From a Kid Point of View...
My dad was so good at this. We've already established that he was a violent man, so the biggest rule in the house was to never, ever do anything to even remotely affect his mood. That always ended badly. But as teenage biology demands, eventually you rebel, and even the terrifying atmosphere of that house couldn't keep the dam intact when the waters finally rushed in.
Here's one particularly stupid example: All of us in the house were huge Chicago Bulls fans, and my uncle and I were watching a game when my dad chimed in with, "God, I fucking hate Michael Jordan." I asked why and he responded, "Because he's married to a white woman."
I forgot to mention that my dad was a racist. You should also know that he was six feet, five inches tall and weighed around 240 pounds. He got into bar fights once a month, and it was usually against more than one guy. I was two inches shorter and one hundred pounds lighter at the time, and the extent of my fighting was with playground bullies half his size. So it was probably unwise of me to correct him.
"No he's not." All of his attention immediately swung my way. He stuck to his "interracial marriage = bad basketball player" argument, but I didn't let it go. I pressed that her name was Juanita Vanoy, and if she was white, she had one hell of a tan. And then I asked why that would even make a difference. He lost his shit, going off about "unnatural relationships" and using a slew of racial slurs that would make Hitler blush. Finally, he cut me off mid sentence, glared into my eyes and threatened, "Say one more fucking word about it."