Rest in Power, Rolling Ray

Raymond Harper, known to the world as Rolling Ray, was a symbol of independence and strength. A native of Washington, D.C., he built an entire internet vocabulary from his wheelchair, coining the now ubiquitous “purrr” — his spin on “period!” — alongside a thousand viral catchphrases that rippled from X to TikTok to rap lyrics. His TV cameos on Divorce Court and MTV’s Catfish: Trolls showcased his wit to a broader audience, and Zeus Network cemented his larger-than-life persona with shows like Bobby I Love You, Purrr, of which Ray was the Executive Producer.

But Ray wasn’t just entertainment. In the summer of 2020, as Black Lives Matter protests erupted across the country, he wheeled himself into the thick of things, livestreaming in D.C. and rolling past police barricades with the same headstrong bravado that defined his online presence. Watching him demand accountability from officers, microphone in one hand and phone in the other, was unforgettable. For disabled fans especially, it was a powerful reminder of what strength and resistance looks showing up in the body one has.

His headstrong energy never wavered, even through unimaginable health struggles: burns, pneumonia, blood infections, and the day-to-day challenges of paralysis. Time and again, he logged back on, refusing to hide. If anything, the hospital updates, the selfies with bandages and IVs, became part of his story — proof that he was going to keep being Rolling Ray, no matter what.

I remember the first time I met him in New York. It was November 2020, peak COVID, and I was working at a different magazine at the time. But I really wanted to interview Ray and include him in the print issue. We bought his train ticket to and from DC, and just like that, Rolling Ray showed up at the Popeyes on Canal and Lafayette, ready to be photographed. Being around him felt like being with an otherworldly presence — an alien, an angel, someone who really mattered. When we wrapped, he looked at me and said, “Thank you, I love you, friend!” That’s who Ray was: a cultural disruptor who also had the warmth to disarm you with gratitude.

Rolling Ray’s cultural reach extended far beyond internet slang. Beyoncé loved him — “Beyoncé has my number, she checks up on me every now and then,” he once said with pride. Cardi B posted about him after his death, sparking a mix of praise and debate. And PAPER had been tuned in for years: we spotlighted him in Hood By Air’s New World Citizen campaign in 2020, situating him among the avant-garde disruptors of fashion and art. He even popped up in our coverage of Kourtney Kardashian’s gummy empire — proof that Ray’s fingerprints stretched into every corner of celebrity spectacle.

He also paved the way for a new generation of disabled and differently-abled influencers who are thriving today — from Shamar’s unfiltered livestreams to ShawtyBae’s viral rants. Ray was a real trailblazer, so maybe there’s some peace in the timing. He died two days before his 29th birthday, on the cusp of his Saturn return, under Virgo season — which he always proudly claimed. The news broke, fittingly, on Beyoncé’s birthday, the same woman he once said checked in on him.

When parasocial bonds are broken by death, it can feel surreal. He gave us everything: his joy, his pain, his body, his resilience, his humor. Watching his videos wasn’t just passive consumption — it was participation in his ongoing, defiant performance of self. Mourning him online feels less like spectacle and more like community ritual, a collective thank-you for the release he gave us during some of the hardest years. But Rolling Ray wasn’t just a meme machine. He was a Black, gay, disabled man who demanded to be seen and loved exactly as he was. He was hilarious, outrageous, and unforgettable.

Image via Getty