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.

The thing about a child's mind, especially when trauma is involved, is that it's malleable. When an infant isn't given the opportunity to form healthy familial attachments, they become the perfect breeding ground for unhealthy ones. My first unhealthy attachment was to the Maggios, who adopted me in 1997, stripped my identity down to a clean slate, and moved me far away from any trace of who I used to be. By 1999 I wholly believed that they were my biological family. They even gave me a birth story that I recited to myself as if it were biblical. I looked sort of like them, with my eurocentric features and freckles so it made sense. Why wouldn't I be who they told me I was? I was Jasmine Maggio, 6 years old and starting first grade at Weston Elementary in Ripon California, 200 miles from the life a that no longer existed.

My parents moved us to the Central Valley after Justin moved to Turlock to attend Stan State. They had lost the restaurant and we had to move quickly, leaving the rolling hills and small-town charm behind us. For a short period, while my parents figured things out, we lived in a travel trailer outside the home of our family friends, the Thompsons. They were generous, Christian people who had known my parents long before I came into the picture, and they had a son, Andrew, who was my age and my best and only friend. I was excited to have an extended sleepover at his house; to play action figures (which he adorably called his "guys"), jump on the trampoline after dinner, and go to Bible school together on Sundays. Getting to stay there was enough of a distraction for me not to notice my parents' behind-the-scenes struggle to establish a new life. I don't know how long we stayed there in that dingy, twelve-foot tin can, but it was long enough for me to start first grade, and initiate friendships before having to pick up and move again.

We relocated south to Modesto, where my parents rented a cozy two-bedroom duplex in a quiet culdesac tucked behind the Barnes & Noble. I started school at Woodrow Wilson Elementary, in Mrs. O'brien's first-grade class, and my mom didn't hesitate to find a church for us to attend. She had been raised Catholic, but considered herself a "Non-denominational Christian". In reality, her belief system was a toxic amalgamation of Catholic and Evangelical doctrine, that demanded service and honored scripture above all else. Her beliefs would intensify with time, but in 1999 it was enough for us to attend a sermon once a week and pray over dinner. We joined and quickly assimilated into the Big Valley congregation, where conservative families gathered to "praise God" in a multi-million dollar worship hall. It was a far cry from the small, single-room gatherings we'd been attending up north. A church like this came with expectations, all of which would eventually fall on my young, impressionable shoulders. But at six years old, I was eager to love Jesus and to make my family happy.

With our new life coming together, my parents settled into their routines and I into mine. Dad had gotten a job cooking for a wealthy family, and Mom was waitressing at the Red Lobster. When I wasn't at school or at church I was making the rounds on the wheel of babysitters, where my parents tested their luck with the integrity of their neighbors and acquaintances. As a parent myself, I can't justify leaving my kids with strangers, but it was normal to me so I never questioned it. I trusted that my parents were out working hard to build the life they wanted for us, and that they always acted with the best of intentions. To my unassuming eyes, our family was solid and moral, with plenty of love and no secrets. I had no reason to suspect that the fragile floors of my world would begin to crack and that once they did it would be a long, long way down.

To Be Continued...