiming their worth at $500,000 and predicting that the Treasury Department would deal with the matter harshly if they were declared at customs.72 When questioned by Hugh Scott on the subject during disembarkation, Kiram claimed he had sold $100,000 of pearls during his stay in England and had none remaining with him.73 These questions of hidden treasure and licentiousness vanished during Kiram’s multi-city tour; the press replaced them with an instructional tale about colonial subjecthood and cultural osmosis. A reporter from the New York Times relished how awed Kiram and his coterie were by the sites and sounds of the metropolis. Travelling to the Astor Hotel, the Tausūg dignitaries “hardly said a word … they simply looked and marveled at the wonderful site.” Viewing the city from the top of the Times Building, the travelers “could not find words to express their delight.” When they passed Wallack’s theatre, where George Ade’s satire about Kiram had its run, the sultan regretted not witnessing “what he looked like on stage.”74 The party taxied around Manhattan and Brooklyn, visiting Central Park, the Bowery, and Grant’s Tomb. In Chicago, the industrial frenzy of the meatpacking district, made infamous by Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle four years prior, also impressed Kiram. Amidst the noise and stink, the sultan inquired as to whether he was allowed to slaughter an animal and claimed he planned on using the methods he witnessed upon returning to Jolo.75 During Kiram's trip, the media again identified clothing as a means by which to gauge Moro civilizational receptivity and to “absorb distant cultures into familiar frameworks.”76 The Chicago Daily Tribune reported that while in New York, the sultan had “fell prey” to an unscrupulous merchant who had sold him ill-fitting pants. The problem was apparently corrected when Kiram visited a Chicago clothier and purchased a seven-dollar pair of trousers that were “cut off right and hung straight.”77 Still, other outlets claimed Kiram was “doubtful about civilization’s sartorial mandates,” with a winking suggestion that a wild and unclothed Malay tribesman still lurked beneath the façade of domestication. As Philippa Levine has shown, the “containment” represented in shifts from “undress to dress”—from “traditional” to “modern” garb—signified success across the colonized world. This compulsion ran up against the paradoxical and predictable desire of the colonizer to see “natural” versions of the colonized other, a longing satisfied most readily by the visual immediacy of strange clothing and partial or complete nakedness.78 Kiram’s encounters with Euro-American fashions illustrate these related phenomena, demonstrating that even the apt pupil of civilization never strayed far from fairground inscriptions of difference. Kiram’s tour also involved what was becoming a customary visit to the White House, where he briefly met with President Taft and congratulated “the government of a great people” for doing “all possible to make him happy” despite the visit being unofficial.79 While in Washington, Kiram grandiloquently stated that his mission in the United States was to “learn of the world for my people.” Playing to the national pride of his audience, the sultan claimed he wanted to tell the Tausūg “fully of the nation of which they have become a part.”80 The U.S. press remarked on the visit with characteristic racial condescension, observing that it was the first time the “fiercest fighting strain” of Malays had seen “civilization.” The Washington Post was impressed that “there was not a sign of the uncouth, of the bizarre, of the savage” about the Moros. The reporter believed this to be evidence that good manners were “a matter of intention, not convention,” implying “civilized” comportment was the exception in the Southern Philippines.81 The Christian Science Monitor was more explicit about the moral effects of colonial rule on the Moros, noting that “his little dark brown majesty” could spread the word about the benefits of western technology and encourage participation in industrial education so that automobiles, “talking machines,” and agricultural equipment could be extensively introduced to the region.82 The sultan and his companions left the continental United States on October 5, departing from San Francisco en route to Honolulu, Manila, and, finally, Jolo. The tutelary fantasy of the Moro’s journey from jungle primitive to ideal colonial subject reached its pinnacle in the figure of Princess Tarhata Kiram. A niece of the sultan, she was born on Jolo in 1904 shortly after the establishment of the Moro Province. Military authorities identified her at a young age as the type of Muslim woman the colonial state wanted to nurture. The lowly status of women in the Islamic Philippines was a cause célèbre for many Americans. In popular accounts, the average Moro woman was a pitiful creature, perpetually immiserated by the rapacious polygamy of the community patriarchs. John Pershing, the third governor of the Moro Province, blamed the “degrading slavery of concubinage and polygamy” for the worst social ills in the region.83 At the same time, officials defeminized Muslim women who proactively resisted the colonial order and described them as indistinguishable from the Moro men they fought alongside.84 The colonizers, with their Victorian sensibilities, chafed at the notion of plural marriage, with many believing it could only be corrected through educating Moro women. To this end, authorities opened the Cotabato Girls School in 1913 and a female-only dormitory school on Jolo in 1916. By teaching Muslim girls “personal cleanliness, housekeeping, cooking, embroidery, and English,” administrators believed they could reproduce North American gender norms in Mindanao and Sulu. Women would still serve in a subordinate domestic role, but multiple marriages would cease and the Moros would inch closer to civilization.85 At Cotabato, Pershing claimed, Muslim teenage girls flourished under “the elevating moral influence of the American Christian woman.”86 On a regional level, government schools increasingly displaced traditional centers of learning (pandita schools) as the primary agents of cultural reproduction.87 Although Sulu society remained male-dominated, authorities recognized the influential role played by women from elite families. This was evident, for instance, in the deference paid to the sultan’s mother Inchy Jamela. In 1914, ten-year-old Tarhata Kiram was sent to the exclusive Normal School in Manila to receive “training in domestic science and other appropriate branches.”88 The civilian rulers in the newly formed Department of Mindanao and Sulu viewed scholarships for Muslim youth to study outside of their communities as a primary means of reshaping the region.89 Governor Frank W. Carpenter hoped that bringing Moro girls into contact with the dominant Christian culture of the north would help assimilate them into acceptable “beliefs, standards and ideals” and advance a unified Filipino national identity.90 Authorities further embedded this educational patronage model when control of Muslim issues passed to the Bureau of Non-Christian Tribes in 1920.91 After she graduated from the Normal School, the Bureau of Insular Affairs encouraged Tarhata Kiram to enroll in a metropolitan post-secondary institution. She chose the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, becoming the first women from the Islamic Philippines to attend school in the United States. Already commonplace in European empires, educating promising students from colonized populations was a means by which to shape future leaders.92 For Kiram, Illinois was to be a sort of finishing school for a process begun in Manila—the transition from “Moro” to “Muslim Filipino.” In absorbing first the culture of the Christian North and then that of the U.S. overseers, Kiram represented the first generation of Muslim youth raised to be national subjects within a colonial community. This, at least, was the idealized version. As authorities hoped, Tarhata Kiram did represent the “new” Moro citizen—tolerant to Christian Filipinos and an enthusiastic consumer of Euro-American culture—but not without complications. Still a teenager, Kiram arrived in Illinois at the end of August 1919, accompanied by her friend and roommate Carmen Aguinaldo, daughter of the revolutionary leader Emilio Aguinaldo.93 The Washington Herald reported that Kiram came to the country looking “to acquire as much as possible of American training and ideas” and that she had chosen a Midwest college because it would allow her a “greater opportunity to mingle with and meet everyday Americans.”94 Her time at the University of Illinois was busy. Beginning her studies in the School of Music, Kiram soon switched to the College of Liberal Arts and Sciences, where she took courses in history, economics, political science, and trigonometry. She adopted a Western style of dress, owning numerous dresses, skirts, and fur coats. As per the fashion of the time, Kiram kept her hair in a bob and was light-heartedly referred to as “the One and Only Sulu Flapper” by her peers. She was immensely popular on campus, regularly attending parties and dances, and living a life typical of the well-heeled American college student.95 Keenly aware of American stereotypes regarding the Islamic Philippines, Kiram joked with her friends about going juramentado. The term, adopted from the Spanish and meaning “one who takes an oath,” referred to Muslims who “ran amuck” in suicidal attacks on outsiders. The specter of the juramentado loomed large in sensational press reports about the Moros throughout the colonial occupation of the Muslim South.96 In the comparatively liberal campus setting, Tarhata took up smoking, kept abreast of the latest fashions, and dated American men. The press delighted in depicting her as a lapsed Muslim, whose love of Western culture led her to decry the “silly Moslem custom” of praying towards Mecca and embrace the condescending nickname “Hattie the Head-Hunter.”97 These reports played into the long-standing—and contradictory—belief among advocates of empire that the religious fanaticism of the Moros covered up an imperfect grasp of Islam.98 According to this logic, Kiram’s experiences were an instructive guide on how easily the Moro character was transformed by American influences. Kiram returned to the Sulu Archipelago in 1924 after five years in the Midwest, ostensibly a colonial success story and evidence that in just two decades under U.S. stewardship a “backwards” people could be redeemed. This narrative was rapidly destabilized when Kiram resurfaced three years later during a revolt on Jolo. In 1926, Kiram became the fourth wife of Datu Tahil, son of the famed Datu Jokanain and one the leading figures at the Battle of Bud Bagsak in 1913. After Bagsak, Tahil made peace with the government and for a time served as third member of the Sulu provincial board. However, after being outmaneuvered by a rival, he turned against state taxation policies and built a fortification at Patikul, east of Jolo town.99 On the orders of Sulu district governor Carl Moore, the Philippine Constabulary was sent to Patikul. Knowing that Tarhata Kiram was inside with her husband, the Constabulary forces did not approach the cotta. There was a tense standoff lasting several days, which only ended once word filtered back that Kiram had escaped Patikul via a tunnel. On January 27, 1927, thirty-five of Tahil’s followers died in a brief but intense firefight with the Constabulary. Tahil was taken into custody soon thereafter, while Tarhata Kiram was arrested and charged with sedition on February 4.100 Reaction in the United States to the princess’s perceived betrayal was swift and condemnatory. The Atlanta Constitution declared that she had backslid into savagery “despite the best efforts of the University of Illinois and other agencies of American culture to send her back to the Philippines thoroughly and incurably Americanized,” suggesting that any accumulated civilizational cachet had been replaced by defeminized barbarism. The press described the reversion in physical terms, with clothing as an anchor point. According to the Los Angeles Times’ Elizabeth Walker, who visited Kiram while she was under house arrest, the princess had replaced her “fashionable foreign clothes” with a traditional sarong. She filed her teeth and grew her hair out, leading Walker to describe her as “a slatternly creature in native garb” who “scandalized [her] sophisticated American neighbors.”101 Subsequent reports echoed the notion that Tarhata had turned her back upon “all the advantages given her,” giving shape to a cautionary tale about the limits of assimilation.102 The lone voice of protest against Kiram’s treatment in the press was a letter to the Chicago Daily Tribune from Margaret C. Stoll, a friend from the University of Illinois. Although supportive, Stoll’s message was hardly without its own racial undercurrents. “[Kiram] is a cultured, refined, and keen witted woman, who, against the odds of century-old oriental customs, is struggling to maintain her thoroughly occidental ideas,” she wrote, still framing the issue as a question of mimicry.103 Tarhata Kiram responded to condemnations of her character with a thoughtful and measured editorial. Published in the Los Angeles Times, the piece explained the revolt as a byproduct of unjust power dynamics in Sulu. Governor Carl Moore, Kiram wrote, was not only the chief executive in the region, but also acted as superintendent of schools and justice of the peace, thereby usurping “the prerogatives of the other officials, who are being converted into mere pawns on the chessboard.” Kiram characterized her defiance to this as a direct result of her American education, where she was taught “that the true essence of free government is that all powers should not be vested in one man.” She mused that it was “the experience of all colonial governments that the most troublesome elements in a subjugated country belong to the educated class, particularly those educated abroad. It is axiomatic that you cannot make a slave of a man after educating him.”104 This sanguine response suggests Tarhata Kiram possessed a deeper comprehension of the paradoxes inherent in the relationships between colonial officials, Western education, and colonized elites than her detractors in the U.S. press. So eager to produce a model colonial subject, supporters of overseas rule were swift to abandon the notion as an impossibility when met with resistance. In an interview after her arrest, Kiram showed a continued interest in the United States, inquiring about the famous Leopold and Loeb murder case and how certain friends in Illinois were faring. She explained her return to traditional Tausūg garb as a pragmatic means of becoming “a power” among her people and helping to rescue them from impending Christian domination of their lands.105 Imperial Communities The Muslims displayed in St. Louis vanished from the historical record after departing the fair. Mainly members of the peasantry, we can surmise that they returned to homes along the Mindanao littoral and the small villages dotting Lake Lanao, where they spent their lives under U.S. or Christian Filipino rule. Their documentary remains are spectral and fragmentary, comprising not much more than fleeting mentions in the U.S. press and the odd souvenir photograph from the exposition.106 With the exception of Datu Facundo, the fair participants were not from the elite families whose children were targeted for acculturation. Perhaps unsurprisingly, it is easier to track the Kirams, neither of whom ever returned to the United States. The sultan died in 1936, a long-serving but increasingly irrelevant figure in a sultanate whose real power vanished under U.S. sovereignty. The succession struggle that took place after his death provided an opportunity for the commonwealth government of the Philippines—a transitional entity meant to usher forth decolonization—to withdraw recognition from the sultanate entirely, completing a process that began decades earlier with the abrogation of the Bates Treaty.107 The short-lived rebellion of 1927 sidelined Princess Tarhata Kiram only briefly, and by the early 1930s she had reappeared in the U.S. and Filipino press agitating for the return of certain islands and territories in British North Borneo to the Sultanate of Sulu. Later in the decade she became a special agent for the Bureau of Non-Christian Tribes, leading raids against outlaws and completing her return to the colonial fold.108 She remained active in public life until her death in 1979, in many ways typifying the younger generation of Islamic elites in the U.S. period who gradually came to imagine themselves as “Muslim Filipinos.” Understanding the reality of a hegemonic Christian North in the wake of independence, these men and women attempted to stake positions for their peoples as minority groups within a multiethnic nation-state. In her later years, Tarhata Kiram acted as a consultant on Islamic affairs to the Philippine government, married two more times, and even composed some music. Five years after her death she was officially commemorated when her portrait appeared on a three-peso stamp.109 Studying portrayals of Muslims from the Southern Philippines as they travelled through the United States enriches our understanding of a triangular series of colonial relationships (Moro, American, Filipino) generally studied only through the lens of Philippine national identity, U.S. colonial governance, or the character of military rule in Mindanao and Sulu. Examining these experiences demonstrates their shifting utility to proponents of empire. The Samal and Maranao populations became shorthand for a type of civilizational beneficence developed between the fairgrounds of Europe and the conquests of the American West—the racially suspect but martially proud savage people guided through firm-but-fair means towards a brighter future. The proclamations of fair organizers and reactions of spectators suggest a contradictory fascination with transforming the Moros, a mournful desire to maintain them in their “natural” state (on evidence during the Washington visit), and skepticism about their capacity for change. Sultan Jamalul Kiram II’s visit to the United States shared some of these resonances, but contained intimations of the “man on the make”: an oriental mimic seeking to emulate and potentially reproduce occidental cultural tropes. A decade hence, his niece Tarhata Kiram’s enthusiastic embrace of U.S. collegiate life became the best evidence that tutelage could help a Muslim subject reach the antechamber of civilization. Her rejection of the colonial order after returning to Jolo closed the representational loop, with U.S. newspapers describing Kiram in the same terms they had the “fierce Mohammedans” of the Philippine Reservation. How these Muslim groups would continue to progress or regress under U.S. guidance was never settled and they disappeared from public view after the Second World War. When examined in conventional military histories, the Moros appear as a fearsome adversary vanquished by U.S. military grit rather than a subject population groomed for some form of membership in the Greater United States.110 The foregoing analysis of U.S.-Moro relations suggests colonial identity formation and contestation was not merely a product of the imperial frontier, but also occurred in metropolitan settings. Studying these encounters and integrating them into wider histories of U.S. overseas expansion challenges the tendency to describe empire as something that happened elsewhere, and, more specifically, sheds new light on how Muslims from the Southern Philippines saw themselves in relation to U.S. colonialism and how they were imagined by Americans. Examining Moro experiences helps explain the tensions and contradictions of life within the permeable borders of a nascent imperial community. Like many other groups past and present—Filipinos, Haitians, Puerto Ricans, Native Americans, Pacific Islanders, deterritorialized laborers, detainees—the peoples of the Islamic Philippines existed in a liminal space skirting the boundaries of subjecthood and citizenship. These stories suggest that in the early twentieth century the United States struggled with many of the same issues faced by other colonial powers, feeling the push and pull of integrationist and rejectionist desires. If the United States never developed as extensive or long-lived an imperial community as the British or French, it still took steps to simultaneously bind and distance its subjects through familiar racialized metrics. In participating in this transcolonial economy of ideas, Americans drew from common indices of civility: extravagant anthropological displays, fixations on how subject populations dressed, convictions about the benefits of an occidental education, discussions about the limits of benevolent assimilation, and so forth.111 Far from being any sort of secret, the United States, intent on reforming its foreign subjects, publicly discussed and debated the nebulous space that these Muslims occupied. Footnotes 1 “That Wild Little Sulu Flapper We Couldn’t Tame,” Atlanta Constitution, March 6, 1927, F6. 2 The term “Moro” has a tumultuous history, and some still consider it an unpleasant colonial byproduct. In recent decades, Islamic political groups and social organizations in the Philippines have reappropriated the word and used it to denote the entire body of Muslims in the country. I use it in this same spirit of inclusiveness and where appropriate acknowledge the important ethnic subdivisions found among the Muslims of the Southern Philippines. 3 Patricio N. Abinales and Donna J. Amoroso, State and Society in the Philippines (New York, 2005), 69–70; Najeeb M. Saleeby, The History of Sulu (Manila, PI), 240–44; Agustin Santayana, La Isla de Mindanao su Historia y su Estado Presente (Madrid, ES,1862); Francisco Combés, Historia de Mindanao y Jolo (Madrid, ES, 1897). 4 Moshe Yegar, Between Integration and Secession: The Muslim Communities of the Southern Philippines, Southern Thailand, and Western Burma/Myanmar (New York, 2002), 213–40; David Prescott Barrows, A Decade of American Government in the Philippines, 1903–1913 (New York, 1914), 54–59; Joshua Gedacht, “‘Mohammedan Religion Made It Necessary to Fire’: Massacres on the American Imperial Frontier from South Dakota to the Southern Philippines,” in Colonial Crucible: Empire in the Making of the Modern American State, ed. Alfred W. McCoy et al. (Madison, WI, 2009), 397–409. 5 Peter G. Gowing, Mandate in Moroland: The American Government of Muslim Filipinos, 1899–1920 (Quezon City, PI, 1983), 260–69; Francis Burton Harrison, The Corner-Stone of Philippine Independence: A Narrative of Seven Years (New York, 1922), 75–91. 6 Samuel K. Tan, “Understanding Philippine Culture Through the Filipino Muslims and Other National Minorities,” in Selected Essays on the Filipino Muslims (Marawi City, PI, 1982), 154; Samuel K. Tan, Decolonization and Filipino Muslim Identity (Quezon City, PI, 1989); Samuel K. Tan, The Critical Decade, 1921–1930 (Quezon City, PI, 1993); Samuel K. Tan, The Muslim South and Beyond (Quezon, PI, 2010). 7 Patricio N. Abinales, Orthodoxy and History in the Muslim-Mindanao Narrative (Quezon City, PI, 2010), 3; Patricio N. Abinales, Making Mindanao: Cotabato and Lanao in the Formation of the Philippine Nation-State (Quezon City, PI, 2000); Patricio N. Abinales, “American Military Presence in the Southern Philippines: A Comparative Overview,” East West Center Working Papers, Politics and Security Series 7 (2004): 1–20. 8 Thomas M. McKenna, Muslim Rulers and Rebels: Everyday Politics and Armed Separatism in the Southern Philippines (Berkeley, CA, 1998); Cesar Adib Majul, Muslims in the Philippines (Quezon City, PI, 1973); Cesar Adib Majul, “Islam and Philippine Society: The Writings of Cesar Adib Majul,” Asian Studies: Retrospective Issue 1 46, no. 1/2 (2010). 9 Gowing, Mandate in Moroland; Peter G. Gowing, “Moros and Indians: Commonalities of Purpose, Policy and Practice in American Government of Two Hostile Subject Peoples,” Philippine Quarterly of Culture & Society 8, no. 2/3 (1980): 125–49; Peter G. Gowing, “Muslim-American Relations in the Philippines, 1899–1920,” in The Muslim Filipinos: Their History, Society and Contemporary Problems, ed. Peter G. Gowing and Robert D. McAmis (Manila, PI, 1976), 372–82; Peter G. Gowing, Muslim Filipinos: Heritage and Horizon (Quezon City, PI, 1979). 10 Michael C. Hawkins, Making Moros: Imperial Historicism and American Military Rule in the Philippines’ Muslim South (Dekalb, Il, 2013); Michael C. Hawkins, “Managing a Massacre: Savagery, Civility, and Gender in Moro Province in the Wake of Bud Dajo,” Philippine Studies 59, no. 1 (2011): 83–105; Michael C. Hawkins, “Masculinity Reborn: Chivalry, Misogyny, Potency and Violence in the Philippines’ Muslim South, 1899–1913,” Journal of Southeast Asian Studies 44, no. 2 (2013): 250–65; Karine V. Walther, Sacred Interests: The United States and the Islamic World, 1821–1921 (Chapel Hill, NC, 2015). 11 Bernard S. Cohn, Colonialism and its Forms of Knowledge: The British in India (Princeton, NJ, 1996), 10. 12 Tony Bennett, Pasts Beyond Memory: Evolution, Museums, Colonialism (London, UK, 2004), 19. 13 Homi K. Bhabha, The Location of Culture (London, UK, 1994), 86. 14 Edward W. Said, Culture and Imperialism (New York, 1992), 264. 15 Alfred W. McCoy, Francisco A. Scarano, and Courtney Johnson, “On the Tropic of Cancer: Transitions and Transformations in the U.S. Imperial State,” in Colonial Crucible: Empire in the Making of the Modern American State, ed. Alfred W. McCoy and Francisco A. Scarano (Madison, WI, 2009), 24–33. 16 Anne McClintock, Imperial Leather: Race, Gender, and Sexuality in the Colonial Contest (London, UK, 1995), 58. 17 Bennett, Pasts Beyond Memory, 14. 18 Bernard McGrane, Beyond Anthropology: Society and the Other (New York, 1989), 111. 19 On U.S. fairs, see James Gilbert, Whose Fair? Experience, Memory, and the History of the Great St. Louis Exposition (Chicago, IL, 2009); Paul Kramer, “Making Concessions: Race and Empire Revisited at the Philippine Exposition, St. Louis, 1901–1905,” Radical History Review 73 (1999): 74–114; Bonnie M. Miller, “The Incoherencies of Empire: The ‘Imperial’ Image of the Indian at the Omaha World’s Fairs of 1898–1899,” American Studies 49, no. 3/4 (2008): 39–62; Robert Rydell, All the World’s A Fair: Visions of Empire at American International Expositions, 1876–1916 (Chicago, IL, 1984); Robert Rydell et al., Fair America: World’s Fairs in the United States (Washington, DC, 2000). The literature on European expositions and the visual culture of colonialism is vast. Some useful works include Paul Greenhalgh, Ephemeral Vista: The Expositions Universalles, Great Exhibitions, and World’s Fairs (Manchester, UK, 1988); David Ciarlo, Advertising Empire: Race and Visual Culture in Imperial Germany (Cambridge, MA, 2011); Dana S. Hale, Races on Display: French Representations of Colonized Peoples 1886–1940 (Bloomington, IN, 2008); Anne Maxwell, Colonial Photography and Exhibitions: Representations of the ‘Native’ and the Making of European Identities (London, 1999); Sadiah Qureshi, Peoples on Parade: Exhibitions, Empire, and Anthropology in Nineteenth-Century Britain (Chicago, IL, 2011); Van Tran, “How ‘Natives’ Ate at Colonial Exhibitions in 1889, 1900 and 1931,” French Cultural Studies 26, no. 2 (2015): 163–75. 20 Mona Domosh, “A ‘Civilized’ Commerce: Gender, ‘Race,’ and Empire at the 1893 Chicago Exposition,” Cultural Geographies 9, no. 2 (2002): 189–97. 21 Sarah J. Moore, “Mapping Empire in Omaha and Buffalo: World’s Fairs and the Spanish-American War,” Bilingual Review 25, no. 1 (2000): 115. 22 Ibid., 121. 23 “Filipino Village,” Atlanta Constitution, January 20, 1901, B7; “The Pan-American Exposition: The Ethnological Building,” The Phrenological Journal and Science of Health (April 1901): 3–4. 24 Letter from C. H. Huttig to Charles Reeves, December 10, 1901, folder 12, box 2, Charles Monroe Reeves Papers, State Historical Society of Missouri, Columbia, Missouri (hereafter SHSM-C). 25 Ibid.; Memorandum, “States, Territories, and Possessions,” folder 12, box 2, Charles Monroe Reeves Papers, SHSM-C. 26 Report of the Philippine Exposition Board to the Louisiana Purchase Exposition (St. Louis, MO, 1904), 6; W. P. Wilson, “The Philippines at St. Louis,” The Booklovers Magazine 4, no. 1 (1904), 3–5. 27 Mark Soderstrom, “Family Trees and Timber Rights: Albert E. Jenks, Americanization, and the Rise of Anthropology at the University of Minnesota,” The Journal of the Gilded Age and Progressive Era 3, no. 2 (2004), 179–80. 28 “Dr. Gustavo Niederlein—Special Commissioner of Philippine Islands for the World’s Fair,” World’s Fair Bulletin 3, no. 12 (1902): 30; Circular Letter of Governor Taft and Information and Instructions for the Preparation of the Philippine Exhibit for the Louisiana Purchase Exposition to be Held at St. Louis, Mo., U.S.A., 1904 (Manila, PI, 1903), 11. 29 Maud Huntley Jenks, Death Stalks the Philippine Wilds: Letters of Maud Huntley Jenks (Minneapolis, MN, 1951), 171. 30 Guy T. Viskniskki, “The Filipino Conquest of America,” Toledo Times-Bee, July 17, 1904. Louisiana Purchase Exposition Scrapbook 196, Missouri History Museum Library and Research Center, St. Louis, Missouri (hereafter LPE Scrapbook #, MHM-LRC). 31 “Interesting Relics for World’s Fair,” Binghampton Leader-Chronicle, October 10, 1903. LPE Scrapbook 113, MHM-LRC. 32 The Philippine Reservation was the largest single exhibit at the exposition, costing over a million dollars (close to $30,000,000 by present valuation), with nearly one hundred buildings, 75,000 catalogued exhibits, and 1,100 people on display. Herbert S. Stone, “Philippine Exposition: World’s Fair, St. Louis, 1904,” SHSM-C. 33 Rydell, All the World’s A Fair, 157. 34 Report of the Philippine Exposition Board, 34; A listing of the names of Moro participants can be found in Nancy J. Parezo and Don D. Fowler, Anthropology Goes to the Fair: The 1904 Louisiana Purchase Exposition (Lincoln, NE, 2007), 415–16. 35 David R. Francis, The Universal Exposition of 1904, Vol. 1 (St. Louis, MO, 1913), 571; Report of the Philippine Exposition Board, 34–35. 36 “Free Pictorial Map of the Philippine Exposition,” folder 154, The Louisiana Purchase Exposition Collection, SHSM-C; Daily Official Program—World’s Fair, 25 April 1904 (St. Louis, MO, 1904). 37 Francis, Universal Exposition, 571; Wolcott Calkins, “Teaching the Brown Man,” Boston Evening Transcript, April 27, 1904; LPE Scrapbook 196, MHM-LRC. 38 Report of the Philippine Exposition Board, 571. 39 Martha L. Root, “In the Philippines and on the Pike,” Pittsburgh Dispatch, June 26, 1904; LPE Scrapbook 196, MHM-LRC. 40 William E. Curtis, “The Curtis Letter,” New York Globe, August 3, 1904; LPE Scrapbook 196, MHM-LRC. 41 “Savages at the Fair as Snobs,” Washington Post, September 10, 1904, 6. 42 “The Philippine Display,” World’s Fair Bulletin 3, no. 7 (1902): 21. 43 W. J. McGee, “Anthropology,” World’s Fair Bulletin 5, no. 4 (1904): 4. 44 Parezo and Fowler, Anthropology Goes to the Fair, 39. 45 W. J. McGee, “Strange Races of Men,” The World’s Work (August 1904): 5188. 46 “The President of the United States Visits the World’s Fair,” World’s Fair Bulletin 6, no. 2 (1904): 3. 47 Report of the Philippine Exposition Board, 42, 48; “No Shower Baths During Hot Days,” St. Louis Republic, July 29, 1904, 8. 48 William E. Curtis, “Huge Exhibit by Isles,” Chicago Record-Herald, October 22, 1904; LPE Scrapbook 196, MHM-LRC. 49 Kramer, “Making Concessions,” 78–79, 106–8. 50 Stone, “Philippine Exposition: World’s Fair, St. Louis, 1904,” SHSM-C. 51 Rydell, All the World’s A Fair, 174. 52 Bennett, Pasts Beyond Memory, 9. 53 Tasker Bliss, The Annual Report of the Governor of the Moro Province—For the Fiscal Year Ended June 30, 1907 (Manila, PI, 1907), 34; Paul Kramer, The Blood of Government: Race, Empire, the United States and the Philippines (Chapel Hill, NC, 2006), 340. 54 Mori Ram, “White But Not Quite: Normalizing Colonial Conquests through Spatial Mimicry,” Antipode 46, no. 3 (2014): 736. 55 Shompa Lahiri, “Performing Identity: Colonial Migrants, Passing and Mimicry Between the Wars,” Cultural Geographies 10, no. 4 (2003): 409; Ram, “White But Not Quite,” 736. 56 Frances Gouda, “Mimicry and Projection in the Colonial Encounter: The Dutch East Indies / Indonesia as Experimental Laboratory, 1900–1942,” Journal of Colonialism and Colonial History 1, no. 2 (2000). 57 Warwick Anderson, “Going through the Motions: American Public Health and Colonial ‘Mimicry,’” American Literary History 14, no. 4 (2002): 711–12. 58 Francis, Universal Exposition, 571; “Igorrotes to be Clad,” Washington Post, August 9, 1904, 2; “Igorottes on Way,” Washington Post, August 8, 1904, 1. 59 “Igorrotes to be Clad,” Washington Post, August 9, 1904, 2. 60 “Dattos See Capital,” Washington Post, August 10, 1904, 2. 61 Hawkins, Making Moros, 125. 62 “Dattos See Capital,” Washington Post, August 10, 1904, 2. 63 Ibid.; “Filipinos Return from Washington,” St. Louis Republic, August 12, 1904, 8. 64 “Dattos See Capital,” Washington Post, August 10, 1904, 2; Some Native American chiefs at St. Louis had already toured the White House. The use of pidgin language to depict “savages” was further popularized in film and television. See Jacquelyn Kilpatrick, Celluloid Indians: Native Americans and Film (Lincoln, NE, 1999). 65 “Dattos See Capital,” Washington Post, August 10, 1904, 2. 66 “At the White House,” Washington Evening Star, November 2, 1907, 1. 67 “Moro Datto Comes Here,” Washington Post, August 2, 1907, 2; “Too Much Matrimony,” Washington Post, October 13, 1907, 15. 68 Memo from Elwell Otis to John Bates, July 3, 1899, folder 1, box 2, John C. Bates Papers, United States Army Heritage and Education Center, Carlisle, Pennsylvania; George Ade, The Sultan of Sulu: An Original Satire in Two Acts (New York, 1903); Perry E. Gianakos, “George Ade’s Critique of Benevolent Assimilation,” Diplomatic History 7, no. 3 (1983): 223–25. 69 Letter from Sultan Jamalul Kiram to O. J. Sweet, September 16, 1901, Hugh Lenox Scott Papers, Manuscript Division, Library of Congress, Washington (hereafter LOC-MD). 70 Letter from J. Franklin Bell to Francis Burton Harrison, January, 1914, Burton Norvell Harrison Family Papers, LOC-MD. 71 “Sultan Sails Hither,” Los Angeles Times, July 24, 1910, 1. 72 “Sultan of Sulu is Here to See Taft,” Boston Daily Globe, September 24, 1910, 16. 73 “New York’s Marvels Awe Sultan of Sulu,” New York Times, September 25, 1910, 1. 74 Ibid.; “Hadji Takes Pickles with his Ice Cream,” Boston Daily Globe, September 26, 1910, 1. 75 “Chicago’s Pants Win Sulu Sultan,” Chicago Daily Tribune, October 1, 1910, 9. 76 Victoria L. Rovine, “Colonialism’s Clothing: Africa, France, and the Deployment of Fashion,” Design Issues 25, no. 3 (2009): 44. 77 “Chicago’s Pants Win Sulu Sultan,” Chicago Daily Tribune, October 1, 1910, 9. 78 Philippa Levine, “States of Undress: Nakedness and the Colonial Imagination,” Victorian Studies 50, no. 2 (2008): 212–13. 79 “Sultan Has to Wait,” Washington Post, September 27, 1910, 2. 80 “Whole World One Big School to Him Says Sulu Sultan,” Christian Science Monitor, October 6, 1910, 7. 81 “The Sultan’s Manners,” Washington Post, September 28, 1910, 6. 82 “What the Sultan is Taking to Sulu,” Christian Science Monitor, October 22, 1910, 30; “The Lure of America for the Far East is Growing,” New York Times, October 2, 1910, SM13. 83 John J. Pershing, The Annual Report of the Governor of the Moro Province, for the Fiscal Year Ended June 30, 1913 (Zamboanga, PI, 1913), 70–71. 84 Florence Kimball Russel, A Woman’s Journey Through the Philippines (Boston, MA, 1907), 97–98; Carl N. Taylor, “Powder Keg in Mindanao,” Today Magazine, March 7, 1936, 3–4; Michael C. Hawkins, “Managing a Massacre: Savagery, Civility, and Gender in Moro Province in the Wake of Bud Dajo,” Philippine Studies 59, no. 1 (2011): 83–105. 85 Vivienne SM. Angeles, “Philippine Muslim Women: Tradition and Change,” in Islam, Gender, and Social Change, ed. Yvonne Yazbeck Hadda and John L. Esposito (Oxford, UK, 1998), 212–13. 86 Pershing, Annual Report 1913, 29–30. 87 Jeffrey Ayala Milligan, Islamic Identity, Postcoloniality, and Educational Policy: Schooling and Ethno- Religious Conflict in the Southern Philippines (New York, 2005), 43. 88 Frank W. Carpenter, Report of the Governor of the Department Mindanao and Sulu (Philippine Islands) 1914 (Washington, DC, 1916), 351. 89 Ibid. 90 Angeles, “Philippine Muslim Women,” 213. 91 “Development Program: Bureau of Non-Christian Tribes Scholarships,” 1931, folder 2, box 30, Joseph Ralston Hayden Papers, Bentley Historical Library, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, Michigan (hereafter BHL). 92 A. J. Stockwell, “Leaders, Dissidents and the Disappointed: Colonial Students in Britain as Empire Ended,” The Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History 36, no. 3 (2008): 487–507; Kelly Duke Bryant, “Social Networks and Empire: Senegalese Students in France in the Late Nineteenth Century,” French Colonial History 15, no. 1 (2014): 39–66. 93 The Chicago Daily Tribune depicted the two as being “stunned” by the “enchanted world” of Chicago, but also noted they felt “more at home” when taken to the city's busy markets, which reminded Kiram of “the cock fights at home.” “Glories of Loop Amaze 2 Little Filipino Maids,” Chicago Daily Tribune, August 28, 1919, 5; “They Find Chicago a Wonder City,” Chicago Daily Tribune, August 28, 1919, 5. 94 “Princess of Sulu Visits Washington on Way to Illinois College Where She Hopes to Learn About America,” Washington Herald, September 8, 1920, 6. 95 “Rise of Princess Recalls Coed Days,” Boston Daily Globe, March 31, 1932, 10. 96 Joshua Gedacht, “Holy War, Progress, and ‘Modern Mohammedans’ in Colonial Southeast Asia,” The Muslim World 105, no. 4 (2015): 450. 97 “That Wild Little Sulu Flapper We Couldn’t Tame,” Atlanta Constitution, March 6, 1927. 98 Henry O. Dwight, “Our Mohammedan Wards,” The Forum, March 1900, 27–28. 99 Sixto Y. Orosa, The Sulu Archipelago and its People (Yonkers, NY, 1931), 54; Constabulary Report, March 19, 1927, folder 27, box 28, Joseph Ralston Hayden Papers, BHL. 100 “Princess Missing After Moro Battle,” Washington Post, February 3, 1927, 3; “Sultana of Sulu, Once U.I. Co-Ed, Stalks Bandits,” Chicago Daily Tribune, February 6, 1938, 15. 101 Elizabeth Walker, “Moro Princess Explains Her Reversion to Type,” Los Angeles Times, February 6, 1927, 12; Elizabeth Walker, “Co-Ed From Chicago Holds Sulu Island in Defiance of America,” Boston Daily Globe, February 6, 1927, C1. 102 L. B. Johnson, “Co-Ed Reveals How Royal Dreams Faded,” Chicago Daily Tribune, February 9, 1927, 1; “Moro Princess Outcast,” Los Angeles Times, February 7, 1927, 4. 103 Margaret C. Stoll, “Voice of the People: A Portrait of Princess Tarhata,” Chicago Daily Tribune, February 18, 1927, 8. 104 “Princess Blames Moore,” Los Angeles Times, February 18, 1927, 7. 105 Elizabeth Walker, “Moro Princess Explains Her Reversion to Type,” Los Angeles Times, February 6, 1927. Apart from the Kirams, other elite Muslims also filtered into the United States. Abdullah, son of Maguindanao ruler Datu Piang, visited San Francisco in 1912, ostensibly “hunting” for an American bride. Gulamu Rasul, a member of Kiram’s retinue in 1910, returned to U.S. shores in 1919 to study at George Washington University. He eventually married an American woman named Alma Stewart. See Richard Barry, “Datto Abdulah Piang—Wife Hunting in America,” Evening Standard, March 6, 1912, 12; “Capital Girl Stirs Ire of Moro Wife,” Washington Post, 30 March, 1922, 2. 106 The afterlives of the fair are explored in Parezo and Fowler, Anthropology Goes to the Fair, 358–90. 107 Yegar, Between Integration and Secession, 231. 108 “Sulu Princess Claims Islands in South Seas; Calls on British to Give Them to Philippines,” New York Times, March 30, 1930, 1; Letter from Akuk Sangkula to Frank Murphy, January 6, 1934, folder 34, box 29, Joseph Ralston Hayden Papers, BHL; “Sulu Princess Offers to Visit Outlaws, Try to End Killings,” Boston Daily Globe, March 13, 1941, 21; “Sulu Princess Gets Posts,” New York Times, December 6, 1947, 6. 109 National Historical Institute, Historical Markers: Regions V-X11 (Manila, PI, 1994), 82. 110 Military-centered accounts include James Arnold, The Moro War: How American Battled a Muslim Insurgency in the Philippine Jungle (New York, 2011); Andrew Bacevich, “Disagreeable Work: Pacifying the Moros, 1903–1906,” Military Review 62, no. 6 (1982): 49–61; Charles Byler, “Pacifying the Moros: American Military Government in the Southern Philippines, 1899–1913,” Military Review 85, no. 3 (2005): 41–45; George William Jornacion, “The Time of Eagles: United States Army Officers and the Pacification of the Philippine Moros, 1899–1913” (PhD diss., University of Maine, 1973). The notion of the “Greater United States” is explored at length in Daniel Immerwahr, “The Greater United States: Territory and Empire in U.S. History,” Diplomatic History 40, no. 3 (2016): 373–91. 111 Literature on the question of imperial citizenship in the British Empire is well developed. See Sukanya Banerjee, Becoming Imperial Citizens: Indians in the Late-Victorian Empire (Durham, NC, 2010), 1–35; Anthony Pagden, “Fellow Citizens and Imperial Subjects: Conquest and Sovereignty in Europe’s Overseas Empires,” History and Theory 44, no. 4 (2005): 28–46; Siew-Min Sai, “Educating Multicultural Citizens: Colonial Nationalism, Imperial Citizenship and Education in Late Colonial Singapore,” Journal of Southeast Asian Studies 44, no. 1 (2013): 49–73. Recent histories of Asian migration to the United States are beginning to probe the contours of colonial and national citizenship. See Rick Baldoz, The Third Asiatic Invasion: Migration and Empire in Filipino America, 1898–1946 (New York, 2011); Rick Baldoz and César Ayala, “The Bordering of America: Colonialism and Citizenship in the Philippines and Puerto Rico,” Centro Journal 25, no. 1 (2013): 76–105; Paul A. Kramer, “Imperial Openings: Civilization, Exemption, and the Geopolitics of Mobility in the History of Chinese Exclusion, 1868–1910,” The Journal of the Gilded Age and Progressive Era 14, no. 3 (2015): 317–47. © The Author 2017. Published by Oxford University Press on behalf of the Society for Historians of American Foreign Relations. All rights reserved. For permissions, please e-mail: journals.permissions@oup.com.

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