JH Herrera

The Lost Ones: Memoirs of a Former Foster Kid

I was born in 1993 to a family hanging by a thread in rural California. They were the kind of people you would expect to see on an episode of COPS; a gaggle of kids running wild while the parents escaped into a meth-induced stupor. It didn't take long for child protective services to step in and ship the five of us off to new families. But that's not the story I'm here to tell. My story begins in 1997 when I was adopted by what appeared to be the quintessential American Christian family. The parents, Andre and Sharon Maggio were both children of immigrants, devoutly chasing the American dream. They had an adopted daughter named Jennifer who was already living on her own, and a biological son named Justin who was matriculating through high school by the time I came along. The Maggios were restauranteurs by trade who had opened their home to foster children out of the goodness of their hearts - or maybe it was the gaping hole in their wallets. I remember the first years that I lived primarily with them in the small Dairyville home buried in the orchards of Tahema County. The house was lively with kids of all ages running about. The older kids were put to work in the restaurant attached to the front of the home, while the younger kids (my brood) were kept busy with dollar bin toys and art projects. My siblings were in and out of the home, caught in a legal battle around their alleged indigeneity, which excluded me, thanks to the inheritance of my father's light skin and blue eyes. At some point - and I couldn't tell you exactly when - I stopped seeing them around the house entirely. There were occasional visits at birthdays and run-ins at the grocery store, but each time I saw them they were less familiar to me, slowly fading from my developing consciousness.