I was born in Oregon but only spent the first two years of my life here. When I moved back to the state as an adult, one of the first things I noticed was that most people were White like me. Having previously lived in places like Chicago and New Jersey, I was struck by my birth state’s relative lack of diversity. Still, I didn’t think much of it. It was just the way things were, I supposed. Little did I know that my own family members had had a hand in making Oregon what it was.

Then, a conversation with my brother opened my eyes. He told me that the state of Oregon had had an exclusion clause on its books for nearly 80 years legally prohibiting Black people from living here. My shock prodded me to research, and what I found shocked me even more. I ended up doing a deep dive into the life of Jacob Vanderpool, the only person ever tried, convicted, and exiled from the state of Oregon simply for the “crime” of being Black. And I found that I was connected to Vanderpool in ways I could not have imagined. 

Historic documents identify Jacob Vanderpool as a biracial man who was born free in the West Indies in 1820. Most likely, he was descended from a male Dutch plantation owner and an enslaved African woman. He moved to New York sometime in the first few decades of his life, married a woman named Eliza, and had three children, Jane, Eliza, and Martin. As a young man, Vanderpool worked as a sailor until 1850, when he decided to leave that life behind and begin again in the Oregon Territory. 

In 1851, Jacob Vanderpool opened a saloon and boarding house in the booming frontier town of Oregon City, Oregon. His desire, as he put it in his newspaper ads that ran all that summer, was to provide “persons from the country” with “meals at the regular hours.” In other words, he aimed to welcome settlers to Oregon.  

But Oregon did not welcome him. A rival innkeeper named Theophilus Magruder soon pressed charges against Vanderpool for breaking the territory’s exclusion law. The case was heard by Thomas Nelson, chief justice of the Oregon Territory supreme court—and a resident of Magruder’s boarding house. Nelson decreed that Vanderpool had to leave Oregon and his fledgling business within 30 days. Oregon City residents, like local pastor and professor Ezra Fisher, stood by silently. 

What I did not know when I began all this research was that Theophilus Magruder was a distant cousin of mine on my father’s side, and Ezra Fisher was my relative on my mother’s side. I had no idea that my Oregon roots went so far back—all the way back to the days when people like my own family members actively worked to make Oregon an all-white state. These revelations prompted a lot of soul-searching. 

I never used to think that Black History Month had much to do with me. Th en, I met Jacob Vanderpool. Now, I recognize that Black History Month is an opportunity to admire the perseverance of people like Jacob Vanderpool—who moved back to New York, worked as a cab driver with his son, and eventually returned west, where he marched in support of the 15th Amendment and registered to vote before he died. But I also acknowledge that the reason Vanderpool and others had so much to persevere through was because of opposition from people like my own family members.   

Today, I’m asking myself some questions, in Black History Month and beyond. What does it look like for me to begin to acknowledge my family history of White supremacy—and to look inside to see what remains of that history in my own heart? How can I begin to repent of that family legacy, and to work to repair it? How can I be part of building a new Oregon—and a new America—that champions the joy and well-being of every person here?   

I realize that I still have much to learn. And I’m so grateful to Jacob Vanderpool for what he’s already taught me. 

Parts of this article were adapted from Sarah L. Sanderson’s book, The Place We Make: Breaking the Legacy of Legalized Hate.