we’ve never talked about. It’s important to me. I have decided I am going to initiate a search for my daughter.” She doesn’t say anything. I say, “Do you have any documents, anything?” Nobody’s ever mentioned this in all these years. My mom says, “I don’t think I do.” She was very open to it. As a matter of fact, I think it was healing for her, because it gave her a chance to be part of something, and to say that she was really sorry.
Raina was adopted by a family sort of like my family. They’re conservative Catholic, Italian. Raina was light-skinned, and she could pass for Italian. Her parents were told the truth, but they were encouraged to lie. They were dark-skinned Italian like my dad, who’s Sicilian. I grew up with Italians who were darker than my black friend from the home. Catholic Charities told the couple who adopted Raina Elizabeth that there’s no need to tell her that her father was black. I didn’t know they were gonna tell them this. I was just told, “We have a young couple that want her. They know she’s biracial, and they want her.” They never said to me, “We have a biracial couple,” because…who knew biracial couples in 1968? Actually, I did, but my parents certainly didn’t, and Catholic Charities probably wouldn’t let them in the freakin’ door. So maybe it was a naïve assumption, but I assumed that they had somehow found a biracial couple. I remember feeling relieved because they said over and over, “Who’s gonna want this biracial baby? They’re hard to place.”
I’ve met her now, so I know the story. She always knew she was different. She always knew that her skin was darker and her hair was kinkier. She knew she was adopted but she was led to believe that she was Italian. She was adopted by a family who lived maybe a mile down the street from where I had lived and where my mother still lives now. What happened was, when Raina was about nineteen, she had a boyfriend who was Cape Verdean Portuguese and her parents were absolutely ballistic. They said, “Can’t you go out with boys that are your kind, Italian boys?” They were giving her a really hard time, but she’s got this rebel spirit in her—I know where that comes from—and she’s gonna be who she’s gonna be. So they’re having this huge fight because Raina is totally in love with this boy. He’s smart, he’s nice—there’s nothing wrong with him. She can’t understand why her mother doesn’t want her to go out with him. They get into the fight of fights and Raina screams, “What do you have against Portuguese people?” And her mom says, “I don’t have anything against them. You’re Portuguese and I adopted you, didn’t I?” Silence. Raina said, “What?” She got into her car and went to Catholic Charities and said, “I want to know my history. I want to know who I am,” and it was all in her file.
She went back three times. The second time she got the letter that I wrote. The social worker called and said, “I’m calling to let you know that your daughter came in again and we gave her your letter.” She said, “She isn’t ready to meet you and, to be quite honest, she doesn’t know if she ever would be.” I could barely breathe. I could barely freakin’ breathe. I felt rejected, but I thought, “Okay, she’s only twenty-seven or twenty-eight years old.” The social worker said something that led me to believe it might be a loyalty conflict with her mother, and I understood that. I thought, “Okay, I’ve gotta just let her, hopefully, grow beyond this.” The social worker said, “What you can do is write another letter.” The first letter I wrote was basically “I want to meet you.” It was probably just a couple of pages. But when the social worker said to me, “If I were you, I’d write another letter, and I’ll put it in the file,” I sat down and I wrote a novel. And, sure enough, within six months Raina went back and wanted more information and
Raina was adopted by a family sort of like my family. They’re conservative Catholic, Italian. Raina was light-skinned, and she could pass for Italian. Her parents were told the truth, but they were encouraged to lie. They were dark-skinned Italian like my dad, who’s Sicilian. I grew up with Italians who were darker than my black friend from the home. Catholic Charities told the couple who adopted Raina Elizabeth that there’s no need to tell her that her father was black. I didn’t know they were gonna tell them this. I was just told, “We have a young couple that want her. They know she’s biracial, and they want her.” They never said to me, “We have a biracial couple,” because…who knew biracial couples in 1968? Actually, I did, but my parents certainly didn’t, and Catholic Charities probably wouldn’t let them in the freakin’ door. So maybe it was a naïve assumption, but I assumed that they had somehow found a biracial couple. I remember feeling relieved because they said over and over, “Who’s gonna want this biracial baby? They’re hard to place.”
I’ve met her now, so I know the story. She always knew she was different. She always knew that her skin was darker and her hair was kinkier. She knew she was adopted but she was led to believe that she was Italian. She was adopted by a family who lived maybe a mile down the street from where I had lived and where my mother still lives now. What happened was, when Raina was about nineteen, she had a boyfriend who was Cape Verdean Portuguese and her parents were absolutely ballistic. They said, “Can’t you go out with boys that are your kind, Italian boys?” They were giving her a really hard time, but she’s got this rebel spirit in her—I know where that comes from—and she’s gonna be who she’s gonna be. So they’re having this huge fight because Raina is totally in love with this boy. He’s smart, he’s nice—there’s nothing wrong with him. She can’t understand why her mother doesn’t want her to go out with him. They get into the fight of fights and Raina screams, “What do you have against Portuguese people?” And her mom says, “I don’t have anything against them. You’re Portuguese and I adopted you, didn’t I?” Silence. Raina said, “What?” She got into her car and went to Catholic Charities and said, “I want to know my history. I want to know who I am,” and it was all in her file.
She went back three times. The second time she got the letter that I wrote. The social worker called and said, “I’m calling to let you know that your daughter came in again and we gave her your letter.” She said, “She isn’t ready to meet you and, to be quite honest, she doesn’t know if she ever would be.” I could barely breathe. I could barely freakin’ breathe. I felt rejected, but I thought, “Okay, she’s only twenty-seven or twenty-eight years old.” The social worker said something that led me to believe it might be a loyalty conflict with her mother, and I understood that. I thought, “Okay, I’ve gotta just let her, hopefully, grow beyond this.” The social worker said, “What you can do is write another letter.” The first letter I wrote was basically “I want to meet you.” It was probably just a couple of pages. But when the social worker said to me, “If I were you, I’d write another letter, and I’ll put it in the file,” I sat down and I wrote a novel. And, sure enough, within six months Raina went back and wanted more information and
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