Until now, Cinnamon Haynes has kept her traumatic past under wraps. She is married and in a good job. Then Daisy Dunlap stops to console her on the park bench one day. As a black woman, Cinnamon has never struck up a friendship with a white teenager before. They fall into a comfortable weekly exchange. As people often do, they present partial truths to explain who they are. A few weeks after Daisy disappears from their weekly ritual, Cinnamon hears a soft mewling behind her. Tucked behind the bench is a tiny blond, blue-eyed newborn. Her first instinct is to take the abandoned infant to the police, but when she arrives, she cannot bring herself to thrust this little child into the same system that scarred her. Will she keep the baby, as Daisy's note beneath the blanket requests? Will her husband get on board with the plan?
I was riveted, eager to know what Cinnamon would do, if she would find Daisy, and how she would fight the system on behalf of this innocent child. But part of me was still skeptical. I did ask, as Jodi Picoult suggests on the back cover, "why you so often see white foster parents with Black kids... but rarely the other way around?" Many times, just like the husband's reaction, they have no desire to foster Caucasian children for a myriad of reasons. Yes, I believe they would receive the judgmental looks Cinnamon endures. Yes, I agree that a black man raising a white girl would encounter constant questions. And, given the number of stories about black women who loved and raised white children on plantations, I know they can deeply love a child of another race, yet... they don't often, do they? Why are racial lines so difficult to cross over?
Growing up for a spell in East St. Louis, I experienced racial dynamics first-hand. While it is true, we had close friends in a black family of kids across the street from us, it is also true other black kids in the neighborhood threw stones at us because they didn't want their kind playing with our kind. Moreover, someone murdered our white paper boy. When low finances caused my dad to turn off one light bulb over one basketball hoop in the church gym, several black men accosted him, convinced of racism. If only we could all see beyond color.
Thus, I struggled to put myself fully into this premise. The authors draw several characters in harsh lines: the grandfather who is a white supremacist, the pastor's son who agonizes over his identity as a homosexual because of his father's vehemence from the pulpit, the preacher who curses like a sailor, the white foster mother who exposes her black foster child to photographic images of racism. In many ways, it wasn't a favorite (nor clean) read. And yet, at the same time, this book brings up so many intriguing topics for discussion. It would make a rich book club study and questions at the end of the book help explore these topics.
As different as we are, I could put myself in Cinnamon's shoes. Her issues were relatable. She doesn't shy away from exploring the motives behind her actions. She's not above giving forgiveness when wrongs spark apologies. I love how she doesn't back away from the intense task that dropped into her lap. Nor does she give in to her husband's insistence that they not take in this child. Some of my favorite parts were the letters written to the child. I agree with Kate Baer, author of I Hope This Finds You Well, who writes, "Tender, provocative, thoughtful - I was invested in this story from the very first page." I would venture to read another book by this authoring duo.
📒 Content caution: language, sex
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