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My Mother the Racist by Didier Erebon, read by Mark Noble.
When I reconnected with my mother after years of near total absence, years in which we barely spoke,
I was struck with compassion for this old woman suffering from so much pain.
I even felt a tenderness towards her.
This was despite everything that had driven us apart and continued to divide us.
Her obsessive racism dismayed me, but in order to avoid always being in conflict,
I would only protest half-heartedly when she launched into one of her habitual diatribes herself the daughter of an immigrant,
a traveler from Andaluthia, against foreigners who came to our home instead of staying where they came from.
It doesn't even feel like home here anymore.
They take everything and there's nothing left for us.
Against Arabs or blacks or Chinese, all of whom she complained about endlessly.
The language she used was often considerably cruelly than this.
It was in part so I would no longer have to listen to this kind of talk that I had stopped seeing her and had fled both my family and this milieu.
Nothing had changed after all this time.
On this point, as on many others, she was the same as before.