I grew up on 50 Cent and Fresh Prince—But I’m not American
A Black British Reflection Five Years After George Floyd
It’s been five years since the death of George Floyd—a moment that reshaped global conversations about race and police brutality. I’ve never publicly shared my reflections on that time, but enough distance has passed for me to pause and consider what it meant—particularly for Black British identity. This piece isn’t an academic take. It’s a personal one. I’m writing as someone who grew up in London, shaped by both American culture and British realities. My hope is that you’ll come away with a different perspective. One rooted in lived experience not political ideology.
“Wild” is the only word I can use to describe the summer of 2020—a strange and defining moment in the modern era for countless reasons. But one matter gripped me personally: Black identity.
We can’t talk about 2020 without mentioning the murder of George Floyd in the United States—an event that triggered protests across the globe, from Japan to Brazil. It became a symbol not just of anti-racism, but of the fight against police brutality. In its wake came Nigeria’s End SARS protests—a pivotal moment for the country which cemented the ‘Japa’ phenomena.
But here, I want to focus on what happened in Britain in June 2020 during the Black Lives Matter protests. I still remember the day it all kicked off. The backdrop was the COVID pandemic. Life was tense. We were cooped up in our homes. The news was unrelenting. We sat through those daily briefings with Chris Whitty and Patrick Vallance, awaiting the next instruction. The death toll wore on us emotionally. I believe that climate of fear and fatigue played a significant role in the intensity of the protests that erupted on British streets.
I was watching live Sky News coverage at the time when I noticed slogans like “Defund the Police” and “Hands up, don’t shoot.” I remember thinking—how does this apply to the UK? It was on that day that I began to realise something had shifted. The dynamics of Black British identity were changing, and we were increasingly living through American scripts.
The influence of Black American culture on Black Brits is nothing new. My formative years spanned the ’90s and 2000s, and most of the entertainment I consumed was American. I grew up on The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, My Wife and Kids, Kenan & Kel, and a host of other Black sitcoms. That era was, in many ways, the golden age. Hip hop and R’n’B artists like Nelly, 50 Cent, Usher, and Destiny’s Child dominated the airwaves.
Earlier this year, I wrote a homage to Black gospel music and its influence on R’n’B over the decades. That sound, that soul, made me—and so many others—feel seen. It felt like we were participating in something bigger than our postcodes. We embraced the swag, the smoothness, the confidence that these characters and artists embodied. I mean, everyone loved Will Smith—so why not take up some of his mannerisms?
Fun fact: I once dressed up as Agent J from the iconic Men in Black series for a primary school fancy dress party.
But here’s the thing—none of this felt political. I wasn’t adopting a racial ideology. I was connecting to culture, to stories, to identity through a shared sense of resonance.
It may be hard for outsiders to fully grasp, but “Black” isn’t just a physical descriptor—it’s not merely an adjective for skin tone. It’s a diasporic identity, forged in the furnace of Western modernity. Black British identity was always hybrid by nature: Caribbean rhythms, African spirituality, and American rap layered within the context of British daily life. American entertainment has long held global hegemony, regardless of race or ethnicity. But I’d argue its influence on Black Brits was especially potent—precisely because there was so little Black British representation at the time. Cultural exchange across borders existed long before social media. But back then, it was bottom-up and fluid—not prescriptive. We weren’t being told what to be; we were interpreting what we saw and making it our own. Grime music, I think, captured this perfectly: a raw, local expression born from global influences but unmistakably British in voice, rhythm, and attitude.
The Black Lives Matter protests that followed George Floyd’s death revealed a new dynamic: American slogans and frameworks were being directly applied to the British socio-political context. Terms like “anti-Blackness” and “white-adjacent”—phrases I had barely encountered before—suddenly became everyday vernacular on social media. The distinctions between UK and US racial realities were increasingly flattened in public discourse. Ironically, the urgency around anti-racism seemed to suppress local nuance rather than highlight it. To be fair, British issues were brought to attention—statues toppled (the legacy of Edward Colston), conversations sparked (maternal mortality rates)—but the overall tone and feel of the movement remained distinctly American.
What we’ve seen since, particularly among younger generations, is a growing conflation of American and British racial histories. But the UK’s story is shaped more by empire, immigration, and class than by slavery and segregation as in the U.S.—and this has profoundly different implications for how race operates in society.
One major difference is that British society was not constructed on a formal racial caste system. The foundational logic behind the concept of “white privilege”—often tied to codified legal advantages—didn’t develop here in the same form. This isn’t to deny the reality of racism, but to argue that its systemic shape is distinct. By importing American frameworks wholesale, we risk overlooking the deep structures of institutional classism, which many would argue is a more enduring barrier to social mobility for Black Britons.
And in doing so, we also lose our stories. How many people today know the experiences of the Windrush generation—many of whom arrived as British subjects? What about the Notting Hill race riots of 1958? Or the uprisings in Brixton and Toxteth in 1981, or the New Cross Fire that same year? Even fewer recall the British race riots of 1919—events that unfolded long before Windrush. These are the foundations of our racial memory, and yet they’re being side-lined in favour of imported narratives.
I’m not saying we should reject Black American influence. Far from it. Martin Luther King Jr., Malcolm X, and Tupac Shakur are among my favourite thinkers. All of them were truth-tellers—prophetic voices shaped by Black pain and cosmic hope. They stand as symbols of a deep moral and spiritual tradition. But their voices were also intensely local. Tupac spoke from the streets of Baltimore and Oakland. King’s America was Birmingham and Atlanta. Malcolm’s was Harlem and, later, Mecca.
Their visions were forged in the specific crucible of American life. And while their legacies have inspired people across the globe, they were never meant to be lifted wholesale. Take South African activists, for example: they drew strength from King’s model of nonviolent resistance, Christian ethics, and Black dignity—but they adapted his message to the brutal realities of apartheid. They didn’t import his framework uncritically. That’s what’s often missing in today’s anti-racism: discernment. The ability to honour without copying. To be inspired without losing context.
Five years have passed since the death of George Floyd, and I find myself wondering about the legacy of the Black Lives Matter movement. A lot of noise was certainly made—but much of it has felt hollow beneath the surface.
Vibes and slogans captured the heart of social media. Diversity and inclusion initiatives took centre stage across both the public and private sectors. But has social mobility for Black people truly improved? Do we understand one another any better? Have the voices of invisible Black Britain been heard?
I think it’s time we scrutinise where we are as a society—honestly, without performance. I can’t speak for everyone, but in my view, we’ve taken a step back.
Yes, BLM gave rise to a greater visibility of Black British identity. But more than ever, I feel unheard.