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When There’s a Racist in the Family
Does excusing their bigotry make you an accessory to it?
I haven’t stepped foot in a playground in decades, but a recent conversation revived that sinking feeling I used to get every time I was near a dome climber. All the other kids seemed to rise to the top with ease, but I always struggled to make it only halfway up.
Ah, recess — and childhood. They never failed to remind me that I was just … different.
In the conversation that transported me back to the dome climbers of my youth, I was proposing something to a friend who works for his family’s business in Bangkok, where I’m occasionally based. I made my professional pitch, and his first reaction was encouraging.
“We do that sort of thing all the time,” he said.
Then his expression suddenly shifted. It would never work.
“But my dad hates black people,” he added.
As it turns out, Dad doesn’t just have a general distaste for black. He despises the sight of it — at least in people. It doesn’t matter if we’re African, West Indian, British or from the U.S. To him, we’re all equally deplorable and untrustworthy. He would never have one of us associated with his company.
