Learning to Think, by Tracy King

I’ve been blown away by this extraordinary, powerfully moving book, having met the author briefly at an event earlier this year. The subtitle says it’s “A memoir about” and then there are a series of crossed-out words: hardship, education, hellfire and family before it settles for “a way to break free.”

The blurb tells us more:

“Tracy King grew up on an ordinary council estate outside Birmingham. Her home life was filled with creativity, curiosity and love, but it was also marked by her father’s alcoholism and her mother’s agoraphobia.

“By the time she turned twelve her father had been killed, her sister taken into care and her mother ensnared by the promises of born-again Christianity.”

Roughly the first half of the book covers the author’s childhood and this series of traumas as she felt and understood them at the time. She’s very good on telling detail about people and place, so we know these individuals, we like them. We share their joys and small victories, we root for them, and feel their suffering and loss as awful things unfold. We are appalled by what happens in the trial of the people involved in killing her father.

In the second half of the book, we see the effect his death and these other things then have over the following years. It all casts an oppressive shadow but something else is also going on: the combined impacts of a love of reading and an interest in computers (both instilled by her late father), the opportunities offered by libraries and college, and then a rewarding job. At a key moment, she stumbles on a second-hand copy of The Demon-Haunted World by the astronomer Carl Sagan and it lights something inside her: a way of seeing and tackling the world that I think Sagan would call science but Tracy calls critical thinking.  

Then, in the last, enthralling part of the book, Tracy applies critical thinking to that key trauma in her past life: the death of her beloved father. She reads the police report and dares to seek out and interview people involved, including the man who killed him. The result is suspenseful, brave, compassionate — and quite brilliant. 

There’s no single, definitive account of what happened that night — not, as she says, without CCTV or her having being there herself — but she sifts the sometimes conflicting evidence and collates the most probable version. This is more than a coldly logical process; it’s driven by empathy and understanding. I’m reminded of of something I was once told at school, that “courage” literally means “of the heart”.

Much of what she describes here — not just about her father but other things such as the way education authorities treated her and her sister — is gruelling, often shocking. Yet the book is about her coming to terms with this stuff and the sense at the end is that the process brings her some peace.

At one point, she probes accounts of her father’s last moments, and whether he died instantly or not. She’s haunted by the suggestion of people there watching and doing nothing to help.

“There was nothing anyone could have done to save his life, Does it matter that a dead person was left alone for ten minutes? Is there dignity after death? Without a soul, a spirit, a ghost, does it matter whether anyone was with him while he lay on the cold concrete in the rain?

Of course it matters.

We can bear witness to his death now, through thee pages. Every reader is there with him. We outnumber the bystanders.” (p. 280).

What a privilege it has been to stand with her, to be part of that congregation.

In the epilogue, she links her past experience to the situation now, with school “refusal” (a term she critiques), increasing levels of poverty, and the closure of libraries and other kinds of support and opportunities that were so crucial to her. For all this is a memoir, it’s a book about how we moved forward from where we are now. I urge you to read it.