Remember that time you called my father racist? I do.

I remember it all too well. I remember him coming home from the Board of Education meeting mortified and upset and shocked. I remember sitting on the couch utterly confused by what he was saying. My father, racist? You have the wrong guy. My father is one of the most inclusive and not racist men in this country, and probably this world.

My father was elected Chairman of the Board of Education in my town, where our public schools system was sorely failing all of its children. He volunteered all of his free time, with a full-time job in Rhode Island, a wife, a high school student and dog back home in Connecticut and bills to pay just to help the students of Norwalk. I can’t begin to remember the amount of books that he read about education reform and educational policies, the number of emails he sent daily, or the number of time he interviewed people for positions in our school system. He spent hours devoted to the Board of Education for no compensation at all.

You filed a lawsuit against him claiming that he was racist but never came forth with any claims or proof supporting what you alleged that he did. He did nothing wrong. I went to his meetings every once in a while to watch him in his element, because he’s a sight to see when he’s on a roll. He held each meeting under Robert’s Rules of Order and acknowledged each board member accordingly. My father loves following the rules – believe me, I’ve tried to break them and experienced the consequences accordingly.

My real question is, how could you sit there and lie to everyone around you about mistreatment? How can you live with that on your conscience? What makes it okay for you to call him a racist without any proof? Did you ever wonder how he felt when he came home to explain what happened? What about the aftermath that he dealt with for months after your remarks?

What about my family? I wonder if you ever stopped to think about us. I went to school for the next few months wondering if my friends looked at me differently. I constantly wondered if I needed to explain that my father wasn’t, and will never be, racist. I wondered if my African American, Asian, and Hispanic friends would be nervous about ever visiting my house again.

The funny part is, none of my friends cared. Curious, don’t you think? They knew my father's true character. They know how wonderful, caring, funny, and kind-hearted he is and will always be. They were just as upset about the remarks as I was, and they knew they weren’t true.

The next time that you want to cry racist with unsubstantiated claims, don’t. Think of all of the people that you’ll hurt with those cries. Because I can assure you there was an ocean of my tears.