Meeting Bobby Hundreds: A Story of Identity and Mindful Consumerism
About two weeks ago, I saw a poster at Barnes and Noble for a book talk and signing with Bobby Hundreds, co-founder of The Hundreds streetwear brand. I haven’t been following Bobby for a long time but I looked up to him and wanted to meet him. Wristbands for the event were available on a first come first serve basis, so I drove up as soon as I could on the day of the release and signing.
The experience was incredible — I listened to an amazing discussion between Bobby and Wale (you know, the guy that sings “They keep sayin’ whale but my name Wah-lay”), learned a few new things about streetwear’s history, and got to meet Bobby himself. I was nervous while standing in line to meet him, just like I was when I met John John Florence, my favorite surfer.
When it was my turn, I walked up to him and shook his hand. He asked me if I had met anyone tonight, and my reflexive response was, “Well, um…no… I’m here to meet you.” Face palm. He signed my book and as the moderator was trying to move things along as quickly as possible, I spilled out what I wanted to say to Bobby: “Hey man, thanks for breaking the mold and paving the way for young Asian guys like me.” To that, he replied, “Oh yeah? Thanks man.” More on what that means later.
There was a lot of down time at the event to look around at all the unique folks surrounding me. While I had a keen interest in the subjects discussed, I felt physically out of place in my monochromatic outfit of jeans and navy blue button down. I was the only one not swagged out in Hundreds gear or a hoodie, hat, or graphic tee. To be honest, I’ve only been following Bobby and the Hundreds for a few years, don’t own any of their apparel, and don’t have plans to get back into streetwear. So why was I there?
To explain this, I’ll prime the story with some background on my relationship with streetwear, which dates back to elementary school.
I had a lot of different influences growing up. I was the only Asian male at school, therefore, my sociocultural experiences were shaped by White, Black, Middle Eastern, and Latino kids. Prior to the 6th grade, Southpole, Ecko, and basketball shoes were all staples of a fresh fit. I remember AF-1’s weren’t an option for me, so I coveted my Allen Iverson-i3 Pressures, which were the second best thing. Music had a tremendous influence on the clothes I wore. Once I was turned on to the genre of rock music, I ditched the baggy textiles of rap, for skate brands like Etnies and Volcom. I never stuck with one style for very long, but it was apparent that I did care about the clothes I wore.
Upon entering junior high school, Stussy, Obey and LRG emerged as streetwear powerhouses. The streets were taking over our suburban communities, and all the cool kids, the troublemakers, were wearing Sci-Fen and LRG, with skinny Krew jeans. The emergence of expensive streetwear that was marketed towards teenagers annoyed my parents, but they still took me to the skate shop for back to school clothes. I could wear those brands, but I couldn’t afford the Nike SBs that all my friends were getting into. After dishing out nearly $200 for a couple of shirts and a pair of jeans, my folks said no to the whole shoe thing. I hated it — I couldn’t blame them for it, but I definitely did. My friends were paying a lot of money for some of these shoes, and while I desperately wanted a pair, I knew it wasn’t within our family’s budget.
This is also where I first became aware of socio-economic classes — I was lower middle class, but my friends’ families all had money. I hated living through that shit. Never mind that all the normal kids in my honors classes were too busy studying to care about shoes and shirts. All my friends, or at least the guys I wanted to be friends with, were into streetwear. I know I sound extremely privileged for complaining about this, but at the time, this really was my biggest problem. By the time I entered high school, my best friend, Paul, was a streetwear guru, but by then I had given up on hype clothing.
So that was my relationship with streetwear — it concluded with a fake pair of Avenger SB Dunks I was ridiculed for. My taste in fashion changed as I transitioned into new parts of my life. Band tees, skinny jeans, and Vans were the hallmark of the screamo and alternative music I embraced. As I grew older, I adopted the brands that my other friends were wearing, primarily White guys in my Boy Scout troop and swim team. These guys all looked like they walked into PacSun back in 2005 and said, “I’ll take five shirts with the big )( on it.” Needless to say, when I modeled myself after these guys, I morphed into a walking billboard for my favorite surf brands… and it doesn’t end there. I’m still thankful for one of my closest girl friends who had the balls to tell me, “Dude, stop with the jeans and flip flops. It’s tacky.”
Fast forward to 2018. I’m perusing my closet for the day’s fit. RVCA shirt, RVCA shirt, Billabong, RVCA again, Volcom, Outerknown. I believe the clothes you wear and the brands that you choose make a statement about who you are and what your beliefs are — that’s the truth, for me. So, in staying course with my belief, what did my closet say about me? It didn’t take long for me to realize that I had become lazy in my search for identity and had handed that task over to the surf industry. I won’t go further than that, because the rest of that explanation is a ton of psychological onion peeling more suited for another entry.
I love to surf and skate, and I’m accepting of the image that the industry has created — you’re a chill, laidback dude, doesn’t like rules, has ties to the ocean. But the looming question in the back of my mind has always been, “Why do I still feel like I don’t belong?” With every shirt I bought, I felt less like a part of the culture and more like I was fabricating a fit, with my outfit. I’ve felt like this for years, but it’s a question I never bothered to look deeper into because none of the potential answers were welcoming of who I was.
This is where Bobby Hundreds’ influence ties in to my life. I started following him on Instagram, randomly, in 2017. A year later, in May 2018, Bobby published a blog entry titled: “CAN SURF LEARN FROM STREETWEAR?: The Importance of Diversity and Representation in Brand-Building.” If you have ever had a chronic health issue, you know how frustrating it is to go from doctor to doctor, only to be redirected to another specialist who “might have more experience treating your condition.” Then, you find the one who understands your symptoms, your pain, and has a plan to treat you. That’s what it felt like to stumble across his post.
My whole life, I had secretly wondered, “Where the hell am I in their posters?” but settled on many assumptions that would have to suffice. Thoughts like “Asians aren’t as appealing to the market”, “Most Asians don’t surf or skate”, and the worst of all, “Maybe they just don’t like Asians” floated around in my sensitive mind. Living with these thoughts sucked, but no one around me was talking about this, so I drowned out my thoughts with more plaid flannels and logo shirts.
In his blog, Bobby speaks directly to surf industry executives, predominantly White men from Orange County, about the lack of representation and diversity in surf branding. In my head, I thought, “Wow, this rich Asian guy is telling a bunch of rich White guys to start thinking about diversity. That’s bold and takes a ton of courage.” I was impressed, but more so I felt understood. Bobby is Korean too, and I felt like he was the version of me that had put in the work and earned the credibility to stand up and speak his truth to these guys. The entire post is gold — I had never read any opinion piece so rich in knowledge about a culture’s history, social climates, and so well adorned with research from key industry players.
Essentially, his post either confirmed or corrected any assumptions I had. Marketing efforts go into attracting the most popular surfing demographic, which, for geographic and economic reasons, happens to be White. I never saw myself in their campaigns because from a business standpoint, it didn’t make sense (to them) to market to the minority. It was as simple as that, or at least as simple of an explanation that I needed.
While I do believe there may be other reasons behind the lack of representation in surf culture, Bobby’s post sufficed. It was enough for me that someone out there felt the same way I did, spoke up about it, and has built an entire brand around people, community, and being relatable to its consumers. Before I started following his’s blog, the Hundreds was just another “fuccboi” brand to me. Before I knew about his upbringing and his core company value of “People over Product”, I never once thought that anyone in the fashion industry was invested in sending a message and connecting with their people. Of course, this is my naiveté of all things fashion and disillusionment with our capitalist society, but Bobby’s story is a breath of fresh air.
You see, this isn’t a love story where I come back to streetwear, nor is it about my blindness toward an industry that never cared about me. It’s about getting a fresh pair of lenses. Through the influence of Bobby’s work, I’ve chosen to be more conscious of everything I purchase. Aside from the basic business need of turning profits, I want to know what their values are. I look at their marketing — who are they serving and how well do they know their target market? If they call themselves streetwear, what are they doing for the actual streets? If they’re a surf brand, what are they doing to spread awareness about our polluted oceans, or to make surf culture more inclusive of minorities? While these businesses don’t have to be the next Patagonia (the industry standard in sustainability), what efforts are they making to show us that they care if we have a planet to stand and wear their shirts on?
I feel naive and foolish for not being a mindful consumer at age 26, but I think there are a lot of things that go under the radar until someone we look up to brings it to our attention on a silver platter. And that’s exactly what I respect Bobby for — for not shying away from the important, socially charged questions and for speaking his truth as an experienced industry professional. It’s not every day that you see people accept their responsibility to the greater community.
When you look at clothing through a community-based lens, you realize you have so much power as the consumer in the choices you make. When you look at clothing through a global lens, you realize there’s even more responsibility that falls on companies, therefore, the power you have as a consumer is expansive. We all have the power to force these massive companies to make more ethical decisions in marketing, sourcing, producing and partnering. It all starts with having the courage to speak your truth and refusing to stand with those who don’t represent you and your beliefs. And sometimes, it takes someone who looks like you and has the same interests as you, to inspire you to stand up. So, thank you, Bobby Kim.
To wrap things up, I’ll take us back to the moment I met Bobby. When I told him, “Hey man, thanks for breaking the mold and paving the way for young Asian guys like me”, what I meant was, “Thanks for being a weird fucking Korean guy that didn’t wanna play classical instruments and be an engineer. Thanks for being a part of the surf, skate, and punk cultures and being vocal about their influence in your life. And thank you, for your big gigantic balls — to drop a career in law and pursue your passion, becoming an inspiration to thousands of minorities, immigrants, and misfits.”
To questioning everything. To holding our favorite companies accountable. To being responsible and mindful consumers. Cheers.
