A Very Berkeley Family

The last month’s issue of Parenting Magazine had an article comparing the most popular names of 1900, 1950, and 2000. As an unmarried, childless woman in my 20’s, Parenting is not a publication I’m usually seen reading, especially last month’s issue (if I’m going to read about trends in Parenting, they may as well be current) but it was in the seat next to me on the train, and I had forgotten to bring a book that morning. I was amazed that the Kevins, Jasons and Jennifers of my graduating class were Berthas, Harolds and Mildreds in the class of 1901, and are now Mackenzies, Jacksons and Skylers. Names have shockingly different trends, apparently, like clothing, though I have doubts that Euphemia will ever make as brave a return as the miniskirt has in recent months. “Wow, I love those cute bell-bottoms. Where’d you get them, Mabel?”

There are some name trends that were meant to remain in the past. Take, for example, my mom’s eighty-year-old sister, Aunt Gay. When little Gay was born in 1930, my mom’s parents were probably thrilled to christen her with joy and happiness. I don’t know if a baby gay born in 2004 would be as joyful and happy about her name, though my Aunt Gay never seemed particularly scarred by it. It brought hours of entertainment to me and my little sister as children. Not only the fact that Mom had a sister named Gay, but also that my dad’s sister was a lesbian, making us the only two children in America with an Aunt Gay and a gay aunt. In a city like Berkeley where one must strive to be different, we felt this provided us ample material. We also liked to fantasize about combining the two aunts so that we ended up with gay Gay. We would imitate this imaginary merged aunt introducing herself at parties, “Hi, I’m Gay. I’m gay.” And then, after explosive giggles, “I’m gay Gay.”

Growing up in my North Berkeley neighborhood, having a lesbian aunt was nothing special. My parents’ friends were practically all “alternative.” I sometimes felt left out as the only one of my friends who was not the product of a same-sex couple. I felt I’d been cheated with only one mom and one dad. My parents made up for it by getting divorced and remarried. So I ended up with two moms and two dads. In your face, daughter-of-lesbian friends!

Even as children, my sister and I knew where babies came from, and that two women alone did not a baby make. “Sperm donor” was a common phrase among my pals. Some kids knew who theirs was and some didn’t. My mom’s best friend and her girlfriend had two daughters with whom my sister and I grew up closely. They enjoyed playing the same games we did, they had the same sense of humor and the same facial features. I guess it shouldn’t have come as a big shock when we found out that the girls were our paternal half-sisters. Or, as I like to fondly refer to them, “sperm sisters.”

Dad was a busy man in the late 70’s/early 80’s, aside from fathering me and my sister the “old-fashioned way,” he donated sperm for my mom’s best friend and her partner, producing the two previously mentioned sperm sisters, and still had sperm left over to give to his sister’s girlfriend.

The story of my cousin’s conception is a family favorite. I first heard it under the Christmas tree one Christmas eve. It has since been retold at Passover Seders, Labor Day Barbecues and every other family event. Other families talk about sports or politics, we talk about artificial insemination, which I personally find much more interesting. I was about eight when my aunt and her partner first started talking babies. My parents had just gotten divorced, but were still on good terms. My mom loves nothing more than bringing babies into this world (she was a midwife for many years) so when she first heard of this parenting plot, she was more than happy to help out.

The story goes that one March afternoon, during ovulation, my aunts hopped in the car and drove over to our house, where mom and dad were upstairs… producing sperm. (I’m not going into more detail there). My sister and I were at a friend’s house (thank God). Once the baby seed had been caught in a receptacle of some sort, a condom perhaps? A plastic bag? Tupperware? My mom rushed out the front door carrying the sperm. (This is the part of the story that always cracked me up as a kid) in order to keep it warm, Mom held the sperm under her armpit. UNDER HER ARMPIT. Picture my mother running across the front lawn in a bathrobe with sperm in her armpit. No wonder the neighbors still give my family funny looks.

The armpit sperm was passed through the window of the car, engine already running, and my aunts sped off to the hospital to have a doctor insert the sperm with whatever method was popular at the time, turkey baster perhaps? Nine months later, my cousin arrived - healthy and happy, with her mother’s eyes and her other mother’s smile. A perfect blend of her two mom’s genes, thanks to my dad.

My cousin still turns a little red at the telling of her story. I don’t think she appreciates the armpit part. But what she realizes, the older she gets, is that she is one of the most wanted children in the world. It’s a family joke that she was “a mistake.” Three years after she was born, my aunts gave birth to another baby. This one was a boy, clearly not a product of my dad’s sperm, as Dad only makes girls, or so it would seem by his five out of five record. I guess by 1990, my dad’s baby-harvesting days were over. My aunts were left to their own devices and located another attractive, intelligent Jewish man. His name was Richard, but he went by “Dick.” The humor of “Dick, the sperm donor” not lost on anyone, even my 90-year-old grandma.

My youngest cousin is now 17 and still spends time with Dick and his girlfriend. They come over for Thanksgiving dinner at my aunts’ house. Every year, we all sit at the table that my cousins set. Dick and his girlfriend bring the mashed potatoes. My dad and my step-mom bring the salad. My mom, my step-dad and their two new kids bring drinks. My sperm-sisters and their moms bring stuffing. My sister and I bring the gravy and Grandma bakes a cake. As the food is passed noisily back and forth, wine poured, and turkey carved, I sit at the table, looking around at the sea of faces, with all kinds of funny names and stories, and I’m thankful for what a unique, loving family I have.

As Mom finishes her last bite of turkey she asks, “So Audrey, do you want to hear the story of your cousin's conception?”