The Qing Dynasty is about to end

Chapter 973 Now is the time for the American people to resist Mexican colonial rule!

In the golden hall of the National Palace in Mexico City, President Díaz's fingernails dug deeply into the armrests of a Brazilian mahogany chair. He stared at two impeccably dressed foreigners opposite him—American Minister Thomas Hubbard tapping his ivory cane lightly on the marble floor, and British Minister John Spencer's silver pocket watch chain gleaming in the morning light.

“Mr. President,” Hubbard suddenly pointed his cane out the window, “did you hear those cheers? Those are your so-called ‘Mexican people’ celebrating becoming citizens of the Empire.”

Díaz felt a cold sweat break out on his back. Through the stained-glass windows, he could faintly hear shouts in Spanish from the National Palace Square: "No Mexico! We want to be Americans!" He turned to his Foreign Minister, Carlos Mendoza—a blond, blue-eyed white man speaking in hushed tones in English with the British Minister, a fawning smile on his lips.

Oh, this guy's an American too! Like the other "1%" in Mexico, he holds citizenship in both the United States and Mexico—which is common knowledge in Mexico! The top white elite are all white supremacists (Díaz, though of mixed European and Indigenous descent, is also a white supremacist), and the United States is the primary homeland of white supremacists in the Americas! Their love for America is understandable, and according to the U.S. Naturalization Act, white people can obtain citizenship unconditionally after residing in the U.S. for a certain number of years! In fact, the United States considers them its citizens or prospective citizens. Of course, Díaz doesn't have U.S. citizenship; he's of mixed European and Indigenous descent and doesn't qualify. It's infuriating—not because America is infuriating, but because Díaz hates his 50% Indigenous heritage inherited from his mother! If only he didn't have that 50%, he'd be a pure white man!

“Our government must protest the US military’s unauthorized crossing of the border.” Diaz straightened his back, his mixed-race face appearing particularly pale under the chandelier. “This violates international law.”

“International law?” Spencer suddenly slammed his pocket watch shut, the metallic clanging sound like a slap in the face. “I think you haven’t figured out your place yet. You’re not the president of the Mexican people, because there are no Mexican people in this country. There are only American people. People from East America or West America. Anyway, there are no Mexicans.”

The American minister nodded emphatically: "That's right! There are no Mexicans. More than 99% of the population of Mexico are Americans, and less than 1% are Mexicans. People like you, Mr. President, are Mexican colonizers riding on the necks of the vast majority of the American people!"

Ah, Diaz was speechless!

Mexicans were colonizers, while Americans were oppressed colonists. This logic seems to make sense!
The British minister pulled out a document and slammed it on the table. "This is an agreement among NATO member states, Mr. President. If you sign it, you will still be the President of Mexico, and Mexicans can continue to be colonizers, oppressing the American Empire; if you refuse," he said, giving a meaningful look to the fully armed Mexican National Palace Guard outside the door—all of them "particularly white" white men!

General Reyes slammed his hand on the conference table. This general, known for his brutal suppression of indigenous people, now looked like a true Mexican colonizer, roaring menacingly, "Sir, give the order! The Mexican army is ready to defend Mexican rule over this country!"

At that moment, the Mexican Foreign Minister Mendoza handed him a pen. Díaz, seeing his pure white face, suddenly remembered the white priest from his childhood who had always called him a "bastard"—now riding on his neck in a different way.

“I’ll sign.” Diaz grabbed the pen and signed his name on the agreement with trembling hands. “But please tell President Garfield that at least I,” his voice choked, “love the Republic of Mexico.”

A deafening explosion suddenly erupted outside the window. Spencer drew back the velvet curtains and saw a group of Native Americans smashing Aztec solar calendar sculptures with shovels in Constitution Square. "Look," he smiled, "the oppressed citizens of the Spanish American Empire are rebelling against Mexican colonial rule!"

President Diaz walked numbly to the balcony on the second floor of the National Palace, gripping the gilded railing tightly with both hands. A hot wind, carrying dust and the fury of "oppressed Americans," rushed towards him. His gaze passed over the ornate fountains and palm trees in the square, settling on the dark mass of people.

"No Mexico! We want to be Americans!"

"Dias, get out! Long live the Emperor!"

"The land belongs to the farmers! Mexico belongs to the Americans!"

A deafening roar assaulted his eardrums like a tidal wave. In the square, countless Indians, mixed-race laborers, and slum dwellers waved the black, red, and yellow tricolor flag and sang "The Song of the Americans," while the Mexican flag—the green, white, and red tricolor—was trampled underfoot, covered in mud and spittle.

Díaz's knuckles were white, his fingernails almost digging into the railing. He remembered standing here in his youth, waving to the cheering crowd. Back then, he was "a good student of President Juárez, the savior of Mexico," a hero who overthrew the reactionary Emperor Maximilian I. But now, he was a "Mexican colonizer," a "Mexican colonizer who oppresses Americans!"
"Mr President."

A cold voice rang in his ear. American Minister Thomas Hubbard had somehow appeared beside him, a mocking smile playing on his lips.

"What are you still hesitating about?"

Diaz did not turn around, but stared intently at the crowd in the square.

"They...are my compatriots."

“Compatriots?” Hubbard scoffed. “Look at the flags they’re holding, listen to their slogans—they’re not Mexicans anymore, they’re Americans!”

Diaz felt as if an invisible hand was clenching his heart. He knew Hubbard was telling the truth.

“Mr. President, you must order a crackdown immediately.” Hubbard’s voice was low and cold. “Otherwise, you will no longer be the president of Mexico, but a pathetic wretch abandoned by the people. NATO does not need a pathetic wretch!”

Diaz closed his eyes.

"General Reyes."

Defense Secretary Reyes, standing behind him, shuddered and instinctively straightened his back.

"president?"

Diaz took a deep breath and slowly opened his eyes.

"Suppress them."

Reyes was stunned.

"Mr. President, you mean..."

"Suppress them!" Diaz whirled around, his eyes bloodshot. "They're not Mexicans! They're all Americans! Shoot! Shoot!"

Shoot at Americans.
Reyes shuddered, somewhat hesitant, but he swallowed hard, gave a stiff salute, and turned to leave quickly.

Ten minutes later, the guards of the National Palace rushed onto the square, the sound of rifles being cocked crisp and cold.

"Bang! Bang! Bang!"

Gunshots rang out, and the crowd screamed and scattered in panic. Blood splattered on the marble of the fountain, staining the fragments of the Mexican flag red. Diaz stood on the balcony, watching all this, his lips twitching, as if he were laughing or crying at the same time.

“Mr. President, you made the right choice.” Hubbard patted him on the shoulder. “The Republic of Mexico will thank you.”

Diaz did not answer.

He just looked at the corpses in the square, at those who had once shouted "We are Americans," now lying in pools of blood, being dragged away like garbage.

“Yes…” he murmured to himself, “At least the Republic of Mexico… will thank me.”

The sea breeze in Los Agnellitos harbor carried the smell of gunpowder. Sixteen-year-old Pedro, the "American Indian boy," gazed at the sea teeming with cargo ships, the black, red, and yellow tricolor flags blazing like flames in the morning sun. He clutched the land deed he had just received—fifty acres. Being an American was better after all! A feeling that could be called "patriotism" surged within him for the first time.

"Hurry up!" an American officer shouted in broken Spanish. "Everyone go and get your True Testament textbooks! Americans must be literate!" Pedro touched the literacy textbook tucked into his waistband. The seven Chinese characters "Citizen of the American Empire" embossed in gold on the cover were more dazzling than any church gold leaf he had ever seen.

On the distant horizon, another troop transport ship was cleaving through the azure waves. On deck, American soldiers from Idaho sang military songs, their resounding voices reaching Pedro's ears, instantly igniting an urge to fight alongside his compatriots.

In the port square, a huge black, red, and yellow tricolor flag fluttered in the wind, while Mexico's green, white, and red tricolor flag was carelessly discarded on the muddy ground and trampled by countless bare feet.

"Line up! Line up! Everyone register in order!"

In front of the True Covenant Church, officials from the Imperial Ministry of Revenue sat behind makeshift wooden tables, facing a long, seemingly endless queue. Native Americans, mixed-race farmers, fishermen, miners… they were dressed in tattered clothes, but their eyes shone with hope.

"Name?"

Pedro Sánchez.

"age?"

"22 is old."

"Belief?"

"True Covenantists!"

The official nodded, stamped a piece of cardboard with his seal, and handed it to Pedro.

"Congratulations, citizen Pedro Sánchez, you are now a legal citizen of the American Empire."

Pedro took the paper with trembling hands, tears welling up in his eyes.

"Am I... really a U.S. citizen who owns 50 acres of land?"

“Of course!” the official smiled and pointed to the recruitment office on the other side of the port. “If you’re willing to join the army, you can get an extra 50 acres!”

Without a word, Pedro, clutching his citizenship certificate, rushed towards the recruitment office. It was already packed with young people, who held aloft their newly acquired citizenship certificates and shouted:

"Fight for the Emperor! Fight for the Land!"

On the docks of the port, Imperial engineers were directing the new citizens in building a temporary pier. Transport ships were moored in the nearshore waters, unloading crates of rifles, ammunition, and uniforms.

"Hurry! Hurry!" shouted an American officer in broken Spanish. "The Imperial army is about to land! We're going to liberate all of Mexico!"

Pedro squeezed into the conscription line, his heart pounding. He glanced back at the harbor; the sunlight shimmered on the sea, making it look as if it were covered in gold.

“Pedro!” His friend Juan squeezed through the line, waving a piece of paper excitedly. “Look! I’ve been assigned to a farm in Idaho!”

Pedro grinned.

"After I finish fighting, I want to go too!"

Juan patted him on the shoulder: "Remember, we are Americans now! No longer Mexican livestock!"

Pedro nodded emphatically.

"Yes! We are Americans!"

In the distance, the Imperial military band played the "Emperor's March," its majestic melody echoing over the harbor.

The colonial rule in Mexico has ended.

A new era for the American Empire has begun.

(End of this chapter)