I sat reclined in the dental chair, about to undergo a filling procedure. The dentist was perched over me with intimidating dental instruments poised upon my mouth. She asked, ‘What is your cultural background?’ I told her that I was mixed Indian and European. I saw her out of the corner of my eye reaching towards the tray and taking a cylindrical object. I flinched.
‘Oh, don’t worry, it’s not a needle, this is the numbing gel.’
I felt the cold metal of the cylinder and the trickle of a bitter, chemical-tasting liquid.
‘You have very beautiful eyes,’ the dentist said. ‘My family is from India, but Pakistan after partition.’
I made sounds to the intonation of ‘oh okay’.
‘You know, when you walked in, your hair reminded me of those Indian hair oil commercials – you know the ones?’
I intonated ‘aha’.
‘So which of your parents is Indian?’ she asked, preparing the anaesthetic injection.
‘My mother,’ I replied.
‘And your father?’
The dentist removed the needle and I paused, partly because I was grappling with my intense fear of needles but also because I was at a crossroad: ‘I was born through an anonymous donor so I don’t know him.’
I felt the sharp sting of the anaesthesia needle and took a deep breath, waiting for it to finish. The dentist removed the needle and I paused, partly because I was grappling with my intense fear of needles but also because I was at a crossroad: ‘I was born through an anonymous donor so I don’t know him.’
‘Oh wow, why did your mother use a donor? She didn’t want to get married?’ The dentist picked up another instrument, and from the whirring sound it made, I could tell it was the drill. She pressed it to my mouth and I felt its vibration in my tooth.
Writer Sarah Ross Source: Supplied
‘So she raised you all by herself? That’s so brave. She must be so proud to have a daughter like you. I can understand the cultural pressure to get married. Does your family have a religion?’
It wasn’t just her tools in my mouth that prevented me from giving an in-depth response to all her questions. My hesitance came from the fact that I have same-sex parents. In my family, my brother and I call our birth mother ‘Mum’, and our non-birth mother ‘Ma’. Both of my mothers were born in Kolkata, India, and both of their families migrated to Perth when they were young. They were childhood friends who fell in love as adults. I was conceived through an anonymous sperm donor in 1992 at a time where access to sperm donation was illegal to same-sex couples. At the time, it was legislated in the Human Reproductive Technology Act 1991 that couples seeking assisted reproductive technology had to be ‘of the opposite sex to each other’. My parents managed to find a doctor who would help facilitate their access to reproductive assistance through a donor regardless of the legislation.
My family is well versed in selective omissions. Mum had recently attended a friend’s dinner party. Six people sat at the table around a meal of penne pasta, lamb and garlic bread. An older white woman – who had previously met my younger brother – spoke across the table at my mother. ‘That’s a fine young man you’ve got there, intelligent, kind – you’ve done a good job. You must be so proud of him.’ I could imagine the pride my mum would have felt at this point, who rarely needs any reason to gush over her children. Later in the conversation the topic of same-sex marriage came up and the very same woman said, ‘To each their own but I don’t think it’s right, it’s not natural, all children need both parents – a mum and a dad.’
Writer Sarah Ross and her mum. Source: Supplied
Mum looked out the kitchen window as she recounted this incident to me. ‘I wish I could have just melted into the floor,’ she said, ‘It’s like that woman was this important person and I was just nothing.’
Mum looked out the kitchen window as she recounted this incident to me. ‘I wish I could have just melted into the floor,’ she said, ‘It’s like that woman was this important person and I was just nothing.’
My non-biological grandmother, the mother of the parent who didn’t give birth to me, accepted both my mothers’ relationship with open arms. Nanna was a devoutly Catholic, mixed race Bengali woman who was born and lived in Kolkata until her 40s. She was also an incredibly loving and progressive woman and matriarch. When my biological mother first fell pregnant ‘out of wedlock’, she was feeling very anxious about how people would react to the news. But when she told my grandmother, her immediate reaction was joy and excitement. My mother often tearily recounts how after I was born, Nanna stood in the hospital room holding me for the first time. A nurse walked in and asked who she was and without hesitation Nanna replied, ‘I am the doting grandmother.’ The last thing my grandmother said to me before she died was, ‘the genes must have diffused through.’
Whilst many queer spaces centre sexual liberation, my birth mum maintains cultural values around sexual modesty. She makes disapproving comments when adverts for the reality TV show, Love Island, pop up: ‘Why do they show this filth on mainstream television?’ When I query her about where it should be shown, she responds, ‘On an R rated channel with a pin code!’ Similarly, Mum does not feel comfortable existing in spaces such as Mardi Gras. ‘I think Mardi Gras gives the wrong picture – we’re like everybody else, we’re not these people that dress fancy, wear tattoos and weird hairdos and all of that.’
"My non-biological grandmother, the mother of the parent who didn’t give birth to me, accepted both my mothers’ relationship with open arms." Source: Supplied
Mum occupies a complex identity which exists in a framework of shared rules, values and behaviours. She is living proof that it never works to universalise people’s identities and struggles. Each human being is an amalgamation of contradictions.
Mum occupies a complex identity which exists in a framework of shared rules, values and behaviours. She is living proof that it never works to universalise people’s identities and struggles. Each human being is an amalgamation of contradictions.
‘All done, Sarah.’ The dentist sat back, removing her mask and inclining my chair. Then she walked me to reception, taking my hand and filling it with different brands of free sample miniature toothpaste tubes. Just before I reached the exit, she said, ‘So you were saying, your mother had you through a donor?’
I turned to look at her. ‘Yes, because… I have two mums. She was in a relationship with another woman.’
The dentist paused. ‘Oh, like in Modern Family!’
I smiled. ‘Yes, a bit like that.’
