Who Am I?

My father and my dad are two different people. You see my dad raised me, changed my diapers, played catch with me, and taught me how to drive a car. Whereas my father needed a little extra money one semester of college and thought an easy way of doing so would be to donate his sperm.

I’ve always felt I’m not whole (cliche, I know). I’m missing the person who created me, who gave me their genes and quirks. I have siblings I’ve never met, and probably never will. I also have siblings who I might’ve passed on the street, or sit next to them in my sixth period math class.

My mother was 40, and unmarried. She wanted a child, but was rejected for adoption. So, she turned to her last resort – the sperm bank. That’s how I was conceived. My mother had no other option than to take a stranger’s semen, and pay a doctor a ridiculous amount of money to fertilize her egg in a test tube or petri dish. It isn’t exactly the typical love story.

Speaking of the story, she never hid my conception from me or anyone else for that matter. Simply, I was told since birth that “mommy wanted YOU so badly that a doctor gave her a special seed in her tummy.” The whole money exchange and reality of the situation was found through google when I was a curious 12 year old.

But, I do have a dad. He’s great. He adopted me when I was very young, and he’s always been dad to me. But, his family isn’t exactly accepting of the way I came into existence. They’re strict Catholics who believe a child is the result of the love of a married man and woman. No exceptions. Their glares are daggers constantly reminding me that I’m “different.”

But, my dad’s family aren’t the only people who don’t accept me. My mother’s life long church practically damned her. Her priest told her she was going straight to hell for having a child out of wedlock and god forbid from sperm donation. “A double whammy that signed your one way ticket to hell.” Did I mention he called me the spawn of the devil?

One priest in the Lutheran Church would baptize me. Yes, I was baptized in the same place they cursed my mother for bargaining with Satan and birthing his child. What a loving place to be welcomed to God’s world, right?

As I said, I became especially curious about my conception when I was 12. I learned in middle school health class that men and women have “sex” and make babies. But, my mom met my dad after I was born, so how could that be? Was the story about the seed true? I dug through files whenever my parents left the house. One day, I hit the jackpot. A manilla folder labeled “Donor Information” contained a packet detailing every piece of health history of the man who made me.

After an afternoon of googling, I found the facility where my mom had this “procedure” done. It was miles through highways, overpasses, and heavy traffic. But, I hopped on my bike and pedaled for 2 hours while clutching the packet close to my chest. Once I arrived, I walked inside into a tiny room with a bench, a door, and a doorbell. I rang the bell, and a receptionist lady answered. I stuttered and asked for the name of the mystery “CB 242.” She said “Sorry darling, but every number below 300 is to remain anonymous.” I immediately thought, “how selfish.” I asked for a photo, an address, anything. No. I left that building with every ounce of hope stripped from me.

When I returned home, I thumbed through the packet. He had bad acne as a teenager, like me. He loved sports, like me. He was short, like me. It was impossible to not draw these connections to man on the paper because they were so clear, so evident, because I am part of him. At the end, there is a space for the donor to write a paragraph to the recipient of his donation. He wrote, “American medicine is an extraordinary thing.” Really? That’s what you want to tell YOUR daughter? Well, thanks for the kind words, dad.

I feel cheated. Shouldn’t it be my given right to know BOTH biological parents? Shouldn’t it be my given right to know more about my father than his height? Shouldn’t it be my right to know?

Constantly, I am conflicted. On one hand, I’m glad he did what he did because I’m alive with two loving parents. But, on the other hand, I deserve to know where I come from and it is unfair, depressing, and unjust. I lose no matter what “side” I pick. If I say I’m okay with it, that means I accept I don’t know my father and am okay with how I was conceived. If I say I’m not okay with it, then I’m saying I’d rather not exist. Both sides end in heartbreak.

There are no right answers, just lingering questions. The biggest question of all isn’t about my father, but about me. Who am I?