Ordinary Hazards

  Cel­e­brat­ed poet Grimes turns here to her own life, mak­ing it clear from the start of this free-verse mem­oir that it’s a work of “imper­fect mem­o­ry” in which “informed imag­i­na­tion” fills the gaps. Even the name by which she’s known is a self-giv­en name, and right from the open­ing poem that explains her self-nam­ing, she cre­ates an irre­sistible sto­ry­telling per­sona of strong self-def­i­n­i­tion and a blend of con­fes­sion­al shar­ing and fierce privacy.

Her account cov­ers her life from her birth in 1950 to 1966, and there’s a strong focus on her strug­gles with her alco­holic, schiz­o­phrenic moth­er. After Child Ser­vices inter­venes, Nik­ki bounces from an ini­tial fos­ter place­ment to a reluc­tant grand­moth­er to anoth­er fos­ter home (“Did we do some­thing wrong?/ Is that why no one wants us?” she thinks). That fos­ter home is actu­al­ly a sta­ble respite, but she even­tu­al­ly returns home to live with her moth­er and her new step­fa­ther, who sex­u­al­ly assaults her. Along the way she’s sep­a­rat­ed from her adored old­er sis­ter, threat­ened by gangs, and dev­as­tat­ed by the death of her lov­ing if incon­sis­tent father, but she also finds kind­ness and sup­port from friends and teachers.

Through­out, the voice of the sto­ry­teller rings clear; a theme of the nar­ra­tive, in fact, is the cre­ation of mem­oir when trau­ma means that mem­o­ry is “scraps of knowing/ wedged between blank spaces”; life has meant so much for­get­ting as well as remem­ber­ing. Yet the past is still sear­ing­ly and emo­tive­ly evoked, whether she’s talk­ing about the under­ly­ing rage that led her to avoid bul­lies for fear of what she’d be pro­voked to do, or the val­ue of a life­sav­ing friend­ship (“I believed in Jackie,/ and she believed in me./ Fun­ny how far/ that can take you”). She also shines the spot­light on gold­en moments that buoy her amid her tra­vails, such as meet­ing James Bald­win or just hear­ing a friend’s moth­er offer lov­ing words of sup­port at a moment when it’s needed.

Char­ac­ter­i­za­tion is potent as well, whether it be her­self in a teenaged moment (“near­ly fif­teen-going-on-/ you-couldn’t‑tell-me-nothin’”), the moth­er who even sober has sym­pa­thy for strangers but indif­fer­ence for her daugh­ter, or the demand­ing Holo­caust-sur­vivor teacher who push­es Nik­ki to ful­fill her true poten­tial. None of them over­shad­ow young Nik­ki, how­ev­er, who is the most com­pelling char­ac­ter of all—furious and flinty, lov­ing and long­ing, tal­ent­ed and curi­ous. She is deserved­ly proud of her resilience while abhor­ring its necessity.

Com­par­isons will inevitably be made between Ordi­nary Haz­ardsand Jacque­line Woodson’s Brown Girl Dream­ing (BCCB 9/14), anoth­er verse mem­oir of a read­er­ly young Black girl who became a writer, and indeed, both are superla­tive works that tes­ti­fy to the glo­ry of words. How­ev­er, young Nikki’s writ­ing, like her name, is clear­ly an act of self-def­i­n­i­tion in a world miser­ly in its nur­tur­ing: she makes her­self; she names her­self; she writes her­self. Grimes potent­ly con­veys the way read­ing and writ­ing can become ways not just to express one­self but to con­struct one­self, to artic­u­late one’s iden­ti­ty, to map one’s men­tal and emo­tion­al ter­ri­to­ry. Read­er­ly read­ers will find young Nik­ki inspir­ing com­pa­ny and agree with her that “sur­viv­ing is almost easy/ if you have a strategy/ and a copy of/ A Wrin­kle in Time.” A con­clud­ing gallery of pho­tographs brings key char­ac­ters to vivid life. (Deb­o­rah Steven­son, Edi­tor, Bul­letin of the Cen­ter for Chil­dren’s Books, starred review)