An Encounter With The Underbelly Of Pop Culture - Fo Rill (for real)

I like to think that I can get my head around pop culture. Today, however, I ran head long into one neighborhood that continues to befuddle me…white kids acting black. “Wiggers” is the term, right? Anyway, when I walked into the bank today, I almost left due to the line, it would have been a huge mistake since it would have sapped me of the opportunity to observe…a white “homey.”

He was wearing the requisite long black t-shirt and baggie, black sweatpants, of course resting mid-thigh. Beyond the prototypical dress code, I was more fascinated with his speech. First, he is standing with a two-hundred pound female and I am not sure of their relationship. The first words I pick up go like this; “I told her, yo, if I see dat number on the cell again, I am coming to dat house an draggin you outside. Den, you are going to da hospital.” And then for emphasis, “Fo rill.” Now he starts his shucking and jiving…playing with the t-shirt, fiddling with the pants and bouncing around like he quite literally has ants in his pants….or crabs.

Next, a younger female comes in and I hear this; “Yo, where’d you get dat heart on yo chest?” Apparently a tattoo is visible. (Note: I am not shy, at all, about glancing at cleavage…but I just can’t rally this time. If you were looking at what I was looking at, you would understand.) She tells him something and he says, “Der better not be anyone touchin’ dat tattoo, or dey are going to da hospital.” I hate to be redundant, but apparently he doesn’t when he again says, “Fo rill.”

The funny thing about all this hospital talk is that the kid looks like he needs to be in the hospital or at least on a feeding tube for awhile since he weighs in at probably 140 and is as tall as me.

I really wanted to question him. Firstly, I would ask if the home-boy talk is at all authentic. I mean, is it real or a character he plays? When he wakes up, does he have to get himself into “costume” like Michael Corleone? If he does, I would applaud him because it must take an extraordinary amount if effort to keep up the ruse during all waking hours. I can’t imitate the Geico Gecko for more than a few minutes without slipping.

When he and his posse saddled up to the teller, he did so like the floor was uneven…up and down and up and down. Of course his transaction involved much crunching of numbers, available balances, and something about what someone told him on the phone…always complicated. I of course had my deposit slip filled out and my driver’s license handy. I so much wanted to say, “Got my fat stacks…fo rill!”