Salvador Cortés Rubio was relieving himself on the side of Highway 77 in Ardmore, Oklahoma, on June 7, 1931, when a car pulled up behind his Ford coupe. Two white men got out of the car and asked Cortés what he was doing. Although Cortés lived in Kansas, he knew enough about the South to button his pants and run back toward the car, where his 18-year-old brother and another friend were waiting. Just as Cortés Rubio got back to the Ford, he heard two shots and then the words, “Put your hands up.” Cortés Rubio slowly lifted his arms, looking in horror at the two lifeless bodies inside the car.
Cortés Rubio’s brother, Emilio, and their friend Manuel Gomez were killed by two off-duty police officers, Deputy Sheriffs William Guess and Cecil Crosby. Their murders were among thousands at the hands of police, tasked with enforcing even minor transgressions of racial norms in the South. The violence directed against people of color such as Cortés Rubio and Gomez was a violation of the founding principles of the United States, for each victim was denied the “unalienable rights” of “life” and “liberty” promised in the Declaration of Independence.
The history of the United States is often told as a centuries-long fight to fulfill those founding principles, with two major turning points: the Civil War, when the abolition of slavery enshrined those “unalienable rights” in law, and the Civil Rights Movement, which helped make those legal guarantees a lived reality.
As recent scholarship has emphasized, the architects of these shifts were ordinary Americans—the enslaved people who escaped to Union lines before and during the Civil War, and later, the African Americans who boycotted the segregated buses in Montgomery, Alabama; who sat at segregated lunch counters in Greensboro, North Carolina; and who marched on Washington, D.C.
Indeed, the young men murdered in Ardmore, Oklahoma, were also part of that broader movement to push the United States to fulfill its founding principles. But unlike the enslaved people escaping during the Civil War or the African Americans marching on Washington in 1963, they were not Americans. They were Mexican citizens, attending college in the United States.
In response to their murder, the Mexican Embassy in Washington pressured the State Department to investigate. Gov. William H. Murray of Oklahoma tried to defuse the controversy by offering two $15,000 college scholarships in the name of the murdered students. But the Mexican press ridiculed this gesture as “Compensation, Yankee Style.” El Universal Gráfico concluded in December, “There can be no doubt that the machinery of justice functions badly, very badly, in Yankeeland.”
The injustice of the Jim Crow South, so easy to ignore within the United States, became a source of embarrassment when aired on the international stage. The Mexican government demanded compensation, and the U.S. Congress responded by passing a bill on Feb. 25, 1933, to offer $30,000 to the families of the deceased as an “act of grace.”
Although foreigners and foreign nations rarely figure in the history of the United States’ founding principles, the family members of the murdered young men had the leverage to fight for justice precisely because they were citizens of another country. From the United States’ founding, foreigners could, and often did, rouse public opinion against inconsistencies that Americans preferred to ignore.

A portrait of former slave Felix Haywood, who had escaped to Mexico for emancipation, seen in San Antonio on June 16, 1937.Library of Congress
