My grandfather, whom I affectionately called Grandpa Joe, was a larger-than-life figure in my childhood. He took my siblings and me on fishing trips aboard his speedy boat, delighting us with large bags of donut holes for our journeys home. At family dinners, he would make hilarious faces that had us all in stitches. His Christmas trees were extravagant, draped in tinsel and shimmering lights. He even introduced us to computers before they became commonplace, ensuring I sent my very first email to him, bridging the distance that separated us by a state.
Yet, amid these cherished memories, there was a darker side to Grandpa Joe. He often made disparaging comments about “those people” and would glaringly watch people of color who came too close to us. His mistrust extended to everyone, from the car mechanic to the kid at the Dairy Queen drive-thru. He had a peculiar disdain for Oprah, claiming her show was overrated. Even as a child, I recognized that the man I loved deeply harbored some troubling views.
What complicated matters further was the silence surrounding his remarks. No one in my family ever challenged him, leading me to question whether my relatives shared his hidden biases. Surely, if anyone disagreed, they would have spoken up. But Grandpa Joe had a knack for understanding my quirky sense of humor, remembered my favorite popsicle flavors, and praised my creativity, leading me to convince myself that it wasn’t my role to confront him. His racism, I thought, was just part of who he was — after all, everyone has their flaws, right? When he said something offensive, I simply countered it in my mind with the countless things I adored about him.
However, everything shifted when my daughter turned two. She was curious and impressionable; I found myself spelling out words I didn’t want her to hear. Moreover, her preschool was predominantly made up of black and Latinx children, as was our church and neighborhood. While Grandpa Joe was family, the people we interacted with daily — those we shared meals, laughter, and worship with — became my family too. Suddenly, racism was no longer an abstract concept but a palpable issue that impacted my loved ones.
That Thanksgiving, as we gathered to watch football, I overheard him lamenting that more and more professional players were black. My heart raced with embarrassment and anger as I ushered my daughter out of the room.
Later, I took a deep breath and confronted him in the kitchen. I said the words I had long wished I’d shared earlier in our relationship. “Grandpa Joe, your words, your jokes, and your beliefs are racist. Racism is rooted in hate. I know you have negative feelings towards black people, but just as not all white people are the same, not all black people are either. It’s unjust to judge an entire group based on skin color. If you can’t change how you speak, then I can’t bring my kids here. They love you, and I love you, but I cannot risk them being hurt by your words.”
He stood there, taken aback, rubbing his forehead as he recalled a childhood experience where he was hurt by a group of black teens. I responded, “I’m sorry that happened, and I’ve heard that story before. It’s tragic. I love you, but I won’t tolerate harmful language around my child.”
He fell silent as my family prepared to leave.
In the visits that followed, I noticed a change in Grandpa Joe. He made an effort to be more mindful of his language and expressed gratitude for our time together. He even crafted a bright pink doll cradle for my daughter’s third birthday and a matching white one for my second daughter, ensuring they wouldn’t fight over them. His actions spoke volumes; he wanted them to know they were loved as individuals, just as he adored all his grandchildren.
Tragically, he passed away from a heart attack the following year. I wish I could confidently say that my words had transformed his views on race. I wish I could believe that when he died, his heart was filled only with love and acceptance. It pains me to think that I never witnessed him forming a friendship with someone of a different race.
I genuinely believe that Grandpa Joe, with his generous heart, could have benefited from meaningful relationships with those who didn’t look like him. His comfort in a predominantly white community offered him a reason to avoid change. The absence of voices challenging his beliefs led him to think his racism was acceptable.
While I may never know the final state of his heart, I cling to the hope that change is possible. Perhaps it had already begun. A few months before his passing, he visited me in the community garden I initiated in my diverse neighborhood. He engaged in a conversation with my black neighbor about nurturing tomato plants, and I saw a smile creep onto his face. Later, he insisted on bringing his tiller, stating that the one I used wasn’t powerful enough, ensuring our plants’ roots could grow deep and wide.
Grandpa Joe may not have comprehended my passion for diversity or my advocacy for social justice, but he loved me and respected our differences. I like to think that, at some point, a small seed of understanding had taken root in his heart.
In reflecting on these complex feelings, I realize that love can coexist with discomfort and the need for growth. For more insights on navigating relationships and diversity, check out this piece on couples’ fertility journeys. And for further understanding of intrauterine insemination, visit this excellent resource from Cleveland Clinic.
Summary
This article explores the author’s complex relationship with her grandfather, who, despite his love and support, held racist views. The turning point comes when the author confronts him about his language around race, leading to a change in his behavior. Ultimately, it reflects on the coexistence of love and the necessity for growth in understanding race and diversity.