If I may generalize by only having read *reviews* of 'Blackbird,' Jennifer Lauck's unusual gift is to recapture the voice of the person she was, in writing her memoirs, and so it is often difficult to decide whether or not you like the writing, or her self at the time she was writing of; it is hard to know whether or not the writing is unaware, or it was her long past self, unawares.
There are many pages in the book during which I shook my head, nonplussed with Jennifer's simple and wide-eyed point of view, or overwhelmed with her as she swept herself into Tara meditations. At times, she didn't seem quite altogether; and I cannot tell if this is a literary device or a flaw in the book. I suspect it to be a device, as in the end there is a nuanced and thoughtful summing-up, an always-generous and understanding perspective of why others did the things they did, a clear and non-judging and piercing nugget of intentions as they ultimately conflict with conventions. No one, of course, *meant* to hurt anyone else, no one meant to hurt Jennifer; of course, hurt was done. It was a riveting and soul-shaking hurt, and it's no wonder that this book should be recommended to the adoption community. While it may be useful to those considering giving children up for adoption or adopting other children, its most keen insights are into the substantial and devastating industry behind adoptions in the 50s and 60s, when teenagers were routinely forced into giving up their babies, and it was quite acceptable for the girl's family to pretend the child had never existed.
I want to undo things that have been done; I don't know if that's possible; like Jennifer, I don't know what should be done about adoption today.