 Hello. I would like to acknowledge that I'm speaking to you from the campus of the University of California, Irvine, that is located on the homelands of the Ajaachem and Tongva peoples who in the face of ongoing settler colonialism continue to claim their place and act as stewards of their ancestral lands as they have for the past 8,000 years. I'm Rachel O'Toole and I want to wish everyone a Feliz Año Nuevo. I also want to wish a much kinder, gentler and healthy and just 2021 to all of us. I hope that all of you have been taking advantage of this week's virtual meetings to discuss and share your research. Personally, I am recording this presentation ahead of the meetings in my home studio as I'm sure many of you are doing the same. I am looking forward to the talks on textiles, the Jakama Valley, and local devotional art, all topics that are very close to my heart. I want to thank the Institute of Indian Studies for this invitation to speak, and I would like to thank the Blue Ribbon Commission, engaging Africans in their descendants in Indian studies for their present and future work on advising the Institute of Indian Studies regarding the topics, fields, and communities included in their annual meetings and journals. It's really exciting to me that the Institute of Indian Studies, whose foundational purpose was to disseminate scientific research regarding Native peoples and what was the former Incan Empire, is revisiting its scope. I come to you with a clear question. How did Indian Studies as a field come to be? How did those of us who consider ourselves to be scholars and researchers and inhabitants of the Andes come to articulate the boundaries of our field? And who do we think can be subjects of Indian Studies? In what follows, in what I admit is not the best format to be delivering any type of intellectual address, I will argue that chroniclers, scholars, and state officials constructed Indian Studies as an exclusive research paradigm designed to bolster an exclusive nationalist and even transnational silencing identity. Myriad in its functionality, the simplistic and imagined nature of the Andean has functioned to obscure the voracious political organizing of Amazonian indigenous peoples, the distinct political trajectory of the Bolivian Academy, and the embarrassing obvious histories of Africans from Bogota de Mendoza. I suggest that the paradigm of Andean Studies has engaged in what Michel Roth Trio so accurately explained as a silencing of the past. As Trio elaborates, silences are created in the moment of historical production or a time that, if you will permit me, scientific knowledge is created. Silences or absences or forgettings or erasures therefore take place when we as scholars, number one, make facts or make sources, number two, assemble facts or make our archives or databases, number three, when we retrieve facts or make narratives or deliver scientific findings, or number four, and I'm quoting Trio, the moment of retrospective significance or what Trio calls the making of history or our own scholarly narration of what is and what is not. It's this last point that I think is especially significant where Trio brings our attention to what we as archaeologists, bioarchaeologists, historians, ethno historians, anthropologists, curators and teachers name as actually worthy of study, intellectually significant and central to our academic narratives. I'm returning to one of my questions. How has Indian Studies come to insist on a centralized subject position and a methodology to the exclusion of Africans in their descendants? I want to begin answering this question as a historian and my answer is somewhat historical unsurprisingly. The history of the Andes have constructed the subjects of our studies and I would argue that we want to begin with the colonial chroniclers whose evidence narratives frames who we consider to be primary actors in Indian Studies. Familiar to many of us, these recorders range from the soldier Pietro Cesar de León to the missionary Jose de Acosta, to the mestizo exile El Incogarcilazo de La Vega. As many of us know, the evidence is tantalizing. Most recently, I had to record a lecture for 800 first year students here at University of California Irvine and I reveled in the detail provided by Fray Diego de Aconia's first encounter with llamas. I read against and with the grain of his synthesized sentences that include information from another chronicler, Father Jose de Acosta. The level of detail regarding how much each llama can carry made me agree with other scholars that Aconia relied on detailed interviews with indigenous trajinantes for his evidence. Aconia's delightful drawings of the carneros del Perú, del Callao, y del Chile, and adjoining Acosta with a focus on the llama is not coincidental, though. As the chronicler explains the llama and the trajinantes carried silver, specifically the king's bars, from Potosito a Rica, returning with mercury and wine. And as the fray knew, this island silver would be shipped from the Pacific port to Panama, then across the Atlantic, while means for its exploitation, quick silver and alcohol were produced regionally. Aconia therefore educated his Spanish Criollo Inca and indigenous noble audience with his explanation of how the regional colonial and dean economy connected with imperial demands and its global dispersal. My point is this. Evidence, then, is politically and economically constructed. Colonial chronicles, especially those published and licensed, were to inform and to instruct a colonizing state in its eager publics. Colonial chroniclers such as Ocania silenced. Also, the additional commentary of Afro and dean mestizo, a mare speaking trajinantes, who continued adapted and transformed the roads and paths and corridors between the southern Corriera and the steep coast. By providing written testimonies of oral accounts, sequencing events were called according to alternative timelines and dismissing the bitter memories of the defeated or the survivors. Colonial chroniclers collated, revised, and often edited events and situations in people in the Americas to serve a European imaginary. As Trio warns us, a chronicler or any historian is interested in a narrative that in and of itself is an argument. The evidence, therefore, is part of the argumentation. Regardless of our own disciplinary relationships with colonial chroniclers, my point is to redirect our attention as a field to how these few privileged narrators were among the first to categorize the inhabitants or the subjects of the Andes. Overwhelmingly, the writings of colonial chroniclers are filled with the action, agency, and ingenuity of Spanish conquerors, missionaries, and authorities, which makes Don Felipe, Woman Pomodalladas, unpublish chronicle and critique all the more subversive and equally tantalizing. The text, these chronicles, also loudly center the subjects of the Andes primarily as indigenous men. Immediately following Friday Diego de Acone's description of the llama trains that I was so enamored with, carrying silver, mercury, and wine, the chronicler continues with the account of an indigenous Indian man in dispute with a Spaniard elite male. This example reveals racial and gender hierarchies of the colonial period. The Spanish man is named, he carries an honorific title, while the indigenous man is nameless and dismissively cast as este indio. At the same time as Trio would remind us, the chronicler requires a silence that is necessary to his account. Those who were present and did not identify or would not be categorized as Indian or Spaniard are left out of the historical record, left out of the archive. As scholars of 2021, we no longer rely on chroniclers to guide our archival field work, yet if we are attentive to what Trio calls, quote, the means and process of historical production, end quote, we can reflect on the similarities between the subjects and agents found in colonial chronicles and contemporary Indian studies. Indigenous Indians since the initial conceptualization of the Andes as low as a location of focus, analysis and recording have been the primary actors or perhaps objects of study. Why? Trio instructs us that quote, I'm quoting Trio, silences are inherent in the creation of sources, the first moment of historical production. It is not necessarily in the narration, it is in the moment of the creation of the evidence, defining not the evidence, but the framework for the possibility of inquiry, colonial chroniclers constructed who we would as Indianists decide we're at the centers of our inquiries. Secondly, texts and objects have worked together to construct the past. Since the 16th century, colonial chroniclers have cited, copied and mimicked other written sources as well as unpublished manuscripts, while moving in and out of governmental and religious positions, whether issuing legislative mandates regarding the rearrangement of indigenous settlements, justifying Christian missionization of Moche's sacred sites, or describing the ink and fortress of Saxoaman, literate chronistas with or without royal licenses or religious authorities participated in formulas and projections of colonial statecraft. In other words, the archival or factual evidence that we take as the basis for our interpretation was constructed as an extension in part of an Incan or Neo-Incan Imperium and a reproductive colonial bureaucratic apparatus. My point is that whether or not you employ colonial chroniclers as a source base for your own research, as an Indianist, these intellectuals, these government authorities, and these religious officials established the paradigm for what we understand as the focus of our analysis. As the Spanish state reduced the multitude of the Andes into the colonial category of Indian, so too we acquired who we would study. European investigators, travelers, recorders of the 17th and 18th centuries compounded the archival frame of colonial chroniclers. Spanish authorities joined Creole intellectuals along with French collectors to match the evidence from colonial chroniclers in order to catalog their cabinets of curiosities. And as the Bourbons on both sides of the Atlantic expanded their classifications and holdings into botanical gardens, costa paintings, and natural specimens, the focus on indigeneity as well as whiteness remained clear. Black people make appearances in these collections of texts and objects, but mostly in comparison. And the collections of antiquities, therefore, follow the colonial chroniclers who pursued the question of whether the Mexica, the Inca, or other indigenous states of the Americas were civilizations that were equal to those of the Europeans. Blackness could and would could and would disrupted a felicitous and fantastical melding between indigeneity and whiteness porting the erudite audience to its object of analysis, elites or noble indigenous figures. So what I'm pointing to is that the problematic of our past as Indianists therefore is not solely solved by critically assessing the evidence we employ from colonial sources or I may tease a little avoiding them. Truyot I think allows us to see what also has been silenced in the pursuit of recovery, decentralization, resistance, recuperation, and subaltern or everyday ethno histories. Because of our shared intellectual paradigms within Indian studies we have continued to construct our archives or our evidence in a manner that predetermines the subjects as the subjects and in the past as indigenous. Indigeneity becomes equal with Indian in the colonial period and what I'm calling our attention to is that this was a political and cultural construction and I would suggest that we have inherited an archival framework that allows us only to accept indigenous people as primary actors in an Indian world. Second moving to evidence from the 19th century historians of Peru constructed the Andes as a location rooted in Incan monuments and community geographies. This spatial claim especially to those of us gathered this week under the rubric of Indian studies may seem sacrosanct given our mutual devotion to verticality, horizons, and the meanings of stone. I am not immune to these devotions. Yet I want to suggest that our attachment as a field to geography is a historical construction from the long 19th century. First Peruvian Creoles and republican scholars correlated an Incan physicality with a country or patria pride. One Jorge Juan and Antonio de Aloa's Relación Histórica del Viaje a la America published in 1749 figuratively displaced Spanish sovereigns on Lima's Teatro Politico with Incan kings. Peruvian republican intellectuals claimed their nation free from Spanish tyranny quote under the ancient Incan arch of the Republic with representations of the Inca republican architectural references ruptured political attachments to the Habsburg and Bourbon dynasties just as Creoles argued for the superiority of Cusco civilization over Rome. Representations expressed but also generated imaginative possibilities. Incas as recovered ancient sovereigns projected a bright national future of bounty for republican Peruvian intellectuals. Reinscribed by the 20th century scholar Jorge Republican elites with further anchor Peruvian history and the potential of the new nation's seeds of liberty and democracy in the soil of the the Incan period. More than an association of Peruvian with Inca the 19th century construction of the past intertwined an imagined locality of Inca with Peruvian. These texts and representations and discourses framed the very spatial possibilities of India. Again the contrast within one and and Iloas representations are instructive. Inca unfortunately comes to signify the vast multivariate indigenous and rural communities whose political cultural and social positions have been brilliantly exposed by historians and anthropologists such as Cecilia Mendes, the late Thomas Abercrombie and many others. Currently Mark Therner, Jose Raghas and others are teaching us the intricate intellectual histories of white Peruvian republican intellectuals as so stately represented. What is absent from the making of the Peruvian nation however is the representation however token of those who could not fit into the categorization of Inca or republican creole. Now we can easily dismiss these frontispices as signs of white imaginaries, fantasies of a Peruvian elite who desperately sought white categorization within the logics of European scientific racism. And as we know from the award-winning work of Tamara Walker as well as the significant contributions of Maribel Arsidera Barantes, the social cultural, political and economic world of late 18th century and 19th century Lima would have been more black, indigenous, heteridiginously indigenous, heteridiginously indigenous and Asian much more than Incan or Spanish. Nonetheless what we are left with is a conscious forgetting on the part of Juan and Aloha. As Truyó reminds us quote history as a social process involves people in their capacities as agents or occupants of structural positions. What I want to point out to is the cronistas of this long 19th century Juan and Aloha and those intellectuals who followed actively constructed a Peruvian past that was exclusively Inca and Spanish when in reality their past and present was decidedly black, Asian, radically diversely indigenously and dean and amazingly relational. Far from a curiosity of the past I would suggest that these texts and their political use generated an intellectual assumption of an indigenous but specifically Inca geographical primacy and purity. Clearly archaeologists, ethno historians and other scholars including the people I'm talking to right now have worked to counter the co-optation of national discourses, regional narratives and corporate interests with community projects, attention to local concerns and peer work with local scholars. Still what I'm trying to call our attention to is that the construction of a nation with the monumental and the nationalist association with Inca creates an imagined position that is historical and therefore assumed to be material. 18th century bourbon Spanish investigators Juan and Aloha were fascinated with Incan structures and they drew the royal palaces in Quito and Cusco and gushed over the mechanical perception, perfection of Incan stonework and there's lots to gush over. Creals and Republicans joined French colleagues to favorably compare ancient Peruvian buildings and temples to those of Europe in order to include the region into 19th century hierarchies. Architectural structures were correlated with specific geographical sites such as Ayota Tambo or Pacha Kamak in order to generate a civilizational currency for the emerging Peruvian nation. Making value for and value of the Peruvian nation, the early discourse of history and archaeology emphasized the size as well as the antiquity of monumental structures but also sought to prove an indigenous purity of Quechua and Amara language speakers. Again work by Debra Poole, Pascal Rival and other scholars have taught me how these national and international intellectuals transform the monumentality of the Incas into the Peruvian sense of nation. Still what I'm trying to suggest is how Incan monumentality not only haunts us but defines an exclusive Peruvian past. Ancient monuments have become synonymous with the new nation, patria or country of Peru and the connection between the markers and the sites of Incan civilization and the identification of Peruvian nationhood is a political discourse and a historical construction that has created what Trio would call an archive of the past. The monuments are the expected places where Peruvians and others know to look for a national past even from periods before the nation. Holding place as well as identity the national monumental Inca takes up space but also serves as a constructed standard of value against which all other communities narratives and agents must be measured. Lastly the long 19th century Creole patriot patria claiming and republican nation making created the objects of value to fill an official Peruvian archive of the past. The Relacion Histórica of 1748 featured imagery of llamas, the coca plant, the chijona plant and towering volcanoes. One aniloa described mirrors, figurines and other objects found in tombs worthy of investigation. Now we can recognize these objects as symbols of Peru that are not lost on prom peru as texts and objects serving a narrative of state independence and nation making. Undoubtedly as Jorge Casñares Isquiera has argued Spanish-American patriotic epistemology was a critical historical discourse yet what Truyó causes us to see is who emerges as the agents of history. 18th century Creole accounts and early 19th century narratives privilege the perspective of indigenous noblemen and the objects of a single indigenous civilization. More particularly nationalist constructions of the 18th and 19th century created an archive of acceptable and expected tropes as well as narrators. Casñares Isquiera emphasizes the Creole and republican interests in oral narratives, native languages, Mesoamerican glyphs and dienquipus in archaeological monuments as sources of national identity as well as historical evidence. As Mark Therner explains, material geographic distinctions including desert Sierra and rainforests are critical to the claiming of an independent nation. Hardly insignificant these objects and places have become required props for historical action even if archaeological in the Andes. As a result the construction of the Inca as well as the Peruvian past is still with us as a present fact of the materiality of evidence. In other words a 19th century value of civilization has become tied to what today is most valued in the past. Now I want to talk about the 21st century and I'm going to be the first to confess of the influences of the colonial chroniclers and the 19th century national imaginaries on my own work. Including my slippaging reliance on the discourses of Don Felipe Guamampomo de Ayada, an indigenous chronicler, for evidence of how 17th century coastal indigenous redactiones categorized Africans and their descendants. After all Guamampomo de Ayada was active in the southern Andes in the late 16th century and he conceptualized himself as kind of a fluffed-up heir to the Incan administrative legacy. If I was being more honest about the archive that I had assembled, the Chacama Valley officials of Santiago de Caos had not imagined a tripate distinction between Black, Spanish and Indian but perhaps multiple differences that crossed high, middle and coastal valley allegiances with distinctions among community members and foresteros. As Trios suggested by employing Guamampomo as a fact to support my interpretations, I created the chronicler as evidence by obscuring the time and the place distinctions that mattered between the northern and the southern Andes. I also ignored the chronicler's fierce need to prove his crown loyalty in the late 16th century. I could have been much more attentive to the work-a-day land and water defenses of the colonial Chacama Redaction representatives during the mid 17th century and the sugar and wheat and cattle hacienda expansion of these coastal regions. The question I think that's even more interesting is why did I rely so much on the indigenous chronicler Guamampomo? In part, my training as a social and cultural historian may be grasped for an indigenous writer whose drawings combined with a multi-linguistic text allowed me for a discursive reading that enabled me to challenge the really restrictive recounting of the estate inventories and the incredibly racist stereotyping of the criminal magistrate courts that I was reading regularly in the archive. To be more honest, I had struggled to articulate, locate articulations of Africans in their descendants in the 17th century colonial city of Trujillo and the surrounding northern coastal valleys, and I had grown struggle and I had grown frustrated with the overwhelming voices of mochica speaking and Spanish-speaking coastal indigenous officials, villagers, farmers, mulleteers and laborers. This din drowned out the testimonies of enslaved free men and women. The archive was loud. It was loud with what the Spanish crown was attentive to, but also how the 20th century archivists had organized its holdings. Surrounded by moche huacas and regularly passing the ruins of Chan Chan, I was well aware of who and what constituted the real past of the Peruvian northern coast. The archive had not solely been made by the colonial magistrates, but also by a Trujillo sense of vice regal moche pride and my own stubborn collection practices. As Trujillo explains, the archival silences are not merely a lack of record, but include the way in which evidence is recorded. Following the empire as well as the valued signals from the national present, I narrated how the Santiago Odecao officials participated in the creation of a colonial category of Indian, and therefore I made coastal villagers of the valley reacciones into Andeans, while implicitly sidelining Africans as blacks who supposedly were not Andean. Time and space continue to define the boundaries of Andean and Andean studies. Andean nations are made Indian. Periods rooted in specific geographies constitute a fundamental way to recount an Andean past. Scholars refer to ethnographic markers of Andean authenticity as geographically cultural. Antiquity is an assumed association with only the indigenous Andean making other temporal formulations external, foreign, and suspect against the heavy weight of nationalistic claims, institutional funding, cultural capital, and simple racial hierarchies. As Shane Green recently explained, many Andeanist scholars in particular portray Peru as an essentially Andean nation and thus indigenous Peru as an entirely Andean phenomenon. That's all Shane Green. Andean then is not only equated with a particular articulation of indigeneity, but one that must be constructed with the archival tools that I have described as colonial, republican, scientifically racist, and remarkably intellectually static. So then I ask myself, what is to be done? Let me propose three radical transformations that are archival, paradigmic, and institutional as a means to generate intellectual growth in our shared field of Andean studies. First in my very brief and abridged history today, I've meant to point us to the origins or the frameworks that inform today's Andean studies. Foremost the methods of collection continue to define what is Andean as essentially physical or human geographical. Scholars such as cultural anthropologist Dr. Erica Vogel and others remind us of the fallacy of this definition as the Andean diaspora defines its geography in particular neighborhoods of working class Korea. And this morning I even read about a chifa in Los Angeles's Eagle Rock. More critically, objects, people, and practices have been traveling for longer than the 21st century. And their reuse is even more visionary. The Spanish were not the first to repurpose stone. The Incas were not the only ones to transform secret spaces. And the Met is not the only collector of featherwork. Indeed, the more that I deep in my own study of Chimu textile manufacturer, Moche pastoralism, or Lambe Ecke ceramic line design, I'm struck by the movement, the influences, and the play among groups of people, artistic style, and regional exchange. Nonetheless, the static method of collection have defined a shared archive of Andean to an exclusive geography and strict physical boundaries. Andean, to put it plainly, signifies a specific place that must be inhabited by a specific cultural group and racial type. Trio names these traditions of the guild among historians as our own attachments to positivism. Rightly, he calls out historians trained in the United States for our allergy to political argumentation, having been forbidden to position ourselves regarding the present. I myself have fallen back on the excuse that I am engaged in historical investigation of colonial caste categories. Yet I consciously chose and choose to study Africans blackness and questions of slavery in the Andes because I was dumbstruck since my first visit to the National Bolivian Archives in 1995 with the historiographical silence around Afro-Andeans. As a first-year graduate student, I was flabbergasted by the loud, prolific, overflowing archival documentation of Africans and their descendants, yet their histories were not valid by most scholars. And I am not unique. I work in the shadow of Frederick Bowser, Luis Milones, and Carlos Aguirre, and alongside my colleagues Sherwin Bryant, Leo Gorafalo, and Jiménez Gomez, and many others. Most scholars of Andean studies create data based on an assumption of what constitutes the physical space of the Andes. But what I'm calling the tension to, that this idea was created in the later 18th century and developed in the 19th century, and the origins of Andean studies defined the space of study according to Creole and nationalist political claims. Andean needed to be equated with a purity of Quechua-speaking rural indigeneity that is reproduced in the boundaries governing Andean studies today. Data collection and excavation are historically constructed physical locations. It is clear that Andean studies scholarly assemblages have been constructed by an assumption of what constitutes the physical space and therefore what and who is deemed worthy of study. The goal then would be to develop a clear consciousness around the cultural, historical, and political contributions of not just the field, but the evidence that contributes to our shared intellectual project. You could interpret my call as one for new sites or new protagonists. But to be clear, what I'm calling for is a recognition of the value of disciplinary methods beyond one's own, the historical, political, and cultural construction of data, and an outright challenge to 19th century empiricism. In other words, there's no evidence for our work that is more pure, more empirical, or more Andean than other evidence. Second, the frameworks of Andean studies as a discipline have defined who constitutes authentic Andean subjects. And as many of us know, labels, titles, and categories are more than descriptors, but authoritative claims, representative bodies, and exclusive invitations. Moreover, as trio distinguishes between naming the Spanish invasion of the Americas as a conquest or a discovery clearly indicates how, quote, names set up a field of power. Therefore, when we use the term Andean to implicitly imply only indigenous Andeans, we send a powerful message not only of exclusivity, but of invisibility, silencing, and inauthenticity that creates additional scholarly, intellectual, and institutional barriers to publication, funding, and basic recognition. As I am sure many of you are aware, Dr. Shane Green has smartly applied Michelle Rove's trio concept of the savage slot to illuminate the Inca slot and what he brilliantly calls Peruvianology. As Green builds on the nationalist construction of the indigenous Andean subject, he reveals how, quote, studying Peruvian Indigeneity as a constant dialogue with Inca slot ideologies often implies not seeing the Peruvian Amazon and ignoring indigenous Amazonians, end quote. Green goes on to demonstrate that in spite of a plethora of evidence activity and historical precedent, Amazonian indigenous movements remain invisible in Peru's social, academic, and national thought because of a geo-ethnic logical that equates an Andean Indigeneity as nationally Peruvian. Centering a singular definition of indigenous Andean leads to an oration of any other. My suggestion, then, is simple. Andean is not a term reserved for indigenous subjects. Specifically in these brief remarks, I have suggested how Andean has come to be constructed as a word equated with Incan monumentality, rural indigeneity, and highland communities in the service of nationalist politics. Andean, therefore, is a discursive construction that appears to bind more than liberate our current subjects of analysis. Instead, many of us are engaged in what, in our, or in solidarity with, or identify with whom Sylvia Rivera Kusikanki calls, quote, the multicolored and acculturated populations or the motley mix that is a decolonized indigenous subjectivity. To be very clear, I am not simply calling for a recovery project of more inclusivity within the category of Andean. For historians, our challenge has remained to problematize, to revise, and to rewrite master historical narratives that have sidelined, obscured, and silenced those who we know to be critical contributors. An additive model, however, does not change the paradigm of Andean studies that has repetitively created an authentic and valued subject, not only to the exclusion of Afro-Andeans or Asian-Indians, but to the silencing of queer, multi-abled, diasporic, and transitional positionalities. Lastly, insular training of many Andeans Insular training of many Andeanists has resulted in methods, theories, and practices that reproduce heteronormative, racist, lemacentric, institutional patterns that serve to segregate rather than generate. As a scholar of the African diaspora in the Andes, I and others have been repeatedly subjected to the empirical query of proving numerical value in order to validate research findings. As a field, Afro-Andean studies has been dismissed as anecdotal, narrative, or amusing to the core narrative of Indigeneity simply due to the supposed empirical inadequacies of population sample size, the scope of documentation, or the period of coverage. Yet one ceramic shard, one single osuary repository, or a lone mural representation, again and again serves as the basis for endless speculation of gendered practices, class distinctions, or ethnic boundaries. What is to be done about how the investigations of Africans and their descendants have been and continue to be sidelines segregated and stereotyped? I was not surprised to find upon reviewing all of the past programs of the Institute of Andean Studies meetings that not once a paper presented has been presented on Africans and the Andes before this historical meeting of this week that we're participating in. Yet I was still dismayed to find that this year's attempt at inclusion that the Afro-Andean theme was segregated from the normative general section of Indian studies. What is to be gained from setting Africans blackness and people of African descent apart from the purity of what is deemed to be and has been historically constructed as correctly institutionally and originally Andean? It is on this question of inclusivity and exclusivity that I will close. Andeanists can certainly continue to define their subject, their location, and their time of study as highland indigenous originally traceable to physical landscapes and bound by positivistic temporal concepts. If so, Andeanists will continue to replicate an exclusive constructive paradigm that does not reflect the lived realities of those in the past or the present. And from my position, this is not a question of reaching out or allowing more topics. This is a question of who we think we are and who we think deserves to be Andean. And so I really thank you for the chance to dive into the 19th century especially and for the chance to elaborate on these arguments. And most importantly, I'm looking forward to the meetings that are about to begin.