Brian Broome's memoir Punch Me Up to the Gods is, in a word, metamorphic. With every turned page, you get farther away from the naïve little boy he was and the self-loathing man-child he became and closer to the man I had the pleasure of speaking to.

In 250 pages, Broome shamelessly catalogs some of the most damning moments of his life with the humor of a changed man. He shows readers how racism has in many cases made it impossible for Black parents to give their children the type of love they need, and how that affects the decisions the children make and the type of adults they become.

Each retelling of events from his past comes together to show the unique discrimination he faced at the intersection of his dark skin and homosexuality, and how that influenced his need for acceptance by white people, which in turn steered his need for escape, leading him to drugs and alcohol.

This talented author's portrayal of his early childhood near Newton Falls, Ohio, pulled one thought from the back of my subconscious: Black men are equally expected to be monstrous, stupid animals as well as more of a man than any other you meet.

Everyone had expectations of Black men that they tried to force on young Brian, from the teachers who accused him of cheating and using words he "shouldn't know" to the school official who paddled him for hugging a white girl to the Black students who called him out for being Gay, considered him an abomination, and refused to accept him as one of their own.

A historic curse

One author that Broome admires is James Baldwin, who wrote that the judgment people subject themselves to "begins in the eyes of one's parents (the crucial, the definitive, the all-but-everlasting judgment)."

As Broome writes in the "We Real Cool" section of his book, "My father back then believed in beating Black boys the way Black boys are supposed to be beaten. For our own good, he would say."

The relationship Broome had with his father can easily and accurately be labeled abusive, but the deeper tragedy is the cycle it reveals. Junior (Brian's father) could not show him the love or understanding he needed, because he had never seen it.

Carried over from a time when Black children were used against their parents or targeted directly as a form of control, the cruelty of white people had branded Broome's family the same way it has branded many other Black families: with the curse of nonchalance and tough love adopted by people trying desperately to hide from the world what they love most in it.

His father's attempts to beat masculinity into him came as much from a twisted form of love as it did ignorance and hatred. While Brian's father may have hated the idea of him being Gay, what he hated more was the thought of white men killing him because of it.

His mother, while far less abusive, also did not give young Brian the love he craved — the "huggie-huggie kissie-kissie" love he mentioned in our interview, as well as in his book, that he watched obsessively on television as a child, portrayed solely by white parents with the financial security and free time to care about their children's feelings.

His parents had never experienced the softer, more affectionate side of paternal love and were too busy fighting to survive while trying to provide.

When I asked him what he thinks played the biggest part in how he valued white people over himself — his parents, peers, or teachers — without hesitation he said, "I think all of those things. I went to a mostly white school, and those white kids immediately let it be known they knew they were better than me. They put things in my head — including the teachers — and I knew I was being treated differently. I was treated like a different species, and my parents were so busy trying to survive that they did not have time to fortify my blackness. They did not tell me these people were evil and deluded. They warned me, but did not teach me that I was worthy. So, directly my peers and teachers, but indirectly my parents."

Learning who children really are

My focus after reading Punch Me Up to the Gods became identifying not only what young Brian was missing but also what he felt he needed. What parents of little Black kids, little Gay Black kids, and even little Gay kids of any race could do to help give them a fighting chance in a cold world.

"I don't believe in tough love," Broome said to me when I asked what type of parental attention, what love language, he felt he needed as a child. "I believe in love love. That's not to say there shouldn't be boundaries, but tough love feels like force. But if someone had looked at me and said, 'I see you and I accept you,' it would have helped."

In one of the most insightful moments of our conversation, Broome told me that parents should learn who their children are before they arm them against a racist America.

"My environment was trying to pound me into this shape that didn't suit me, and it was painful, and I wish they had asked little Brian who he was. But my parents were busy, and I believe my father was deeply depressed."

He told me a story about a professor of his who had a son whose favorite color was pink. By the time the boy got back from his first day of grade school, he hated the color altogether.

"And just that quick, the molding begins to make kids into what we're comfortable with. If I had a child, I would try to get to know her before I started trying to reinforce her against a racist American culture, and that way, I could better protect her."

Even children born in the same household with the same parents need different things. Some will be more independent, while others will require more affection and support from their parents. Allowing children to show their parents who they are instead of applying a cookie-cutter parenting style will be more beneficial to their overall development and self-worth.

This is what I believe Broome's memoir embodies. The way he organizes his chapters and delivers information will make you very angry with his parents — and then will make you understand they did the best they physically and emotionally could at the time.

They did the best they could with what they were given, as so many Black parents do, and unfortunately it left Broome relatively defenseless, as so many Black children are.

A beacon of hope

Broome's memoir, though, is more than a testament to his pain; it is a beacon of hope.

Through misery and chaos, he found himself. He had help and encouragement, but in the end, he pulled himself up by his bootstraps and decided to be better.

"I don't know that there was a real, defining moment," he said in regard to deciding to get sober, "but after rehab I would wake up every day and say I am not going to use today."

"One of the most important things in my life right now is recovery. I have been sober for eight and a half years now. The book exists to put things out there, to help me with my recovery. I was a foul person before my recovery, and I put things in the book to help me recover from my drug and alcohol addiction. I do not ever, ever, ever want to be the person I was, and this book helps me to be a better person."

Broome is now an award-winning writer, poet, and screenwriter. He is an instructor in the writing program at the University of Pittsburgh (where he earned his MFA) and a credit to people everywhere struggling with addiction, making a comeback, and fighting for a second chance, to those trying to be more than they thought they could be.