Filmmaker D. Smith’s debut documentary “Kokomo City” presents a raw depiction of the lives of four Black trans women — Daniella Carter, Koko Da Doll, Liyah Mitchell and Dominique Silver. Based in Atlanta and New York City, the women get real about sex work and confront the prejudices they experience, as well as the persistent threat of violence they face each day.
“Kokomo City” made a huge splash at Sundance, winning both the NEXT Audience and Innovator awards, landing Lena Waithe’s Hillman Grad as executive producers and securing theatrical distribution from Magnolia Pictures. Following the big wins, the documentary continued along the festival circuit, screening for massive crowds at Berlin, SXSW and BFI’s London LGBTQIA+ film fest, among other international venues.
But, in April, on the eve of the “Kokomo City’s” debut as a marquee selection at the Atlanta Film Festival, the unthinkable happened: Koko Da Doll, also known as Rasheeda Williams, was shot and killed. She was 35 years old.
Now, with the doc playing nationwide, Smith reflects on the “Kokomo City” team’s emotional journey, the impact she hopes the film will make on audiences and keeping Koko’s legacy alive.
Koko always had the last word in the film, and she deserved the last word because she was such an authentic, genuine, humble person. At the end of the day, the last word should be the truth. She always spoke her truth.
I hated that we had to add the end card “In loving memory of Koko.” I hate that it came to that. It’s still difficult to process not having her with us. The movie sets the tone for people to open their hearts and be more compassionate and these women being so transparent and visible has moved the needle much further along, but the truth of Koko’s death added an urgency to this film and their story.
Making this movie has been a freight train of experiences and emotions. What was most refreshing was the girls’ vulnerability. A lot of the time trans women are made out to be these beauty queens; on the red carpet, saying, “I used to do this or that. I’m a goddess now. I’ve made it, thank God.” That is not the true story and picture of transgenderism. We’re still struggling. We’re still fighting every day. We want the same rights, the same opportunities, the same protection as everyone else.
I’ll never forget being behind the camera in the scene when Koko began to cry on her sofa. It just broke my heart.
I was on the road from New York to Atlanta to film with Liyah when my friend, Dustin Lohman, called me about Koko. “You’ve got to talk to her. She’ll be perfect for this film,” they said. “She’s a really cool person, really sweet.” I was open to it and when I spoke to Koko over the phone, I knew how much I needed her. Within 40 seconds of the conversation, she started crying. And it made me cry because I felt how real it was and how deeply desperate she was to just tell her story.
So, seeing her cry while we filmed in her home, I just wanted to put the freaking camera down and hug her. But I had to capture that because it was a real moment that we needed to see. She was trying to portray that she was this tough person, and she’s the softest one out of the whole bunch. Her vulnerability is riveting. I was obsessed with her ability to tell her story. The urgency in her voice motivated me and put a battery in my back to dive into the nuances of who she is and how she lives and how she survived. It’s quite unbelievable how early she was out there selling her body. And now, to be able to touch so many people around the world is just incredible.
I have a video on my phone of Koko at Sundance. It’d been almost two years and none of the girls had seen themselves in the film. Imagine letting someone film you in your most vulnerable state, physically and emotionally: You can’t remember exactly what you’ve said in the film. Now you’re overthinking, overanalyzing, second-guessing if you should have done it. There was a lot of tension; people’s anxiety was running high.
I was also anxious because hundreds of people were getting ready to watch my first film. “I hope this looks good on the screen,” I thought. “I hope they laugh at this part.” But the most important thing was the girls. Other people had been blown away by the film, but they aren’t the protagonists. I wanted to see their reactions. I needed to see how they were getting into it. Koko was crying and laughing, and all the girls were glued to it like kids watching “Sesame Street.”
I remember thinking, “Damn. I really positioned these girls to tell their stories and say whatever is most important to them. And we have an audience that’s not arguing with them, denying them, fighting them. The audience has to sit and listen, because they’re compelled and captivated by what these women are saying.” How powerful is that to have these women with no makeup, no fancy hair — it’s just them — and people give them a standing ovation? There’s nothing else that could be more valuable than that moment.
After the Sundance premiere, it was chaos, but I remember this Black woman coming up to me. She rubbed her stomach — she was five months pregnant — and said, “I can’t wait for my husband to see this. This film made me love my unborn child differently.” That was one of the things I was so fearful of — I didn’t want Black women to be offended or hurt or feel targeted by this film. To have a Black woman, with her child in her stomach, say the film impacted her in that way, that was the greatest reaction.
Then we went to London. When you make a film like “Kokomo City,” where the slang is so heavy and the dialect is so thick, plus the Blackness, the queerness, the shadiness, the sassiness, I didn’t know how well that would read over the pond. It was a full house. When we walked in, the audience automatically started clapping and then they stood up — a standing ovation before they even saw the film! To see those girls, again, just getting their life and their just due, I felt so proud that I was able to be used in that way to create this opportunity.
It’s been like that in all the places we’ve gone to. People have been really struck by this film, and I’m just grateful that – even on a smaller scale, with family and friends — people have shifted the way they see the experience of transgenderism.
Finding out that Koko had been killed was unbearable. I’ve lost family members and close friends, but I’ve never cried for anyone in my life as hard as I cried for Koko. Never. I was asked if we should cancel the Atlanta Film Festival screening. I wasn’t ready to go see her in theaters, but I said, “Absolutely not. We cannot do that. That’s where she lives – she represents Atlanta. She passed in Atlanta. That’s exactly what the enemy wants us to do, to hide and turn off the cameras and the lights. If anything, we need to really go nuts.” So, we went ahead with the screening and the theater was packed — people were standing in the back and in the aisles.
Koko’s family saw the film in Atlanta. I don’t think they really knew what she was up to when she told them, “I’m about to be in this film. I’m about to be famous.” But they loved it and they’re very proud of her.
What’s helping me to process this is that I strongly believe that Koko was born and developed and experienced all those things in life to be in “Kokomo City.” Because if she wasn’t in the film, she could have been another trans woman dead, murdered in Atlanta. There is something very divine about her being in this film telling her story.
— As told to Angelique Jackson
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