America, growing up in cities and towns and suburbs, from the most ordinary places to the unlikeliest of locales. They spot her at the mall, strolled by her white mother and father, and on the swings at the playground and in their child’s classroom. She’s smaller than her playmates, with hair as shiny as a beetle’s back. One quick look at her sends their minds to swift conclusion:
Asian kid, white par-ents, must be adopted, probably from China
. There are so many of us now that the sight of a mismatched family is as ho- hum as baby’s breath tucked into a clump of roses.
is what they’re think-ing.
.They wouldn’t be wrong for a lot of the girls they see. My Whacka-doodle group was full of that kind of charmer: the unfussy baby, the adorable child, the soccer midﬁelder who played the ﬂute and loved her golden retriever. A well- adjusted girl, despite the bleak begin-ning. A lucky girl with a brief, predictable story.That wasn’t me. I ﬁxed my sights on that bleak beginning and ran straight toward it while the rest of them scrambled away. My story was mine to demand, holes and gaps and secrets and silences and all. Some of it was told to me; some I lived or guessed at. I’m writ-ing it down for all the mothers who wave at us in the grocery store and jangle their car keys and try to get us to smile. For the fathers who glance our way and think,
That’s what we would’ve done, if we hadn’t been able to ﬁnally get pregnant
. But most of all, I’m talking straight to you: the dropped- off daughters, the loose- change chil-dren, the thousands upon thousands whose lives branched when we were hours new. Though we’re older now— the oldest of us have grown from babies to girls to women— we can’t shake that feeling of
I might have been
. My story is as much yours as it is mine, full of the unanswerable questions that invade and claim us, turning us inward until we lose ourselves completely. It’s an act of self- preservation, writing down what scraps I know. I’m trying to skirt boggy disaster, the swamp that surrounds us, the dark water that refuses us a clear look at the bottom. I have no idea whether my words will save me. Whether, in the telling, I can ﬂail my way out. I know only that I’m very tired and ought to stop and rest. Like