This is an extract from:
Native Traditions in the Postconquest World
Elizabeth Hill Boone and Tom Cummins, Editors
Published by
Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection
Washington, D.C.
© 1998 Dumbarton Oaks
Trustees for Harvard University
Washington, D.C.
Printed in the United States of America
www.doaks.org/etexts.html
Native Traditions in the Postconquest World: Commentary
Native Traditions in the Postconquest World: Commentary
TOM CUMMINS
UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO
W
E INTELLECTUALS, WHO TAKE A PROPRIETARY right over history in an
often detached and analytical way, are asked at certain liminal times
to give voice to what has transpired in the past so that we, as a
community, can acknowledge that past as we pass into the future. A quincentenary, the five-hundred-year anniversary of an event, is such a time for
recollecting because it is unlike any other time, and, although we may not
know exactly how or why, it is, among other things, halfway to the end of
things. I suppose that, while we might not light new fires or experience a
pachacuti, it is our sense of Judeo-Christian time and eschatology that draws the
Western world away from its cold empiricism to mark this mythical passage.
For the most part, however, the worldwide marking of this passage by fairs,
reenactments, celebrations, parades, exhibitions, speeches, conferences, books,
critiques, etc., acts to cast the Quincentennial within an affirmative narrative
of history that constructs it as a part of the inevitable logic of Western progress
and continuity such that the past, as a series of events, is ever more increasingly
distanced from the present.1
This halfway point, however, also allows us, if we wish, to look back, like
Benjamin’s “angel of history,” to view the past five hundred years not as a series
of discrete and distant events but as one single catastrophe washing up at our
feet, and to wish “to stay, awaken the dead and make whole what has been
smashed” yet forced forward by the storm of progress (1969: 257–258). So in
1992, as institutions and individuals paused to reflect on the Quincentennial—
and the Dumbarton Oaks conference and the papers published here certainly
focus on that original date, 1492, and all those other cataclysmic dates that
followed, 1519 for Mexico, 1532 for Peru, and so on—the view into that
1
To be fair, there were attempts to make this position problematic, as Boone notes in
her introduction, but the official posture as represented by the National Gallery of Art’s
exhibition 1492 did not, as Homi Bhabha (1992) points out.
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history took many forms depending on what and how we wished to see and to
remember.2
For Pre-Columbian Studies at Dumbarton Oaks, 1492 is a catastrophe because it marks the beginning of the violent end of its subject of study, just as
1453 can be said to mark, even more definitively, the end of the subject of
Byzantine studies.3 But, of course, endings are never quite so complete nor
simple, and, as Angeliki Laiou’s paper in this volume lays out, the forms of
colonial merchant capitalism that were employed in the conquest of America
were developed within the Mediterranean under the shadow of this military
victory. Equally, perhaps, for Pre-Columbian scholars the end was also a beginning in that the objects, images, and writings produced after the conquest
are one of the mother lodes of information for the interpretation of things
Pre-Columbian.
Certainly many images and documents, such as Sahagún’s Historia general de
las cosas de Nueva España (1982) and Guaman Poma’s Nueva corónica y buen
gobierno (1980), were produced intentionally to explain the past, most often to
a European audience. Whatever the intentions of the authors and artists of
these documents were, it seems certain to the modern scholar that they did not
intend to produce some kind of historical truth that transcended the colonial
context in which their texts and images operated.The kinds of historical information and the forms of their presentation were fully invested with a variety of
contemporary colonial needs (Klor de Alva 1988; Adorno 1986). The recording of Pre-Hispanic history, culture, and religion therefore did not necessarily
comprise a discrete category in the colonial period as we have fashioned it for
ourselves today. For example, Garcilaso de la Vega in his Comentarios reales writes
a history of the royal Inka that continues through the conquest on up to March
1604 when he ends his narrative awaiting information from Valladolid about
the result of the petition by the descendants of the Inka to the king.That is, we
sometimes forget that these histories were still alive and connected to the present
by the people whose ancestors were the actors in those histories, and for many
Native Americans, they still are. This is why Spanish and native authors alike
always wrote with a sense of the past as still having a presence in contemporary
colonial culture. More importantly, this presence of the past did not only inform the practice of alphabetic writing to which we have access and therefore
privilege, it was present in the economic, social, and cultural practices of everyday life.
2
All societies remember selectively (Connerton 1989), but we are both privileged and
challenged by the possibilities of the form that our remembrances (history) can take and the
consequences of our choice (Benjamin 1969: 253–264; Hohendahl 1992: 103–104).
3
“The Fall of Constantinople to the Ottoman Turks in 1453 closes the history of Byzantine art . . .” (Boyd 1979: 18).
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Native Traditions in the Postconquest World: Commentary
I do not mean to suggest that there was or is a single, static view of the
Pre-Columbian past that had been frozen at the moment of conquest or that
traditional practices continuing into the colonial period and beyond were not
modified or reconfigured in relation to the contingencies of the dominant
economic and political policies. As many of the papers in this volume discuss,
history and traditions were and are categories of the social life of Indians that
continued in the present, not because they are neutral essences of “Indianness,”
but because they are categories that were acted upon and further developed by
natives in the context of colonial power. In this sense, tradition and history are
dynamic elements.4
It is about this relation of the Pre-Hispanic past to the colonial present that
Elizabeth Boone and I decided, in organizing the 1992 Dumbarton Oaks conference, to focus on the continuation of Mexican and Peruvian traditions, be
they social, visual, or linguistic, precisely because dates and events, no matter
how cataclysmic, are not total closures to the past for those to whom it matters.
The papers in this volume therefore concentrate on the cultural forms of native
America that were and still are a part of the formation of Pre-Columbian
America, but not in the teleological sense of the movement toward creole
independence as described by Jacques Lafaye (1976). Rather, they concentrate
on symbolic traditions that ensured that identity among Indians was rooted, at
least in part, in practices originating in Pre-Hispanic culture as well as in a
political memory that articulated their differences with Europeans as a result of
a distinct origin and the accommodation of some of their differences to European norms as a result of an enforced, shared history. Such indigenous texts as
the Popol Vuh, the Chilam Balam, and the Huarochirí Manuscript synthesize
these, at times very conflicting, elements into a single coherent narrative that is
a result of Indian representational practices in both epistemology and language.
Our focus on indigenous practices and traditions as having the capacity to
articulate something meaningful not only within the native community but to
a Western audience as well runs against much of the recent scholarly work on
the Americas that has emphasized their “otherness” produced by the gaze of
the European as read through sixteenth- and seventeenth-century texts concerning the Americas (Todorov 1984; Greenblatt 1991; de Certeau 1986: 67–
79, and 1988: 209–243). The “post-modern” intellectual attention that has
stressed alterity as the defining epistemological category for understanding the
history of the Americas focuses on European experiences and the representation of them (Taussig 1993). These critical studies have done much to disas4
For two excellent studies of the dynamic use of tradition and history as social and
political categories of native power, see Rappaport (1990) and Urton (1990).
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Tom Cummins
semble the discourses of European objectification of the “native other,” thereby
breaking apart the explanatory homogeneity that colonial texts once were believed to possess.5 This attention, however, has also shifted toward an almost
narcissistic view of the Americas that concentrates on the agency of European
literary and (to a lesser extent) pictorial traditions as the defining and controlling cultural forms through which the New World can be discussed.The interaction between Europeans and natives is treated as some kind of cultural tourism
in which the only subject of interest is the Western experience of the Americas
brought back to Europe to be consumed in an alphabetic form for selfdefinition.6
The Americas are emptied of any possible ongoing developing self, either for
Indians or Europeans who stay and/or who have children there. America is
always a text of the “encounter” mediated by European representation and
therefore always inaccessible in any other form.
Nevertheless, the subject of the papers here does also include texts mediated
by European representation. In fact, the centrality of text as the locus for the
analysis of continuity, change, and contestation of tradition and power in the
postconquest world is one of the common issues that arises from the various
papers in this volume.7 But text here does not refer to the rarified traditions of
European literature in which the New World is configured according to an
imagination that allows no voice other than the European. There is not, I
think, a paper that does not use the word “text,” but text here is understood to
be a multi-valent term in which European epistemological control is not absolute, whether it be the notion of the written document as the primary
hermeneutic tool as employed by Lockhart, Karttunen, Murra, and Wood; or
the use of the written document in relation to speech, performance, practices,
or image texts as used by Salomon, Boone, and others. Moreover, in one way
or another, it is this ample notion of text that brings these papers together in
relation to the place, status, transformation, and/or role of Pre-Hispanic traditions in the colonial world.
5
For example, the uncritical gathering of citations from vastly different texts as sources
of equal value to be tallied up and reconciled by the methodology of the scholar’s discipline
so as to present a monolithic explanation of a unified Pre-Hispanic past, be it Aztec, Maya,
Inka, or other peoples, seems a less theoretically viable project than it did twenty years ago.
6
This tactic is quite explicit in Greenblatt (1991) who begins and ends his study in the
guise of a moral tourist.
7
Here, one can understand that “tradition” and “nation” are contested terms in the
colonial establishment of Spanish America in that they are at once produced and shaped by
European projection, and they are also real elements of native identity. This Spanish projection of a “nation” and “tradition” is then similar to what Said (1978) defines as “orientalism”
as shaped by post-Enlightenment Western rational thought, and one must therefore ask if
the roots of this paradigm do not antedate the Enlightenment.
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Native Traditions in the Postconquest World: Commentary
It is, however, the word “discourse,” used in the plural by Burkhart in the
sense of Foucault’s expanded meaning of the term (Foucault 1972: 234–235),
that allows one to see that the power and the contestation of power to define
and categorize within the postconquest world lie behind the control of all
these texts, be they spoken, written, performed, and/or visual. These “texts”
or symbolic forms of native culture therefore are not just “the fragments of a
deep-lying ship wreck” nor is their study a “science of the end of things”
(Kubler 1961: 14).They, instead, exist as the forceful cultural presence of native
place and identity within the colonial world.
What this means is that there cannot be an essentialist or master text that
governs the study of colonial Latin America as a universal explanatory model.
Pre-Columbian traditions as they are manifested in colonial (con)texts are carried forward as forms of affirmation, negotiation, and negation within the
contestation over the power to define and categorize. There are, thus, subtle
and not so subtle differences not only between the kinds of traditions maintained in the very different native cultures within the different viceroyalties
(and we have concentrated on just two), but between the classes within a cultural area.The rites and traditions recorded in the seventeenth century by Ruiz
de Alarcón (1982) in Mexico or Arriaga (1920) in Peru were practiced by a
class of Indians very different from the class with which Fernando de Alva
Ixtlilxochitl identified when he recorded his version of Mexican traditions and
history (Adorno 1989). But it is not only difference in ethnicity and class, but
also difference in gender, as Irene Silverblatt discusses, that determines forms of
tradition and the manner in which they are lived and recorded. Frances Karttunen
only briefly, but most tellingly, touches on this important subject as being not
only an issue in the past, but as something important to contemporary Maya
literary praxis when she points out that it is the men who are interested in a
nostalgic Maya past and women who insist on the need for dynamic social change.
The shared presence of the power of the past is possible, however, and it is
most immediate in language because, as Mannheim points out, language is an
immediate ethnic identifier through which traditions are maintained, and thereby
language allows a certain degree of power over the definition of self and community within a colonial situation.Yet at the same time, as Lockhart points out,
language is a place of convergence that operates in an unreflected process of
change among native speakers as read through the mundane documents of
notarial records. Implied in this analysis is that the language of colonial power,
in this case Spanish, penetrates native language relative to the destabilizing of
native social and political institutions. That is, as the indigenous peoples came
to accept the mundane written document as the natural forum for the dis-
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course of the laws that structured and ever more intrusively controlled their
lives, one finds an ever greater use of Spanish in Nahuatl as a “natural” or
unconscious act. In this sense the Nahuatl títulos discussed by Wood come to be
an internal representation of native self in alphabetic form even as colonial
Spaniards and contemporary scholars see them as unauthentic.
Thus, transformation occurs not only within language but in the form of
inscription as well, and it is an even more radical transformation because, as
Karttunen notes, by the eighteenth century alphabetic text almost completely
replaces the pictorial imagery, as discussed by Boone, that had a significant
place in sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Mexico.Yet these replacements or
changes do not necessarily signify a loss but rather an ability to employ strategically various symbolic forms, new and/or old, on behalf of native self and/or
community. Karttunen begins by raising the question of the identity of the
speaker in relation to overt and covert traditions of literacy. Karttunen notes
that the annals and large indigenous histories are an offshoot of the native
notarial tradition, as is the Nueva corónica discussed by MacCormack. Citing the
Chontal text describing the experiences of the Maya of Alcalan, Karttunen
notes that it survived as supporting evidence to a probanza, requesting a monetary award for assistance in the conquest. One might say that it is between
these two poles of unconscious and conscious interaction between cultures
that tradition emerges in a colonial society, or, as Karttunen suggests, it emerges
in the differences between covert and overt texts. Documents such as the notarial records were for controlling Spanish eyes, and the covert literature such
as the Chilam Balam was kept in secret. These are the two poles between
which other texts that are not so clear-cut operated. Karttunen, of course, is
referring to written texts as are Lockhart and Wood, but, as Burkhart, Mannheim,
Boone, and Salomon suggest, there are equally important texts that are
performative and visual, kinetic and/or auratic in form.
The colonial process of substitution and replacement is, then, never complete, just as we are witnessing now in the postcolonial and postimperial traumas of Eastern Europe and Africa.8 This is possible because people do not
forget easily their first “tongue.” As Burkhart argues, native language can prevent profound change within native epistemology. She argues that Christian
concepts explained in Nahuatl terms failed in any systematic and persuasive
way to challenge native conceptions and precluded any deeply felt spiritual
crisis. This gives rise to what she calls “Nahua Christianity” in which the cer8
The issue of “post-colonial” as applied to the native peoples of the Americas is extremely problematic in relation to the nature of the 18th- and 19th-century revolutionary
wars of both North and South America; see Klor de Alva (1992).
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Native Traditions in the Postconquest World: Commentary
emonialism brought to their church can be considered a native tradition in the
postconquest world. It is similar not in form, perhaps, but in content to Andean
Christianity as it appears in the text of Guaman Poma as discussed in
MacCormack’s paper. Here Andean time and agricultural calendar become
infused with the Christian distinction between human agency and divine acts.
Still, they could only be described with the help of theological terminology
rooted in Inka and Andean religious experience. That is, the fundamental categories that constitute religious belief, the most fiercely contested area of tradition by the Spaniards, maintain certain traditional principles even as they are
used to articulate Christian ideology.
In a slightly different form, Gillespie argues that the European notion of
history as it was employed to record the Mexican past was subjected to traditional Mexican explanatory structures in relationship to political changes brought
by the Spaniards in order to affect the present. Here, in the narrative of Mexican history, the native voice is not recorded as that of a passive informant,
subject to the discursive power of an all-controlling colonial process; rather,
the voice creates its own history according to its own epistemological categories even as it is inscribed within the European medium of alphabetic writing.
Even as tradition is maintained, it can be turned against one. As Burkhart
points out, native Christian devotional practices were by definition separate
and different, and such differentiation maintained the ethnic boundary so essential to the colonial enterprise in which the discourses of colonial Christianity constructed an image of native spiritual, and by extension social and political,
inferiority. I dare say that Protestant evangelical attempts practiced today in
native Christian communities in Latin America still betray a similar logic. In
this sense, spiritual conquest begets cultural conversion that creates a hierarchy
of difference that legitimatizes the exercise of economic and political power by
the state over the Indian subject. Moreover, as Silverblatt argues, the traditions
that constitute the social relations among natives are what allows the state to
begin to take control over the very body of the native subject so as to redefine
it.Traditions of family structure and social practice are first categorized, judged,
and then finally patrolled by the Church. Communities are now composed of
individuals, each becoming a self-explaining author to the European through
the act of confession. It, therefore, is no accident that one of the first modern
representations of Andean kinship and descent (a diagram that would make any
modern anthropologist proud by its elegance) that escapes the biblical metaphor of the genealogical tree of Jesse is an engraving found in Pérez Bocanegra’s Ritual formulario, e institucion de Curas, para administrar a los naturales de
este Reyno . . . printed in Lima in 1631 (Fig. 1). The archaic Inka dress of the
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Tom Cummins
Fig. 1 Engraving in Juan Pérez Bocanegra’s Ritual formulario, e institucion de Curas, para
administrar a los naturales de este Reyno . . . , Lima, 1631.
figures denotes the Indian character of the subject, and it belies the fact that the
book is meant to aid priests to penetrate the social fabric of native life to
confess it, discipline it, and punish it.9
As much as traditions can be used as a gauge for the calculation of change or
be understood as a colonial construction in the discursive power of Spanish
control, it is essential to remember that traditions allowed for unaccounted
developments that could never be fully controlled by the Spaniards. Guaman
9
456
See Serge Gruzinski (1986) for a discussion of similar problems in Mexico.
Native Traditions in the Postconquest World: Commentary
Poma de Ayala is perhaps one of the dramatic examples of the loss of control of
discourse by the Spaniards. He uses Spanish methods of inscription and confession to present himself as author in order to create the image of the world that
the Spaniards had turned upside down. His case is unique, in the Andes at least,
and the greatest thorn in the side of the Spaniards was again in the area of
religion because religious conversion was the only pretext upon which conquest could be legitimized. The clergies’ own repeated confessions of failure in
the form of trials and extirpation testify to the tenacity of traditional beliefs.
Rostworowski thereby places the performative and written texts of conversion
within the context of native belief systems in which the natives did not partake
in the Spaniards “winner take all” theory. In both Peru and Mexico, the native
concern was not of total replacement but rather of hierarchy in which traditional native religious practices still had a place. As Rostworowski points out,
this system of hierarchy even patterns the relation and form of Christian images within the Christian cult itself. Moreover, it allowed the participation of
African Americans, a theme that was only briefly mentioned in the symposium.
Religion is, of course, the “natural” area on which to focus a discussion of
tradition because it was an immediate source of controversy in which certain
traditional forms of expressly symbolic language were openly debated, be they
visual or oral. Moreover, it is the Spanish preoccupation with clandestine religious behavior, the subtext of which is the fear of native violence and the
legitimation of their own violent acts toward natives, that creates the image of
the continuity of tradition as something hidden and fundamentally religious.
The practice of native traditions as part of the “discourse” of colonial Mexico
and Peru certainly goes beyond the defining parameters of religion and archival
document. As Karttunen and Salomon so eloquently remind us, they also go
beyond the political frontiers of time and are equally as important today.
Karttunen and Salomon consciously see the issues discussed here as not ending
by the political transition from colonial to Republican period, but merely as
the changing dynamics of contact between native traditions and Europeans
which continues to the present. Neither of these papers attempts to read ethnographic evidence back into the colonial record as a means to explain it.
Rather, they recognize that historical processes begun in the conquest of the
Americas continue as native peoples use varying mechanisms to maintain historical memory. Karttunen focuses on the written text and suggests that the
histories/annals, apparently a retained preconquest genre, were to convey events
so that history would not be lost.
Interestingly, this is exactly the reason given by whomever wrote the
Huarochirí Manuscript (1991: 41–42), although, as Salomon demonstrates,
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such historical memory in the Andes is only artificially kept in the literature of
extirpation or legal documents. It is the annual performative textual reading of
the landscape that has kept history alive, whereas the Huarochirí Manuscript,
which is unique in its alphabetic recording in Quechua of local Andean religion, rested silently in Spain.
If, as Lockhart suggests, there were a more expansive written tradition in
Quechua, we must ask why so few Quechua notarial records have survived and
why none, as far as I know, have come from within a native community? The
careful preservation of Inka and colonial textiles in sacred bundles clearly constitutes the kind of covert text to which Karttunen refers, but in the Andes it
takes a radically different form. And here, as Salomon suggests, is the legacy of
the strength of tradition in which writing never had a place in the Andes as it
did in Mexico.
Thus one can imagine what Andean history and Quechua studies would be
like if the papers of Francisco de Avila, which included not only the Huarochirí
Manuscript but Pachacuti Yamqui Salcamaygua’s Relación de antigüdades deste
reyno del Perú, had been aboard the Atocha or other Spanish ship that sank or
was sunk in the ever dangerous Atlantic. They would have suffered a very different fate than the silver aquillas discussed in my paper. Our hold on the Andes
through these European-style documents is at best very tenuous and based
upon serendipity rather than the systematic production of all kinds of written
and pictorial documents in New Spain that insured that a proportion of them
would survive until today.
Mexico’s tradition of a Pre-Hispanic book form and pictographic inscription insured that native voice and language not only found a place in the mundane documents of colonial bureaucracy, crucial to the detailed historical studies
of Lockhart and Wood, but that they would colonize the alphabetic technology
as well. This never happened in the Andes nor anywhere else in the Americas
where there was not already a tradition of the book. But even in Mexico, as
everywhere else, it is visual imagery, physical objects, and oral literature that
were the central forms of Pre-Hispanic traditions because almost everyone in
the native colonial communities was illiterate (literacy in the cities was not that
much higher).
Yet, the visual world of Pre-Columbian representation as a form of tradition
that carried on into the colonial period is most often conceived around the
defining categories of Spanish vision that fixated on idolatry. Imagery, in this
sense, is often considered the most fragile form of tradition because of its connotation of idolatry and hence its subjection to Christian iconoclasm (Kubler
1961). Certainly idols were smashed and temples were torn down, but, as Boone
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Native Traditions in the Postconquest World: Commentary
points out, we must begin to see both Pre-Columbian imagery and the production of sixteenth-century colonial native imagery not only as the Spaniards
described them, which is within a religious discourse, but also as forms and
images that continued to be used and produced for needs outside of this constricted boundary. Thus in both Boone’s and my papers, the focus is on visual
images and objects that have little overt idolatrous connotations. They are traditional images and objects around which political, ritual, and/or social discourse is either generated or performed. These Mexican and Andean objects
and images stand prior to alphabetic writing and are carriers of tradition into
the colonial period. Alphabetic writing comes to be the form of the discourse
of power in the colonial period and beyond, but the aura and the power of
imagery and objects retain their traditional place in many native communities.
I conclude by noting two striking absences in all the papers in this volume.
The first is an absence of the comparative use of work in colonial studies as
being generated in the subaltern studies of India (Guha-Thakurta 1992), the
orientalist studies of the Middle East (Said 1978, 1993a), or the colonial studies
of Africa (Fanon 1967). This is not to say that the colonialism and imperialism
of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries are the same as what occurred in the
Americas in the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries, as Klor de
Alva (1992) and Said (1993b: 62) have argued. It is to say that there exist still
many ways to be considered by Pre-Columbian and colonial Latin American
scholars in their approach to their work. The papers in this volume, however,
are meant, among other things, to suggest that there is a growing variety of
approaches and aims in Latin American colonial studies that, I believe, will
make it an increasingly polemical area of study (see, for example, Rabasa,
Sanjinés, and Carr 1996).
The questioning of underlying suppositions, as has occurred in other geographical and temporal areas of colonial studies, will, I feel, be all to the good.
For a very long time scholars working in the colonial fields of Latin America,
especially in terms of native social and cultural concerns, have existed at the
fringes, basically unquestioned and unquestioning in their methods and aims,
because the people they studied had been marginalized in the progress of history. But as the power to shape and control discourse changes, it may very well
be that one of the legacies of the Columbian Quincentennial is the beginning
of an understanding that colonialism is not marginal to any of us, that we all
have a great deal to learn from each other still. And this points to the second
absence in the papers with which I will conclude: the absence of a contemporary native view of colonialism and tradition. For a Maya woman to be awarded
the Noble Peace Prize means that the history unleashed in 1492 is still present
with us all, native and non-native.
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Tom Cummins
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