“Unc” is, apparently, the latest gamer term or gen Z slang to enter our common parlance. Articles have argued it originated recently, from young people, who use it as an insult to old people. Except that’s not what unc means, and that’s not where it came from.
Unc, short for uncle (though it’s also been argued, incorrectly, that it’s a shortening of “uncool”), can sometimes be used for gentle ribbing, but fundamentally it’s a term of respect. It’s not a term you bestow upon yourself, but instead a natural consequence of getting older and still showing up tell the youngbloods what’s up. You wanna know who’s really unc? Denzel Washington. That’s not because Denzel is uncool or out of touch, but because he has had a long and illustrious enough career to earn the respect of the younger generation.
The old black man who used to run a record shop that closed during COVID where I picked up a copy of the album The Name Of This Band Is Talking Heads is unc to me. My dad, the kind of guy who went down to our local college campus to give advice to students in the encampment for Palestine, is unc. The nice older man who sits on a folding chair outside of his apartment and sometimes asks me to grab him a water bottle from the bodega is unc. I love that guy. Evan Narcisse is unc, and not just because he insists on wearing salmon-colored pants, but because he’s acted as a mentor to me ever since I started working at Kotaku, and I’d never pass up a chance to playfully razz him a little bit.
You’d never know the meaning of unc or its origins in black culture if you looked to mainstream media, and sometimes even independent media. The Guardian attributes this slang to “gen alpha” and cites examples such as people calling Timothee Chalamet “unc” for turning 30, which isn’t really that old. This was then cited as the definition in my colleague Keza MacDonald’s article about “unc games,” though the article has since been corrected to include a reference to the term’s origins in African American Vernacular English. This article also references an article written by my old boss at Vice’s Motherboard, Emmanuel Maiberg, who wrote about Marathon as a so-called “unc game.”
These false etymologies get reinforced through incurious reporting.
“As you probably know, unc, short for uncle, is a way to jokingly refer to old, potentially out of touch people,” Maiberg writes. “As far as I can tell, it entered the video game discourse in the form of this meme in which a soyfaced unc excitedly points at the hall of fame of so-called ‘unc slop,’ or, in other words, games that old people say are very good.”
Though I love the writing of both MacDonald and Maiberg, they are both doing something that I have observed in the online fandom for video games for some time. Black people who play video games talk about the games in the terms that they are familiar with, then other, non-black people who play games pick up these terms and run with them. Suddenly, these slang terms become “gamer slang” rather than African American Vernacular English, and these false etymologies get reinforced through incurious reporting.
It isn’t that MacDonald or Maiberg themselves are the appropriaters. In fact, it’s hard to blame them for not knowing the origins of a slang term that has been so thoroughly appropriated already. But this is a cycle I have watched for a long time, and reporters writing about slang terms black people have used for decades as fresh and new is the end result of that cycle. They get to be discoverers and explainers of something that has already been discovered and explained.
More broadly, I’ve also seen this happen to words and phrases like “chopped,” “clocked it,” “the tea,” “no cap,” and “it’s giving.” All of these are slang terms that originate from African American Vernacular English—“clocked it,” “the tea” and “it’s giving” come from black queer culture in specific—but have now been categorized as “gen Z slang.” I have heard some people start to refer to the habitual be, as in “it really do be like that,” as a “meme” and it makes me want to tear my fucking hair out. We been saying that! That one’s ours!
Non-black people want to take everything from us except the weight of our history.
Appropriation of black culture is nothing new to the internet or the world. When TikTok dances were all the rage, Taylor Lorenz tracked down the originator of the popular “renegade dance,” a black teenage girl who had been all but forgotten as original choreographer of the short routine. The teenage girl who originated the phrase “on fleek” was also almost immediately erased as the term gained popularity as slang. Even farther back than that, I remember my African American Studies professor in college showing us a book cover for a book of essays on this very topic that he felt was illustrative of the way that black culture is extracted from our communities and then commodified: On it was a photograph of a white teenage boy wearing baggy jeans with his boxers showing, which was a style that was popularized in 90s hip hop culture. The title of the book is Everything But The Burden, as in, non-black people want to take everything from us except the weight of our history.
The internet has hyper-accelerated this extractive process of appropriation. Black teenagers spend more time on social media of all kinds than their non-black peers, and thus have made black slang much more visible than ever before. It’s not a surprise that AAVE has become the language of the internet at large, but also, it’s become much harder to track the flow of language and place it in its proper context. Because of how quickly trends form and then dissolve on the internet—remember “mob wife” and “office siren”?—slang is also picked up, stripped from context, and then discarded at much faster rates than when I was younger.
It’s also much more difficult to trace the origins of these pieces of terminology, given that much of their dissemination occurs in short form video content on a platform that actively censors its search results. Like Taco Bell does with food, platforms like TikTok and Twitter are incentivized to strip context from language, because then it can be flattened into a saleable product that can be co-opted by corporations. (You can see this in the saga of West Elm Caleb, which turned from a funny story about a bunch of people dating the same guy to a tweet from the Hellman’s Mayonnaise brand.)
Seeing unc stripped of its meaning actually makes me a little sad.
In 2021, Sydnee Thompson at BuzzFeed wrote about the tendency of the internet to extract and then decontextualize black slang, saying that media outlets often cement that decontextualization that is already extant through their reporting.
“When media outlets — including BuzzFeed — and individuals who discuss memes and popular culture reproduce instances of Black American cultural appropriation, they lend them more credibility,” Thompson wrote. “The BuzzFeed Style Guide includes entries for many of these slang terms … and there exists a question of whether we should note their AAVE origins when they come up in a story. Doing so would help put concepts in their proper context and make it more difficult for culture vultures to appropriate with impunity.”
At least in the cases of “on fleek” and the renegade dance, the appropriated trends were short-lived, flash in the pan ideas. But “unc” is something embedded more deeply into black culture, and seeing it stripped of its meaning actually makes me a little sad. If there’s anything insulting about being called unc, it’s the kind of insult that’s meant to bring people closer together, not reinforce an artificial boundary between generations. It’s a word you use for people who are actively in community with you, not people you are trying to shut out.
I’d love to be unc someday—to be so respected by younger people that they know it won’t hurt my feelings to call me old. When I call someone unc, I don’t want anyone to think I’m insulting the generation older than me, or that becoming unc is in some way a bad thing. That’s not what it means or has meant to me, and I don’t want its meaning to be taken away.
