How did words like periodt, GYAT, cap and drip come to be? All about the Black history of slang

In the realm of pop culture, new phrases and slang are constantly being introduced to growing audiences, but the origins of these words are often overlooked, hiding the rich history and connection to different cultures and languages.

These days, words like “periodt,” “GYAT,” “cap” and “drip” reign supreme in the comments section of Instagram and TikTok posts. They also appear in the sales language for Tiffany & Co. and in social media posts from Wendy's.

For their cultural relevance, some slang terms have been added to Merriam-Webster. Still, plenty of people aren't aware of the cultural and historical nuance behind the words they use to express themselves in the day-to-day.

Nicole Holliday, an assistant professor of linguistics and cognitive science at Pomona College, says this sort of language has been around for decades.

Speaking to TODAY.com, she explains how some of the internet’s most popular words encapsulate the vibrancy of the Black community’s longstanding grip on American culture. This is especially true when it comes to African American Vernacular English (AAVE) — a variety of English primarily spoken by groups of Black Americans.

As Holliday points out, AAVE is just one type of language pattern developed by a marginalized community that has become mainstream. Jargon that's become unique to the LGBTQ+ community, such as words like "daddy" and "camp," serve as another example.

These terms typically become what people call "slang" because it's not deemed as proper English.

“It’s not the power language. It has what we call covert prestige,” she notes. “It’s cool because it’s the thing that teachers and the parents don’t want you to do.”

“Black people are at the bottom of the social hierarchy,” she continues. “So young white people who use African American English have always done it — one, because Black people are cool, and two, because it pisses off their parents.”

So, how do AAVE terms like “lit” and “turnt” make the leap from residentially segregated Black communities to advertisements put out by McDonald’s and Apple?

Holliday says that linguistic innovation begins within a group that experiences marginalization. From there, it can just take off.

“It starts in that group, and then it moves from the people that they have contact with,” she says. “So if you’re thinking about a community of young Black queer people, who do they talk to? Well, their siblings and other people that are slightly older than them."

She continues, “So it will filter up to people who are a little older in their 20s, mostly people of color still, then it’ll go to white people in that age group, and then it goes up the age bracket.”

John Baugh, a linguistics expert and professor at Washington University in St. Louis, says the appropriation of AAVE is nothing new, pointing to the American contralto singer Marian Anderson as an example.

During the height of racial segregation, Anderson was blocked by the Daughters of the American Revolution from performing for an integrated audience at DAR Constitution Hall near the White House.

This sparked protest, and in 1939, first lady Eleanor Roosevelt and President Franklin D. Roosevelt invited Anderson to perform on Easter Sunday at the Lincoln Memorial, reaching an audience of thousands.

“Shortly thereafter, you’re getting Duke Ellington and Count Basie and Cab Galloway, and they’re in Harlem and catering to largely very wealthy, segregated white audiences,” he explains. “That’s your first real crossover moment during Prohibition.”

More crossovers came soon after, with Baugh pointing out that the rise of Elvis Presley came in tandem with the popularity of Chuck Berry. Then there was the age of disco and Sugarhill Gang’s release of “Rapper’s Delight.”

Jamaal Muwwakkil, a postdoctoral fellow at UCLA studying linguistics, says AAVE creates an entirely new type of language through intertextuality.

Intertextuality is the idea of referencing texts and using it in conversation, like an Easter egg, to a specific moment in history or culture.

“I might ask you, 'Is it cool if I borrow your microwave real quick?’ Like, ‘I’m just gonna take it over to my house.’ And you might say something like, ‘Bye, Felicia,'" Muwwakkil says as an example.

In 2024, “Bye Felicia” — which first appeared in the Black cult classic comedy “Friday,” and by 2009 became popularized with its regular use in “RuPaul’s Drag Race” — has more than penetrated the cultural mainstream.

Muwwakkil says that phrase is one of the many examples of how language, used as an inside joke, can increase a person’s cool factor.

“This practice is really fun because ... it’s camouflage in a sense,” Muwwakkil explains. “If you don’t know what I’m talking about, I just sound like an absurd person, but if you do know, people are like, ‘Ahh! I see what you did there.'”

He also attributes this type of "play in language" as opportunity for "solidarity." "Not just race-wise — but just even culturally,” he says.

“You know the music that I you know, you know the movies that I like, we know the same thing," he says. "We may come from similar contexts, and if I don’t know too much about you, we can learn a lot about each other through our shared references. I think that’s one of my favorite things that I like about Black people use social context to communicate.”

Appropriation of this specific linguistic context creates the risk of what brothers Ziah Worthey, 21, and Zayd’n Worthey, 18, say can come across as sounding “corny.”

Ziah Worthey says that based on how they’ve been treated, Black Americans use AAVE in a way that will always be valued with more appreciation. Plus, he says, when you're Black, AAVE just rolls off the tongue better.

“It definitely makes you feel cool, and it feels like you have your own little language within your own little society or group or culture,” he explains. “They can’t take that away from you.”

Zayd’n adds that everyone has the right to use whatever words they choose. But the Worthey brothers can both recall times when they’ve had the way they speak scrutinized by teachers or bosses at work. Now, it's being accepted in the mainstream.

While there are no real consequences for misidentifying Black slang as purely internet slang, there is a loss of rich history, culture and social credibility when language is appropriated.

“It has to feel natural when you say it,” Zayd’n says, shaking his head. “It just sounds weird that somebody else randomly will just try to come in and fit in and try to take your language like that and use it upon you.”

This article was originally published on TODAY.com