Growing up, my grandfather was a larger-than-life figure. He would take us out on his speedboat for fishing trips, always returning with bags full of donut holes to enjoy on the way home. His antics at the dinner table, with silly faces and jovial laughter, created cherished memories. He even introduced us to computers before they became mainstream; my very first email was crafted for him, bridging the distance between us.
However, beneath this warm exterior lay a troubling truth: Grandpa held racist beliefs. He would voice his disdain for “those people” and scrutinize anyone of color who came near us. His distrust extended to the car mechanic and even the kid at the Dairy Queen. He had a particular dislike for Oprah, dismissing her show as overrated. Though he never used profanity, I could sense that the man I adored harbored unkind thoughts.
What made things even more difficult was that no one in the family confronted him about his views. It left me questioning whether my aunts, uncles, and cousins shared similar sentiments, as surely someone would have spoken up if they disagreed. Despite his prejudices, I found it hard to challenge him. He understood my humor, remembered my favorite popsicle flavor, and supported my creative endeavors. I convinced myself that his racism was just another of his flaws, something I could overlook.
Things began to shift when my daughter turned two. She was curious and impressionable, and I found myself spelling out words I didn’t want her to hear. More importantly, she attended a preschool with a predominantly Black and Latinx student body, and our church reflected that diversity as well. Grandpa was family, but the people we interacted with daily were family too. Suddenly, his racism felt like a deal-breaker.
Thanksgiving that year became a turning point. As family gathered to watch football, Grandpa grumbled about the increasing number of Black players in the league. I felt a rush of heat, a mix of embarrassment and anger, and discreetly led my daughter out of the room.
Afterward, I confronted him in the kitchen, finally saying what I had held back for so long. “Grandpa, the way you talk and the beliefs you hold are racist. Racism is rooted in hate. Not all Black people are the same, just as not all white people are the same. It’s unjust to judge someone based solely on their skin color. If you can’t change the way you speak, then I cannot bring my children here. They love you, and so do I, but I won’t risk their hearts being hurt by your words.”
He stood frozen, rubbing his brow as he mumbled about a painful experience he had with a group of Black teens in his youth. I shook my head. “I’m sorry that happened. I love you, but I won’t tolerate hateful language around my child.”
Following that conversation, Grandpa made an effort to clean up his language. He expressed gratitude for our visits, even dedicating weeks to craft a vibrant pink doll cradle for my daughter’s third birthday. When my second daughter turned three, he made a matching white cradle, wanting both girls to know they were cherished.
Tragically, he passed away from a heart attack the following year. I wish I could say my words had transformed his views on race, but I’m unsure of the extent of change in his heart. I often think about whether he ever formed friendships with people of different backgrounds, which could have opened his heart and mind. I believe that his comfort in a predominantly white environment allowed him to remain set in his ways, without the challenge of diverse perspectives.
Though I don’t know the final state of his heart, I cling to hope that change is possible. Just a few months before his passing, I saw him engage in a meaningful conversation with my neighbor, a Black woman, about gardening. He left me with the impression that maybe, just maybe, a tiny seed of understanding had begun to take root.
In the end, while my grandfather may not have grasped my advocacy for diversity or my desire to live in a more inclusive community, he loved me unconditionally. He respected our differences, and I like to think that connection allowed for small moments of growth.
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In summary, my relationship with my grandfather was complex, marked by love and deep-seated prejudices. It took a confrontation to bring some awareness to his views, but I remain hopeful that change is possible even in the most unlikely hearts.