Someone Else: A reflection on loving a racist

(Image credit: PM Notes) 

I remember growing up and hearing my Grandpa say the n-word often. I knew it was a "bad word" but as a child I understood it as a bad word just like "shit", "fuck", or "bitch". Adults could say it but children couldn't. I didn't understand why it was bad or wrong. And I grew up with the implicit understanding that it was ok to get angry. Especially for men. Especially for white men. And when white men were angry they could say the n-word. 

I didn't understand the presence and performance of white supremacy, racism, and toxic masculinity in my upbringing until I was in my 20's. And it hit me hard. This post isn't about the answer or helping you figure out how to handle this in your life. This is merely my story and reflections. 

My Grandpa loved Notre Dame football, he traveled to Ireland regularly to study his ancestry, he walked several miles every day, he loved hanging in the pool, he played the harmonica, he had a deep voice that carried, and he loved beagles. All of these passions shaped my identity and show up in my day-to-day life. I loved him. Without question. He brought so much joy to our family. He contributed so much to who I am and who my family is as a collective group. 

There wasn't a single moment in which I realized he was racist. It came in waves of shock, questioning, shame, guilt, confusion, and feeling distraught. How could someone I love so dearly believe something so toxic, violent, and harmful? And a genuine question of what that says about me. If I believe so strongly in the worth of Black people, being anti-racist, fighting for social justice, and dismantling systems that perpetuate racial inequities, how could I be so blind to someone in my family who embodied the exact opposite of what I believe? Fundamental character flaw? Unconscious complacency? Am I just like him? Am I a fraud? 

My experience is not unique, I'm sure. I imagine there are many people facing familial ties that clash with their belief that Black lives matter and white privilege and white fragility exist. I'm sure like me, many people struggle in that situation. Both in how to address it in those relationships but also in how to process what that means about our own character. In the relationship with others, there are really only 3 (albeit simplified) options here: 

Ignore it. 

Cut this person out of your life. 

Confront them. 

Unfortunately for me, my grandpa is dead and has been for over a decade. I'm left with only being able to reflect on the above questions, confront the implicit bias in my family that still exists with other members, and to carefully explore where this explicit and implicit racism exists in my blood and seeps into my life. 

I'm embarrassed to admit that for many years I ignored the implicit and sometimes even the explicit racism that existed in my family. It was easier and I genuinely didn't understand how harmful it was. I didn’t recognize that ignoring it was part of my white privilege. And absolutely complicit in contributing to systems that continue to harm Black people. About 10 years ago I abandoned that approach of ignoring it. And cutting people out of my life isn't my style. So I started confronting racism as it surfaced in words and actions among my family members. But in order to do that I first had to confront how it showed up in my own words and actions. 

This wasn't easy. It was and is still exhausting, embarrassing, confusing, and at times overwhelming. I stumble and make mistakes. And it's hard to always see the implicit racism and microaggressions that I commit. Unlearning words and thoughts that have be habit for decades requires a lot of paying attention, reflecting, correcting, and not being afraid to continually make mistakes. I feel ashamed for the years I didn’t know better and for the years that felt like an acceptable excuse.  It’s hard to forgive myself. 

And I still can't come to terms with my Grandpa's view. The only understanding that I've gained is that racism runs deep. Through generations, ideologies, and is perpetuated by people within those systems who look away. I don't know that I've changed anyone else’s thinking. But I do know that with the people in my family whom I've confronted, our relationships are more authentic and I am more skilled at naming racism as it exists. My behaviors have changed. My words and thoughts have changed. And I understand a lot more about who I am, letting go of what I accepted as a child, and am raising my children with a different set of implicit and explicit values. 

I still shake my head in disgust and my heart breaks to know someone I loved so deeply carried a hate I can't fathom. I can only be vigilant in living my values and recognizing I have a chance to be someone different than who my Grandpa was. Despite my exposure and the intergenerational transmission, I can actively name and push back against the racism as it shows up in my life. Loving him will always feel complicated but for as many things as he and I have in common, greater is my opportunity, power, and commitment to be someone else. 

Thank you for your childhood

One of my very favorite books from my youth is "The Giver" by Lois Lowry. It provokes considerable thought about social structure, rights, and identity. I'm always struck by how much this book causes me to cling to my free will and expression of emotions but also conjures the surfacing of a guilty craving for simplicity that has a price tag we can't match.

The society in this book functions under a very specific set of principles - precision of language, daily dream sharing, pills to suppress "stirrings", and adherence to the rules of the life assignment given at the ceremony of the Elevens. At this ceremony, as the youth transition into their lifelong work, they are told "thank you for your childhood". It is both a genuine acknowledgment of their youth but also a shift into greater contributions to society.

In both The Giver and real life, we often view adulthood as being more than childhood and measure children on a scale of achieving "adultness" (for more on this, I recommend Emily Plank's Discovering the Culture of Childhood). But what if that's not quite right? What if childhood is more and adulthood is simply the unfortunate letting go of the gifts of childhood that we justify with productivity, money, and adult responsibilities?

Children bring endless amounts of joy to our lives with their playfulness, their easy sense of humor, and the delight they find in the simplest moments. They aren't as bound to schedules, time, and responsibilities. The are free from judgement and anger-fueled grudges. They are guided by biological cues, close relationships, curiosity, and simply what feels good.

What if childhood isn't merely to prepare us for adulthood? What if our youngest years are the peak of our lives?

I was thinking about this a lot today as I was watching my sons play. My oldest spent over three hours playing in the snow. Periodically coming in to ask for dinosaurs, and spray bottles with colored water, and helicopters, and the list goes on. He never asked what time it was and never got tired or cold. His play isn't unlike most children, but it is certainly unlike the way I structure my day - tasks, timelines, guilt over procrastination, and so forth. And I started to think of all the things my sons' childhood bring to my life for which I'm extremely grateful.

To my young sons, thank you for filling my life with laughter, for asking me questions that make me learn something new everyday, for your energy that drives me to try and keep up, for the late night wake-ups that remind me of the deep connection we share and how fleeting and precious these moments can be. Thank you for prioritizing play over cleanliness, for sharing your made up stories so I can be a brief guest in your imaginary world, and for making me pause and give notice to things I'd otherwise overlook. Thank you for being unapologetically you, for sharing your perspective with the world, and for making each moment better just by being you.

I know, without question, my life is better because of their presence in my life. The daily reminder that childhood is important, valid, and precious as it's own phase of life, not simply in preparation for the next one. And by embracing their "childness" without comparison to "adultness" my life is richer, more magical, and for a short time, I'm brought back to my own precious childhood.

My dear sons, a million thanks. Thank you for these gifts. Thank you for your childhood.