“Now we’re cooking.”

Names whisked by as Brian Sheffey excitedly scrolled through the 1870 U.S. census on a large projector to find what he was looking for: a 13-year-old boy living in Alabama named Daniel, whose family included his father, Chance, his mother, Viney, and four brothers and sisters.

Chance farmed. Neither parent, the census noted, could read or write.

“He didn’t own his land,” Sheffey said of Chance. “He was more than likely a sharecropper. The chances were high he was living on his last enslaver’s land.”

They were new names to me, even though we share blood. Chance, who had been unemployed for six months and had $170 worth of personal belongings, was Chance Abrams, my great-great-great grandfather. My knowledge of my own family history had previously ended a few generations after him, with the names of my grandparents. I was unaware of the rest of my family history and wanted to learn more.

In that regard, I’m like plenty of other Black people who are curious about their ancestral roots and encounter substantial roadblocks. Official records concerning enslaved African Americans can be scant and unreliable. Stories and names are lost through time and distance. That’s where someone like Brian Sheffey comes in.