Happy Thanksgiving. My Dad is a Racist.

It’s not something I say lightly; nor is it an anger-driven label hurled at the patriarchy. He used the word first in reference to himself, on Thanksgiving at home in Wisconsin.

We were arguing about politics — it was weeks after the 2012 election, when I was feeling smug after Obama’s second win. Dad was airing his grievances — mostly familiar things like taxes and big government — but then something New.

At the time, I attributed it all to Fox News and living 60+ years in rural isolation — but something darker had taken root in him.

He had always been politically conservative and a hunter, and typically toed the traditional Republican line. But suddenly, his love of his guns and his belief in an ‘administration-led conspiracy’ to have them taken away was cartoonishly heightened. In his humble home, in the middle of nowhere — where he owns virtually nothing of value (except for the guns) — and where the only folks who happen by look and speak like him — I asked him whom he believed was such a threat. I could tell he both knew the answer and didn’t want to say it.

This man who raised me and who provided half my DNA. This man who had never demonstrated intolerance — this man, over the next hour, attributed the heft of the world’s problems — and his need for armed protection — to “the Muslims,” “the Blacks,” “the Gays” and “the Jews.”

My heart broke. My head spun. I had never heard anything like this from him before. Granted, I only lived with my dad until I was about 10, but after my parents divorced, I spent weekends with him until I moved to college. Bottom line: I loved him and he loved me — and even if we were never confidants and friends like some fathers and daughters are — I thought I knew his heart.

I knew him as the man who drives all night to rescue lost or injured animals. He is a man who tried to keep bees when he heard they were “dyin’ out”; he’s funny and generous and likes to sleep on the floor with his dogs.

Which is why I hung in there debating and challenging him that night. Where did he get his information, and to whom was he referring?

I reminded him that my sister — his daughter — had not only married “a Jew” but was — in fact — “a Jew” herself now.

“It’s not the same…” he said, taking yet another long pull of his Manhattan. “Some Jews are white.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I think I attempted to offer some historical perspective, pointing out that while my sister’s husband had blonde hair… You can’t suggest… I mean… You can’t just look at someone and… I mean you’re not saying you’re… a…

And for the first time in hours, my dad spoke clearly. He sucked in air, sat forward in his chair, looked me in the eye and said:

“I am a racist.”

I was silent. He smiled. To him, I think, my stunned silence signaled victory. He’d gotten me at last.

And in a way, he had. I was trapped. I couldn’t leave because I too had had my share of Manhattans; and when I say he lives in isolation, I mean we were at least a 30-minute drive to any alternative lodging for the night, and that would be through winding, deer-infested, two-lane highways. On Thanksgiving.

So when I could speak, I said, “I”m going to bed.” Which I did. Sobbing.

Sobbing, in part, because my dad was never that great — but he was my Dad and once upon a time — sure, decades ago — he was Superman. When he fell short of that, he remained a flawed hero. Short of that, he could still be a good guy at heart… Okay how about “not one of the bad guys?”

And now this word. This R-word that is only worn with pride by villains, or so I was told as a child.

I left the next morning and we didn’t talk for months, but it was hardly noticed because we didn’t speak much anyway. I managed to avoid a blow-out, relationship-ending fight and we cruised on “Happy Birthday” and “Merry Christmas” for years.

When I got married a year ago, I discussed with my older sisters how uncomfortable I was with having him walk me down the aisle. He never really “took care of me,” which made the whole already-antiquated idea of him “giving me away” all the more irksome. They offered good council, saying that I absolutely had the right NOT to have Dad walk me down the aisle. My day. My decision. But… at the same time… because he had done so at BOTH of their weddings, he wouldn’t take it well, and it would be a shadow over the day.

So I compromised and decided that he and I would dance down the aisle. Joyously, side-by-side. Sort of a “Bye, Buddy” when we got to my husband, rather than a “Wuv you, Daddy” kinda thing. Perfect.

Yes, he wore a different NRA t-shirt every day of the wedding weekend, at which he was the guest and not a host. Yes, he still jokingly demanded money from my husband when we got to the altar: “I’m not just GIVING her away!” Yes… he made insensitive jokes at the expense of our diverse and beloved guests.

Way to go, I told myself afterwards. You didn’t lose him. Which is a very real possibility — I’ve seen his brothers quickly delegate some of their children into “dead-to-me” categories for personal or political offenses.

And what about the ageless wisdom found in poetry and films that warns us of the inevitable day — on their deathbed or ours — when we regret, deeply, severing connections with loved ones, especially our parents. Especially over politics. “It’s not worth it,” the wise advise.

And now. Trump. Wisconsin. Trump and Wisconsin and Thanksgiving and my openly-bigoted father who, after weeks of silence, called me the day after the election, drunk, to gloat and inform me that he saw an eagle take off and fly low over his house when the “news came in” and he knew… Trump was America’s destiny.

Good god. I had pitied him before — a lost little man in a world moving too fast for him. Now, he was part of a dark and dangerous movement that truly frightened me.

So…

I really don’t know what to do next.

Part of me would like to call him right now, for your sake and mine, and tell him to eat shit. At last.

Another part wants to celebrate the power of listening and inclusion; to say that I’m going home this year ready to change his mind or find common ground… Maybe everyone can get along after all!

But I’m writing this instead: To whomever is reading this,

Help me.

Help. Me.

When it seemed to me that this discourse with my father merely hurt my feelings, I kept it personal. My only consideration was the extent to which I, personally, was willing to engage, and at what cost to our relationship.

Now I believe that my loved ones of color and I are looking at each others’ faces and we both know the same thing: If our worst-case scenarios of this new government materialize — a government supported by my father and people like him — their flesh will make them more vulnerable than me. I’m a little safer, and for a little longer, than they are. What’s more, we both seem to know that not facing off with our white, racist fathers is partly what got us here.

As a result, it has made protest — and even discourse — tricky. I want to link arms with my Black friends, my Queer friends, my Muslim friends, and I want all of us to pretend we have the same line to toe. I want to tell them, and know myself, that it doesn’t matter that the bullets aren’t aimed at me because I am willing to leap in front of them for their sake! “Didn’t they see how many people I un-friended?!?” “Didn’t they see the articles I posted?!?”

Their skepticism is warranted.

I’m straight (and straight-seeming) and white, and therefore I can walk into a bar in Wisconsin this week and when I hear the N-word, I can can smile through the nausea and walk out, mostly unscathed. Free to tweet and share and inform the choir that everything is just as they expected. #cantwaittogobacktoCA #getmeouttahere

Does my love of country and feminism require that instead — at the first degrading remark — I kick over the jukebox and unleash a little Beatrix Kiddo on my former homeland? Maybe.

So.

Seriously, help me.

For those of you who are similarly struggling: Do you have a plan? Are you going to draw an ideological line in the sand, excommunicating those who cross it? Alternately, have you seen a line drawn by others, over which you intend to vault?

I know I’m not the only one wrestling with this — my situation undoubtedly reads peaceful and bland compared to many others’.

Awaiting council, and in the meantime:

May our Founding Fathers triumph over our floundering ones.

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