From Richmond When It Was Black: An Interview with Dr. KáLyn Coghill of Hoodrat Scholarship

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In this raw and revealing conversation, Dr. KáLyn Coghill (Dr. Kay) shares their journey as a Richmond native, scholar, activist, and protector of Black women. From their tumultuous childhood to their current work as an educator and abortion doula, Dr. Kay offers profound insights on gentrification, misogynoir, and what it means to be authentically oneself in academia and beyond.

With unflinching honesty, Dr. Kay discusses how Richmond has changed from the predominantly Black city of their youth to a “whitewashed” space where memories feel erased. They speak passionately about their mission to protect Black women, fems, and girls, and their refusal to compromise their identity even in spaces that demand assimilation.

Through their concept of “Hoodrat Scholarship” and commitment to trap feminism, Dr. Kay exemplifies the power of fugitivity – refusing to play by the rules of privileged spaces while creating pathways for knowledge to flow freely between academia and the streets.

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Q: Could you introduce yourself and share a bit about your background?

A: My name is Dr. KáLyn Coghill. I go by Dr. Kay at most of the schools where I teach. I’m a Richmond native, born here in 1990. I’ve mainly lived in the north side area, but I’ve lived in other parts of Richmond as well. I had a very tumultuous upbringing, so I moved around a lot and spent some time in California. I graduated from high school in California, but the bulk of my schooling was done in Richmond, which fostered my love for blackness.

I’m a survivor of child sexual assault, neglect, and abandonment. I’ve had a lot of time to think about who I am and what it means to say I’m from Richmond. I like to say I’m from Richmond when it was Black, because Richmond has definitely changed since I was younger, especially with universities coming in and gentrifying the city. People come here for school or other reasons, stay, and create their own lives here, sometimes erasing the very memories created by Black folk.

As a child, I was very involved in different things. I was in an all-Black Girl Scout troop. I played piano and clarinet, did tap dance and African dance. I was really into the arts in general and started writing poetry when I was about nine. Art was my outlet because of my hard upbringing and the amount of abuse and neglect I experienced. I was always very creative in how I dressed—very different. I liked to experiment with style and self-expression in ways that made me feel more like myself, because often I didn’t feel like my own self. I felt put in positions where I had to fit inside a certain box or wear a mask because my home life was so toxic.

Q: What changes have you seen in Richmond, and how did the environment and culture relate to your social life versus home life?

A: One day I was driving down Broad Street when I had first moved back to Richmond from the DC area with my husband in probably 2019, early 2020, right before the pandemic. We were in the area they call Scott’s Edition, and I literally turned to him and said, “It literally looks like they took a giant eraser and erased all my memories.” In that moment, I realized the impact that gentrification had on the city I knew and loved.

When I grew up, Richmond felt very, very Black. I was surrounded by Black people—I went to Richmond City public schools, had Black teachers, was in Black activities, had Black friends, and my family members are Black. It was very eerie to see Richmond become whitewashed and infiltrated with things not connected to Black culture, like breweries. It made me sad because when I was in undergrad in the mid-2000s, around 2009, there used to be a hip-hop festival here called EpicFest. I did hip-hop journalism at that time and worked with EpicFest. I was really into the music scene and it felt very different then.

When I moved back, it felt like the energy was different. It felt like a lot of people had left, which is understandable because people want to grow and do different things. But, it felt like we were pushed out in a way. The music scene in the early and mid-2000s was booming—every weekend there was something to doand it was very Black. Now it feels like an “if you know, you know” type of thing.

For me growing up, I thrived in social environments because I was surrounded by Black people who I felt cared about me. If I didn’t feel safe at home, I knew that school could be my safe space. I knew that going to Girl Scouts, dance class, or the YWCA on North Side for summer camp meant I’d be surrounded by other Black girls, other Black people, and I was going to be okay.

Now that I’m back in Richmond, I never want to leave. But, I have a clear understanding that this is not the same city it was 10-15 years ago. It’s definitely not the same city I grew up in. I refuse to leave because I know they’re trying to whitewash the city, and I feel it’s my duty to keep it as Black as possible and be a reminder. I want people who were born and raised in Richmond to stay. I know opportunities can seem limited and there’s a lot of violence—my father, born and raised in Richmond, was murdered in Richmond. But I implore people: if you’re from Richmond, stay here. We have to continue to keep Black people in Richmond because they are literally trying to push us out.

Q: What do you see as your role in Richmond and in defending against that cultural shift?

A: My calling in life is to be an educator in every space I go into. Even when I don’t feel like it, that’s what I’m supposed to be doing. I’m here to protect Black women, fems, and girls. That is literally my sole reason for breathing.

Through my academic work, I’ve been studying misogynoir, which is the anti-Black racism and sexism that Black women experience. I’ve used my relationship with digital spaces as a site to investigate how we’re protecting ourselves online and in life in general, how misogynoir impacts Black popular culture, and how it even impacts Richmond—how Black women are treated, how Black girls are treated, who is seen as valuable, who is seen as invaluable.

I’m really pushing people to think more deeply about how they treat Black women, fems, and girls especially in this city. I want people to sit with the fact that Black women’s bodies have been commodified and used as means of production since enslavement. Because of that, there’s a historical legacy of violence that has been accepted and normalized within all communities, but specifically in the Black community. This shows up in who’s in the political sphere, who’s in activism spaces, who gets to teach what classes at what university, what organizations get spotlights and funding, what businesses stay open, and who patrons what businesses.

For me, it’s my life’s blood to make sure I’m at the forefront of protecting Black women and girls. That can look messy sometimes. I don’t believe anybody can be perfect. There have been times in my life where I may not have been the best girls’ girl or had my own internalized misogynoir when I was in my early 20s. But I’ve always made it clear that my purpose in life, especially as I get closer to 40, is to protect Black women at all costs. If that means being an outlier or someone who’s outspoken or ostracized because of how I talk about these issues, so be it.

I firmly believe that even if you’re scared, do it anyway. Audre Lorde has a quote I love that basically says it’s not about how strong or scared you are—just do it. That’s my mindset for my academic work and my practice. I could just study Black women and their experiences of violence, but if I want to make an impact, I need to actually be doing the work in my community for these Black women. I make sure I walk it, talk it, do it. Whatever you see me talking about in the classroom is because I have industry experience, because I’m actually out doing the work, having these conversations, doing volunteer work, community advocacy, and organizing.

I know there are a lot of people in academia who look like me, who have leaned into respectability politics because they have high-level degrees, but they’re not in the community doing work. When I was getting my doctorate, what was important to me was: if my work isn’t transferable to the community, why am I doing it? Teaching is cute, but you can teach without a PhD. So what’s the purpose?

Q: How does misogynoir show up in Richmond?

A: I think it shows up a lot in terms of opportunities and programming for young Black girls. It also shows up in our reproductive justice spaces. I’m an abortion doula and a board member for Richmond Reproductive Freedom Project, which is our local abortion fund. I love RRFP, but it’s very white.

There’s a lack of representation in a lot of spaces. There are many Black women doing amazing things—like Korinne Carter at the St. Luke’s Legacy Center, Kelli Lemon with Urban Hang Suite—but there are also others doing amazing things who, because Black women are overlooked, aren’t getting the funding, opportunities, or recognition they deserve.

It’s easier to ignore certain types of Black women or to ignore how colorism, texturism, and desirability politics play a role in how you ascend in certain areas—whether in music, activism spaces, the restaurant and food industry, or community organizing. There are inherent biases that keep Black women from getting the recognition they deserve in the city. This isn’t just a Richmond thing—I don’t want anyone to read this and think I’m saying Richmond hates all Black women. What I’m saying is that because of inherent biases, it’s easy to overlook the work that Black women and fems are doing in the city.

There’s like Richmond royalty, and if you’re not Richmond royalty, you’re less likely to get opportunities, recognition, or support for what you’re doing. As a Black non-binary scholar who teaches hip-hop feminism at a predominantly white institution, I’ve been in situations where I haven’t been given opportunities to bring my knowledge to other spaces because they’re dominated by Black men. Maybe it’s because I’m not in their in-crowd, or not part of Richmond royalty, or because of desirability politics since I’m fat and Black. But it doesn’t make sense to me. I’m teaching one of the only hip-hop feminism classes in the state, but only at two PWIs. I don’t even get tapped for panels or podcasts or conversations, even at my own institution. I’ve had people ask me to help create questions for an event, but I wasn’t allowed to moderate. People want my intellectual labor and ideas, but they don’t want me in that space.

It’s quite annoying that most of my following and people who really engage with my work don’t live in my city. To me, if there was only one Black fem teaching a particular class that’s specific to a genre other schools are trying to build programs around, I would bring them to at least speak or show support. But I’ve been ghosted, set up for meetings where no one shows up, and I’m like, “Oh, this is misogynoir. I’m an afterthought.”

Q: What is hip-hop feminism?

A: Hip-hop feminism is a term coined by Dr. Joan Morgan in 1999 in her book “When Chickenheads Come Home to Roost.” It’s a seminal text in hip-hop feminism. To understand how we ended up with the term and the thinking around it, I’d advise reading the book. I teach it every semester and read it at least once or twice a year to keep me in the mindset of what hip-hop feminism is and how I define it.

Joan Morgan talks around the concept but doesn’t give a clear definition because feminism doesn’t have one definition—bell hooks talks about this, Audre Lorde talks about this. Feminism is a spectrum, but the goal is to end sexist oppression. The goal with hip-hop feminism is to challenge sexist oppression within hip-hop culture while still being a fan of that culture.

Morgan talks about this idea called “fucking with the grays”—understanding the gray area where I don’t really fuck with Dr. Dre because he beat the shit out of Dee Barnes, but I might shake my ass to Too Short’s “Shake That Monkey.” Does that make me a bad feminist? Does that make me not a girl’s girl? No, it doesn’t. I still love the culture, I still love hip-hop, but I’m going to hold Black men accountable in hip-hop spaces for how they treat Black women. That’s what hip-hop feminism does.

Q: How does hip-hop feminism tie into your multiple roles as educator, activist, scholar, and doula in Richmond?

A: I consider myself a trap feminist, which is a term created by Sesali Bowen in her book “Bad Fat Black Girl.” A trap feminist is similar to a hip-hop feminist but rooted in trap culture and trap music. Trap feminists don’t really center men in their feminism—it’s very much about homegirls, bad bitchery, scamming, all that type of stuff. That’s what I’m all about.

Trap feminism and hip-hop feminism show up in my work as a scholar because I look at digital misogynoir in hip-hop spaces and how Black popular culture exists in digital spaces. I’m interested in how Black women hip-hop artists like Megan Thee Stallion, GloRilla, Cardi B, and Flo Milli use digital media to create community and push back against hegemonic ideologies about what it means to be a Black woman and what Black womanhood looks like.

For my activism and organizing work, it provides a foundation for “fucking with the grays” where I’m okay saying I might be your problematic fave in some instances. You might not agree with everything I say, and that’s okay. But in the end, you know that if you need someone to raise money, support your mutual aid, drop you off at the abortion clinic, or pick you up in the middle of the night, you can call me. We don’t have to be best friends for you to do it.

If students need someone to help them organize to walk out of graduation where Governor Youngkin was speaking—like I did last year in May—I’ll do it. I didn’t give two fucks. I let them know, “Yes, I am an adjunct professor at VCU, I just graduated with my PhD, and fuck the Governor.” If students need a body to stand between them and what’s coming at them, I’m going to be that body.

For my doula work, the Richmond reproductive justice scene can feel very white, but reproductive justice was started by Black women and fems before being co-opted by white women. Hip-hop feminism makes me want to ensure reproductive justice stays as Black as possible and that my work amplifies the needs of access for Black birthing people—whether they’re in a food desert, need childcare, transportation, lodging, or education. I want them to have access. I could give a fuck less about pro-choice and pro-life—it’s about access.

Yes, we have a choice here in Virginia up until 26 weeks to have an abortion. But if you don’t have transportation, childcare, or access to Tylenol or menstrual pads after your abortion, you may not go through with it because you don’t have the practical support you need.

Overall in my life, trap feminism and hip-hop feminism have allowed me to be my authentic self in spaces where my authenticity isn’t accepted. I’ll use a headshot with my head wrap because I’m an abesha and I practice African traditional religion. I’ll wear a grill when I want to, have my nails done. I have 804 tattooed across my neck and Richmond across my knuckles—it don’t get more Richmond than that. Hip-hop feminism and trap feminism make it okay for me to be those things, especially when I grew up in an environment where it wasn’t okay to be me.

Q: How are you carving out space, and how do you see women like Megan Thee Stallion and GloRilla inspiring that kind of resistance and authenticity?

A: With Hoodrat Scholarship, which is my think tank brainchild that I’ve been working on since 2020, I call it an ecosystem of knowledge. The goal is for me to scam and steal from academia, and whatever I can pull from them, I regurgitate to my people on the streets. If I have access to an article talking about radical things, you do too, and I’ll figure out how to explain it so you know what these people are talking about and can talk about it too.

As for Megan Thee Stallion and Cardi B, they use their platforms and digital and physical spaces to remind women and gender-expansive people that pleasure is a priority. The first question is: is it pleasurable for me? If yes, great. If not, fuck it. It’s important to have examples of that in mainstream media because for so long, women’s pleasure has been predicated on whether men are aroused or think it’s acceptable, not on the fact that women’s pleasure should be the priority.

My work with Hoodrat Scholarship overlaps with their prioritization of pleasure because Hoodrat Scholarship is a site of joy, of building a knowledge base not contingent upon academia. My goal is literally to scam the system. When I was in my PhD program, master’s program, and undergrad, I milked academia for all its resources, and I teach every student who comes to me how to finesse—call financial aid for this, tell them you need that. I’m always making sure people understand we have to drain these colonized spaces, especially if we have to be in them to get ahead. My pleasure comes from putting people on game, from knowing I’m exposing others to things people have tried to gatekeep from them.

Q: Can you talk more about fugitivity?

A: I first heard the term fugitivity in 2020 during my first year in my PhD program. We read an article by Fred Moten talking about the Undercommons, a space where the rogue academic goes almost underground, where people often seen as crazy or uneducated go and gain true knowledge.

For me, fugitivity is a form of refusal—refusal to engage with privileged spaces in a way that makes people comfortable, and refusal to throw my people away. When I call something “Hoodrat Scholarship,” I’ve gotten pushback from Black scholars saying it has bad connotations. That’s precisely why I call it Hood Scholarship—because I know it makes you uncomfortable, and I want you to sit with that and figure out why someone calling their scholarship “hood” would make you uncomfortable as a Black person.

That refusal to abide by their rules and to align myself fully with privileged spaces is fugitivity for me. I encounter people from similar backgrounds who have achieved a lot academically and now give very much “talented tenth” energy. I understand why, but I don’t think it’s helpful for the broader movement, and it excludes people.

I don’t lead with my academic credentials when I meet people. I usually introduce myself as an abortion doula first, not as a professor, because I don’t want people to feel they have to quiet parts of themselves they think aren’t appropriate around someone with a doctorate or in the scholarly world. That’s my form of fugitivity—I want people to feel safe to be their authentic selves around me.

Q: What does fugitivity look like in Richmond now?

A: The students are really acting out fugitivity. They’re organizing around issues they deem important, and they don’t give a fuck. It’s exciting to watch. It’s thrilling to know my students are taking material from my courses out to their communities to organize for mutual aid, Palestine rallies, or against the rollback of laws and trans exclusionary actions.

It’s exciting to see them refusing to lay down or shut up. They’re not being quiet, and they don’t care. We see this trend with students nationwide, like at Columbia where degrees were taken from protestors. It reminds me of SNCC in the civil rights era, where students led movements.

In Richmond, young people are aware of what’s happening, want change, and refuse to be quiet about it. They’re not excluding people based on educational background—these students don’t care if you’re a VCU student or not. If you’re down for the cause, they’ll pick you up, direct you to community resources, or help you table at an event. There’s no lack of organizing or people wanting to do the work among youth in this city.

Q: How can Black men be better co-conspirators and help with harm reduction against misogynoir?

A: I don’t use the term ally—I use co-conspirator, which Dr. Bettina Love talked about. What are you willing to put on the line? The youth are fearless. I’m scared, but I’m doing it anyway, so I need your ass to do the same thing.

If you’re a Black man in Richmond, the first thing you need to do is stop bullshitting and stand up. Be on the front lines. Yes, it’s scary—people get harmed, die, lose jobs. But what are you willing to sacrifice for your community? What are you willing to sacrifice for the Black women, fems, and girls who aren’t doing things for you?

I should not have to be fucking you, feeding you, and financing you for you to protect me. You should want to protect me because I exist. My existence should be enough. When it comes to my men and my community, I need you to provide protection and show up without wanting something in exchange. We should not have to be of service to you for you to deem us valuable, worthy of respect, or deserving of protection.

I got in an argument with someone online who tried to say Sexyy Red didn’t deserve protection because she’s ratchet. I said, “So ratchet bitches deserve to get violated because you want them to act a certain way and they don’t?” People have revisionist history about who they used to be versus who they are now and use that as an excuse to treat Black women poorly. But you were trying to fuck on us 10 years ago, and now you can’t speak up when someone’s violating us in public? Make it make sense.

The men in my life don’t move like that, so when I see other men acting that way, it upsets me. I know I’m protected by the men in my life, but not all Black women have those men. My husband will always stick up for Black women even if it’s not me, but I can’t say that about some random dude on the street. I don’t know if he’ll stop someone from following me to my car or ask if I’m alright, especially if I’m not pleasant or conventionally attractive or something he wants.

So I’m calling Black men out—stand the fuck up and stop just doing stuff for people you think are cute. That’s crazy.

Q: What are your thoughts on the relationship between digital activism and on-the-ground work?

A: I created a class at VCU called Hashtag Activism where we talk about that. One thing my students and I discuss is that online activism must exist offline as well—they have to work in tandem. We need people doing different parts of the movement work.

Digital activism and on-the-ground activism have to be married in a cohesive relationship where what we’re doing online materializes into what we’re doing on the ground, and vice versa. It’s an ecosystem, a circular motion of information, actions, direct action, and aid.

People need to understand that some individuals can’t be on the ground for various reasons, whether due to disability or other factors, so online digital activism works for them. We need to accept that and build a through-line where digital and physical activism mesh together as one thing.

Digital activism can die down quickly because there isn’t a connection to on-the-ground work. It starts online with a hashtag, everyone makes their profile picture black, then white people give random money, but what comes after that? We need a plan that works in both spaces and must be open to flexibility and change. Because of the climate we’re in, people are scared or anxious and just want to act, but you can’t just act without a foundation. That foundation starts with the through-line between digital and physical activism.

Q: What ancestors do you lean on?

A: I’m an abesha and practice Isese, which is an African traditional religion. Ancestral veneration has been part of my life since before I became a practitioner. My ancestors include my father and my aunts—Aunt Everdine, who was fearless and held no cards, who lived a fabulous life; and Aunt Grace, the sweetest woman I ever met, very levelheaded and clear on who she was as a person, very family-oriented.

I also pay homage to my paternal grandmother who just passed, and to Nikki Giovanni, who I had the privilege of performing for in fifth grade and then met again two years ago. The people on my ancestor altar are generally those who were fearless and in alignment with themselves—they knew who they were. My ancestors reinforce that I should know who I am above everything else.

Q: Who are the artists and scholars that inspire you?

A: Zora Neale Hurston’s “Their Eyes Were Watching God” is a banger from start to finish. When I first read it in summer 2008, the African-American Vernacular English made me feel like I was in a room with people who understood me despite my neurodivergence, speech impediment, and any learning issues I had. They were comfortable speaking how they spoke, and I understood what they were saying.

Nikki Giovanni was a bomb-ass writer, but her personality, cheekiness, and how she responded to people made me realize I can literally say whatever I want to say.

Maya Angelou’s “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings” was a book I read when I was nine, and that’s when I became radicalized. It was the first time I read something and realized I wasn’t the only child being abused. I clung to Maya Angelou. Recently, when my grandfather said something about my tattoo that triggered me, I pulled up “Still I Rise” and forcefully read it aloud, repeating it until I felt like myself again. That’s my bloodwork—being able to read or hear her words in my head.

For music, I love R&B a lot. Even though I’m a hip-hop scholar and teach hip-hop feminism, I listen to R&B all day. I really love Faith Evans, who doesn’t get talked about enough. I feel like her story is comparable to Mary J. Blige’s, her music is so good, and she sounds exactly the same as always. When I’m stressed, I turn to Anita Baker, but for a quiet moment, I turn to Faith Evans every time.

And a new person who inspires me is Megan Thee Stallion. I’m a hot girl professor because I love her. When I watched her documentary, I was crying. I feel like her big sister, even though she doesn’t know who I am. I just want her to know that those of us in our mid-30s and early 40s love her and are 10 toes down. She’s such a likable person, so smart, and I love how transparent she is about her mental health journey and finding joy.

Q: How do you find rest and healing?

A: I have an unhealthy relationship with productivity. Every time I say it out loud, I feel like I’m recognizing a flaw, and that’s okay. My religious practice has made it so I’m forced to slow down. I do spiritual baths, pray in the morning and at night, attend to my shrines, and talk to my orishas because that’s when I get my moments of rest and calmness.

I struggle with productivity, which stems from childhood trauma and wanting to be the best so I could be loved. What I’ve learned to do now is verbalize when I’m going, going to those who love me, so they can remind me to take a break or suggest alternatives. My support system gives me options on how to best take care of myself because I give a lot to people every day and sometimes forget to give to myself, which impacts my health since I have chronic illnesses.

Rest for me looks like tending to my spiritual practices, making sure I carve out time every day for my husband and I, to eat breakfast and dinner together, and taking a nap with my dog and cats daily, even if it’s just 20 minutes. Rest is also listening to R&B music, which is especially comforting for children who experienced isolation and abandonment because music was often our parent, friend, or sibling when we didn’t have those things.

Q: How do you find joy, and how can we create more spaces for all of us to find joy?

A: I find a lot of joy in watching Black women and girls do things they love. I’m teaching a Black girlhood studies class at VCU in the fall, and one of my research interests is how Black girls use TikTok to make videos. My 10-year-old niece Nova loves to dance, and she and her friends make TikTok videos on my sister’s page. The joy she experiences, the joy on her face, just makes me happy.

I also love animals and follow many animal accounts online. I love children and young people in general. Last Saturday, my sorority had our yearly youth symposium for ages 8-18, and I was at the registration table because I love interacting with people when they first arrive. I was exhilarated meeting all these little girls—”What’s your name? Are you having fun today?”—it makes me so happy.

We can foster joy by tapping into our inner child. If you love to color, make sure you have your coloring supplies. If you like to read, always have a book with you so if you feel out of alignment, you can read something you love. Try things people told you were “too [insert negative thing] to do”—too Black, too fat, too tall, boys don’t do this, girls don’t do that. You’re grown now, so go do it. See if you like it. Adorn yourself with things that make you feel good and look good, not things that make other people feel good and look good. That’s how you’ll find joy.

Q: What does it mean to be fearless?

A: To be fearless is to carry a bag full of heavy things and then realize at the end of a long walk that there was a hole at the bottom of the bag and it’s empty—but you still made it to your destination. We focus so much on those heavy things when we’re walking, like carrying groceries, and then you get there and the bag is light and you think, “What the fuck?” You realize stuff fell out of the bag.

You don’t know if you’re relieved the bag isn’t heavy anymore or annoyed because everything fell out. But either way, you don’t have to carry that shit, and you did it, technically.

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Who Is The Richmond Seen.
The Richmond Seen is an independent newspaper publication, and digital news outlet, highlighting the Richmond scene – and unseen. Covering Hip Hop, Eats and Everything in between. Our goal is to continue to preserve & protect the Culture in which we are part of, and the Culture in which we see.

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