ABSTRACT
Throughout my adult life hundreds of people have asked me in one way or another why I'm not bitter or dysfunctional. After all, for the first three years of my life I was raised by Ethel and Julius Rosenberg, and then I suffered through their trial and execution, family rejection, institutionalization, police seizure, and custody battles. Even without the latter, how could a child not be irretrievably damaged by a mother and father who it is widely believed attempted to mix two seemingly irreconcilable activities: high-risk Communist politics and parenting during the McCarthy period. But perhaps these roles were not mutually exclusive. Certainly, the public personas imposed on my family during the years 1950 to 1954 stand in sharp contrast with my memories of that time. Is it possible to be progressive activists while remaining sensitive and caring parents and people?
