My grandfather, a character in his own right, would take us out on his speedboat for fishing trips, always returning with hefty bags of donut holes for the ride home. He had a knack for making silly faces across the dinner table and crafting extravagant Christmas trees adorned with tinsel. Before computers became ubiquitous, he introduced us to them, ensuring that my first email was sent to him, bridging the distance between us.
However, there was a darker side to Grandpa. He openly complained about “those people” and often cast suspicious glances at individuals of color nearby. His distrust extended to the car mechanic and even the teen working the drive-thru at Dairy Queen. He had little regard for Oprah, dismissing her show as overrated. Though he never used foul language, I sensed early on that this beloved man harbored some troubling sentiments.
What made matters more perplexing was that no one in our family seemed to challenge his views. I often wondered if my aunts, uncles, and cousins shared his beliefs but kept them hidden. After all, wouldn’t someone have spoken up if they disagreed?
As I grew closer to my grandfather, who understood my quirky humor and remembered my favorite popsicle flavor, I chose to remain silent. His racism didn’t sever our bond; it was just part of who he was. I rationalized it by focusing on the countless things I admired about him. I kept a long list that made it easy to overlook his flaws.
Things began to shift when my daughter turned two. She was young and impressionable, which meant I had to spell out words to shield her from messages I didn’t want her to hear. More importantly, her preschool was predominantly black and Latinx, as was our church and neighborhood. While Grandpa was family, I realized that the people we interacted with daily—those we shared meals and laughter with—were family too. The reality of racism hit hard. It became a deal-breaker.
At Thanksgiving that year, I overheard Grandpa grumbling about the increasing number of black players in professional sports. My face flushed with embarrassment and anger as I led my daughter out of the room. Later, I confronted him in the kitchen, summoning the courage to voice what I had held back for so long.
“Grandpa, your jokes and opinions are racist. Racism is rooted in hate. Not all black people are the same, just as not all white people are alike. It’s unjust to judge an entire group based solely on their skin color. If you can’t change the way you speak, then I can’t bring my kids here. They adore you, and so do I, but I won’t risk their feelings being hurt by your words.”
He stood there, speechless, rubbing his forehead and mumbling about a traumatic experience he had with a group of black teens in his youth. I listened and acknowledged his pain, but reiterated, “I love you, but I won’t accept hateful language around my child.”
Following that conversation, Grandpa made an effort to modify his language. He expressed gratitude for every visit we made. For my daughter’s third birthday, he spent weeks crafting a bright pink doll cradle, and then, despite his declining health, built a matching white cradle for my second daughter. He didn’t want them to squabble over toys; he wanted both to feel uniquely cherished.
Tragically, he passed away unexpectedly from a heart attack the following year. I wish I could confidently say that my words had transformed his views on race. I longed for a moment of profound change, to know that his heart was filled with love and understanding when he died. His passing left me with a mix of sorrow—not just from losing him, but from the fact that I never witnessed him forge a friendship with someone from a different background.
I believe that his generous heart, open to me and others, could have been healed by meaningful connections with diverse individuals. I suspect that the comfort of living in a predominantly white environment allowed him to remain unchanged, and the absence of opposing viewpoints led him to believe his views were acceptable.
While I may never know the final state of my grandfather’s heart, I hold onto the hope that change is always possible. Maybe it had begun. A few months before his death, he visited me at my community garden, where he struck up a conversation with my neighbor, a black woman, about nurturing tomato plants. I saw a smile form on his face during their exchange. Later, he insisted on bringing over his tiller, claiming that mine wasn’t powerful enough. He wanted to ensure our plants thrived, producing bountiful, sweet fruits for my family and neighbors.
Grandpa might not have grasped my passion for diversity or my advocacy for social justice, but he loved me nonetheless. He respected my views and sought to maintain our relationship despite our differences. I like to think that, for a brief moment, a small seed of change had been planted in his heart.
In this ever-evolving world, it’s essential to acknowledge our loved ones’ flaws while advocating for compassion and understanding. Relationships can inspire growth and transformation, even in the most unlikely of circumstances.
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Summary:
The author reflects on her complex relationship with her grandfather, who held racist views despite being a beloved figure in her life. After confronting him about his language and beliefs, she noticed changes in his behavior. His unexpected death left her with mixed feelings about the potential for change and connection across racial divides.
Keyphrase: My Grandfather Had Racist Views Yet I Cherished Him
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