How the Villegas Clan Climbed the Colonial Ladder

Let’s start with a simple question: why are we talking about noble families in a corner of Mexico most people can’t even find on a map? It’s not exactly Versailles, is it? But bear with me, because the story of the Leóns, Castillos, de la Motas, Tapias, Ángeles, and Villegas is as tangled and dramatic as a season finale of a telenovela. Throw in a Spanish conquest, a few noble titles, and a healthy dose of marital intrigue, and you’ve got yourself a historical soap opera worth the watch.

Picture the towns of Ixtlahuaca, Atlacomulco, Temascalcingo, Jiquipilco, and Jocotitlán during the 16th century. A patchwork of bustling indigenous communities, ruled not by one bigwig in a fancy hat, but by a small army of them. Every town seemed to have its own chieftain strutting about, proclaiming this or that. It’s almost comical to imagine a noble for every corner shop, arguing over who had the right to park their horse where.

But then the Spanish arrived, bringing with them diseases, weapons, and a language that turned local names into Castilian curiosities. Suddenly, the chieftains weren't just local big deals—they were rubbing shoulders with empire. Well, not directly with the king, but you get the idea.

Here’s where it gets interesting. At some point, these noble families acquired Castilian surnames. Was it a gift? A bribe? A clerical error? Who knows. Historian Silvana Cruz has some thoughts, pointing to a roll call of chieftains-turned-conquistadors who were granted titles after a bit of gallivanting about in the Bajío. And by gallivanting, I mean marching into new territories, waving flags, and claiming lands for the Spanish Crown, all while probably taking a break for tortillas and tamales.

Names like Fernando de Tapia, Juan de la Luna, and Diego Begón pop up on this noble roster, each with a story likely full of swashbuckling bravado. They weren’t just handed titles for their stunning good looks, though. These men earned their place as "relatives of Águila Real," a nobleman of Xilotepec, by doing the dirty work of colonial expansion. And some of these surnames—De los Ángeles, Granada, León, and De la Mota—seem to have stuck, cementing their owners as part of a newly minted colonial elite.

Now, let’s get to the juicy part: marriage. Forget romance; this was all about strategy. The noble families of Atlacomulco, Temascalcingo, and Jocotitlán didn’t marry for love. They married for prestige, wealth, and a chance to keep their chieftain status intact.

Imagine a 17th-century wedding between a León and a Villegas. It wasn’t just a ceremony—it was a business merger. These unions were like early stock market trades, with dowries replacing shares. Families combined forces, ensuring their names stayed etched into the history books (and, presumably, the finest church registers). And the Villegas? Oh, they were the linchpin. They mixed with everyone, ensuring their surname became synonymous with aristocratic clout in Alto Lerma. This wasn’t just survival; it was brand management at its finest.

Where Time Stands Still... and the Spanish Took Over

Jocotitlán might sound like a cough syrup to the uninitiated but is, in fact, a cornerstone of history, teeming with drama, conquests, and an unrelenting battle for survival. It’s one of those places where you’re more likely to stumble upon a tale of intrigue than a decent cup of coffee—though, I hear, the local brew is quite good. Let’s take a journey into this historical maze where the Chichimecas, the Spanish, and a chap named Don Francisco de Villegas played starring roles.

The story begins, as most good ones do, with the Chichimecas. These folks weren’t exactly rolling into Jocotitlán with brochures for all-inclusive resorts. No, this was during the rise of Tula, the Toltec city that was the Las Vegas of its day: all lights, no substance. The Chichimecas, ever the opportunists, found themselves a nice spot in the central Mexican highlands. They probably thought they’d found paradise. And they had—until the Toltecs, Aztecs, and everyone else showed up to ruin their day.

Jocotitlán found itself awkwardly sandwiched between two powerhouse city-states: Xilotepec and Toluca. Think of it as the historical equivalent of living between two overly competitive neighbors who argue about whose hedge is taller. Neither side could resist harassing the poor Mazahua groups who called Jocotitlán home, which made life about as peaceful as a car race on a Sunday afternoon.

And then, like a sledgehammer through a greenhouse, the Triple Alliance smashed onto the scene. Led by the Aztecs, this coalition wasn't content with merely flexing its military muscle—they decided to conquer everything in sight, including Jocotitlán. It was during this period that a tlatoani, or local ruler, named Ocelotzin, held sway over the town. One imagines Ocelotzin sitting on his throne, perhaps wondering why he couldn’t have been born somewhere less stressful, like, say, Atlantis.

But any plans Ocelotzin had for peace or rebellion were promptly interrupted by an uninvited guest. And not just any guest—these were the Spaniards, wielding steel swords, alien diseases, and a disturbingly overdeveloped sense of entitlement.

The Spanish, ever the meticulous administrators of other people’s lands, wasted no time divvying up Jocotitlán like a pie at a family gathering. It fell to Don Francisco de Villegas, who was awarded the area as an encomienda. Now, if you’re unfamiliar with encomiendas, imagine someone handing you an entire town and saying, “Here, take care of this—but also squeeze it for all it’s worth.” Don Francisco, by all accounts, did just that until his death in 1552, at which point the town passed to his heir, Don Pedro de Villegas y Peralta.

The Villegas family wasn’t just about collecting taxes and converting the locals to Christianity. They also dabbled in a bit of legacy building. By granting the indigenous nobility Spanish surnames, they cleverly reshaped the social order. Suddenly, local leaders with surnames like “Tlacuache” found themselves rebranded as “de Villegas,” and voilà!—a new aristocracy was born. This was less about altruism and more about pragmatism. After all, keeping the locals happy—or at least less rebellious—was good business.

Now, here’s where things get properly interesting. Don Gabriel de Villegas, elected governor of Jocotitlán between 1576 and 1601, is one of those characters who could have walked straight out of a Shakespearean tragedy. Was he related to Don Nicolás de Villegas, another prominent local leader? The records are annoyingly vague, which makes historians scratch their heads and conspiracy theorists rub their hands with glee. But let’s be honest: in a town where the surname “de Villegas” was as common as potholes on a motorway, the odds of them being related are fairly high.

What’s fascinating is how these local rulers, armed with their shiny new Spanish surnames, managed to navigate colonial society. It’s like they were handed a key to the VIP lounge of the 16th century. But make no mistake: this wasn’t some rags-to-riches fairy tale. It was more like being promoted from rowing in the galley to steering the ship—still hard work, but at least you had a better view.

From Mud to Manor

It’s 16th-century Mexico, a land of sprawling jungles, towering volcanoes, and enough conquistadors to fill an entire season of Game of Thrones. It’s the early days of Spanish rule, and the encomienda system—essentially feudalism with a side order of conquest—is in full swing. In this world, titles were handed out like sweets at a birthday party, but the Mazahua people, with their deep roots in the highlands, weren’t just going to fade into the historical wallpaper. No, they adapted, evolved, and yes, inherited surnames from their colonial overlords.

And this is where it gets fascinating. Don Francisco de Villegas wasn’t just any old governor. He held the reins of Atlacomulco—a town that today produces Mexican presidents the way Italy produces espresso—in the years 1558, 1559, 1601, 1608, and 1610. That’s five terms in office. Five. In modern terms, he’d be the political equivalent of a Land Rover Defender: reliable, rugged, and seemingly impossible to retire.

But Don Francisco didn’t start life as a Villegas. No, that surname came courtesy of his encomendero, a certain Don Pedro de Villegas y Peralta. Now, why does that matter? Because in colonial New Spain, having the right surname wasn’t just about convenience—it was your golden ticket into the upper echelons of society. Imagine being handed the keys to a Bentley, not because you’ve earned it, but because your lord and master decided you looked the part. That’s the sort of power we’re talking about here.

It wasn’t just about the name, though. The Villegas family—Mazahua nobility, mind you—was tied up in a web of alliances, marriages, and strategic genealogies that would make even the Windsors blush. Take, for instance, Doña Isabel de Villegas, a chieftain herself, who married a Spaniard named Lucas González. Their son, Bernabé de Villegas, shows up in the parish records of Jocotitlán in 1601, a living testament to the fusion of Mazahua and Spanish lineage.

Now, let’s pause for a moment to marvel at the audacity of it all. These Mazahua nobles, with their newly acquired surnames, weren’t just surviving—they were thriving. They understood that in the cutthroat world of colonial politics, lineage was everything. Want a noble title? Prove your genealogy. Want to keep your land? Better have the right connections. It’s like trying to get into an exclusive club, but instead of a membership card, you need a family tree that goes back several centuries and preferably includes someone with a sword.

And what about the towns of Atlacomulco and Jocotitlán? Well, they weren’t just dots on a map—they were strategic powerhouses. Temascalcingo, Atlacomulco, and Jocotitlán were all interconnected, not just geographically, but through a tapestry of Mazahua families, all of whom seemed to have adopted the Villegas surname. Was it coincidence? Hardly. It was a calculated move, a way to cement their place in a society that valued bloodlines as much as it valued gold.

But let’s not romanticize it too much. The encomienda system was brutal, a system that exploited indigenous people in the name of progress. Yet, amidst this grim reality, the Mazahua nobility found a way to carve out their own space, blending their heritage with the tools of their colonizers.

Who Were the Real Villegas?

When Don Pedro shuffled off this mortal coil, it seems his shadow loomed long over Jocotitlán. Within six years of his passing, records of baptisms started cropping up like mushrooms after a rainy season. But these weren’t just any baptisms. They bore the name "Villegas," which, as surnames go, wasn’t handed out willy-nilly. Oh no, it was reserved for a select few—namely, those who had the right combination of DNA and political clout.

One such bearer of the name was Don Gabriel de Villegas, a chap who found himself at the helm of Jocotitlán's indigenous council in 1576. A governor, no less! Fast forward a few decades, and another Villegas pops up: Doña Isabel de Villegas, recorded in 1601. Coincidence? Hardly. The evidence suggests that these two were related—perhaps father and daughter. After all, you don’t just slap on a surname like Villegas unless you’ve got the pedigree to back it up.

Let’s jump ahead to 1684. By this time, over a century had passed since Don Gabriel was running the show, and yet his name still echoed through Jocotitlán. Enter Don Nicolás de Villegas, a man with a flair for documenting his life and assets. In his will, Nicolás lovingly refers to his grandmother, Doña Isabel, as his "oldest ancestor." And here’s where it gets spicy: she left him a house and some magueys.

If you’re not familiar with magueys, they’re the plant equivalent of owning a classic Aston Martin. They’re versatile, valuable, and a symbol of status. They also suggest that Doña Isabel wasn’t just some distant relative but a key figure in Nicolás’s lineage. And Nicolás’s house wasn’t just any house. According to his will, it once served as the residence of mayors, a position he claimed was passed down from his grandmother.

If we’re to believe Nicolás (and let’s face it, he had every reason to exaggerate), his house was more than a dwelling. It was a monument to his family’s history and political legacy. This implies that Don Gabriel de Villegas, his probable great-grandfather, wasn’t just a governor; he was the patriarch of a dynasty that kept the Villegas name relevant for generations.

There’s something almost poetic about the idea. A house that once hosted mayors, passed down like an heirloom, serving as a tangible link between the past and the present. The magueys? Well, they’re the cherry on top—a reminder that wealth isn’t just about land and titles but about the little things that tie us to our heritage.

The Elite Family Who Shaped a Nation

Our protagonist, Don Nicolás de Villegas, came from a parentage that’s the genealogical equivalent of a Picasso painting—beautifully chaotic and tantalizingly ambiguous. His mother, Doña Ana de Villegas, seems to have been well-documented enough to warrant her place in the family tree. His father, Don Francisco Luis García, however, is a shadowy figure, more like a whispered rumor at the local tavern than a solid historical entity. Was he Spanish? Possibly. A trader? Maybe. A conquistador moonlighting as a Sunday preacher? Who knows? What we do know is that his names drip with Iberian flair, which is about as solid as evidence gets in these parts.

Don Nicolás tied the knot with Doña Isabel María de León, a woman whose title—chief of Jocotitlán—sounds impressive enough to turn heads at any 17th-century dinner party. Her pedigree was equally intriguing: daughter of Doña María de León and Don Baltazar Antonio, the latter a man whose own social standing remains a delightful enigma. Was he a Spanish hidalgo, or just someone who told excellent stories about Spanish hidalgos? The jury is still out.

Don Nicolás’s legacy includes not just titles but an inventory of tangible assets. Chief among these? Half a table of magueys. Yes, half. Was it shared? Split down the middle after a domestic quarrel? Or just a tax-dodging loophole? We’ll never know. What we do know is that it resided in the home of his aunt, Doña Cecilia de Villegas, adding a touch of familial coziness to what is otherwise a rather cold, administrative detail.

No family history worth its salt would be complete without a sibling drama. Enter Juan de Villegas, Don Nicolás’s brother and another key player in this epic saga of caciques. As a direct descendant of Don Gabriel de Villegas (great-grandfather) and Doña Isabel Villegas (grandmother), Juan embodied the kind of aristocratic prestige that could get you the best table at the local tavern—or a starring role in the local gossip circuit.

Juan married Doña Isabel María, another high-ranking name in Jocotitlán, and fathered four children: Lucas, Juliana, Francisco, and Nicolasa de Villegas. The latter of these, Nicolasa, comes with her own subplot: one of her daughters went on to marry into another cacique family. Was this a love match, or the 17th-century equivalent of a corporate merger? Either way, it solidified the Villegas dynasty’s grip on the sociopolitical landscape of Jocotitlán.

When Nobles Wed

Don Nicolás and Doña Isabel, our noble protagonists, managed to produce six offspring—each a cacique, or indigenous chief, in their own right. There’s Don Vicente, Don Juan, Doña Úrsula, Don Matías, Doña Pascuala, and Doña Melchora. With names like these, you can almost hear the rustle of silk cloaks and the clinking of silver goblets. But these weren’t just children; they were political pawns, carefully maneuvered across the chessboard of colonial society.

The sons, for the most part, secured alliances with families of other caciques in nearby towns—places like Temascalcingo, Jilotepec, and Atlacomulco, where one assumes the weddings were lavish affairs, complete with roasted meats, barrels of pulque, and enough pomp to put a royal ball to shame.

And then there’s Don Juan, the odd one out. He chose—or perhaps was nudged—into a life of religious contemplation as a bachelor in minor orders. A noble move, quite literally, as it ensured one less Villegas would be dabbling in the dicey politics of matrimony.

The daughters, however, were a different story. Úrsula, Pascuala, and Melchora were pivotal players, wielding their inherited surname like a badge of honor—or perhaps a bargaining chip. Upon marrying Spanish men, these ladies—sharp as obsidian blades—ensured their unions served the greater Villegas agenda.

Of course, there was a catch. The moment the ink dried on their marriage contracts, their illustrious Villegas surname was replaced by their husbands’. That’s just how the patriarchy worked back then. But don’t be fooled—these women were no mere spectators. By passing on their inherited nobility to their children, they ensured the Villegas legacy would persist, even if the name didn’t.

Here’s the thing about colonial Mexico: it was a complicated social labyrinth where bloodlines, surnames, and alliances mattered more than the thickness of your tortilla. And the Villegas clan knew this game inside out. They married their children into families of equal or greater social standing, refusing to dilute their noble lineage with riffraff from the lower classes.

Not everyone was thrilled about this intermingling of indigenous nobility and Spanish blood, mind you. Among the indigenous elite, there were murmurs—probably over bowls of steaming pozole—that such unions were a betrayal of tradition. But Don Nicolás and his brood were playing the long game. They weren’t interested in staying stuck in the past; they had their sights set firmly on the future.

Here’s where things get deliciously ironic. Marrying Spaniards, while initially frowned upon, turned out to be a masterstroke. It didn’t instantly grant the Villegas family legal recognition within colonial institutions—that would have been too easy. But it did buy them something far more valuable: time. By the time the second generation came of age, the blending of Spanish customs with indigenous traditions had become the norm.

The Villegas clan embraced this cultural amalgamation with open arms. They donned the trappings of Spanish nobility—think ruffled collars, polished boots, and whatever other fripperies the Europeans deemed fashionable—while maintaining their indigenous roots. And in doing so, they carved out a place for themselves within the ever-shifting social hierarchy of New Spain.

By the time Don Juan’s and Don Nicolás’s children were tying the knot, the Villegas chiefdom was a well-oiled machine. Marriage alliances expanded their influence into neighboring towns, and their meticulously maintained exclusivity kept the lower classes at bay. It wasn’t just about love (was it ever?); these marriages were contracts, as binding and strategic as any treaty signed by European monarchs.

And so, the Villegas family thrived. They shored up their privileges, solidified their standing, and ensured their name—if not literally, then metaphorically—would echo through the cobblestone streets of Jocotitlán for generations.

Lessons from the Villegas Playbook

What can we learn from the Villegas family’s rise to prominence? For one, never underestimate the power of a good marriage alliance. It’s not just about merging families; it’s about consolidating power, securing influence, and occasionally ruffling the feathers of your critics.

Secondly, adaptability is key. The Villegas clan didn’t cling to outdated traditions; they embraced the new order, blending Spanish customs with indigenous roots to stay ahead of the curve.

And finally, don’t let a name define you. Even as the Villegas surname faded into the background, their legacy endured, carried forward by the very marriages that, on paper, seemed to erase them.

In the end, it’s a story as old as time: a family determined to rise above their circumstances, one strategically planned wedding at a time. And whether you’re a 17th-century cacique or a modern-day socialite, the lesson remains the same—always play the long game.

In-text Citation: (Ramírez González & López Alcántara, 2018, pp. 48-53)