When a Friend Says Something Racist: What I Tell My Kids and Myself
The water balloons were almost gone, and the kids were chasing each other around the garden in that wild, slightly hysterical way that happens when they’ve had too much sugar and sun. I was standing by the cooler with my friend Megan, the kind of woman who remembers birthdays and brings soup when you’re sick. We were talking about the new principal at the elementary school, a Black woman who’d started a few weeks before.
“She seems nice and all,” Megan said, swirling her drink, “but I feel like she’s very focused on race. Like, always bringing it up, making everything about race. I just don’t see color, you know? I just see people.”
I felt that familiar knot in my stomach. The one that’s made of exhaustion and irritation and also a weird sort of love, because Megan isn’t a bad person. She’s generous, funny, and a great mom. She’s also, in this moment, dead wrong—and my seven-year-old son, Lucas, was sitting on the porch steps a few metres away, applying a bandage to his sister’s knee. He heard her. I know he did.
I didn’t say anything at the time. I nodded, made a noise that could be interpreted as agreement, and changed the subject to the school’s new playground equipment. I went home angry—mostly at myself.
That’s the thing about these moments. They don’t happen in a classroom or a town hall. They happen in back gardens, at birthday parties, in the queue at the supermarket. And we’re so caught off guard, so worried about ruining the mood, that we let them slide. But the kids are always watching. And every time we stay silent, we teach them something.
I grew up in a mostly white town, and I didn’t hear the phrase “white privilege” until I was in my twenties. I remember the first time a friend tried to explain it to me. I felt defensive, just like Megan probably would. It took me a long time to understand that not seeing color isn’t a virtue—it’s a way of ignoring the experiences of people who don’t get the luxury of forgetting. Now that I’m a parent, I don’t want my kids to take that long. I want them to learn how to see the world clearly, even when it’s uncomfortable.
But I also know that shaming people like Megan doesn’t work. If I’d turned to her and said, “That’s racist and hurtful,” the conversation would have stopped. She’d have gotten defensive, maybe cried, and then we’d both feel awful, and the next time I’d see her it would be awkward. And the underlying ignorance? That would still be there, simmering under the surface.
So here’s what I’ve started doing instead.
First, I’m trying to get better at saying something in the moment—even when it’s clumsy. Not a lecture, just a simple honest sentence. The other day, a different friend said, “I’m not exaggerating, her name is unpronounceable. Why do they do that?” I took a breath and said, “Actually, it’s not hard once you sound it out. I’ve been practicing.”
It wasn’t very dramatic. But the kids at the table saw that you don’t have to let a comment slide. That you can disagree without starting a fight. It doesn’t need to be a perfect speech. It just needs to be something.
When I can’t find the words in the moment—and that happens, a lot—I’ve learned to circle back. Later, I’ll message the friend, or I’ll bring it up when we’re walking home. I’ll say something like, “I felt weird about the principal comment earlier. I actually respect how she’s trying to address racial gaps at school. It’s uncomfortable but necessary.” That’s easier than having it all figured out in real time. It still plants a seed.
And after that, the most important part: I talk to my kids about what happened. When we got home from Megan’s, I sat Lucas down and asked, “What did you think when Megan said she doesn’t see color?”
He shrugged. “She just means she’s nice to everyone.”
“Hmm,” I said. “She is nice. But when someone says they don’t see color, it can mean they don’t notice when a kid is being treated differently because of their skin color. And if you don’t notice, you can’t help make it better.”
Lucas thought about that. “So she’s wrong?”
“She’s not being mean,” I said. “But I think she’s missing something. Maybe you could say, ‘I’m not trying to be mean, but I don’t think I agree.’ That’s allowed.”
This doesn’t have to be a big, formal conversation. It can happen while making sandwiches, in the car, in the five minutes before lights-out. The point is to name the moment. If we don’t talk about it, children just absorb the message that race is something polite people don’t discuss—and that staying quiet is the right way to respond.
I’m also trying to be more thoughtful about the world I’m exposing my kids to beyond these conversations. We’ve made a conscious effort to have books, films, and toys from a range of cultures—not to tick a box, but so that difference feels normal, not exotic. I’ve started explaining things simply when we read a book about the history of school segregation, or when Lucas asks why his friend Neela celebrates Diwali. These aren’t grand lessons. They’re just context.
Megan and I are still friends. I haven’t brought up the principal again, and she hasn’t either. But I’ve started being a little more honest in that relationship, and I’ve noticed she’s more thoughtful when she talks about her kids’ school. A few weeks ago, she mentioned that a boy in her son’s class was being teased for his lunch and she stopped it because it was wrong. That wasn’t about race—not directly—but it was a step. A small one.
I know I’m not going to fix all my friends, or all the world’s ignorance, in one conversation. I’m still tired, and I still often say nothing when I should say something. But I’m learning that tiredness isn’t a reason to stay silent. It’s a reason to find a way that works for me and my family—slow, awkward, but real.
The water balloons are long gone now. But that afternoon taught me something: if I want my kids to stand up for what’s right, I have to show them I’ll do the same. Even when it’s with a friend I genuinely love. Even when it’s messy. Especially when it’s messy.
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