I suppose you could say I was born because of a sperm donor. Biologically, that’s true. But the real REASON I’m here is because my mother wanted a child. To me, that’s all that matters and I could leave it at that. But because I enjoy this topic, I won’t.
So, maybe it’s how I was brought up. I knew my entire life I was the product of a sperm donor. No big deal. I have a vague recollection of my elementary-school Spanish teacher teaching me how to say “donor” in Spanish. My uncle’s a genealogist, so when family tree time came around, everyone was so absolutely stunned by just how far back it went on my mom’s side that they didn’t notice or care that I had nothing on the donor’s side.
And that’s how we always referred to him. The donor. I knew pretty much how it was done, but then I also was the most Internet-savvy one in the whole house by the time I was 5. I knew way more than most 5 year olds did, more than I supposedly “should” have, but I’m pretty sure there are statistics somewhere about early exposure and exponential difference in maturity.
Anyway, that’s all he was to me. A donor. The reason I’m here? Technically, but that could’ve been anyone. I know he’s Colombian, which makes me half-Colombian, a huge running joke amongst everyone, seeing as I’m the palest person I know. I know he lived in California, I guess. And thanks to the donor sibling registry, I know I have a few half-sibs running around, which is pretty cool. Siblings I don’t have to live with? What more could I want?
All my friends have always known. I went to a private school, but not like most people imagine private schools. The farthest thing from uniforms, and science “class” involved (humanely!) catching fish to look at and doing reports on native animals. Basically the coolest place ever. Since everyone was different, the fact that my dad was a squirt bottle was hardly the most interesting.
Personally, I think it’s awesome. A little worrisome, seeing as I plan to return to California soon, that I could unwittingly date a half-sibling. But I think it would be pretty cool to go about my life in California, and maybe one day contact my donor, and find out he’s been my doctor, or my mechanic, or my favorite latte-maker at the local cafe! Talk about crazy. But in a totally wicked way! And I’ll just get blood tests before I get married to anyone. Problem solved.
Like I said, maybe it’s how I was raised. There was never any mystery, and it’s not like I have a whole other life waiting for me if I can just contact my donor. For all I know, he’s a total jerk. Or maybe he just wanted to make some extra money. Perhaps he’s more like me than I know, and he did it purely for the amusement of being able to walk down the street and fantasize about who’s his kid. Maybe they’re famous. Maybe they’re allergic to mushrooms. Maybe they dye their hair pink. But for the record, I thought The Kids Are All Right was totally unrealistic. As cool as it would be if my donor owned a restaurant and drove a motorcycle, it’s hard to decide who would be more horrified by the idea of my mom having a fling with him – her or me.
And on Father’s Day, I give my uncle a card. He teaches me how to drive and makes my Halloween costumes. Pretty much the best dad ever, right?