Late one night, few years ago, as I was piecing together my family tree, I googled names I barely knew. Odd and interesting names of far away people from a far away time. Origen Cummings. James Kasson Gaston. Others. As I scrolled down the list of unconnected entries, something caught my eye. A website under the title Books of Historical Interest contained a memoir entitled "Early Settlement and Growth of Western Iowa, or Reminiscences," by Rev. John Todd. Hmm, I thought. Ok. I started skimming for the names.
The beginning was a story I knew in bits and pieces from childhood. Ancestors from the east had settled Oberlin, Ohio, and been part of Oberlin College. They travelled by river to Iowa to establish Tabor College in Oberlin's image. Nothing new there.
Except, no one ever told me that in the 1840's Oberlin was integrated and coeducational. No one ever told me Oberlin became a hotbed of abolitionism long before the Civil War. No one ever told me...
No one ever told me that my stolid New England ancestors were fervent, militant abolitionists and conductors on the Under Ground Rail Road. No one ever told me the stories of our ancestors helping fugitive slaves cross the Nishnabotna River and flee quietly through Iowa into Chicago on to Canada. No one ever told me how the ancestors harbored John Brown, or how the women lived with stockpiles of guns and knives in the barns and kitchens, and how the men fought for free soil in Bloody Kansas.
I read on and on late into the dark night and into the early morning. Page after virtual page of history, my history, our history, unfolding out of that darkness into the light before my eyes. Not famous, abstract people or gilded history from text books. Real stories, gripping stories, of real people with real names. My people, with my names. Why hadn't these family stories ever been told?
Suddenly, things began to make sense. It had always been there, quietly. They didn't think of themselves particularly as heros. They lived their values, and hoped and fought for a better, kinder, more just world. As one generation passed on the the next, the stories faded from memory, but the values and the fervent passion for freedom and justice did not. Those passed from generation to generation, surfacing in one form or another. Along with the ancestral linen and the silverware also passed their tireless, resolute ancestral DNA, fighting the Civil War, for women's rights, for civil rights, and now, fighting to take our country back.
Ever since that night, the fiber of my being has resonated to the voices of my ancestors. They selflessly risked everything. They selflessly gave everything. They courted and dodged the gravest dangers to complete the promise of America. They are part of me, what I am made from. How can I let them down?
So, here we are. We've wandered for generations across the wilderness. Now, we are standing on the mountain top, looking across the river. Behind us, the voices of our ancestors are signing together, softly, quietly, fearlessly urging us on.
Take my hand, it is time to cross the river.