2303

by Hannah

I know my dad only as a serial number: 2303. I know nothing about him other than the information disclosed in his donor file. 2303 has olive skin, deep-set brown eyes, a wiry figure, a passion for photography, is Jewish, and he promised the parents of his children they’d be receiving ethical sperm. That last part cracks me up whenever I read it.

I was conceived on Mother’s Day when Pacific Fertility Center inseminated Mama Linda. After my birth, my mom, Kristin, adopted me because it wasn’t legal to list two mothers on a birth certificate. I was three at their first wedding and seven at their second; California laws kept changing, but my parents felt determined that their marriage be legally recognized, particularly Mama.

I’m a lot like Mama. As a public defender turned Superior Court Judge, she’s a master arguer, so whenever we bicker, I remind her she’s the reason I am this way. We’re both analytical — though I gravitate toward concrete ideas of science, like photosynthesis. Yet, because of 2303, the science of my own life remains clouded.

I've taken classes in evolutionary biology and theories of human nature to study how allele combinations result in different phenotypes and to figure out why I am the way I am. In terms of the biology, I share fifty percent of my DNA with Mama and fifty percent of my DNA with 2303. Because of the crossing over of chromosomes during meiosis, I could share anywhere from two to fifty percent of my DNA with any female donor siblings and anywhere from zero to forty-eight percent with male donor siblings. My female donor siblings would necessarily share 2303’s X chromosome, but male siblings would not.

One of these male siblings is my brother, Elias, Mom’s biological son with 2303’s sperm. Though we’ve been raised by the same parents, our biology has made us strikingly different. Like Mom, Elias is outgoing and confident, quick to express emotions. Like Mama, I’m slow to warm with new people, hesitant to confide in them. And we look nothing alike.

A few years ago, I learned that 2303 was a popular donor. I discovered that I have sixteen half-siblings, all younger than eighteen. Six of us participate in a monthly video chat, and every time we Skype I feel closer to solving the puzzle of who I am. While I’ve known my half-siblings for three years, we aren’t best friends, though they do feel like family. I like them; they’re all kind, inquisiting, and seemingly as ethical as 2303 assured. I don’t doubt that we could be close. It just might take more time.

This February, when I turn eighteen, I have the power to convert a number into a real-life name and learn 2303’s identity. But recently, I’ve grappled with the emotional toll of meeting him; I have a family and I don’t want to complicate my life. What if meeting him reveals something about myself I really don’t want to know or don’t feel equipped to handle? On the other hand, maybe he has a crazy sock collection that rivals my own. And maybe, like me, he’s fascinated by the pollination of Gentian flowers by carpenter bees, and has a house full of rescue dogs.

As of this moment, I’m not sure I’ll contact him, and I think I’m okay with that uncertainty; my identity is more than my DNA sequencing. I don’t need to meet 2303 to affirm who I am. But, if I do decide to meet him, as all my classmates await answers from colleges this spring, I’ll also be awaiting an answer to the mystery of 2303 and me.