How I Became the “Racist Uncle” at Family Get-Togethers (Even Though I’m Not Actually Racist)

A Social Commentary from 1982 to Today — with Jokes, Observations, and a Hint of Absurdity

I was born in 1982. If you ask my nieces, nephews, and certain easily-offended distant cousins, they’ll inform you that this already places me in the same dusty museum exhibit as the Commodore 64, leg warmers, and post-disco hangovers. But hey, 1982 was a solid year: we had Michael Jackson’s Thriller, early video-game consoles, neon everything, and a Cold War quietly thawing behind the scenes. Sure, we didn’t have smartphones or streaming services, but we had something better—Saturday morning cartoons that ended precisely at noon, at which point we had to go outside and… play. Can you imagine?

Back in the ‘80s and into the early ‘90s, my wide-eyed, Yorkshire-pudding-munching, fish-and-chips-devouring, thoroughly English self knew only one thing: We Brits are proud. We have a Queen (well, had a Queen; now we have a King, but let’s not get into that). We have wonderful literature, Shakespeare, Monty Python, tea time, and enough self-deprecating humour to unify the entire island. Waving the Union Jack in the 1980s or early ‘90s? Perfectly normal. Slapping a “Proud to be British” sticker on your rucksack? People nodded in approval. You might even get a hearty, “Cheers, mate,” from a random stranger if you were feeling especially patriotic.

Then the 2000s rolled around, and suddenly, mentioning that you were proud to be English could land you a sideways glare at certain trendy dinner parties. In the blink of an eye, patriotism got conflated with nationalism, and nationalism, in turn, got conflated with xenophobia, which eventually got you labelled as “The Racist Uncle.” And I get it: the world changed. Migration patterns shifted, the internet plugged us all into each other’s lives, and we started looking at large-scale social issues through a new lens. But I just sat there, continuing my daily routine of being me—a half-black, half-white, fully Anglo-bloke—munching on a Sunday roast and occasionally yelling at the telly when the national football team missed an easy goal.

Let’s be absolutely clear: real racism is abhorrent. Hating someone for their skin tone, their heritage, or their cultural background is vile. If you want to see that kind of ugliness in its rawest form, head to the darker corners of the internet or watch certain extremist rallies—there’s plenty of real hatred out there. But that’s not me, nor is it the majority of people you might label “racist uncle.” Usually, it’s just a poor sod who’s used to certain ways of speaking, certain cultural references, or certain jokes that were considered “okay” in 1993 but are now about as welcome as a Piers Morgan cameo on Strictly Come Dancing.

1982 – An England of My Youth

Growing up in the early ‘80s, I recall my parents having the sort of casual patriotism that came with wearing pin badges of the Union Jack on holiday abroad, politely correcting people who called them “English” by saying, “No, we’re British,” depending on the context. My dad, who is white, would refer to the British Empire as “the good old days,” but mostly in a half-joking, Monty Python-esque sense, acknowledging it was also the backdrop to a whole lot of historical baggage. My mother, who is black, brought her own cultural flair to the household, and ironically, she was the one to remind him that “colonial nostalgia” can be a bit cringeworthy.

But it was also a time where we had a clearer sense of national identity, or at least so it seemed. Schools taught that the UK was a land of progress, unity, multicultural acceptance, and unwavering politeness. Sure, there was always some friction—mine wasn’t the only mixed-race family around—but it didn’t feel like daily discourse was drenched in anxiety about what we could and couldn’t say. Jokes were jokes. Banter was banter. You’d rib your Irish mate, and he’d rib you back for your English tendencies, and all was fair game—mostly. In the pub, people barked at each other in good fun, and if lines were crossed, you’d buy the next round and patch it up. Then you’d walk out onto the street with your arms draped around each other, forging a bond stronger than any modern Twitter meltdown.

The ‘90s – Cool Britannia, Oasis, and The Slow Tweak in Social Mores

By the time I was a teenager in the mid-’90s, we found ourselves in that “Cool Britannia” era. Everyone was listening to Oasis or Blur, Tony Blair was emerging as a fresh-faced prime minister promising a new dawn, and the Union Jack was back on the map as a fashion statement. Geri Halliwell wore a Union Jack dress, the Spice Girls did their Girl Power thing, and for a hot minute, being British was beyond cool globally. It was like we had found a happy medium: pride without the cringe, national identity without the overshadowing negativity.

But even then, you could sense the shift. Comedy was starting to realign. Punch-up, not punch-down. People were beginning to politely point out that jokes at the expense of marginalized communities might not be the best look in an increasingly diverse society. And, in general, that was a good thing. Why keep using the same tired stereotypes if it’s genuinely harming folks’ sense of belonging?

Where folks like me started to get a bit lost was in the question: At what point does “you can’t say that anymore” become an overreach? When do we pivot from telling people not to be mean-spirited bigots to punishing them for simply acknowledging cultural differences or saying they like their country? Suddenly, telling a mild, observational joke about how the French always seem to wear striped shirts or how Americans can be loud was placed on the same shelf as actual hateful rhetoric. So, that’s step one to earning your wings as the “Racist Uncle”: crossing the line by 1990s standards, which at the time used to be comedic home base.

2000s – The World Wide Web Changes Everything

Then came the 2000s, and with it, the internet. Actually, the internet had been around before, but it wasn’t hammered into the soul of society until well after Y2K. Suddenly, every conversation had the potential to go global. Remember the old advice, “Don’t say anything online you wouldn’t want published on the front page of tomorrow’s newspaper”? That became very real, very fast. You’d say something about being proud to be English, and someone in another country, who’s had a different experience entirely, would jump in to label you as some sort of empire-reviving, moustache-twirling extremist. “How dare you celebrate a country with a colonial past?” they’d ask. “Don’t you realize what your ancestors did?” Possibly, yeah—my black mother’s side might have a thing or two to say about that. And ironically, I’m in no position to disclaim all the complexities of British history. But I was genuinely just trying to enjoy a scone and wave a flag during a sports match.

Another phenomenon emerged around this time: the massive flow of migrants—many of them absolutely legitimate refugees, some economic migrants, a few unscrupulous folks sneaking in. Where once we might see a handful of new families from abroad, entire neighborhoods turned kaleidoscopically diverse. I think diversity is generally fantastic: new cuisines, new cultural festivals, new perspectives, and a lovely synergy that can enrich everyone. But was I allowed to say that I also valued well-managed borders, a structured immigration system, or even the idea that the government should have some handle on who’s coming in and out? According to certain people on social media: No. Because now, controlling borders was declared “problematic,” even “racist.” That’s your second step to becoming the “Racist Uncle”: being labeled as a xenophobe for suggesting that passports serve a purpose besides filling up the “Sticker Page of Nations I’ve Visited.”

The 2010s – Social Media, Memes, and the Rise of Outrage

By the time the 2010s came about, I had fully settled into “Uncle” territory—my siblings were popping out kids, and I was the comedic relief at family gatherings. The trouble is, comedic relief began requiring legal disclaimers. One nephew would roll his eyes if I joked about the difficulty of pronouncing certain new first names in his school register. Another niece scolded me for daring to mention that I wish hospitals had more staff to handle the waiting times, rather than doling out so many resources to handle interpretive translation for folks who can’t speak English. “Uncle,” she said, “Don’t you realize that’s racist?”

Is it? Wanting better-equipped hospitals to serve the entire population, including all these new communities, doesn’t strike me as hateful. If anything, I’m annoyed that the system is so stretched thin that we can’t effectively provide care for anyone, let alone new arrivals who might not know how to navigate the NHS. Meanwhile, border issues became a hot topic. News of small boats making their way across the Channel dominated headlines. People started asking: “Why do we scramble jets to intercept the occasional errant private plane but can’t figure out a coherent policy for the thousands of migrants turning up on our shores?” The suggestion that we should ask a few questions, do some vetting, and welcome truly vulnerable families while perhaps being cautious about large waves of unvetted, able-bodied young men—this is apparently the clarion call of the dreaded “Racist Uncle.”

Also, if you dare mention that you feel unsafe in certain neighborhoods, or that you want to see more visible policing, you’re waved off as a bigot. But it’s not about suspicion of “otherness.” It’s about wanting the best for the community—my mixed-heritage community, might I add.

Catchphrases from a “Racist Uncle”

Here’s a sampling of lines that might get you put on the “Uncle’s a bit racist, innit?” list at the next family function:

1. “I’m proud to be English.”
   • Translation by the Outrage Brigade: “He’s obviously itching for the days of colonialism.”
2. “We should have secure borders.”
   • Translation: “He wants to build a massive moat around the island with sharks, lasers, and the ghost of Winston Churchill patrolling the perimeter.”
3. “I miss the old days when comedy was comedy.”
   • Translation: “He wants to bring back every cringe, offensive joke from 1972’s dodgy sitcoms.”
4. “Why are we slashing civil liberties left and right?”
   • Translation: “He’s probably got some conspiracy theories up his sleeve and is one step away from building a bunker in his garden.”

In reality, my stances aren’t that dramatic. Being proud of your nationality doesn’t mean endorsing every atrocity committed under that flag. Believing in secure borders doesn’t mean you want to fling desperate refugees back into the sea. Missing old-school comedy doesn’t mean you think dropping slurs is a laugh riot. And questioning government overreach doesn’t make you the next QAnon superfan. But nuance is the first victim in the modern outrage climate.

Current Day – A “Racist Uncle” in the Age of Hyper-Sensitivity

You should see the faces of my family members when I show up to gatherings now. If we have a holiday dinner, they’ll seat me next to the second-most-controversial uncle, presumably so our combined comedic cynicism neutralizes itself. I try to behave. I really do. But inevitably, the conversation steers toward something like, “Isn’t it wonderful that we’re bringing in so many new cultures!” And I’ll nod, wholeheartedly agreeing. Then I’ll gently mention that immigration needs oversight because somewhere in this mix, unscrupulous individuals exploit the system. And I’m forced to watch a parade of wide-eyed stares that read: “Oh my days, he’s doubling down on his racist talking points.”

But I can’t help it if I notice stuff. The housing crisis, for instance. Or the surge in certain crimes. Or the fact that the government loves to double-speak about “protecting free speech” while simultaneously passing laws that ban anyone from holding protests in front of Parliament (unless they have the correct permit, filed in triplicate, and a handshake from a policeman named Nigel). Maybe I’m wrong about some specifics, but the irony is worth pointing out, no? If we can’t talk about these things openly, society will end up as a repressed pressure cooker, and we all know how well that ends—either riots in the streets or the excruciating squeal of We Told You So from certain corners of the media.

The Strange Alchemy of Cancel Culture

One phenomenon that’s helped transform me into the “Racist Uncle” archetype is cancel culture. Make one joke that falls flat—maybe referencing something from the ‘90s that was borderline acceptable then but is a complete no-go now—and watch the meltdown. “Uncle, how dare you? Don’t you realize that phrasing is deeply offensive to the entire hedgehog community?” or something equally bizarre. Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but you get the point. We’ve turned moral outrage into an Olympic sport, and everyone’s competing.

I get it: the world has grown more inclusive, more aware, and that’s mostly a good thing. Nobody should feel excluded or marginalized. But can we not meet each other halfway? Extend some grace? Maybe Uncle just hasn’t gotten the brand-new dictionary of correct words for every scenario, every orientation, every identity. Instead of yelling “Racist!” how about kindly pointing out, “Hey, Uncle, that word’s a bit outdated—here’s a better way to phrase it.” You’d be amazed how many of us “uncles” are quick learners if you just give us a second to catch up. By automatically labeling us as bigots, you push us into that corner where we actually might start to resent you, or at least resent the conversation.

My Secret Identity (Or: The Big Punchline)

Now, here’s the funniest part: I’m not 100% white. My father is white, sure, but my mother is black. This “Racist Uncle,” who’s apparently drooling to see Priti Patel open a chain of detention centres, is in fact from a mixed-race family. When I bring that up— Chef’s kiss —the awkward silence is astounding. My progressive niece’s jaw hits the floor. My nephew tries to backpedal. The second-most-controversial uncle, who’s actually a retired policeman, just sips his beer and smirks, because he’s known all along: we live in a bizarre new era where contexts get flattened into “good guys vs. racist uncles,” ignoring all nuance.

What does “English” even mean in 2024? It’s a tapestry. It’s a blend. I can trace my ancestry back to Africa on my mother’s side and some part of Europe on my father’s side. Yet I was born and bred in England, with an accent so regionally British you could pour gravy on it. My childhood was spent playing footy on local fields, singing along to Britpop anthems, and joking about how Americans call “chips” the wrong thing. Culturally, I’m as English as a cup of tea served with a disappointed tut whenever the weather changes (which is every five minutes).

So how is it that I’m “racist” against people who share certain aspects of my heritage, or have their own unique heritage, when I literally am a product of multiple heritages? The short answer: I’m not. But I can see how easy it is to get slapped with a label when we no longer allow ourselves to have open, honest, and sometimes messy conversations.

The Larger Issue—National Identity and Its Supposed Demise

It’s no secret that national identity in Britain has been on the ropes lately. We’ve had Brexit, which sparked a frenzy of arguments about identity, sovereignty, and the dreaded “B-word” (borders). We’ve had intense debates over what it means to be “British” in an era of globalization. Some in power say, “We’re cracking down on illegal migration,” but do it in the most ham-fisted way possible, leaving legitimate asylum seekers in limbo and letting criminals slip through cracks in the system. Meanwhile, proud Brits—including proud black Brits, proud Asian Brits, proud Eastern European Brits, proud insert heritage here Brits—are told that patriotism is inherently suspect.

And if you dare mention you’d like to see more robust checks on small boats crossing the Channel, you’re quickly informed that the compassionate approach is to let everyone in, no questions asked. Then, as our public services groan under the pressure—A&E waiting times skyrocketing, GP appointments feeling like winning the lottery—any mention of “We need to fix this, and part of that means responsibly handling immigration” is twisted into, “He probably thinks foreigners are stealing his job.” Actually, I’m worried about everyone’s job, including the foreign-born doctor who might not get to practice medicine because the system’s all jammed up.

 Love Letters to the So-Called “Racist Uncles”

If you’ve read this far, you might be one of those souls who’s been labeled the “Racist Uncle” (or “Aunt,” or “Uncle-Adjacent Cousin”). And if so, here’s my message to you: You’re not alone. There are plenty of us, across all backgrounds and political leanings, who simply find ourselves out of step with the new hyper-sensitivity. We’re not craving a return to the truly bigoted past. We simply want to openly discuss real concerns—immigration, security, public service capacity, national identity—without being smeared as xenophobes or troglodytes. We want to wave our flags at a sports match or the Last Night of the Proms, not out of some hateful nationalism, but because we grew up loving this island’s quirkiness, contradictions, and occasional moments of brilliance.

Now, to keep it fun (because, let’s face it, if you can’t laugh, you’ll cry), here are a few comedic comebacks for your next family gathering:

1. When they say, “You’re a relic, Uncle!”
   • Retort: “I prefer the term ‘vintage collectible.’ Like a fine wine, I’m getting better—or at least more expensive—by the year.”
2. When they call you “racist” for wanting secure borders:
   • Retort: “Ah yes, because using passports is definitely the first step toward a dystopian overlord society. Wait, who’s paying for your flight to Ibiza again?”
3. When they say, “You shouldn’t be proud to be English—it’s offensive!”
   • Retort: “I’ll start doubting my Englishness the day I give up my cup of tea, and not a moment sooner, darling.”
4. When they question why you’re worried about civil liberties being eroded:
   • Retort: “Because I’d like to keep the freedom to say silly things at the dinner table without MI5 showing up and taking the turkey hostage.”
5. When your progressive nephew tries to explain Twitter cancellation:
   • Retort: “You know, back in my day, if we didn’t like something, we just changed the channel. We didn’t need to digitally burn it at the stake.”

Where We Go From Here

The world’s in a weird place right now. Politics are polarized, cultural shifts are rapid, and what’s acceptable can change by the week. One day it’s fine to crack a joke about a certain accent, the next day you’re being sent to the digital gulag for “verbal violence.” Meanwhile, real problems—like actual racism, actual xenophobia, actual violence—persist in forms that slip under the radar because we’re too busy policing each other’s comedic instincts.

Here’s my solution: let’s chat. Let’s talk it out without aiming the “R” word like a bazooka at each other’s heads the moment we sense a difference of opinion. Let’s figure out how to manage immigration humanely while maintaining the integrity of borders. Let’s keep the conversation on national identity open, acknowledging that being proud of your home doesn’t imply you’re blind to its faults. Let’s vow that real racism—where you dehumanize or discriminate against others because of their race—has no place in society. But let’s also allow ourselves a few jokes. Let’s bring back banter without cruelty, wit without condemnation. Let’s remember that a certain Bill Burr or George Carlin style jab can bring people together if we’re all on the same page that it’s ultimately comedic, not a manifesto of hate.

The Punchline You’ve Been Waiting For

So how did I become the so-called “Racist Uncle” at family get-togethers? Simple: I held onto some old-fashioned habits like noticing the absurdities in government, questioning contradictory policies, and—shock horror—stating that I love this country, warts and all. Mix that with a comedic style reminiscent of Carlin’s rants or Bill Burr’s grouchy observations, and poof, my younger relatives decided to brand me as the dinner-table bigot. Of course, if any of them took two minutes to recall my actual background, they’d realize just how silly that label is.

But here’s the real moral of the story: in an era that’s taught us to see everything in black-and-white terms (pun intended), it’s easy to misfire and assume everyone’s either a saintly champion of universal love or an irredeemable bigot. Reality, as usual, is far more nuanced and complicated. You can be concerned about uncontrolled immigration without hating migrants. You can love your homeland without thinking it’s superior to every other place on Earth. You can appreciate the progress we’ve made in inclusivity without wanting to discard the entire comedic history of the British Isles.

Epilogue: A Toast to the Future

As I raise my glass of lukewarm ale (the most British beverage possible) at the next family gathering, I’ll toast to every “Racist Uncle” out there who’s just trying to keep up. May we find a way to pass on our experiences, share our opinions, and crack the occasional borderline joke without instantly getting burned at the stake of political correctness. Because believe it or not, most of us are not the villains we’re painted to be. We’re just people who grew up in a different time, with different standards, who still love to see that Union Jack flying—if only to remind us of home. It doesn’t mean we endorse everything the government’s ever done. It just means we’re part of this big, messy, sometimes frustrating, always evolving place we call the UK.

So, to my fellow potential “Racist Uncles,” I say: keep being yourselves, but stay open to learning. Respect people’s identities, but don’t be afraid to poke fun at the ironies of modern life. Love your country, but don’t let that love blind you to its flaws. And remember that you can be as English as fish and chips—while also being half-black, half-white, or from any other heritage imaginable. Because, guess what? That’s Britain in a nutshell: a glorious patchwork of cultures and histories, bound together by our mutual love of sarcastic banter and complaining about the weather.

And if, by the end of the night, someone still insists you’re the racist uncle? Finish your pint, wrap yourself in the comedic cynicism that only a true Brit can muster, and simply say, “Cheers. Now pass the gravy, because if we can’t laugh together, we might as well eat.”

See Also: When Your Parents Expect You to Financially Support Them: How to Set Limits