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In his backyard. And he's got stories. Really good ones. Stories that make you think a little differently about the world. In each episode of What's Ray Saying, Ray shares his interests in culture, education, and social justice. Here's an episode of What's Ray Saying. We hope you'll enjoy it. And to find out more, go to whatsraysaying.com.

Years ago, when I was working a corporate job, I'd have to wear suits and fancy shoes. But when I came home, my life was the opposite of suit friendly. See, at home, I was more of a farmer. Still am. I work outdoors, feeding chickens, dogs, goats. That's Gertrude. Just one of my goats. Rubbing her face up against the microphone. This was a few months before she gave birth. Fascinating interview so far. Now, picture a farmer shoveling goat shit and loafers in a three-piece. But pick up goat shit and loafers, I did. I mean, I've often destroyed dress clothing and shoes because I would come right home from work to wherever I was and feed animals. Build wood fires, plant in the garden. Because I couldn't wait to get to it. I often do the same thing now. Much to my wife's irritation. I can't tell you the last pair of loafers or the last pair of tennis shoes I bought. But I can tell you about the first. A pair of Converse. A prized possession after years of suffering from Bobos. And the name Bobos will make adults of a certain era cringe. I'm talking cheap-ass, sorry excuses for tennis shoes that even your feet would make fun of you for wearing. And while what I have on my feet now don't make much of a difference, it sure did when I was a teenager. Style and what we wear on our feet can make or break us. It almost broke me. Clothing can force you to make some important decisions. And some early fashion choices almost changed the course of my life. Now who is this smooth-talking voice wearing these muddy loafers? Well, I'm not defined with a singular salutation. Some might call me a ghetto kid or a southern black gentleman. A retired Army paratrooper or a doctor of education. A teller of stories. A student of the past. Or the source of all black knowledge. A voice ready to explore and talk with you about it. From PRX, I'm Ray Christian and this is What's Ray Saying. What's Ray Saying? In this episode, from coming of age to dressing for the stage, we're going to ruffle through my closet. My patient wife, Tiffany, is not the only person who thinks I've lost my mind working outside with all these goats and chickens. Man, I was floored, man.

Man, I'm expecting him to be living in a mansion with a fence going around, man. And I'm expecting him to be living like that, right?

Greg is an old, old high school buddy. And an old Army buddy, too. He still lives in Richmond where we grew up. And he knows what I'm up to these days whenever I post on social media.

Man, I opened up the Facebook. First thing I thought, Green Acres is the place to be. Form living in. I'm like, hold on, baby. Hey, baby. We're going to get a rain with a drug test. Something is awfully wrong here.

Greg looks at me these days and sees a farmer. I guess it's quite a stretch from who we were back then. So we first met in high school. What are we connected by in high school?

Black Parades.

Black Parades. What's that?

It was a national championship drill team, man.

You couldn't tell us nothing. Couldn't tell us shit. If you missed it, Greg made reference to us being members of a national championship drill team. We were led by Sergeant Chapman and Colonel Vessels. They knew. knew more about us than any other teacher. But they took us and the drill team very seriously. Both were men who grew up in Jim Crow, served in the segregated military, and moved strongly into the middle class. They were constantly motivating us to be more than we were. Aware of our social status, they were hard on us. Required we demonstrate discipline in the face of obstacles, I would have done anything to impress them, something I found hard to do as they seldom were. Doing what you should be doing, in their eyes, was never worthy of acknowledgement. And in some ways, our team were the heroes of the Black community. We traveled as far away as Laredo, Texas to Washington, D.C. for the national championships, and we performed all around the city at football, basketball games, grades, and other school celebrations. We won the national drill team championships in two categories, known simply as the Black Berets, based on our signature headgear. Our look was very polished in a time where it was all about looking loose and fly.

You know, in the 70s, all you see is the super fly, big afros. But in order to be one of us in the 70s, you had to wear a bald head. You know, and a lot of people wouldn't join us. I ain't cutting my

hair. But to show your dedication to us, you had to get a bald head. This was a big damn deal in a 1970s high school, where a bunch of Black teens would willingly shave their heads in an era where your hair needed to be big and bold. A shiny dome was not an ideal look, but it was a fashion sacrifice and a dedication. Dedication to a group of friends that meant a whole damn lot to each other. All of this leads me to something of a mantra. It's never really enough to look the part. It's more significant to be the part. Black people have always put a lot of thought into the way they look, with our evolution of dress dictating style trends for generations all over the world. And while we started out having to copy clothing styles and mandates set by whites following slavery, it wasn't white culture or textile changes that revolutionized our fashion. It was photography that changed the way people dressed. This new technology showed Black Americans images of Black leaders such as Booker T. Washington and W.E.B. Du Bois always dressed in formal gentlemen's clothing. Frederick Douglass became one of the most photographed Black men of that era. And considering the time, effort, and money required to be photographed, Douglass stood as a respectable visual example for Black Americans to identify with. A look began replicating amongst Black Americans, influenced by personal and family photographs from this period and after. Being photographed in suits and ties became the norm, or wearing a collared shirt became a symbol of status. The higher your collar, the higher your status. You can find hundreds of photographic examples of exaggerated collars on Black men in particular. Black community leaders, teachers, artists, and intellectuals all strode to present themselves as being very different from racist stereotypes of Blacks being unsophisticated and of low social status without pride or dignity. Even in the dark and drab world of the early 20th century, when the opportunity came, fashion and a feeling of Black agency meant making things loud and wearing flashy colors. For example, the watch chain and wide-legged zoot suit look of the 1930s and 40s were very popular in the Black American community. Suits of all kinds became casual wear for Black men in the 1950s. While white men's suits focused on custom tailoring, Black men's suits emphasized accessories like watches, glasses, and belts.

I want to look keen, so my dream will say, You don't look like the same bow, so keen that she'll scream, Here comes my walking rainbow, so make us look...

It's a very swanky crowd that gathers at the St. Vincent Casino for a very swanky showing of summer fashions. Latest offerings of Italian stylists. The feminine eye is quick to spot the little novelties and niceties.

During most of the 20th century, American fashion was influenced by European fashion. But by the 1950s, with the influence of Black artists, leaders, and icons like Sammy Davis Jr., Harry Belafonte, and Miles Davis, Black styles... Sorrel and Nic métasti, theiguous mastermind chamado began to influence American fashion. Soon enough, the powers that be started paying more attention to the black dollar. Advertisers realized black Americans had money to spend on what they wore.

I've got a story here that I think is big, really big, because it's found to have a terrific impact on business. I'm talking about a new market, a big new market, millions upon millions of new prospects. Yes, this is the market we're talking about, the new Negro family. Their name is Wells or Wilson,

Both both represent line Freddie and the American men in —

Smith or Brown or Alexander or Breen. This is from a 1954 film for advertising companies called The Secret of Selling the Negro. It was funded by Johnson Publishing Company, the empire behind Jet and Ebony. As you can hear, it was revolutionary that black people had money to spend or did anything with their money similar to what white people might be doing with theirs.

The secret of selling to the Negro is expressed in one word. That word is recognition. Now, there's nothing unusual about that. People want to be recognized. They need recognition. But perhaps because he's had so little of it, the Negro needs even more. He needs to feel important and appreciated.

Regardless of the patronizing and calculated ways of the advertising world, it worked. Because around the time I was born, black Americans started seeing more options targeted to them in print and on TV. Cigarettes, beer, hair care products and fashion. Certain brands got associated

with being hip. Every day, my friend, take time to relax. With good fun, good food and friends. Have some ice cold jacks. I want a super fro. Get the blowout kit. How about an Afropop? Get the blowout kit.

And for a soulful corn row. Afro sheets blowout kit. Makes your hair softer, more lustrous and easier to

manage. And by the time Greg and I were coming of age in the late 60s, the idea of personal expression, which really didn't exist for me when I was a kid, was a big shift. We were starting to evolve. You know,

we started to go to high school now. And the man with the big afro got the girls. The man with the sharp dress. The sharp dress man got the girls. But it's the man with the cool shirt. It's the man that

got on the all styles. That's the man now. This is a time when expensive, stylized tennis shoes, first worn by professional black American athletes, notably basketball players, became the trend.

It's been all Kareem for the Lakers in this third period. Bill Roberts now has three points. Here comes

Willis. And the crowd is going wild. And fashion was everything in my neighborhood. The photographic styles shown by our ancestors, we were now finding in the pages of Jet or Ebony. If you wanted to find out what was happening, what was popular, what was cool, you'd look at the advertisements in the back of these black publications. You went there and you went to Soul Train. Every week on Soul Train, you got bell bottoms, silk shirts with large collars, Swedish knit pants, leather jackets, clogs, and platform shoes. I mean, a pair of heels on the shoe was this big.

You had to catch an elevator sometimes just to get in your damn shoes, man. You'd be standing in the hallway by the elevator. What's your waiting on? I'm waiting in the elevator sometimes, getting these shoes I just bought, you know. Oh, okay. Or you got a stepladder, you know,

you walk around with a stepladder in your head. Those would have been the real indicators of what was cool. And here we were going to high school in the 70s, where black people had more fashion options. But my family was very poor. For my mama, who grew up in the Jim Crow era South and the Depression, fashion was her lowest priority. She was raised like many poor people, concerned with practicality and function. She got on a bus to wealthy white people's homes, dressed like the dozens of other housekeepers. If I had to think of one memory of how my mama dressed, it would be that my mother always looked like a servant, dressed in domestic uniforms with various drab colors. I mean, she dressed like a maid, with a simple cotton dress and an apron. But on Sundays, she looked like a woman a woman worthy of respect. Like many black

Folks, the opportunity to show one's potential best side in appearance made Sunday and church the only celebratory reason they would have to bring their Sunday best. Everyone can be a king or queen, royalty on any level, or at least look that way. Mama would spend a lot of time collecting and buying old clothes that she kept in boxes. From these finds, my mother would search for things that fit me, clothes that didn't have holes. The next best thing I could do when fashion options were limited as they usually were was to at least ensure that I was wearing cleaned and iron clothes, a priority of my mama, who saw cleanliness as more important than fashion. She saw it as being respectful of yourself, despite being poor. But this was the way it was for many generations. Even the old photos I mentioned earlier were deceptive records of Black Americans looking as dressed up as they could be. Because most people were like my mama. They didn't have the money or the means to wear the best clothes. So in many of those early 20th century photos, when the photographer came to you or you went to their shop, they would give you clothes to wear. And even if you could leave your house wearing your best, Jim Crow etiquette during the 1900s made dressing for Black Americans like walking a tightrope. If they were perceived by whites to be dressing above the Black person's station in life, it could be construed as an arrogant and offensive posture to take on in public, especially so to poor and middle class whites. Meanwhile, segregated customs enforced formal fashion requirements. Black men were required to wear hats in public and to tip their hats to all white women. If you didn't, you could find yourself lynched. The way it came up for me was in the halls of high school, where students would clown the hell out of anything you wore if it didn't match some standard of what was hip or expensive. To avoid this judgment, I spent hours going through my mama's boxes to find something that would at least make me invisible. All I could hope for then was that I'd not be noticed. With nearly every item I had so poorly fitting or not even properly cleaned, I tended to wear things that were dark and plain, and I'd wear it over and over again. The winter added another layer of concern. With washing things and having to dry them by kerosene in a wood stove before school, we didn't keep fire or heat going all day, only when we were up or occupying a room, meaning you had a limited time to dry your clothes for school. And coming in with that smell of kerosene and coal and burning wood, this was all noticed. If it wasn't comments or jokes from other kids, it was the looks.

And if I couldn't afford to be popular, I would do anything to be invisible. My only respite was being a part of the Black Berets. Those Tuesdays and Wednesdays were days out of the week where I was stress-free. I only realized later in life that I wasn't the only one in there for that reason. I thought I was uniquely miserable. Life could have been different for a lot of us if we spoke up. Then again, high school was survival, and any of us would have done anything to make it through the pecking order, including keeping our mouths shut. Instead, we didn't focus on popularity. It didn't matter how you dressed. We were all equal. A few days each week were filled with pride and support. Then on the other days when I had to wear what I had in my wardrobe, I looked and felt like a totally different person. My mama did her best to help me fit in. Sometimes bringing home things that she said looked just like what the other boys were wearing. It might have been a random find of a coat or a sweater that matched something popular, but kids have eagle eyes, and they'd be quick to point out whether something was leather versus pleather. And you can probably guess which was the kind I was wearing. The last straw had to do with my feet. Come walk in my shoes after the break. This is Ray, and I've got a quick message. If you want to be a voice in an upcoming episode, I'd like to hear from you. Literally, hear your voice. What do you think is the significance of Black Americans in military service? Are you a Black veteran or is someone in your family? Record a voice note and email us at rayistalking at gmail.com. It can be a voice note from your phone. Doesn't need to be fancy. Just something that lets me hear your voice and your story. Record a voice note and tell me your story about Black Americans in military service and email it to rayistalking at gmail.com. Thanks.

You know what it's like, man, to walk with your mom downtown to get shoes, and you're looking at these shoes, and them the shoes you want your mama to get. Because then they're shiny shoes right there. Again, this is my old high school buddy and former Black Parade team member, Greg. But your mama only have enough money to get you these shoes right there. And you know you're going to school the next day after you done told everybody that you're going to get some new shoes, and these are the ones you go back with, man. I didn't view it as my mom being poor, our family being poor. I viewed it as,

Dag, Mom, why you couldn't get me this? Our mamas couldn't just buy us what we wanted for our feet. Sometimes they could barely even afford to cover our feet. What we did get, what a lot of poor kids got, was a sorry excuse for a tennis shoe called Bobo's. Do you remember Bobo's?

Yeah, I remember Bobo's, man. Explain what Bobo's are. Bobo's is a cheap tennis shoe that you get from the supermarket.

Yeah.

You walk in, you go to the meat counter, you get your milk and all that. Oh, by the way, come on. You need some tennis shoes. You know?

I spent most of my childhood wearing Bobo's. You'd get like three pair for $2 or something like that, and then within a week or so, let's just say the front of the shoe turned into a mouth, separating from the sole and flapping up and down. You know what it's like to be playing ball and then your damn shoes start talking? A talking shoe was hard to ignore, and Mama eventually became aware of my struggles. I begged her for some Converse, and at some point, she did what she could and got me a pair. That transition from wearing Bobo's to sneaker sneakers made a big damn difference, but it was only one pair, and I ran through shoes like cheese in a grater. There was only so much I could do to keep them looking put together. The last straw was Miss Jackson's class. Most of my teachers were black, including Miss Jackson, and she had it out for me. Must have seen me as some negative symbol of the younger generation. One day, I was wearing a pair of brown striped suit pants that I had repurposed as everyday wear with a beaded sweater, three t-shirts of different colors, and black Converse well worn from a year of running and jumping across rocks down at the James River. As soon as I walked into class, she put her hand out to stop me from walking to my seat, shaking her head and telling me, don't sit down. You just stand right there. Pointing to my sneakers and working her way up to my eyes, she said, what is this? How many shirts are you wearing? As she reached into my collar to peel back the layers and expose them, she laughed out loud. Slowly, the class joined in with comments, insults, and the laughter got louder. Her last words as I turned and walked back out of the class were, and you didn't even clean and iron. When it gets to the point where teachers are making fun of what you're wearing, there's zero layer protection anymore. This approved method of humiliation was more than I could take. I had had enough. It was my junior year. I decided I was never coming back to school again, and I dropped out. My first thought was to get out of this damn high school social portal and spend some time working until my 17th birthday, and then join the Army. At the time, minimum wage was around $2.50 an hour, but the docks were paying $3.75. So I went down, and I got a job working at the loading docks at the deep water terminal near the river.

The months working there were some of the worst of my life.

My friend Greg knew that grind too. A ship come in, you might have three tiers of tobacco. And you work your way down those tiers so you get to the last pallet of tobacco.

These were relentless hours of loading 50 to 100-pound tobacco bales from the hull of the ship. Pallets that swing back and forth and put you into the hospital if you weren't careful. Big-ass flies that would just stick to you like tree sap. The screaming foreman. The old guys who looked miserable. The fact that I came home every day too worn out to even eat sometimes. But what bugged me the most at this job were the clothes. I wore the same dirty clothes every day. However bad people thought I looked in school. I really look like shit now. I was dirty all the damn time. Tobacco stains. Icky. Dusty. Sweaty. I'd get looks from the older folks in town. The looks that working people give each other. Like, you're working and you smell like it. So I had the job. But it was killing me. I had no time to go anywhere. To dress up. Or to do shit. I started to think. How do adults do this? School is easy. So I worked hard on those shifts just to make one thing in my life look nice. Greg remembered exactly how much you'd have to work during the week. It looks sharp come Friday.

It may take you three days. Three days. You made about $140. You can go downtown and buy you a shirt now. And have some change. And that's what I did.

With some change in my pocket, I bought some new threads. I went to the Soul Train spot on Broad Street. I got three pair of sneakers. Jeans that fit. Really tight nylon shirt with the Brady Bunch collar. All that work got me in better shape, too. I was glad to show my pecs. And I topped it off with new Converse All-Stars. I bought me two new pairs. I never had two at the same time.

Well, see, when you ain't got to pay life being a water bill, gas bill, you can take your money and buy your clothes. You know what I'm saying? Right, right, right, right, right.

But all I wanted was not even to be noticed. Just get to the point where I was wearing what every average kid was wearing. And I decided to do something even bolder than leaving school to work. I decided to go back. And I couldn't have done it on my own. And I have one person I've been meaning to thank for that. One of my fondest memories of you, it was because of you that I went back to school. After I had given up on school and started working, it was Greg who made the effort to get me back to John F. Kennedy High. I can remember you saying, you need to come with me. And we walked all the way to school. And you told Sergeant Chapman. And he dragged me to the damn principal's office. And they talked me out of the stupidest fucking decision I was going to make in my life. And that was because of you. If not for you, that day, in that moment, I'd have never graduated from high school. My dad's was done, man. And it's like, what kid talk like that? Instead of you saying something like, oh, that's fucked up or that's interesting. You go, no, come with me, man. And you told on me. I would not have graduated. I had no chance, no hope, no wish, no dream. I was not going back. Just that little moment of us talking. Why you didn't just say, let's get high. Let's go walk somewhere. Fuck that shit. You go, come with me. And we made a long damn walk all the way to school.

You know, sometimes God put you in some strange places to do some miraculous things, man. You was the one that was always keeping us subtle, man. You was the rock of the group, man.

I needed you, man. I was broken.

You was my brother. I wasn't going to tell you nothing. And that you sitting here in the morning, you was going to tell me something I was sitting here, man.

For Greg, it may have been the casual act of one poor kid trying to cheer up another poor kid. Just a friend being a friend. But he couldn't have known the real direction I was going. By doing this small action, he changed the direction of my life forever. And when I went back to school, there was no second. There were no second looks. There were no comments. No like, wow, you looking good now. In fact, there weren't any comments. There was no attention at all. I went from being bullied to not even being seen. It was better. I felt like I had arrived socially. Normal high school dude. Something I'd been denied. I finished out the year wearing new stuff that was just better camouflage. What's funny to me, and reflecting about all of this, is that those trends from my childhood kept evolving to where black fashion designers and brands from Dapper Dan to Rockawear and even models took control of clothing marketed to blacks. And these fashion trends have been adopted globally. Through the remainder of the 20th century and into the new millennium, fashion for black Americans became a symbol of freedom, pride, and Afrocentric expressions. Because it's never really enough to look the part. It's more significant to be the part. The superficial nature of fashion can help us dream. Black people have always put a lot of thought into the way they dress. It goes beyond identity. It's survival. And all of this has made me wonder. How much freedom I've allowed myself in the way I dress as an adult. Today, I like to stand out in ways that can counter the narratives that people may project onto me. That I'm very conservative because I'm a southern veteran. Or that I'm super flamboyant because of what I wear on stage. Or that I'm an average blue collar guy because I wear flannel and yeah, sometimes I smell a little bit like animals who don't know or care that they smell like animals. Today, I'm just some dude in the country wearing dirty ass boots and jeans. Damn goats have been jumping up on me and shit. But in my opinion, it's all non-conformity. You make up your own mind. But I'll have fun playing as many parts as I want whenever I decide what to grab out of my closet. I'm comfortable with who I am. Even if Greg needs some convincing.

You know what surprises me? A man that came out the hood. I would have expected him to probably have a rancher on the south side of town or something. You know? Ain't no way in the world that he got a chicken, a hog, a donkey with a goat, a bear, a sheep, a bobcat. Four wild hogs, three French hens.

And how did I end up in the military? Well, that's a whole other story. On the next episode of What's Ray Saying?

This soldier's story.

This soldier's story.

You have just finished another episode of What's Ray Saying? This podcast was created, hosted, and written by Ray Christian and was recorded in the great state of North Carolina. Mark Pagan is the senior producer. Jonathan Cabral is the associate producer. Story editing by Mark Pagan with development support from The Mall. Sound design by Rebecca Seidel. Photos for the show come from Samantha J. Massey. Original music comes from our son, RJ Christian, with additional music from Blue Dot Sessions. What's Ray Saying? is derived from Ray's personal life, thoughts, and research. His views, opinions, and perceptions of the world and history are completely his own. But hey, get in touch if you want to debate. To find out more about What's Ray Saying? Head to Facebook and Twitter at What's Ray Saying? Or our website, whatsraysaying.com. Ray builds this podcast with mountain spring water, deep fried fat back, sunshine, and crackling bread. In turn, he enjoys the love and appreciation you give in the form of comments and five-star reviews in Apple Podcasts and Spotify. To find out more about What's Ray Saying? Head to Facebook and Twitter at What's Ray Saying? Or our website, whatsraysaying.com. This series is supported by PRX, The Moth, and listeners just like you. If you would like to translate your enjoyment and support into dollars, go to whatsraysaying.com and click on Donate.

I'm Tiffany Christian, the woman who had his babies and finds his keys, saying goodbye to you from our magical home in Boone, North Carolina. Y'all take care, and we'll be saying hey again soon in the next episode of What's Ray Saying?

What's Ray Saying?