My grandfather, whom I fondly call Papa, had a knack for making every family outing memorable. From thrilling fishing trips on his sleek speedboat to surprising us with oversized bags of donut holes on the way back, he always brought joy. His whimsical antics at the dinner table and his talent for creating extravagant tinsel-laden Christmas trees filled our lives with happiness. He even introduced us to computers before they became mainstream, ensuring that my first email would be addressed to him. Despite the distance between us, he wanted to keep our connection alive.
However, Papa also harbored prejudiced views. He often expressed disdain for “those people” and would watch individuals of color with suspicion if they ventured too close. His mistrust extended to everyday situations, whether it was the mechanic working on his car or the attendant at Dairy Queen. He dismissed popular figures like Oprah, thinking her show lacked merit. Though he never used foul language, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the man I cherished had a dark side.
What complicated this further was the silence from other family members. To my knowledge, no one ever confronted him about his comments. This led me to wonder if my relatives shared similar views. Surely someone would have spoken up if they disagreed.
Papa recognized my quirky sense of humor and remembered my favorite popsicle flavor. He celebrated every creative endeavor I undertook. Over time, I convinced myself that addressing his racism wasn’t my responsibility. I believed that everyone has flaws, and his prejudices were just part of who he was. When he made an inappropriate remark, I countered it in my mind with all the reasons I loved him, which were plentiful.
Things began to shift dramatically when my daughter turned two. She was curious and impressionable, requiring me to spell out words I didn’t want her to hear. More importantly, her preschool was predominantly attended by black and Latinx children, as was our church and neighborhood. Papa was family, but so were our friends and neighbors—people who faced the harsh realities of racism daily. Suddenly, his prejudiced remarks became a significant concern.
That Thanksgiving, while watching football, I overheard Papa complain about the increasing number of black players in the NFL. I felt a rush of heat, a mixture of embarrassment and anger. I quickly took my daughter out of the room before confronting him in the kitchen.
“Papa, your comments, the jokes you tell, and your beliefs are racist. Racism is a form of hate. I understand that you have had negative experiences that shape your views, but judging an entire group of people based on skin color is unjust. If you cannot change the way you speak, I cannot expose my children to that environment. They love you, and I love you, but I cannot risk their emotional well-being.”
He looked taken aback and murmured something about being hurt by a group of black teens in his youth. I acknowledged his pain but reiterated, “I’m sorry that happened. It’s awful. I love you, but I won’t tolerate hate around my child.”
In the following visits, I noticed a change. Papa made an effort to clean up his language and expressed gratitude for our time together. He spent weeks crafting a vibrant pink doll cradle for my daughter’s third birthday and, despite his failing health, created a matching white one for my second daughter. He didn’t want them to argue over toys; he wanted them to feel loved as individuals, just as he adored all his grandchildren.
His sudden heart attack the following year left me grappling with mixed emotions. I wish I could confidently claim that my words had transformed him or that his views had shifted. I yearned for the knowledge that he passed away with love and understanding in his heart. I felt a profound loss—both for him and for the friendship he never formed with someone of a different background.
I genuinely believe that had he ventured beyond his comfort zone, formed friendships with diverse individuals, his perspective might have changed. His lack of exposure to diverse voices allowed him to believe his racism was acceptable.
While I cannot ascertain the final state of Papa’s heart, I cling to the hope that change is possible. Perhaps it had begun. A few months before his passing, he visited me at a community garden I established in my urban neighborhood. He engaged in a conversation with my neighbor, a black woman, about nurturing tomato plants. I saw a flicker of joy in his smile as they chatted. Later that week, he insisted on bringing over his tiller, saying the one I was using was inadequate, wanting our plants to thrive.
Papa might not have understood my passion for diversity or my desire to remain in a neighborhood that reflected a rich tapestry of cultures. Nevertheless, he loved me, respected my choices, and sought to stay connected despite our differences. I like to think that, for a fleeting moment, a small seed of understanding had taken root in his heart.
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In summary, my grandfather, a man I loved deeply, held prejudiced views that complicated our relationship. I confronted him about his racism, which led to change in his language but not necessarily his beliefs. His death left me with unresolved feelings about his capacity for change and the friendships he never formed. I hope that small moments of connection sparked something within him, illustrating that change is possible, even for those set in their ways.