Progressive & Modern Era

Sociedad Cementerio Union Mexicana Cemetery

Nordheim, DeWitt County, Texas

Marker Inscription

Situated along Cabeza Creek, the Sociedad Cementerio Union Mexicana Cemetery, also known as Saint Ann Cemetery, is the final resting place for the Mexican American population of Nordheim. This area was patented to Robert Galletty in 1841 and later sold to H. Runge & Co. and Vachel Weldon. In the late 1890s, German settlers bought property and began to farm the land. Many Hispanic sharecroppers began working for the farm and ranch owners and, therefore, needed a cemetery for burials. Due to segregation, acreage was purchased in 1906 for the Mexican American and African American population. The transfer of ownership was witnessed by two founding members of the cemetery, F.A. Hernandez and Telesporo Garza. According to ledgers, the cemetery was established on February 13, 1907. The cemetery contains more than 500 burials. The first burial is that of Rafael Hinojosa on July 2, 1907. Rafael is listed as one of the original thirty members of the cemetery society. A number of early burials are infants and children who died from flu epidemics and lack of medical attention. Numerous burials are attributed to an F-4 tornado that swept across this region of Texas on May 6, 1930. Eighteen of the twenty-seven people killed in the storm are buried here. In addition, veterans from World War I, World War II, the Korean War and the Vietnam War are buried here. No burial records exist for the African American cemetery and only 17 gravestones are visible. Throughout the years, the community maintained the cemetery until 2003, when the Saint Ann Cemetery Association was established to care for this historic cemetery.

Erected by Texas Historical Commission

The Story

When German farmers settled the Nordheim area in the 1890s, they relied on Mexican American and African American laborers who, under segregation, were barred from white cemeteries. In 1906 land was purchased for their burials, and the Sociedad Cementerio Union Mexicana was formally established in 1907, growing to more than 500 graves. Early burials include infants lost to flu epidemics and eighteen of the twenty-seven people killed by an F4 tornado in 1930; veterans of four wars rest here, while the adjoining African American cemetery survives with only seventeen visible stones and no records.

Why it matters

This burial ground is a stark record of segregation's reach into death itself, preserving the memory of the Mexican American and African American families whose labor built the South Texas farm economy.

The story behind this marker

AI context

The era

The land along Cabeza Creek near Nordheim passed through many hands in the nineteenth century — first patented in 1841, then sold on to firms and landowners — before German settlers bought in during the late 1890s and turned it to farming. Their arrival set the stage for the community this cemetery serves.

Those farms did not run themselves. Like much of the South Texas farm economy in the early twentieth century, they depended on the labor of Mexican American and, in this area, African American workers, many of them sharecroppers who worked the land for a share of the crop. It was demanding, often precarious work, and the families who did it needed a place to bury their dead.

This was the era of rigid segregation, and that dividing line did not stop at the cemetery gate. When burial ground was purchased in 1906, it was set aside specifically for the Mexican American and African American population — because the community's white cemeteries were closed to them. The Progressive era's talk of reform ran alongside a Jim Crow system that reached, quite literally, into the grave.

People & events

The cemetery's founding is unusually well documented for such a place. The 1906 transfer of land was witnessed by two of its founding members, F.A. Hernandez and Telesporo Garza, and ledgers record the society's formal establishment on February 13, 1907. That summer, on July 2, 1907, Rafael Hinojosa — one of the original thirty members of the cemetery society — became the first person buried here.

The graves that followed read like a hard social history of the community. A number of the early burials are infants and children who died in flu epidemics, with little access to medical care — a stark reminder of how vulnerable these families were. The cemetery now holds more than five hundred burials in all.

One event marks the ground more heavily than any other. On May 6, 1930, a violent F-4 tornado tore across this part of Texas, killing twenty-seven people; eighteen of them are buried here. Alongside the tornado's victims lie veterans of four American wars — World War I, World War II, Korea, and Vietnam. Nearby, the adjoining African American cemetery survives with no burial records at all and only seventeen visible gravestones.

Its place in the American story

This burial ground is a plain, unflinching record of how far American segregation reached. The color line governed schools, jobs, and neighborhoods — and, as this place shows, it governed cemeteries too, forcing Mexican American and African American families to create their own resting places because they were shut out of others.

It is also a monument to the people who built the region's wealth. The farm economy of South Texas rested on the labor of the very families buried here, and a cemetery like this preserves their memory in a country that too often did not record it. The near-total absence of records for the adjacent African American cemetery makes that erasure painfully visible.

And yet the same ground holds veterans of four wars — people who served a nation that segregated them in life and in death. That contradiction sits at the heart of the American story, and few places state it as starkly as a cemetery where the graves of the war dead lie behind a line drawn by race.

If you visit

This is a quiet, working cemetery along Cabeza Creek, still cared for by a community association that took up the task in 2003. It asks for a respectful, reflective visit rather than a quick stop — this is sacred ground to the families whose relatives rest here.

Look for the layers of history the marker points to: the earliest graves from 1907, the cluster of children lost to epidemics, the eighteen victims of the 1930 tornado, and the headstones of veterans from four wars. Each is a thread in the life of the Mexican American community of Nordheim.

Then notice what is harder to see — the adjoining African American cemetery, with only seventeen visible stones and no surviving records. That silence is part of the story too, and standing where segregation drew its line is a powerful way to feel a chapter of history that textbooks often keep at a distance.

Written by AI to add context, grounded in the marker’s inscription and the historical record. The inscription above is the original, unaltered text.

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Related people

· Rafael Hinojosa
· Telesporo Garza

Related events

· 1930 Nordheim tornado

Themes & tags

Civil Rights African American History ImmigrationMemorial

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