Ourself is the seven old people, Mikasupi, Kreek, Okbalwaha, Trail. But we've gone by other names, we won't translate. Names we can't repeat. There are nobody's business, but our own. And other names, they didn't want us to keep. We come from many places, but we were always here. Before the Spanish game, we were in kind of look sucky, the original, for its alarms. Kuntibre, Idris, Kallusa, Timukula, I.S. Tikeshta, Abalachi, Alanchua. We were sailors, farmers, fishers. Our queens protected us. Our priest danced for us. Augustine was not our saint. They called us fierce and powerful peoples, death obsessed, sacred worshipers, giants, and smooth face, pirates, before half of us left for Cuba, Nicaragua, the Bahamas, and the rest of us who survived Spanish, Christian, kindness, baptism, at the pointed sword, escaped up north. Before the French game, we're not just a blocksy, Albalachi, Chichamaccia, Totec. We've been related, the women, the dead, and the sun, with smoke, song, and shell-rated pyramids. We spoke many languages, we knew all our neighbors. They called us Mount Builders, sun, worshipers, formal, foes. When the grew envy is an impatient before the messengers would gather five nations of warriors, they killed women and children, fought a war of extinction. Those of us who were in soul to English plantations down south for Tehavi escaped to the east. Before the English game, we were Hichiti, Cherokee, Yuchi, Yamase, Taneika, Accomany. Many peoples come together, creating and recreating ourselves, moving when necessary, united against a common foe. We became a nation of nations. We survived in our stories. We learned to love strangers. We trapped self. Before Jackson, before rabid flesh hunting, Carolinians came, we were fluid and raceless, evil, to homey, god, foam, house up, Yoruba, we were owing to gone, farmers, teaching hunters, hunters, clans, expanding. We were Mika-Sutki, Tallahassee, Muscogee, Allies, and Kimfo, before they called us, Hulato, Mastiso, Musti, Negro, Stolen property, Creek. Before they tried to separate us out, one from another, we were families. Our neighbors called us, who followed Estes, someone only, those who camped at a distance, remnants and renegades, travel lasers, and healers, clever and careful, we fought war upon war. We called ourselves, Kiteche, Luchi, Haki, Red, Black and White, Distapati, Estovsky, Kanyuk, S. H. H. H. T. People of the pointed land. Regardless of Othly, we were yachty, human, we traveled in circles. But they could not defeat us, so they called us savages, could not baptize us, so they called us heathens, could not find us, so they called us wiped out, could not understand us, so they called us mysterious, could not educate us, so they called us backwards, could not convince us to learn their language, so they called us hostile, shy, afraid, but we were like, Paheko's late to them. They were like, Paheko's late to us, and we had a yeti, we had medicine for that. We kept moving, we took in strangers, we moved south back to the point to a place where soft people could not survive, many of their soldiers died, they took to pass the laws and telling stories about us, and they made up names. When they couldn't identify our diversity anymore, they called us Florida Indians or Florida Greeks, or else Seminole's convinced it was an English corruption of Seminole, Spanish for Waldman, and not the name our cousins gave us. When they got tired of fighting us, we became a legend, they spent a hundred years trying to find the last uncomfort Indian, we sent to the Army, government surveyors, sports fishermen, anthropologists, missionaries, but we were intractable and intractable and found. We caused the government an embarrassment of riches and devoid men in their eyes, we were the last frontier. So they did what a man does who cannot fish. They drained the whole pond and searched with us, brought in heavy machinery and sucked dry, the glorious air of the waves, turned the swamps to sand and rock and clay, rounded us up to ask our names. Some names are for lovers, others are for friends, our names are for our people, and we never told them to wait men. We said Sally, Tommy, Cypress, James, you didn't understand why we all had the same names, but before name giving or name calling, we were here. We said before you left Spain and search of your sprints itself, we were here before you realized England was cramped and dirty. We were here before you left France for your piece of the pie. We were here before you tried to carbonation out of our expatriation, before you defined your red blooded American selves in terms of our absence. We were here. Some names sort, others deceive. These names tell stories, historians refuse to believe. We call ourselves the Semelangue people, make a silky, creek, ochre, waha, trail. We call you Ochoché, the smoke in our eyes. Mmm. Oh. Applause.