by Robin Beckham, PUM Editor
I used to believe legacy was something other people inherited — people whose families kept neat records, who passed down stories over dinner tables, who knew exactly where they came from. My life was nothing like that. I grew up as a Black girl in Denver’s working-class neighborhoods, the daughter of an interracial marriage that ruffled feathers, caused family arguments, and left gaps in my identity I didn’t know how to fill.
The white side of my family was a blank wall. No photographs. No stories. No names. Nothing but silence.
Then one day, through DNA matches and late-night digging through digitized archives, old Chicago newspapers, and yellowed public records, a door cracked open. And behind that door stood a man I had never heard of — a man so large in Chicago’s early history that entire neighborhoods shifted because of his decisions.
A man named Amos Jerome Snell.
When I first learned I was his 3rd great-granddaughter, I felt the air shift around me. It wasn’t pride, exactly — it was something heavier, something more complicated.
Because this man was not just a successful businessman.
He was not just wealthy.
He was not just influential.
He was a titan of the Gilded Age — and a controversial one.
A man praised as the poor man’s friend and condemned as a monopolist.
A man who employed hundreds and encouraged them to save their wages.
A man who also charged tolls that farmers cursed as they paid to use his roads.
A man whose generosity and toughness lived side by side like two truths that refused to cancel each other out.
And a man whose life ended violently — shot in his own mansion, murdered by burglars in 1888, a crime that remains unsolved to this day.
This is the man whose bloodline flows into mine.
The Man I Found in the Archives
The more I read, the more the story unfolded like a novel.
Amos was born in 1823 on a farm in Herkimer County, New York — Mohawk Dutch stock, raised in a house full of strong, hardworking children. He had only a basic education but used every bit of it. At eighteen, he earned farm wages to travel to Ohio. At twenty-three, he taught school. At twenty-four, he married a young woman named Henrietta Sedam.
The newlyweds arrived in Chicago with $18.50 — counting it over and over because it was all they had.
From there, his climb was steady and fierce:
- He ran a store and post office.
- He secured a lumber contract for the North-Western Railroad.
- He purchased 2,000 acres of timber in Wisconsin.
- He ran crews of men and teams of horses.
- He bought worthless prairie land and turned it into fortune.
He became known not for speculation but for production — building hundreds of solid, well-crafted homes and renting them out with care. He maintained his famous “plank road” impeccably, even as people complained about the tolls.
People said he was severe.
People said he was fair.
People said he was brilliant.
People said he was stubborn.
But everyone agreed on this:
Amos Snell got things done.
And then one winter night in 1888 — a noise, a staircase, a confrontation, a gunshot. Chicago woke to headlines announcing the murder of one of its wealthiest, most influential men. The killer never named. The mystery never solved.
A titan gone in an instant, leaving behind an empire, a grieving family, and a trail of unanswered questions.
Where I Fit into This Story
So how does a Black woman — born in 1964 at Fitzsimons Army Medical Center, the daughter of a mixed marriage that once caused my grandmother to call the police — make sense of descending from a man like that?
A man who lived in a world where the state of Illinois tried to prevent Black people from entering entirely.
A man whose opportunities were built in systems designed for men like him — and against people like me.
I had to sit with that.
I had to sit with the contradiction that my ancestor-built roads that farmers hated but undeniably needed.
That he lifted workers up while blocking others’ paths.
That he created value and created tension at the same time.
Legacy isn’t always pretty. But it is always honest.
And in that honesty, I began to recognize something that surprised me. Not his privilege — but his nature. Because buried in his story were traits that echoed in my own life:
the instinct to build,
the refusal to be ordinary,
the ability to create something out of nothing,
the drive to make my own way.
I didn’t inherit Amos’s millions or his marble-front homes.
But I did inherit his persistence.
I built my own company.
I carved my own place in the media world.
I dug for truth, uncovered stories, and created opportunities.
My empire looks different — built on storytelling, communication, and voice — but its foundation is the same: grit.
The Shadow We Both Carry
And then there is the darker piece — the piece I might understand even more intimately than I expected:
the mystery.
The unfinished business.
The need to understand what others tried to bury.
Is it coincidence that I became a storyteller?
A researcher?
A woman who always needs to know why?
Maybe not.
Maybe the need to untangle hidden truths is its own inheritance — passed down through bloodlines just as surely as ambition.
Claiming My Complicated Inheritance
Being the 3rd great-granddaughter of Amos Snell does not mean bowing to his memory. It does not mean glossing over the controversy. It means acknowledging:
- the power he held
- the privilege he wielded
- the limits he never had to face
- and the obstacles I overcame that he could never imagine
It means understanding that I am both the continuation of his story and the disruption of it.
My existence — a Black woman descended from a wealthy white Chicago industrialist — is something he never would have foreseen. Yet here I am, breathing life into a lineage that stretches from a Gilded Age mansion to the streets of Denver to the woman I became.
Legacy, I’ve learned, is not neat.
It is not clean.
It is not comfortable.
But it is transformative.
And now that I know the truth, I refuse to shrink from it.
I am not the heir to his fortune.
But I am the heir to his complexity.
I am the living chapter he never saw coming.
I am the bridge between divided histories.
And I am the one — finally — completing the story.
Being the third great-granddaughter of Amos J. Snell has forced me to rethink what legacy really means. On paper, he was a titan of the Gilded Age — a man who built railroads, toll roads, businesses, timber operations, and entire neighborhoods in Chicago. A self-made force who rose from nothing, arriving in Chicago with eighteen dollars and a willingness to work harder than the next man. It is estimated that Snell would be worth over $75 million today. He built more homes than almost anyone of his era, treated workers with fairness, invested in communities, and carved out a fortune not through speculation but through sheer creation.
And yet, his life ended in violence — an unsolved murder that shook the city and left behind unanswered questions. A man so powerful in life, taken suddenly in death. That duality became part of the family mythology, even if no one ever passed it down to me directly.
For years, I didn’t know any of this. I didn’t grow up with land deeds, portraits on the wall, or family history lessons. I grew up as a Black woman trying to make sense of where I fit in a country that often erases women like me from its historical rooms. So how do you connect those dots? How do you reconcile billion-dollar streets, old Chicago newspapers, and a Gilded Age magnate — with your own life, your own identity, your own struggles?
This journey into my family tree gave me a surprising answer:
legacy isn’t something you receive — it’s something you claim.
I didn’t inherit Amos Snell’s wealth or his status. I didn’t inherit a mansion on Washington Boulevard or a portfolio of toll roads. But I did inherit something invisible yet powerful: the drive to build something out of very little. The resilience to start from scratch. The instinct to create value, to push forward, to carve out space where none existed.
Maybe I didn’t become a titan of industry, but I built my own company. I raised children with vision and grit. I created my own lane. And maybe that’s the real inheritance — not the fortune lost to time, but the fire that stayed alive through generations.
So, if you ask me today,
“What’s legacy got to do with it?”
I’d say: everything.
To Read More check out AmosSnell.com a site Robin Beckham launched with more details.