“Which one’s your real mum?”“They both are...” I always knew what
they were asking, but I’d still leave an awkward pause before giving
them what they wanted.
“Teresa had Rowan. Then Louise had Grainne and I. Rowan and
Grainne’s donor is Graham. My donor is Dave, a New York Jew who
lived in the same housing co-op as them in London. Louise and Dave
were born on the same day, January 8th, Elvis’s birthday. They used
to run the finances at the co-op and everyone would steer clear when
they were working because things got a little noisy. Genetically, my
family makes a big W – well, a big zig-zag if you draw us out.”
I drew that jagged line so many times, sometimes in the air,
sometimes on paper. I drew it because I knew that’s what people
wanted of me. They wanted to know who shared blood with whom,
whose sperm went in where. People are so horrified at the notion of
children understanding sex and bodies, but their fears are quickly
overwhelmed by morbid curiosity when faced with an eight-year-old
who fully understands her own birds and bees.
From Louise, I inherited a wanderlust as she told me tales of
backpacking round Norway with her best friend; the big ship they
sailed on from Australia; travelling through Eastern Europe before
the wall came down. Louise told me how she met Teresa at a job
interview for a women’s shelter in London. Teresa asked her out and
she replied, “What?! I hardly know you!” But soon she was writing a
letter to her parents to tell them she’d fallen in love with a woman.
Her father wrote back, “As parents, we teach you how to brush your
hair and brush your teeth, and we teach you how to love. But it’s not
our job to teach you who to love.”
Considering they both came out in the 1970s, it’s surprising
that Louise and Teresa’s families were fairly supportive of their
daughters’ sexualities. But, despite fears for my mothers’ safety in
a homophobic world, they were. Teresa’s mother, a staunch and
quick-witted woman nicknamed Nanny Bingo due to her skill in the
game, responded with characteristic bluntness and the perspective
gained through years living in a cruel and difficult marriage. As far
as she was concerned, as long as Teresa’s partners weren’t hitting
or hurting her, they were welcome in Nanny’s home.
My parents took up space in the community, protecting us and
ensuring a place for our family, marching into the school grounds
to confront ignorant teachers or quietly speaking to parents who
didn’t want us coming over to play with their kids. Louise got a
licence so she could set off the fireworks at the annual Summer Hill
Primary School fireworks night; her small frame encased in bright
orange coveralls, racing across the field to light spinners, rockets,
Catherine wheels. Nearby, Teresa (wo)manned the veggie burger
stand, her secret recipe growing ever more popular till finally, when
I was in year 6, victory was ours: we outsold the sausage sizzle.I am 34 years old, I’ve travelled to strange and wonderful places and
loved strange and wonderful people; I’ve had more misadventures
than adventures, hilarious, heartbreaking and true. But I come back to
this queer family history time and again because I’ve been telling it so
long it’s become my heart. I feel it at the far reaches of my ribcage, in
the pit of my stomach and in loud blood rushing, this family of mine.
When my parents split up in 2005, this story was disrupted, this tale
I’d told over and over till I grew into someone who spoke and spoke
and had to be reminded to shut up. I was facing not only the pain of my
family’s separation, but also the destruction of the public image and
identity we’d constructed. And I wasn’t alone. Some of their lesbian
friends were remarkably angry. “What will we tell our kids?” they said.
It seemed my family had become part of their story, too – the example
they held up when their fears took over and they wondered if this new
way of parenting was OK. “Look at Teresa and Louise, they’ve been
together 28 years. Look at their kids. Look how happy they are.”real life