In defense of 'six-seven'

I first heard the phrase in a movie theatre. I was sitting with my 11-year-son, waiting for “Tron: Aries” to start. And then, just as the lights dimmed, I heard an adolescent voice, far behind me, call out: “Six-seeeeven!”

I furrowed my brow and turned to my son. “What does that mean?”

And he said something I’ve heard many times in the months since: “Oh, it doesn’t mean anything.”

If you encountered a single child in 2025, you likely heard the phrase “six-seven.” My own son now exclaims it on compulsive repeat, as do his sixth-grade friends. As a parent, it’s annoying and requires the patience of a saint. I’m reminded of the old days, when people shrieked, “Not!” or “Talk to the hand!” I don’t miss those at all.

But as a writer, I’m grudgingly fond of six-seven. Especially for what it means —or doesn’t mean — to Gen Alpha. That is, kids around my son’s age.

I’ve learned that six-seven started as a lyric from the song “Doot Doot (6 7),” by hip-hop artist Skrilla. From there, the phrase was tied to NBA point guard LaMelo Ball, who reportedly stands at 6 feet, 7 inches tall. Several incarnations later, six-seven evolved into a global catchphrase, both on social media and in real life. But Wikipedia would seem to agree with my son: Six-seven is a “slang term” with “no fixed meaning.”

And that’s what gets me: It doesn’t signal emotion, or surprise, or pain or fatigue. It’s not a slur, or a salutation, or a secret message. It doesn’t offend. It doesn’t inform. It doesn’t express caution or curiosity. It’s just a sound, a placeholder, a nonsense expression that makes young people happy.

I like this for two reasons: First, it’s absurd. I think of the surrealist artists in the early 20th century, like René Magritte and Salvador Dalí. Their paintings were playful and dreamlike. Their images — of melting clocks and giant apples — had everything to do with the subconscious, and very little to do with real life. I also think of the Dada Movement, with its absurdist comedy sketches, illogical plots and dialogue that (deliberately) confused the audience. Weirdness, just to be weird.

And six-seven makes ever more sense to me, as I watch Gen Alpha weave its own bizarre culture.

It’s hard to believe that the word “Skibidi,” which kids now use in regular conversation, started as the name of an animated YouTube series from Eastern Europe, “Skibidi Toilet,” about toilet-bowl monsters doing battle against men who have movie cameras for heads. When my son started chanting “Tong Tong Tong Sahur,” it took me hours to find its origins: an anthropomorphic bowl of soup with giant eyes and a club. This character was cooked up somewhere in Indonesia, but it’s all the rage at my son’s elementary school. The entire concept of “Italian Brain Rot”— strange mascots floating around the internet, without plot or personality — feels like something Dalí would have appreciated.

About a century ago, the Surrealists invented a creative game called “The Exquisite Corpse.” Someone would fold a piece of paper into thirds, then three artists would draw the legs, torso or head of a figure, without knowing what the other two would draw. When the portrait was finally unfolded, it was ridiculous — maybe the head of a cowboy, the body of a yeti, and a mermaid’s tail. The picture meant nothing. That was the fun of it. Six-seven reminds me of that tradition: pure, youthful silliness. And with the visual powers of AI, I’m pretty sure that Gen Alpha’s silliness will just get sillier.

But there’s another reason I appreciate six-seven, especially now: In an era of hyperactive symbolism, this is one catchphrase that doesn’t get anyone in trouble. The world is full of code-switching, dog whistles, hashtags and slogans. A lot of these are verbal, like “Me Too,” or “Let’s Go Brandon,” or “Covfefe.” A lot are visual, like a sofa, or a Ukrainian flag, or Pepe the Frog. Internet memes have radically expanded our symbolic arsenal. We can validate — or infuriate — others with a single click.

Modern interactions are a minefield of loaded meanings, and Gen Alpha is caught in the crossfire. Yet six-seven is harmless. It’s neutral ground, a linguistic safe space. Six-seven can’t hurt you, or me, or anyone else, no matter how many times you exclaim it in a movie theatre. As adults bicker and hurl invective all around, Gen Alpha has this catchphrase, a form of passive resistance. An enthusiastic expression that no one can criticize or even understand.

It’s only a matter of time, of course, before that changes. The phrase will peter out, replaced by something else — it may being going down already. As kids grow older, they’ll shake their heads and wonder why they ever said such a goofy thing. Or maybe someone will take ownership, and give it some kind of meaning, or even trademark it. Then six-seven will lose its innocence; it’ll show up on t-shirts and coffee mugs, yet another organic trend turned into a product you can buy.

For now, I’m just glad that Gen Alpha has this one little gift, something they can cherish without judgment or consequence. I hope they enjoy six-seven as long as they can. And if, some days, it starts to drive me a little crazy, well — they can talk to the hand.

Not.