DEFINING WHAT “HOME” means for herself, and finding homes for underrepresented creative work, are both recurring themes in Tessa Thompson’s life. The 39-year-old actor is literally building a home (her first) in Los Angeles (her hometown). She’s also continuing to establish herself as a producer through her company, Viva Maude Productions, where she’s developing projects by folks who audiences don’t usually see—and stories that affirm through real representation rather than by adhering to the politics of respectability. And now, with her latest big-screen blockbuster, Creed III (out March 3), Thompson is returning to the eight-year-old Rocky-spinoff franchise that helped make her a household name. “It feels like coming home,” she tells me.

When I catch up with Thompson on Zoom, she’s not quite settled into the new digs she shares with her dog, Coltrane. The Internet is a little wonky and there are various people coming in and out—making deliveries and placing things. “It’s still kind of a work in progress,” she says of the home she purchased in the early days of the pandemic but was only recently able to begin fully renovating due to work and waiting for permits. But Thompson—fresh-faced and glowing with her waist-length braids half up in a top knot—doesn’t seem at all stressed about the process. Her vibe is extremely chill. “This home has been such a pleasure to build,” she says. And it’s been more than that. “It’s basically a gut renovation, so every inch of the house is an extension of things that were once ideas in conversations and then suddenly on paper, and then blueprints. I think the past couple of years have been, for me, about creating the architecture, not just for this place that I’m currently in, but of this company that I’m building. It’s been nice to have this outward reminder of what’s possible—that we can have ideas and make things. I’ve always kind of known that, but it’s been crystallized in a way with this process of having this home.”

Building the home of her dreams in Los Angeles is particularly significant to Thompson. Born and raised in the city, she grew up in apartments with her mother and sister and spent her school vacations in New York with her dad and his kids from his second marriage, a sister and brother. (“We’re a deeply blended family, I suppose. For me, it feels quite normal,” she says.) Since taking off in the mid-aughts with the beloved TV shows Veronica Mars (in 2005 and 2006) and Grey’s Anatomy (in 2006), and then with such notable movies as Mississippi Damned (2009), For Colored Girls (2010), and Dear White People (2014), Thompson’s career has sent her all over the world. “Because of my line of work, I’ve been so nomadic,” she explains. “I’m based where the work is, and that changes. It has sometimes served me well to not have a concrete home to miss when I’m away. I’m totally a millennial—this idea of renting someplace and having something that’s yours but also not yours didn’t really bother me.” Over the last couple of years, though, Thompson has spent more time in her hometown than anywhere else, and much of her scattered family is now finding its way to the West Coast as well. “Almost all of my family is in L.A. now,” she says. “It’s the first time in my life where that’s been the case. It’s been really incredible to put down roots in a city that I already feel rooted to and also to get to really build something.”

Thompson, whose father is a musician, grew up destined to be an artist. “Everyone in my family makes something,” she says. As evidence, she holds up a ceramic bowl made by her mother, who also draws and hand-makes jewelry. “When I first started thinking around being a creative person in pursuit of a career—watching my parents, and really everyone in my family—I always thought of it as something you just sort of do. My family feels intensely creative. I was raised with the idea that there’s no one way to do that ‘right’ or ‘successfully.’”

Rodarte Dress and Sweater; Lillian Shalom Ring; Necklaces: Thompson’s Own.

Anonlychild Jacket, Skirt, Leggings, and Top; Giambattista Valli Shoes; Socks: Stylist’s Own

Freedom to create isn’t the only privilege Thompson was afforded by way of her bohemian upbringing. She’s also felt free to be herself in other ways. In 2018, the typically private star shared with multiple media outlets that she is attracted to both men and women. “I hadn’t thought about it as ‘coming out,’” explains Thompson, who’s been romantically linked to Janelle Monáe and left curious tongues wagging when photographed getting close to Taika Waititi and Rita Ora. “It wasn’t a deliberate effort, but there’s something powerful about seeing some part of yourself reflected in the media. In that way, I think the more that we tell our stories, and the less afraid we are to be honest about who we are and who we love, the more we help other people do the same thing. I’m really lucky in the sense that I grew up inside of a community and inside of a family where it’s not been hard for me to do that. But I acknowledge that for so many people, it is really hard, and that’s not to be taken lightly. If being able to talk authentically about who I am helps other people do the same, then I’m grateful for it.”

Although Thompson performed in several school plays, pursuing a career in acting wasn’t a given. “Growing up in Los Angeles, something about proximity to [the industry] made me sort of take the idea for granted and not consider it seriously,” she says of making it in Hollywood. “It makes total sense to me that people come to L.A. from different parts of the world with this dream—and maybe I would have been one of those people had I not grown up in L.A.”

Now Thompson—who, before embarking on her Hollywood career at 22, studied cultural anthropology at Santa Monica College and wondered if there was “more important work” that she might enjoy—seems to have not just found, but also created, the perfect career for herself. Not a stereotypical scene-stealer, Thompson has become known for performances that are often understated—neither boisterous nor loud, but imbued with an ineffable allure that makes it impossible not to focus on her extremely expressive face when she’s on screen. Her diverse résumé includes standout roles as a civil rights hero (Selma, 2014) and a villainous robot (Westworld, 2016 to 2022). And she’s as acclaimed for her work in blockbusters like Marvel’s Thor films (2017 to 2022) as she is for indies like Sorry to Bother You (2018) and Little Woods (2018).

“I want to do things that excite me and scare me and also things that are fun,” says Thompson when asked how she chooses her projects. “I like to take risks, and I feel really varied in terms of my interests. I have seen so many folks in the course of their careers be able to traverse really varied spaces, but I just don’t know if that opportunity has been afforded to talent of color in the same way.”

In Creed III, she returns as Bianca, one of her most beloved characters, the girlfriend-now-wife of the franchise’s titular Adonis Creed, played by her close friend Michael B. Jordan, who makes his directorial debut with this third installment.

“I just love making these movies,” says Thompson. “It always feels like a homecoming. Over the eight years that we’ve been working on this series of films, there’s a familiarity that has been established, particularly between me and Mike. We have such a shorthand. We both have grown so much since the first time around. With Mike at the helm, it was so exciting to see someone I love so much actualize something that’s been a dream—and then see him do it so well.”

Adding to the familial vibe on set is the fact that much of the crew has worked on all three films. “You get to see everyone’s growth,” says Thompson. “Over the years, many of them have had families and there’s something that feels really special and rarefied about that. You typically have that in television, but not so much in the movie-making process.” The third installment also adds Lovecraft Country’s Jonathan Majors, who Thompson calls “a chameleon and fantastic actor,” to the mix as Adonis’ childhood friend-turned-rival. “These movies are, of course, very masculine in that they are about dudes fighting,” says Thompson, “but there’s so much at the heart of the film that is actually unpacking the toxicity of masculinity.”

Along those same lines, as a producer, Thompson says multidimensional characters who defy stereotypes always dominate the stories she wants to tell. “With a project like Passing, for instance, there was this fundamental idea at the core of that film that none of us fit squarely into the boxes that we sometimes try to stuff ourselves inside,” says Thompson of the 2021 film, adapted from the 1929 novel by Nella Larsen, which she both starred in and produced. A story about two Black women friends who lose touch and then reconnect in New York where one of them is pretending to be white, Passing earned Thompson a BAFTA nomination for her performance and a reputation as a producer who is unafraid to tackle challenging material. “It really strikes to the heart of something that I think is doubly true for some of us, depending on our particulars,” she says of that film. “In Hollywood, there are these very small boxes that we have been given to exist inside.”

Since creating her own production company in 2021, Thompson has announced planned adaptations of three more books—Nnedi Okorafor’s Afrofuturist novel Who Fears Death; short story collection and National Book Award finalist The Secret Lives of Church Ladies, by Deesha Philyaw; and Luster, a sexy, yearning novel about a young woman who becomes entangled in an older couple’s marriage. “You know when you read something, or you see something, and it feels like it’s yours? It feels like it’s speaking right to you, personally?” Thompson asks. “But then you have conversations with other people and you realize you’re in this community of people who are thinking and feeling the same way?” Thompson says this is true of Luster, a book notable for its main character, who is both imperfect, and at times, unlikable, a freedom rarely afforded to Black women protagonists. “Luster felt like an important story that should be told, but not in a medicinal way,” explains Thompson. “It’s not political, it’s just delicious.”

If not political, deliciousness on its own can certainly feel liberating. “I want us to be seen, not as a monolith, but for all the things that we can be,” says Thompson about Black representation on screen. “That’s been an aim of mine personally. The altruistic reason is that I want to be able to advocate for my community. And my less altruistic reason is it’s just more interesting and more fun that way. Both reasons—the altruistic one and the less altruistic one—keep me inspired to chart that course. I ask myself a lot, ‘Where have we not been before?’ And that’s not just about Black women, necessarily; it’s thinking around all the pockets of folks who maybe haven’t gotten the opportunity to be seen in really varied ways in media and in popular storytelling, and just thinking, ‘How do we get us there?’”

It seems inevitable that as a natural-born artist, Thompson will expand even further beyond acting and producing as her passions continue to develop. “I’ve been working on an adaptation of my own,” she reveals. “I have thought about writing and directing for a while and I’ve even written stuff that I just never showed anybody because it was more an exercise for myself. I’ve been really waiting for something to strike me—something that I could adapt that felt like I had skin in the game, where there’s something fundamental about myself that I also get to explore in the piece. I’m really excited that I feel like I have found that thing. It’s really been a gift.”

Though she’s mum on specifics, we can expect the work to be consistent with her overarching philosophy: “The thing that has become a real aim in the work that I do,” says Thompson, “in whatever my small contribution is to Hollywood or film iconography—I want to expand the way that a woman like me is perceived.”

Simone Rocha Dress; Paris Georgia Jacket; Balmain Shoes; Lillian Shalom Ring; Necklaces: Thompson’s Own.

Top Image: COLLINA STRADA DRESS; NECKLACES: THOMPSON’S OWN

BY SABRINA FORD

PHOTOGRAPHED BY Phylicia J. L. Munn

Styling by Wayman + Micah // Makeup by Nina Park

Hair by Lacy Redway // Nails by Zola Ganzorigt

Karen Elson is finally ready to have some fun. “Being a model, I felt for many years like I had to work extra hard to prove myself as a musician. I felt like I couldn’t just be good—I had to be incredible at it. I had to almost bleed for it,” the singer/songwriter/supermodel says of her recording career, which began with the 2010 album The Ghost Who Walks.

“I got older, and I got more comfortable in my skin. Also, there was something about COVID—it’s been such a reckoner. There’s just been this shift in me,” says Elson, 43. “I can’t take myself seriously anymore. I really can’t.”

Partow dress; House of Harlow boots; Bowen NYC Earrings; KATKIM ring.

Not taking yourself seriously must be easier said than done when you’re one of the more recognizable faces—and heads of hair—in fashion. The U.K.-born Elson, who now calls Nashville home, has been working as a model since she was 15 and has walked the runway for everyone from Anna Sui to Marc Jacobs to Alexander McQueen, and appeared on every imaginable major fashion magazine cover. In 2020, she released The Red Flame, a memoir-meets-coffee-table book chronicling her career so far. In between that and raising the two teenagers she shares with ex-husband musician Jack White (they divorced in 2013), she’s also an advocate for models. As a member of the Model Alliance’s Worker Council, Elson is a visible and vocal advocate for the Fashion Workers Act, which would regulate modeling agencies and establish labor protection for models, hair and makeup professionals, stylists, and other creatives.

Bird necklace; Bowen NYC earrings; Vintage suit and shoes.

For a time, the pressure she felt caused Elson to fall out of love with music, she says, but at the start of the pandemic, she began taking long walks around her Nashville neighborhood, listening to the stuff she grew up on—Nirvana, the Hives, Cocteau Twins, Sonic Youth. “I had this really extended downtime, and it was the first time since I was a teenager that I stayed in one place long enough to really consider how I was feeling,” says Elson. “When I was young, music was my escape from pain. Certain songs made you feel like, ‘I’m not alone in the world and this other person understands these weird, complicated feelings, I also have.’ I became like that teenager in my bedroom again. I fell in love with the escapism that music presents.”

ODEEH Lounge Set; Marla Aaron necklace; Rings: KATKIM and THE‘VIT.

Letting go sounds good on Elson. Her latest album, Green, released earlier this year, is a clear and deliberate shift away from the moodier sound that defined her earlier work. For Green, Elson joined forces with fellow Nashville residents Daniel Tashian and Ian Fitchuk, acclaimed for their collaborations with Kacey Musgraves, to create a sound that is happy, silly, and reflective. “My first few records definitely lend themselves to lonelier concepts—and darker ones,” says Elson, whose second album, 2017’s Double Roses, was reductively called a “divorce album” by many critics. But this time, she explains, “I wrote the majority of the album during the height of COVID, when there was just so much uncertainty in a manner that, globally, we hadn’t experienced before. I felt like the world was so heavy that I needed a light—emotional sunlight.”

L’agence dress and sweater; THE‘VIT necklace and ring.

Tracks range from the playful “Modern Love,” on which Elson recalls the pitfalls of being an old soul looking for love in the Internet age, to “Fergus in the Sun,” an ethereal tribute to her cherished cat, written the day before he died. “I wanted it to feel like, if you were away on vacation and you heard this record, you could just sit there with your drink and enjoy it. I wanted it to sound good on vinyl. That was the motivation. [There] was not any dark, tortured, artist motivation for this record.”

Over the summer, Elson performed songs from Green during a three-day residency at Café Carlyle, New York City’s famed cabaret. It was a full-circle moment. “I saw Eartha Kitt there when I was 21,” explains Elson. “She walked past me and she took her mint out of her mouth and put it on my dinner plate, and I was just like, ‘I love this woman, and one day I want to do what she’s doing.’ And 20 years later, there I was on that stage, performing.”

There’s a lesson to glean here, and Elson says it plainly. “Life is short, and life is fleeting. We’ve got to enjoy every fucking minute we’ve got here.”

Interview by Sabrina Ford

Photographed by Diana King

Styled by Leslie Stephens // Makeup by Anais Shiba

 This article originally appeared in the Fall 2022 print edition of BUST Magazine. Subscribe today! 

GIVENCHY SHIRT; LIYA EARRINGS

These days, every cafe seems to be playing a ’90s soul playlist and Forever 21 offers a variety of Aaliyah T-shirts. But when recording artist Kehlani emerged almost a decade ago, music rooted in traditional R&B wasn’t exactly in vogue, and it certainly wasn’t the go-to sound for young pop stars. Yet, when Kehlani released their first mixtape, Cloud 19, in 2014, their revealing lyrics, earnest vocals, and exploration of love and sex reflected the influence of artists like Brandy (their “original favorite”), Jill Scott, and Lauryn Hill—whose face is one of Kehlani’s many tattoos.

It wasn’t just their embrace of old-school R&B that immediately set the artist apart from their peers, though. Wearing baggy clothes and sporting tats on their body, arms, neck, and even face, Kehlani appeared on the scene with a look that was less polished than those molded and manufactured by the pop-star machine. Cloud 19 made it onto Complex magazine’s list of Top 50 Albums of 2014, but Kehlani really broke out the following year with their first commercial release, the Grammy-nominated mixtape You Should Be Here. Soon, the singer was collaborating with everyone from Justin Bieber to Cardi B. 

Today, the insanely popular singer, who is multi-racial, queer, and identifies most closely with the non-binary pronoun “they,” boasts nearly 14 million Instagram followers, and some of their biggest hits—including “Gangsta” from the soundtrack for Suicide Squad and “Good Life” from The Fate of the Furious soundtrack—have over 350 million listens on YouTube each. Critical reception for their work has been equally overwhelming; 2017’s SweetSexySavage landed on Rolling Stone’s top 20 R&B albums list that year, and both 2019’s mixtape While We Wait and 2020’s It Was Good Until It Wasn’t debuted at No. 1 on the R&B albums chart. 

At age 27, Kehlani is a mother, in love, deeply entrenched in a spiritual practice that they say saved their life, and feeling settled into themself and their career for the first time ever. This state of peace and security is reflected on the singer/songwriter’s third album, Blue Water Road, a collection of love songs by an artist with nothing to prove that was released at the end of April. Via Zoom from their sunlit L.A.-area home, just before heading to the beach with their three-year-old daughter, Adeya, Kehlani spoke to me about this new phase, saying, “I feel like I’m just now starting to really know myself.”

PATRICK CHURCH SHIRT; GIVENCHY SUNGLASSES.

It’s easy for the current version of who Kehlani is, however, to be overshadowed by their backstory—the legend of Kehlani Ashley Parrish. Born to parents who were both struggling with addiction, the Oakland native was adopted by an aunt who raised them in a liberal environment to a soundtrack of neo-soul. Kehlani began singing as a child, even appearing on America’s Got Talent while still in high school. But they struggled financially and couch-surfed as a young artist before releasing those two hit mixtapes. At 20, they were hospitalized after reportedly self-harming, and they later admitted they’d “wanted to leave this Earth.” Yes, Kehlani is a survivor, but they’re also so much more than what they’ve been through.

“There’s been this narrative that, because I was always outspoken, I wanted attention for things other than my music, and that always frustrated me,” says Kehlani. It’s their rawness and relatability that solidified a devoted fan base, but it’s also what’s gotten them exactly the type of attention they don’t want—particularly in terms of the people they’ve been involved with romantically. The star was linked with NBA player Kyrie Irving in 2016, but when the musician PartyNextDoor suggested he was sleeping with Kehlani, it unleashed a storm of Twitter haters who accused the singer of cheating on Irving. To say the negative media attention was hurtful is an understatement—Kehlani has admitted that it was this experience that led to a suicide attempt. The star even swore off doing interviews for a while after they felt their personal life had been misrepresented one too many times. “I never believed that just because I was under a microscope, I had to live my life differently than anybody else—hiding my relationships, or, not saying something back when somebody disrespects me, not speaking up for things that I believe in,” Kehlani explains. “I’m actually just trying to live my life and grow up. I hate the idea of going viral for anything other than my music—it gives me a fuckload of anxiety.”

Kehlani has sung about women and men since the beginning of their career, having identified as bisexual in the ninth grade, when they had their first girlfriend. Their previous two albums span the ups and downs of love from infatuation to heartbreak, but one of their more explicit examples of art reflecting life was 2020’s standalone track “Valentine’s Day (Shameful),” which contains what they’ve said is a “very literal” account of finding text messages that exposed an ex-boyfriend’s infidelity. Last year, they came out as lesbian, an announcement they say came as no shock to those close to them. 

“I was dating a man, and then literally mid-relationship, I was like, ‘Wait, I gotta have a conversation with you, bro! I think we’re…friends.’”

In Blue Water Road’s mellow ballads, like “Little Story” and “Melt,” Kehlani seems to have finally found what they’ve been looking for. “I’ve done a lot of work in the area of my romantic relationships,” says Kehlani of their personal growth between this project and their last. “I’m very in love. I’m with someone I was friends with for six years. Then I finally let her take me on a date and it was a great one. Now we are in probably the best relationship I’ve ever been in. It is a beautiful, very beautiful situation,” they say. “These songs are genuinely romantic in a healthy way. When I listen to my [older] love songs…they come from this place of trying to prove how much I care, or desperation, or, there’s some type of weird power dynamic going on. The songs [on this album] were inspired by me actually discovering what healthy love looks like, when you also are starting to have a healthy relationship with yourself and the world.” 

Showing themself grace and getting to a healthy place wasn’t just metaphysical. Kehlani also has had to make peace with their body. Last year, Kehlani opened up about feeling more beautiful after removing breast implants they’d gotten years prior. Kehlani also admits to struggling with one of their most recognizable characteristics. “I had this really wild, long stage of being regretful about my tattoos because I get a lot of shit for them,” says Kehlani, who got their first tattoo, the East Bay 510 area code on their knuckles, done at a park across the street from their school. “For a while, I was one of the only heavily tatted girl artists out [there], and I was always getting shit for my face tattoo, getting shit for having my neck tatted. But if you go look at my city, there are a lot of girls tatted up just like this.”

“I don’t really care anymore, because I don’t put as much emphasis on my outer appearance as I used to. I understand that this shit is just a show. If I’m covered in art, like, who cares?” Kehlani adds, admitting they haven’t had much consistency with the style or quality of their body art. “If I could start all the way over. I would. I would probably still be heavily tattooed, but I would just have better tattoos.” 

In 2019, Kehlani welcomed daughter Adeya, who they co-parent with friend and former partner, musician Javie Young-White (yup—he’s previous BUST “Boy du Jour” Jaboukie Young-White’s brother). Kehlani credits Adeya’s arrival with moving them towards being more forgiving of themself.

“Motherhood plays the biggest role because I have to walk with grace every day for her. How can I practice showing anyone else grace if I don’t show myself that?”

There are moments when I’m talking to her, but I’m really talking to little me. We kind of interchange being the mother and the daughter all the time. She teaches me, and in turn, it really helps me navigate dealing with other human adults.”

Kehlani, whose multi-racial and cultural background includes Black, white, Mexican, and Filipino, credits her progressive Northern California upbringing with setting the tone for their own parenting. They’ve talked about raising Adeya in their “loudly queer” community, a life, they explain, that is more inherent than intentional. “I grew up going to Pride. All my uncles are gay,” says Kehlani. “I grew up in the Bay Area where every coffee shop I went into with my family had a gay flag flying. So, it’s less of intentionally placing [queer] people around her—that’s just been who I’ve been blessed to be surrounded by. These just happen to be my friends, and all my friends are just hella queer! It’s tight that she gets to see all of these things as normal, because I didn’t realize how fortunate I was growing up until I started traveling. I was playing festivals in the middle of the Bible Belt and people are like, ‘Yo, you gotta be careful performing your gay song here.’”

Asked if they tire of having to label themselves after a lifetime answering questions about their race and sexuality, Kehlani rejected the idea that it’s a burden. “I can’t even think about it like that,” they say, noting they’ve turned down opportunities intended to highlight Black women because they didn’t feel comfortable taking up that space. “Although I am Black, I don’t think anybody in my entire life has ever really categorized me as a Black woman, which is why I’ve had to also do so much inner work regarding my use of language and understanding my privilege.” Similarly, Kehlani says their femme appearance has shielded them from much of the discrimination more masculine-presenting lesbians face. “Truthfully, I just pay attention to if I’m saying something incorrectly, and letting people come in and help me out, or just sometimes not saying shit at all, and just like, you know, getting behind the right people—paying attention to whose voices should be amplified.” 

Critical to this period of growth has been Kehlani’s faith. Raised Christian, they began exploring other religions after the grandmother who took them to church died. Two years ago, they were introduced to their current faith. “I’m in a religion called La Regla de Ocha. The more recognized term for it is Santeria. The African term is Lucumí. It’s a really gorgeous religion that I didn’t seek out, but it sought me. I was told upon arrival that I was headed towards a really young death in a couple of different ways—whether it be that I called it upon myself, or as a result of the environment I was in, or just things that have been chasing me my whole life. My life was saved by some really incredible elders.” 

KIDSUPER COAT AND PANTS; GEORGIA IC25 TOP; ADEAM EARRINGS.

The freedom of living what they call a “spirit-led” life has helped Kehlani focus more on different forms of creativity, which in turn feed back into their music. “I’m in a really cool phase in my life right now. There’s something called artistic erosion. We just go through all these things that dull us out and make us jaded. And we’re very lucky if we’re able to get a spark again,” Kehlani says. “I feel like I’m hitting this crazy spark that isn’t necessarily even coming from music, but it’s coming from diving into all my other passions, like photography, and film, and painting, and all these other joys that end up bringing the spark back to the music.”

Kehlani has found a kinship with fellow R&B singer, Syd, front woman of the Internet, and Kehlani’s collaborator on Blue Water Road. When first introduced as peers, Kehlani explained to Syd they’d actually met before, when 11th-grade Kehlani waited outside an Odd Future show and told Syd they thought she was a great DJ. Though, really, they said, “I just had a big fat lesbian crush on Syd.” Now they have a friendship, not based on music, but on real life. “I’ll kick it with some peers, and it becomes either complaining about the industry or talking about who got nominated for some award and who didn’t,” says Kehlani.

“There’s something called artistic erosion. We just go through all these things that dull us out and make us jaded. And we’re very lucky if we’re able to get a spark again.” 

“With Syd, we’re just in this phase where we’re all about our girlfriends who we love, our pets [Kehlani has a pit bull, Xoloitzcuintli; a Mexican hairless dog; and a bird], our families. I’m trying to talk about old cars and the new NatGeo fucking whale documentary and like, ‘When’s the last time you went to a farmer’s market because the new one over there has an exotic fruit section!’” 

If their other passions ignite a spark, Kehlani’s recent travels may have set off a blaze. After performing at three Lollapalooza dates across South America, Kehlani returned to the States inspired. Not only did they meet incredible artists like samba star and actor Seu Jorge (“we geeked out over each other”), but they also say the levels of poverty they witnessed caused them to make some changes. “I came home and I got rid of the majority of my stuff. I kept what I needed and gave the rest away. My business managers probably think I’m hilarious,” they say with a laugh. “It’s not like I was ever a huge jewelry wearer or anything like that. But I’ve just gotten super mindful of how I’m moving through the world and what I’m actually here to do.”

MILKWHITE. SHIRT, JACKET, PANTS, AND EARRINGS.

Kehlani talks a lot about forging their own path and coloring outside the lines of the music industry, so it’s no surprise that they’ve begun imagining a life outside of the Los Angeles and New York scenes. “I fell in love with Brazilian culture and the love that I was shown—the love within the people,” says Kehlani. “Everybody I met who I ended up hanging out with was from Rio—I’ve always had a fixation on Rio my whole life. I’m actively planning on moving at some point. I already wrote it down and said, ‘This is what’s going to happen when God allows it.’ Who knows what I’ll go do—maybe I’ll own a restaurant or maybe open a fucking art gallery, but whatever it is, I’m gonna do it for sure.”

For now, Kehlani is already looking forward to their next project, “I finished the album last fall, maybe even the end of summer. It’s been done for a long time. I’ve already had new ideas and new songs and new feelings and new things going on in my head since last summer. So, you know, I’m ready for the next one. honestly.”

“I feel like I’m not necessarily here to do some mind-boggling culture-shifting thing,” they say, regarding their approach to songwriting and artistry. “For the rest of my life, I’ll just be lucky to be documenting things I go through and how I see the world, and hopefully that does something for someone else.” -Sabrina Ford

This article originally appeared in BUST’s Summer 2022 print edition. Subscribe today!

PHOTOGRAPHED BY Erik Carter

styling by Oliver Vaughn 

makeup by Troye Batiste

hair by Cesar Ramirez 

“When I went viral,” Tarana Burke says, “it amplified the work that I was already doing. It gave me an opportunity to mainstream the work and ideas that I had been carrying for a long time.”

Four years ago, on October 15, 2017, Burke found herself catapulted into a long-overdue national conversation. At the time, she was the program director for the Brooklyn nonprofit Girls for Gender Equity. A lifelong activist who saw a lack of empathy in traditional responses to sexual assault, Burke had been using the phrase “me too” for years to expand the dialogue around sexual violence. She was fresh off a night out with her girlfriends when she awoke to several text messages alerting her to the fact that that “me too” was now all over the Internet. 

It began after The New York Times and The New Yorker published rape and assault allegations against movie mogul Harvey Weinstein, when actor Alyssa Milano sent out a tweet urging anyone who’d survived sexual abuse to tweet, “Me too.” The hashtag #MeToo quickly took off with thousands—and later, millions—of people, including celebrities like Lady Gaga and Gabrielle Union, sharing their stories. The following day, after being made aware of Burke’s existing movement, Milano credited her on Twitter. “It’s not about a viral campaign for me,” Burke—whose activism has always centered Black people—said at the time. “It’s about a movement.”

Due to #MeToo’s introduction into the cultural lexicon alongside the accusations against Harvey Weinstein, it is closely associated with the film and TV industries. In January 2018, three months after Milano’s tweet, Burke was invited to attend the Golden Globes as actor Michelle Williams’ guest. “It was a realization for me that, ‘Oh, all kinds of people need this. It’s not just little Black girls, or people pushed to the margins. It’s really anybody who’s affected,” Burke tells me via Zoom from her home in Baltimore. Reasserting her focus on marginalized communities, she notes, “Sexual violence doesn’t discriminate, but the response to it does.”

With the continued growth of the #MeToo movement, Burke has become one of our most visible activists and advocates for sexual abuse survivors. But her captivating new memoir, Unbound: My Story of Liberation and the Birth of the Me Too Movement (out September 14), reveals that these last four years are just a tiny sliver of a life of incredible highs and harrowing lows, and a decades-long activism career spent centering Black women and girls.

Born and raised in the Bronx in the 1970s and ’80s, Burke was a bookworm and a music lover as a child. She was inspired by her literary hero, Maya Angelou, and early rap songs that proclaimed the Black woman Queen, but struggled with shame, the aftereffect of surviving multiple sexual assaults. Burke says that, while she had friends, she opened up more in her diary entries than she ever did with a living, breathing person. “I have all of my journals going back to about 14 years old—I can’t throw away my feelings. I could not have gotten through this book without them,” she says of the journaling habit she picked up from her mother. “The journaling allowed me to explore these thoughts that I had that I didn’t feel were ready for prime time. I didn’t talk about things like the abuse and all that stuff out loud. Actually, I talked about it in code, even in my journal. It’s interesting how close we hold that.”

She finally lets go of so much in Unbound, which includes many details that she shares for the first time about her life as a survivor, daughter, mother, lover, activist, and friend.

“The book is my life story,” says Burke. “It’s definitely scary to be so open. I felt like I took my diary, wrapped it in a pretty cover and said, ‘Here y’all, read my business!’”

Unbound is also decidedly not about moguls and movie stars. “I could tell the story of going to the Golden Globes or whatever, but that’s not a movement. Maybe next time. Or maybe in book five,” she says with a laugh. “I know hella people will be disappointed, but I know if I go there, people will be like, ‘What did Alyssa Milano say?’ and ‘What was it like meeting so-and-so?’ and that’s not really relevant. This is about my story, which is what propelled me to want to do this work.”

Part of telling her story is opening up about the ways in which people she loves, or has loved, have failed her. “It’s not just the founding of the movement; it’s also my survival story,” says Burke. “It’s about the ways in which I’ve had to move through my life and experiences.” As a result, she’s had to reach out to loved ones to avoid anyone being blindsided by the things she discusses in her book. “I’m still having those conversations,” she says. “Some of them have been very, very difficult, and there are others I’m not looking forward to. My therapist and my friends just keep reminding me, it’s my story, it’s my truth, and it’s my experience. I’m trying to keep that in the front of my mind and stay grounded in that.”

Burke, who has written in various professional capacities before and recently co-edited a book with Brené Brown, admits that she was unsure how much she should include. “I struggled with stuff—some of my family dynamics,” she says. “I think it was important to talk about how I got to be who I am, but it was certainly hard. It’s one thing to have a conversation with your people. It’s another thing to do that in public! It felt good to be able to tell this truth finally, but it was hard, because I knew that it would affect those relationships. I tried to be really discerning. I’m not telling a story just to tell it. If I’m telling a story, it’s because it lends itself to the bigger story.”

Like Angelou, Burke can see herself writing multiple memoirs. “A lot of stories for Black girls are about the ‘special snowflakes,’ and you’re made to believe you have to be so different or special to matter. I want all Black girls to feel special—every one of them. We all have our thing. My story is both ordinary and extraordinary. People need to know that there are a lot of other Tarana Burkes out there.”

She hopes her work can do for others what Angelou’s did for her—make them feel seen. “I could take that same time period in this book—which is from my childhood through my mid 30s, essentially—and tell a whole different story. I’m looking forward to that. My work has always been around racial injustice and sexual violence. But I think there’s a bigger thing to talk about, which is just the human condition. Part of my dream for myself [as a writer] has always been to find a way to talk about sexual violence with young Black girls. How can I get our community to understand how an R. Kelly is possible?”

Burke was first drawn to organizing by close-to-home events like the murder of Brooklyn teen Yusef Hawkins by a white mob, and the arrest of five now-exonerated Black and Latino boys from Harlem accused in a brutal assault on a jogger in Central Park. After graduating from Auburn University in Alabama, Burke relocated to Selma where she worked for an organization that taught leadership skills to youth. While still based in Selma, she founded Just Be Inc., an organization primarily focused on providing various resources to Black and Brown girls. In 2006, she began the “me too” campaign aimed at encouraging empathy and forming community for sexual assault survivors.

A point of frustration for Burke has been the ghettoization of Black women’s issues and the pigeonholing of her work. “I’m a Black woman, our organization is led by Black women and femmes, and we are always talking about Black, Black, Black, Black, Black—still, people do not look at ‘me too’ the organization, as a Black organization,” notes Burke. “When there was all of this racial reckoning talk last year in 2020, I was talking on social media and I had these people hopping in my comments and in my inbox, saying, ‘This is not a time to talk about “me too.” This has nothing to do with “me too.”’ You know, basically telling me to stay in my lane.”

“I have this conversation quite a bit,” continues Burke. “You don’t see Black women being called as experts on Blackness and Black life. There are very few of us who are seen as general experts. If you talk about Black women’s issues, it doesn’t get lumped into the larger conversation about Black life. And it’s not part of the general conversation about women’s issues—it just gets completely siloed. When you say, ‘Black Lives Matter,’ if what you really mean is Black men’s lives matter, just say that.”

At 47, with her braids, hoop earrings, and bangles that jingle when she uses her hands to emphasize her points, Burke evokes the “Around the Way Girl” aesthetic popularized when she was a teen. She’s warm and funny and skeptical of the ways in which movements can be off-putting for everyday folks. “There’s a little bit of a funky elitism with the language we use,” she says of working in activism, “and the idea that you have to talk a certain way—say all the right words or whatever.”

“I’ve had insecurities my whole life because, like Cardi says, I’m a regular, degular, schmegular girl from the Bronx,” says Burke. “And I got anger issues, ‘cause I was abused. And I’m working through that, and I’m not gonna fake this for y’all.”  

photos by brenda nasr

MakeUp by Shaharlee Blake  //  Hair by Kay Ward

This article originally appeared in BUST’s Fall 2021 print edition. Subscribe today!