What My Racist Uncle Archie Bunker Taught Me
Uncle Archie Bunker attended only one of my high school games even though he did not live far away. A family member had leaned on him to stop and see me score my 1,000th point. When I saw him in the gym after the game, I was both surprised and scared. The family member knew it. “Go say hi to Uncle Archie,” the family member said. “He came to see you play.”
Uncle Archie was looking around the stands as I walked up to him while holding my bouquet of flowers.
He did not say great game or congrats to me, or to my All-American teammates.
He said, “I’ve never been in Troy High and seen so few spooks.”
I do not remember the special basket I scored that night to give me 1,000 points. I do remember one blurry image of my blushing, skinny little sister walking out to half-court with flowers. Yet what I remember the most was standing under the far hoop in our home gym when Uncle Archie Bunker talked as if he would treat his pets better than my friends.
I wished Uncle Archie had never attended that game. I wanted my mother and father to disown him when he acted the way he did, or to at least to protect their kids from him, to shut him down, to spurn him, to say knock it off, and not just ignore him or assume we would know better than to be like him because we went to church on Sundays.
If my friends ever knew the things he said at family events, if they ever knew the truth, I would have been devastated. Our family secret would be out to the black community, and there would be no recovering from it.
The first African Americans I remember meeting were the twins of my mother’s co-worker. Rita Bell was and still is a warm, hilarious, loving and wonderful person and nurse. I remember seeing her cute twins at their birthday party. I think the twins were four or five years old, and maybe I was close to the same age. I didn’t get any lecture on black kids or it being a black party. I was fortunate enough to grow up in a home where I did not hear the N word. My mom worked every floor and shift at the hospital, and I think the only people she never trusted, from what I recall, were chronic alcoholics (hard drugs were something we were not part of our circles of family or friends early on — it was mostly alcohol.) My dad used to play in the Over-30 Basketball League. He packed four of us up and put us in the bleachers where we did homework as we watched grown men go to battle. I remember seeing a few black men playing, and they were quite good and fun to watch. I never remember my dad saying anything negative, and I am grateful.
To a point.
On the spectrum of racism, if there is such a thing, I wonder where one falls if they hear it and do nothing? And what would I think or how would I view or alter my perspective or qualify our family history on this issue if my very own father was an Archie Bunker?
My first recollection of obscene racism happened during my first trip to Yankee Stadium when I was about nine or 10 years old. My friend down the street, Chris, collected baseball cards and tossed the ball around regularly. Her favorite player was Reggie Jackson. I had to pick my favorite, so I picked Dave Winfield. I remember driving through the Bronx and seeing stripped cars, dozens of people in tight areas, and a naked boy peeing off a balcony. It wasn’t the blackness that got to me. It was the poverty. The thought of living in those formidable high rises stacked on top of each other seemed like impossible places to pursue dreams and get ahead in life.
During that drive through the Bronx, it was not the people in the housing units that were the problem. What killed my spirit occurred an hour later when I was standing in the outfield watching Dave Winfield warm up during batting practice at Yankee Stadium. A bunch of white fans were up on their feet and screaming into the field directly at Winfield.
“Winfield, you no-good n — — -r,” one man said repeatedly. “You piece of f — -ing shit.”
My dad tugged on me and moved us away from him.
And then there was Dave Winfield’s reaction.
He smiled and waved in the direction of the man who was verbally assaulting him.
Up until that point, I am guessing that when my Uncle Archie Bunker dropped nasty black jokes and said the word “spook” and “n — — -r“ at family parties, half the time I believe I was far away from the table playing with toys or my cousins. Yet after this trip, I not only heard what he was saying, but also wanted so badly for someone to tell him to stop. Or at the very least someone tell me what blacks did to him that was so bad? Why did he and the angry fan in the stands treat them like animals or freaks or threats to society and his family?
I am guessing that passive family members either agreed with Uncle Archie or they simply wrote it off as if it was his regular stand-up act. Or they felt it was just Uncle Archie being Uncle Archie, and nothing they said or did would change him.
When I went to high school and every day chose to be surrounded by people who loved me for who I was, I grew sicker and more upset with every one of his comments. He read the paper. He saw our team photos. He knew half of my team was black. He knew it hurt me and he did it anyway. I stared at him and wondered if someone had beaten him up, but then I thought there was no way that could have happened because 1) he would have told us about it endlessly and 2) it was clear that he’d never had any real interaction with an African American outside of work.
Uncle Archie Bunker held a few jobs, but he had one main job for a good portion of his life.
Uncle Archie was a police officer.
I was sickened by his antics and attitude when it came to race. The same held true with the actual character Archie Bunker played by Carroll O’Connor, who much to my angst, could have passed for one of my great uncles.
I didn’t get whose brilliant idea it was to create this simple-minded white family led by an outspoken, chauvinist, racist and bigoted white guy who distrusts every person who is not exactly like him. I never saw him as a “lovable bigot” who was trying to adjust to the changing times. It was deemed “one of the best shows on television.” Why? It was because white people voted for a racist show called “All in the Family.”
Who wanted their family to be anything like the chronically miserable Bunkers? The only way people stomached the show and all the pitchy, annoying and pathetic voices of the characters was if they believed in it. There was no silver lining, no evolution of character. There was nothing funny or clever or talent-ridden about it. I noticed Mike’s efforts to try to soften or change Archie, but I never saw proof that it was working.
I turned the channel to watch re-runs of Sanford and Son. That was my show, a story of a father and son hustling as junk dealers in the Watts section of Los Angeles. I didn’t know that world, which is probably why I was captivated by how they coped. Lamont, the son, longed for his freedom but was afraid to leave his cantankerous dad. They struggled. They were mad. They had the right to be. Yet they somehow found a way to laugh, play instruments, joke, dance and sing through the pain.
The same was true with The Jeffersons. Even when George was a grouch, he and the strong-willed “Weezie” were always lively and funny, and most surprising of all, they seemed happy, proud, strong and honest. Even Florence, the maid, set George straight on a regular basis. They were all “Moving On Up” to the top in the big leagues. There “ain’t nothing wrong with that” because we were “finally getting a piece of the pie.”
Good Times. I know there are mixed reviews on how little J.J. evolved as a character, but when he walked into a room and said, “Dy-no-mite,” I would smile for the rest of the night. J.J. was like all the kids I played with down at the Troy Boys Club.
Funny, animated, authentic and harmless.
Nobody hurt me when I went to or from school or to the club or down to Washington Park in Albany to play hoops. Nobody hurt me when I went in and out of Cabrini-Green and the Robert Taylor Homes or to Farragut High School to watch a tall, skinny kid named Kevin Garnett light up my world. I’m not saying I was not ever met with a skeptical eye and push-back (those rare stories will be told as well), while I walked in and out of communities.
Keep in mind a young white woman was armed with nothing more than my writing notebook or a basketball several times over, and she is still living to write about it.
I think it was my sophomore or junior year in high school when I was standing over the toaster in the kitchen waiting for my bread to pop up. My brother stopped and said to me, “Joey B asked me, ‘Why is your sister hanging out with all those spooks?’”
It knocked the wind out of me. Maybe in Uncle Archie Bunker’s house that could be said. But not in our house. Not from my brother. I stared back at him blankly. When my toast popped up, I remember looking at it and then tossing it into the trash.
My brother walked past me and went about his day. Never again did my brother or any family member take issue with my friends or teammates who were invited over for big post-game parties that would last all night. When my teammate Nickie had a party in her basement apartment on Ninth Street, my parents were concerned because it was a big drug corner in Troy. I told them that I was going. They were not thrilled about it, but they let me go.
Nothing happened that night or any of the other nights I stayed at Nickie’s place.
I will say that I think part of the problem is that we grew up in the all-white Wynantskill, NY. Our block was filled with mostly Irish and Italian or mixed white European kids. One mysterious, quiet Asian kid named Ceasar Wong lived two blocks away, and he was probably one of the biggest outcasts to the point that he never came around or maybe his parents were just afraid of what would happen.
The odd part was that after middle school, I did not fit in with the collective cluster of my white classmates who were all in one section of the high school, although I loved and still love a few of them. I played AAU ball that summer and that’s where I met my core year-round teammates and classmates at Troy along with a few other players who emerged in the off-season. We initially were on the third floor in the “black” section of lockers around the corner from the “deadhead” section or so I think that’s what we called it. It’s where all the white kids who loved heavy metal set up their shop (it’s where my brother and Joey B had their lockers).
I also regularly sat with my teammates in the “black” section of the cafeteria. While my white friends seemed consumed with who was dating whom or what party was going on that weekend as if it was our living version of Beverly Hills 90210, my black teammates were making fun of all the crazy white people. They loved having a first-row seat to the drama and cheating, or they were making fun of me or themselves or random things that were only funny to us. Being in the cool locker section of the school was not a concern to us, even though we all ended up there by our senior year in one big mixed group of kids who loved each other.
So when my Uncle Archie Bunker acted the way he did, with each passing year I’d get more upset. And I grew stronger. I was not afraid to show my reactions or to speak up even though I always wanted to say and do more. It was not just one uncle. It was more than one. Some would say they loved and respected my black teammates, but then they would undercut their alleged color-blindness by saying that certain African-Americans weren’t like other black people.
Another uncle, upon hearing that one of our white childhood friends was dating a black man, said, “Why would she stoop to that level?”
I am pleased to say that my sister snapped on that uncle on the spot. Maybe it’s because she went beyond a high school education. Maybe it’s because she played college basketball and experienced the benefits of diversity. Or maybe it’s because she wasn’t scared of seeing people around her advance in society.
To this day, I never know when Uncle Archie will test me or my limits. I never know if or when or where he will grab his microphone and put on his show. It was only a few Easters ago, as the kitchen and dining room was filled with relatives, friends and children in the family, here is what he said, as a guest of the home, in a loud, and downright angry voice completely lacking in comedic tone:
“Obama is the dumbest f — -ing n — — -r I’ve ever seen in my life.”
If it were my home, he would have been asked to leave immediately. If it were his home, I would have walked out.
A few family members smiled. One admonished him softly, barely, with an “Oh, Archie. Stop.” I won’t say which ones, but I won’t forget them either.
Others didn’t know what to do or how to react.
Most of them turned to me to watch the duel unfold.
“Don’t talk like that in front of the kids,” I shot back at him.
Family members all held their breaths. I’m sure my aunt was going to remind us all that it was a holiday, which was no time to argue. It was her standard approach when it came to any and all disagreements during holiday time. But apparently to some, it was okay to say frightening, racist, and hateful comments about the president of the United States in obscene terms in front of children.
“Obama when to Columbia University,” I said. “Then he went to Harvard.”
“They just let him in,” Uncle Archie said.
In other words, they [educated people like me] felt sorry for him and let him in.
“Obama was editor of the Harvard Law Review,” I said. “They don’t give you that job.”
Uncle Archie scoffed at me.
“I may have not have been a Bush fan,” I said, “but I would never say such horrible things about our president.”
It didn’t mean a damn thing. Why? Because Uncle Archie meant what he said — every word of it, and in his mind, his words and thoughts trumped everyone else all the time. I knew like everyone else that anyone who had higher than a high school diploma was to a varying degree a threat to Uncle Archie. He always had something to say about them — doctors, lawyers, black people, strong women like me. He had us all figured out. To him, we weren’t as good or as smart or as educated as we thought we were.
Making matters more complicated and harrowing was that Uncle Archie, who always worked a few jobs, spent 20 years carrying a shield and a gun.
For those who think it’s just the alt-right and “57 people left in the KKK” that are the problem, I’d like to state here:
1) Black folks are not making this up. Exhibit A: My very own Uncle Archie Bunker (and other uncles).
2) Good police officers like my brothers and old neighbors and their co-workers like the police who were initially far, far away from the conflict in Charlottesville — all of them are now at significantly higher risk of danger due to Exhibit B: My very own Uncle Archie Bunker (and other uncles).
You can imagine those conversations with my brothers in the past few years when they insist it’s the liberal media and I say, “Well, what about the Uncle Archies?”
I admit to them that I do not know how arduous and taxing it is to go into work every day and be faced with handling the worst in people of all races, many of whom are mentally ill and dangerous to society. I do everything I can to not jump to conclusions about every single life-or-death situation with weapons attached. I’ve witnessed their pain knowing they have had colleagues shot and hit by cars while on the side of the road for no good reason, and the lost of lives and damage to family members left behind.
But I do know that the first amendment is #1 for a good reason. And it will be exercised by me as a citizen of our country, particularly when I have eyes that are able to watch a videotape of incidents against fellow American citizens.
I always admit that coaches and teachers are not perfect or without scruples. There are too many that cheat or lie on tests or don’t do the work. Some have even turned out to be pedophiles and abusers. The dangerous ones should not be uniformly defended in the same way police should not defend all officers in their “brotherhood.”
Not all cops are bad either, but the reality is there are Uncle Archie Bunkers walking around town with permits for deadly weapons, and the fact that they often wield more power than the average citizen. It doesn’t take much research to admit that the indisputable fact that the quota and prison systems are clearly stacked against African-Americans, whom we enslaved for what was it? Close to 200 years?
And the same goes with black people. Not all are uniformly bad as Uncle Archie wants you to believe, and not all are innocent, positive, and without their issues regarding bigotry and prejudice.
My next story will be written about my time this past July when I went to march in a protest and ended up walking in the protest with Black Lives Matter. If my family members read this article or the one about the protest I attended, and have a problem with my writing the truth or being there, I will have a few simple questions for them. These are the questions I will even ask my father, who I’m sure will admit he is a flawed man, and hopefully give me his best answer.
Why?
Why did you do nothing?
Why did you smile?
Why did you laugh?
When he said those things in front of your children, in front of my nieces and nephews, in front of your grandchildren, why did you not tell him to stop?
If Uncle Archie thinks there is nothing wrong with spewing his paranoia and insecurity and hatred of blacks in front of his kids and his grandkids, that is his family and there’s little I can do. But I will no longer sit there and let him put those thoughts into the generation of my nieces and nephews who stand a much greater chance of not repeating our costly mistakes.
Since Dale Carnegie didn’t get around to writing “How to Win Bigots and Influence Racist Family Members,” I guess I am going to take my own stab at how to handle my approach. I will tell my uncle that he’s one of the most loyal husbands I have ever seen. He’s always been there for his kids. He’s extremely talented, self-taught, and iron-clad tough. He’s still a work-horse and fair to people who work under him.
And then I’d tell him you have no idea how many years I’ve thought about that game at Troy High. While you were counting my African-American friends, I was living life with them. I was loving them and they were loving me in spite of the color of my skin, which even I knew is why I was in the newspaper more than they were, and always given far too much credit.
That is what I will say to Uncle Archie Bunker if things come to a head again.
I’m sure I have many African-American friends, supporters and even strangers reading this now and saying, “Don’t sweat it, Mo. We knew.”
It’s about 25 years too late, but I still owe you an apology.
I thought I was doing my part just by being with you unconditionally and without judgment, by not being afraid of you or your neighborhoods, by writing stories about good people, doing good deeds and supporting positive contributors to society.
I thought that was enough.
I’m sorry.
Now I know I was only fooling myself.
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Post-Script: Thank you to all who read, commented and/or shared. I just wanted to add a post-script after listening to behavioral and neurological experts regarding behavior on a TED Talks podcast episode last night while walking around NYC. The theme was one’s capacity to change. Is it fixed biological or learned behavior? My take-away is that we’re all born with hardware and then with software, and we can’t operate without both. One author said our characteristics are for the most part fixed, while the other two said there was some flexibility, but only if the person was in pursuit of projects that were of importance. We get to pick and choose what software we want running on our computers, and all of us have different preferences.
Maybe because of my sports experiences and need to feel like a part of a team and group, I was far more open and willing to adapt to the cultures around me. Maybe Uncle Archie Bunkers realize they really don’t necessarily have to and they’ll still do just fine.
Some people truly shy away from things they are not good at and people who intimidate them. I have adapted the opposite approach where I am most comfortable when I am getting uncomfortable by learning a new skill set, by going to a new place, by listening to someone who has a story to tell.
Lastly, one author said that the mother plays a big role in setting a child’s fixed or flexible characteristics. It’s safe to assume that maybe my grandmothers — both very tough women whose stories will be told or at least stories about how I saw them — were fixed in their ways of how society worked (even as it pertained to them as women — and maybe they were even unhappy about the restrictions placed on them.) The more nurturing and flexible the mother, the more nurturing and flexible the child. My mother was a nurse, and an active one when she raised all of us. It is fair to say that she taught us compassion just by doing all her time with the sick and elderly, and in the school nurse’s office where she was a sub. She was also a regular volunteer on the ambulance squad, and she taught special education all while working quite a bit on every floor at the hospital.
One expert called it “DNA as a dynamic movie.” It seems that it is true in that we are shaped by our experiences and more importantly by our desire to be shaped by outside experiences, and the broader the experiences, the more likely we are to change our genes. I’m not letting Uncle Archie off the hook, but it does help explain why some people refuse to budge or be moved, including political figures that we are struggling to cope with at the moment. Maybe after a set age or certain point in one’s development, there is no changing their view of the world.
I certainly won’t sit back stand for them to put down others. Instead I will put my faith in how we can work together to open up the flexibility and the minds of current and future generations. I hope you can keep this in mind as we all talk about the issue of race with each passing generation, and do what you can to admit, forgive, correct and move forward in a positive direction.
Maureen Holohan is a former college and pro basketball player turned author, journalist and director. She can be reached at mo@momotion.org.








