The Footprints of a Conqueror: Juan de Oñate and America’s Contested Legends
In the rugged, sun-baked landscapes of the American Southwest, history isn’t just written in books; it’s cast in bronze, chipped from stone, and fiercely debated in public squares. Here, amidst the adobe villages and sweeping vistas, lies a foundational chapter of American history, one etched in both daring exploration and brutal conquest. It’s a story where the lines between hero and villain blur, where the very act of "founding" is simultaneously celebrated and condemned. At the heart of this enduring controversy stands Juan de Oñate, a figure whose legacy embodies the complex, often painful, process by which America’s diverse legends are forged, challenged, and continually redefined.
For centuries, the narrative of America’s origins often centered on the East Coast, the Pilgrims, and the birth of a nation rooted in European ideals. But long before Plymouth Rock, a different saga unfolded in the vast, arid lands that would become New Mexico, Arizona, and parts of Texas. This was the frontier of New Spain, a realm of indigenous nations, ancient traditions, and untold riches, both real and imagined. Into this world stepped Juan de Oñate, a man of immense ambition, born in 1550 into a wealthy mining family in Zacatecas, New Spain. His lineage connected him to some of the most powerful figures of the conquest, including a great-grandson of Hernán Cortés himself. Oñate was not just an explorer; he was a conquistador, a product of an era defined by the twin impulses of evangelism and empire-building.
His grand vision was to establish the first permanent Spanish colony in the vast, unexplored territory north of Mexico, rumored to hold the fabled Seven Cities of Gold. After years of petitions, political maneuvering, and significant personal investment, Oñate finally received his commission in 1595. He assembled an expedition of epic proportions: hundreds of soldiers, Franciscan friars, settlers, servants, and thousands of livestock. Their journey across the Chihuahuan Desert was an arduous test of endurance, a testament to the sheer will and desperate hope that fueled early colonial ventures. In April 1598, near present-day El Paso, Texas, Oñate formally claimed the entire territory for Spain, naming it New Mexico. He declared, “I take possession of these lands, with all their mountains, rivers, valleys, meadows, and waters… in the name of the most Christian King, Philip our Lord.”
This act, however, was not one of discovery but of assertion, an imposition of European sovereignty upon lands already inhabited for millennia. The Pueblo people, with their sophisticated agricultural societies, intricate irrigation systems, and multi-story adobe dwellings, had built thriving communities long before Oñate’s arrival. They were a people with their own complex political structures, religious beliefs, and a deep, ancestral connection to the land. Initially, some Pueblo communities offered a cautious welcome to the Spanish, exchanging goods and enduring the imposition of Christianity. But the Spanish demands for tribute – blankets, corn, labor – and their cultural insensitivity soon strained these fragile relationships.
The turning point, and the event that would forever stain Oñate’s legend, occurred at Acoma Pueblo in December 1598. Perched atop a towering mesa, Acoma was a formidable stronghold, a "sky city" that had withstood invaders for centuries. When a small Spanish detachment, led by Oñate’s nephew, Juan de Zaldívar, arrived at Acoma seeking provisions, a confrontation erupted. The details remain debated, but the outcome was tragic: Zaldívar and eleven of his men were killed. Oñate, viewing this as an act of rebellion and a direct challenge to Spanish authority, unleashed a brutal retribution.
In January 1599, Oñate’s brother, Vicente de Zaldívar, led a punitive expedition of about 70 soldiers against Acoma. After a three-day siege, marked by fierce fighting and significant casualties on both sides, the Spanish breached the pueblo’s defenses. The ensuing massacre was horrific. Hundreds of Acoma people were killed, and the survivors were subjected to a barbaric "justice." Oñate ordered that for every male over the age of 25, one foot be amputated. Women and children were enslaved or indentured to Spanish colonists and missionaries. While historical records suggest that perhaps only two dozen men actually had a foot amputated, the decree itself, and the terror it instilled, became a chilling symbol of Spanish colonial brutality.
This act, unprecedented even by the harsh standards of the time, marked Oñate’s downfall. Reports of his cruelty, along with his failure to find the fabled riches, reached Mexico City and Madrid. He was eventually recalled, tried, and convicted of various offenses, including abusing both indigenous people and Spanish colonists, and making false reports. In 1614, he was banished from New Mexico permanently and stripped of his titles. He died in Spain in 1626, a disgraced figure, his grand vision of a prosperous New Mexico largely unfulfilled, and his name tarnished by the blood of Acoma.
For centuries, Oñate remained a relatively obscure figure in the broader American narrative, overshadowed by later Anglo-American expansion. However, in the 20th century, as New Mexico embraced its unique Hispanic heritage, Oñate underwent a curious transformation. He began to be re-envisioned by some as a founding father, a pioneering spirit who brought European civilization and the Catholic faith to the American Southwest. This narrative, often championed by descendants of Spanish colonists, saw him as a symbol of endurance, faith, and the enduring legacy of Spanish culture in the region.
This revised legend found its most potent expression in public monuments. In 1994, a massive equestrian statue of Oñate, depicting him astride a horse, sword in hand, was unveiled in El Paso, Texas. Another, more controversial, monument was erected in 1998 in Alcalde, New Mexico, near the site of his first capital. These statues were intended to honor a historical figure, a "first colonizer," and to celebrate a specific cultural heritage.
Yet, these very acts of remembrance ignited fierce opposition. For the Pueblo people, and indeed for many indigenous communities across America, Oñate is not a hero but a perpetrator of genocide, a symbol of oppression, land dispossession, and cultural destruction. The statues became flashpoints for protest, tangible reminders of a painful past that had been largely ignored or actively suppressed in mainstream historical narratives. As historian Roxanne Dunbar-Ortiz points out in her book, An Indigenous Peoples’ History of the United States, "The myth of discovery is pervasive and deeply embedded in U.S. national identity… the invasion is not acknowledged as such." For the descendants of Acoma, the statues were a particularly cruel affront, literally casting in bronze the image of the man who ordered the mutilation of their ancestors.
The debate intensified in the late 20th and early 21st centuries, fueled by a broader national reckoning with monuments to controversial historical figures, particularly those linked to slavery and indigenous subjugation. In 1998, on the 400th anniversary of Oñate’s arrival, an unknown individual surreptitiously sawed off the right foot of the Oñate statue in Alcalde, a stark, visceral act of defiance that echoed the historical atrocity. The foot was later replaced, but the message was clear.
The national surge in protests against racial injustice in 2020 brought the Oñate controversy to a boiling point. The removal of Confederate monuments across the South emboldened activists in the Southwest to demand the removal of Oñate’s statues. In June 2020, during a protest at the Oñate statue in Albuquerque, a confrontation escalated into violence, resulting in a shooting that injured one person. The city subsequently removed the statue, citing public safety concerns and the need for a more inclusive representation of history. The El Paso statue was also removed that year.
The removal of these statues, however, did not resolve the underlying tension. It merely shifted the debate from public squares to historical archives and cultural institutions. For some, removing the statues is an attempt to "erase history," to deny the Spanish roots of the Southwest. For others, it is a necessary act of historical reckoning, a recognition that public monuments should reflect shared values and honor all communities, not just the victors of conquest.
Juan de Oñate, therefore, remains a potent, if tragic, legend in America. He is not a legend of heroic virtue in the traditional sense, but a legend forged in the crucible of conflicting narratives. He represents the uncomfortable truth that America’s foundations are complex, built upon layers of ambition and violence, faith and subjugation. His story forces us to confront the enduring legacy of colonialism and the ongoing struggle for historical justice.
The question of how to remember figures like Oñate is not easily answered. Should monuments be preserved as educational tools, contextualized to reflect the full, often brutal, truth of their actions? Or should they be removed from public spaces that implicitly glorify them, and instead relegated to museums where their stories can be told with nuance and critical analysis?
Ultimately, the legend of Juan de Oñate is a mirror, reflecting America’s evolving understanding of itself. It is a reminder that history is not static, but a living, breathing narrative constantly being reshaped by new perspectives, new voices, and a deeper commitment to truth. The footprints of the conqueror remain, not just in the ancient trails he blazed, but in the ongoing, vital conversation about who we choose to remember, how we choose to remember them, and what those choices say about the America we strive to be. His story, with all its discomfort and pain, is an indispensable part of the rich, complicated tapestry of American legends.
