The man who served as a surrogate father for most of my teens was not prejudiced, as he rightly told folks in specific situations.

"It’s impossible for me to be a racist… I hate everyone equally!" he’d say with a cackling laugh, used to punctuate the humor and absurdity housed in the well-worn line. It was an electrified response this first-generation Japanese-American man had ready and waiting, spoken at times while diffusing racially-tinged conversations as they were visited upon him decades ago.

It might’ve been at the track, where he'd race everything from Datsun B210s to Formula Ford 2000s in the SCCA, or the firing range, where he taught me to shoot pistols and rifles, or at the pizza parlor.

If you want to be subjected to bigoted stereotypes, try being Japanese-American in the 1980s, loving motor racing, becoming an amateur race car driver, and having the old trope about Asians being poor drivers trotted out by a parade of emboldened assholes.

My second father was skilled at hitting faraway targets with firearms, which likely led to the de-escalation approach he took with racists who felt comfortable saying all manner of nonsense to someone they didn’t know they should fear. Suffering fools, without the kind of retaliation that comes with prison time, was a common theme. It could not have been an easy existence to live, or to explain to his children.

Those kids were born within a few years of each other, about two hours south of embattled NASCAR star Kyle Larson's home. They grew up in a better time, never having to know the racial indignities their parents and grandparents suffered.

A native of Elk Grove, California, Larson is living proof that ignorance can flow from states that lean left as well as right. It also emanates from those, like Larson, who have no good reason to play with the N-word or any of the hate speech used to demean his or any other person’s ancestors.

My friend Ryan McGee made a heartwarming E:60 segment on the Larson family a few years back for ESPN. Viewed again after Larson’s dance with the N-word, it offers new angles to consider. The short film works two central themes that are key to understanding the child prodigy, as race and talent are woven into a powerful narrative.

It opens with Kyle Miyata Larson, the biracial son of Mike Larson and Janet Miyata Larson, his third-generation Japanese-American mother, speaking to an assembly of Japanese-American children. Kyle shares his story and offers encouragement to the members of the Japanese Community Youth Council.

From the E:60 special, Larson speaks to Japanese-American youth. E:60

As detailed by McGee a few minutes later in the film, Larson’s grandparents were among approximately 120,000 Japanese-American residents taken from their homes and confined to internment camps during World War II. Forced into degradation behind barbed-wire fences, some families had their homes, cars, and other possessions stolen or sold in their absence. Larson’s grandparents are said to have chosen assimilation into the larger American community as their preferred way of depositing the pain of internment into the past.

The will to be viewed as Americans, first, would eventually be emulated by their grandson.

His arc, having come from wanting to hide his heritage, to openly embracing it in public forums, was presented as proof of Larson’s maturation.

Larson during his first season in the NASCAR K&N Pro Series East, 2012. John Harrelson Getty Images

"Why did you give me your last name? I hate it," Mrs. Larson told McGee, recounting the question her pre-teen son once asked her. "I used to say, 'Kyle, if I would have named you Kyle Michael Larson, you wouldn’t know you’re Japanese.'"

Larson’s journey towards accepting his identity as a biracial man was also tempered by bouts of defiance. As the E:60 piece showed in 2017, Larson, in time, learned to embrace his Japanese side. Viewed through a new N-word filter, it was premature to consider his travel toward self-acceptance as complete.

"I don’t ever want fans to think that I made it here because I’m half Japanese," he said to McGee. "I want fans to recognize I worked hard to get here and my talent got me here, rather than my ethnic background."

Enrolled in NASCAR’s Drive for Diversity program, which has alumni ranging from Willy T. Ribbs to Daniel Suárez, Larson wandered down the strange path of refuting the role Drive for Diversity held in his ascension to NASCAR, while also downplaying the value of his heritage.

From the E:60 special, a young Larson with his grandfather. E:60

Larson is fortunate to have the luxury of picking between the beneficial moments to use his ethnicity for advancement, and tucking it away when it becomes an inconvenience. In African-American culture, it’s referred to as "passing." For those with skin light enough to pass as white, the ability to blend in is a choice that’s unavailable for those with darker skin.

And as Larson reminds us, passing isn’t restricted to African-Americans; it’s a phenomenon that takes place among all people of color. Oddly, we’ve even seen it work in the opposite direction in the case of Rachel Dolezal, a Caucasian woman who somehow passed as African-American.

"I always told him, one day he’ll appreciate it," his mother said towards the end of the E:60 film. "Kyle [is] now seeing the light of being proud he’s half Japanese.”

Another thing Larson’s use of the N-word reaffirms is that, while it’s not uncommon for people of color to think of themselves as interconnected by shared historical struggles, there’s no such thing as automatic inclusion in that group. It means that, while Larson is indeed a man of color, and his elders suffered through horrendously prejudicial treatment, he wouldn’t necessarily see a black man as a brother or a Hispanic woman as a sister.

Larson at Daytona 500 Media Day, February 12, 2020. Icon Sportswire Getty Images

The argument that Larson—as a man of color, who suffered racism at times while coming up the racing ladder—simply couldn't be racist is demonstrably false. It’s entirely possible for a half-white, half-Japanese person to have no regard for those who aren’t considered as "his" people. The most hurtful words have been hurled at the track, or through headsets in a virtual race, from mouths representing all languages and colors. Larson is far from unique in this respect.

There is no outrage here. Only sadness. A confirmation that stupidity lives within one of the most talented race car drivers alive. Any person who believes in redemption wants to believe that Larson isn’t hiding the sickness of racism within a darkened heart. Some fans want to give him a second chance; a lesser number have already forgiven Larson, who took to social media Monday morning to post a dreadfully vapid apology video.

In his 42-second attempt at atonement, Larson acknowledged his mistake and took ownership of the consequences. For some, that’s enough. Based on the fears of what lies inside Larson after freely using the N-word, he might consider filming a second video.

Whether it was jousting with the N-word for fun, or providing a window into a caustic view of African-Americans, Larson appears to understand a grave mistake was made. But anyone can say they're sorry. That’s the easy part, and from his first outreach following the incident, he doesn’t seem to grasp the gravity of the offense.

What Larson didn't say was if or how he'll make use of his time to become a better person, or to educate himself on the history or struggles of others. What Larson didn’t say was that he wants to learn and improve from the ordeal. Repentance was nowhere to be found.

Following his apology video, Larson was rebuked by giant sponsors who will no longer support his NASCAR career. It’s possible that whatever he failed to grasp prior to the 42-second video has been rectified by his team, and his series, and sponsors who delivered a cold message. On Tuesday, Larson was fired by his team.

Larson during Daytona 500 qualifying, February 2020. CreditOne, Chevrolet and McDonald’s have all dropped their sponsorship of Larson after his iRacing incident. Brian Lawdermilk Getty Images

He's due a second chance. Of course he is. And saying sorry is the first step. But actionless words, spoken into a cellphone and shared via social media, won’t suffice. Racing teams and corporate America await his plans to take large steps forward in life.

What’s the big takeaway from Larson’s unrestrained use of the N-word? We don’t know who he is. By uttering a single indefensible word, he’s torn down any comfort or confidence held in how he views the world and those who don’t share his ancestry.

Is he a closeted racist, revealed in a spectacularly harmful fashion? Or is he a simpleton, who gave into baser urges that don’t reflect his true character? Picking one or the other would be silly until words of greater substance are offered by the man in question.

As the sting of its repercussions continues to upend his life, Larson’s use of the N-word should offer a lesson on how racism cuts both ways. He pulled the pin on a centuries-old grenade used to degrade African-Americans, and now sits smoldering, suffering the brunt of its self-destructive consequences.

I’m not sure what my second dad would think about Larson today. He'd be filled with disappointment, I imagine. Tinged with anger at the reckless behavior of someone who was viewed as a beacon of hope and change in the sport.

He can still be those things if he wants to work for it, but not as the same person, and not in the same ways. Will the follow-up E:60 on Kyle Larson be little more than a cautionary tale of how racial idiocy ruined a life? His next words and actions will tell.

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