The Moth - Black Medicine: Ray Christian

Episode Date: January 5, 2024

On this episode, we’re turning the episode over to Ray Christian, a storyteller, historian, and valued member of the Moth family. We’re playing one of our favorite episodes from his podcast, “What’s Ray Saying,” and we just know you’ll love it. You can find “What’s Ray Saying” wherever you get your podcasts, or click on this link: https://pod.link/1097310592

Welcome to the Moth Podcast. I'm Suzanne Rust, curator at the Moth and your host for this episode. If you're a long time Moth listener, you've probably come across the work of Ray Christian. He's told stories on our stages and the Moth Reno hour. He hosts our Asheville North Carolina Story Slam and has been a beloved member of the Moth family for a long time. I'm thrilled to let you know that Rey has a podcast. It's called What's Rey Saying, where he takes you into a world of Southern-baked personal narratives interwoven with black American history and stories from his remarkable life. From his time serving as a paratrooper in the army, to wrangling goats, to becoming a

full-bright scholar, and full disclosure, Ray holds a special place in my heart. When we were helping produce his show, I discovered that as Ray was finding his own voice in the world, he was inspired by my father, Sportscaster Art Russ Jr. I used to listen to him on the radio many years ago. I love that my father's legacy lives on through someone like Ray.

We'll be sharing one of our favorite episodes, Black Medicine, where Ray reflects on his first visit to the doctor, the history of the Tuskegee study, and the reason why so many African Americans don't trust the medical system. And if you like this episode, what's Ray saying is available wherever you get your podcasts, and we'll have links in our episode description. We really hope you'll check it out.

Without further ado, let's listen to what Ray says. A few months ago, I got a shot for the flu. When I get flu shots every year, I've been getting them for about 40 years at this point, 40 years. Ever since 1978, my first year in the Army when I was 17. We're standing in this line in our white tees and boxers. There were people on both sides of us with automatic injection machines. We were all waiting to get about ten injections each. Now while we were instructed to remain silent and move along quickly, there were still pauses in the line,

created by the sporadic rhythm of sounds, made by those who jumped suddenly, shrieked or otherwise reacted with fear or pain to the injections. The line had a couple hundred people. Shriek, or otherwise reacted with fear or pain to the injections. The line had a couple hundred people. A lot of black guys in the line were even more hesitant. There were guys who hadn't even seen the doctor or gotten a shot in their whole life. It was a range of experiences that were worse than mine.

They'd pause, make comments, you could feel the reverberation of fear. Enough black guys were hesitating that a white guy in the line was like, Well, all the black dudes freaked out about getting shots. Some guys were saying, because we don't trust you. And got kind of sketchy until a drill sardine was like, break that shit up. I remember several times throughout the period I was in the army that black soldiers refused to get shots and would be brought up on charges. They'd mention a Tuskegee study, say they were scared of AIDS.

But this aversion to the shots goes way back. And the question that the white guy asked, I still hear it. It's just gotten more sophisticated as I get older. From why are you so scared to get a shot to what's wrong with getting a vaccine, it's always been some variation of why don't black people trust medicine. And I've got some answers. Who am I? 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. Ready to explore and talk with you about it. From PRX, I'm Ray Christian and this is what's Ray saying. In today's episode, we talk shots and my personal history with Black Medicine. If I get a strong need to reminisce, there's one person I call. Usually when I call my sister on the phone she will never answer the down telephone quick enough. Now I told you I'm old and slow, It takes me time to get to the phone. You know, then I'm old and slow. You probably old man just somebody. Ha ha ha.

We had ways of taking care of cells when we were younger. Home remedies, if that's what you want to call them. Curve a ringworm, tape a copper penny to the rash, upset stomach, eat white coal ash, bleeding nose, put salt pork in your nostrils. You get the picture. And no one remembers these sorts of treatments better than my sister Janice, like her uncle Alvin carried his sore throat. He'll pee in a cup and use the pee to gargle his throat with when he wasn't gargle his throat with the pee. He was using it on his face to make

his skin clear. I just the question would be did it work? Well I ain't never seen go to the doctor for a sore throat. Skin was kind gotta clear. We ingested a lot of things people make consider strange. Eating blocks of magnesium, laundry starch. Some of our neighbors ate charcoal lashes. Sometimes when we got coals, they'd give us a special syrup. When children had coals, they'd basically get them alcohol.

They'd give you a teaspoon of liquor, silly mere calories to be telling you we had a cough. That whiskey coffee, I should remember that drink from like elementary school. I'd be really sick and get that whiskey coffee. I'm almost always certain that if I talk to my sister we're going to talk about how uninformed we were, how dangerous the world used to be and how different it is now. You went to the doctor then and you tell him whatever was wrong with you, they would give you a prescription,

didn't tell you what they thought was wrong with you and you would give you a prescription. Didn't tell you what they thought was wrong with you. And you couldn't ask me so many questions, so they would cut you off. The doctors back there made you feel like you were insignificant. You think that was because we were black? Mostly, yes. Uneducated black folks, they don't, damn, damn, I don't understand if I told them so. The mistrust of medicine didn't come out of a vacuum, and actually goes back generations. During the transatlantic slave trade, peoples of African descent were taken from all parts of the continent, and they came with all kinds of experiences and knowledge, including the use of plants and medicines for healing, such as herbs.

On slave ships and plantations, this medical knowledge from home blended with new practices picked up from some of their white captors. This was not of curiosity. This was a survival mechanism. Many plantation owners simply left it to slaves to take care of themselves. And why would white captors who treated these human beings as financial capital not want better medical care to maintain their investment? Because from its origins, even until now,

people of African descent have been viewed as having very different biology than whites. From immunity to most tropical illnesses and a higher tolerance for pain, slaves were as a whole treated similar to or less than any other livestock. Slaveholders didn't have to worry about the pain threshold of their property. So self-care practices developed, using plants for healing, merging their own knowledge with that acquired from whites and native peoples where possible. Because no matter what the level of pain was, or the treatment slave's sought, they damn well better show up and work the next day.

Our grandmother was the daughter of slaves. My mother knew her slave grandfather. Every old person I knew grew up in Jim Crow. Originating from Africa to the Caribbean, we had our own traditions like root medicine, a belief in spirits, and the power of the supernatural. These practices were generally forbidden on plantations, and in conflict with Christianity. The services of root doctors and practitioners were utilized for illness and injury, for good luck, to ward off evil, to find love, and to curse someone, or have curses removed.

When you don't trust the white man's medicine, you go back to ancient practices, and these traditions continue to, even for me. The way I grew up, the way many of us grew up, when you were sick, you didn't go to the hospital. For me, that experience came 50 years ago. Back then, we lived in the cold, drafty second floor of this dilapidated row house in Richmond. It was January and I had been sick for, I don't know how many days, but too many days to count at this point. There had been times before in the winter when I felt a little sick and had a really bad cold or something and Mama would just wrap

me up tight and coats and sweaters and scarves and give me handkerchiefs and send me off to school. But this time was different. This time, she decided I was just too sick to go to school. And Mama was going to have to lead me for the day. Mama had to go to work to clean white folks' houses and ironically care for their children. She knew she had done all she could do for me and she couldn't afford for us to lose a single day's pay of about $15. She could not take care of me if she did not take care of those white families. The first remedy mama wouldn't let it be cold in the house. We had three stoves in the house. One big caracene stove, and it didn't work any more in the living room.

Another medium-sized wooden coal burn stove. The third was a portable caracene stove that could be moved by the wide hangar from room to room. But it had an old wick that had not been changed in years. Mama lit that caracene wick. She twisted the center part by the stove. But it had an old wick that had not been changed in years. Mama lit that carousine wick. She twisted the center part by the handle as a cord firing. And she put an old coffee can full of water on top to keep the air from being too dry.

That was good for your chest people would say about this. At first, it gave off a puff of city smoke that made me cough and hack out loud and desperate. After that, Mama made sure the stove was filled with carousine. She turned it down and she told me let this burn all day. But that didn't work. My chest was heavy. My throat hurt. I had trouble swallowing and breathing. But that didn't work. My chest was heavy.

My throat hurt. I had trouble swallowing and breathing, and I had a fever. I started to see things on the wall from my imagination and the flickering lights from the burnist dove. And I spoke to God about baloney. And I asked him, God, why am I so sick? Why do I feel so bad?" And God said,

It's probably because you ate that green baloney instead of feeding it to the dog. I felt extremely hot, but mom insisted that I stay wrapped in the covers. She gave me two teaspoons full of caracene and sugar, but this helped nothing. I haven't seen many times what happens when you throw caracene on a fire. I imagined at the time that if I messed with that wooden coal fire stove, I might have blown my head off. This was the second I had ever been. I had missed maybe a day or two of school before, but not multiple days. Some kids got terrible injuries from falling and breaking bones to others who got their

arms caught up in the ringer, which was a set of rollers that squeezed the water out of clothes. And for those kids that got their arms mangled up by it? Well, I never once saw one of them come to school with a cast on. Over time, some white peers would ask me, Hey, did your mom ever take you to the hospital after you broke your arm when you were young? And my answer would always be, no, you just had a broken arm. You go to school with your injury and then you get a nickname like stiff for the rest of your school days.

But the hospital, we weren't going to any hospital. We had our own remedies. That's what black folks did and that's what mama did. When the special medicine mama gave me didn't work, she called on the pastor. The grand bishop of our small storefront hole in his Penal Costor Church. The Reverend Moore. She called on him to seek God's intervention. He came over with his waters and oils that have been blessed by God, rubbed them on my head and chest, and he prayed aloud over my body.

But this helped nothing. And when my mama's appeal to Heavenly God seemed to have failed through Rev. Moore, she went to the dark side. She called on the rootly, with her charms and things See being a Christian meant if you went to the dark side you had a lack of faith And that's why she kept it a secret Right away the root lady assisted I be naked But up to this point in my life. I don't know if I have a hey anybody see me naked other than my mama But she let me know right away. is how I was going to work.

And I got naked and I prepared myself. And she slapped me several times with the broom, made me drink from a cup, and had mama wrap a cloth bag around my belly, filled with rotten fish heads, herbs, rocks, and sticks and things. And I thick-old and made it hard to breathe, or even for me to stay still. And I jumped and twisted valileir against a salt to my nose. I mean, I could taste the sickening, sticky fumes coming from this poultry.

But thinking about it now, bringing back memory that I could taste the smell with the company, feelings of nausea and disgust. I swung back and forth while my mama my stepdad and one of her friends held me down, but the rude lady yelled that it was working. The dark engine, the devil's engine was being expelled from my body.

But this helped nothing. And the hospital, we still weren't going to the hospital. When these remedies failed, my mama lost hope and And the hospital, we still weren't going to the hospital. When these remedies failed, my mama lost hope and faith that I would get better. She cried every time she asked me how I was feeling. The following morning, she got me dressed. And to my surprise, we were going to see a doctor, a white doctor.

And all of our rich men, there were only two white doctors that are willing to see black people. And at the age of 11, this would be my first time at the doctor's office. After we come back, I'll take you there. What race am I? 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 a significance of Black Americans and Military Service? Are you a Black veteran or someone in your family? Record a voice

note and email us at rayinztalking 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 too. Ray is talking at gmail.com. Thanks. I'm going to sing a song. What's racing? How often do you never ever see an an ambulance?

An ambulance. When I was going up, I'd never seen an ambulance. That's my sister Janice again. An ambulance. Somebody gets sick. If it was serious, like somebody laying on the side, well, dying, got shot or stare, but what they wished to call the paddy wagon would take them to the hospital or somebody to put them in their car and take them. And never saw an ambulance. Sometimes when I think about it, it's like, I have to have saw one. But you know what it was? I saw one TV. You know,

you know, oh TV, they would come pick up white people, but I never saw one until I left home. Never saw an ambulance. And it wasn't just ambulance. Doctors and doctors offices too. I don't ever seen them on TV. Like Mark Mark is well-be-MD. Do you have plenty of qualified doctors in Orange County? Why come to me? They don't have the face in them I haven't you, Dr. Wellby. Julia with Diane Kerrall. She was a nurse, but the black folks that showed up in her show weren't like me.

If they were black, they weren't like any black people I ever knew. Mrs. Fager washed my clothes and fixed my dress. Well, thank you, Mrs. Faker. Julia. But on TV and in the movies, black folks didn't go to the hospital or doctors either. Even in the movie, Shaft. After the famous private detective got shot up, even he didn't go to the hospital. He went to his girlfriend and she nursed him up.

John Shaft just got right back up the next day and did his thing. And that personified us. There are reasons we didn't go to the hospital. There are reasons many black folks didn't go to the hospital. There's nothing the hospital would or could do. This sort of thing might be difficult to understand. And again, it goes way back. Following the end of slavery, some private institutions that were poorly funded did emerge. But following the end of reconstruction, blacks had to depend on private organizations to provide care and build hospitals. In most of the nation and the entirety of

the old self, no medical care support was provided for blacks. And blacks were specifically refused care and support. It was seen as a waste of limited resources. With limited training and support for Black medical professionals, the Black American community increasingly depended on private donations throughout the 20th century. There were some signs of improvement, like how Blacks soldiers stationed in the South during the 1940s

created another benefit that required the federal government to build hospitals and medical resources in and around the bases. But, with integration, came the closing of all Black hospitals. Many in much need to repair and lacking adequate facilities. Now it may be obvious, and lacking adequate facilities. Now it may be obvious, but doing this created an absence of care and many of these communities. You take all that and you add stories that have been with the black community for generations, like the Tuskegee experiments, where black men were infected with syphilis and were not given treatment, so they could be studied during the entire course of the disease until they died and could be autopsy.

But the story that never seems to go away is about Dr. Charles Drew, a black surgeon and the scientists who invented the process for storing blood. In 1950, Dr. Drew was in a car accident, and the story for generations had said that he was denied blood when he was taken to a white hospital. This part of the story isn't true. Dr. Drew died even despite the doctor's efforts, but it didn't matter, not to us. Because the moral of this story was, if you're black and you go to the hospital, you're going to die. The hospital was a place for desperate people. And Mama was desperate. See here I was at age 11, sick as a doll. Sick of an adult. Going to the doctor for the first time. Now it was only about seven blocks away,

but in the crisp, cool air struggling to breathe, the walk to the doctor's office nearly killed me. This doctor's office was small, but large enough to contain five or six rows of wooden chairs. At each of the chairs set about 30 black women like my mama, all dressed like they were going to church. Floors were dark, polished wood. The walls were white with various large paintings of flowers and portraits of white men, and I didn't know.

But it smelled like white people's houses, which made it a lack of certain smells. Our house smelled like grease, cold and wood, and had the smell of mold. While white people's houses smell like bleach and brick and plaster. But during the smells and the vibe, I was super nervous. I worried about what kind of shame for shit

this was gonna be. Then arrived Dr. Martin. A huge white man with a thick neck that reminded me of a role of belonging meat from the store before they sliced it. He had on a brown tie and he wore a white shirt that looked really tight. I could see that the white doctor's jacket was a struggle for him to put on as he sat

down and took off his outer jacket. He greeted everyone by saying, how are y'all doing this morning? Ain't it good that God has allowed you to live and be here? And the women, including my mama, all nodding in the unison said variations of yes that's right uh-huh yes sir then he lit up the first of many cigarettes and cough to say it you know a lot of colored people would have better health if they had a better spirit about things he went on to talk about how colored women should treat their children and their husband, the Vile nature of TV and music. I mean, it was almost like a chapel. His room additions on life in the black community. His lectures went on for more than 30 minutes, and through the

haze of pain, fever, and discomfort, it seemed like days. The haze, a pain, fever, and discomfort, it seemed like days. A nurse finally called my name. The doctor met me inside as a Jason office, still smoking a cigarette, and the emotion to my mom had to sit back down. She didn't need to come in. And he started asking questions, something that became a pattern in my life, and in the lives of many black Americans. Doctors and authority figures having this deep interest in our personal life, especially when you went to the health department. From as long as I remember, white adults would

pepper black children with questions like that all the time, like when people from the school board would come and we had to put on shows for them. I was not unaccustomed to that. And asking about personal life, my mama cautioned us not to talk about these subjects. Playing ignorant was a survival mechanism. As he dropped cigarette ashes on my shoulder, Dr. Martin asked, what's wrong with you? Open your mouth, boy. Then you have insects, he acts. No, sir, you drink. No, sir. Then he acts where I work. And if my daddy worked, and what my daddy did for a living and own and own, then he stopped asking questions and told me to do something. Bend over and pull down your pants.

And faster than I could react, he gave me a painful injection in the ass. Now from exam to treatment, it only took a few moments. I got better over the next few days. This treatment did seem to work. The doctor told my head strep throat in probably pneumonia. And in the following weeks, various people who took part in my healing protocols took credit for what was a miracle. Healing prayer, faith in water, oils, the root lady inspired with the fishhead poultry or the piercing thick penicillin. I survived the illness, the medicines and the healers.

And yet from the healing I received from the shot, from all my shots over the years, for all the things I know about science, about medicines, about health now, I still understand why we do these remedies. But I think about my mom when I think about my kids. My parents were illiterate. They had to ask the drug store guy what the label said, neither trust that information or try some home remedies.

Now, we don't waste any time getting our kids what they need. Whether shots or medical care, like the one time my daughter had this really bad stomachache. And a certain point in my wife just said, let's take her to the doctor and see what the doctor says. And as it turned out, she had appendicitis and an obstructed bowel. And they had to perform emergency surgery. Now, she recovered swiftly, but using my mum's healthcare matrix,

my daughter would have died. Now, I can't blame my mum when she was doing what she thought was right. I'm still here, and I know a lot more now. A lot of us black folks do. I've gotten shot since that day nearly 50 years ago, more now. A lot of us black folks do. I've gotten shot since that day nearly 50 years ago, and I've been to see many doctors. What's changed?

Sure. I got more education on how things work, but the cynicism did grow over time. If the Army gave me 100 shots before I was 20 years old, what's 100 more gonna do? I went from absolute fear to, I don't care. I still get why other brave black soldiers were freaking out about getting a shot.

And I still get why other black folks freak out today about getting a shot. When people ask about why we're so scared of shots and why we don't trust medicine, I just have to say it's not that we don't trust medicine. We just don't trust people. Next time on What's Ray saying, how black fashion influenced American culture impacted the black community and almost changed the course of my life. You remember BoBos? Yeah.

You guys explain what BoBos are. BoBos is a cheap guy, tennis shoes that you get from the Supermodel. You walk in, you go to the meat counter, you get your milk and all that all, bad way, come on, you need some tennis shoes. You know? Dressing Black. 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 Carrol is the associate producer. Story editing by Mark Pagan with development support from The Moth. Sound designed by Rebecca Sidel. 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 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 Ray's saying, head to Facebook and Twitter at what's Ray's saying, or our website, what's Ray's saying dot com. Ray builds this podcast with mountain Spring Water, Deep Fried Back 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, whatRaysaying.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 What'sRaysaying.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 Say. That's all I got. There's no such thing as no other secrets.

That's the announcement for that map, right? That was about to all of us. What the hell about the other?