Are We Becoming the Parents We Once Rebelled Against?: Respectability Politics, Rebranded

Recently I saw a TikTok that stopped me mid-scroll. The creator was talking about their future children and the university degrees they simply would not allow them to choose. There would be no debate. Some courses were completely off the table: Creative arts, media, fashion. The comments were full of people agreeing. Some listed the degrees they would ban outright, while others said their parents had done the same to them and that they would do exactly the same with their own children.

On the surface, the logic is understandable. Certain degrees do lead to higher earnings over time. Data from the UK’s graduate outcomes surveys consistently shows that subjects like medicine, dentistry, engineering and economics tend to produce higher early career salaries than many creative fields. If you are a parent thinking about your child’s future in an unstable economy, it makes sense to steer them towards something that looks financially secure. But what struck me about the video was not the logic. It was the familiarity of it. The tone of certainty about which paths were respectable and which ones were not sounded exactly like the conversations many of us grew up with.

For a lot of Black diaspora families in the UK, education was never just about intellectual curiosity or personal fulfilment. It was a survival strategy. Many of our parents or grandparents immigrated to Britain with limited resources, often entering a labour market that did not welcome them. In that context, certain professions became symbols of security and dignity. Medicine, law, engineering and finance were not just careers. They were protection against a system that could easily marginalise you. When your parents had experienced instability firsthand, pushing their children toward stable professions made perfect sense.

But migration was also about possibility. Many families moved to Britain precisely because they believed their children would have opportunities they themselves were denied. Education in particular represented freedom. The freedom to choose what to study, the freedom to pursue knowledge without the same restrictions that existed back home, and the freedom to imagine futures that looked different from their parents’ lives. That promise of expanded possibility is one of the defining narratives of diaspora communities.

Which is why it feels strange, and slightly uncomfortable, to watch our own generation start to recreate the same restrictions. When young people say they will not allow their future children to study certain subjects, the language often echoes the exact pressures many of us say we struggled with growing up. The difference is that now it is framed as practicality rather than control. We tell ourselves we are just being realistic about the economy.

Yet this shift is happening alongside something else that feels culturally familiar. Across parts of the UK Black diaspora, there has been a growing emphasis on respectability and restraint in how young people present themselves. You can see it in conversations about nightlife, fashion and aesthetics. Club culture is increasingly criticised as unserious or immature. Alternative styles are sometimes dismissed as distractions. Even online, there is a subtle policing of what counts as appropriate self expression.

The rise of “quiet luxury” aesthetics has quietly fed into this atmosphere as well. The emphasis on neutral palettes, understated clothing and controlled presentation has become associated with maturity, discipline and seriousness. There is nothing inherently wrong with that aesthetic, but the way it is sometimes framed can feel like a return to older respectability politics. Being tasteful becomes a way of signalling that you understand how to navigate elite spaces, that you are not disruptive, that you are respectable.

What is interesting is that these conversations often come from Gen Z itself. This is a generation usually associated with experimentation, online creativity and cultural fluidity. Yet in some spaces there is a noticeable pull toward caution. Ambition is increasingly framed in terms of stability rather than exploration, and self expression is sometimes filtered through what feels safe or respectable.

Sociology offers a useful framework for understanding why this happens. The French sociologist Pierre Bourdieu described a process called social reproduction, which refers to the way social values and expectations get passed down through generations almost unconsciously. Families transmit not only economic resources but also cultural norms about what counts as success, what careers are respectable and what behaviours are appropriate. Even when a generation believes it is moving forward, those deeply embedded expectations often continue shaping decisions.

In diaspora communities this effect can be even stronger because migration itself was often motivated by survival. When your family history includes economic hardship, discrimination or instability, risk can feel irresponsible rather than exciting. The idea of pursuing something uncertain may trigger anxiety that goes far beyond the individual decision. It can feel like you are jeopardising the sacrifices that made your opportunities possible in the first place.

But the economic reality facing young people today complicates this logic. The assumption that choosing a “safe” degree will automatically lead to stability is becoming less reliable. Graduate salaries in the UK remain relatively modest, and many traditionally prestigious professions are experiencing their own forms of instability. Junior doctors have spent years striking over pay and working conditions, while law graduates often face intense competition for limited training contracts. The path that once guaranteed security is no longer as straightforward as it used to be.

In that context, the idea that creative or unconventional careers are uniquely risky begins to look less convincing. The modern economy is unpredictable across almost every sector. Technology, media and cultural industries have produced entirely new career paths that did not exist a generation ago. Many of the jobs Gen Z holds today would have sounded incomprehensible to their parents twenty years ago.

This is where the tension becomes most visible. On one hand, our generation understands how difficult the economy is. On the other hand, we are increasingly adopting the same restrictive mindset that earlier generations used to manage risk. Degrees get ranked by their perceived respectability. Aesthetics are judged based on how professional they look. Cultural spaces like clubs, music scenes and alternative fashion are treated as distractions rather than sources of creativity.

The irony is that many of the cultural movements that shaped modern Britain emerged from those very spaces. Club scenes, music collectives and experimental fashion communities have historically been sites of innovation, particularly for Black British artists and creatives. Entire industries have grown out of cultural spaces that were once dismissed as unserious. What looks like risk in one moment can become cultural influence in another.

None of this means that financial reality should be ignored. Practical advice about education and careers is important, especially when young people are navigating expensive universities and uncertain job markets. But there is a difference between guidance and limitation. When advice turns into rigid rules about what is acceptable to study or how someone should express themselves, the space for genuine exploration begins to shrink.

And that brings us back to the TikTok that started this thought. What unsettled me about it was not the concern for financial stability. It was the quiet certainty that some forms of curiosity were simply not worth pursuing. That certain futures were already disqualified before they had even been imagined.

For a generation whose families often migrated in search of greater opportunity, that mindset feels like a strange kind of regression. Our parents endured enormous uncertainty so their children could have choices they never had. If we respond to today’s economic anxiety by narrowing those choices even further, then something important about that original dream begins to fade.

Perhaps the real challenge for Gen Z in diaspora communities is learning how to balance realism with possibility. The economy may be unstable, but that instability affects almost every path now. If risk is unavoidable, then completely avoiding it may not actually protect anyone.

In a world that already feels unpredictable, there is a strong argument for allowing the next generation to follow the things that genuinely interest them. Not recklessly, but with curiosity and support rather than restriction. Because if migration was ultimately about expanding what was possible, then the most meaningful way to honour that legacy might be ensuring those possibilities remain open.

Written by Vanessa Twerefou