Unbound

Unbound Plot Summary

Introduction

In the fall of 2017, Tarana Burke watched in astonishment as two simple words she had coined more than a decade earlier—"me too"—suddenly exploded across social media platforms worldwide. What began as her grassroots movement to help young Black and Brown girls heal from sexual violence had overnight become a global phenomenon. Yet as hashtags multiplied and Hollywood celebrities embraced the phrase, Burke stood at a crossroads, faced with the possibility that her life's work might be erased from its own creation story. Tarana Burke's journey represents an extraordinary testament to the power of turning personal pain into collective healing. Born and raised in the Bronx during the 1970s, Burke survived childhood sexual trauma that would have silenced many permanently. Instead, she gradually transformed her experiences into a framework for empathy, activism, and radical community care. Through her work with young Black girls in Selma, Alabama, she developed a profound understanding that healing from sexual violence requires more than just awareness—it demands connection, empowerment, and the simple yet revolutionary affirmation that survivors are not alone. Her story illuminates how empathy becomes action, how wounds become wisdom, and how one woman's determination to speak truth can amplify countless voices that had long been silenced.

Chapter 1: Early Years: Foundations of Resilience in the Bronx

Tarana Burke's story begins in the Bronx of the 1970s, a borough often defined by outsiders through images of burned-out buildings and poverty but which she experienced as a rich cultural tapestry and extended family. Born into a family deeply rooted in Black consciousness and community pride, Burke was the granddaughter of Joseph Burke, one of the first Black babies born in Lincoln Hospital in the late 1920s. Her grandfather, who met her grandmother after breaking up a fight between her and an abusive boyfriend, would become the dominant patriarch and philosophical guide of the Burke family. Growing up as the oldest grandchild, Tarana was immersed in what she describes as a "pro-Black family." Her grandfather, a self-taught scholar of Black history and follower of Marcus Garvey and Malcolm X, insisted on celebrating Blackness in every possible way. When a young cousin admitted not knowing who Malcolm X was, her grandfather immediately bought a birthday cake to celebrate the civil rights leader and used the opportunity to educate the child. This early grounding in racial pride and historical awareness shaped Burke's understanding of herself and her place in the world. Burke's mother, heavily influenced by her father's Black liberation philosophy, enrolled young Tarana in an Afrocentric daycare where she learned Swahili and African dance by age three. Her grandfather believed in telling the unvarnished truth about America and instilled in her a critical consciousness about the nation's promises and failures. She wasn't allowed to wear red, white, and blue or participate in the Pledge of Allegiance. "What are you pledging to?" he would ask. "This country doesn't keep its promises!" Despite the strong foundation of cultural pride, Burke's early years were marked by instability and loss. Her biological father was never present in her life. Her mother's relationship with a man she affectionately called Mr. Wes provided temporary stability. Mr. Wes, a neighborhood numbers runner who stood six-foot-four with a raspy voice like Harry Belafonte's, became a beloved father figure. He was known for taking care of the community—financing block parties, helping struggling families, and ensuring no one went hungry. In her own words, Burke remembers him as "the sweetest, most loving gentle giant," though she also witnessed his capacity for violence when protecting the neighborhood. The Bronx of Burke's childhood taught her vital lessons about "using what you have to create what you need." People struggled but also built community. The resilience she witnessed in her neighborhood, as residents reclaimed and rebuilt burned-out buildings, would later mirror her own journey toward healing. Though the borough and her family gave her strength, they couldn't fully protect her from the traumas that awaited—traumas that would both derail and eventually define her life's purpose.

Chapter 2: The Assault: Trauma and Silent Suffering

The winter after Tarana Burke turned seven years old, her life changed irrevocably when one of the "big boys" in her neighborhood lured her away from where she was playing, took her to a secluded corner of their apartment building, and sexually assaulted her. The experience was bewildering and frightening for the young girl who had no framework to understand what was happening. In Burke's own recollection, she remembered feeling "nasty and dirty and wrong," not realizing that her attacker was the perpetrator and she was the victim. The immediate aftermath of the assault created a profound dilemma for the seven-year-old Burke. When she returned home crying, her stepfather, Mr. Wes, demanded to know who had "bothered" her. In that moment, young Tarana made what she describes as "a very adult decision" not to tell the complete truth. She had witnessed Mr. Wes and his friends violently punishing a neighborhood thief, and she feared what would happen both to her attacker and to her beloved stepfather if she revealed the full extent of what had occurred. This decision—rooted in love and fear—became the first brick in a wall of silence that would take decades to dismantle. This early assault was not an isolated incident. At nine years old, Burke was molested again by an older neighborhood boy who forced her and another girl to touch him and put their mouths on him and each other. He took Polaroid pictures during these encounters and used them as blackmail to ensure their continued compliance and silence. The abuse continued for years until, at twelve, she finally reached a breaking point during an attempted rape when she screamed loud enough to escape the situation. The trauma of these experiences created a split in Burke's identity and self-perception. On one side was the "good girl" she presented to the world—smart, polite, and obedient. On the other was what she believed to be her true self—"this gross, fast, ugly girl with dark secrets." This internal fracture profoundly shaped her relationship with herself and others. Without the language to understand concepts like rape, molestation, or abuse, Burke internalized a deep sense of shame. "In my mind," she writes, "they didn't abuse me. I broke the rules. I was the one who did something wrong." The absence of open conversation about sexual violence in her community compounded her suffering. No one had explained to her why she needed to protect her private parts, just that it was imperative she did. Without context or guidance, Burke was left to navigate her trauma alone, believing herself unworthy and somehow responsible for what had happened to her. This burden of shame became a weight she would carry "heavy on my back and deep in my flesh" for years to come, slowly crushing her spirit and self-worth.

Chapter 3: Finding Her Voice: Activism and Leadership Development

Burke's path toward healing and activism began to take shape during her high school years, though not without detours through pain and rebellion. After transferring from Catholic school to Harry S. Truman High School, she quickly developed a reputation as the "Black Power girl" who challenged authority and stood her ground in confrontations. She fought back against racial stereotypes and historical misrepresentations, once confronting a Global History teacher who tried to downplay Jesus's African origins. Her outspoken nature often landed her in trouble, but it also reflected her growing political consciousness. A pivotal shift occurred when Burke, at fifteen, attended a youth leadership development trip to Washington, DC. There she encountered the 21st Century Youth Leadership Movement, an organization founded by veterans of the civil rights, Black Power, and labor movements. The gathering was unlike anything Burke had experienced—filled with young people singing, dancing, and embracing their power without reservation. At the helm was a woman named Faya Rose Touré Sanders, whose commanding presence and inspirational message struck Burke to her core. "I am a leader," the students were instructed to say, a declaration that contrasted sharply with the self-doubt Burke had carried for years. Mrs. Sanders and the other elders validated Burke not just as a participant but as an organizer with inherent leadership qualities. For the first time, Burke felt seen not for what had happened to her, but for who she could become. "I was now an organizer, full-blown," she recalls of this transformation. The organization provided Burke with tools to channel her anger into constructive activism. When the Central Park Jogger case erupted in 1989, with five Black and Latino teenagers falsely accused of assaulting a white woman, Burke and her fellow 21C members organized to challenge the media's demonization of the accused. Though Burke didn't yet connect with the jogger as a fellow survivor of sexual violence, she recognized the racial injustice of the situation and found purpose in defending those she saw as wrongfully targeted. After high school, Burke's activism deepened when she enrolled at Alabama State University, transferring later to Auburn University at Montgomery. Her college years were marked by continued leadership in Black student organizations and growing recognition of her organizing skills. When Rodney King was beaten by Los Angeles police and the officers were subsequently acquitted, Burke organized one of her first rallies, channeling her outrage into collective action. By her senior year, Burke had caught the attention of Senator Hank Sanders, Faya Rose's husband, who offered her a position working for 21st Century Youth Leadership Movement in Selma, Alabama. Though she had been planning to return to New York or move to Maryland with her boyfriend, Burke recognized this as a genuine opportunity to do meaningful work. Her decision to accept that offer set her on a path that would eventually lead to the creation of the 'me too.' Movement—though the journey would be far from straightforward.

Chapter 4: The Birth of 'Me Too': Heaven's Story and a Movement

The pivotal moment that gave birth to the 'me too.' Movement came during the summer of 1996 at a 21st Century Youth Leadership Movement camp where Burke, now 22, was serving as a camp director. Among the young campers was a girl named Heaven, a spirited and outspoken child who caught Burke's attention from the first day when she arrived fussing loudly on the minibus. With her raspy voice and cherub face, Heaven exhibited a righteous fury that reminded Burke of her younger self. Throughout the camp, Burke found herself drawn to Heaven, working to channel the girl's defiant energy into leadership potential. "I adored this child," Burke writes, noting how Heaven's belly laughter lit up her heart. One evening, Burke assured Heaven, "You are one of us now, you are a 21st Century leader, and we are your family." The moment created a bond between them, with Heaven beaming at Burke's words of affirmation and love. The connection between them was tested, however, during the camp's traditional "Sister to Sister" session, where female counselors and campers gathered to discuss sensitive topics. As often happened in these sessions, the conversation eventually turned to experiences of sexual abuse, with several girls sharing their stories. Burke noticed that Heaven had gone completely still during these revelations—physically present but emotionally retreated. Recognizing this response from her own past experiences, Burke understood that Heaven too carried the burden of sexual trauma. The next day, Heaven sought out Burke, determined to confide her own story of abuse. As Heaven began to speak about her stepfather's violations, Burke was overcome with panic. Faced with a child who reminded her so much of herself, Burke found herself unable to listen. Instead of providing the empathy Heaven desperately needed, she cut the girl off mid-sentence and redirected her to another counselor. The look of betrayal on Heaven's face as she walked away haunted Burke. This encounter became what Burke describes as a "missed empathy moment"—a failure that would ultimately inspire her greatest work. In the days following, as Burke reflected on her inability to support Heaven, she realized that the young girl had demonstrated a courage that she herself had never found. The questions kept coming: "How had she managed to do the thing that I had still not figured out how to do with a head start almost double her twelve short years?" Several years later, while working in Selma with a program serving Black girls, Burke found herself thinking of Heaven again. The memory of failing to meet Heaven at "the apex of her courage" drove Burke to develop a framework for supporting survivors of sexual violence. She wrote down the words "me too" in her notebook—a simple affirmation acknowledging shared experience and creating space for empathy. This phrase would become the foundation of her work with young Black women and girls. Burke explains that the essence of 'me too' was never about accusation or exposure but about connection: "It was so difficult to get people on board—including those who claimed to be in the service of our community. What motivated me to continue were the little Black and Brown girls who trusted us with their secrets, their pain, their shame, their worries, their anger, their fears, and their hopes."

Chapter 5: Crisis and Transformation: Breaking Free in Selma

Burke's years in Selma represented both deep community connection and profound personal crisis. Working multiple jobs—including at the Selma Times-Journal, the Black Belt Arts & Cultural Center, and the National Voting Rights Museum—she created a meaningful life for herself and her young daughter, Kaia. Yet beneath the surface of her community work, Burke was grappling with unresolved trauma and ethical conflicts that would eventually force a reckoning. The most significant betrayal came through her mentors' relationship with Reverend James Luther Bevel, a former lieutenant of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and architect of pivotal civil rights events like the Selma to Montgomery March. Bevel, who had relocated to Selma in 2004, was granted access to community spaces by Burke's mentors, the Sanders family. What Burke and others didn't know initially was that Bevel was also a serial child molester who had abused his own daughters—a fact the Sanders family discovered but kept quiet. When Burke finally learned the truth through a letter addressed to her colleague Joanne Bland at the museum, she was devastated. "They knew," Bland told her, referring to the Sanders family. The revelation that her beloved mentors had sheltered a known predator while allowing him access to community children—including Burke's own daughter—shattered her trust. She described the feeling as "butterfly wings"—small disturbances that would eventually create a tsunami in her life. This crisis coincided with Burke's growing awareness of how sexual violence affected the young girls in her programs. Working with a girl named Diamond, who had been abandoned by her mother and feared returning to a house full of predatory men, Burke recognized the urgent need for intervention. Yet when she sought help from official channels—the school guidance counselor, the local rape crisis center—she found only inadequate responses and closed doors. The culmination of these experiences led to a spiritual and emotional breakdown in 2005. Sitting in her car outside the rape crisis center that had turned her away, Burke experienced what she describes as a rumbling that finally broke through: "I began to scream and cry uncontrollably, pounding my fists against the steering wheel." In this moment of desperation, she asked God what she could do to help these girls. The answer came with clarity: "It's you." What followed was an intense period of confronting her own buried memories and shame. In a harrowing two-day episode, Burke experienced flashbacks and overwhelming emotions as she deliberately remembered her childhood traumas. "I lay there, with my eyes wide open, watching my worst nightmares unfold," she writes. Yet through this process, she finally told her story to "the one person who needed to hear it most, myself." The breakthrough led Burke to formalize her approach to supporting survivors. She created workshops incorporating stories of famous Black women who had experienced sexual violence—women like Maya Angelou, Oprah Winfrey, and Mary J. Blige—to show that survival and success were possible. She developed definitions and language to help young people understand concepts like grooming, rape, and shame. Most importantly, she built spaces where survivors could simply write "me too" on a piece of paper, acknowledging their experiences without pressure to share details. This period of crisis culminated in Burke's decision to leave Selma. The realization that she could no longer grow in an environment where her work was undervalued and her trust had been betrayed propelled her toward a new chapter. Though she had no clear destination, she packed her belongings, secured a job in Philadelphia, and prepared to start anew, carrying with her the seeds of a movement that would eventually change the world.

Chapter 6: From Hashtag to Global Movement: The Viral Moment

On October 15, 2017, Burke awoke to a flurry of notifications on her phone. Overnight, the phrase "me too" had exploded across social media as women shared their experiences of sexual harassment and assault in response to the Harvey Weinstein scandal. Actress Alyssa Milano had tweeted asking women to reply "me too" if they had experienced sexual harassment or assault, unknowingly echoing the language Burke had been using for over a decade. Burke's initial reaction was panic. "This can't happen," she remembers thinking through tears. "Not like this! If these white women start using this hashtag, and it gets popular, they will never believe that a Black woman in her forties from the Bronx has been building a movement for the same purposes, using those exact words, for years now." After years of working without recognition or resources, Burke feared her life's work would be erased in an instant. Acting quickly, Burke posted a video of herself from 2014 explaining the 'me too.' Movement, hoping to establish her connection to the phrase. She reached out to her networks—bloggers, journalists, activists, and artists—asking them to amplify her post. As she waited anxiously to see if her efforts would make a difference, something unexpected happened: Burke began to witness the profound impact the hashtag was having on survivors. Scrolling through Twitter, she came across a post from a woman who had shared her assault story publicly for the first time after seeing the #metoo posts. The woman wrote that witnessing others come forward had made her feel less alone. This realization shifted something fundamental in Burke: "Her post landed on my spirit like life lessons often do: hard, fast, and with aching discomfort." Burke recognized that regardless of who got credit, the work she had dedicated her life to was happening right in front of her—people were finding community through shared vulnerability. In this moment of clarity, Burke chose to set aside her concerns about ownership and focus instead on the movement's purpose. "I didn't want to fight about who got what credit," she explains. "I just wanted to show the world why a movement like this was necessary." Within days, Burke had shifted from desperately trying to salvage her connection to "me too" to embracing her role in a suddenly global conversation about sexual violence. What followed was a whirlwind as Burke was thrust into public life. Media outlets began reaching out for interviews, correctly identifying her as the original creator of the 'me too.' Movement. She found herself navigating television appearances, speaking engagements, and meetings with celebrities and activists. Time Magazine named her, along with other "Silence Breakers," as Person of the Year in 2017. Despite the sudden attention, Burke remained focused on the movement's core principles. She consistently redirected conversations from the celebrities involved to the experiences of marginalized survivors, particularly Black women and girls. She emphasized that 'me too' was not about "taking down" powerful men but about supporting survivors and creating pathways to healing through empathy. As the movement expanded globally, Burke worked to maintain its integrity while acknowledging its evolution. She developed a framework that emphasized both healing and action, supporting survivors while also working toward prevention and accountability. Throughout this period of intense public scrutiny, Burke remained grounded in her original vision: creating space for survivors to be seen, heard, and believed—especially those whose voices had been historically silenced.

Chapter 7: Healing Through Empathy: Creating Space for Black Women

At the heart of Burke's vision for the 'me too.' Movement has always been the creation of healing spaces for Black women and girls, whose experiences with sexual violence are often compounded by racism and erasure. Even as the movement gained global recognition, Burke observed that many Black women were not engaging in the public sharing that characterized the viral moment. Understanding the complex reasons for this reluctance became central to her ongoing work. Burke recognized that for Black women, disclosure carries heightened risks and consequences. The stakes are simply higher. Historically, Black women's bodily autonomy has been systematically violated while their pain has been ignored. The legacy of slavery, in which Black women's bodies were considered property, continues to influence societal responses to their trauma. When actress Cicely Tyson finally shared her story of attempted sexual assault late in her life, she revealed it was the first time she had cried about the incident since it happened decades earlier—a poignant example of how Black women have been forced to suppress their pain. The backlash Burke experienced after participating in the documentary "Surviving R. Kelly" further illuminated these complexities. Despite presenting well-documented evidence of Kelly's predatory behavior toward young Black girls, Burke faced vicious attacks, primarily from within the Black community. "My entire life has been dedicated to working in, and for, my community," she writes. "I shouldn't have been surprised by the reaction from my own folks, but I was." This hostility revealed the painful tensions that arise when addressing sexual violence within communities already burdened by racial oppression. Throughout these challenges, Burke continued developing frameworks that center Black women's experiences. Her approach emphasizes collective healing rather than individual exposure, creating what she calls "empowerment through empathy." By focusing on community building and shared understanding, Burke offers an alternative to the public disclosure model that may not serve Black women's needs or respect their specific vulnerabilities. Burke's personal journey toward healing became inseparable from her work. In a powerful moment with her own child, who had experienced sexual assault, Burke finally shared her own story of childhood abuse. This exchange embodied the essence of 'me too'—the transformative power of empathy and the simple acknowledgment that survivors are not alone. "My baby, listen," she told her child. "When I was a little girl, a similar thing happened to me. That's why when I tell you that you are not to blame I know what I am talking about." After decades of carrying shame and silence, Burke found liberation through helping others. Her decision to reveal her own experiences—first to herself, then to her child, and eventually to the world through her memoir—represents the full circle of her journey. The girl who once felt "dirty" and "used up" reclaimed her narrative and transformed it into a source of healing for millions. Today, Burke continues advocating for survivor-centered approaches that honor the specific needs of Black women and other marginalized groups. She insists that true healing requires more than hashtags or public accountability for individual perpetrators—it demands systemic change and community transformation. By creating spaces where survivors can be affirmed without exploitation, Burke fulfills the promise she once failed to keep with Heaven: to meet survivors at the apex of their courage with the empathy they deserve.

Summary

Tarana Burke's journey embodies the transformative power of converting personal pain into collective healing. From her early experiences of sexual violence in the Bronx to her groundbreaking work with young survivors in Selma, Alabama, Burke consistently chose to face her trauma rather than be defined by it. When the #metoo hashtag went viral in 2017, she could have retreated into bitterness over the potential erasure of her decade-long work. Instead, she recognized the moment as an opportunity to amplify the voices of survivors worldwide, particularly those from marginalized communities whose stories are often overlooked. The enduring legacy of Burke's work lies in her radical insistence on empathy as a healing force. Her story teaches us that true liberation comes not from burying painful experiences but from creating spaces where those experiences can be acknowledged without shame. For individuals, Burke's journey offers a path toward reclaiming personal narrative through community and connection. For society, she provides a blueprint for addressing sexual violence that centers survivors' needs while working toward systemic change. In a world that often demands silence from the most vulnerable, Burke's message remains revolutionary: your story matters, your healing matters, and you are not alone.

About Author

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Tarana Burke

Tarana Burke is an American activist from The Bronx, New York who started the Me Too movement. In 2006, Burke began using metoo to help other women with similar experiences to stand up for themselves.

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