Last week, I stepped into a small Rotary meeting room to give a talk about something that has been quietly reshaping my sense of identity for years: my great-great-grandparents’ role in the Underground Railroad. It’s a story I’ve researched, written about, and carried with me — but this was the first time I’d ever stood in front of a group to tell it out loud, beginning to end.

I walked in with a laptop, a handful of slides, and more nerves than I expected.

I walked out with something else entirely.

Why This Talk Felt Different

Most of the time when I write about my ancestors, I’m alone — at my keyboard, on a trail, or standing near the Little Calumet River where Jan and Aagje Ton lived and worked and quietly helped people seeking freedom. Writing gives you the gift of revision. Space. Distance.

But speaking?

Speaking asks for your whole self.

Speaking means feeling the story in real time — where your voice catches, where the room leans in, where silence does the work words can’t.

As I prepared the talk, I realized I wasn’t simply recounting history. I was carrying something forward. I was giving breath to people who acted with courage in the shadows, never imagining their names would be spoken in a Rotary meeting room in rural Indiana more than 170 years later.

A Small Room, A Big Moment

There were twelve people.

That’s it.

Twelve chairs arranged around a few tables.

And somehow, the room felt full.

People listened — really listened. They asked thoughtful questions. They stayed after to share memories of their own family histories, to reflect on courage, to connect threads I didn’t expect.

“I grew up in that area — never heard those stories. Amazing.” 

“South Holland, huh? I remember going to the department store in South Holland.” 

“There is a house right here in Attica that was involved in the Underground Railroad.”

Small phrases. Stories.

Big impact.

There was no political edge, no tension — even though conversations about the 1850s can easily drift that direction. The room remained grounded in humanity, with its moral decisions, the risks ordinary people faced, and the echoes we still feel today.

In an era when much conversation occurs online, in all caps, with little listening, it was refreshing — even restorative — to be reminded that face-to-face, people are still capable of curiosity, humility, and grace.

The Lesson I Didn’t Expect

Preparing this talk took hours — more than I planned, more than I had, if I’m being honest. And yet, standing in that small room, I felt something shift.

It wasn’t about the PowerPoint.

It wasn’t about the delivery.

It wasn’t even about the applause.

It was the realization that these stories matter because they ground us. They remind us where we come from. They remind us of the ordinary people who made extraordinary choices. And they remind us that history is never as far away as we think it is.

I thought I was giving a talk.

Turns out, I was receiving one.

One Last Connection

A few days before the presentation, I read Sheila Kennedy’s post “Courage and Concession,” a reflection on political conflict in the 1850s surrounding the issue of slavery. The courage of my ancestors — and the courage of the freedom seekers themselves — settled in my gut. Her words stayed with me as I spoke, not because the Rotary talk was political, but because courage looks remarkably similar across centuries.

Sometimes it’s dramatic.

Sometimes it’s quiet.

Most of the time, it’s ordinary people doing the right thing when it counts.

My ancestors didn’t ask to be heroes. They just opened the door.

There’s something in that for all of us.

I ended my talk with these words: 

“And I think that’s what we’re all called to do in our own way — to open doors when we can, to tell the stories that remind us who we are.”

 

If You’d Like to Follow Along

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