Crazy Horse, Sitting Bull, Black Elk, Vine Deloria, Leonard Peltier, oh-cee-OHlah, EEcho CHIPco. I have stood in the cell in Fort San Marco in Old St. Augustine and touched the sill of the window where oh-cee-OHla's cousin and friend starved themselves nearly to death to crawl out of and be free. ohceeOHlah himself? He would rather die than run from cowards who would take a man prisoner under a flag of truce. I'd like to talk with the leaders and elders of the people who no longer walk among us here in the shadow world; the Timuqua, Calusa, Opaloosa, Tocabago, Tallahassee, Okeechobee, Arawak, Seloy, Ais, Apalachee, Jeagas, Tekesta. These are not just place names, they are the only remains of the peoples who carried those names. All that is left of them is their name corrupted and codified but they refuse to be forgotten. Chief Ocita watched as Navarez murdered his mother and we do not know her name. Was she not the mother of a Chief among us? Oh my Creator. I have looked at long lists of dead peoples, like a shopping list, a list of names long dead and individuals whose names we have lost in our own families. My grandmother was Fern who told me she was the daughter of a Hodennasaunee man and a Seneca woman. She never told me his name, now lost. I know the oral tales of the Tongva of California better than I know my own blood. I know of their God WEE-ott buried in the ground of Long Beach, California, 60 feet down in a stone crypt lie his remains. Sixty feet and sixteen thousand years down. But I cannot tell you the name of my own grandfather, a child of Handsome Lake's extended family nor his father's name. This is where I carry my anger, this is where I keep my outrage, this is how my ancestors stand with me, in my fogotten blood.