A Final Goodbye: Severing Ties with My Racist Grandparents

I have racist grandparents. As the first child of a Black father and a White mother, I faced significant hate and abuse from my mother’s family. Being the first of my mother’s children exposed me to great hate and abuse due to the race that was in my blood; I can’t say the color of my skin because, when I was a baby, I was very fair-skinned. I was hated because I was living proof of the “mistake,” “dishonor,” and “disrespect” that my mother had committed in the eyes of her family. I was the permanence that solidified a once bi-racial relationship that my mother’s family sought desperately to end, into a forever entanglement of the two races in their family tree. The hatred from my mother’s family brought traumas that I have now, in my adult life, rid myself of. As of this week, I have officially ended the minimal relationship I had with my grandparents. In doing so, I have found deeper peace, obtained a sense of satisfying revenge, and gained a greater sense of pride.

I will explain what transpired, leading to me officially removing my grandparents from my life and my feelings as a result of this action. First, however, I will briefly describe my experience growing up with these racists and how this all began, to the best of my memory. The most harsh and vile experiences happened when I was a baby and in my early years of life. I can’t recall these experiences, but I have been told stories by my parents about the way they spoke of me and treated me. Some details would later be revealed by my grandparents when I was in my teenage years.

When my mom was eighteen, she began dating my dad, who was twenty-two at the time. My parents’ relationship was a secret in the beginning, with my mother having more need to keep it a secret, recognizing the hateful views of her parents. However, after dating for some time, the secret inevitably came to be revealed, and when it was, my grandparents kicked my mother out of the house. My mother, with nothing to her name except her personal belongings, which my grandparents held captive until cops allowed her to collect her possessions, went to live with my grandmother on my father’s side. My father’s grandmother was old school. While she was happy for my mother to be there, she had to sleep in the sunroom as my father and mother could not bed together. Later on, after this, my grandparents invited my mother to England to visit her family. This invitation occurred sometime after she was kicked out and seemed to be in good faith. However, after arriving and spending some time there, my mother’s family took away her return ticket in an attempt to end her relationship with my father. My mother remained trapped in England until my father was able to get her a plane ticket; this lasted six months. The details and stories that my parents have are numerous and even more troublesome. I provide these few accounts to give a glimpse into the racism my parents experienced as a result of their bi-racial relationship, the extent to which my mother’s family wanted it to end, and to provide context to the familial situation that I was soon to be born into.

In 1995, I was born. My parents were not yet married and would marry two years later. My birth was a permanence that my mother’s side of the family tried so desperately to prevent. When I was born, my mother, who had a difficult and complex relationship with her parents, wanted me and eventually my later siblings to have a relationship with our grandparents. When I was a baby and toddler, I was subjected to a lot of hate and racism from my grandparents. I don’t have memories of these interactions, but their impacts remain, as I always knew deep down the way they felt and had internalized feelings of anxiety and distance whenever we went over there. I couldn’t explain why, but I knew these routine visits as mere protocol for the face of the relationship were shallow and a chore.

Later in my life, I was told by my parents how my grandfather would say he hated me, call me racist names, and would not want anything to do with me as a baby. Who knows what other traumas I have not been told and have repressed? This would also be verified by my grandfather. Through my pre-teens and teenage years, my mother and siblings would routinely visit my grandparents, usually on holidays such as Christmas and about every three months in between holidays. This was just a formality; none of us siblings really wanted to go, but our mother made us, and deep down, she did not really want to go. At the time, I would question why we were even going, and in reflection, my mother had her own traumas. I believe the consequences from my grandparents for not showing face would cause her greater stress than committing to these protocol appearances. Oftentimes, my mother would preface our visits with, “Let’s just get it over with.”

In visiting, the appearances followed the same routine. We would arrive and greet each other, sit on the couch as my grandparents engaged in small talk. Eventually, my grandmother would begin prying for information, which we were coached not to divulge before arriving. My grandmother would often look for information that would confirm her judgments, and having something negative would bring her satisfaction. After the interrogation phase, dinner was usually ready, and my grandfather’s drinking was well underway. After dinner, there was more superficial conversation with my grandfather getting increasingly drunk. By the end of the night, he would be in a drunken stupor, trying to kiss us and repeatedly saying how much he loved us. This is when he would divulge his actions of the past with great drunken regret, often saying how stupid he was and how sorry he was for hating me and being racist, and for the way he treated me when I was younger. I mostly got all of this attention; being the first child, I faced the brunt of the trauma. Additionally, seeing my success and behavior as a teenager defied all his previous assumptions of how I would turn out. It was often during these times I just sat there, appeasing his apologies, thinking to myself, I can’t wait to leave. This was a usual visit, and where I learned more about how I was treated, additionally, I grew a deep disdain for his patheticness.

As I got older and neared eighteen, they had begun inviting my father over when we came for our obligatory visits. This was an action to show growth and change, an attempt to rid themselves of the past. While at face value, it appeared we were accepted. I could tell that this was not growth. They were not no longer racist and completely accepting, but rather tolerating only us. What could they do? My parents had been married for twenty years and their three children had grown, with their first son soon to go away for college. There was no denying us, and the outward optics of them still excluding my father was a bad look, especially in the new age of white Obamacrats. Once I left for college, I did not have much communication with them; the only updates they received were through my mother. I was no longer obligated to visit, therefore free from that negative and judgmental environment.

While in college, I began growing a beard, and they strongly disapproved of this. When I saw them once a year, they would say something along the lines of, “Shave that mess off,” or “Get rid of that mess.” I paid it little mind; whatever, I was going to do what I wanted and didn’t care about their opinion. However, since every time we interacted was met with judgment, I increasingly began distancing myself further and further. I had no need to engage with them if they were only ever to tell me what I need to change about my appearance. That’s the extent of our relationship; I am uninterested. It wasn’t until roughly three years ago, when I moved out to Arizona, that things changed. When living out there, I had not talked to my grandparents for over a year and a half other than sending happy birthday texts. My parents had come out to visit me, and it was a good time. While visiting, my grandparents FaceTimed my parents so that they could see and speak with me. This was the only way they could really get in touch with me. In answering the FaceTime, the first thing they said after not seeing me for some time was, “Shave off the beard; you look like a terrorist.” This made me enraged; the judgmental and racist remark was the way I was greeted.

I can’t remember how the rest of the phone call went, but afterward, I was done dealing with them. I knew their racist ways had not changed, and I was no longer going to tolerate it. After that phone call, I soft-cut them off. I never told them how I felt but just stopped interacting or talking with them. They would often reach out to my mother, saying, “We never hear from him,” and they would send birthday cards to my parents that read, “Happy Birthday. It would be great to hear from you.” I just moved on with my life, not engaging. Why would I when I do engage, the first thing you say is these racist and judgmental statements? But, I never made that clear to them.

This week, I decided to take a FaceTime call with my grandparents. It had been three years since I last talked to them. It was after this FaceTime that I finally and officially cut my grandparents out of my life. This has been a long time coming. I was having a small family dinner, consisting of my parents and siblings. This was a farewell event for me as I will be moving out of the country at the end of the week. While we were all united, my mother insisted that she FaceTime my grandparents since we, being my siblings, were all here together. Prior to this call, I had not talked to my grandparents in about three years. This was due to them making racist remarks about my appearance and how my beard makes me look like a terrorist. I was well aware of their perspectives.

My mother greeted my grandparents, and my grandparents, knowing I was there and hearing from me for the first time in three years, asked for me. As soon as I took the phone, they began with their same racist and judgmental comments about my beard. It had been three years since we had spoken, and this was the first thing they said. I was beyond myself with anger. After their remarks, they asked, “When would I be leaving the country?” I couldn’t answer; my head was just in a blank state from the anger and disrespect. Prior to taking this call, I indicated to my mother my lack of interest. However, she convinced me to just get it over with. Additionally, I thought it would be good to speak to them just to see what they had to say, and perhaps after three years of essentially no contact, they surely would engage differently. I was wrong, and that was my fault and assumption. My mother grabbed the phone from me, seeing that I was about to say some very intense things. With my mother having the phone and trying to wrap up the call, I was still trying to say things so that I could be heard. The phone call ended abruptly after that.

After the phone call, I was still very upset and mad, so I decided to go for a walk to restore my inner peace. During that walk, I typed a message to be sent to my grandmother. In the message, I said:

That will be the last time we will be speaking. Against my better judgment, I decided to take the call, thinking perhaps they are different. Regretfully, I should have known better. The first thing you two have to say on the phone is negative comments about someone’s appearance and their beard, which I know is rooted in racist perspectives. Y’alls negativity, hatefulness, and judgment have no place in my life. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks. Bye.

I sent that message right at the turning point of my walk. I had walked down the street half a mile to the stop sign. Turning around to head back home and to complete the mile, I felt so relieved, so much peace, and on that walk back, I reminded myself not to let their views, their judgments, and their hatred impact my being. On that walk, I released all that anger, feeling relieved. As I walked back, I couldn’t help but think about my mother saying, “Let’s just get it over with” prior to the call. I’m glad I took that phone call because it allowed me to get it over with. The racist things they had to say gave me the opportunity to officially cut them off and let them know why right then and there. Beforehand, I had never told them; I had just stopped talking to them. Now, there will be no questions about why they never hear from me, no statements or comments placing the blame on our lack of communication on me.

They cannot deny their behavior now with my statement. When I was composing this statement, I was filled with anger and really wanted to insult them. I refrained from doing so, as that would take away from the meaning of the message and my clear intent, stooping to their level. I am proud of how I responded and surprised that in that state of anger, how curated, powerful, and concise I was able to draft that message. They are now aware of the reasons why I no longer want to communicate with them, why they are not involved in my life. It’s freeing. It’s freeing because that’s a door now closed. Previously, the door was left slightly open. With the door slightly open, there’s always going to be an opportunity for them to return in the very back of your mind. The possibility of them entering now no longer exists. I have finally finished that chapter, finished that relationship.

In reflecting on that experience, my only takeaway is that in the heat of the moment when they were saying those racist remarks, I felt extreme anger and disgusting hatred towards them. While my anger and disgust are valid, I controlled myself and handled myself appropriately. I feel like I could have had a better grasp on not letting people’s comments impact my well-being. Understand, familial relationships can invoke harsher emotions. However, I knew the potential outcomes of the call prior to taking it, and with those expectations, I should have prepared myself for the incoming remarks. A part of me thought that the conversation would go differently since we hadn’t spoken for three years beforehand, so a lot of my anger came from the hurt and disappointment of thinking they would engage differently. That is completely my fault and a lesson that I have learned.

I should’ve prepared myself for the probable reality rather than my expectations. Doing so, I would not have been caught off guard to the point where my anger caused me to freeze mentally. My mother was able to take the phone and wrap up the call, so then I had to send a message afterward, which was probably better in terms of allowing me to collect myself before responding. However, if I was prepared, I could have addressed it right then on the call. Nevertheless, the point was made regardless, and I am happy with the outcome. I am reflecting on this to recognize how I can engage more effectively and appropriately during extreme conflict.

People think they have a right to be in your life, especially if they are family, not recognizing that it is a privilege. Don’t let people’s hate, disgust, negativity, and judgment stay in your life; not everyone deserves to be in your life. People who are worthy and belong will be there, and if they are not, they will eventually find their way into your life. In the midst of this, it’s just funny for me to think about how my uncle, my mom’s brother, who is married to a white woman, has two sons who are white, and my grandparents are very involved and engaged in their lives. It’s interesting how the same people can be different in the same relationships. Grandparents can treat two sets of grandchildren completely differently. I now have no relationship with my grandparents and know them differently, while my younger cousins will never know the reality that my siblings and I underwent. With that, good riddance.