My daughter came home from school and said — and I quote — 'Mom, that fit was no cap bussin, lowkey fire.'
I said: 'Thank you.'
I had no idea what she said. I nodded like a person who understood human language and then went directly to Google. In the bathroom. With the door locked. Like I was hiding contraband.
'No cap' means no lie. 'Bussin' means really good. 'Lowkey fire' means impressively excellent but in a quiet, understated way. So she was complimenting my outfit. In three words that I did not recognize as a compliment. In English.
I could have said THAT. That's a sentence I understand. USE ENGLISH, CHILD. We have a whole language. It has over a million words. You could pick some.
But before I get too self-righteous about this, let me be honest — I grew up in the Bronx in the 80s and 90s. We had our own language. My mother looked at me sideways more than once when I came home talking about what was 'def' and what was 'ill' and what was 'mad' something. She did not ask. She assumed it was fine. She was not always right. We survived anyway.
The difference is that our slang came from the block, from our crew, from the music pulsing out of someone's window on a hot summer night. It had roots. It spread at human speed. Now slang is born at 3 AM on TikTok, peaks by Tuesday, and is embarrassing by Friday. I cannot keep up. I have made peace with not keeping up.
What I have NOT made peace with is the phone. The phone is a whole entity. It's a third person in every conversation. My daughter and I will be sitting at the table — actually sitting together — and half of her is somewhere else entirely. Some group chat. Some video. Some sound that makes her laugh and then she has to show me, and I watch it, and it's twelve seconds long, and I smile and nod because I don't understand why it's funny but I understand that SHE is happy, and that matters.
Here's what I've learned in the years of navigating this technology gap: the goal is not to understand everything. The goal is to stay close enough that she WANTS to show me things. Close enough that when something is wrong, she comes to me first before she goes to the internet. The internet will tell her anything. I will tell her the truth.
So when she teaches me a word I don't know, I learn it. Even if it's embarrassing. Even if I use it wrong three days later and she has to cover her face and say 'Mom, stop.' Even then. Because every silly moment of trying is a moment of connection, and connection is everything at 14.
She still talks to me. She still comes home and tells me about her day in whatever language she's speaking that week. And when I don't understand a word, I smile and nod, Google it later in the bathroom, and catch up quietly.
That is a WIN. I will take it.
Buckle up, buttercup — teen language is a second language and you're taking the crash course. You'll survive. Probably.