Editor’s Introduction

The United States is often described as a “melting pot” because of its racial, ethnic, linguistic, and religious diversity. This diversity stems from the many different immigrant groups who make up the US population. Rather than a melting pot, scholarly work would suggest this is a mosaic where one must consider the similarities and differences between different ethnic and religious groups. As a pluralistic society and a participatory democracy, the political incorporation and representation of minority groups are crucial to the health of American democracy. That said, minority inclusion and representation are not a given. This article offers an overview of the scholarship on ethnic, linguistic, and religious minority participation and representation in the United States. A large body of work seeks to explain why ethnic minorities are less politically active than white Americans. Socioeconomic factors, politicized group identities, ethnic organizations, and mobilization efforts shape ethnic minority participation. Importantly, these studies show that these models are useful in explaining the behavior of some groups but not others. This is largely due to the diversity within the Latino and Asian American communities, which are composed of native-born and immigrant individuals as well as individuals from many national origins, making it difficult to use one-size-fits-all models. Another significant line of research centers around the causes and consequences of ethnic minority candidates and elected officials. These works show there is a demand from ethnic minorities for co-ethnic representatives. On the supply side, the size of the ethnic group and support from political parties are key determinants of having co-ethnic candidates on the ballot. Research on the consequences of having minority representatives suggests that these representatives provide a unique kind of representation. Related to the incorporation of ethnic minorities is the inclusion of linguistic minorities in the electoral process. While a majority of ethnic minorities are fluent in English, minority language media, campaign appeals, and language assistance at the ballot box have a positive impact on the incorporation of those who are not English-dominant. However, the level of acculturation and attachment to an ethnic identity of the individual renders minority language appeals ineffective. The next section discusses the mobilization and representation of religious minorities such as Muslim Americans and Mormons and also addresses how negative perceptions of religious minorities hinder their ability to gain representation through electoral politics. Lastly, the final portion of this article discusses the mobilization and representation of religious minorities such as Muslim Americans and Mormons and also addresses how negative perceptions of religious minorities hinder their ability to gain representation through electoral politics. The article concludes with future directions in the study of political participation and representation among minoritized communities.

IntroductionBrothers and Sisters in Arms Noah Riseman (bio) Around the world, the centenary of the First World War has accelerated what Jay Winter refers to as the memory boom of the twentieth century.1 Nations such as Australia, Canada, and New Zealand have invested significant taxpayer dollars into commemorations of the war, continuing processes of (falsely) positioning wartime service as central to each nation’s identity and development.2 In other nations, such as the United States, it is the Second World War that has led to similar mythologies about the goodness of the nation’s character and citizenry through ideas of “the Good War” and “the Greatest Generation.”3 Notwithstanding the criticisms of historians, war and conflict continue to form a central place within national collective memories. Being included within that memory is akin to being recognized as a member of the nation-state, with particular entitlements to be heard on matters of national or political importance. As military sociologists such as Morris Janowitz argue, minorities have often viewed military service as an opportunity to demonstrate acts of citizenship and, through such acts, to point to their military service in fights for civil and political rights.4 Scholars such as Warren Young and Ronald Krebs have debated the extent to which racial minorities may effectively leverage their position as service personnel or veterans to secure civil rights. Indeed, as both Young and Krebs argue, usually veteran or service member status alone is not enough to secure social change unless there are other catalysts within civil society that [End Page 5] make it in the state’s best interest to award civil rights to minority veterans (or, more widely, entire minority groups).5 Even so, racial minorities, including Indigenous peoples, have for their own reasons participated in the militaries of former or current colonial powers. I have written elsewhere about the rise of Indigenous military histories across the major Anglo settler societies of the United States, Australia, New Zealand, Canada, and South Africa. The emergence of such histories, especially since the 1990s, has aligned with national reconciliation agendas, as well as efforts among Indigenous communities to commemorate the contributions of their forebears to their country’s defense.6 This project of historicizing Indigenous military service continues around the world, exposing the complex histories of Indigenous peoples who are constantly negotiating their statuses and military service, as well as their own traditions. More recent histories have been especially interested in the intersections between military service and themes such as colonialism, gender, race relations, and martial race theory.7 This special issue represents an extension of this new historiography, drawing scholars on Indigenous military participation from the nineteenth century until the present in the United States, Australia, New Zealand, Canada, and South Africa. These articles derive from a conference hosted at Australian Catholic University in 2015 entitled “Brothers and Sisters in Arms: Historicising Indigenous Military Service,” and they represent some of the newest directions in this growing field. Dr. Teresia Teaiwa of Victoria University of Wellington began the conference with a captivating keynote address about the historical and continuing relationship between colonialism and militarism in the Pacific, with a particular focus on Fiji. Her sophisticated arguments drew together postcolonial theory, Pacific research methodologies, and gender studies. Teresia declined the invitation to contribute an article to this collection because she needed to focus on finishing a book about Fijian women and military service. It was with great sadness that I heard Teresia that passed away in March 2017 after a brief battle with cancer. Teresia’s work, and her unique approach as an oral historian using innovative and creative techniques to give voice to Pacific Islander women especially, inspired me as a historian. On behalf of all the contributors to this issue, I extend our deepest condolences to Teresia’s family and dedicate this special issue to her memory. The first article, by Mark van de Logt, returns to the American frontier to examine the role of Sahnish scouts in the wars on the Great Plains from 1865 to 1881. Van de Logt describes the relationships between the Sahnish and their white commanders, as well as their complex motivations to work for...

Manifest Wendel A. White (bio) Manifest is an ongoing project, a portfolio of nearly one hundred photographs of African American material culture held in public and private collections throughout the United States. These repositories have accumulated diaries, receipts for the purchase of humans, hair, a drum, a door, photographs, figurines, and other artifacts—some with great historical significance, some the commonplace, quotidian material of black life. This project is concerned with the physical remnants of the American concept and representation of race. The histories of slavery, abolition, the U.S. Civil War, segregation, oppression, accomplishment, and agency are among the narratives that emerge in these photographs. I am increasingly interested in the residual power of the past to inhabit material remains. The ability of objects to transcend lives, centuries, and millennia suggests a remarkable mechanism for folding time, bringing the past and the present into a shared space that is uniquely suited to artistic exploration. While the artifacts are remarkable as visual evidence of lives and events, I also intend the viewer to consider this informal reliquary as a survey of the impulse and motivation to preserve history and memory. Various projects have occupied my attention during the past two decades; in retrospect, each has been part of a singular effort to seek out the ghosts and resonant memories of the material world. I am drawn to the stories "dwelling within" a spoon, a cowbell, a book, a postcard, or a partially burned document. The photographs are made with a 4 × 5 view camera, using film or digital capture. The prints are pigment-based inkjet. [End Page 14] Click for larger view View full resolution Lunch Box, Larkin Franklin Sr., Eatonville Historic Preservation, Eatonville, Florida, 2012. [End Page 15] Click for larger view View full resolution Slave Bill of Sale, Division of Rare and Manuscript Collections, Cornell University Library, Ithaca, New York, 2009. [End Page 16] Click for larger view View full resolution Door Knob, Maye St. Julien, Eatonville Historic Preservation, Eatonville, Florida, 2012. [End Page 17] Click for larger view View full resolution Spoon, Harriet Tubman House, Auburn, New York, 2009. [End Page 18] Click for larger view View full resolution Iron, Great Plain Black History Museum, Omaha, Nebraska, 2011. [End Page 19] Click for larger view View full resolution Tintype, Fenton History Center, Jamestown, New York, 2009. [End Page 20] Click for larger view View full resolution Zora Neale Hurston Sketch Book, Smathers Library Special Collections, University of Florida, Gainesville, Florida, 2012. [End Page 21] Click for larger view View full resolution James Baldwin Inkwell, National Museum of African American History and Culture, Washington, D.C., 2016. [End Page 22] Click for larger view View full resolution FBI Files on Malcolm X, Nebraska State Historical Society, Lincoln, Nebraska, 2011. [End Page 23] Click for larger view View full resolution Poster of Angela Davis, National Museum of African American History and Culture, Washington, D.C., 2016. [End Page 24] Click for larger view View full resolution Drum, Dan Desdunes Band, Great Plains Black History Museum, Omaha, Nebraska, 2011. [End Page 25] Click for larger view View full resolution Cab Calloway Home Movies: Haiti, National Museum of African American History and Culture, Washington, D.C., 2016. [End Page 26] Click for larger view View full resolution Radio Raheem's boombox from the movie Do the Right Thing, National Museum of African American History and Culture, Washington, D.C., 2016. [End Page 27] Click for larger view View full resolution New Orleans Door, Hurricane Katrina, National Museum of African American History and Culture, Washington, D.C., 2016. [End Page 28] Click for larger view View full resolution Quilt (W. Black), Great Plains Black History Museum, Omaha, Nebraska, 2011. [End Page 29] Wendel A. White Wendel A. White was born in Newark, New Jersey and grew up in New York, Pennsylvania, and New Jersey. He earned a BFA in photography from the School of Visual Arts in New York and an MFA in photography from the University of Texas at Austin. His work has received various awards, including fellowships and grants from the John Simon Guggenheim Foundation, the New Jersey State Council for the Arts, the Graham Foundation for Advanced Studies in...

LongingPersonal Effects from the Border Susan Harbage Page (bio) and Bernard L. Herman (bio) Susan Harbage Page's portfolio, Longing: Personal Effects from the Border, is an intervention—at once aesthetic, archaeological, and archival—into the spaces and objects associated with the great migration north across the Rio Grande and into the United States. Page's images are visual conversations about the material culture of the immigrant experience and compel us to consider how we see ourselves through seeing others. Images of a deflated inner tube dropped by the road, a wallet mired, its contents spilling into the mud, footsteps revealed in soft earth, and river-wet clothes wrung, wadded, and cast aside document ordinary things possessed with extraordinary associations of flight, hope, panic, determination, and fear. In collecting possessions discarded at the border and photographing them in her studio, Page transforms them, re-contextualizing found objects through a cool and loving curatorial eye. The artist becomes archivist. With the debris-field chaos of riverbank and border fence erased, inner tube, wallet, and shirt take on different associations drawn from the calm and analytical confines of the studio. These images evoke the strange and subdued violence of the museum, the morgue, the catalog. Side by side (imagine a diptych), the juxtaposition of images from field and studio reveal the spaces between the desperation of flight and the stillness of the archive—there, here, lost, found. Longing speaks about power through the operations of borders, places where identities are furtive, hidden, gleaned only via jettisoned artifacts, first discarded and depersonalized, then retrieved and remembered. The visual space Page creates between the inner tube encountered in brush and sunlight and subsequently pedestaled on a shadow-edged blue background, delicately and revealingly lit by studio lamps, forces us to question how we must position ourselves to pursue the always political work of seeing. Page locates that political work in what she describes as "contexts for viewing." It is not just what we see that matters, but how our privileged vantage points contextualize her images and their content. In that gesture Susan Harbage Page makes us aware of how the frailties and vanities of our own habits of seeing reinforce unspoken ideologies of power. [End Page 31] If I could do it, I'd do no writing at all here. It would be photographs; the rest would be fragments of cloth, bits of cotton, lumps of earth, records of speech, pieces of wood and iron. —James Agee, Let Us Now Praise Famous Men Click for larger view View full resolution [End Page 32] Click for larger view View full resolution [End Page 33] Click for larger view View full resolution [End Page 34] Click for larger view View full resolution Click for larger view View full resolution [End Page 35] Click for larger view View full resolution [End Page 36] Click for larger view View full resolution [End Page 37] Click for larger view View full resolution [End Page 38] Click for larger view View full resolution [End Page 39] Click for larger view View full resolution [End Page 40] Click for larger view View full resolution [End Page 41] Click for larger view View full resolution Click for larger view View full resolution [End Page 42] Click for larger view View full resolution Click for larger view View full resolution [End Page 43] Click for larger view View full resolution [End Page 44] Click for larger view View full resolution [End Page 45] Susan Harbage Page Susan Harbage Page teaches studio art and women's studies at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. Her art addresses such concerns as the performance of race and gender, identity politics, and immigration. Amongst Page's numerous awards are fellowships from the North Carolina Arts Council, the Camargo Foundation, and the Fulbright Program. Bernard L. Herman Bernard L. Herman is the George B. Tindall Professor of American Studies at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. His books include Town House: Architecture and Material Life in the Early American City, 1780–1830 (2005) and The Stolen House (1992). He has published essays, lectured, and offered courses on visual and material culture, architectural history...

Reviewed by: Beneath the Backbone of the World: Blackfoot People and the North American Borderlands, 1720–1877 by Ryan Hall Ted Binnema (bio) Keywords Native Americans, Blackfoot, Northern borderlands, Indigenous peoples Beneath the Backbone of the World: Blackfoot People and the North American Borderlands, 1720–1877. By Ryan Hall. (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2020. Pp. 260. Cloth $90.00.) Two traditions, ethnohistory and the New Indian History, have dominated Indigenous historiography in the United States since World War II. Ethnohistory has pre-war roots but was heavily influenced by the adjudications of the Indian Claims Commission, which demanded anthropological and historical evidence. Ethnohistorians assume that the histories of Indigenous societies are significant and interesting for their own sake. The many publications of John C. Ewers on the history of the Blackfoot peoples are exemplars of ethnohistory. The New Indian History emerged during the 1960s together with other “new” histories geared toward the marginalized (women, ethnic and racial minorities, working classes, and regional populations, for example) with the aim of integrating the histories of previously neglected groups into mainstream historiography. Ryan Hall’s history of the Blackfoot is in this second tradition. Hall asserts that Blackfoot history is [End Page 689] “essential to understanding the history of the U.S. and Canadian West” (5). Hall likewise argues that Blackfoot history “forces us to expand our framework for ‘early’ North America to include regions that have long been considered remote or peripheral” (5). Of course, North American Indians did not always fit the social historian’s “bottom-up” approach. In some contexts, they were the dominant peoples. That was the case for the Blackfoot during most of the period discussed in Hall’s history. So, Hall explicitly places his history in a growing body of recent work that portrays western Indian communities such as the Comanche, Lakota, and others as powerful “empires” or nations. Most of those studies focus on the United States–Spanish/Mexican borderlands, but Hall turns his attention to the northern borderlands. His central argument is that “from the late eighteenth through the mid-nineteenth century, the Blackfoot were among the most powerful, prosperous, and geographically expansive polities in all of North America. The Blackfoot accomplished this in large part by recognizing and mastering the transnational dimensions of their homeland” (4–5). Unfortunately, in his attempt to demonstrate the significance of Blackfoot history in the history of the United States and Canada, Hall obscures and ignores what makes the history of the Blackfoot so fascinating and significant in its own right. The most important weakness of this book is that it depicts the Blackfoot as an almost state-like nation, and its leaders as powerful leaders. For example, it opens by describing Bull Back Fat as “one of the most powerful chiefs in the three Blackfoot nations, which made him one of the most powerful Indigenous people of all of North America” (1). Abundant historical evidence, long acknowledged by anthropologists and historians, shows that the Blackfoot of the time comprised many autonomous bands with no central authority, and that its leaders wielded no coercive power even over their own bands. Because Hall assumes that the Blackfoot were always a nation with powerful leaders he fails to recognize evidence that the Blackfoot bands may have been experiencing dramatic internal political changes in the 1870s. Hall mentions (172) the Blackfoot Council of 1875, after which fifteen Siksika, Kainai, and Piegan submitted a petition to the Canadian government, but not that these chiefs may have set a precedent by styling themselves as chiefs of the “Chokitapix.” Other documents suggest that the Blackfoot were developing new political strategies in the 1870s, to address the challenges of dealing with the American and Canadian governments. [End Page 690] If so, the development reflected a fascinating process that occurred in Indigenous societies around the world. Hall also fails to mention the impact that the Chokitapix petition had on Canadian government officials. Ignoring the history of Blackfoot (or Lakota or Comanche) political evolution obscures important historical processes as much is it would to assume that the 1789 United States Constitution was in effect in 1781, 1776, and 1763. This book implies that, since 1720...

Reviewed by: Clean and White: A History of Environmental Racism in the United States by Carl A. Zimring Brandon M. Ward (bio) Clean and White: A History of Environmental Racism in the United States. By Carl A. Zimring. (New York: New York University Press, 2016. Pp. x, 275. $35.00 cloth) In the wake of the recent water crisis in Flint, Michigan, attention has turned, albeit briefly, to the environmental health hazards and infrastructural inequalities that disproportionately burden African Americans and other racial and ethnic minorities. Some have characterized the crisis, and others like it, as environmental racism. Carl Zimring gives environmental racism a much-needed long history. In Clean and White: A History of Environmental Racism in the United States, Zimring argues, “Although racism has been a structuring factor in creating environmental inequalities concerning waste, American constructions of race, of waste, and of their interactions have evolved [End Page 454] since the nation’s founding,” influencing residential segregation, employment discrimination, and other material inequalities (p. 3). Zimring unsettles the “static constructs” of race and ethnicity present in much of the environmental inequality literature, showing how whiteness and environmental racism evolved over two centuries (p. 3). Roughly the first half of the book explains the development of a culture of environmental racism that defined white as clean and non-white as dirty and polluted. Thomas Jefferson espoused a worldview that disdained the pollution of cities, saw blackness as inferiority, and celebrated the salubrious countryside. The development of scientific racism and sanitary science before the Civil War defended slavery, justified the Cherokee Indian removal, and established the language that cast non-whites as a literal and figurative pollution, trends that would coalesce into environmental racism. Zimring mines advertisements and popular culture sources to demonstrate the American “obsession with purity to conflate white identity with sanitation” in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries (p. 79). Despite the efforts of black leaders to promote and prove the hygiene of African Americans, they failed to sever the conflation of whiteness with cleanliness. Much of the second half of the book demonstrates the consequences of an ever-tightening association of cleanliness with whiteness, a racial conceptualization that structured residential segregation, employment opportunities, and other advantages. Dirty jobs increasingly were reserved for non-whites and those with limited access to capital. For Chinese immigrants, running a laundry required little capital, as did junk trading, which was often associated with Jewish and Italian immigrants. In an engrossing chapter titled “Out of Waste into Whiteness,” Zimring illustrates how the burdens of waste fell increasingly on African Americans and Latinos as “white ethnics” made the journey into whiteness and its cleansing privileges, using the examples of Jewish and Italian-Americans who left behind scrap and waste trades to become white. While many scholars have traced the beginnings of the environmental justice movement to the early [End Page 455] 1980s, in a gripping final chapter Zimring shows how the patterns explored throughout the book led to the Memphis Public Works strike of 1968. The strike featured African American workers and Martin Luther King Jr. organizing for unionization, safer working conditions, and a concept that would later be called environmental justice. In Clean and White, Zimring pulls together many threads that have previously been treated separately to produce a fresh interpretation of environmental racism. Scholars of environmental history, whiteness, capitalism, urban history, and many other areas will find valuable insights. Some aspects of environmental racism deserve further attention, such as the impact of environmental racism on spatial patterns of metropolitan development and the siting of toxic facilities. This is less a critique than an invitation for scholars to follow on the heels of Clean and White to demonstrate the insidious nature of environmental racism in American life. Flint likely will not be the last public health crisis affecting a minority community, and with Zimring’s scholarship, we have a firmer understanding of the origins of environmental racism and inequality. [End Page 456] Brandon M. Ward BRANDON M. WARD teaches history at Georgia State University–Perimeter College. He is revising a book manuscript exploring the rise of urban environmental activism in post–World War II Detroit. Copyright © 2017 Kentucky Historical Society...

The systematic review and meta-analysis on the international prevalence of prediabetes in children and adolescents from 1996 to 2021 has sparked immense interest in the topic of prediabetes.1 The review rendered novel insights into the rapidly rising and worrisome trend of diabetes incidence among young people. Globally, prediabetes prevalence was observed higher in men than in women, in young people aged 10 to 20 years, living in urban regions, and in families with histories of diabetes diagnoses. Diabetes in young persons could potentially lead to disruptive consequences such as early morbidity and a diminished quality of life.2 To combat a prediabetes epidemic, the study authors emphasized the need for healthcare professionals to design and implement intensive lifestyle modification interventions. However, differentiated approaches to health are warranted to address the specific needs of indigenous peoples and ethnic minorities in the United States and across Southeast Asia. A culturally grounded, context-specific approach for prediabetes wellness and promotion is necessary to attain robust improvements in health outcomes. In particular, indigenous peoples and members of ethnic minorities have been themselves affected by discrimination and negative stereotyping, despite their ecological and cultural richness.3 Thus, modern healthcare warrants culturally competent interventions, taking into consideration factors such as ethnicity, culture, and gender.4 Diabetes signifies a critical health inequity for indigenous peoples in the United States as the prevalence is more than twice that of any other ethnic groups in the country.5 Two out of three indigenous peoples are likely to be diagnosed with kidney failure from uncontrolled diabetes.5 Similarly, it is well documented that ethnic minority individuals have higher prevalence of diabetes than nonminority persons.6 A recent hermeneutic phenomenological study was conducted to explore the lived experiences of ethnic minority elders with type 2 diabetes mellitus in rural areas of Thailand where health services and support are scarce.7 The results highlighted the struggles of ethnic minority elders living with diabetes and the prevalent healthcare inequalities. Healthcare professionals working with ethnic minority individuals in underserved areas should strive to strengthen support systems and services underpinning traditional knowledge and intercultural approach to health. The provision of prediabetes wellness interventions for indigenous peoples and ethnic minorities in the United States and across Southeast Asia should center strengths of traditional knowledge and approach to health from an intercultural perspective. Studies have found that culture-specific health interventions underpinning traditional values are vital tenets of health promotion.8 While planning, designing, and implementing health promotion interventions for indigenous peoples and ethnic minority communities in the United States and across Southeast Asia, healthcare professionals should achieve culturally and contextually sensitive competencies in (a) examining the intersections of ethnicity with variables such as gender and age, as they render insights on different approaches in which people interact, comprehend, and participate in interventions; (b) understanding representative elements of ethnicity; and (c) acknowledging contextual beliefs and experiences surrounding ethnicity that shape the sustainability of prospective health interventions.9 Centering health initiatives surrounding the strengths of traditional knowledge and intercultural approach to health can ensure the interventions are relevant to the needs and preferences of indigenous peoples and ethnic minority communities in the United States and across Southeast Asia. Hence, contextual and cultural sensitivities in readdressing health inequalities can significantly improve outcomes of health within specific communities. Sheena Ramazanu was involved in the study conception, design, and writing of the manuscript. Emily Ang, Intan Azura Mokhtar, Jamie Cahoon, Sandra del Pino, and Susana Gomez critically reviewed the manuscript. All authors have contributed significantly and in keeping with the latest guidelines of the International Committee of Medical Journal Editors. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are the responsibility of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the criteria or policy of Pan American Health Organization/World Health Organization. The authors would like to express special thanks and gratitude to US Department of State, US Embassy Singapore and the YSEALI Professional Fellows Program Civic Engagement Institute with the University of Montana Mansfield Center for providing emerging Southeast Asian leader Dr Sheena Ramazanu with the opportunity to gain first-hand experiences and exposure at Confederated Salish & Kootenai Tribal Health Department. The YSEALI Professional Fellows Program is a program of the US Department of State and is supported in its implementations by American Councils for International Education and the University of Montana Mansfield Center. All authors declare no conflict of interest.

Post–World War II Tejano Farm Labor:A Remembrance Arnoldo De León (bio) Click for larger view View full resolution A map of South Texas showing notable locations for this article. [End Page 136] Recent historical monographs about post–World War II South Texas posit that due to Cold War-era modernization and industrialization, large and mechanized corporate entities able to buy the needed farm machinery and devices, pay irrigation costs, and invest in insect eradication products displaced small independent farmers who could not afford the investments required for healthy profits.1 Newer research detects in this era the rise of a powerful and politically influential conglomerate of agribusiness companies with a free hand to exploit a mass of transient Mexican farm workers.2 The corporate farming system that took root in the trans-Nueces River area, some of these latest tomes find, was as brutal in its oppression as other systems adopted by capitalist powers in the exploitation of their territorial dependents. Indeed, historian Tim Bowman likens South Texas [End Page 137] corporate bosses to European oppressors who established colonial societies in underdeveloped countries. He argues that this colonialism, first implanted in the Lower Rio Grande Valley by Anglo growers in the early twentieth century, remains in a modified form. Texas Mexicans faced a cold-hearted, merciless, and detached syndicate of growers in the 1950s and after who manipulated the sizable pool of braceros and mojados (the former legal workers from Mexico temporarily in the United States under contract and the latter in the country illegally, derisively called "wetbacks") to depress farm wages. John Weber, another scholar of Mexican American labor, writes that "South Texas growers devised a thoroughly modern set of practices that relied on forced mobility, enforced immobility, and an activist state not present in earlier times."3 Corporate farming, the literature indicates, consisted of a structured world undergirded by an army of mobile families. Migrant farm workers after World War II suffered grim poverty and grappled with precarious road travel. They agonized first over what means of transportation (many relied on troqueros, or truckers) would carry them through the harvest season. Then they faced uncertainties about work availability at the next destination. Distress beset male heads of families who concerned themselves with properly provisioning their wives and children and obtaining safe shelter for them; some of the labor camps along the migrant route offered barely livable conditions. There appeared no refuge for migrants upon returning to their home region. Most came back to struggle through the winter in substandard quarters until the seasonal cycle resumed. Children enrolled at run down and unkempt "Mexican schools" until the spring.4 Weber writes: The condition of Mexican and Mexican American farmworkers in South Texas changed little from the beginning of the farm boom in the 1910s until the post-Bracero era. From the beginning of large-scale migration from Mexico during the Revolution, Mexican and Mexican Americans were viewed by potential employers as a never-ending supply of labor power, more beasts of burden than citizens. This system was merely amplified over the next several decades, even as massive economic and political changes occurred in both nations.5 My remembrances of growing up on small farms in South Texas run counter to the conventional characterization given of labor structures in the history books. Certainly, corporate farming gained power and influence over labor in Texas after World War II, but to not to the extent of [End Page 138] being the sole system of agricultural order in the state. I contend as much based on memories of my youth in Nueces County,6 first at the Chap-man Ranch (1945–56) and then at the Jesse T. Parr farm in Robstown (1956–63), where an alternate labor structure prevailed. The Parr farm in particular stands out as a salient exception to what the scholarship says about the world of organized cropping after World War II, and so I draw attention to it as a viable agricultural model that persisted concomitantly with and complementary to commercial farming in that era. Small farming operations, commonly found in Nueces County and neighboring counties, consisted of a white property owner...

Reviewed by: Secession as an International Phenomenon: From America’s Civil War to Contemporary Separatist Movements Gale L. Kenny (bio) Secession as an International Phenomenon: From America’s Civil War to Contemporary Separatist Movements. Edited by Don H. Doyle. (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 2010. Pp. 397. Cloth, $69.95; paper, $24.95.) While the American South’s secession and the Civil War resonated internationally in the 1860s and continue to factor into secessionist debates today, the South’s desire to preserve slavery makes it a unique [End Page 442] case. Should slaveholding southerners be compared to oppressed ethnic or religious minorities when Confederates intended to perpetuate a system of racial slavery? Of course not. Yet, as Don Doyle points out in his introduction to the multifaceted essays contained in Secession as an International Phenomenon, the southern case for a “political divorce” (3), the Union’s decision to resist secession militarily and legally, and the post-war reconciliation have made the American case a “historical benchmark” (2) for secessionist movements in different times and places. This volume of wide-ranging essays highlights different methodological approaches to understanding secessionist movements as well as historical analyses of particular times and places. Edited by Doyle, a southern historian who has turned toward transnational understandings of the United States and the South, the collection is the second from the Association for Research on Ethnicity and Nationalism in the Americas (ARENA). It seeks in part to locate the American Civil War in a comparative framework, and several of the essays belong to the growing field of transnational history. After an introductory essay from philosopher Christopher Wellman explaining his position on the conditions in which secession should be accepted, six essays focus on the American Civil War, and three others use the American Civil War comparatively, in relation to China and Taiwan, German reunification, and civil violence more generally. Other contributors do not address the American case at all, and instead examine other secessionist movements: the early nineteenth-century Gulf of Mexico, including Texas, Florida, and the Yucatán; modern-day Quebec; Iraqi Kurdistan; postindependence Africa; Slovenia, Kosovo, Chechnya, and Biafra; and the Soviet successor states of Ukraine and Moldova. Together, the essays raise questions about the formation of distinctive ethnic, racial, religious, and nationalist identities, the conditions likely to produce civil violence, and the strong relationship between nationalist independence movements and later secessionist efforts. For example, the United States’ declaration of independence from the British Empire served as a critical precedent for southern secessionists. Similarly, in the last half of the twentieth century, African states’ independence from European empires and the dissolution of the Soviet Union produced contexts ripe for secessionism. While all of the essays deserve attention in their own right, for purposes of this review, I will highlight the arguments of the six essays on the American Civil War. Legal scholar Paul Radan questions Abraham Lincoln’s case against secession, and Radan uses a close reading of Lincoln’s writings to show the flaws in his argument. Charles B. Dew and Susan-Mary Grant examine southern secession primarily in the American context. Dew’s portrait [End Page 443] of John Ashmore, a moderate slaveholder–turned–fire-eater, points out white men’s intense fear of “amalgamation,” or race mixing, should the Republican agenda triumph. Grant insightfully argues that southern secession and the ongoing Civil War helped to establish the North’s identity as a nation and a state, well before the state building of Reconstruction. Looking more internationally, Robert E. Bonner, Paul Quigley, and Frank Towers locate the South and southern secessionists in relation to global politics and European nationalists of the mid-1800s. Using statistics-filled proslavery publications, Bonner shows how the 1850s proslavery secessionists calculated the Confederacy’s future success as an economic and imperial power, a tactic the earlier nullification advocates of the 1820s and 1830s had not used. The fire-eaters of the 1850s saw secession as a “proslavery variant of manifest destiny” (122). Quigley and Towers point out the importance of European nationalist movements to white southerners’ efforts to create a distinct national identity for themselves. Containing liberal and reforming impulses as well as more conservative ethnocultural strains...

Introduction The Politics of Language from Multiple Perspectives:Latinidad and Indigenidad Serafín M. Coronel-Molina, Issue Editor (bio) The field of politics of language intersects with language policy and planning, language of politics, language politics, language revitalization, linguistic rights, language laws, and language regimes.1 This means that politics of language cannot be completely separated from the above-mentioned fields, since they are interconnected in various ways. In addition, it is fundamental to delve into the notion of politics of language not only from disciplinary and multidisciplinary angles, but also from interdisciplinary and transdisciplinary perspectives. The politics of language takes place in a mosaic of contexts constituted by real and virtual communities of speakers, and in diverse communicative events and discursive practices. It can be grounded in any number of disciplines and fields—including sociology, political theory, political science, history, linguistics, sociolinguistics, identity politics, gender politics, sociology of language, literature, critical discourse analysis, the semiotics, pragmatics and semantics of political discourses, political economy, linguistic anthropology, philosophy, raciolinguistics, translingualism, folklore, communication and media studies (print and digital), language education, literacy studies—as well as in a wide range of creative works and semi-otic resources, such as in iconicity and imagery. Methodologically speaking, the politics of language is studied qualitatively and quantitatively, though the dominant research paradigm is the qualitative approach. Political speeches and political discourses—with both a capital D and a small d (Gee, 2012)—intersect with discourses that are linguistic, cultural, gender, power, identity, ideological, scientific, or economic in nature. Orality, translinguality, interdiscursivity, transdiscursivity, intertextuality, and transtextuality are considered cornerstones for understanding and defining the politics of language from [End Page 6] micro and macro dimensions, and from multidisciplinary, interdisciplinary, and transdisciplinary perspectives. Languages in the United States and Latin America The United States is a multilingual, pluricultural, and multiethnic country where, without a doubt, English is the dominant and the only de facto official language. To a certain extent, Spanish is another commonly spoken language. According to the United States Census Bureau (2016), the United States’ Hispanic population numbers 56.6 million, or 17.6% of the total population, thus constituting the country’s “largest ethnic or racial minority.” It is estimated that by 2050 there will be 138 million Spanish speakers in the United States, “making it the biggest Spanish-speaking nation on Earth, with Spanish the mother tongue of almost a third of its citizens.” It is obvious, then, that the presence of Spanish in the United States is solid, since persons of Hispanic origin make up the largest minority group. In addition to Spanish, Indigenous languages and their many linguistic hybrid forms are present and robust in the United States and in Latin America: Recent U.S. Census data place the number of American Indians, Alaska Natives, and Native Hawaiians at approximately 6.4 million, or 2.1 percent of the total population (Hixson, Hepler, & Kim, 2012; Norris, Vines, & Hoeffel, 2012). The U.S. Census also reports 169 Native American languages spoken by 370,000 people (Siebens & Julian, 2011). … Although smaller in overall numbers, Native Americans reside in every U.S. state and territory, representing more than 560 federally recognized tribes, 619 reservations and Alaska Native villages, and 62 Native Hawaiian homelands. In the USA, the Indigenous language situation is characterized by diverse sociolinguistic ecologies and growing threats to that diversity reflected in twin movements to make English the nation’s official language and to circumscribe the teaching of Indigenous and other minoritized languages in school. Population estimates for Latin America place the number of Indigenous peoples at 40 to 50 million or 10 percent of the population (King, 2008; Lopez & Sichra, 2008). … The intermingling of Native Americans, enslaved Africans, and Europeans produced other varieties such as Carib Pidgin-Arawak in the Caribbean and Garifuna in Central America. Latin America encompasses 20 nation-states, nine dependencies, and a population of 568 million spread out across South, Central, and parts of North America (Garcia et al., 2010, pp. 353–354). With the exception of Uruguay and some Caribbean polities whose original peoples were decimated by colonization, significant numbers of Indigenous peoples reside in every Latin American country (King, 2008; Lopez & Sichra, 2008). (Coronel-Molina...

Reviewed by: Power, Politics, and the Cinematic Imagination ed. by Toni Pressley-Sanon and Sophie Saint-Just Cécile Accilien Power, Politics, and the Cinematic Imagination. Edited by Toni Pressley-Sanon and Sophie Saint-Just. New York: Rowman and Littlefield, 2015. ISBN 978-0-7391-9878-0. 298 pp. $95.00 US. Hardcover. Power, Politics, and the Cinematic Imagination, edited by Toni Pressley-Sanon and Sophie Saint-Just, provides insights into the work of contemporary transnational filmmaker Raoul Peck. The main strength of this collection is how scholars from film studies and Haitian studies place Peck's work at the forefront of various disciplines. The contributions also integrate Peck's vision and reflections as a filmmaker, activist, and artiste engagé. In the first of fourteen chapters, "History Is Too Important to Leave to Hollywood: Colonialism, Genocide, and Memory in the Films of Raoul Peck," Alyssa Goldstein Sepinwall argues that Peck's invisibility [End Page 189] in world cinema, especially in the United States, is due in part to the fact that "the histories he recounts are painful, in ways that can discomfit Western viewers" (15). (Though it should be noted that since his 2017 Oscar nomination for the documentary film I Am Not Your Negro, Peck has become increasingly well known in the United States.) Sepinwall analyzes various film forms from Peck's corpus, ranging from documentary to feature, to demonstrate how Peck as an educator, social activist, historian, and guardian of memory represents history, a central concern in his work. Peck asserts: "I tend to make historic films, films for posterity. … To me, making a movie is … preserving who we are" (16). For him, making film is making history and "reversing the Western gaze" (17). In chapter 2, "Disrupting Conventional Film Structure: Letters, Voice-Over, and Traumatic Irruption in Raoul Peck's Films," Joëlle Vitiello notes that Peck is "one of the most cosmopolitan, transnational, and complex filmmakers to have emerged since the 1980s" (37). Through her analysis of Corps plongés (1998), a telefilm that tells the story of a medical examiner in New York whose job is to analyze corpses for homicide cases, Vitiello depicts the vital role of violence and trauma in Peck's films. In the second part of the chapter, Vitiello explores how Peck cleverly uses letters, whether through voice-overs or journals, to disrupt the narrative. Peck's disruption of traditional filmmaking is also enacted by challenging viewers' notions of time, space, and memory. Chapter 3, "My Story Is Not a Nice Story: Sometimes in April (2005) and the Rwandan Genocide Film," by Jane Bryce, emphasizes Peck's unique portrayal of the Rwandan genocide. Bryce contextualizes Sometimes in April within the larger framework of films on the genocide, such as 100 Days (2001), Hotel Rwanda (2005), Shooting Dogs (2005), Munyurangabo (2006), A Sunday in Kigali (2006), and Kinyarwanda (2011), to demonstrate how Peck avoids the traditional binary that represents Africa as poor and corrupted and the West as rich and democratic in order to tell a nuanced story about human relationships and the complexity of culture as well as the interconnectedness of time, space, history, and memory. One of the strengths of Sometimes in April is how Peck chose to control the narrative by remaining conscious that he was not creating a film to appeal to Western audiences. As Bryce notes, "Peck's achievement… is to bring the viewer home to an Africa that is not exceptional, where genocide has a history as long as colonialism, where the Other is the Self" (83). In "Framing the Dispersal in Diaspora: Raoul Peck, Transnational Filmmaker," the fourth chapter, Sophie Saint-Just stresses the centrality of Haiti to Peck's work by underlining his role as a "transnational" film director whose trajectory has been very influenced by his Haitian identity [End Page 190] and the events of the Duvalier regimes. As Peck notes: "I do not have the impression that I made several films but rather from the beginning I was making the same film and used the same motivation as a foundation… . I express my vision of the world through Haiti. Haiti is a medium. It is through Haiti that I seek out others...

Christianity, Tribalism, and the Rwandan Genocide:A Catholic Reassessment of Christian "Social Responsibility" Emmanuel M. Katongole (bio) When Cardinal Etchegaray of the Pontifical Council for Justice and Peace visited Rwanda on behalf of the pope, he asked the assembled church leaders, "Are you saying that the blood of tribalism is deeper than the waters of baptism?" One leader present answered, "Yes it is." John Martin Introduction The Rwandan Genocide and the "Blood of Tribalism" No event in recent history has challenged Christian reflection on Africa more than the 1994 genocide in Rwanda.Within a period of less than one hundred days, more than 800,000 Rwandans were killed by fellow Rwandans, as the rest of the world stood by and watched. The majority of the killings were carried out by ordinary Rwandans against their neighbors using machetes, sticks, and clubs with nails, making the Rwandan genocide one of the most inexplicable tragedies of our time. What makes the Rwandan genocide a particularly chilling and challenging event for Christian reflection, [End Page 67] however, is that Rwanda has been, and perhaps remains, one of the most Christianized nations in Africa. It is estimated that as many as 90 percent of Rwandans in 1994 were Christians—62.6% Catholic, 18.8% Protestant, and 8.4% Seventh Day Adventist.1 Given that the majority of Rwandans were Christians, why did that not make any significant difference when it came to the events of 1994 ? Where was the church? Did God just turn his back on Rwanda? The more one probes these and similar questions, the more one faces the disturbing realization that in the 1994 Rwandan genocide, the church was not simply silent, but was intimately associated with the genocide. Not only did the majority of killings take place within or around churches, they involved Christians killing other Christians. In fact, as Longman points out, the fact that the majority of Rwandans were Catholics meant that often the victims and their killers were quite familiar with each other and had even participated regularly in the same Eucharist celebrations, within the same church. He notes, Church personnel and institutions were actively involved in the program of resistance to popular pressures for political reform that culminated in the 1994 genocide, and numerous priests, pastors, nuns, brothers, catechists, and Catholic and Protestant lay leaders supported, participated in, or helped to organize the killings . . . In most communities members of a church parish killed their fellow parishioners and even, in a number of cases, their own pastor or priests. (Longman, 140) In the wake of the genocide, there have been many attempts to explain the disturbing fact of a genocide taking place within a Christian country and the mass participation by self-confessed Christians in the genocide. Among different explanations, some have noted the superficial nature of Rwandan Christianity.2 Others have focused on the church's failure to provide moral and spiritual guidance.3 Other accounts have noted how the revival movement of the 1930s [End Page 68] was narrowly "spiritual" and did not allow the church to integrate the Gospel with all other aspects of life.4 Still other explanations, while focusing on the political dimension of the problem, have noted the naïve and uncritical view of authority that was encouraged by the church,5 as well as the general lack of democracy and of respect for human dignity in Rwanda in the 1990 s (Scheer; Gatwa). Although there is truth in each of these claims, the underlying problem behind the Rwanda genocide is one of tribalism. In this case, I feel the question posed by Cardinal Etchegaray of the Pontifical Council for Justice and Peace, and the answer he received, needs to be seriously attended to. When he visited Rwanda on behalf of the Pope shortly following the genocide, he asked the assembled church leaders, "'Are you saying that the blood of tribalism is deeper than the waters of baptism?' One leader present answered, 'Yes it is.'"6 I am afraid that Cardinal Etchegaray's question was right on target, and the response of the church leader was even more so. The 1994 genocide in Rwanda had to do, in great part, with tribalism...

Water Is LifeEcologies of Writing and Indigeneity Christina Boyles (bio) and Hilary E. Wyss (bio) “Water is Life,” the recent rallying cry of the Standing Rock Sioux opposition to the Dakota Access Pipeline, gestures to the urgency of understanding ecological depredations as an attack on life itself. The idea of “water protectors” (as the activists protesting the construction of an oil pipeline under the Missouri River call themselves) emerges from a specific historical moment in relation to #NoDAPL, but this is an apt way to imagine the work of this special issue more generally as a folding together of ecology, indigeneity, and the role of writing in making visible Indigenous ways of engaging with water. While water scarcity is a concern for all living beings, its impact tends to be greater for Indigenous communities. Reservations in particular are sites where government and corporate entities expose “residents to dangerous environmental conditions,” including dangers caused by air pollution, water contamination, dangerous working conditions, and weapons testing (Taylor 47). Although these environmental concerns are long-standing, increasing privatization of water resources, paired with the ongoing effects of climate change, have amplified discussions about Indigenous water rights in US media. Communities of color, particularly Indigenous communities, have always borne the brunt of environmental injustice; however, these issues have become more explicit in the Trump era. Both under the leadership of Scott Pruitt and in the wake of his resignation, the Environmental Protection Agency has rolled back environmental protections for protected federal lands, particularly those deemed to be of value for natural resource production. Although the EPA is charged with promoting and restoring the health of tribal lands, it also has the authority to allow “tribal communities and other stakeholders to pursue future beneficial use or reuse of resources [End Page 1] for economic, environmental, and traditional purposes” (“Cleaning Up”). Often, these “other stakeholders” are given precedence over tribal lands due to intersecting corporate and governmental interests. Such behavior places Indigenous communities at risk in terms of their health and well-being and threatens their sovereign claims to the land. In response, Native communities have developed a series of protests and legal challenges to contest corporate and governmental claims to these lands. Many of these debates center on the sovereignty of tribal nations: What authority do tribes have over their rolls, lands, and resources? How do these rights operate within Western power structures? How should they operate? These questions are not answered simply, but they all have a common concern: state and federal laws stifling Indigenous nations for profit and power. This special issue of SAIL examines the way Indigenous writers have focused on water—its use, the laws that regulate its distribution, and its cultural and ecological value both within and outside Indigenous communities—to generate meaningful dialogue about the relationship between colonialism, water rights, and tribal sovereignty. Varying water laws across the United States force Indigenous communities to structure their arguments within specific legal contexts. In the East, water rights are determined by riparian rights, which permit those whose land abuts a body of water to use and access that water. In the West, water rights are determined by prior appropriation, which grants water rights chronologically based on whoever first put the water to “beneficial use” as determined by state and federal law. In theory, this means that all water in the United States should be the property of Indigenous communities; however, Winters v. United States (1908) complicates this narrative. According to this ruling, Native water rights are determined according to the location and establishment date of reservation lands. Eastern reservations have access to water their federal land abuts, but they do not have exclusive rights or jurisdiction over this water. Western nations are given prior appropriation rights based on the date on which their reservation was established, a decision that significantly disadvantages many Native communities in the West, particularly those using water from the frequently overdrawn Colorado River. Other issues further complicate this framework; for example, non–federally recognized tribes have no legal water rights. Additionally, the Five Tribes—the Cherokee, Chickasaw, Choctaw, Creek, and Seminole—are [End Page 2] federally recognized tribes that possess fee lands rather than reservation lands...

The Politics of Passing in Zainichi Cultural Production Christina Yi (bio) and Jonathan Glade (bio) Though the literal translation of Zainichi would be something along the lines of "residing in Japan," the term, as most commonly used today, designates something much more specific: ethnic Koreans who can trace their roots in Japan back to the colonial period (1910–1945). Zainichi, therefore, denotes not only a particular group of people residing in Japan but also certain historical and social conditions that have shaped their experiences in Japan. This special issue aims to deepen our understanding of those conditions and the ways in which Zainichi experiences have been represented in literature and film. In order to accomplish this task, we have relied upon the lens of passing. Zainichi Koreans are the largest diasporic community in Japan, and their writings comprise a diverse literary corpus.1 [End Page 235] It can be argued, however, that passing—i.e., the social and legal processes through which ethnic Korean minorities pass for Japanese—constitutes a central problematic in Zainichi literature and film, whether it is explicitly articulated as such or not. That is, because passing is not necessarily a transgression but the "default condition" imposed upon ethnic minorities by Japanese society, literary and filmic representations of that passing can be both ubiquitous and invisible.2 Zainichi cultural production should be viewed as a node of interconnection, linking various discourses and bodies of literature, rather than occupying a space at the margins of a "national" Japanese or Korean culture. The lens of passing allows us to emphasize these intersections while also addressing and contributing to broader understandings of the construction of difference. Scholarship on passing has tended to focus on problematic racial relations historically entrenched in North American contexts, resulting in the theorization of passing as racialized performativity. Since Zainichi Koreans represent a case where ethnic difference does not necessarily coincide with racialized difference, rethinking passing through a study of Zainichi cultural production allows us to consider different forms of (linguistic, ethnic, textual) politics and theorize the complex relations of race, ethnicity, and gender from a global perspective. [End Page 236] With that said, the studies grouped together here do not represent a comprehensive examination of passing in Zainichi literature and film; indeed, they only scratch the surface of this ubiquitous theme. Our aim, then, is to simultaneously center Zainichi cultural production in the intersections of the fields of Japanese and Korean studies and within theories of passing. Addressing the fraught problem of passing in Zainichi cultural production requires, at times, unconventional approaches that move beyond established chronological, geographical, and ethnic boundaries. For, as the contributions to this issue illustrate, representations of passing in Zainichi literature and film subvert and deny the conventional understandings of ethnicity, agency, and authenticity that have dominated popular discourse in Japan. The articles in this issue expand the scope of Zainichi studies in three key ways: they bridge the "August 1945 divide" by connecting postwar cultural production to earlier historical events and representations of passing; they venture outside the geopolitical space of Japan to incorporate another location of Zainichi invisibility: South Korea; and they address the broader social context by looking at connections with the theme of passing in the work of other ethnic minorities in Japan. In Japan, passing cannot be understood apart from the workings of the koseki (household registry) and tsūmei (passing name). We therefore begin the next section by sketching out some of the intersections of the koseki and tsūmei. We then examine the varied manifestations of passing in Zainichi literature and film, focusing in particular on the Japanese-language essay "I Am a Korean" (Watashi wa Chōsenjin, 1977).3 Lastly, we situate the articles in this special issue within the overall theme of passing and highlight the innovative approaches they employ to further our understanding of Zainichi cultural production. [End Page 237] Understanding the Practice of Passing in Japan In her introduction to the influential essay collection Passing and the Fictions of Identity, Elaine K. Ginsberg conceptualizes passing as follows: [Passing] is about identities: their creation or imposition, their adoption or rejection, their accompanying rewards or penalties. Passing is also about the boundaries...

INTRODUCTION The central argument of this book is that in the United States, the protection of religious minorities from persecution has been contingent on state actors and their perceptions of threats to political order. If they regard religious minorities as a threat to political order, state actors are more likely to allow civil society to persecute them, or to join in the persecution. If, however, state actors see a greater threat in the persecution itself, they will act to protect religious minorities. This explanation is at odds with the two dominant conceptual approaches to religious freedom in the United States. One approach sees religious freedom in America as preordained either by the constitution or by the conditions of religious pluralism that have existed since the colonial period. In this explanation, incidents of persecution have occurred throughout history, but these have ultimately expanded the legal conception of religious freedom that is always changing in the direction of greater inclusiveness. The other approach sees “religious freedom” as ideological cover for white, Protestant majoritarianism and views the persecution of religious minorities as normal, part of a broader system of social domination of all racial, ethnic, religious, and sexual minorities. I argue that religious tolerance, enforced by the state, has frequently prevailed in America because state actors see religious intolerance as a threat to their own authority, or to the greater legitimacy of the order on which their authority rests. While this usually secures the long-term physical safety and political rights of religious minorities, breakdowns in religious tolerance have been frequent enough and violent enough to show the contingency of minority well-being on the threat perceptions of state actors. Sometimes the state sees them as the threat to be countered. Neither the constitution nor structural pluralism can protect religious minorities on their own; protection depends on which side the state takes in political conflicts. In this chapter I construct and elaborate on this theory and suggest some likely conditions under which civic actors may succeed or fail in persuading state actors that a religious minority is a political threat. First, however, I contextualize this approach by outlining the strengths and weaknesses of existing approaches to religious freedom and persecution in the United States.