Sign 'O the Times

My grandmother says racist things.

I say this without irony. Without shame. Without much thought at all. However, I hope that, in my grandmother's case, saying racist things does not make one racist.

I don't mean to be an apologist. I don't want to let her off the hook. On the contrary, I would be more likely to tell my grandmother that she is being offensive than I would a guy sitting behind me at a football game talking about black quarterbacks or the couple at the booth next to me at the neighborhood restaurant laughing about Hispanic bus boys.

But maybe that's what I am.

My grandmother has always used racist language to describe people. I remember hearing my first racist joke at my grandparents' house. In fact, I think I may have told a racist joke to my grandfather when I was young, in an effort to curry favor with the grouchy old coot. I remember the joke, even. It was about the rapid transit authority in Atlanta. And, no, I'm not repeating it here.

My grandparents used the "n" word to describe people. Not only people, but inanimate objects. When I was young, it didn't even register...the type of language that they used. It was just part of the background, the wallpaper. It matched the Big Ten glasswear and the cane furniture and the lava lamp in the basement of their house. However, once I went to high school in Atlanta and learned about the impact of such a word, I began to cringe every time I heard them use it. It was the equivilent of dropping an f-bomb. Worse, even.

My grandfather died and my grandmother moved to a small town to live near my uncle. He's not known for watching his tongue, either. In fact, to be fair, no one in my family is what would be described as a shrinking violet. And we don't always think before we speak. However...

Grandma proceeded to get blackballed from the local drycleaner after making a derogatory remark about the hispanic folks working there. She now has to send her clothes with my uncle to the next town over.

I'm sorry, there are some things that age does not allow you to do. You can yell at kids to get off your lawn. You may even be able to steal a kid's football and refuse to give it back. But you cannot call someone a racial ephithet and get away with it. Young or old.

When I was just visiting last week, my elderly, frail grandmother used the "n" word to describe tennis shoes. This makes no sense to me. She was telling a story about cheap shoes tied together by their laces, held in bins. I imagine she thought she was describing the shoes as low-class. Or cheap. I don't know, honestly. When the word came out of her mouth, I covered my eyes and shook my head. I almost got up and left. But she's 82 and the only grandparent I have left. What does one do?

I would like to think that, in her heart, my grandmother doesn't actually believe that all black people are bad, just like all white people aren't good. I'm reasonably certain she doesn't believe that a secret roundtable of Jews rules the financial market. I hope she doesn't think that the Mexican kid at the laundry didn't maliciously steal a button from her coat and make a new stain on her silk shirt. I hope, instead, that accusing someone of doing something like that was simply the meanest thing she could think of to say to someone, in order to get their attention and have them look at her. Really look at her like she matters. Because, in the end, I think that is what makes her tick....the need for attention.

Honestly, the apples don't fall far from the tree in this family.

But what really bothers me is that my fourteen and twelve year old cousins were there when she talked about the shoes and they didn't bat an eye. Because they aren't doing things like going to school with black kids in suburban Atlanta. Nor are they speding time in any kind of urban environment whatsoever outside of what they see on television. I fervently hope they don't get the idea that people talk that way in the big wide world.

I hope for better for them.