A Puerto Rican friend once told me that one of her earliest memories of school in the island was of a teacher showing a map to the class and explaining that “Puerto Rico is a tiny island, the smallest island in the Greater Antilles.” Thus were reduced to nothingness the 1,500 years of Puerto Rican history in the mind of one of its young citizens.
“Not only is it easy to lie with maps, it’s essential,” writes Mark Monmonier (p.1).* As representations of three dimensional realities, maps need to distort them in order to be manageable and useful. These distortions are the result of certain decisions, and those decisions carry political weight. Maps are not neutral.
Digital cartography, Monmonier further explains, has democratized what once was a very specialized craft. But, mind you, it has also made dilettante cartographers more vulnerable to the backstage doings of “programmers, marketing experts, and other anonymous middlemen” (p. 2).
Map distortions, however, can be put to interesting uses. In “Visualizing Sovereignty,” Yarimar Bonilla and Max Hantel (2016) walk us through the “mangle” (Presner!**) of mapping Caribbean political history digitally. In order to represent how the concept of sovereignty played out in the region, they developed a series of maps that kept getting closer to a dynamic and open-ended understanding of independence and self-determination –an understanding hardly conveyed by canonical political science and geographical borders.
Bonilla and Hantel played with size, color and scale; they made all islands equal in size in order to disrupt “the equation of smallness with inferiority and the analytical irrelevance usually attributed to those residing in a ‘small place'” (oh would my Puerto Rican friend love this map!). In the end, their work seriously questions the political canon by demonstrating that sovereignty cannot be equated with territorial independence, and it is certainly not a linear process.
The intersection of cartography and the digital world has the potential to profoundly revise and enrich political concepts that have become static and lost explanatory power. Digital cartography may also radically change our understanding of historical processes. In Slave Revolt in Jamaica, 1760-1761, Vincent Brown and his team have created a dynamic spatial reconstruction of the 1760s Jamaican slave insurgency that reveals strategy, planning and coordination. The colonial record, by contrast, brushes off the revolt as a random series of skirmishes.
While imperialistic history distorts or buries “non-white” history, Google Earth diffuses and dissolves “non-white” places (“Dividing lines,” Mayukh 2017). Google Earth’s unmarked territories are akin to the treasure of unmarked histories that digital cartography may reconstruct.
As I look for a map to illustrate this post, I browse through the Benson Latin American Collection of maps drawn by native Mexicans under Spanish colonial occupation, and I wonder what would colonial maps look like had they been drawn by Spanish women-settlers of Perú, by Aztec female healers or by Ghanaian women forcibly working on the sugarcane plantations of the not so small island of Puerto Rico. Will digital cartography help us visualize that?

Unidentified, “[Mapa de Santiago Tecali y sus alrededores],” University of Texas Libraries LLILAS/Benson Latin American Collection Exhibitions, accessed September 26, 2021 https://utlibrariesbenson.omeka.net/items/show/70
* Monmonier, Mark. (1996). “Introduction.” How to Lie with Maps. 2nd ed. The University of Chicago Press.
** Presner, Todd. (2015). “Critical Theory and the Mangle of Digital Humanities.” In P. Svensson and D. T. Goldberg, Between Humanities and the Digital (pp. 55–67). The MIT Press.


