 Well, good evening. This is our final talk of the 64th annual IAS meetings that we have thankfully come back into person after three years. So it's been so nice to have people in the audience here. And we're very excited too that we normally do record this lecture and then make it available after the fact. But thanks to Nico Tripsovich and Arf and Christine Hastorf, we're able to live stream it on YouTube right now. So welcome to those of you who are joining us there. And then this will be archived. It'll be accessible to folks later as well. So it's my pleasure to introduce our speaker this evening, Dr. Christopher Heaney, who is assistant professor of modern Latin American history at the Penn State University. And I think those of us in the room, again, we've had a lot of talk this week that our institute has grown as primarily archaeologists. And one of our goals over the next few years is to expand to other disciplines that contribute to Andean studies. And I believe the topics of Chris's Dr. Heaney's research have already attracted a lot of attention of archaeologists. So as an undergraduate at Yale University, he did a senior thesis on Machu Picchu and the materials that were housed there. And so that amazing undergraduate research turned into his very first book, which was Cradle of Gold, the Story of Hiram Bingham, A Real Life Indiana Jones, and the Search for Machu Picchu, which I'm sure many of you are familiar with. He went on to UT Austin for his PhD. And there, again, kind of engaged with the history of archaeology, if you will, in the Andes. And looked at the circulation of mummies from the Peruvian Andes to other parts of the world. And again, many of you are probably familiar with a book that just came out. That's gotten a lot of great reviews and is very fascinating. Empires of the Dead, Inca Mummies, and the Peruvian Ancestors of American Anthropology. So those things are kind of hot off the presses. If you haven't gotten that yet, I highly recommend it. Among other many wonderful academic things that Dr. Haney has published, he is an excellent writer and has written for many sort of public forums. So the Atlantic, the New Yorker, op-eds that are bringing kind of these things that we may discuss kind of within academia to a broader audience. And I think that a lot of us sort of aspire to be able to make our work more accessible to a general public. And so we are very excited to have him here tonight to talk about some new research that he's working on. Again, from a historian's perspective, but of a very, very famous Peruvian archaeologist, Julio Cetillo. And so he's gonna talk to us tonight about the three burials, I think, in various senses of Julio Cetillo. So please give a warm welcome to Dr. Christopher Haney. Thank you very much. Can you hear me okay? Yeah, okay. Thank you so much, Niko. I want to begin moving that. There we go, okay. There we go. Hello, me. I wanna begin by thanking the program committee for the invitation to present and Maria Brino for the lovely introduction and for coordinating such a wonderful meeting. I'm also grateful to the Institute for inviting me to become an active member this year. As an historian who studies museums, archaeology, and collecting in the Andes, I've learned more from IAS members and their scholarship than I can repay, but it's a treat to try. Here in Berkeley, where I actually started the writing of my first book on Machu Picchu after my first year in Peru before grad school. So I'm very grateful to be back. This is a very important place to me in the world. I'm speaking tonight on the surgeon and anthropologist Julio Cetillo, who is familiar to students of the Andes but was once known by a wider American public. An explanation for us forgetting is in my second book, Empires of the Dead, Incomummies, and the Proveian Ancestors of American Anthropology, which came out in August. That book argues that archaeology and brave robbing in the Andes shaped the study of the American past beyond Peru, including in the United States, whose museums house so many Andean human remains. I wanna note that because of this history, this presentation includes images of that dead's historical display, flagged one slide before with a blue light bulb. They're in this talk because our reckoning with why museums collected and displayed ancestors is incomplete without the Proveian case. And in part because their removal from display makes it hard to see how they shaped American anthropology. The field once used Andean ancestors to visualize human history as a whole. Proveian scholars also mobilized them for more radical histories. Julio Cetillo's death was a microcosm of that tension, as layered as the mummy bundles of parochists that made him famous. Like those bundles unwrapping, his burial was a cultural event, whose conclusion made his original intentions harder to see, but more important for us all to understand. It's May 22nd, 1947, and Dr. Julio Cetillo lays dying. He was 67. The doctors caring for him in a clinic in Lima believed it was Hodgkin's lymphoma, whose cancer cells had overtaken his body's functions. Some of his countrymen from his homeland of Guadalajara might have disagreed. Decades later, the anthropologist Frank Solomon heard that it was Teo's work that ended him. That Teo had been sickened by the abuelitos, the mummified and beautiful grandparents whose disinterment made his career. Either way, Teo's hour of death had come and a notary was called. We might read the resulting will as Teo's last autobiography that began typically at least for an academic. The notary recorded the facts of Teo's birth in the village of Guadalajara in the province of Guadalajara to his parents, Maria Asuncion Rojas-Erques and Julián Teo Garcia. They registered his English wife, all of the cheesemen and their four children, two deceased, as well as a son born out of wedlock before Teo left for graduate school at Harvard in 1909. The first four provisions divided his earthly goods between them. They provided for his daughter Elena's education. His library and archive would go to his alma mater, the University of San Marcos. The will got more interesting as Teo outlined what he thought was his intellectual legacy as a champion of indigenous Peru. He explained in his will how he had stewarded many of Lima's museums guided by the purest scientific devotion. He had revealed the archeological sources of Peruvian culture, clarifying the antiquity and contents of our old and orthodox civilizations, Chavin, Caracas, Tachacama, and Nepeña. And he was proud. In accumulating such valuable documentation of some of the grandest civilizations of America, I believe I have rendered a deserved homage to the creative genius of the indigenous Peruvian, the basis of our nationality. Yet so much was undone. Teo lamented that he hadn't analyzed in a definitive way all of the immense documentary material uncovered and accumulated in his last museum, which opened in Pueblo Libre in 1937. Teo directed his protégés, Rebeca Carrion-Cachó and Toribio Mejia Xespe, to publish his findings, fulfilling the promise recognized by his allies whom he likewise named. Harvard, which welcomed and propelled him, the American Petroleum Air and Philanthropist, Nelson Rockefeller, who in the late 1930s financed Teo in his last museum, and the politician Germán Luna Iglesias, who donated land for that last museum and its storehouses of the dead. Teo's mother had been illiterate. Her son's intimacy with the Andean dead connected him to some of the most important national and international figures of his day. And his will's last provisions addressed the body that traveled those distant poles. Teo entrusted his corpse's treatment to his executor. I've received enough honors in life to satisfy whatever my compatriots might want to give me in depth, Teo wrote. For that reason, I make a special recommendation to my executor that the incubation of my mortal remains be undertaken as a strictly private act. And if possible, that I might be given sepulcher in the soil in a place singularly welcomed to me that my executor knows and that above by a tomb be erected a replica of the Chavin obelisk. No Christian cross would mark his grave. Instead, he would be guarded by a two and a half meter tall stone deity from Chavin de Huantar, an underground temple in the central Andes, which Teo rightly identified as well over 2,000 years old. Farmers had at some point dragged this obelisk to the Gatrium of the Chapel. Against the protests of those farmers and their priests, Teo had gotten an order from the national government to move the obelisk to his museum in Lima. Teo believed it was the principal deity of the wellspring of Andean civilization, and he wanted this devouring and life-sustaining Andean god to rise from his body into Lima's cloudy sky, feline and serpentine, masculine and feminine, lightning-bringing, fertile. The notary read Teo's afterlife back to him. Teo ratified it and three witnesses signed. And two weeks later, after a failed final surgery, after his museum's employees gave him their donated blood, Teo joined the dead he had studied. His final words, according to one newspaper, were conferences, museum. Teo's afterlife did not go as planned, at least not at first and never exactly how he envisioned. Instead, he and his legacy were buried three times over, thousands of miles apart. To understand why those legacies should be remembered, a little of his life must flash before our eyes. Teo's scientific contributions are familiar to some of us through the research of Richard Daggett, Richard Berger, the publication of Teo's field notes and the work of Ann Peters, Raul Asensio, Henry Contalian and others. Teo has been called the father of proving archaeology, or even America's first indigenous archaeologist. Tonight, I'll tell a slightly different story. I want to cast Teo not as a beginning, a father, a first, but as a son, an outcome, an heir to two intellectual traditions that set him on his path. The first tradition was that of the millennial culture of healing the living and caring for the dead that preceded the Incas, as known via the second tradition, that culture centuries-long disinterment and study. Teo followed these traditions to Harvard and back, and for him, they were political and intellectual. Teo's anthropology argued against racial discrimination and for a Peruvian identity that was already indigenous and scientific. Teo was born on April 11th, 1880 in Watochidi, the Highland province, storied within Peruvian ethno-history. Its Yauyo peoples were the children of Parayakaka, the 19,000-foot-tall sacred mountain whose water supported them. In the 15th century, the Incas incorporated its people as soldiers. In the 17th century, Spanish priests tried to extirpate their cult of the dead, burning their ancestor mummies alive. Its people survived as small-scale farmers and herders who together maintained their pre-Hispanic canals and reservoirs. Shortly before Teo's birth, the Peruvian state labeled Watochidi 100% Indian. Communities tracked members' work using Kippus through the 1920s. Some communities continued to engage the ancient dead through today to continue to ensure the waters flow. Teo later celebrated that inheritance. In the 1930s, he told a North American journalist that his family was descended from Parayakaka. He said that his father was from Watochidi's lower set of leaders, the ancient lords of Lurin-Yauyo, named Nina Wilka, and that his mother belonged to a family of furters and weavers from the upper set, Anan-Yauyo, named Yaksha-Wilka, descendants of Watochidi's last lords under the Inca. His maternal grandmother, he told an American in 1909, was, quote, an Indian who still maintained, with great veneration, all of the idolatrous practices of the ancient ones. But did Teo think himself an Indian in 1909? Possibly not. After Peru's independence from Spain in 1826, Republican laws discriminated against communal landholding and indigenous belonging. Frank Solomon writes that families like Teo's instead embraced an identity as progressive campesinos, peasants of Peruvian nationality, not members of an indigenous race. Julio's father, Julián, fought in the war with Chile, founded a school and became a local official. He had ties to Lima's civilista party, whose projects included solving the so-called Indian problem through education and white immigration. Teo would describe his aunt, a servant in the home of a Peruvian president, as a eugenicist, who wanted all serranos to marry superior people. That aunt encouraged her brother to send his exceedingly clever son, Julio, to a school in Lima, the only one of 12 siblings to receive a metropolitan education. But in Lima, Julio saw how his skin color, relative poverty, and highland origins marked him in the eyes of others. He rented a room from Morenos, Brownskins, in one of Lima's poorest neighborhoods. When his father died, he was at the mercy of the city. He sold newspapers, ran errands, and competed with other children to carry travelers' bags from the railroad station. I wandered the streets of Lima in those days when there was no compassion for indios. But he thrived in his classes and found a patron in a classmate's father, the director of the National Library, who gave him a job that supported Teo when he went on to study surgery at the University of San Marcos' Medical School. It was in that library that Julio's life took a turn. His hand fell upon an 1897 publication named Primitive Treffening in Peru. In flipping through its pages, he saw something he recognized. Trepanning, a medical procedure that removed sections of the skull to address trauma or pain, is sometimes called humanity's oldest surgery, whose global antiquity was discovered because a skull, this skull, with a quadrilateral hole, was found by a surgeon and landowner from Cusco sometime before 1863. That skull reached the hands of an early American archeologist who believed it the most remarkable evidence of the knowledge of surgery among the aborigines yet discovered on this continent. This was a revolutionary way to approach indigenous remains for its time. My book, Empires the Dead, explores how the Spanish confiscation of Inca mummies led South Americans to represent Inca mummies as subjects of history, as revealing an ancient embalming and sovereignty equal to Egypt. In 1822, the patriot Jose de San Martín represented that sovereignty's restoration by sending King George IV of England an Inca mummy for the British Museum as an announcement of Peruvian independence. But most 19th century anthropological and biological scientists in Europe and the United States valued Peruvian mummies as objects of race, specifically as America's earliest race, whose measurement asserted European superiority. Sam and George Morton, a white supremacist once claimed as father of American anthropology, collected more ancient Peruvians than any other single group. Because of Morton's Peruvians, anthropologists moved from measuring individual skulls as types, a seminal skull, a Inca skull, to seeking large series, large numbers that could be averaged and compared. This is a legacy with American institutions today. From 1820 to 1920, American institutions and scientists gathered more Andean skulls than any other single individual group. Nearly 5,000 Andean dead are the Smithsonian's largest single population, making up nearly 16% of the entire collection. So to collect Andean skulls to study indigenous healing, not race, was different. Skeptics in the United States and Peru claimed these holes represented posthumous trophy taking, a kind of scalping of bone. But others argued that the presence of cranial trauma and healing that the bone could be seen to have regrown showed that these interventions were operations. Dr. Manuel Muñiz was Peru's surgeon general. In the late 1880s, early 1890s, he amassed 19 Trepan skulls from throughout Peru, showing it wasn't just limited to Cusco. And he arranged them in order, in an order that he thought demonstrated healing's progression. He took them to Chicago's World's Fair, where they competed with George Dorsey's restaging of the Necropolis of Ancon. A reproduction of the burial ground in the center of the Anthropology building. And then those skulls went on to Washington, where the Bureau of American Ethnology published them as primitive Trepanning in Peru. But as Teo flipped through its pages, he saw something he recognized. A skull from a place named Chuicoto in Guadalajara. Teo realized that he had once held this Trepan skull. His own father had collected it and displayed it in his coca on his store before it reached Muñiz. But when a friend translated the volume that Teo was holding, they realized that Muñiz's American co-author, W. J. McGee, had inverted the message. He had presented trepanation not as healing, but as barbaric quackery. In one swoop, Teo saw how he, as a surgeon, was heir to two intellectual traditions at risk of being erased. The medical skill of his homeland, Guadalajara, was evidenced that the Spanish had either overlooked or burned. And the transnational study of the Andean dead as ancestral and scientific subjects that his father, Julián Teo, had invisibly shaped. These traditions linked Guadalajara and America. If Teo pulled on that chain, would it pull back? Teo set out to prove the Americans wrong. His first publication was La Calawala, linking Guadalajara to the traveling Kayawaya healers of the southern Andes. He spent vacations collecting crania. He changed them. The first time I had in my hands the skull of an Inca mummy to study, I felt a profound emotion, Teo told the student. That skull, honored by the centuries, connected with my heart and made me feel the message of the race whose blood ran through my veins. In that moment, I became an anthropologist. Teo later claimed that he built a collection of at least 10,000 crania and mummies, or a hundred of which were trepaned. He wrote a thesis on trepanation in syphilis and his advisors used it to get him a government scholarship to study abroad. He chose Harvard, where he may have been the institution's first Peruvian student, but not its first student of Peru. The first PhD in anthropology completed by a US citizen and Harvard's first PhD in anthropology was that of George Dorsey for his 1894 thesis on the burials of Antoine as Mickey Slovak has written about in her work. I've lingered on these biographical details because of how often Teo returned to them in his remembrances, in his interviews, working at a knot of inspiration and racism that his science sought to undo. It made Teo's 1909 departure for the United States bittersweet. At a banquet beforehand, his mentor toasted Teo as one of his generation's leading lights. The wealthy young whites in attendance suspiciously eyed the chorizo Teo remembered using a word for a little person, for a person of Andean descent climbing above their origins. Teo was mortified. I went back to my room and I wept. I wanted to bury myself like a mummy. Some three decades later, Peru's government buried Teo as a national hero instead to celebrate his achievements in disinterring the ancient provenment debt. Most of those achievements are well known, many of those in this room. Others, however, other achievements were immediately denied. In 1910, while still at Harvard, Teo sent Yale historian Hiram Bingham a pamphlet detailing the probable locations of the so-called last cities of the Incas in Guiltebamba. But Bingham declined to bring Teo along the following year when that clue took him instead to Machu Picchu. In 1915, Teo would be turned away from the Yale Expedition House in Oriental Tambo after which Bingham was accused of smuggling ending his career as an explorer. Teo had more success in his association with Harvard. He earned his MA and a wealthy alum bought his collection of Trepan skulls, which are today at Harvard's Peabody Museum. In 1912, Teo lectured on the collection at the 18th International Congress of Americanists in London. By detailing how 250 of his 400 skulls showed at least temporary survival and addressed a range of trauma and illnesses, Teo established Andean Trepanation as a medical fact. Back in Peru, he became the National Museum's first curator of anthropology. There, he clashed with the White Museum director who claimed that Teo, in his interests, was belittling and closing off the history of colonial and independent Peru. He claimed that Teo was crushing the history essentially of Hispanic Peru with the somatological or physical anthropological and folkloric weight of a ridiculous imperialism exercised by mummies. Essentially, the Teo's interest in mummies was damaging what should be Peru's history. Teo responded by expanding Peruvian history, centering the Temple of Chavin de Huantar as a 3,000-year-old matrix of the Toctanist Peruvian culture. His work and his diagram of how he believed Peruvian culture developed became an intervention upon two bigotries. He thought North American anthropology was polygenist for emphasizing cultural diffusion between different races. Peru was instead a single geo-ethnic region before colonialism divided Incas and Indians, racializing the latter as laborers. There was no Indian problem. The problem was racism. Teo also got political, representing Guadalajara and Peru's Congress after 1919. He gained the ear of President Augusto Beligia, an autocrat who made the Incas into a national symbol. For that reason, Teo was sometimes dismissed as Ligia's creature, as cynical, as an opportunistic nationalist. We should think about Teo was also using the state. He established Lima's first three archeological museums in this period to store all that had been removed from what he called the great archive of the pre-Columbian cemeteries. This new general archive of Peruvian prehistory and history validated those, quote, children of indigenous mothers whose ancestors weren't babies. In those museums, he celebrated the 429 mommy bundles of Paracas, a 2,000-year-old culture, at least 2,000-year-old culture, that Teo and his colleagues uncovered in 1926. The bundles are most famous for their textiles today, but what caught Teo's eye when they first found the site with Samuel Lothrop's friend and colleague from Harvard were the Trepan skulls on the sands, the earliest that had yet been found, as well as, after excavating a set of obsidian blades that Teo believed were a surgeon's tools. His museum's mannequins brought their achievements to life. Yet in mobilizing the Peruvian state to protect these resources, Teo glimpsed what would happen when he himself died. In 1929, in Peruse Congress, he helped pass Law 6634, which established the Patrimonato Nacional de Arqueogia to monitor all excavations in the country. The law also allowed the state to claim lands marked by whatever constructions remains or residues of human labor that preceded the colonial era, as well as whatever those constructions contained. First on the list were human remains, a move that Teo hoped would protect Andean internments, but that the Peruvian state promptly used to confiscate and send a number of Paracas mummy bundles to a neo-Inca pavilion in Spain's Iberian American Expo in 1929. In 1930, President Lagia was overthrown and Teo was thrown out of the National Museum, and he spent the 1930s in a sort of limbo until Nelson Rockefeller funded new explorations as well as the conservation of the Paracas mummies and what became Teo's final museum in Pueblo Libre. So it was more than a little ironic that when Teo died, the state claimed him as a national hero. Teo had asked his executor, and let's see if this plays. Oh, nope, it doesn't play. But you can look on YouTube and watch this video. Teo had asked his executor for a strictly private information. Instead, his death on June 3rd, 1947, initiated a year of exposure. A death mask was made. His surgeon friends autopsied him, reserving his heart in a jar and embalming his body. Meanwhile, Peru's Congress declared a moment of national mourning, and condolences arrived from dozens of officials and institutions in Lima and the United States, as well as from communities in Guadalajara. His work and origins inspired tributes both profound and profoundly overkeeted. The eminent archeologist has been emulated in a Holocaust of science, read one newspaper. The Paracas, in day and night he worked hard to revive, are in the museum, awaiting his return. What was meant by that return might have been lost on casual readers. Their attention was instead directed to the treatment that the wise Indian received after his death. Teo himself trucked in this sort of indigenizing language, talking about himself as an Indian later in life, when his explicit goal was the conversion of archeology from a dead science, in his words, to a militant one, led by indigenous people like himself who were no longer content to just be farmers. Yet his self-promotion as an Indio-cited scientist, he would say to his students, yo soy, yo, when Indio remained an insult for most, not of his class and education, sounded sharper in the mouths of others. One tribute praised his bronze skin, rebel hair and good Indian arrival to Lima. Another tribute explained how this total Indian, fluent in the funeral and pomp filled message of mummies was placed in an ebony coffin laid in state in the paracus rotunda of his museum, surrounded by three rings of Peruvians. The outermost guard of honor where Teo's textile draped mannequins and mummies of paracus. Next came a ring of soldiers detailed by Peruse president. The closest ring were 20 of his disciples, students who watched him overnight. There in the museum where Teo quote, delved his hand in the subterranean cosmos of Peruse prehistory, he now slept. Beside the steel helmeted Indian, sentinels and the warrior princesses and priests of the prodigious Peru at its apogee. This was far from the private ceremony Teo requested and it diverged in other ways. A crucifix hung above it. And La Magdalena's parish priest said a prayer. On June 6th, a camera crew filmed his coffin being, perhaps not working on it, filmed his coffin being carried out of the museum. So his funeral might be seen in new movie theaters nationwide. An honor guard of soldiers was followed by a representative of Peruse president, by the presidents of the Senate, chamber of deputies and Supreme Court and Teo's friend, Pethro Rice. A slow funeral procession drove him through Lima streets to the Semantaville Presbytero, a pantheon for elites. There, Teo received a full state internment in a burial niche and the soldiers fired off a salute. The minister of public education eulogized him, Baraturi's representative to Congress, imagined the living and dead he had inspired and studied heralding his transformation. The grand multitudes that you revive in your arduous life now assemble in ceremony, brandishing their rich arms with dignity, tipping their ritual insignias, while in the milky obscurity of the beyond, the immortal weavers of parochists lay at your feet, their richest mantle, so that you might gently enter your eternity, finding yourself face to face with the mysteries that unlike you thought to decipher. In Lima, where dignified burial was neither guaranteed nor free and elites celebrated at Peru's Spanish heritage, this first internment was significant. The nationalism has a way of making critics into saints. Six months later, Rebecca Carionca Cho, his student who is now, oh, I apologize, you can't see Rebecca, darn it. Now directing his last museum, noted the challenge that Teo's anthropology posed to Peru, but the supposed inferiority of the Indio is not ethnic but circumstantial, the result of being orphaned of all social support at the margin of justice. The director at the University of San Marcos cast him as the bronze bust that they were there to dedicate. Teo was a symbol, he declared, as much a synthesis of the race as his Garcilaso de la Vega, the Inca Chronicle. Teo became an icon. His name went to schools, streets, and dental clinics as Richard Berger has observed, while Teo's experience of racism and its politics faded away. Teo's second and more metaphorical burial was in the U.S. Academy. This U.S. internment was far from inevitable. Being beside, Teo had collaborated with North American anthropologists since his days at Harvard. By World War II, the heyday of good neighbor policy, he was celebrated in the U.S. as the literal textbook example of science and indigenous heritage. He hosted Americans of All Stripes and Lima from astronomers and indigenous storytellers, which is here to the influential Cal geographer Carl Ortwin Sauer, who in 1942 declared Teo the greatest archeologist in the new world. That same year, Teo was profiled in Builders of Latin America, a book to educate high schoolers on 22 notable good neighbors. Teo was one of four people still alive, lagged as indigenous. And two years later, North American anthropologist Alfred L. Krober, well-known here in Berkeley, likened Teo, his sometimes collaborator, to the archeologist who discovered Troy, but if Heinrich Schlemann had instead been a mountain Indian risen from the ranks. Teo's Indianization continued. New York Times and Harold Tribune published his obituary the day after he died, followed by letters to the editor remembering the mummy unwrapping he performed. His grand Samuel K. Lothrop did a seven-page obituary for American antiquity, writing that Teo was of almost pure Indian blood, which he was proud. It was inspirational, Lothrop said, that an Indian from Waurochee was buried in state with the notables of the land attending amid salvos of artillery, and that his countrymen rank him high in their history with Garcilaso de la Vega and Tupacamaru. It was perhaps the least Lothrop could have said. In the late 1930s, Teo had tried to enlist Lothrop, Krober, and their American colleagues to form an inter-American center for Andean research that Teo hoped to direct with international financing. The North Americans moved the idea forward, but took over the leadership of the resulting Institute of Andean Research, making Teo a mere advisor on local logistics. Teo's correspondence with Krober and the archives of San Marcos makes clear his frustration, his disappointment, his betrayal by this agreement, which is reproduced today, I should add, on the institute's website where Teo is absent from the photographs of its founding fathers. Those founders sent Teo their students to learn the findings that he had yet to publish with full evidence, but lectured and wrote upon for public audiences. The Morph-Frank perspective on Teo was reflected in Krober's Confidential Report on Proving Archaeology in 1942. There was one that was published and there was one that remained in the archives. And in that report, he claimed that Teo was, quote, disliked by many Peruvians who considered him egotistic, domineering, greedy, jealous, ruthless, and often unscrupulous. Among American archaeologists, dislike prevails in half, tempered admiration in the others. Krober was of the latter camp. Teo would have been hurt to know that Krober thought him, quote, not a scientist in his interpretations. But Krober respected him. Teo, quote, has done more for Peruvian archaeology than anyone else, except possibly Max Oolay, its scientific founder, he wrote. His partner, also known as a pathologist, Theodora Krober agreed, you know what we really liked? She wrote to the Grudenheim Foundation president who sent the Krobers in 1942. Teo, I just can't bear to see the applying of the yardstick by my no-all brethren up here in the United States. I'm sure ALK, Krober, and Sam Lathrop are right. He, Teo, is the biggest thing in the big archaeology picture and no one from here in the US should poke his nose down there, lacking respect for Teo as a person and as an archaeologist. She loved how Teo threw a party. How can you underrate a man in Peru who asks 100 people to a party and asks only the ones he wants and from ministers down feeds them sandwiches made by his museum staff and his own chicha. I was enchanted with his own missions. Alfred was reminded of his mentor. Teo is the grand old man in this field and still going strong, the Boaz of Peru. Yet Franz Boaz, Krober's mentor, would be remembered in ways that Teo would not. In the two years after Teo's death, those American colleagues mounted a conference rethinking Peru's archaeology. They proposed historical, cultural horizons traceable across geographies. Anne Peters and Alberto Alharza suggest these horizons gave no credit to their implicit antecedents in Teo's thinking. Several conference publications critiqued Teo's theories and his non-academic publishing. Subsequent American archaeologists addressed sites and questions Teo pioneered, but published almost exclusively in English using Teo's data, and this is in the words of Anne Peters and Alharza, using Teo's data but without citing his works except as a source of photographs. This was no conspiracy, but it is an example of how one person's groundwork becomes so fundamental that it becomes the ground, bearing the person and the politics and the specific contributions that need it. And we see it in the Smithsonian's first hall of physical anthropology, inaugurated in the National Museum of Natural History in 1965. The hall greeted visitors with 160 Andean skulls collected by one of Teo's early rivals, Baelish Hrglitschka. This skull wall used them to illustrate the explosion of humanity's population since Christ. The curators went on to use ancient Peruvians to illustrate prehistoric diseases and skeletons, how Native Americans expressed group belonging with cranial shaping, even the differentiation of physical traits using the Osinkai, the Inca bone. Having turd the hall, visitors might have thought that those Peruvians were American anthropologies poor quarry. But the hall's two most memorable displays showed how ambivalent the anthropologists were about studying Peru's debt as subjects. Unit 23 presented an ancient Peruvian mummy not as an example of Andean ancestral care, but to suggest that their preservation owed to Peru's environment and not intentional embalming as in Egypt. That agnosticism extended to the most surprising fact that the Smithsonian's anthropologists claimed to learn from Peru's skulls, the antiquity of trepanation in the Americas. Early exhibit scripts presented as a type of quackery, but the final exhibit went with Teo's line without crediting that ancient Peruvians excelled in skull surgery. And if skulls with seven holes failed to impress, then the mural of an Inca surgeon at work at Machu Picchu clinched the experience. Yet Teo was there if a visitor knew where to look. The exhibit's curator had referred the painter Alton S. Tobi to this earlier painting for inspiration, Trefinning and Ancient Peru, one of 85 great moments in the history of medicine painted for a pharmaceutical magazine in the 1950s. Here, however, the scene was set not at tourist-friendly Machu Picchu, but at Paracas, where Julio César Teo dug up the debt. And the priest at right was not just any Paracan, he was the exact textile-draped mannequin Teo had mounted at his last museum, who then guarded him at his wake, a beautifully-guarded Paracas ancestor advising on a patient's pain. Intentional or not, this was one of Teo's burials. Teo had devoted his early work to proving that healing and civilization had preceded the Incas and that non-Inca peoples, himself included, had inherited their skills and were as scientific as Europeans. The Smithsonian's side-long restaging Teo's own final operation in the wake replaced a Paracas surgeon with Incas and Teo's less imperial landscapes with tourist-friendly Machu Picchu. In a hid Teo's conviction that what redeemed the disinterment of the dead was the evidence that Andean Peruvians could also know, heal and preserve in the present just as they had done for millennia. That loss was ironically extended in the 1980s, not coincidentally, when Native North Americans were pushing the Smithsonian to address the skeletons in its closet. The skull wall came down in the 1980s, but this trepanation mural and display came down too, vanishing the chain of knowing, pardon me, that the taken Teo north, Americanist anthropology, looking for help. I underlined that irony not because I believe we should put the skull wall or displays like it back up, but we're in a moment in which institutions like the Smithsonian or Cal and my own Penn State are accounting for past efforts to grapple with the possession of the ancestral dead. This goes beyond whether an institution has done right by the Native American Grave Protection and Repatriation Act, which does not address the remains of indigenous peoples from outside the United States. We should also scrutinize actions that wave of respect, like taking the skull wall down, but also serve to fend off the conversation regarding populations uncovered by law, like the ancient Peruvians. This move is doubly pernicious if we think about what it does to the complicated legacy of someone like Teo, who staked his claim to scholarly and national belonging upon the scientific ancestors whose skulls and mummies he collected, shared, sold, and displayed. No longer displaying remains, institutions do right by the dead, but one of its effects is that it's also shrouding them from the realm of politics and history in which they began, the conversations that Teo wished to provoke. We might do better. Making publicly clear American anthropology and history as debts to Peruvian scholarship and its ancestors is something that many of us in the room are working towards. I would say all of us are working towards it. It's also something that we might start hearing more of from Peru, even if the state is intermittently interested in human remains. The paleopathologist Dr. Guido Lombardi has mooted the idea of requesting the return of the Trepan skulls from Guadalajara at Harvard, collected by Teo, as well as those at Smithsonian, collected by Muniz and Teo's rival for Lichca. We can directly address it by making clear how Andean history is entwined with our own. Publications reaching a wider audience is one way. Monica Browns and Elisa Chivabi's lovely bilingual children's book on Teo should be in every library. Please call it up and request it if it's not. But we might remember Teo's supposed final words. Conferences, museum. At Penn State this fall, we're opening an exhibition called Recollecting the Andes, which uses our collections, but also Teo's scholarship to engage these debts. We can also help attend Teo's political messages, that in the wake of last year's repressions of Andean protests are more relevant than ever. Teo's museums insisted that modern Peru is its Andean people and that they and their history belonged as much in Lima as in the Sierra. Their presence made their museums into places of care as well as tombs. This is no great stretch given how Teo fulfilled that idea in his final burial. Alfred Grover's suggestion that Teo was the Boaz of Peru indeed captured a similarity, not least of which was that both began their career by collecting the native debt. But there was a good reason why Boaz never had a chance of becoming the Teo of America. Teo did what Boaz did not. Unlike Boaz, who's turned to cultural anthropology and universities helped forestall American anthropologists reckoning with the indigenous skeletons in North American museums. Unlike him, Teo entwined his afterlife with the debt that built his career. The place where Teo asked to be interred, the place singularly welcomed to me that my executor knows was the rear patio of his final museum, close to the parochist moments he celebrated. Teo had known that burial in the backyard of his museum would take some time, requiring government permission and perhaps his embalming. His executor made his wishes known. The day after Teo died in 1947, the newspaper El Comercio championed his desire, arguing that to do so would repeat the example of Louis Pasteur, whose body rests in the institute carrying his name in Paris. Another paper reached Brinandian example, and wanting to sleep in his museum, Teo was like the ancient Peruvians, the tomb beside the home. By the day, Teo was carried to the cemetery that government had decreed that his remains could return to the museum when a suitable tomb was constructed. In your museum, you will be relic, guardian and director without weighing, promised your geographer Javier Fulgar de Vival, because it was there that you lifted up the man you had seen humiliated and battered, so that he might be respected, that he might be lord and not servant, and that he might achieve a status worthy of your honor guard. And so a year to the day after Teo's death, he got the burial he wanted. On June 3rd, 1948, he was disinterred and carried back to Pueblo Libre. He was carried past the reconstructed temple of Nepeña in one of the front patios of the museum. He was laid in state in his museum's Paracas Rotunda for one night more. Handles flickering, he was surrounded by the Trepan skulls and mannequins. He had made into scientific ancestors. The surgeons of Paracas, whose descendants, the students and employees from Lima and Watuchibi that Teo trained, watched over them all. The next morning, museum employees and representatives from Watuchibi carried him from that rotunda to the rear patio of the museum. And there, in a marble tomb topped by a replica of the Chaveon obelisk, carved by the museum artist Luis Cosi Salas, Teo was laid to rest with an amphora filled with earth from the 19 districts of Watuchibi. A burial this self-consciously scientific and ancestral blurred past and present. Its year-long process was redolent of the Purcaya ceremony that paraded the Incas and Bondiapas back to Cusco a year after their death. His survivors sought new rhetorical heights. Hermán Luna Iglesias, who paid for the tomb, likened Teo to the soldier who requests that they bury his cadaver in the field of battle that was his greatest victory. Here in his spiritual home, the bones of the great Indian reposed beneath the replica of the Chaveon monolith he exhumed, covered in symbolic figures and mysterious drawings that will seem like a strange tree of granite, sinking its roots of eternity in the sarcophagus of he who is also a sturdy monolith with stony determination and flintiness against adversity. This last burial was also a wager on his museum's longevity. A bet that future governments will be less able to scatter in this institution with a modern aerial at its heart. As some of us know, Teo's Museum in Pueblo Libre has been neglected by Peru's Ministry of Culture, which has poured untold treasure into the new but mostly empty Museo Nacional near Pachecama. What in Pueblo Libre, Teo's Museum remains with his body and those of the Paracas mummies, along with other mummified or skeletal remains that have been returned to Peru over the years. Teo's burial made explicit the possibility of the museum being both scientific and ancestral, where the living claimed legitimacy in the presence of the first owners of the land. Teo could not reassemble the generations of tombs and remains that centuries of tomb grave robbing and export had scattered. So he instead reenacted their internment. The museum has burial and ancestral promise. His protege, Rebecca Pachecama, the show was grateful he could repose alongside the remains of his ancestors who forged for their labors and wisdom the Pru of yesterday and of forever. Now an ancestor himself, Teo and his tomb would illuminate and guide this great museum of America, where every year on his birthday, April 11th, the museum staff celebrates Archaeologist's Day in Peru around his tomb. The tomb was closed, the candles extinguished, and this great museum of America today, the National Museum of Pruving, Archaeology, and Apology and History was cleared of dignitaries. But the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that, this Archaeologist remained at work, embalmed and surrounded by the fellow researchers, doctors, conservatives, conservators, and artists who carried on the curation of ancestors who had demanded nothing less, you know, Cesar Teo than exactly. Thank you all for listening. And I look forward to the good questions. My apologies for going on long, but I think there is time though for questions. Okay, that's an excellent question. I don't think it's on there at all. I think part of it has to do with his self-presentation as indigenous, as part of the messages that he gave in lectures and in interviews, how he presented himself to colleagues, especially in the latter half of his career. He became part of the legend that the state and the people eulogizing him could draw upon. But he's also, he is different too. He's sometimes talked about, and I think I'm fairly dismissed, as part of the strain of Indie-Hemismo in Korea that valorizes indigenous people as something to say, as something that who is the foundation of the nation, but they are an agricultural foundation of the nation who needs protection from the state. And that wasn't Teo's message. His message was at times, I had a grandmother who was Indian and was also, I am Peruvian. But later in life, he's arguing for an indigenous identity as foundational to Peruvian identity, Andean history. And I wanna go back just to this. Well, there's a lot of slides and you guys were very patient and I'll get there. But his diagram of Andean culture in which he is pushing against what he says as narratives of both Peruvian elites, but also North American and Atlantic anthropologists who sees culture as diffusing to Peru from elsewhere, specifically from Mexico or some from Asia or from the Jews or in Bolivia was the case in the time from Arian Europe. Teo Hever was saying, no, Peruvian civilization and culture has always been here and developed here in the slopes towards the jungles and Andean people inherited it, or are the carriers forward of it. He also rejected and I was talking to Manny about some of his papers in Pueblo Libre, we can see how he taught his students in his lecture notes, as well as some of the exams that they wrote. And he had a student who in 1928 or 29 wrote on an exam that the way that the Peruvian society should address the Indian problem, which is not a word that Teo used to accept to say that it's circumstantial, it's not the Indians problem, but the Peru's problem. But the way Peru should address the Indian problem is to take the responsibility of returning them to be farmers. And Teo wrote on the exam in red pencil next to it, why does the Indian have to be a farmer? Which for me makes him different in this moment. And especially if we compare it to the Mexican example where there is a celebration of indigenous heritage, but it's a specific inherited as dictated by the Peruvian state, and also, sorry, Mexican state, and also in the culture of mestizaje, that Vasconcelos is presenting, is saying what is gonna redeem native indigenous people as well as Afro-Mexicans, is their mixture, their blending. And Teo was arguing for an indigenous identity that wasn't necessarily racial, but was also political in something that could be not quite protected, but empowered. And I think that does make him different, but because of his association with Ligía, and then I think how some of his colleagues wrote about him after the fact, both in Peru and in the US, he was nationalist, and he was a nationalist. And we shouldn't walk away from this thinking of what was a nationalist. But because of those influences, he wasn't that he was compromised. But it makes him, but to the larger question of like, why him in this moment too, I think has a lot to do with how he gets turned into an icon, but one without a politics as explicit anymore. That was a long, that was an excellent question, thank you. Christine, absolutely, that's a, I mean, obviously in the work of Frank Salomon and his engagement with Teo's archives and writings to understand exactly what Teo was seeing, particularly in the 1910s and 20s in terms of Kippus and what was recorded in some publications, but also to some degree in his archives and using his observation of this ethnographic present of the 1920s work, I think it's important there. Sarah Beneson's recent book on a Vientabolo manuscript or the Water to the Vientabolo and is also trying to engage with how Teo is recording and observing other kinds of record keeping systems in the 1920s in the Highlands. I think his archives have, as I've experienced in archives of archeology, both in the US and through, have tremendous social detail. And so this is less an answer for the mobilization of these ideas on the ground, which are on some level rather simplistic if we think of this as first draft of like, this is Andean culture or pre-Hispanic Grugian culture in the branches in these ways, which is complicated, but has this order that presumes essential, the one you know essentially. That is simplistic and not something that I would see people going back to, except in practical political sense. But I think that the publication of his field notes by the University of San Marcos and also what I hope is getting more people into his archives as well as his archives with other scholars in the US reveals a tremendous amount of ethnic background explaining in part like how he was interacting with many of the communities that he was passing through often collecting the debt. And this is something that Richard Daggett's work also gets done. Thank you for the question. Yes, Sean. Yeah, it is also a hole in the archive. I'm going through the archives, I really don't see that much about his family after he comes back from abroad the first time. There are some references occasionally to in American anthropologists and archaeologists letters of encounters with them are going to his house, but not in his own arc. However, there are some interesting details for his life before he goes to Harvard. And particularly in the 1910s, when he's spending a lot more time in Wadochidi and he has family members writing to him for things like loans or asking for jobs. Or in one case, he is corresponding with a family member to sell off lands in order this is in the period where he was kicked out of, he lost his job at the National Museum in 1915. It was really short of funds. This is when he took a job for Harvard collecting that got him in trouble with the government as well. But he writes to them to sell off some of his mother's family's lands, sort of the herding lands higher above Wadochidi, the town. And so I think there are details there. There is just so much material in his collections too. So it's also maybe there's something that I don't know about, that they might not want. But I haven't had in terms of what at least I would, whatever privileges I have as a researcher, I haven't found anything where people are like, oh no, you can't look at that area. Yes, that's, oh thank you, Ryan, that's terrific. There are letters between Kayo and Albert S. Ashmood who is a paleopathologist and dentist in Philadelphia who wrote on one of the people in the late 19th century, early 20th century, who's using Waco's Peruvian pots, ceramics, say, these are the diseases that existed in the pre-Hispanic past. And Kayo started writing and corresponding with him about the antiquity of syphilis, which Kayo believed was in the Americas before Europeans arrived and Ashmood did not. And in these letters, he talks about some of the knowledges of what causes disease that he learned while traveling in water today between 1901 and 1909 when this period of intense self-study and also study of his countryside happened. And he refers to moments where he got locked up. And I believe the anecdote of him getting locked up is in one of Ricardo Palma's, his son's from Emets's that's cited in some of the literature. But he also writes about his grandma. And that's where we get the reference to him saying that his grandmother was an Indian who believed in Gentile ceremonies. But I talked about this in the book. It's not in the lecture. He uses an example where he says there was somebody in his family that in her town that spinal bifida, bifida, bifida. And Kayo was like that is very clearly spinal bifida. But his grandmother said no, that's because that child's husband was a thief. And the child got punished for his thieving ways. And he sort of presents this to his, this disagreement essentially with his grandmother and writes I couldn't convince her otherwise to the dentist as sort of an example of indigenous superstitions about medicine. And so there is an aspect and I see it sometimes, I think it's there also in how we talked about trepanation where there is still this turn that Moniz made and that Kayo followed that in order to respond to North Americans, dismissal of it as superstitious clackery as sort of like, you know, just opening the skull to let out spirits or taking bone and making them into rondelles that could be ambulance. Kayo goes in the other direction to like, no, it's just science, it's medical. That doesn't create a space for the alternate epistemology where it could also be, well, kind of be both. And there is an element of like the sacred and that Kayo's insistence that he is, the one who decides what something is that you can see it in his interactions with, for example, with the community of Chabin De Wanta, the example of taking objects from the site to Lima or locking them up as John was telling me the other night that does create a confrontational attitude that is one of his legacies. Surprisingly little. I mean, he does, in his lecture notes, he does teach on Delica cephalic, Delica cephalic head, recticephalic and sort of different shapes, but he doesn't have them, this is an Imira skull, Imira skulls are like this, he detaches them from ethnicity. It's more diagnostic in terms of just how they look and might have been representative of artificial cranial shaping. Otherwise, it's really interesting how uninterested he is in racialized studies, even though he leaves in ancient proven ways, but they're all ancient proven. He's not interested in what he sees as like, this is what you call the polygenism of like splitting up indigenous people into different groups. Also in this, sorry, I thought you were gonna ask a question that sent another piece to like the Boaz connection. He did meet friends Boaz once at Harvard in 1910, 1911, and he wrote back to his friend Garza Palma and these letters are in Cruz National Library, they're digitized and available about how touched he was by Boaz's interest and importance that he gave archeology in Peru and Mexico. That he said, it's essentially that I've come here to study this, but he is interested in what is happening in Mexico and Peru. And I think it's in the same letter that he talks about socializing with other students from Latin America at Harvard and he describes himself as a Latina, which is, he sort of says I met other Latinas and it's not something that shows up in his course one or two. So I think it's very important to think of his life as not just sort of this rise to greatness and apologize if not. Lecture explains that, but just sort of how aware he is of his social context and how his identity is changing and making the best of that. Thank you so much, everyone. Should I turn this off?