Even my closest friends probably have no idea that I almost wasn't me. Or that my twin sister almost wasn't her. But at a time when forced family separations have become the law of the land—and hundreds of kids remain apart from their families even after yesterday's reunification deadline—it's not that hard to believe.
Decades ago, as my mom lay recovering from labor in a San Francisco hospital, a group of social workers gently suggested she consider giving me and my sister up for adoption. At first the arrangement was framed as temporary—a fancy version of foster care by a wealthy white family apparently eager to look after a set of brown babies. As they saw it, my mother was woefully ill-equipped to care for her new twins. After all, she was white and Jewish, my dad was black and Baptist, and my parents were unmarried—and would forever stay that way.
Even in the City of Love (during the era of love) it was assumed my mom—despite being educated, employed, and well past 30—wouldn't be able to raise us on her own.
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