Many days, Jamal King stands at South Vermont Avenue and West 46th Street in South Los Angeles, his muscled arms covered with tattoos flaunting his membership in the Rolling 40s, a drug-running criminal gang.
His former foster father often drives past slowly, wagging his finger.
"I know people look at me and just see a gangbanger," King said. "It's not really who I am. It's just temporary."
But King's hope for a better life is hobbled by more than poverty and his surroundings -- he lacks a birth certificate.
He was born in a car 20 years ago as his mother tried to get to a hospital. By age 2, he was being raised by Los Angeles County's child welfare system. At 18, he was sent by the system into adulthood without a single form of identification: no driver's license, no Social Security card, no way to prove who he was.
Unable to qualify for even an individual taxpayer identification number, he has less ability to navigate through society than an illegal immigrant. He can't open a bank account, obtain a job, receive government benefits, enroll in higher education.
"It's like I don't exist," King said. The only form of identification recognized by authorities is his fingerprints. "In jail, they know exactly who I am."
Not long ago, a state assemblyman wanted King to travel to Sacramento to testify about a bill designed to help get papers for people in his position. King couldn't make the trip. No one could figure out a way around identification requirements at the airport.
King is among a small number of people in their late teens or early 20s who have sought help establishing their identities from the Alliance for Children's Rights, a nonprofit law firm that works for abused and impoverished youths out of a Wilshire Boulevard high-rise.
Those without basic papers, like King, were usually born outside of hospitals. No birth certificate was automatically generated, and their parents never filed for one.
State officials say it is difficult to know how many young people are affected. At the alliance, managing attorney Lara Holtzman said her organization typically hears about one new case a month.
"And these are just the kids who somehow find us," she said.
Eighteen-year-old Dominique Freeman of Los Angeles was born in a hotel room. When she was 3 days old, the county began caring for her after her mother tested positive for cocaine.
