You know, my grandpa, whom I adored, had his quirks. He’d take us on fishing trips on his speedy boat and always stock up on those giant bags of donut holes for the return journey. He was the king of goofy faces at the dinner table and went all out with Christmas decorations, making tinsel-covered trees that were a sight to behold. He even introduced us to computers before they were a big deal, which meant my first-ever email was sent to him. He wanted to keep us connected, even though we were miles apart.
But here’s the thing: Grandpa had some serious racist tendencies. He would often grumble about “those people” and give glaring looks to anyone who wasn’t white if they came too close. His distrust extended to everyone, from the car mechanic to the kid serving us at Dairy Queen. He wasn’t a fan of Oprah either, thinking her show was overrated. He never used foul language, but even as a kid, I could tell there was a lot of negativity in his words.
What made it even more complicated was that no one in the family called him out on it. I started to wonder if my aunts, uncles, and cousins shared his views. Surely, if anyone disagreed, they would have said something, right? Since Grandpa understood my dry humor, remembered my favorite popsicle flavor, and celebrated every creative endeavor of mine, I ended up thinking it wasn’t my place to voice my concerns. His racism became just another quirk, something I accepted because, after all, everyone has their flaws.
That all changed when my daughter turned two. Suddenly, she was soaking up everything around her, and I found myself having to spell out certain words I didn’t want her to hear. More importantly, she was in a preschool that was predominantly black and Latinx, and our neighborhood and church reflected that diversity too. Grandpa was family, but the people we interacted with daily were family too. Racism, which had felt distant before, was now a glaring reality I couldn’t ignore.
Thanksgiving arrived that year, and while we were all watching football, I heard Grandpa complain about the increasing number of black players. I felt a rush of heat and embarrassment as I quietly led my daughter out of the room. Later, I confronted him in the kitchen, finally saying what I should have years earlier.
“Grandpa, the jokes you make and the beliefs you hold are racist, and racism is hate. I know you’ve had bad experiences, but not all black individuals are the same, just like not all white folks are. It’s unfair to judge people solely by their skin color. If you can’t change the way you speak, I can’t bring my kids here anymore. They love you, and so do I, but I can’t let them be hurt by your words.”
He stood there, taken aback, mumbling about past incidents that had hurt him. I felt for him but stood my ground. “I’m sorry that happened, but I won’t accept hateful language around my child.”
After that conversation, Grandpa made an effort to clean up his language. He seemed genuinely grateful for our visits and even spent weeks crafting a bright pink cradle for my daughter’s 3rd birthday. When my second daughter turned 3, he built her a matching one, wanting to make sure they wouldn’t argue over them. I think he wanted both girls to know just how much he cherished each of them.
Grandpa passed away the following year from a heart attack. I wish I could say my words had transformed him completely. I wish I could believe that his last moments were filled with love and acceptance. I also wish I could say his death didn’t leave me feeling conflicted—not just because I missed him, but also because I never witnessed him build friendships with people of color.
I genuinely believe that if he had stepped out of his comfort zone, he could have changed. His surroundings and the lack of voices challenging him may have let him think his views were acceptable. I can’t say for sure what his heart held at the end, but I cling to the hope that change is possible. Maybe it was already happening. Just months before he passed, he visited my community garden and struck up a conversation with my neighbor, a black woman, about gardening techniques. I saw him smile during their chat. He even insisted on bringing his own tiller to help with the garden, wanting to ensure our plants thrived.
He might not have understood my passion for diversity or my commitment to living in a multicultural neighborhood, but he loved me regardless. I like to think that, for a brief moment, a small seed of understanding found its way into his heart.
In summary, while my grandfather had his shortcomings, our connection was deep. He made strides to understand my world, and I hold onto the hope that change can happen, even in the unlikeliest of places.
Leave a Reply