The stockmen knew where you were and avoided you, but I wish the opposite. How can I reach across 100 years and hold out my hand for you to take? How can I convince people that you are not dead but live on? Not just in documents and old photographs, or even in the park ranger uniform I wear, but that you are real soldiers surviving into the present? Because I choose to remember you, you live on in me. I know your lives had meaning to Black folks. I know that someone called you son, brother, or father. I think that I understand why you joined the army. You had few choices, and a military career provided a sense of dignity, respect, and a pension upon retirement.