One hundred and one years ago, as the U.S. approached the Mexican War of 1846, a Democratic editor found a defiant and memorable phrase: "Manifest Destiny." The phrase fitted the temper of the times, and salved the country's conscience: the U.S. was not really hijacking California from Mexico. It was destiny.
Destiny went west. It gathered in Alaska by peaceful purchase, and Hawaii by annexation. But the real diamond of the Pacific, the Philippine Archipelago, was not for sale. It belonged to Spain, a backward oppressor. With a deep breath and a fierce face, Manifest Destiny hitched up its pants and went to war—for "Cuba libre" and a free Philippines.
This week, after a disappointing, 48-year adventure in tempered colonialism 6,965 miles from home, Destiny vacated its western terminus. The U.S. was the first great power in its right mind which had ever kept a promise to free a colony. But the power was happy to do it for several reasons.
The Wrong Door. The promise of freedom had been freely and publicly made—and the U.S. had always intended to keep it. There were also economic reasons. The "illimitable" China market, to which the Philippines were to be the "open door," had fizzled. In 1920, the best year of the China trade, it totaled less than $150 million—about two-thirds of Macy's 1945 sales. Philippine trade had climbed to sixth in the U.S. books, but duty-free Philippine products, such as sugar, had duplicated U.S. products to their hurt.
Spiritually, the U.S. seemed to have added little but jazz, a love of fast cars, slang and zoot suits upon the Spanish, Malayan, Chinese, Mohammedan and native cultures already oppressing the passive and indolent Filipinos. Politically, Destiny had been more successful. The Philippine Government was a textbook democracy.
In its practical works, the U.S. had shone. Before the war, the Philippines had over 3,500 miles of first-class roads, a modern educational program, and the largest duty-free market in the world. Filipino health was about, the best in the Orient: in 35 years, cholera, smallpox and bubonic plague had been wiped out; the population had increased from seven to 16 million, and the average height of the "tao" (John Doe) from 4 ft. 11 in. to 5 ft. 4 in.
These entries in the ledger gave the U.S. a warm sense of benevolence as it closed the books on July 4, 1946.
Renunciation. Europe and Asia, more interested than ever in what the U.S. was up to, would watch the renunciation ceremonies in Manila with sidelong intensity. In a temporary grandstand just outside the old, grey Intramuros, in a welter of tropic steam and emotion, there would be excitement which many a straw-hatted Filipino could feel to his heels.