This “YN” Sh*t Is Played Out

The first time I saw one of those “YN” skits on TikTok, I laughed. It was a guy handing food to a YN from what looked like a Popeyes drive-thru. They were out of chicken though, so he only had red beans and rice for him (and a biscuit). So when the YN realizes this, it begins the crash out and eventually he pulls out a gun with a beam on it. You can see the green dot on the guy’s shirt and he starts pleading for his life.

This particular content creator makes a bunch of these videos with different scenarios of the YN crashing out. Same formula every time. Some assuming Old Head or Unc does something relatively harmless or confronts the YN in some fashion. Eventually, the beams show up and the crash-out begins. It’s ridiculous, but the timing is on point, the character is exaggerated just enough, and yeah, it’s funny.

We all know a YN. That one wild youngin’ with too much energy and not enough guidance. He’s reckless, emotional, unpredictable. Might have a gun tucked somewhere, or a baby on the way. Might cry over a breakup one day and fight three people the next. Depending on the week, you’re either trying to mentor him or stay far away. For lack of a better explanation, this is how we might classify some YNs.

So at first, the memes felt like inside jokes. Something we created (Black folks) to tease each other about the generational gap, about how the young kids move different now. But the more I saw it, the less funny it became. And then I realized something had shifted. The internet had done what it always does. It took a piece of our culture, exaggerated it, and turned it into a character. A costume. A punchline.

And that’s when I started to feel uneasy. I don’t want to necessarily get all political here, but I’ve seen this story before. I grew up in the aftermath of the “super predator” era, when America decided young Black boys were monsters in the making. When the news and politicians labeled us dangerous, said we had no conscience, no future, and no remorse.

That narrative got people locked up for life before they were old enough to vote. It made schools call the cops instead of counselors. It made judges hand out decades like detentions. And now, watching the “YN” meme spread, I realized how easy it is to repeat history in a different outfit.

If you haven’t caught on by now, “YN” stands for “young nigga.” And when it first started circulating online, yeah, it felt like our thing. A shorthand for a certain type of young Black man who grew up fast, maybe too fast, and wore his trauma like armor.

However, in music, in conversation, in real life, “young nigga” was never just slang. It was layered. Sometimes it meant resilience. Sometimes chaos. Sometimes it was a compliment. Other times a warning. But it came from us. It came with context.

Online, that context disappeared. It turned into a formula. Cold stare. Black hoodie or ski mask. Guns tucked. The skits and memes started to blend together, and instead of highlighting anything real, they started flattening the entire experience of being a young Black man into one exaggerated stereotype.

And the worst part? Once it went viral, it stopped being just us. People who had no business using the term started mimicking it. Non-Black creators jumped on the trend. You might not have seen it yet, but trust me—you will. Folks from outside the culture have a new way to call us the n-word without fully saying it. That’s also why I have a problem with people using the 🥷 emoji as a stand-in for the n-word.

The same platforms that suppress actual discussions about race and identity have no issue letting a bunch of folks make fun of and entertain themselves with caricatures of Black youth. Once again, we became content.

This happens every time. We create something meaningful. It catches fire. Then it gets diluted, detached from its roots, and sold back to us by people who never lived it. Our slang becomes “internet language.” Our dances become “trending sounds.” Our struggles become “relatable humor.” And when we speak up, we’re told to relax. That it’s just a joke. That it’s not that deep.

But it is that deep. Because the image of the “YN” that’s being spread online isn’t harmless. It’s one more version of a story we’ve been trying to rewrite for decades. The wild, violent, emotionally numb young Black man who doesn’t value life, doesn’t love anyone, and doesn’t care about himself. Whether it’s said seriously or played for laughs, that image always ends the same way. People see us as threats, not humans. As problems, not people.

And my thing is, some of the real YNs I know, the ones who actually move like that, they’re not just out here trying to be tough. They’re reacting to something. Most of them never had the space to be kids. They grew up in systems that failed them, schools that gave up on them, homes that were broken before they ever had a chance. Neighborhoods that demanded survival before they could even understand what safety meant. They act like they don’t care because caring got them hurt. They crash out because nobody ever showed them how to slow down.

But you won’t see that in the memes. You won’t hear that in the voiceovers. What you’ll see is a joke. A performance. A recycled idea of Blackness that people can use to go viral for a week and then move on. Meanwhile, the real kids behind the image don’t get any closer to healing. They just get copied. Parodied. Forgotten.

I’m not saying we can’t joke with each other. And I’m not asking for perfection or political correctness in every post. But I do think we have to be more intentional about what we laugh at, who we laugh with, and what gets lost in translation when our stories leave our hands. Because when we let the internet run wild with these caricatures, we end up feeding the same cycle we’ve been trying to break. The one that strips us of complexity. The one that profits off our pain. The one that turns survival into spectacle.

Some of us used to be those YNs. Some of us barely made it out. Some didn’t. And that’s not funny to me. That’s real. That’s personal. So yeah, I still catch myself laughing sometimes. But it’s different now. I laugh, then I pause. I think about the kids watching these skits and wondering if that’s how they have to act to be seen. I think about the folks outside our culture copying it with no clue what they’re really imitating. I think about how easy it is to become a joke in a world that already doesn’t take you seriously.

If we’re going to say “YN,” let’s not forget where it came from. Let’s remember the lives behind the label. Let’s challenge the platforms that turn our culture into content without care. Let’s tell stories that hold the full weight of who we are, not just the parts that get applause. Because we’re more than punchlines. We’re people. We’re layered. And we’ve earned the right to be seen in full.