We should celebrate the rise of mixed race Britain

One generation’s social problem has become the next generation’s proud family history.

“Mixed race? What’s all this mixed race nonsense? If you’re not white, you’re black.” That old point was jovially roared at me with some emphasis by one of this country’s leading public raconteurs on race and racism, shortly after we had been discussing a small storm in a tea cup, which the 24 hour news cycle had turned into a “race row”.

The conversation continued:

“But I’ve never thought I was black. Shouldn’t it be up to me to decide?”

“What are you then?”

“British. And English. My parents are from India and Ireland, so I am half-Asian and mixed race as well.”

“British? Why don’t you call yourself Indian? Are you ashamed of your father, boy?”

That seemed odd. I am not ashamed of my mother either, but I don’t see how it makes me Irish.

I do think of myself as “mixed race” – though perhaps more as a descriptive census term than as a particularly strong source of
identification.

So I was one of a million people who did tick the “mixed” box on the census, as about half of those with ethnically mixed parentage do. But the fact of “mixed” heritage doesn’t in itself seem as contentful as having some Indian and Irish family links. I am much more likely to mention the connection to somebody from Gujarat or County Cork, where my parents came from, than to look for the shared sense of “mixedness” with somebody with, say, French and Jamaican parents.

Maybe having a mixed background was always likely to predispose me to being sceptical about “community of communities” forms of multiculturalism, which always seemed to me to offer identity boxes too narrow for many people to fit into. Though there seem to be more census options every time, the boxes never quite seem to work. This time, I could tick “Asian/white” – but with no chance to acknowledge my Irish roots at all, which is an option for those who choose the “white” box first, and so write out the Indian part of the story.

More happily, I never did find community leaders claiming to speak out in my name for the Anglo-Irish-Indian community, but I never missed them. There has long been a growing revolt against that form of “gatekeeper” politics, often particularly strongly voiced by second and third generation Brits under thirty. Of course, a society that divides itself along tribal lines won’t appeal to those who wouldn’t have a tribe if it happened, but it isn’t something most people want anyway.

This latest census will see the rise of mixed Britain celebrated, as it was in George Alagiah’s often moving BBC documentary series – the story of how one generation’s social problem became the next generation’s proud family history. The fear of difference was trumped by lived experience, of life, and love, and loss – because the social “problem” of mixing, and the alleged clash of identities, was always agonised over more by those who were not mixed race. Surely everybody’s usual self is an unusual self, as Rita Tushingham’s character declared in A Taste of Honey.

If the fact of mixing is the good news about integration, the term “mixed race” feels pretty tired. It is not as ugly as “half caste” – still widely used as a descriptive term a generation ago – but it shares its roots in the fear of miscegenation.

A so-called mixed marriage was a controversial issue when my parents got married. Neither of their families turned up to bless the union. My grandfather had been trying to persuade my dad to return to India, offering to arrange a marriage for him. But he wanted to make his own choices. But nobody batted an eyelid when Stacy and I got married in Essex in 2001. She doesn’t see her own Irish-English parentage as being an ethnic “mix”. And the idea that I am in a “mixed race relationship” seems a pretty trivial truth. After all, if it would be true of any possible relationship that I could form with anybody white, black, Asian or indeed mixed too – even if I had married somebody else with Indian-Irish parentage, wouldn’t it still be the case? – then it is perhaps a meaningless statement.

Are our children “mixed race”? They certainly could be, if they want to be. I guess we had to tick census boxes for them too. Maybe I should have left the space blank. I feel that I should wait, and ask Zarina and Jay, Sonny and Indira, all under seven right now, what they think, when they are fifteen years old, before I pronounce on their identity or ethnicity for them. Their family history enables them to stake their claim to be mixed race – in pretty much the same way that Sebastian Coe could. They too have one Indian and one white English grandfather, though they can also call on two Irish grandmothers, one on each side of the family.

I want to respect the choices they decide to make. If I were to try to influence them at all, I hope it may just be by showing them that there are a million – probably two million now – different ways to be mixed race in Britain, sometimes claiming the label and sometimes not, and more than five million ways to be non-white, because there are sixty million ways to be British. There are, as it happens, tens of millions of ways to be white, to be English, and many more ways to be “white working-class” too than the media caricatures admit.

So being mixed race matters a lot to Ryan Giggs – “it’s your roots. It’s who you are, it’s what you are” – while it seems more of a simple matter of fact to Jessica Ennis. Others, like Daley Thompson, actively reject the labels which others ascribe to them, while Giggs must choose to declare if he wants it to be known.

My fourteen year old self used to have various sarcastic lines for those ignorant of the difference between India and Pakistan, though it’s twenty years now since anybody called me a “paki” in my earshot. But it didn’t feel to me, growing up in the 1980s, that racial identity could be as much a question of choice as a matter of fact.

So it is fascinating that, by 2020, that may well be how it seems to my children.

That is only a threat to those whose views of race depends on telling everybody else how to think about who they are.

So I will raise two cheers for the rise of mixed Britain. I guess I’m proud to be a mongrel Brit, but the motley tribe that I want to be part of is the one that everybody can share.

Sunder Katwala is the director of British Future.

British Future's new report "The melting pot generation: how Britain became more relaxed on race" was published today.

British Olympic heptathlon gold medalist Jessica Ennis. Photograph: Getty Images.

Sunder Katwala is director of British Future and former general secretary of the Fabian Society.

Keystone/Hulton Archive/Getty Images
Show Hide image

What Donald Trump could learn from Ronald Reagan

Reagan’s candidacy was built on more than his celebrity. Trump not only lacks experience as an elected official, he isn’t part of any organised political movement.

“No one remembers who came in second.” That wisdom, frequently dispensed by the US presidential candidate Donald Trump, came back to haunt him this week. Trump’s loss in the Iowa Republican caucuses to the Texas senator Ted Cruz, barely beating Senator Marco Rubio of Florida for second place, was the first crack in a campaign that has defied all expectations.

It has been a campaign built on Trump’s celebrity. Over the past eight months, his broad name recognition, larger-than-life personality and media savvy have produced a theatrical candidacy that has transfixed even those he repels. The question now is whether that celebrity will be enough – whether a man so obsessed with being “Number One” can bounce back from defeat.

Iowa isn’t everything, after all. It didn’t back the eventual Republican nominee in 2008 or 2012. Nor, for that matter, in 1980, when another “celebrity” candidate was in the mix. That was the year Iowa picked George H W Bush over Ronald Reagan – the former actor whom seasoned journalists dismissed as much for his right-wing views as for his “B-movie” repertoire. But Reagan regrouped, romped to victory in the New Hampshire primary and rode a wave of popular support all the way to the White House.

Trump might hope to replicate that success and has made a point of pushing the Reagan analogy more generally. Yet it is a comparison that exposes Trump’s weaknesses and his strengths.

Both men were once Democrats who came later in life to the Republican Party, projecting toughness, certainty and unabashed patriotism. Trump has even adopted Reagan’s 1980 campaign promise to “make America great again”. Like Reagan, he has shown he can appeal to evangelicals despite question marks over his religious conviction and divorces. In his ability to deflect criticism, too, Trump has shown himself as adept as Reagan – if by defiance rather than by charm – and redefined what it means to be “Teflon” in the age of Twitter.

That defiance, however, points to a huge difference in tone between Reagan’s candidacy and Trump’s. Reagan’s vision was a positive, optimistic one, even as he castigated “big government” and the perceived decline of US power. Reagan’s America was meant to be “a city upon a hill” offering a shining example of liberty to the world – in rhetoric at least. Trump’s vision is of an America closed off from the world. His rhetoric invokes fear as often as it does freedom.

On a personal level, Reagan avoided the vituperative attacks that have been the hallmark of Trump’s campaign, even as he took on the then“establishment” of the Republican Party – a moderate, urban, east coast elite. In his first run for the nomination, in 1976, Reagan even challenged an incumbent Republican president, Gerald Ford, and came close to defeating him. But he mounted the challenge on policy grounds, advocating the so-called “Eleventh Commandment”: “Thou shalt not speak ill of any fellow Republican.” Trump, as the TV debates between the Republican presidential candidates made clear, does not subscribe to the same precept.

More importantly, Reagan in 1976 and 1980 was the leader of a resurgent conservative movement, with deep wells of political experience. He had been president of the Screen Actors Guild in the late 1940s, waging a campaign to root out communist infiltrators. He had gone on to work for General Electric in the 1950s as a TV pitchman and after-dinner speaker, honing a business message that resonated beyond the “rubber chicken circuit”.

In 1964 he grabbed headlines with a televised speech on behalf of the Republican presidential candidate, Barry Goldwater – a bright spot in Goldwater’s otherwise ignominious campaign. Two years later he was elected governor of California – serving for eight years as chief executive of the nation’s most populous state. He built a conservative record on welfare reform, law and order, and business regulation that he pushed on to the federal agenda when he ran for president.

All this is to say that Reagan’s candidacy was built on more than his celebrity. By contrast, Trump not only lacks experience as an elected official, he isn’t part of any organised political movement – which enhanced his “outsider” status, perhaps, but not his ground game. So far, he has run on opportunism, tapping in to popular frustration, channelled through a media megaphone.

In Iowa, this wasn’t enough. To win the nomination he will have to do much more to build his organisation. He will be hoping that in the primaries to come, voters do remember who came in second. 

This article first appeared in the 05 February 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's war