June Cross - Apr 24,

During the years I searched my soul for the words to tell this story, many held my hand and pointed out a path.

Had it not been for my colleagues at Frontline, this story might never have been told at all. David Fanning first pulled this story out of me over many long evenings before I even understood why it was important. His careful stewardship, his talent as an editor, and his guidance as a mentor have meant more to me than he will ever know. Michael Sullivan first convinced me that I had a voice as a documentarian. John Baynard, my co-producer, persisted without being pushy; Jean Boucicaut shared my tolerance for ambiguity. Sheila Hairston held my hand. Patti Williamson scoured the country looking for archival material. Mario Valdes researched what must have been the entire genealogical history of the United States as he helped me put the pieces of my tangled family history together.

As I moved from the screen to the written page, Judy Crichton read and reread my drafts, urging me to dig deeper with greater accuracy. Fayre Crossley kept me honest. Francille Wilson offered friendship across the miles as I toiled in the country with only squirrels, deer, and my own fears for company. ALelia Bundles, who was first assigned to me as a Big Sister in college, has supported me in ways too many to count over the years and as the publication of this book draws nigh. My two biological sisters, Lynda Gravatt and Candace Herman, displayed great patience as I kept returning to them for details of their lives before we met. My brother, Lary May, who has been a constant ballast, gave me leads and confirmed details. Larry Storch painstakingly explained the good old days of show business and confirmed endless details over the years. My stepmother, Lois Basden, suffered an unending string of queries. My husband, Waldron Ricks, lent the firm support of his shoulder and the shelter of his arms when the task of telling the entire story seemed beyond me. His dedication to artistic excellence inspires me every day.

Others provided a quiet space where, freed from the demands of deadlines and students, I could ply my craft. The Vermont Studio Center gave me a space where I worked on the early drafts. A fellowship at Harvard Universitys W. E. B. DuBois Institute for African and African American Research allowed me to research my memories through the prism of reality and academic inquiry. Jonnet and Peter Abeles allowed me to use their beautiful Shelter Island home as a sorely needed retreat. Their generosity and friendship meant a great deal to me as I struggled through the final drafts.

Of course, without the great courage displayed by my mother, Norma Catherine, this story could never have been told at all. And without the foundation provided by Muriel Agatha Bush, her husband, Paul, and my extended family of Gregory cousins, aunts, and uncles, I would never have had the fortitude to begin.

My editor at Viking, Wendy Wolf, saw the potential for a book while I was still a television writer. Lucia Watson helped the manuscript mature. Amanda Urban had more faith in me than my early manuscripts justified. Maureen Sugdens careful copyediting saved me from careless mistakes.

Seeing my propensity to lose myself in the stories and dramas of others, years before I even considered telling this story or began writing this book, a fellow Soka Gakkai Buddhist, Kathleen Olesky, posed the question, If there were a June Cross story, what would it be?

I have tried to answer as honestly as I can.

I search for my mothers face in the mirror and see a stranger. Her face is toffee-colored and round; her eyes, the eyes of a foreigner, slanted and brown. They are not my mothers eyes: irises of brilliant green, set obliquely in almond-shaped sockets above high cheekbones.

They said I looked exotic, she classic. Togethera bamboo-colored redhead carrying her olive-skinned, curly-haired toddlertogether, we seemed alien. Skin fractured our kinship.

When I was young, riding in the supermarket carts basket, strangers looked from me to her and back again.

Shes so cute! Is she yours? theyd ask.

Yes, shes mine, Mommie would answer before turning the basket in another direction. Looking behind her, sometimes I saw their faces turn sour. I learned to recognize the expression well before I knew what it meant.

At night, before she put me to bed, Mommie and I would find our own likenesses. She would ask, Whos got a perfect little forehead?

Id point above my brows.

You do! shed say with a nod. Whos got a perfect little nose?

I do! Id say, and she would agree again.

Whos got perfect little hands?

We do!

We laughed over this, our shared proportions: our hands shaped alikethe pinkie exactly half the length of the ring finger, the index and ring fingers each a half inch shorter than the second digit, our nails shaped the same. Even the arches of our feet arced in the same curve, and our toes, too, had a similar square outline.