Unburying the Past: My Family’s Hidden History

I’ve always been fascinated by documentaries that unravel family secrets—the kind where long-buried truths come to light. Unsuspecting descendants find themselves caught in a narrative they never imagined being part of. You watch with wide-eyed amazement, marveling at the twists and turns, thinking, That could never happen to me. My family’s history is known. Our past is ordinary.

And then, one day, the past knocks on your door.

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I never expected a phone call from The Washington Post to change my perspective on my family’s history. I was shocked to discover that my own ancestors' remains had been sitting in the Smithsonian for over 120 years. I wasn’t prepared for the emotions, unanswered questions, and the urgency to reclaim what had been wrongfully taken. Suddenly, I wasn’t just watching the story unfold from my couch—I was living it.

This article details my journey of uncovering the truth. It explores how I pieced together a hidden history while navigating the delicate process of bringing my ancestors home.

History is calling

December 2023 marked the holiday season. Everyone was bustling about, looking for perfect Christmas gifts for loved ones. Families prepared their homes and hearts for this magical time. Little did I know that my life was about to change dramatically.

Sitting at my desk at work, my phone rang multiple times. I didn’t recognize the number, so I initially dismissed it. By the fourth call, I thought, This person is persistent! Maybe it’s important. So, I answered.

"Hi, my name is Kelly, and my partner Susan (not their real names) and I are with The Washington Post. Is Michelle Farris available?"

"Yes, this is she," I replied.

"Again, this is Kelly and Susan from The Washington Post, and we believe the Smithsonian has your grandfather’s brain."

My first thought was disbelief. Oh, scammers have gotten out of hand!

Then, more absurd scenarios crossed my mind: Who went to my grandfather’s grave, dug it up, opened the vault, cut open his head to take his brain? Who has that kind of time? Why didn’t anyone hear this happening?

"Okay, what do you want from me? I have no money to help you recover it. I don’t believe anything you’re telling me. So, what now?"

After about 15 minutes of debate, with Kelly trying to prove this wasn’t a scam, I said I’d think about it. I told them I’d consult my husband, who is IT-savvy, before following up. I asked for their names, emails, and affiliations to verify their credibility.

To my surprise, they were very understanding and accommodating.

Returning to my desk, I searched social media and found their profiles. Everything seemed legitimate, but I still wanted my husband’s input.

At home, I explained everything to him. I was shocked when he said, "Everything checks out. They aren't asking you for money. They are not pushy. I think it’s okay to at least have a conversation with them—and I'll be there with you if you like."

That moment sparked a whirlwind of interviews, photo sessions, recordings, and article writing.

Who was Moses Boone?

Moses Boone was a 21-month-old who passed away at Children's Hospital in Washington, D.C. due to tuberculosis on February 27, 1904. Tragically, his mother died of epilepsy in October 1903. During this time, an 11-year-old white male also succumbed to lung conditions at Children’s Hospital. What do these incidents have in common? Let me explain.

Anthropologist Ales Hrdlicka aboard a U.S. Coast Guard ship on his way to Alaska for a research expedition in 1938. (AP)

A Smithsonian anthropologist named Ales Hrdlicka contacted local institutions to help him remove the brains of both boys. His aim? To prove that whites were superior to blacks. Moses, who was of mixed race but identified as black, and the 11-year-old white boy were just two of many victims who came from vulnerable communities.

The Smithsonian accumulated over 280 human brains from diverse areas, with 74 sourced from local communities, according to documents reviewed by The Washington Post. Of those, 48 belonged to individuals who were Black.

Shockingly, 19 brains in the collection were taken from fetuses, including one following an abortion. Seventeen were from children. Three were taken from individuals who died in a hospital serving the city’s almshouse. One was from a man who was both deaf and mute.

The name Boone echoed throughout my childhood, but I never inquired why it recurred. If you grew up in a Black household, you know children were seen, not heard. Engaging in grown folks’ discussions was taboo.

At family gatherings where adults, mostly my grandmother and great-grandmother, conversed, I’d hear the name Boone pass by. When my great-grandmother passed, my grandmother mentioned, as an adult, that there was a significant family secret that died with her. I wondered if she knew but chose not to share, or if it was really a secret.

I didn’t think much about it at the time. It felt like whatever this secret was, I wasn't meant to discover it. I never imagined it would be this.

What Now?

A dedicated Smithsonian team has assembled to assist me, but what does that really imply? I was faced with a profound decision—what should I do with the remains? I had two choices: leave them in the Smithsonian’s care or take them into my own hands.

If I chose to take them, what would be my next steps? If I left them, could I trust that they would be treated with the respect they deserve? Would everything done up to this point feel meaningless if I simply walked away? If they were displayed, would that invite ridicule or misunderstanding?

These questions weighed heavily on me during each meeting with the team. I knew I couldn’t rush this decision—I needed to discuss it with my family, not just my husband, but also my closest cousins.

My husband supported whatever choice I made. He believed I should take the remains and consider giving them a proper burial. He and my cousins suggested reflecting on what my grandmother would have wanted. Thinking about her, I realized that if she were alive, she would likely have been the next of kin, being her father was a direct descendant of Moses. Knowing her, she probably would have wanted nothing to do with it—she was very private.

I, however, am different. While I don't share everything about myself, I am much more open.

Where are we now?

After several meetings and much genealogical information, I decided I wanted to reclaim the remains if possible. For me, taking back what was wrongfully taken involves more than reclaiming the past—it aims to rectify a wrong.

I feel in my spirit that Moses has never truly found his final resting place because of this. Consequently, neither have his parents or siblings. It seems they’ve been waiting for him, unable to be at peace.

Some may find my sentiment unusual, but I’ve always harbored a quiet spiritual side. I believe this situation has presented itself for a reason. I wasn't ready to uncover the family secret before now. If I had learned earlier, I couldn't have acted. I was too immature and unfocused. The timing feels intentional, and I feel a calling to act.

There are numerous stories surrounding Moses’ passing and his parents’ deaths—so many documented details that have made me pause and reflect, leading to undeniable aha moments.

Moses was hospitalized on February 4, 1904, and he passed on February 27. In a remarkable coincidence, on February 4, 2014—exactly 110 years later—I found myself in a hospital room, holding my newborn twins. That morning, I also felt something else. An unseen presence enveloped me, as if someone was holding my hand. Some might say it was merely medication-induced. But I know it was more than that.

Although I was under the influence of medication, I was still aware of the spiritual presence beside me. I recognize that maybe—just maybe—I wasn’t alone in that moment.

I always wish I had a picture of what Moses might have looked like. I particularly want to see if either of my twins, especially my son, resembles him. This journey has drawn me closer to my grandmother, even though she is no longer here.

I never knew much about my grandmother; it was almost as if she had no past. I only knew her and my great-grandmother, her mother. My grandmother had a brother who lived in D.C., but I never met him. It is possible I passed him numerous times during my years of working in D.C. without knowing it. He probably wouldn’t have recognized me either. This story sheds light on why my mother may have never discussed her relatives.

The people my mother engaged with, hung out with, and called family were all from my grandfather’s side. She grew up within that family. His older sister and my grandmother were best friends before they became in-laws. As stated before, this journey feels like it’s pulling me closer to her.

A handful of universities, along with institutions like the Smithsonian and Mt. Zion Church in D.C., have reached out to interview me. Everyone is curious about my story. They want to know what I’m planning next. I am taking things one day at a time.

Mt. Zion has contacted me because it is where Moses is supposedly buried. However, due to poor cemetery maintenance, there is no way to verify it. My husband and I visited, hoping to find a marker or indication, but there was absolutely no way to tell. Mt. Zion wishes to meet with me to discuss and potentially plan a ceremony once everything is finalized.

The Archives in D.C. invited my family for a visit. It was a truly special occasion. We were shown that Moses and other family members are documented there. Few African Americans can discover their ancestors' records at The Archives, as we were often deemed unworthy of having such records kept. Witnessing and touching these documents was breathtaking. I wanted to share this powerful moment with my children.

The universities reaching out are eager to hear more of my story. Professors are sharing my story in their classes, facilitating further research. I have been invited to conduct virtual meetings with classes. Scheduling has been challenging due to my life’s demands, but I’ve retained everyone’s information and am reaching out as I can.

I prioritize interviews that seem meaningful, while skipping those that do not align with my values. I’ve reviewed comments on the article published by The Washington Post. I realize everyone has their perspective. By meeting with this prominent publication, I opened myself up to both praise and criticism. While I prefer not to be in the spotlight, I was aware this would attract attention.

Fortunately, I’ve developed the resilience to manage whatever comes my way. I’m not concerned with the opinions of those who believe my story should have remained hidden. The truth is, Black history is often sidelined—erased, rewritten, and ignored. Some prefer to act as if it never happened, perhaps out of fear of what we may uncover.

What I do know is this: as long as I have a voice, I’ll use it. As long as I have the strength to speak up, I will. Because stories like mine matter. Silence has never been an option for me.

To read my story, and others like mine, that was published in The Washington Post, click here