INTRODUCTION: LOOKING BEYOND THE LOGO MAP

The only problem is

they don’t think much

about us

in America.

—Alfrredo Navarro Salanga, Manila

December 7, 1941. Japanese planes appear over a naval base on O‘ahu. They drop aerial torpedoes, which dive underwater, wending their way toward their targets. Four strike the USS Arizona, and the massive battleship heaves in the water. Steel, timber, diesel oil, and body parts fly through the air. The flaming Arizona tilts into the ocean, its crew diving into the oil-covered waters. For a country at peace, this is a violent awakening. It is, for the United States, the start of the Second World War.

There aren’t many historical episodes more firmly lodged in national memory than this one, the attack on Pearl Harbor. It’s one of the few events that most people can put a date to (December 7, the “date which will live in infamy,” as Franklin Delano Roosevelt put it). Hundreds of books have been written about it—the Library of Congress holds more than 350. And Hollywood has made movies, from the critically acclaimed From Here to Eternity (1953) starring Burt Lancaster to the critically derided Pearl Harbor (2001) starring Ben Affleck.

But what those films don’t show is what happened next. Nine hours after Japan attacked the territory of Hawai‘i, another set of Japanese planes came into view over another U.S. territory, the Philippines. As at Pearl Harbor, they dropped their bombs, hitting several air bases, to devastating effect.

The army’s official history of the war judges the Philippine bombing to have been just as disastrous as the Hawaiian one. At Pearl Harbor, the Japanese hobbled the United States’ Pacific fleet, sinking four battleships and damaging four others. In the Philippines, the attackers laid waste to the largest concentration of U.S. warplanes outside North America—the foundation of the Allies’ Pacific air defense.

The United States lost more than planes. The attack on Pearl Harbor was just that, an attack. Japan’s bombers struck, retreated, and never returned. Not so in the Philippines. There, the initial air raids were followed by more raids, then by invasion and conquest. Sixteen million Filipinos—U.S. nationals who saluted the Stars and Stripes and looked to FDR as their commander in chief—fell under a foreign power. They had a very different war than the inhabitants of Hawai‘i did.

Nor did it stop there. The event familiarly known as “Pearl Harbor” was in fact an all-out lightning strike on U.S. and British holdings throughout the Pacific. On a single day, the Japanese attacked the U.S. territories of Hawai‘i, the Philippines, Guam, Midway Island, and Wake Island. They also attacked the British colonies of Malaya, Singapore, and Hong Kong, and they invaded Thailand.

It was a phenomenal success. Japan never conquered Hawai‘i, but within months Guam, the Philippines, Wake, Malaya, Singapore, and Hong Kong all fell under its flag. Japan even seized the westernmost tip of Alaska, which it held for more than a year.

Looking at the big picture, you start to wonder if “Pearl Harbor”—the name of one of the few targets Japan didn’t invade—is really the best shorthand for the events of that fateful day.

“Pearl Harbor” wasn’t how people referred to the bombings, at least not at first. How to describe them, in fact, was far from clear. Should the focus be on Hawai‘i, the closest target to North America and the first bit of U.S. soil Japan had struck? Or should it be the Philippines, the far larger and more vulnerable territory? Or Guam, the one that surrendered nearly immediately? Or all the Pacific holdings, including the uninhabited Wake and Midway, together?

“The facts of yesterday and today speak for themselves,” Roosevelt said in his address to Congress—his “Infamy” speech. But did they? JAPS BOMB MANILA, HAWAII was the headline of a New Mexico paper; JAPANESE PLANES BOMB HONOLULU, ISLAND OF GUAM was that of one in South Carolina. Sumner Welles, FDR’s undersecretary of state, described the event as “an attack upon Hawaii and upon the Philippines.” Eleanor Roosevelt used a similar formulation in her radio address on the night of December 7, when she spoke of Japan “bombing our citizens in Hawaii and the Philippines.”

That was how the first draft of FDR’s speech went, too. It presented the event as a “bombing in Hawaii and the Philippines.” Yet Roosevelt toyed with that draft all day, adding things in pencil, crossing other bits out. At some point he deleted the prominent references to the Philippines and settled on a different description. The attack was, in his revised version, a “bombing in Oahu” or, later in the speech, “on the Hawaiian Islands.” He still mentioned the Philippines, but only as an item on a terse list of Japan’s other targets: Malaya, Hong Kong, Guam, the Philippines, Wake Island, and Midway—presented in that order. That list mingled U.S. and British territories together, giving no hint as to which was which.

Roosevelt’s December 7 draft of the “Infamy” speech. “Squadrons had commenced bombing in Hawaii and the Philippines” on the seventh line has been changed to “squadrons had commenced bombing in Oahu.”

Why did Roosevelt demote the Philippines? We don’t know, but it’s not hard to guess. Roosevelt was trying to tell a clear story: Japan had attacked the United States. But he faced a problem. Were Japan’s targets considered “the United States”? Legally, yes, they were indisputably U.S. territory. But would the public see them that way? What if Roosevelt’s audience didn’t care that Japan had attacked the Philippines or Guam? Polls taken slightly before the attack show that few in the continental United States supported a military defense of those remote territories.

Consider how similar events played out more recently. On August 7, 1998, al-Qaeda launched simultaneous attacks on U.S. embassies in Nairobi, Kenya, and Dar es Salaam, Tanzania. Hundreds died (mostly Africans), and thousands were wounded. But though those embassies were outposts of the United States, there was little public sense that the country itself had been harmed. It would take another set of simultaneous attacks three years later, on New York City and Washington, D.C., to provoke an all-out war.

An embassy is different from a territory, of course. Yet a similar logic held in 1941. Roosevelt no doubt noted that the Philippines and Guam, though technically part of the United States, seemed foreign to many. Hawai‘i, by contrast, was more plausibly “American.” Though it was a territory rather than a state, it was closer to North America and significantly whiter than the others. As a result, there was talk of eventual statehood (whereas the Philippines was provisionally on track for independence).

Yet even when it came to Hawai‘i, Roosevelt felt a need to massage the point. Though the territory had a substantial white population, nearly three-quarters of its inhabitants were Asians or Pacific Islanders. Roosevelt clearly worried that his audience might regard Hawai‘i as foreign. So on the morning of his speech, he made another edit. He changed it so that the Japanese squadrons had bombed not the “island of Oahu,” but the “American island of Oahu.” Damage there, Roosevelt continued, had been done to “American naval and military forces,” and “very many American lives” had been lost.

An American island, where American lives were lost—that was the point he was trying to make. If the Philippines was being rounded down to foreign, Hawai‘i was being rounded up to “American.”

“Yesterday, December 7, 1941—a date which will live in infamy—the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan” is how Roosevelt’s speech began. Note that in this formulation Japan is an “empire,” but the United States is not. Note also the emphasis on the date. It was only at Hawai‘i and Midway, of all Japan’s targets, that the vagaries of the international date line put the event on December 7. Everywhere else, it occurred on December 8, the date the Japanese use to refer to the attack.

Did Roosevelt underscore the date in a calculated attempt to make it all about Hawai‘i? Almost certainly not. Still, his “date which will live in infamy” phrasing further encouraged a narrow understanding of the event, one that left little room for places like the Philippines.

For Filipinos, this could be exasperating. A reporter described the scene in Manila as the crowds listened to Roosevelt’s speech over the radio. The president spoke of Hawai‘i and the many lives lost there. Yet he only mentioned the Philippines, the reporter noted, “very much in passing.” Roosevelt made the war “seem to be something close to Washington and far from Manila.”

This was not how it looked from the Philippines, where air-raid sirens continued to wail. “To Manilans the war was here, now, happening to us,” the reporter wrote. “And we have no air-raid shelters.”

Hawai‘i, the Philippines, Guam—it wasn’t easy to know how to think about such places or even what to call them. At the turn of the twentieth century, when many were acquired (Puerto Rico, the Philippines, Guam, American Samoa, Hawai‘i, Wake), their status was clear. They were, as Theodore Roosevelt and Woodrow Wilson unabashedly called them, colonies.

Yet that spirit of forthright imperialism didn’t last. Within a decade or two, after passions had cooled, the c-word became taboo. “The word colony must not be used to express the relationship which exists between our government and its dependent peoples,” an official admonished in 1914. Better to stick with a gentler term, used for them all: territories.

It was gentler because the United States had had territories before, such as Arkansas and Montana. Their place in the national firmament was a happy one. The western territories were the frontier, the leading edge of the country’s growth. They might not have had all the rights that states did, but once they were “settled” (i.e., populated by whites), they were welcomed fully into the fold as states.

But if places like the Philippines and Puerto Rico were territories, they were territories of a different sort. Unlike the western territories, they weren’t obviously slated for statehood. Nor were they widely understood to be integral parts of the nation.

A striking feature, in fact, of the overseas territories was how rarely they were even discussed. The maps of the country that most people had in their heads didn’t include places like the Philippines. Those mental maps imagined the United States to be contiguous: a union of states bounded by the Atlantic, the Pacific, Mexico, and Canada.

That is how most people envision the United States today, possibly with the addition of Alaska and Hawai‘i. The political scientist Benedict Anderson called it the “logo map.” Meaning that if the country had a logo, this shape would be it.

The problem with the logo map, however, is that it isn’t right. Its shape doesn’t match the country’s legal borders. Most obviously, the logo map excludes Hawai‘i and Alaska, which became states in 1959 and now appear on virtually all published maps of the country. But it’s also missing Puerto Rico, which, though not a state, has been part of the country since 1899. When have you ever seen a map of the United States that had Puerto Rico on it? Or American Samoa, Guam, the U.S. Virgin Islands, the Northern Marianas, or any of the other smaller islands the United States has annexed over the years?

In 1941, the year Japan attacked, a more accurate picture would have been this:

The Greater United States, 1941: (Top row, from left) Alaska, the mainland; (middle row) Guam, American Samoa, the Philippines, Hawai‘i, Puerto Rico, and the U.S. Virgin Islands; (bottom row, and not to scale) the Pacific outlying islands (left) and the Caribbean outlying islands (right)

What this map shows is the country’s full territorial extent: the “Greater United States,” as some at the turn of the twentieth century called it. In this view, the place normally referred to as the United States—the logo map—forms only a part of the country. A large and privileged part, to be sure, yet still only a part. Residents of the territories often call it the “mainland.”

I’ve drawn this map to show the inhabited parts of the Greater United States at the same scale and with equal-area projections. So Alaska isn’t shrunken down to fit into a small inset, as it is on most maps. It’s the right size—i.e., it’s huge. The Philippines, too, looms large, and the Hawaiian island chain—the whole chain, not just the eight main islands shown on most maps—if superimposed on the mainland would stretch almost from Florida to California.

This map also shows territory at the other end of the size scale. In the century before 1940, the United States claimed nearly a hundred uninhabited islands in the Caribbean and the Pacific. Some claims were forgotten in time—Washington could be surprisingly lax about keeping tabs. The twenty-two islands I’ve included are the ones that appeared in official tallies (the census or other governmental reports) in the 1940s. I’ve represented them as clusters of dots in the bottom left and right corners, though they’re so small that were I to draw them to scale, they’d be invisible.

Why include them at all? Was it important that the United States possessed, to take one example, Howland Island, a bare plot of land in the middle of the Pacific, only slightly larger than Central Park? Yes, it was. Howland wasn’t large or populous, but in the age of aviation, it was useful. At considerable expense, the government hauled construction equipment out to Howland and built an airstrip there—it’s where Amelia Earhart was heading when her plane went down. The Japanese, fearing what the United States might do with such a well-positioned airstrip, bombed Howland the day after they struck Hawai‘i, Guam, Wake, Midway, and the Philippines.

When it came to strategy, those dots mattered.

The logo map excludes all that—large colonies and pinprick islands alike. And there is something else misleading about it. It suggests that the United States is a politically uniform space: a union, voluntarily entered into, of states standing on equal footing with one another. But that’s not true, and it’s never been true. From the day the treaty securing independence from Britain was ratified, right up to the present, it’s been a collection of states and territories. It’s been a partitioned country, divided into two sections, with different laws applying in each.

The United States of America has contained a union of American states, as its name suggests. But it has also contained another part: not a union, not states, and (for most of its history) not wholly in the Americas.

What is more, a lot of people have lived in that other part. Here’s the census count for the inhabited territories in 1940, the year before Pearl Harbor:

Territory	Years held	1940 pop.
Philippines	1899–1946	16,356,000
Puerto Rico	1899–present	1,869,255
Hawai‘i	1898–1959 (state after)	423,330
Alaska	1867–1959 (state after)	72,524
Panama Canal Zone	1904–1979	51,827
U.S. Virgin Islands	1917–present	24,889
Guam	1899–present	22,290
American Samoa	1900–present	12,908
Total in Territories		18,833,023
Mainland		131,669,275

These are the inhabited U.S. territories listed by the census on the eve of the Second World War. The 118,933 mainland military service members posted to territories are not listed with each territory’s population, so islands with military outposts but without local residents, such as Wake, are excluded. The Panama Canal Zone was technically Panamanian land leased to the United States, but the census counted it nonetheless.

Nearly nineteen million people lived in the colonies, the great bulk of them in the Philippines. Was that a lot? Not compared with the world-girdling British Empire, which boasted at the time a population of more than four hundred million (the great bulk of whom lived in India). But the United States’ empire was nonetheless sizable. Measured by population, it was, at the time of Pearl Harbor, the fifth largest in the world.

Another way to consider those nineteen million territorial inhabitants is as a fraction of the U.S. population. Again taking 1940 as our year, slightly more than one in eight (12.6 percent) of the people in the United States lived outside of the states. For perspective, consider that only about one in twelve was African American. If you lived in the United States on the eve of World War II, in other words, you were more likely to be colonized than black, by odds of three to two.

My point here is not to weigh forms of oppression against one another. In fact, the histories of African Americans and colonized peoples are tightly connected (and sometimes overlapping, as for the Afro-Caribbeans in Puerto Rico and the U.S. Virgin Islands). The racism that had pervaded the country since slavery engulfed the territories, too. Like African Americans, colonial subjects were denied the vote, deprived of the rights of full citizens, called “nigger,” subjected to dangerous medical experiments, and used as sacrificial pawns in war. They, too, had to make their way in a country where some lives mattered and others did not.

What getting the Greater United States in view reveals is that race has been even more central to U.S. history than is usually supposed. It hasn’t just been about black and white, but about Filipino, Hawaiian, Samoan, and Chamoru (from Guam), too, among other identities. Race has not only shaped lives, it’s shaped the country itself—where the borders went, who has counted as “American.” Once you look beyond the logo map, you see a whole new set of struggles over what it means to inhabit the United States.

Looking beyond the logo map, however, could be hard for mainlanders. The national maps they used rarely showed the territories. Even the world atlases were confusing. Rand McNally’s wartime Ready Reference Atlas of the World, like many other atlases at the time, listed Hawai‘i, Alaska, Puerto Rico, and the Philippines as “foreign.”

A class of seventh-grade girls at the Western Michigan College Training School in Kalamazoo scratched their heads over this. They’d been trying to follow the war on their maps. How, they wondered, could the attack on Pearl Harbor have been an attack on the United States if Hawai‘i was foreign? They wrote to Rand McNally to inquire.

“Although Hawaii belongs to the United States, it is not an integral part of this country,” the publisher replied. “It is foreign to our continental shores, and therefore cannot logically be shown in the United States proper.”

The girls were not satisfied. Hawai‘i is not an integral part of this country? “We believe this statement is not true,” they wrote. It is “an alibi instead of an explanation.” Further, they continued, “we feel that the Rand McNally atlas is misleading and a good cause for the people of outlying possessions to be embarrassed and disturbed.” The girls forwarded the correspondence to the Department of the Interior (in whose archives I found it) and asked for adjudication.

Of course, the seventh-graders were right. As an official clarified, Hawai‘i was, indeed, part of the United States.

Yet the government could be just as misleading as Rand McNally on this score. Consider the census. According to the Constitution, census takers were required to count only the states, but they’d always counted the territories, too. Or, at least, they’d counted the continental territories. The overseas territories were handled differently. They weren’t always counted in the same years, with the same questionnaires, or by the same agency as the mainland was. The effect was to make them incommensurable with the rest of the country, statistically segregating them.

Even when usable numbers on the overseas territories were available, they weren’t used. The decennial census report duly noted the territorial populations up front, but then quietly dropped them from nearly all calculations that followed. As the 1910 report explained, those statistics covered “the United States proper” only. The United States proper wasn’t a legal term, but census officials expected that everyone would understand. They justified this by claiming “obvious differences” between people in the overseas territories and those on the mainland.

And so, as with the logo map, the country was left with a strategically cropped family photo. Readers of the 1940 census were told that the United States’ largest minority was African American, that its largest cities were nearly all in the East, and that its center of population was Sullivan County, Indiana. Had overseas territories been factored in, as western territories had previously been, census readers would have seen a different picture. They would have seen a country whose largest minority was Asian, whose principal cities included Manila (about the size of Washington, D.C., or San Francisco), and whose center of population was in New Mexico.

But that wasn’t the census mainlanders saw. The country presented to them in maps, atlases, and official reports had the shape of the logo map. The result? A profound confusion. “Most people in this country, including educated people, know little or nothing about our overseas possessions,” concluded a governmental report written during World War II. “As a matter of fact, a lot of people do not know that we have overseas possessions. They are convinced that only ‘foreigners,’ such as the British, have an ‘empire.’ Americans are sometimes amazed to hear that we, too, have an ‘empire.’”

The proposition that the United States is an empire is less controversial today. The leftist author Howard Zinn, in his immensely popular A People’s History of the United States, wrote of the “global American empire,” and his graphic-novel spin-off is called A People’s History of American Empire. On the far right, the politician Pat Buchanan has warned that the United States is “traveling the same path that was trod by the British Empire.” In the vast political distance between Zinn and Buchanan, there are millions who would readily agree that the United States is, in at least some sense, imperial.

The case can be made in a number of ways. The dispossession of Native Americans and relegation of many to reservations was pretty transparently imperialist. Then, in the 1840s, the United States fought a war with Mexico and seized a third of it. Fifty years later, it fought a war with Spain and claimed the bulk of Spain’s overseas territories.

Empire isn’t just landgrabs, though. What do you call the subordination of African Americans? In W.E.B. Du Bois’s eyes, black people in the United States looked more like colonized subjects than like citizens. Many other black thinkers, including Malcolm X and the leaders of the Black Panthers, have agreed.

Or what about the spread of U.S. economic power abroad? The United States might not have physically conquered Western Europe after World War II, but that didn’t stop the French from complaining of “coca-colonization.” Critics there felt swamped by U.S. commerce. Today, with the world’s business denominated in dollars and McDonald’s in more than a hundred countries, you can see they might have had a point.

Then there are the military interventions. The years since the Second World War have brought the U.S. military to country after country. The big wars are well-known: Korea, Vietnam, Iraq, Afghanistan. But there has also been a constant stream of smaller engagements. Since 1945, U.S. armed forces have been deployed abroad for conflicts or potential conflicts 211 times in 67 countries. Call it peacekeeping if you want, or call it imperialism. But clearly this is not a country that has kept its hands to itself.

Yet in all the talk of empire, one thing that often slips from view is actual territory. Yes, many would agree that the United States is or has been an empire, for all the reasons above. But how much can most people say about the colonies themselves? Not, I would wager, very much.

And why should they be able to? Textbooks and overviews of U.S. history invariably feature a chapter on the 1898 war with Spain that led to the acquisition of many of the territories and the Philippine War that followed it (“the worst chapter in almost any book,” one reviewer griped). Yet, after that, coverage trails off. Territorial empire is treated as an episode rather than a feature. The colonies, having been acquired, vanish.

It’s not as if the information isn’t out there. Scholars, many working from the sites of empire themselves, have assiduously researched this topic for decades. It’s just that when it comes time to zoom out and tell the story of the country as a whole, the territories tend to fall away. The confusion and shoulder-shrugging indifference that mainlanders displayed at the time of Pearl Harbor hasn’t changed much at all.

Ultimately, the problem isn’t a lack of knowledge. The libraries contain literally thousands of books about U.S. overseas territory. The problem is that those books have been sidelined—filed, so to speak, on the wrong shelves. They’re there, but so long as we’ve got the logo map in our heads, they’ll seem irrelevant. They’ll seem like books about foreign countries.

I’ll confess to having made this conceptual filing error myself. Though I studied U.S. foreign relations as a doctoral student and read countless books about “American empire”—the wars, the coups, the meddling in foreign affairs—nobody ever expected me to know even the most elementary facts about the territories. They just didn’t feel important.

It wasn’t until I traveled to Manila, researching something else entirely, that it clicked. To get to the archives, I’d travel by “jeepney,” a transit system originally based on repurposed U.S. Army jeeps. I boarded in a section of Metro Manila where the streets are named after U.S. colleges (Yale, Columbia, Stanford, Notre Dame), states and cities (Chicago, Detroit, New York, Brooklyn, Denver), and presidents (Jefferson, Van Buren, Roosevelt, Eisenhower). When I’d arrive at my destination, the Ateneo de Manila University, one of the country’s most prestigious schools, I’d hear students speaking what sounded to my Pennsylvanian ears to be virtually unaccented English.

Empire might be hard to make out from the mainland, but from the sites of colonial rule themselves, it’s impossible to miss.

I read about the Philippines’ colonial history, and I got curious about other locales: Puerto Rico, Guam, Hawai‘i before it was a state. These places are part of the United States, right? I thought. Why haven’t I been thinking of them as part of its history?

As I recataloged my mental library, a startlingly different version of U.S. history emerged. Events that had once seemed familiar appeared in a new light: Pearl Harbor was just the tip of the iceberg. Well-worn cultural artifacts—the musical Oklahoma!, the moon landing, Godzilla, the peace symbol—took on new significance. Obscure historical episodes that I’d barely registered now seemed tremendously important. I found myself collaring defenseless colleagues in the halls to deliver the news. “Did you know that nationalists staged a seven-city revolt in Puerto Rico, culminating in an assassination attempt on Harry Truman? And that the same nationalists shot up Congress four years later?”

Philippine Islands, U.S.A.: A ten-peso note. Throughout the territories, colonized subjects were obliged to use bills with the faces of U.S. leaders on them. Extraordinarily, this Philippine bill was the basis for the design of the familiar U.S. dollar, not the other way around.

This book aims to show what U.S. history would look like if the “United States” meant the Greater United States, not the logo map. To write it, I’ve visited archives in places where U.S. historians don’t usually go, from Fairbanks to Manila. Yet at the same time, I’ve drawn heavily on the insights and research about the territories that scholars have been producing for generations. In the end, this book’s main contribution is not archival, bringing to light some never-before-seen document. It’s perspectival, seeing a familiar history differently.

The history of the Greater United States, as I’ve come to view it, can be told in three acts. The first is westward expansion: the pushing west of national borders and the displacement of Native Americans. That isn’t the main story of this book, but it’s the launching point. Even this well-known history reveals unfamiliar aspects once we look at the past with territory in mind, such as the creation in the 1830s of a massive all-Indian territory—arguably the United States’ first colony.

The second act takes place off the continent, and it’s striking how quickly it begins. Just three years after filling out the shape of the logo map, the United States started annexing new territory overseas. First it claimed dozens of uninhabited islands in the Caribbean and the Pacific. Then Alaska in 1867. From 1898 to 1900 it absorbed the bulk of Spain’s overseas empire (the Philippines, Puerto Rico, and Guam) and annexed the non-Spanish lands of Hawai‘i, Wake Island, and American Samoa. In 1917 it bought the U.S. Virgin Islands. By the Second World War, the territories made up nearly a fifth of the land area of the Greater United States.

This sort of expansion was typical of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. When countries got more powerful, they generally got bigger. One might have expected, then, that the United States would keep growing. Indeed, by the end of World War II it had claimed a lot of territory: its Pacific empire had been reclaimed, it held thousands of military bases around the world, and it occupied parts of Korea, Germany, and Austria, and all of Japan. Adding up the land under U.S. jurisdiction—colonies and occupations alike—by the end of 1945 the Greater United States included some 135 million people living outside the mainland.

But what’s remarkable is what happened next. Rather than converting its occupations to annexations (as it had after the 1898 war with Spain), it did something virtually unprecedented. It won a war and gave up territory. The Philippines, its largest colony, got independence. The occupations wrapped up speedily, and only one—of a set of lightly populated islands in Micronesia—led to annexation. Other territories, though they weren’t granted independence, received new statuses. Puerto Rico became a “commonwealth,” which ostensibly replaced a coercive relationship with a consenting one. Hawai‘i and Alaska, after some delay, became states, overcoming decades of racist determination to keep them out of the union.

This is the third act, and it raises a question. Why did the United States, at the peak of its power, distance itself from colonial empire? I explore that question at length because it’s tremendously important yet seldom asked.

One part of the answer is that colonized subjects resisted, forcing empire into retreat. This happened both within the Greater United States, leading to status changes in the four largest colonies, and outside it, where anti-imperialism impeded further colonial conquest.

Another part has to do with technology. During the Second World War, the United States honed an extraordinary suite of technologies that gave it many of the benefits of empire without having to actually hold colonies. Plastics and other synthetics allowed it to replace tropical products with man-made substitutes. Airplanes, radio, and DDT enabled it to move its goods, ideas, and people into foreign countries easily without annexing them. Similarly, the United States managed to standardize many of its objects and practices—from screw threads to road signs to the English language—across political borders, again gaining influence in places it didn’t control. Collectively, these technologies weaned the United States off the familiar model of formal empire. They replaced colonization with globalization.

Globalization is a fashionable word, and it’s easy to speak of it in vague terms—to talk of increasingly better technologies drawing a disparate world together. But those new technologies didn’t just crop up. Many were developed by the U.S. military in a short burst of time in the 1940s, with the goal of giving the United States a new relationship to territory. Dramatically, and in just a few years, the military built a world-spanning logistical network that was startling in how little it depended on colonies. It was also startling in how much it centered the world’s trade, transport, and communication on one country, the United States.

Yet even in this age of globalization, territory has not gone away. Not only does the United States continue to hold part of its colonial empire (containing millions), it also claims numerous small dots on the map. Besides Guam, American Samoa, the Northern Mariana Islands, Puerto Rico, the U.S. Virgin Islands, and a handful of minor outlying islands, the United States maintains roughly eight hundred overseas military bases around the world.

These tiny specks—Howland Island and the like—are the foundations of U.S. world power. They serve as staging grounds, launchpads, storage sites, beacons, and laboratories. They make up what I call (building on a concept from the historian and cartographer Bill Rankin) a “pointillist empire.” Today, that empire extends all over the planet.

None of this, however—not the large colonies, small islands, or military bases—has made much of a dent on the mainland mind. One of the truly distinctive features of the United States’ empire is how persistently ignored it has been. Apart from the brief moment after 1898 when the country’s imperial dimensions were on proud display, much of its history has taken place offstage.

This is, it’s worth emphasizing, unique. The British weren’t confused as to whether there was a British Empire. They had a holiday, Empire Day, to celebrate it. France didn’t forget that Algeria was French. It is only the United States that has suffered from chronic confusion about its own borders.

The reason isn’t hard to guess. The country perceives itself to be a republic, not an empire. It was born in an anti-imperialist revolt and has fought empires ever since, from Hitler’s Thousand-Year Reich and the Japanese Empire to the “evil empire” of the Soviet Union. It even fights empires in its dreams. Star Wars, a saga that started with a rebellion against the Galactic Empire, is one of the highest-grossing film franchises of all time.

This self-image of the United States as a republic is consoling, but it’s also costly. Most of the cost has been paid by those living in the colonies, in the occupation zones, and around the military bases. The logo map has relegated them to the shadows, which are a dangerous place to live. At various times, the inhabitants of the U.S. Empire have been shot, shelled, starved, interned, dispossessed, tortured, and experimented on. What they haven’t been, by and large, is seen.

The logo map carries a cost for mainlanders, too. It gives them a truncated view of their own history, one that excludes part of their country. It is an important part. As I seek to reveal, a lot has happened in the territories, occurrences highly relevant to mainlanders. The overseas parts of the United States have triggered wars, brought forth inventions, raised up presidents, and helped define what it means to be “American.” Only by including them in the picture do we see a full portrait of the country—not as it appears in its fantasies, but as it actually is.