Like a lot of 20-something-year-old Black women, when the novel Queenie by Candice Carty-Williams debuted in 2019, I was quick to get my hands on it. After devouring it in a day, I was left with the frustration and dissatisfaction that many readers shared.
It’s difficult to spend time with a character who seems both familiar and foreign. Queenie is self-destructive and lost, and watching her pine after a white ex-boyfriend who doesn’t care about her and discard the friendships that seemed to be keeping her afloat was tough.
My main frustration was with the way characters and events always seemed to represent something a bit too obvious – the married men she sleeps with, her job where she’s constantly facing microaggressions and the shops she knew as a child that are closing. All these things are grounded in reality, but side by side on the page, at times they felt too stereotypical.
When the Channel 4 TV adaptation was announced, I decided it was worth giving this literary sensation another chance. And I’m glad I did. Despite the series retaining elements that initially frustrated me, this time, I saw things a bit differently.
The story follows Queenie (Dionne Brown), a 25-year-old journalist going through a crisis many Black women will recognise some shade of. Channel 4’s adaptation emphasises the many maternal figures around her – from the ones who keep her grounded, to her absent biological mother, who seems to be the reason everything keeps going off the rails.
In episode one, we meet Aunty Maggie (Michelle Greenidge). She is warm and firm, waiting for Queenie after a traumatic doctor’s appointment. As they leave, they’re passed by a mother and daughter. Queenie is distracted by a fleeting moment as the mother fixes her child’s hair, and the girl, who can’t be more than ten, whines and pushes her away. In this five-second exchange, we get a glimpse of what Queenie is searching for amid the chaos of her life – the fundamental, nurturing care that a mother provides to a daughter.
Throughout the series, we are acutely aware of the absence of Queenie’s mother. The effervescence of her grandmother (Llewella Gideon) and aunt can’t compensate for this absence. Flashbacks follow the family of women from the grandmother’s arrival in a cold, wet England as part of the Windrush generation, to Queenie’s mother’s experiences of maternal neglect. Queenie herself has grown up with a mother who sought love in an abusive relationship – and in doing so left her behind, without the nurture that a young Black girl needs growing up in Britain.
Both the series and the novel have been accused of being superficial or even crude. While the issues are certainly shoehorned in – the gentrification of Brixton, Queenie listing Black British women activists and a painfully awkward confrontation with her white boyfriend’s family – I think the series achieves what it set out to do.
Genre fiction, especially romance and chick lit, isn’t always appreciated. Queenie never promised to be profound. It stands as an exploration of the realities of Black British womanhood, even if some moments are cliched.
Towards the end of the series, Queenie begins to find her footing. This is when the show is at its strongest. In one scene, her grandmother sits on a tan couch, draped with a patterned blanket and pillow, a record player next to her. Soft music plays before cutting to Queenie’s voice: “This series tells the story of everyday women who are often forgotten.”
One particular line from Queenie’s grandmother sat heavily with me: “I thought maybe I was being punished for leaving the land that bore me for a place where I would always be a foreigner.” The effects of the massive uprooting of migration do not pass in a generation or two. Queenie shows how this disorientation has affected generations of mothers in our communities.
In a later scene, Queenie’s grandmother presents her with the record player, saying: “It made me feel at home. Maybe it will do the same for you.” She continues: “You are strong because you’re not afraid to say you are delicate.” I admit, the line is a little cringe, but the sentiment is true. For Queenie, strength means admitting she is falling apart and may need some help to be put back together. This is the reality for so many Black British women.
For me, the heart of the series for me was the representation of a community of mothers who raise daughters. It emphasises what professor of social sciences, Tracey Reynolds argues – that Black motherhood is a form of activism. What does motherhood look like when it carries the grief of a lost home? And what does that mean for the daughters to come? These are big questions, but I think Queenie has a good go at answering them.
Olumayokun Ogunde does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
This article was originally published on The Conversation. Read the original article.
