Nikkya Hargrove’s mother was addicted to crack cocaine and had been in and out of prison. She gave birth to Hargrove’s half brother Jonathan when Hargrove was 24, and died shortly afterwards. Hargrove, a recent college graduate, decided to try and raise the boy herself, wanting to give him a more stable childhood than she herself had experienced. In this gripping memoir of family broken and family forged, Hargrove tells of fighting Jonathan’s irresponsible biological father for custody, of trying to nurture a new romantic relationship while raising a child, and of the lessons learned and sometimes unlearned from extended family members. Although she does not condone the more harmful actions of her mother and certain other relatives, she also does not paint them as caricatures, but as complex, if flawed, people.
Throughout, Hargrove reflects on parenthood, parenting, and family. As a child, she was raised largely by her grandparents, but also had to care for her own mother, who was unable to care for herself. Her father was absent. As an adult, she needed to figure out what kind of parent she wanted to be, in light of her role models, and even if the title “parent” fit in her circumstances. She writes thoughtfully about how she and Dinushka, the woman she would eventually marry, navigated both the universal challenges of parenthood and the ones specific to them as “queer women of color, coming from conservative cultures, having to carve out something new.” While exploring the trauma of her past, though, Hargrove also shows us the hope and joy of a queer family coming together and making a place for themselves despite the odds stacked against them.
Most of the queer family formation stories we hear are of couples choosing to have children via assisted reproduction, surrogacy, or adoption from outside the family. Hargrove’s story is far different, but that is all the more reason we should be grateful that she told it. Highly recommended.
Content warning: Drug abuse; physical abuse; brief mention of possible self harm.
