We have not always found comfort in killers. We have not always found solace being rocked in the bosoms of those who silently pray and openly destroy. No, not always have we mistaken mimicry for mastery or pretending for knowing or enslavement for freedom. But across my memory —- across my memory marches millions -— bold, regal, resilient, confident —- unshackled feet stumping up spirits to guide us through this fickle material world. We like sun and moon folk, universal souls praying our prayers, singing our songs. Eshu, Ogoun, Shango, Yemaja, Oshun, Obatala, Oya,  Damballah, Ayida Wedo, Loa, Nkongo, Olodumare and Yami. We know all of you by name. We are people of beginnings, of culture, of strength. Not always have we given into the empty threats and scare tactics of the powerless ones. Not always have we allowed the blood of our sons and daughters to color the streets while we’re walking asleep,marching to the beat of that siren song. They’re still wearing their sheets, with nooses in reach, showing their teeth and smiling, it seems. But I hear in the breeze in the rustle of the trees and the dangling of the feet, they say, please, don’t let them ever forget. You see, not always have we suffered from amnesia. Not always have we forgotten how to conjure up spirits, ancestor wisdom, fix up a mixture, spiritual elixir, ancient traditions. We, like magicians, god-like vision, we -— we are people of sight. So, no, not always have we fallen for this okie doke or inhaled the hazardous smoke of the manipulators