My Boyfriend’s Parents Were White Supremacists

Sometimes they are right there under your nose, and you don’t even see them.

I dated a white guy in college who had grown up in Senegal in West Africa. I was attracted to him because he had spent his formative years on my continent, Africa, while I had spent mine in his, Europe. We had a lot of experiences to share and compare.

Blaise would tell me beautiful stories of his time in Dakar, the hot, dry climate, the exquisite cuisine, the walks along the beach. He even spoke the main language Wolof and expressed a genuine love for the country and its people.

His memories of Africa made me think of the few years and summer holidays I had spent in my own native country, Sierra Leone. I was envious that he had gotten to grow up in Africa. He had lived a life that I had only dreamt of.

I was enamored with the fact that he loved Africa and wanted to return. I envisaged us living in Dakar, enjoying long walks on the beach with our beautiful mixed-race children.

A year after we met, he told me that he was deeply in love with me and wanted to get engaged. Before popping the “big question”, however, he wanted me to meet his parents. I assumed that since they had lived in Africa for most of their lives, they would surely be open-minded and would welcome me into their family. I was awfully wrong.

We decided to spend a few days between Christmas and New Year’s with them at their house in Lyon, France. I was excited. Blaise had told me that they loved full-bodied exquisite Bordeaux wines and delicious rich cuisine from the South-Eastern region of France. I too loved these same things and was enthralled about meeting them.

We arrived at their house and as they came out to greet us, I noticed a disdainful look on his mother’s face. She did a double-take when she saw me, as though she was surprised that I was black.

As I exited the car, she awkwardly stuck out her hand in my direction eyeing me suspiciously. His father was no different. There were no smiles or jovial welcome greetings, the atmosphere was tense. Dinner was punctuated by awkward moments and long silences. I was relieved when it was time for us to retire for the night.

While we were getting ready for bed, I asked him:

“Why didn’t you tell your parents I was black. I think they wouldn’t have been so surprised to see me if you had”.

“Well, what difference does it make if you are black or any other color for that matter my love, I don’t really care what they think. You are my girlfriend, soon to be my wife, and they don’t have any other choice but to accept you”.

I sensed that there was no use getting into an argument at that moment. That, I thought, would have been playing into his parent’s game: both of us arguing because of their racist behavior.

Needless to say, as the days went by, I realized that there was no way I was going to win them over. His mother frequently spoke about the “good for nothing Africans”, they were forced to work with while they were in Senegal.

She openly referred to Africans as being inferior to white people. She justified colonialism saying that it was best for Africans to be governed by whites. She understood why South Africa had chosen apartheid as a system to structure its society.

As she spewed out racist theories, I realized that there was an entire chasm between her and her son. While he had grown up in Senegal and learned to appreciate and value its people and culture, she and her husband had despised every minute of their time there and had even seen it as a form of unsolicited exile from their beloved France.

I diplomatically countered a lot of her arguments about the inferiority of Africans. But while she said she welcomed dialogue and exchange on a range of topics, I could tell she regarded me as inferior to her.

Things came to a head when I asked if we could listen to African zouk music that I had brought along with me.

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly listen to that,” she complained. “That music is for savages and uneducated people, it's overtly sexual and crass. I would rather listen to Jacques Brel. You see that is music for educated people, people with finesse and class.”

I looked at her, unsure about whether I should laugh or cry. I couldn’t believe that she was saying this to me.

That evening, I told Blaise that I couldn’t put up with his parent’s behavior any longer and that we would need to shorten our trip. I said:

“Your parents are racists, they have spent the last few days putting down Africans and black people. I am so surprised, I never imagined that they would be like this given that they lived in Africa for so long.”

Blaise seemed a little hurt and said “I don’t think that they are racists. They are frustrated with the fact that they couldn’t accomplish much in Senegal. They felt that people weren’t professional”.

“Did they have any Senegalese or African friends while you lived there?”

He looked at me embarrassed: “Well, come to think of it, they did not. But what, what are you trying to imply?”

“Well if they didn’t have African friends, that’s a bit of a red flag don’t you think?”

We left Lyon the next day. As we drove back home, we hardly even spoke. I realized that he wasn’t the one that was racist and that his parent’s behavior shouldn’t affect our relationship.

Needless to say, however, I couldn’t imagine a life with racist, white supremacist in-laws. I thought to myself, how would they treat our children were we ever to have any?

We eventually did get engaged but called the whole thing off a couple of years later because I left to pursue my university education in Canada while he went to Singapore on a work assignment. Even though I did love him, I was somehow relieved that I would no longer have to deal with his racist parents ever again.

Thanks for reading my perspective.