Growing up, my grandfather was a wonderful presence in my life. He would take us out on his speedboat for fishing trips and always had a stash of donut holes for our ride home. At family dinners, he was the one pulling silly faces to make us laugh, and he created the most elaborate Christmas trees adorned with tinsel. Before technology became common, he introduced me to computers, ensuring I could share my first email with him. He wanted to bridge the distance between us, even though we lived in different states.
However, my grandfather also held deeply racist views. He often complained about “those people” and would stare disapprovingly at individuals of color who came too close to us. He was suspicious of our car mechanic and even dismissed the young man at the Dairy Queen drive-thru. He had a disdain for Oprah and considered her show overrated. Despite his otherwise loving nature, I quickly realized that the man I adored harbored some pretty ugly beliefs.
What made it more troubling was that no one in our family ever confronted him about it. I began to wonder if my aunts, uncles, and cousins secretly shared his views. Surely, someone would have spoken up if they disagreed with him. Since Grandpa understood my dry humor and remembered my favorite popsicle flavor, I hesitated to challenge him. I thought that perhaps everyone had their flaws, and his racism was just part of who he was.
Things took a turn when my daughter reached her second birthday. She was at a stage where she absorbed everything around her, so I found myself spelling out words I didn’t want her to hear. More importantly, she was attending a preschool where most of the children were Black or Latinx, and our neighborhood reflected the same diversity. While Grandpa was family, the people we engaged with daily—who shared meals, chased kids, and worshipped together—were my family too. Suddenly, racism became a deal-breaker.
During Thanksgiving that year, I overheard him lamenting the increasing number of Black players in professional football. My face flushed with a mix of embarrassment and anger as I ushered my daughter out of the room. Afterward, I confronted him in the kitchen, finally voicing what I had kept bottled up for too long.
“Grandpa, your words, your jokes, your beliefs—they’re racist. Racism is a form of hate. I know you harbor negative feelings toward Black individuals, but not all Black people are the same, just as not all white people are alike. It’s unjust to judge people based solely on skin color. If you can’t change the way you speak, then I can’t bring my children here. They love you, I love you, but I won’t expose them to harmful language.”
He looked taken aback, mumbling something about a negative experience with a group of Black teens in his youth. I sympathized with his story but reiterated, “I’m sorry that happened, but I will not accept hateful language around my child.”
Silence filled the air as we prepared to leave.
On later visits, I noticed a change in him. He made an effort to clean up his language and expressed gratitude for our time together. He even went to great lengths to craft a bright pink doll cradle for my daughter’s third birthday, and later, despite his declining health, made a matching white one for my second daughter. He didn’t want them to argue over ownership, but I believe he wanted them to know they were each cherished as individuals.
Tragically, he passed away from a heart attack the following year.
I often wish I could assert that my words had profoundly changed his views on race. I hope that, in the end, his heart was filled only with love and tolerance. His death left me feeling torn—not just from missing him, but also from the realization that he never had the chance to cultivate friendships with people of color.
I genuinely believe that this man, with his generous spirit, would have benefited from intentional relationships beyond his familiar circle. I suspect that the comfort he found in a predominantly white environment allowed him to remain unchanged. The absence of challenging voices in his life likely perpetuated his acceptance of racist beliefs.
While I’m uncertain of the final state of his heart, I cling to the hope that change is always possible. Perhaps it had already begun. A few months before his passing, he visited me at my community garden, where he struck up a conversation with a Black neighbor about growing tomatoes. I could see the joy on his face as they exchanged gardening tips. Later, he insisted on bringing over his tiller because he thought mine was inadequate, eager to help ensure our plants flourished.
My grandfather may not have grasped my passion for diversity or my commitment to social justice, but he loved me deeply. He wanted to maintain our connection, even amidst our differences. I like to think that, for a brief moment, a small seed of understanding may have taken root in his heart.
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Summary
This article reflects on the complexities of loving a family member with racist beliefs. The author recounts cherished memories with her grandfather while grappling with his prejudiced views, especially as her own family grows and becomes more diverse. Despite confronting him about his language and beliefs, she holds onto hope that change is possible, highlighting moments of connection that suggest potential growth.