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The "worst rap cliche" actually makes a ton of sense when you learn about its history.

If I were to put you on the spot, right now, and force you to perform a freestyle rap, how would it go? If you're like 99% of the people on the planet who aren't naturally gifted in lyrical storytelling, you'd probably say something like, "My name is Mike and I'm here to say..." to get you off and running, and then your brain would scramble for something easy to rhyme with "say." Probably doing something in a "major way," right?

It's the first thought that comes into almost all of our heads, and it's a heavily used trope on sitcoms and in film. It's deeply embedded in pop culture lore, so much so that we've all absorbed the rhythm and cadence of the rhyme practically by osmosis—even kids who weren't even born during the early hip-hop of the 70s and 80s know it! But where the heck does it actually come from? Certainly, not a lot of real rappers use the line; not anymore. I heard it used on an episode of one of my favorite sitcoms the other night and got to wondering about its origin. I'm always fascinated by our sort of shared consciousness, how we "all" seem to intuitively know and understand things without ever understanding why—so I decided to do some digging.

When it comes to "My name is...and I'm here to say," one of the earliest known uses of the phrase came from, wait for it...a Chiquita Banana commercial created in the 1940s.

The specific line in question, sung by a sultry and unnecessarily-sexy cartoon banana in a low cut dress, goes like this:

"I'm Chiquita Banana and I've come to say / Bananas have to ripen in a certain way / When they're flecked with brown and have a golden hue / Bananas taste the best and are the best for you."

The commercial became iconic (the YouTube clip below, for example, has over three million views) and a staple moment in pop culture. If you can believe it, at that time bananas were relatively new to Americans. The fruit had been around for decades but different distributors and producers jockeying for position had kept it from really reaching the mainstream. The song was catchy as all get out and also helped Americans understand how to store, eat, and use this new exotic fruit; it was a reintroduction of sorts. Chiquita also desperately needed some positive press after the horrific Banana Massacre in 1928.

It's one of the most famous commercial jingles of all time.

- YouTubewww.youtube.com

In 1988, Barney Rubble took a page out of Chiquita Banana's playbook and helped further cement the catchy rhyme into the zeitgeist.

If you don't remember the Fruity Pebbles commercials of the 80s and 90s, most of them feature Barney Rubble trying to trick or distract Fred Flintstone in order to steal his cereal. In this clip, Barney pretends to be a rapper, allowing him to (nearly) swipe the Fruity Pebbles while Fred is busy dancing to the beat.

"I'm the Master Rapper and I'm here to say / I love Fruity Pebbles in a major way ... But to get that fruity taste / I've gotta trick Fred"

- YouTubewww.youtube.com

Those are two of the earliest iterations of the rhyming intro. But around the same time, the catchy catchphrase was beginning to show up in early hip hop.

Yes, honest to God rappers actually did use the phrase, contrary to popular belief.

In 1979, the legendary "Rapper's Delight" by Sugarhill Gang featured the line: "You see, I am wonder Mike and I'd like to say Hello / To the black, to the white, the red and the brown, the purple and yellow."

In 1983, Melle Mel drops the exact line to perfect in "The Birthday Party" by Grandmaster Flash & The Furious 5: "Melle Mel and I'm here to say / I was born on the 15th day of May"

But you might not have picked up on those if you weren't a big hip-hop listener at the time, so many people actually credit the commercials with "My name is..." catching on beyond the rap world.

At some point soon after, the rhyme became a trope used in sitcoms, more cheesy commercials, and films to portray someone who knows nothing about rap trying to rap.

Think of it like when parents start using their kids' slang, thus ruining it for everyone.

My personal favorite example has to be Will Ferrell's devil character from a Saturday Night Live sketch, struggling to write music, when he finally spits: "I'm the devil and I'm here to say / I'm the most evil rapper in the USA"

- YouTubewww.youtube.com

Announcing your name at the start of a rap may seem like a cheesy trope now, but it actually had significance in the days of early rap.

Chaz Kangas writes for The Village Voice: "Whether literally tagging their name in graffiti in public spaces or mastering signature break dancing maneuvers, it was about getting your name in as many eyes and ears as possible. Of course, when it came to rocking the mic at a party to the break-a break-a dawn, there was no better way to have people know who you were than by identifying yourself."

Rappers still do it today, though the script has changed a bit. Most artists find a way, especially early in their career, to work their name into certain songs. It helps give them notoriety and it gives them some recognition for listeners who may have liked one of their guest verses on another artist's track. For crying out loud, one of the most famous and influential rap songs ever is literally called "My Name Is" by Eminem!

And as for the "I'm here to say" part? Well, it's a great segue into whatever comes next, and there are endless words and phrases you can rhyme with "say," so you're pretty much set if you decide to go with the cliched opener.

So, maybe it's not the worst rap trope ever. When you think about the storied history, the importance of name recognition, and the flexibility the rhyme gives you...maybe it's actually the best.

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Why a small-town radio show gets call-ins from across the country every Monday night.

The best of hip-hop and the sounds of home, straight through prison walls.

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Dave's Killer Bread

William Griffin was a teenager when he had his first run-in with the law. Now in his mid-40s, he's been in prison for a quarter-century.

Michelle Hudson was a childhood friend of Griffin's, but the pair lost touch when her father's military job relocated her family. Returning to Virginia decades later, she learned about the mistakes that landed Griffin in prison.

"It was just street life, hanging out, doing the wrong thing," says Hudson, describing the unfortunate events that led Griffin from "street life" to "sentenced to life."


Photo via iStock.

Griffin's crimes weren't the fatal ones we typically associate with a life sentence, but he'd made one too many mistakes for the Commonwealth of Virginia. Between the state's three strikes law and an unsympathetic judge on the bench, he was ordered the maximum punishment.

For Hudson, a casual inquiry about an old friend became a mission to help him. What she didn't predict was that mission blossoming into mutual love and eventually an engagement — despite the challenges and uncertainty his life in prison presented.

In the beginning, Griffin and Hudson reconnected with help from "Calls From Home," a radio show broadcasting out of the small mountain town of Whitesburg, Kentucky.

Every Monday night after their nightly hip-hop program, WMMT-FM invites audiences to record messages of encouragement for their listeners in over a dozen prisons throughout Central Appalachia.  The station records calls from 7-9 p.m. local time to be aired during the one-hour show at 9 p.m.‌‌

Though Whitesburg is small enough that you may be reading about it for the first time, believe it or not, the radio station never has a shortage of calls. In fact, former co-host Sylvia Ryerson wrote, as more prisoners tuned in, they started receiving calls from all over the country. Here's why:

The majority of U.S. prisons are built in remote regions like eastern Kentucky or upstate New York, which makes visitation a challenge for many families.

Griffin, for example, spent the first 23 years of his sentence at Wallens Ridge State Prison in Big Stone Gap, Virginia, an hour south of Whitesburg and hundreds of miles from Hudson and the rest of his family.

In 2016, he was transferred to a prison closer to home, where after decades of isolation he finally enjoys weekly visitation. But during his time "in the mountains," Griffin says he was lucky to see a family member once a month.

‌"He said it was like 'dialing to his heart,'" Hudson said about Griffin's reaction to her first "Call From Home" in 2012. Photo via Michelle Hudson, used with permission.‌

"Over time, we start to think we don't even exist, that nobody cares what we're going through or the change we're trying to make," he says. "I deserved corrections. I deserved punishment. But I didn't deserve to lose my life."

For prisoners like Griffin, the inflated outgoing call rates, prospect of mail interception, and restrictive visitation rules are barriers enough. But the distance courts create by sending them to far-off facilities present often insurmountable financial hurdles for their families to visit.

Regular visitation between prisoners and their families can help reduce the likelihood of criminal offenses after they are released.  

A 2011 study by the Minnesota Department of Corrections found that "visitation in general significantly decreased the risk of recidivism."

And according to the Centre for Justice and Reconciliation, more "visitor-friendly" policies could be a boon to public safety by establishing for offenders "a continuum of social support from prison to the community."

‌Photo via iStock.‌

But since existing policies don't make regular visitation easy, "Calls From Home" has helped fill that void for 17 years, becoming a lifeline of sorts for its incarcerated listeners.

"I'm always amazed at the persistence and love that comes in every Monday night," says co-host Elizabeth Sanders. "Some days are harder than others. Sometimes you end up crying. Sometimes you laugh with them. But everyone is just so thankful for the chance to shout out to their loved ones."

Fan mail for WMMT from an area prison. Listeners know Sanders as "DJ Izzy Lizzy." Ryerson's fans knew her as "DJ Sly Rye." Image via WMMT/Restorative Radio, used with permission.

Though the messages they record are usually directed at specific individuals on the inside, Ryerson believes sharing their families' stories can help change public perceptions about people with criminal backgrounds.

Sylvia Ryerson. Image via Field Studio/WMMT/Vimeo.

"When you air voices from their children, their grandmothers, their church pastors, it allows them to be seen as whole human beings that have families and communities that love them and want them to come home."

Ryerson has expanded on "Calls From Home" with a new project called "Restorative Radio: Audio Postcards."

In this longer-form radio series, she collaborates with family members to create immersive audio experiences that transport prisoners into their families' lives while also revealing to audiences the fundamental humanity beneath their criminal records.

Hudson was one of Ryerson's first participants, recording over 10 hours of her life and interactions — cooking, chatting with family and friends, visiting the local swimming pool with her kids, attending her daughter's dance recital — that ultimately became a one-hour "postcard" to Griffin.

Restorative Radio participants Lessie Gardner (left) and Louise Goode arrive for visitation at Red Onion State Prison in Virginia. Photo by Raymond Thompson/Restorative Radio, used with permission.

"These are not the love sounds he gets to hear every day," says Hudson. "He hears chains, prison guards, and prison doors slamming shut, which can make a person very cold. We wanted to warm his heart, bring that humanity back to him, because they try so hard to take that away from them."

Hudson explained how making the postcard became a form of healing not just for Griffin, but also for the people she recorded. "It brought him closer to his family and his family closer to him," she says, noting how it reunited him with his brother and even the son he never knew.

Griffin's story shows how even in the direst circumstances, a little bit of family contact can go a long way toward prisoner rehabilitation.

"I believe something good is going to happen for me. The show helped my wife come into my life and open the door for me to believe in myself again. Now I want to help other people," he says, adding that he hopes to one day be a guide for at-risk youth. "I have a testimony, and I want to bring it to people who want to do better."