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Raquel Willis’s activism speaks for itself—she’s organized with the Transgender Law Center, called on the Women’s March to be more trans-inclusive, and, in 2018, became the first trans woman to lead Out magazine—but she’s revealed a whole new side of herself in her debut memoir The Risk It Takes to Bloom: On Life and Liberation. Willis’s book traces her journey from her childhood home in Augusta, Georgia, to the queer world unearthed for her at the University of Georgia and beyond, allowing the reader a glimpse into organizing communities in Atlanta, Oakland, and New York.
But much more than work is explored in The Risk It Takes to Bloom: The book is perhaps its most moving when Willis recounts the unexpected death of her father. Vogue spoke to Willis about taking space to acknowledge her grief while writing, learning from what she describes as a “gumbo” of Black women authors and activists, and how her activism has evolved over the last six years.
**Vogue: **How does it feel to have your memoir out in the world?
Raquel Willis: It feels so fulfilling. It has been interesting to hear people’s reactions, particularly around family and those aspects of the book. I think there’s a lot of healing that people are yearning for in this moment, and I think as a Black trans woman, there are different entry points that so many folks have to my story of growing up in the South in a very Catholic, traditional family and my evolution alongside the evolution of the people in my life. I thought I’d be a bit more stirred up by having my story shared with the world in such detail, but actually it’s a bit of a relief and a release—and hella cathartic.
Are there other books that you feel helped make room for yours?
There’s always ample room on my bookshelf for the works of Maya Angelou and Toni Morrison. I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings is a crucial text in understanding a personal perspective from the South, but also this kind of rural upbringing. The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison also gave me some fuel to tap back into my inner-child voice, so I think those books were so crucial for me. Of course, amazing trans icons like Janet Mock, and her books Redefining Realness and Surpassing Certainty; as well as the lesser-known Black trans autobiography Hiding My Candy by The Lady Chablis, which was released in 1994. I’m a feminist through and through, so I’ve been enriched by the works of bell hooks and Patricia Hill Collins and Barbara Smith, as well as Julia Serano and Susan Stryker. So I’ve benefited from a gumbo of brilliant women—in particular, women on the margins—who have articulated their experiences, and then of course encouraged me to do that myself.
How did you take care of yourself while writing this book, and especially while writing about grief?
Well, I think my key word around self-care and just care in general has been grace; just giving myself grace when I’ve needed to take space and take a breather from the harder parts of my story. It’s a process, and between my father’s death and the death of so many people within Black and trans communities, I’ve definitely found a deeper appreciation for good food and CrossFit and going to the gym and being active and being out in nature. I might play Fortnite every now and then as a release as well. So it’s been those things, alongside the beautiful aspect of being in queer and trans community. We often have so many events that people in the community are throwing, so I’ve loved being able to go to parties like Papi Juice and drag performances. Let me make sure that I plug the power of therapy, and the benefits of having a therapist who will challenge you on your bullshit but also, you know, give you those moments where you need to wallow in that bullshit for a second, too. It’s a balance.
You’re known for giving an impassioned speech at the Women’s March in 2017. How would you say your activism work has changed since then?
My activism really started to form in college in the early 2010s, though I didn’t really realize that. I was working with students on campus around making the environment more affirming of LGBTQ+ folks, but I didn’t realize that that was activism. That was just something that felt important to focus on. It was in 2014, when a young trans girl named Leelah Alcorn died by suicide, that I really started to grapple with how I could utilize journalism and storytelling to change the conditions of the world around me and the folks that I care about. 2017 was a highlight, of course, with the Women’s March, and I think what I came away with most from that experience was the importance of not relying on anyone else or their platform to share the stories that I needed to tell. I think that that’s something that a lot of folks, particularly in media or movements, grapple with; it’s this idea that we’re often kind of banging on the door to have the resources or have the position or role or title or bona fides to give us the access that we know we deserve to do the work that we need to do. I understand that, and I think being willing to shift direction when institutions are not showing up in the ways that they need to is necessary and it’s key. It’s one of the ways that I’ve warded off being ground up by bureaucracy, by respectability, and so many other barriers. So, what’s changed for me over the years is the insistence on finding independent avenues to get the work done that I know needs to be done, and not throwing my hands up when institutions aren’t realizing the urgency or priority of the people and things that are important to me. I think we’re all called to figure out how to fight for the world that we want to see within our lane or industry. You can make change, whether seismic or seemingly smaller, in whatever space you re in. It s just about taking stock of what s at your disposal and being willing to take the risk.
Is there any person or group you really hope this book makes it to?
I most hope that The Risk It Takes to Bloom reaches young people who feel unseen or unheard, or isolated. That’s kind of at the heart of all of my work—thinking about those moments in my life, especially growing up Black and trans in the South, when I didn’t know that there was a community out there waiting for me. There were people who paved the way for me, and I have a duty to leave the door open for other folks and to make it easier for them.
This conversation has been edited and condensed.
