The Day I Was Born

Community

On a November morning in 1998, a restaurant worker named Danisha Farrell stepped out of the alleyway door of Paula’s Café, dragging an overstuffed trash bag. She pushed up the dumpster lid and froze. Nestled among the coffee grounds and table scraps lay something impossibly small; wrinkled, naked, and bloody. Her breath caught. The heavy lid slammed down as she stumbled back, eyes wide with horror, before she ran back inside the diner shrieking, “Oh, my God! There’s a newborn baby girl in the garbage bin! Call 911!

Within minutes, a cop named Doris Strong tore down the alley in a patrol car with its siren screaming. She screeched to a stop amid a growing, anxious crowd, jumped out, dashed to the dumpster, lifted me out, and handed me to a crew of emergency medical technicians who’d arrived from the other direction.

I was seventeen years old by the time my adoptive mom showed me the Alameda County records recounting that day I came into the world. At first, I resented not being told earlier, but now, at age twenty-seven, I believe Mama was right to wait until I’d developed self-awareness and self-belief based on what I knew I could become, rather than being fixated on how I started off. It’s hard to be 100% right when it comes to parenting. I’m finding that out the hard way with my three-year-old.

I hungered to know more about my history, so I asked Mama if we could try to find the people who were there that day. All we had to go on was my birth certificate, some sketchy county records, an aging article from the Oakland Tribune newspaper, and a handwritten police report signed by Patrol Officer Doris Strong. The emergency medical tech’s names were not recorded for posterity, and as far as written history goes, my biological mother and father never even existed.

Paula’s Café had new owners and customers. We couldn’t find Danisha Ferrell, but Doris Strong still worked for the Police Department. We found her name on the City of Oakland web page, and I sent her an invitation to my high school graduation. She showed up and told us she remembered that day so well.

Now a Sergeant, Doris Strong’s a veteran cop who’s seen it all, but she got teary-eyed when the girl she remembered rescuing from a garbage bin was holding a ribboned scroll that said, Castlemont High School Certificate of Graduation: D’jonae Clover Phillips.

She said, “Hey Girl, nice name - and I gotta say seeing you here all smiles, wearin’ the cap and gown tells me I done a few things right. Here’s me thankin’ you.” We both got tears.

Having a name is taken for granted by most people, but it means a lot when you don’t have one from the very beginning. My name went from Baby Jane Doe to D’jonae Clover when I was fostered the first time. Phillips is my adoptive mom’s last name. I married a wonderful guy named Shaquille King, so now I’m D’jonae Clover Phillips King. Our daughter’s name is Alyssa Donisha King.

My early life story is in the County Archive and also on a yellowing page of the Oakland Tribune newspaper. The ambulance rushed me to Alta Bates Hospital. Orderlies and nurses took me to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, where I was treated for drug addiction withdrawal symptoms. The Doctor who signed off on my recovery and rehab was named Fayette Wynn. I never looked her up because I was just one of the hundreds of babies who pass through or die in Neonatal Care, and neither she nor any of the other Emergency Room personnel on the scene that day would remember me.

My existence until I was eight years old is unclear, in my mind as well as in the county records.

The report shows I was cared for by The Assessment Center and West Coast Children’s Clinic, which is part of the Alameda County Social Services Agency, and then to Child Protective Services and Foster Care. There are two foster families mentioned in the report. I remember them, but only like dreams are remembered - jumbled together with no coherent timeline. I didn’t feel the warmth of love, but that wasn’t the fault of the families who fostered me. I wasn’t ready. I’d been saved and cared for, but love was still to come,

One of the clinic handlers noted in the report that I was a “wanderer” and habitual thief from the age of six to eight. The report says there were nights when I didn’t come home voluntarily, but I can’t imagine how that could be. I was always scared.

There were police actions for shoplifting and trouble at school for stealing and fighting with other kids. I get a chill remembering how terrified I was when I got caught shoplifting the second time. I was eight years old and considered incorrigible - a real “handful” for the foster families, my teachers, and schoolmates.

I needed another miracle, and it came to me when Alyssa Phillips took on the prodigious challenge of becoming my mom. She was twenty-seven; the age I am now.

Her life story came to me little by little. I learned that she was orphaned at the age of ten when her divorced mom died from an illness.

She lived with her estranged dad until she was twenty-one, when she married a guy she met at the Community College. She was still twenty-one when he died in a small plane crash. They had planned on having a family. All she ever wanted was to be somebody’s mom.

Eight years had passed since her life’s ambition had stalled. I was eight years old.

Family

I don’t know all the details about how adoption works, but Alyssa showed up when I was out of Foster Care and back at Juvenile Detention after the second shoplifting bust.

There was a lot of visiting and paperwork that went on, but finally, after almost a year had passed, two ladies put me and my battered suitcase in a car and delivered me to my new home.

“Home” was a 42-foot ketch named Luv 2 berthed at Pier 31 in Jack London Square. Luv 2 will always be home to me, no matter where I happen to be living. I slept untroubled in that gentle motion and the reassuring creaks and bumps of a sturdy sailboat in a safe harbor.

Alyssa bought two chairs for the stern deck; one for me and one for her. I’d never had a long conversation with anyone before she invited me to sit with her and chat in the sunny, salty air in the Jack London Square yacht harbor atmosphere with its enticing aromas from pricey restaurants.

I remember Alyssa laughing with me when I imitated a walking seagull. I feel such joy recalling that moment that created the bond between us. I had a mom; she had a kid. We had each other. It was as small as families get, but we were one.

There’s one other special memory that’s not listed in any report. To the others who were there that morning, it was just another day. I’d been aboard Luv 2 for almost a week. I was settling in.

Alyssa (I hadn’t yet begun calling her Mama) shook my big toe and said, “It’s time to get up, you little sleepy head. It’s Sunday. We’re going to church. I’ll get your new clothes ready. It’s okay to wear those rad sneaks.

The day before, we’d gone to Target Department Store and I’d spent the best hour of my life in the girls’ department picking out clothes that somebody else hadn’t already worn. I didn’t want to take off my new shoes when it was time for bed, no matter how logical and insistent Alyssa was about clean sheets.

I got dressed and we hopped a bus to Bethune Elementary School, where the Community of the Heavenly Spirit held Sunday services in the multi-purpose room. The congregation of mostly women said hello as we took seats on folding chairs in the crowded, vibrant room. There was the scent of incense and burning candles. I’d never been to church before, but I’d been told I was headed for hellfire unless I changed my ways. This was a lot different. There were no threats; just promises.

Faith

A woman dressed in a white toga with her ginger-colored hair in corn rows emerged from an anteroom and walked to the front of the hushed congregation. She was only about ten feet away from our seats in the front row. A hush fell over the large room when she spoke.

With her voice rising and her outstretched fingers thumping her chest, she intoned that it is only belief, union, and harmony with Our Lord that gives our worldly life its meaning and purpose.

“Make that connection! It will come to you like a gift and endow you with a zest for life, the bliss of peace, and a preponderance of loving affection for all humankind.”

The congregation responded, “Amen!”

She looked straight into my eyes and beamed a smile of lyrical enchantment, capturing my soul. I believed. I heard the flock reply again, “Amen, Sistah. Amen!”

She raised her arms heavenward and began swaying from side to side. Her right hand descended in a graceful downbeat that bounced at the bottom, and the whole room burst into four rousing verses of Praise Be Thy Spirit, with hands (including mine) moving up and down in rhythm, above our heads – raisin’ the roof.

The gospel song ended with tears, joyful laughter, and hugs, and then the parishioners moved to a sunny Sunday morning on the outdoor patio. All the women made a fuss over me and told Mama how lucky she was to have such a beautiful child who looked just like a young Leslie Uggams.

I didn’t know who Leslie Uggams was, but it didn’t matter. I had a real mom, a bunch of aunts, and about ten grandmas. Not bad, startin’ from zero.

I ate a whole apple turnover all to myself, and I drank milk straight from the carton.

I saw a big jar with money in it, and for the first time in my life, I wished I could put something in instead of wishing I could steal something out.

That’s the day I was born.