Julie-C: From Hip-Hop Prodigy to Activist and Community Builder in Seattle’s Creative Scene
Photos by Sonny Svay for Bumbershoot, featuring Mediums Collective x La Paisa. Photos courtesy of Julie-C’s Instagram.
By Emma Schwichtenberg
At just 16 years old, Julie Chang Schulman, aka Julie-C, released her first professional project, “Welcome to my World” with the label Immaculate Flave, a bold entrance into Seattle’s Hip-Hop scene that hinted at her future as both an artist and an activist. But her journey didn’t start in the studio—it began at home, where music was more than a pastime; it was a bridge. With a father who was a musician on the autism spectrum, Julie-C learned early that music could be a powerful way to connect, communicate, and create meaning.
Her teenage years were spent immersing herself in the vibrant cultural heartbeat of Seattle. Spaces like Sure Shot Sundays and Sit and Spin weren’t just venues—they were communities that shaped her artistry and introduced her to the authentic spirit of Hip-Hop. Here, she found more than inspiration; she found her mission.
Fast forward 15 years, and Julie-C has become a cornerstone of Seattle’s cultural and activist communities. As an emcee, educator, and cultural organizer, she uses her platform to amplify voices, advocate for equity, and foster creativity. Whether leading the Artist Coalition for Equitable Development or working as the co-founder of On The Block Seattle and Forever Safe Spaces, her work is rooted in a belief that Hip-Hop can be a catalyst for change, empowering individuals and uniting communities.
Her story is one of passion turned purpose—a testament to the transformative power of music and the enduring strength of grassroots movements.
Julie-C spoke with Converge Music about her journey from a young artist to a key figure in Seattle’s creative community, the intersection of Hip-Hop and activism, and how she continues to shape spaces that support and uplift other artists.
How was it starting at such a young age?
Yeah, it was... you know, at that point in my life, I had come out of some pretty significant trauma. I went through a lot as a young teenager. I was a runaway, I was incarcerated, and I was locked up for six months when I was 14. So, at that point in my life, music was really the one place where I could process some of those experiences. I was fortunate enough to have the support of Immaculate Slave and, through the community, connect with a producer. I recorded my first tracks on ADAT.
We used to do events at this Mexican restaurant, where I had to wait until it was my time to perform to even get in. So, it was... different. But I was fortunate. At that time in Seattle, there was a strong jazz-theory music group, as well as a solid foundation of all-ages activity happening every Sunday at Sure Shot. There was also the Poetry Experience with Rajnii Gibson-Eddins.
There was a lot of community support in ways that, when we talk about professional music scenes... you know, they always say Seattle doesn’t have a music industry. But we definitely have a really strong music community backbone.
Every artist I’ve talked to has said that the music community in Seattle has been this really welcoming thing. I don’t know—it feels like that’s not something you hear in the media as much. It’s interesting because, you know, we’re living in an era of dramatic shifts in how the music industry operates.
I feel like I’ve lived through this era of change, from pre-1996—when the Telecom Act consolidated all radio stations—to now. We’re also the city of WTO protests, and all of that happened on top of the transition to the internet era. Now, I feel like the music industry, as it is, is really struggling to survive.
But what we have in Seattle feels different. I think it’s a model, or a prototype, of something new—a backbone of sorts. We’ve always had this interesting intersection of community work, activism, and music. I believe, and hope, that this is the future: a sustainable, equitable approach to creative industries and the economy.
I feel like—and it also seems like—this is just a part of who you are as a person because you’ve done so much grassroots work. I was wondering how all that work has impacted your music. Music is such a personal thing, but pursuing that type of work is, in a way, another very different version of something equally personal.
Definitely. I mean, when I introduce myself in activism or organizing spaces, I always say, “I come from Seattle Hip-Hop.” I feel privileged to have learned from the lineage of this intersection of Hip-Hop and activism, which has really shaped me from the very beginning. For me, there’s no separation—it’s very much intertwined.
I think it manifests in different ways, but I was fortunate to have mentorship that helped me utilize Hip-Hop as a lens through which to process social inequity and all the systemic issues that make the world hard to live in. It’s how I came to understand why I never felt like I fit in. Through the tools of Hip-Hop and the community that transmitted those tools, I was able to find myself and my place in the work that I do.
When you tell people that you're from the Hip-Hop community and that it’s how you’ve learned to process things, what’s their reaction? How do they take that in?
It depends. It depends on whether they’re from Seattle. A lot of people here understand because we’re part of the legacy of the Central District, of Jackie, of Langston. There’s a lineage in Seattle that goes back as far as Cervantes, a lot now, you know. For people who don’t really understand what that means, I think it’s tied to the gaps in the stories that are told and how they’re told.
I think Daudi Abe did a great job documenting the history of Hip-Hop in Seattle, but there’s still this interesting distinction in how we talk about it. We tend to frame it from the perspective of a music industry that was never designed to be equitable or to support artists. It’s always been a little vampiric, right?
When I think about myself as a Hip-Hop artist, what that means to me isn’t about going platinum or getting a million streams. For me, it’s about providing spaces where people can grow and experiment with their creativity, passing those connections and lessons forward to the next generation, and continuing to hold the spaces that were so transformative for me.
You’ve had a few spaces over the years. I know you’re working on Forever Spaces now, but you’ve had other groups and projects before. What made you decide to create something tangible—something people could actually find and visit, beyond just an idea? When did you know you wanted to make it a real gathering space?
Well, spaces are vital, right? I’ve never established a space entirely on my own. For example, Forever Spaces was created with Carolyn Hitt. The work we do began with Blue Cone Studios and expanded to So Below and The Study—three different physical art spaces. But the spaces that came before those, like Sure Shot Sundays, were just as vital. King Khazm’s studio for MAD Krew was a space, too, as was the community we built together. Even the basement of Langston Hughes or wherever the Poetry Experience happened to be in the city at the time was a space.
It’s really about the energy cultivated and transmitted through being somewhere with people and sharing that exchange. That’s where the power comes from. Creativity is so generative. You might go into something thinking, Okay, this is what I want to do or make, but the real value comes from the process and the people you meet along the way.
That’s why the centrality of cultural spaces remains so important to me. They’re foundational to everything we do.
Could you specifically tell me about Forever Spaces? That’s what you’re currently focused on, right?
You’re correct. Forever Safe Spaces is a social-purpose cooperative we founded right after the pandemic, during the Capitol Hill Occupied Protest. It started as a coalition to support the survival of Blue Cone, but also to recognize and value the role artists and creatives play in movements—roles that were often overlooked. We use the phrase transforming how cultural labor is valued and compensated as our guiding principle.
Forever Safe Spaces emerged as an evolution of that work. It drew from Blue Cone, the Artist Coalition for Equitable Development, and other parts of the lineage we’ve built. Currently, we host three different spaces on 11th Avenue. Through our Communities Program, we offer at least 12 free monthly art drop-ins, covering everything from ceramics to music production, songwriting, and figure drawing. These are led by volunteers or our resident artists, who form an ecosystem of about 40 people with 24/7 access to the spaces, plus a broader network of around 200 who regularly use them for individual and community projects.
We also participate in the Second Thursday Art Walk, featuring different artists, music, and beverages. Additionally, we co-produce On the Block with community partners, a creative marketplace.
Essentially, we’ve created a pipeline to help cultural workers and creatives not just survive, but thrive. It’s about holding space, sharing skills, and providing platforms to connect with the broader community.
What type of feedback have you gotten from people about this? Specifically, about what it’s become compared to what it started as, and this pipeline you’ve created to help people survive and thrive in the creative community?
You know, I think people thought we were nuts. There were a lot of leaps of faith along the way. We kept taking on more studios because we wanted to ensure the spaces we created wouldn’t close—they had to stay accessible to the community. For probably two whole years, up until the beginning of this year, we had no idea how we were going to pay the next month’s rent. Everything was run by volunteers.
The reaction we often get is, How? How are you sustaining this? It’s usually a mix of surprise and amazement. Honestly, up until this year, when we received the Washington State Gun Violence Prevention Award, we had zero operational funding. But for our participants and those involved, it’s become a kind of bedrock in their lives, and we’re really grateful for that.
And it's just, it's good to know that there are places that are still, like, really focusing on that and like keeping it alive?
Definitely, no, I feel that entirely. Yeah, I see myself teaching after school, weekends, working at a coffee bar, and juggling about 10 billion side gigs and jobs.
I think, for me, I believe that all people are artists. It’s a very colonized—and relatively new—perspective for humanity to think that art is separate from other aspects of life, right? Historically, art was such an integral part of ritual, living, communion—just a part of everything.
What we do is really part of a movement to shift that perspective. The sustainability part is always the tricky part; it’s just the reality of late-stage capitalism, right? But because our values have always been what they are, we believe in doing what we can to support ourselves and each other to survive within these systems.
That said, we’re not here to acclimate people to thrive in a dying system. We’re here to transform systems and transform economies.
For more, find Julie-C on Instagram @joulesea.
