“Bruh, he’s hella sus no cap.”
“Nah bro, trust. He a real one.”
Hardly an hour goes by at Yale without me hearing one cursèd word. Bro. I hear it everywhere: in Commons, on Cross Campus, in the interminable cue for chicken tenders at Berkeley, in the lady’s bathroom on the first floor of Sterling, and in the bathroom on the third floor, and on the sixth floor, and, for that matter, in just about every bathroom I’ve frequented.
“You got a lot on your plate these days?”
“Bro I’m in the trenches, it be bleak out here.”
And:
“You going to Hallowoads tomorrow?”
“Be so for real bro I wouldn’t miss it for a second.”
And:
“You dressing up for Halloweekend?”
“Bro my hat hasn’t arrived yet and I’m literally the mad hatter!”
“Bro” has become a filler word, much like that other odious word we’ve all tried to purge ourselves of, and all, inevitably, lamentably, failed.
Like.
Like its cousin “like,” “bro” is often used unconsciously. It starts sentences. It ends sentences. Sometimes, it’s a sentence in itself. When TikTok-obsessed, eighteen-year-old Gabriella notices a shiny red pimple on her nose, there’s only one expression that properly conveys the intense frustration that immediately surges within her. (Loudly and without an addressee:) “Bro!”
Let’s be clear: not everyone is a “bro.” About ten years ago, the term “bro” came to be associated with a particular kind of man: baseball-hatted, hoodie-sporting, fratty, jockish, and proficient in the art of dapping up his chums. There is no “dude” culture, no “buddy” culture, not even a “homie” culture despite the very loveliness of the word. But “bro” culture abounds. Few other slang terms evoke quite as precise and vivid an image as “bro.”
But then again—and here lies the term’s nuance—everyone is a bro. “Bro” no longer applies to only one type of man. All sorts of things can be addressed as “bro” without anyone batting an eyelid: old men, young men, elegant ladies, not-so-elegant ladies, dogs, cats, wasps (Bro why do you keep landing on my chicken? Beat it!), lamps (Let’s have some light bro), broken lamps (Why aren’t you turning on bro?), broken zips (Bro what the fuck is wrong with you!?), and, regrettably, historic figures (Bro just wanted to be free from King George V, and they sent a whole army out to get him! Let the poor man live.)
But people have gotten lax with their pronunciation. In recent years, “bro” has given way to its tired cousin: bruh.
“Bruh, why did it get cold the day after I left my scarf at Stop & Shop?”
“I wasn’t talking to you, bruh. Get in your place!”
Like its relative “bro,” “bruh” often constitutes an entire sentence in itself. Dropping a stack of notes, accidentally plunging into a deep puddle of murky water, spilling coffee on your brand new swanky white sneakers—these scenarios are sure to provoke in any Gen Z-er one response, and one response only. “Bruhhhh!”
The English are particularly skilled at inventing variations of “brother.” Some Brits pronounce the “th” as a “v”. Thus the birth of one of the most satisfying words in the English language: bruv.
“There are bare people at the party, bruv,” tracksuit-clad, East-London-born Olly might say to his mate. (Counterintuitive as it seems, “bare” signifies “a lot of” or “many” in British slang.)
To which his mate responds: “Oi bruv, I shouldn’t have left the pub to come here. Even Chelsea was more entertaining than this group of nutters!” At this, they dap each other up—suavely, gracefully—and saunter off towards the tube station.
“Broski” is an equally appealing alternative. It’s a compound word made up of the shortened English word “bro” and the Russian adjectival suffix –ski. Try saying it without cracking a grin, and you’ll fail. “Broski.” God, what a wonderful word. It’s more of a mouthful than “bruh,” but its whimsical charm makes up for it. If “Broski” were a person, he’d be the most eligible young suitor at the assembly ball.
“You’re a real one, broski,” rugby-enthusiast Johnny might say to Davie at their round of drinks post practice. He clears his throat, downs his glass: “Pour me another beer.”
Davie doesn’t disappoint. “I got you, big boy,” and he rises to re-open his tab. Just then Arsenal scores another goal against Brighton, and suddenly everyone is chanting singing dancing yelping squealing in rowdy jollity. And glasses clink, and lights glare, and laughter tinkles, and Capital FM blares, and Brighton fans are tussled to the ground.
And yet: “brother” is not the only family-related word that has become a staple of English slang. The word “family” itself is the origin of another of our most beloved slang words.
Fam.
A single snatch of dialogue can include both of these words.
“You going out tonight, brother?”
“Nah fam, I’m not feeling it.”
Even more delightful is the word “famalam.” This variation is particularly popular among elementary schoolers. “I bet you can’t catch me,” little Stevie cries in a game of Stuck-in-the-Mud. “I’m faster than you, famalam!” Xavier won’t go down that easy. He sticks his tongue out, wiggles his fingers in the air. “Oh no you’re not, famalamalam!” Then the chasing, then the catching, then the I-told-you-sos.
Or, if you’re keen to delve deeper into family-related modes of slang, you might address your friend as “cuz.” “I can always count on you, cuz,” you might say to your day-one bestie, deftly avoiding any semblance of eye contact. Dap-up. Shoulder-pat. Something-that-is-almost-but-not-quite-a-hug. “You too, cuz,” your friend returns. “You’re a chiller.” You look deep into each other’s eyes. Still deeper, deeper still—suddenly, you draw back. Too much sentimentality for one day.
The trend is easy enough to spot. For centuries, we’ve been referring to our fellow countrymen as “brothers.” Voilà, the slogan of the French revolution: “Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité.” (Frater is the Latin word for brother.) Over time, we’ve begun shortening our words. “Brother” soon became “brutha” that became “bruv” that became “bro” that became “bruh.” In a sense, the phrase “frat bro” is redundant. It translates to “brother brother”: the first part of the Latin word, then the first part of the English word. [Frat]er [bro]ther.
It may be possible, then, to make predictions about the evolution of our slang. Will the word “sister” succumb to the same fate of brother, family, cousin, uncle, and gentleman? Will we start addressing women as “sis?” Might “wimm” be the next “it” word of our generation?
“Hey wimm, you look fly tonight.”
“Thanks, cuz. You look strapping yourself.”
Or perhaps “gran” will weasel its way into our vocabularies. Young people have already started shortening “uncle” to “unc.” The word “unc” is a concise way of saying, essentially, you’re old and past your prime pipe down your heyday is over let the youths reign supreme. Maybe “gran” will follow in its footsteps. “OMG she’s such a gran,” a college student might say about poor old-school Louise who sits in the front row of the lecture hall. “She takes notes with a pen and paper!”
And, for that matter, how about “gramp?” It could even be an adjective.
“Dude he’s so gramp, he still uses wired earbuds.”
“I was so gramp last week. I lost my phone and had to ask an old lady for directions.”
The path to slang-fame is logical, really. Choose a category of family member, shorten it to one syllable, make it punchy. Then, with cool and casual confidence, drop it into your conversations. If people look confused, shrug. Say it’s the latest trendy piece of jargon. “Everyone’s using it.” Who knows? You could coin the next Oxford University Press’s “Word of the Year.” And what an honor that would be.