The Priestly Rebel Who Gave Spain a Mexican Headache

Let’s talk about Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla, a man as complex as he was revolutionary, and whose life story has been wrapped, almost strangled, in so much myth and patriotic embroidery that getting to the core of who he truly was is about as difficult as unearthing a lost sock from a tumble-dryer. But if you’re willing to rummage through dusty archives and stacks of yellowing papers, you'll find a story worthy of a Hollywood blockbuster—or at the very least, a ten-part Netflix drama that leaves you simultaneously inspired and exasperated.

Where do we start with Hidalgo? His full name is so long it might as well be a prayer: Miguel Gregorio Antonio Ignacio Hidalgo y Costilla Gallaga. Imagine being called on to dinner as a child—poor lad must’ve arrived at the table famished just from hearing his name. Hidalgo was born into what you'd charitably call a "modest" family. His father, Cristóbal, and his mother, Ana María, weren’t exactly rolling in silver coins, and neither were they impoverished enough to be the kind of downtrodden, Dickensian peasants you'd feel compelled to write heartfelt poems about. They were squarely middle-class by colonial standards, which in 18th-century Mexico meant they had enough to get by but were far from being dripping with wealth.

Hidalgo was the second son, a position historically best known for having to tolerate all the hand-me-downs from the first-born. But the hand-me-downs didn’t last long, because his older brother José Joaquín died, and in a bizarre twist of fate or clerical convenience, Miguel was made the priest of Dolores. Yes, in the classic tradition of family businesses, Miguel inherited his brother’s job—not a mechanic’s shop or a bakery, mind you, but a full-fledged priesthood. Talk about occupational pressure.

And let me tell you, he wasn't the typical priest. No, he wasn’t just rattling off prayers or murmuring platitudes to packed pews every Sunday. Hidalgo had the audacity to be different, to get his hands dirty with the mundane concerns of economics. He spearheaded local industry, introducing silk production and pottery-making in a bid to boost the economy for the indigenous folks of Dolores. You’ve got to admire that: a priest-turned-entrepreneur, all in a cassock. Imagine your local vicar handing out business loans alongside Sunday blessings. It’d be a scandal—or perhaps a revival, depending on your views.

Yet, despite all the silk-spinning and pottery-making, Hidalgo’s story is typically painted in broad, dramatic brushstrokes focusing on his role as the "Father of Mexican Independence." His name is invoked like a sacred spell during annual festivities, and he is mythologized as the fearless leader who rang the church bell in Dolores in 1810, summoning a revolution against the Spanish. And this is where history gets muddled. The official narrative—glossy, bulletproof, and taught to schoolchildren—has Hidalgo marching heroically through the annals of independence. But the truth, as ever, is far more complicated and, frankly, more interesting.

You see, before Hidalgo was charging forward with flaming rhetoric and angry mobs, he was conspiring quietly, albeit not very discreetly, in the parlors of Querétaro. There, he rubbed shoulders with a ragtag mix of insurrectionists: the corregidor Miguel Domínguez, his firebrand wife Josefa Ortiz, the charismatic Captain Ignacio Allende, and the perpetually worried Juan Aldama, to name a few. Together, they brewed rebellion like a pot of strong, bitter coffee. The lawyers, priests, and captains who whispered treasonous plans over wine had no inkling that their dreams of independence would ignite into the Grito de Dolores, a cry that still reverberates through Mexican history like a well-aimed cannonball.

But let's talk documents. Yes, those lifeless pieces of parchment, stained with ink and time, which hold more drama than the most twisted soap opera. In the Inquisition fund, for instance, there lies a gem: a sermon honoring Hidalgo's exploits. Written in 1812 and printed by José María Revelo, it was delivered to the American National Congress—otherwise known as the Congress of Anáhuac, Mexico’s first stab at self-governance. This sermon speaks of a land groaning under Spanish tyranny, poetic language drenched in anguish and barely suppressed rage. Its author, Velasco, practically genuflects at Hidalgo’s memory, calling him an “immortal hero” and a man of divine inspiration. If there’s ever been a glowing eulogy that bordered on fanfiction, this was it.

Velasco’s text is brimming with fiery prose: he accuses the Spaniards of arrogance, describes the Mexican people's suffering as a wound so deep that they "kissed the hand that wounded" them. It paints Hidalgo as a messianic figure, the savior who dared to tear away the dark veil of oppression. Velasco didn’t just write a sermon; he erected a monument to Hidalgo in words, laying it thick with gratitude and righteous fury.

But not all the documents are so flattering. Consider a rather more sobering artifact: an edict from the Inquisition dated October 13, 1810, which condemned Hidalgo for heresy and apostasy. Yes, this same brave, nation-saving priest was branded a dangerous heretic. It’s the sort of paradox that makes history a deliciously unpredictable banquet: one day, you're a hero, the next, a villain in clerical black.

Other papers from this turbulent period reveal Hidalgo’s strategic thinking, such as his 1810 proclamation declaring the freedom of slaves—a decision as bold as it was radical. Or the decree issued alongside Allende and Rayón, sternly ordering the arrest of anyone conducting unauthorized searches. It’s all there in ink: proclamations of freedom, pragmatic orders for war, even an inventory of abandoned insurgent documents. These papers are like breadcrumbs in the forest of history, showing us the humanity and contradictions of a man who was more than just a statue to drape flags around.

So, Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla—hero, heretic, priest, revolutionary, silk merchant. His life and legacy are a puzzle assembled from fragmented documents and impassioned testimonies, a story at once vivid and elusive. And perhaps that’s the most fitting tribute to the Father of Mexican Independence. He wasn’t a demigod, but a flawed human being who dreamed too big for his cassock, who failed and triumphed in equal measure, and who left behind not just a nation, but a cacophony of questions and contradictions that echo to this very day.

Source: Archivo General de la Nación. “EXTRAORDINARIOS DOCUMENTOS DE MIGUEL HIDALGO EN EL ARCHIVO GENERAL DE LA NACIÓN.” gob.mx, http://www.gob.mx/agn/es/articulos/extraordinarios-documentos-de-miguel-hidalgo-en-el-archivo-general-de-la-nacion?idiom=es. Accessed 2 Nov. 2024.