I should have come to Minneapolis years ago. Three generations of my family lived here. My great-grandfather, Andrew Hilyer—born into slavery in Georgia—became the first Black graduate of the University in 1882. He named his son Gale Pillsbury in recognition of the prominent Minnesota families. Gale (J.D. ’15) became a successful Black lawyer in Minneapolis and an official of the nascent NAACP. My father, Gale Pillsbury Hilyer, Jr., grew up in the 1920s, in the lone Black family in a white neighborhood.

But I didn’t know about any of this, because my dad left Minneapolis and settled in a suburb of Seattle that was 98 percent white, where I grew up in the 1950s and 1960s.

I had no reason to question my identity. I looked like my dad. He said we were “Mediterranean.” On a fluke, 10 years after his death, I learned he had a sister. Thus began the journey that changed the second half of my life.

It began in Hilo, Hawaii, where I met Helene Hilyer Hale (B.S. ’38, M.A. ’40)—my aunt. Featured on the cover of Ebony for her life of service to her community, she was 70 and I was 33. We had a lot of ground to cover.

Helene and my dad took different routes through the limited opportunities offered them as Black Americans. Helene chose to cross the Pacific Ocean to live in a multiracial state. My dad chose to cross the color line and live as a white man on the West Coast. Their paths never crossed again.

My odyssey was destined by these familial revelations. I began to research and travel.

In Washington, D.C., my great-grandfather had been a member of the Black aristocracy, a promoter of black business and culture, public speaker, inventor, and civic leader. His wife came from a free family who owned businesses and property, and traced roots back to slaves of George Washington.

In Tallahassee, Florida, the Foote-Hilyer building stands as a testament to my great-aunt’s contributions as a nurse and educator.

In Montgomery, Alabama, my grandmother’s father served in the Alabama legislature during Reconstruction. Her sister married Ralph Bunche, the first African American to win a Nobel Prize.

This was all part of a history I never learned—and I was a history teacher.

My dad kept his race a secret to his death. He closed the door on his accomplished Black heritage in order to open the door to more opportunity for himself and his children. This changed the course of both our lives. A rich culture is lost when we exclude voices from our narrative.

As a country, are we not supposed to talk about this? Well, I have a story to tell.

Barbara Hilyer is a retired social studies teacher and the author of Legacy Lost: Passing Across the Color Line.

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