Enacting Kinship Among Gay Men Pursuing Parenthood Through Surrogacy

Home , Coparenting, Kinship terminology, Sociology of the family

‘A child of one’s own’: enacting kinship among gay men pursuing parenthood through surrogacy

Dean A. Murphy

A thesis in fulfilment of the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy

Centre for Social Research in Health Faculty of Arts & Social Sciences

August 2013

TABLE OF CONTENTS

LIST OF FIGURES AND TABLES ...... iv ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS ...... v LIST OF RELEVANT PUBLICATIONS AND PRESENTATIONS ...... vi ABSTRACT ...... vii LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS ...... viii CHAPTER 1: INTRODUCTION ...... 1 ‘The swirl’ ...... 1 Surrogacy and kinship ...... 1 Research questions ...... 3 Approach ...... 7 Chapter outline ...... 8 Locating myself ...... 9 CHAPTER 2: LITERATURE REVIEW ...... 10 Introduction ...... 10 Gay men and parenthood ...... 10 Parenthood and gay identity ...... 13 Parenthood and masculinity ...... 18 Gay men and surrogacy ...... 19 Gay male kinship ...... 22 Donor choices ...... 26 The practice and ethics of surrogacy ...... 29 Assisted reproductive technologies and kinship ...... 33 Conclusions ...... 35 CHAPTER 3: THEORETICAL CONSIDERATIONS ...... 37 Introduction ...... 37 Choice ...... 37 Kinship concepts and critiques...... 41 Value ...... 53 Conclusions ...... 59 CHAPTER 4: METHODOLOGY AND METHODS ...... 61 Introduction ...... 61 The concept of enactment ...... 61 Data and information collection ...... 64

Study participants ...... 72 Key concepts in data and information analysis ...... 74 Conclusions ...... 79 CHAPTER 5: BRAVE NEW WORLD: REPRESENTING GAY MEN’S SURROGACY PRACTICES ...... 81 Introduction ...... 81 Websites of surrogacy agencies ...... 81 Print media ...... 95 Conclusions ...... 112 CHAPTER 6: THE NEW NORMAL: PLUGGING INTO DISCOURSES OF GAY MALE PARENTHOOD ...... 114 Introduction ...... 114 Understanding the desire to become parents ...... 115 Unplugging from parenthood ...... 118 Replugging into parenthood ...... 121 Choosing to be a ‘good citizen’ ...... 131 Choosing a different way to do family ...... 134 Conclusions ...... 142 CHAPTER 7: WHAT’S MINE IS YOURS: NEGOTIATING KINSHIP AND BIOGENETIC CONNECTION WITHIN SURROGACY-FORMED FAMILIES ...... 144 Introduction ...... 144 ‘Bio-dads’ ...... 144 Non-bio-dads...... 149 Negotiated / creative affinity...... 154 Ethereal affinity and the importance of resemblance ...... 162 The egg donor ...... 163 The gestational surrogate ...... 169 Conclusions ...... 173 CHAPTER 8: A CLEAN TRANSACTION? ARTICULATING AND ATTRIBUTING VALUE IN SURROGACY ARRANGEMENTS ...... 175 Introduction ...... 175 Crossing borders, crossing boundaries ...... 176 Gift or commodity? ...... 178 A ‘clean transaction’...... 180 Ambivalence and the ‘oppressive’ gift ...... 195 Valuing the egg donor ...... 198 Valuing the surrogate ...... 202 Conclusions ...... 205 ii

CHAPTER 9: CONCLUSION ...... 206 REFERENCES ...... 211 APPENDICES ...... 232 Appendix A: Glossary of terms ...... 232 Appendix B: Recruitment flyer ...... 234 Appendix C: Interview schedule ...... 235

iii

LIST OF FIGURES AND TABLES

Figure 1: Articles on surrogacy by year in the United States and Australia ...... 67

Table 1: Interview participants ...... 73

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The writing of this thesis would not have been possible without the support and encouragement of many people. First, I am indebted to all the fathers and prospective fathers in Australia and California who gave up their time to be interviewed for my study, often with their newborn children competing for their attention. I thank them for their generosity in giving me an insight into their lives. Without their involvement, my research would not have been possible. I hope that in some way their contributions to this thesis will benefit other members of the gay community.

I am indebted to my thesis advisers throughout the course of this study. Marsha Rosengarten, Robert Reynolds and Suzanne Fraser all provided valuable support and guidance throughout my candidature. I give special thanks to Asha Persson who provided great inspiration, encouragement and humour in discharging her duties as supervisor. I also thank Christy Newman, whose boundless energy and determination as supervisor was crucial in bringing this thesis to completion. The analysis presented here greatly benefited from discussions with Asha and Christy and I am particularly grateful to them both for the extra time and effort they have given in supporting me through the final months of writing this thesis and for their ongoing interest in and engagement with the research.

I thank also the Centre for Social Research in Health (CSRH) at the University of New South Wales, where I was enrolled as a student and worked as a research associate. The university also provided me with support to travel to the United States. To the Australian Federation of AIDS Organisations, where I worked during this period, and in particular to Simon Donohoe, I thank you for the flexibility and support you extended to me throughout my candidature. Thanks also to the Consortium for Social and Policy Research on HIV, Hepatitis C and Related Diseases for providing a scholarship during part of my candidature.

I am grateful to Maria Lohan, William Marsiglio, and Lorraine Culley for organising a session on Men and Reproduction at the International Sociology Association Forum of Sociology, Buenos Aires, 2012. Some of the findings from my research presented at this session were published in The Journal of Family Issues published (Murphy, 2013). A more detailed analysis of this material is included in this thesis in Chapter 5 and Chapter 6.

Proofreading services on the final version of this thesis were provided by Wendy Sarkissian, with my gratitude.

Thanks to my daughter Lucy for being her own special self and for our wonderful times together, and to Bridget Haire and Marion Bailey for their ongoing friendship and support. Many thanks also to my parents for their love and patience.

A special thanks to my dear friend Jeanne Ellard for many fantastic discussions about kinship. My endless gratitude for your kindness and patience and for being such a valuable supporter and colleague throughout the entire period of this study.

LIST OF RELEVANT PUBLICATIONS AND PRESENTATIONS

Murphy, D. (2013). The desire for parenthood: Gay men choosing to become parents through surrogacy. Journal of Family Issues, 34(8), 1104–1124. doi:10.1177/0192513X13484272 — (2012, August). Gay men, surrogacy and parenthood. Paper presented at the International Sociology Association Forum of Sociology, Buenos Aires. — (2010, September). Value and vitality: Contract surrogacy policies and practices. Paper presented at the European Association for the Social Study of Science and Technology Conference, Trento, Italy. — (2008, August). Bio-dads: kinship practices among gay men who have become parents through surrogacy. Paper presented at the Society for the Social Studies of Science (4S) & European Association for the Social Study of Science and Technology (EASST) Conference, Rotterdam, The Netherlands. Abstract retrieved from http://www.4sonline.org/files/4S_EASST_2008_Abstracts.pdf — (2008, September). Submission to Legislation on altruistic surrogacy in NSW (Inquiry). Law and Justice Committee, Legislative Council, Parliament of New South Wales, Sydney. — (2008, June). Submission to Investigation into the Decriminalisation and Regulation of Altruistic Surrogacy in Queensland. Legislative Assembly, Queensland Parliament, Brisbane. — (2008, March). The ‘natural facts’: Kinship practices among gay men who have become parents through commercial surrogacy. Paper presented at Everyday Lives Conference, 10th Social Research Conference on HIV, Hepatitis C and Related Diseases University of New South Wales, Sydney.

ABSTRACT

This thesis explores how kinship is enacted in the context of gay men pursuing parenthood through surrogacy. These men represent an important first generation to access assisted reproductive technologies for this purpose and also make up an increasing proportion of gay men becoming parents outside a heterosexual relationship. Data were collected from three sources: surrogacy stories in the print media; websites of surrogacy agencies; and in-depth interviews with 30 gay men living in Australia and the United States, who had achieved or were pursuing parenthood through surrogacy. The analytic approach is influenced by insights from the field of science and technology studies (STS).

The main findings relate to parenthood desire, biogenetic connection, and value. These gay men ‘enacted’ parenthood and family life in ways that both challenged and reinforced dominant notions of kinship and masculinity. Like most people, they had grown up with parenthood expectations, although these had been challenged when they assumed a gay identity. Parenthood desires were re-animated by social discourses that emphasised the prospect of parenthood and procreation for gay men as a conceptual and material reality through the influence of partners, media, peers, and in particular, the promotional activities of surrogacy agencies. The men also reworked the symbols of Western kinship—such as bilateral genetic inheritance—to create a family structure that felt meaningful. A range of inventive strategies was employed in this process both to instantiate and obscure conventional ideas about biology and kinship.

The findings demonstrate that parenthood desire is socially produced: men come to experience parenthood desire largely because of the new narratives and opportunities being made available to them today. The creative and strategic negotiation strategies of gay men in family formation also demonstrate that biogenetic connection is an important and potentially flexible fact to be negotiated. The study contributes to the growing field of international research on the many complex and unexpected ways in which parenthood desires are informed by contemporary understandings of gender and sexual identity, but also the multiple ways in which the social construction of kinship influences the experience of desiring and conceiving a ‘child of one’s own.’

vii

LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS

ANT Actor-network Theory ART Assisted Reproductive Technologies (or Assisted Reproductive Treatment) CBRC Cross-border Reproductive Care DNA Deoxyribonucleic acid DTA Discourse Theoretical Analysis IQ Intelligence Quotient IVF In vitro fertilisation NSFG National Survey of Family Growth SAT Scholastic Assessment Test SPAR Special Program of Assisted Reproduction STS Science and Technology Studies

viii

CHAPTER 1: INTRODUCTION

‘The swirl’ Steven: Have you thought about surrogacy? At least you’d be making a baby instead of waiting around for some pregnant mom to maybe pick you.

Cameron: Well, we considered it but how do you decide which one will . . . ice the cupcake?

Steven: That’s the beauty of the swirl.

Cameron and Mitchell (together): The swirl?

Steven: You both donate, they mix it up, fertilise the egg, and you never know who the father is. (Higginbotham & O’Shannon, 2012)

This excerpt from the US situation comedy, Modern Family, provides an illustration of some of the conceptual issues brought about by gay men’s pursuit of parenthood through surrogacy. The conversation takes place between two of the main characters, a gay couple, Cameron and Mitchell, and their friend, Steven. Steven and his partner, Stefan, have recently become parents and Steven is explaining the benefits of having a child through surrogacy compared with adoption. This scene sets up two themes that I will return to throughout this thesis. The first is that of ‘making a baby,’ which evokes a sense of autonomy and control for prospective parents that may not be achievable when forming a family in other ways, such as through adoption. The second theme relates to deciding which male partner would provide the sperm, thereby becoming the biogenetic parent. For Steven and Stefan the solution was to mix their sperm (‘the swirl’) so their child’s paternity could potentially remain unknown. In this way, they would be able to recognise themselves as both equally related to the child.

Surrogacy and kinship To begin, it is important to define some of the concepts central to this thesis. The term surrogacy describes a form of assisted reproductive treatment (ART) in which a woman carries a child for another person or couple, and then surrenders the child in order for the individual or couple to take on full parental rights and responsibilities. Surrogacy is divided into two types, ‘traditional genetic surrogacy’ and ‘gestational surrogacy’ (Bergman, Rubio, Green & Padròn, 2010; Berkowitz, 2013). Traditional genetic surrogacy refers to the situation where a woman (‘the surrogate’) carries and gives birth to a child to whom she is genetically related. ‘Gestational surrogacy’ is the term used to refer to a specific arrangement in which a different woman from the 1 gestating mother provides the biogenetic material (‘the egg’) from which the child is conceived. Gestational surrogacy is relatively recent, with the first procedure reported in the scientific literature in 1985 (Utian, Sheean, Goldfarb, & Kiwi, 1985).

Kinship can be described in general terms as the cultural conception of, and customs related to, membership of households, sexual rights, the definition of procreation, and the legitimisation of children (Goodenough, 1965: 262). This thesis explores how kinship is enacted among gay men pursuing parenthood through surrogacy. These men represent the first generation to access ART and also make up an increasing proportion of gay men becoming parents outside a heterosexual relationship. Data were collected from three sources: surrogacy stories in the print media; the websites of surrogacy agencies; and in-depth interviews with 30 gay men living in Australia and the United States who had achieved or were pursuing parenthood through surrogacy. This study generates insights into kinship, sexuality and gender that have broader implications for understanding social meanings and experiences relating to parenthood and connectedness.

In this introductory chapter, I describe the issues explored in my thesis and why I believe this to be an important area of inquiry. This is a timely study in that an increasing number of gay men are becoming involved in reproduction, including through surrogacy. It is difficult to determine the contribution that surrogacy has made to gay male parenthood but it is clear that increasing numbers of gay men are pursuing parenthood in this way. For example, a survey conducted in Australia in 2008 and 2009 found that 18% of gay men with children had become parents through surrogacy (Power et al., 2010; Power et. al., 2012). In the early decades of the 21st Century, stories and images of gay men becoming parents through surrogacy have also become increasingly available in popular culture, including in dramatic entertainment formats such as Modern Family and another recent situation comedy, The New Normal (Di Loreto, Adler & Murphy, 2012). In the ‘real’ lives of gay male actors and entertainers there is also a growing list who have had children in this way, such as Elton John, Ricky Martin and Neil Patrick Harris.

Returning to Modern Family, the strategy among gay men of obscuring ‘who the father is,’ as described by Steven, is intended to ensure both partners are equally related to the child despite the fact that only one has a biogenetic connection. This renegotiation of the so-called ‘natural’ facts of reproduction is what Thompson

(2005) refers to as the ‘flexible choreography’ that enacts kinship in the era of ART. Later in the Modern Family episode, the potential limitations of this strategy are highlighted when Stefan, who appears to have Latino heritage, arrives with the baby, Rocco. There is a notable resemblance between Stefan and Rocco, who according to Mitchell is ‘clearly Mexican.’ Mitchell and Cameron, therefore presume that Stefan is the biogenetic father, although perhaps incorrectly as the egg donor’s ethnic background is never discussed. I highlight this subsequent scene because it deals with a particular concern that the men in this study address: that is, the desire to create resemblance within gay families and the inventive ways, beyond ‘the swirl,’ in which this is pursued.

Research questions The overall aim of this research is to explore how kinship is enacted among gay men who are pursuing parenthood through surrogacy. There are three main areas of inquiry reported in this thesis and each contains specific research questions. The three areas of inquiry also form the structure of the thesis and are outlined below.

Parenthood desire The first research question relates to why and how gay men ‘choose’ to become parents at this point in time. Is the reason simply a question of more men having the opportunity to do so because of the development of new technologies, or is it evidence of an increasing globalisation of parenthood that has facilitated cross- border reproductive options, at least for those with access to the required resources? Parenthood desire is popularly thought about as an innate phenomenon. That is, either you have it or you do not, or at least you have it to a certain degree. However, the fact that this desire is already gendered, through images such as the ‘biological clock’ (Berkowitz, 2011b) raises the question about the degree to which such desires are culturally produced. Have changes in external conditions, or the way these men experience the world, created new opportunities for them to think of themselves as parents, and to act on this desire? In addition, if parenthood desires and expectations can be animated or influenced externally, what does this say about the social construction of parenthood more broadly, for heterosexual men for example? Conversely, parenthood can be de-animated too. That is, cultural traditions around parenthood and reproduction have become less prescriptive and more flexible generally, so that those formerly seen as excluded from reproduction (gay men) can chose that path, while those formerly seen as biologically destined to reproduce (women) can chose not to. 3

The men from Australia and the United States in this study represent the first generation for whom pursuing parenthood after ‘coming out’ as gay has been a realistic possibility. Their individual and collective accounts therefore provide an important lens through which to view these historical changes. This study seeks to investigate the extent to which these men’s narratives of ‘choosing’ parenthood have been animated or influenced by social scripts, and to what extent media, peers, and the promotional activities of surrogacy agencies have contributed to the production of these scripts. Also, in what ways have the particular meanings articulated by these men regarding ‘choice’ been informed or inspired by the kinship practices of other gay men and lesbians having children from the 1980s onwards?

This study examines surrogacy not simply as a new way of having children, but also in terms of what it represents or makes possible for those who pursue parenthood in this way. In other words, I am interested in the political implications of planned and deliberate parenthood projects such as surrogacy. As already implied by Steven’s argument in the Modern Family episode, surrogacy enhances the notion of control over parenthood that seems to elude some men pursuing parenthood in other ways. Surrogacy also enables these men, particularly couples, to form families that are more easily recognisable as coherent kinship units to others. This also raises the question of whether family formation by gay men is informed by a resistance to heteronormativity or a longing for social inclusion and acceptance, given that the families formed through surrogacy tend to correspond to the dual-parent family model. Are different and more politicised ways of establishing gay kinship, for example ‘families of choice,’ being lost in this process? Moreover, is gay male parenthood through surrogacy leading to a greater alignment with heterosexual couples with children in contrast to childless gay men?

Biogenetic connection The second area of inquiry relates to the symbolic aspects of kinship, and in particular how ideas about biogenetic connections feature in the formation of the families of gay men. The research literature to date has not thoroughly explored these issues.. This thesis considers how biogenetic connections are strategically emphasised and de-emphasised in the way these men enact and negotiate kinship. How important is biogenetic connection to their children for these men? What does this emphasis suggests about contemporary modes of enacting kinship? I am

4 particularly interested in the way gay male couples negotiate biogenetic paternity. Does the focus on biogenetic forms of kinship pose problems for these couples and the non-biogenetic parent in particular? Given that only one male partner can be the biogenetic father I explore the ways in which the symbols of Western kinship are reworked to enact filiation through means other than biogenetic connection. Does the necessity of this reworking expose the constructedness of the dominant Western kinship model in which the social is believed to map directly onto the biogenetic facts of conception?

The discussion of biogenetic connection in this research will also explore the importance of ‘likeness’ and how the participants identify, negotiate and create resemblance within their families. Notably this study recruited participants from both Australia and the United States, including several couples (one-third of all couples) with partners from different ethnic backgrounds. In addition, a large proportion of men were born outside the country in which they resided. The composition of this sample makes it quite different from previous research studies on gay men and surrogacy, which have overwhelmingly included White men. Given this unique sample, I therefore explore in detail the approaches that these men took to negotiating paternity and the meanings that they attached to resemblance.

For single men and gay male couples, some of the biogenetic material required to produce the child must come from elsewhere. Most men choose egg donors through services that have been established for this purpose. Some of these services are subsidiaries of surrogacy agencies or fertility clinics, and some are stand-alone entities. What factors are important to the men in choosing an egg donor? Also, given the rather open-ended choice provided by these services, do the men place any constraints on their own choices? As described above, gestational surrogacy has emerged as the dominant form of this practice, so this thesis also explores the criteria that gay men use to select gestational surrogates, and the influence of surrogacy agencies in these decisions. In this context of separate genetic and gestational mothers, how do these men conceptualise the relationship between surrogates, egg donors and their children?

Finally, what other strategies are employed to maintain a sense of equal connection between parents and their children? This thesis explores the choices made by participants about biogenetic paternity. In particular, the thesis investigates strategies

5 that obscure, or make ambiguous, biogenetic connections such as those that I call ‘turn taking,’ ‘intentional unknowing’ and ‘absolute secrecy.’ I argue that an important part of the notion of biogenetic connection (and equal contribution by both partners) is that of the child ‘passing’ socially as jointly theirs, as well as both partners being recognised as ‘legitimate’ parents.

Value The third and final area of inquiry relates to how gay men negotiate the commercial aspects of surrogacy. All the men in this study had become parents through contracting the services of egg donors and surrogates, so to what extent does the exchange of money affect the social relationships that are possible? The ways that both commercialisation and altruism are invoked in surrogacy arrangements suggest this is a fruitful area for exploring the location of boundaries between the domains of kinship and the market. How do men negotiate crossing from the private domain of kinship to the public domain of the market, and how are gay men’s surrogacy practices framed through media and surrogacy agencies? This analysis also examines two major, and sometimes overlapping, concerns related to commercial forms of surrogacy: ‘baby buying’ and the spectre of the ‘designer baby.’

It is important to explore how these men understand the motivations of egg donors and surrogates and how they work these accounts into a coherent family narrative. To what extent do gay men accept and value the commercial aspects of surrogacy, and for what reasons? In addition, how do these men’s accounts draw on gendered notions of ‘giving,’ of ‘emotion,’ and of attachment? Gestational surrogacy offers a range of possible relationships between parents, egg donors and surrogates. I investigate the dynamics of these relationships and the way the language of gift giving and the market is drawn upon to enact or disallow kinship. What forms of sociality does the circulation of reproductive materials and labour produce? I also explore the ‘informational’ and ‘relational’ aspects of these relationships.

The metaphor that I use to bring together the various themes explored in this research is that of ‘a child of one’s own.’ This metaphor makes reference to Virginia Woolf’s (1989 [1929]) argument about the need for women to have access to a ‘room of one’s own’ if they are to have the capacity and opportunity to achieve their creative potential. In relation to parenthood desire this metaphor suggests making the choice to have a child after coming out as gay and pursuing parenthood as a gay man or gay

6 couple without entering into a co-parenting arrangement or another form of shared parenthood. Regarding biogenetic connection, the metaphor of ‘a child of one’s own’ relates to establishing kinship even in the absence of, or uncertainty around, these links. In the case of gay male couple, ‘a child of one’s own’ also means achieving symbolic recognition of both partners as equal parents. Finally, given that gay men require additional actors to achieve parenthood through surrogacy how do these men negotiate other potential kinship connections, and how do they create coherent family narratives in the context of commercial surrogacy arrangements?

Approach The thesis draws on personal and discursive accounts of gay men’s lives as a lens through which to explore contemporary enactments of kinship. It focuses in particular on gay men in two locations—Australia and the United States—who have become parents through surrogacy arrangements. This study does not set out to make comparisons between these two locations, and I take as a starting point the notion that gay men in both these places form part of a global network of citizens from relatively privileged high-income countries. This approach provides an opportunity for extending the scope of inquiry by incorporating a broader range of stories and contexts than would have been possible by focusing on only one setting. Notably, all the Australian participants pursued surrogacy arrangements offshore, while among US participants all surrogacy arrangements were domestic. This trend underscores the continued significance of southern California as a site for the promotion and facilitation of parenthood for gay men.

Drawing on Annemarie Mol’s (2002) theory of enactment, this thesis investigates how local and context-specific ‘kinships’ and ‘surrogacies’ are produced through practices. While the empirical data for this study come primarily from in-depth interviews with gay men, the study is informed by two additional data sources: print media and the online promotional materials of commercial surrogacy agencies. By treating kinship, and surrogacy, as ontologically multiple (Mol, 2002), it is possible to make sense of the various ways in which kinship is enacted in these different sites. Although kinship constitutes the domain in which new reproductive technologies such as surrogacy are understood, it is unlikely that kinship acts on reproductive technologies without the reverse also being true. It is not always clear whether, and to what extent, these technologies change individuals and the cultures in which they are introduced—and, importantly for this thesis, what new relationships and connections are created. I therefore explore the ways in which reproductive 7 technologies—especially surrogacy, particularly when pursued by gay men— influences kinship. That is, to what extent do reproductive technologies create a new and different context in which kinship is enacted?

Chapter outline The structure of this thesis is designed to investigate the issue of how kinship is enacted in the specific context of gay men forming families through surrogacy. Following this introduction are three background chapters. Chapter 2 outlines the existing empirical literature on the issues of surrogacy and same-sex parenthood, as well as relevant research on the uptake of ART, and critiques of surrogacy practices. Chapter 3 then introduces the theoretical positions and debates that have informed this study. Finally, Chapter 4 outlines the methodological approach I take in answering the research questions, as well as describing the study methods and procedures.

Drawing on discourse theoretical analysis (Laclau & Mouffe, 1985), Chapter 5 examines representations of gay men’s parenting projects from the websites of commercial surrogacy agencies and print media articles published in Australia and the United States. These framings provide insights into the discursive space that the study participants negotiated when pursuing parenthood through surrogacy. The subsequent three chapters explore the three substantive themes of parenthood desire, biogenetic connection, and value in relation to the interview data.

Chapter 6 explores the concept of parenthood desire to make sense of why gay male parenthood has become an ever-increasing phenomenon. This chapter analyses the accounts of the many men who had held prior expectations of parenthood, but who had abandoned these expectations after assuming a gay identity. Subsequently these men’s expectations were animated through the influence of partners, media, peers, and the promotional activities of surrogacy agencies. Chapter 7 explores how the narratives of gay men negotiated the symbols of Western kinship—such as bilateral genetic inheritance—to create new and meaningful family arrangements. In particular, this chapter identifies and explores the inventive strategies that these men developed. Finally, Chapter 8 examines whether commercial transactions close off the possibility of any social or emotional obligations between these same-sex parented families and the egg donors and surrogates. In particular this chapter explores the ways in which these gay men made sense of the commercial aspects of

8 surrogacy and the way this potentially enabled and interfered with their kinship narratives.

Chapter 9 reflects on the aims and research questions of the study, as well as pointing to the gaps in the existing literature on surrogacy and same-sex parenthood. I offer a series of conclusions, drawing on the findings from the data collected. These conclusions are then linked to the theories that have informed the study. Lastly, I provide some final thoughts on the significance of the research, as well as important future research to be conducted in this area.

Locating myself My interest in surrogacy and gay male parenthood has no doubt been influenced by my own experiences. I am a gay man who is also the biogenetic father of a child. My daughter lives with her two mothers. My experiences as a gay father inspired my initial interest in the new parenting arrangements being forged in Australia and elsewhere. It became clear over time that my position as a peer of sorts was significant in my relationship with the study participants and enabled me to establish a connection that might not otherwise have been possible. I realised over time that the reason I disclosed this information was precisely because I did want to establish such an association. In the face of negative media and sometimes hostile reactions to gay male parenthood, our shared identities as parents and gay men enabled these men, I believe, to be (more) open about their experiences. On several occasions, they revealed information that they had not previously shared with anyone else.

I was always aware however that such a personal disclosure on the part of the researcher was not without risks, especially in terms of assumed knowledge about gay male parenthood, and that undertaking the study required sensitivity and empathy towards the study participants rather than a shared experience. On reflection, my decision to study kinship among men who had formed families through surrogacy was in some ways based on the desire for my own experiences not to overlap completely with those of the participants. I believe this difference and my lack of knowledge about surrogacy prior to undertaking this research helped me to remain ever open and attentive to their stories. I was privileged to hear their stories, and honoured to work with those accounts throughout the course of this research.

CHAPTER 2: LITERATURE REVIEW

Introduction This chapter undertakes a review of the literature that is relevant to the research questions outlined in the introduction chapter. The review locates my thesis in relation to previous empirical research and also identifies the specific debates to which this study will make a contribution. Three broad areas of research have informed this project. The first of these bodies of literature relates to parenthood and in non-heterosexual contexts; the second covers donor choices in home insemination and assisted reproduction; and the third addresses some of the published critiques of surrogacy practices. In addition, this review explores areas of overlap between these different bodies of research and identifies gaps in the existing literature.

Gay men and parenthood Increasing numbers of gay men are entering into parenthood as ‘known donors’ or through fostering, adoption, co-parenting, surrogacy, and as ‘known sperm donors.’ Together with the increasing number of lesbians becoming parents, these men are part of what has been referred to as the ‘gay baby boom’ or ‘gayby boom’ (Dempsey, 2004, 2006b; Dunne, 1999, 2000; Johnson & O’Connor, 2002; Short, Riggs, Perlesz, Brown, & Kane, 2007; Stacey, 1996, 2005; Weeks, Heaphy, & Donovan, 2001). However, due to the lack of national representative samples it is difficult to estimate the extent of ‘same-sex parented families’ (Crouch, McNair, Waters, & Power, 2013). Evidence of the prevalence of these families comes via inferences from census and other national data, as well as cross-sectional gay and lesbian community surveys. Specific surveys of gay and lesbian parents demonstrate important trends such as changes in the ways parenthood is achieved, as well as the domestic and relationship contexts in which parenthood is pursued (Power et al., 2010; Power et al., 2012).

The national census in Australia provides limited information on parenthood and parenting among co-habiting same-sex couples. In the 2011 census, around 10% of same-sex couples reported living with children. This varied between men and women, with only three percent of male same-sex couples having children of any age living with them, compared to 22% of female couples (Australian Bureau of Statistics, 2012). Data from the United States show a larger proportion of same-sex couples with children. In the national census conducted in the Unites States 2010, out of 594,000 same-sex couple households, 115,000 (around 19%) reported having 10 children. Eighty-four percent of these contained the householders’ own children. Of the same-sex couple households with their own children, 73% had only biological children, while 21% had only step-children or adopted children (Lofquist, 2011). As in Australia, the US data show that female same-sex couples are more likely to have children than men; however, this difference is not as stark as suggested by Australian census data. Recent estimates from the 2008 American Community Survey show 13.9% of US male-male couple households and 26.5% of female-female couple households contain children (Krivickas & Lofquist, 2011).

A significant proportion of the children of gay men and lesbians are from former heterosexual relationships. A survey of same-sex attracted parents conducted in 2008 and 2009 in Australia found that 57% of men and 41% of women reported having at least one child through heterosexual sex (most of whom were from previous relationships (Power et al., 2010). Henehan, Rothblum, Solomon, & Balsam’s (2007) study in the United States found that men and women in same-sex couples were more likely than their counterparts in opposite-sex couples to report having children from previous relationships, and less likely to report having children from their current relationship. In that study almost two-thirds (65%) of gay men who were fathers reported having children from a previous relationship, compared to only 17.8% of heterosexual men (Henehan et al., 2007: 60). Among women, the trend was very similar with 62% of lesbian mothers reporting that they had children from a previous relationship, compared to only 18.9 per cent of heterosexual women. There are also wide regional variations within the United States in terms of same-sex parenthood. For example, Stacey (2006) cited data from the 2000 US national census indicating that over half of cohabiting male same-sex couples in Los Angeles County were believed to be raising children, which is the highest proportion in the United States.

The census data are likely to be an underestimation of the true number of gay men in parenting roles because they exclude single parents, dual-household parents and gay men who did not report a same-sex partnership (Stacey, 2006: 31, 50). In addition, census data on parenting in same-sex households do not include gay men who are fathers but are not actively parenting, or those with adult children. The US National Survey of Family Growth (NSFG), conducted by the National Center for Health Statistics in 2002, found that over 35% of lesbians aged 18–44 had given birth and that 16% of gay men had a biological or adopted child (Gates, Badgett, Macomber,

& Chambers, 2007). In Australia, according to a national cross-sectional survey conducted in 2005, only 3.7% of men and 15.9% of women were living with children at the time of being surveyed (Pitts, Smith, Mitchell, & Patel, 2006). Recent research has also indicated a distinct generational shift in terms of the contexts in which gay men are becoming parents. In a 2009 survey of gay fathers from Australia, Canada, New Zealand and the United Kingdom, almost all men over 50 reported having had children in the context of previous heterosexual relationships, whereas only around half of men under 50 years had become fathers in this way (Patterson & Tornello, 2010). Further, the study revealed that just under half of men aged less than 50 years had children through adoption, foster care and surrogacy, whereas these routes to parenthood were reported by only five percent of older men. This same trend was evident in a previous survey among US gay men (Tornello & Patterson, 2010).

Studies of gay male parents in the United States and Australia indicate differences in pathways to parenthood between gay men in the two countries. In the United States, gay men who become primary parents mostly do so through adoption and foster care (Patterson & Riskind, 2010; Stacey, 2006; Tornello & Patterson, 2010). These pathways to parenthood also have implications for the racial and ethnic composition of families of gay men in that country. Tornello & Patterson’s (2010) study found that among younger men with children, only about half reported that all family members were of the same race or ethnicity. In Australia, a smaller proportion of gay men are likely to become parents through adoption than their United States counterparts because of restrictions on same-sex couples adopting in most jurisdictions (Duffey, 2007; Millbank, 2009; Short, et al., 2007). Same-sex couples may adopt in Western Australia (since 2002), the Australian Capital Territory (since 2004) and New South Wales (since 2010). In other jurisdictions, same-sex couples cannot legally adopt a child but can become foster parents. Single same-sex attracted people may adopt in most jurisdictions (except in South Australia and Queensland, which have bans on single people registering for adoption). However, there are long waiting lists for adoptive children. Most gay men achieve parenthood through known donor and co-parenting arrangements with single women or lesbian couples, and a smaller proportion become parents through surrogacy. In Australia, because of restrictions on surrogacy and adoption, fostering has been another way for gay men to achieve parenthood (Crouch et al., 2013). The 2008 Australian survey of same-sex attracted parents found that almost one-quarter of gay men (23%) reported being a known donor in a home insemination and 18 percent reported that they had at least

12 one child conceived through surrogacy arrangements (Power et al., 2010). All of the men who had children through surrogacy in Power et al.’s study were in a relationship.

Parenthood and gay identity Although a substantial amount of published research has described parenthood choices among lesbians (Donovan, 2005; Dunne, 2000; Haimes & Weiner, 2000; Mamo, 2007; Ryan-Flood, 2005), there is comparably less literature on gay men’s aspirations for, and achievement of, parenthood. However, recent studies have started to examine gay men’s understandings, expectations and experiences of parenthood in different countries. There have been several studies conducted in Australia (Dempsey, 2006a, 2010, 2012, 2013; Perlesz et al., 2010; Power et al., 2010; Power et al., 2012; Riggs, 2007a, 2007b, 2011; Riggs, & Due, 2010; Robinson, 2012; Tuazon-McCheyne, 2010). In addition, there have been studies conducted in a number of other countries such as Canada (Grover et al., 2012), Israel (Shenkman, 2012), Italy (Baiocco & Laghi, 2013), Norway (Folgerø, 2008), The Netherlands (Bos, 2010), and the United Kingdom (Dunne, 1999; Weeks, et al., 2001). Not surprisingly, the majority of studies have been conducted in the United States (Armesto & Shapiro, 2011; Bergman, et al., 2010; Berkowitz, 2007, 2009, 2011a, 2011b, 2013; Berkowitz & Marsiglio, 2007; Brinamen & Mitchell, 2008; D’Augelli, Rendina, Sinclair, & Grossman, 2006–07; deBoer, 2009; Friedman, 2007; Gianino, 2008; Goldberg, Downing, & Moyer, 2012; Goldberg, Kinkler, & Hines, 2011; Greenfeld & Seli, 2011; Lev, 2006; Lewin, 2009, 2006; Mallon, 2004; Mitchell & Green, 2007; Rabun & Oswald, 2009; Riskind & Patterson, 2010; Ryan & Berkowitz, 2009; Schacher, Auerbach & Silverstein, 2005; Stacey, 2004, 2005, 2006; Wells, 2011).

Some of this recent work has explored the desire or motivation for parenthood and how this is believed to interact with gay identity. Whereas earlier studies included gay men who had become parents through previous heterosexual relationships, this recent scholarship has shifted to investigating ‘planned gay parenthood’ (Biblarz & Savci, 2010: 486), in which gay men proactively choose to become parents through adoption, fostering, co-parenting, or surrogacy after assuming a gay identity. Riskind and Patterson’s (2010) US national study found that gay men reported lower parenting desires than their heterosexual male counterparts (54% versus 75%). Younger age and non-White ethnicity were independent predictors of greater parenthood desire. Gay men who expressed a desire to become parents were also less 13 likely than heterosexual men to express an intention to do so (67% versus 90%). Younger age and non-White ethnicity were also independently associated with greater intention to parent. Overall, 30% of gay male participants expressed both a desire and an intention to parent. These findings suggest that only a minority of gay men in the United States intend to become parents. Further, and perhaps of greater interest for research, a significant gap exists between desire and intention among gay men that is not evident among heterosexual men.

In light of this research, it is important to ask what factors have an impact on parenthood desires and intentions. A large body of research on gay men and parenthood has, in fact, focused on answering these questions. Several studies have suggested that fatherhood and gay identity are believed to be conceptually incommensurate. Schacher et al. (2005) described this paradox as the ‘heterosexist gender role strain’ (2005: 42). As Stacey (2006) noted, openly gay men typically live in an environment that is antithetical to becoming parents. They do not have ready access to the ‘default scripts’ (2006: 30) for pursuing fatherhood that heterosexual men do and have limited access to the biological, cultural, institutional or legal means of achieving it. Berkowitz and Marsiglio (2007) also noted that gay men experienced contradictions between connecting to a sense of self as a gay man and as a prospective father. What Sullivan (2001) calls the ‘identity work’ required to see themselves in the role of gay father and to obtain acknowledgement for the legitimacy of attaining that role ensures that ‘gay’ and ‘father’ continue to operate as distinctively separate identities (Berkowitz, 2009: 119–120).

These findings are similar to those of other US studies in which participants initially equated being openly gay with childlessness (Armesto & Shapiro, 2011; Brinamen & Mitchell, 2008; deBoer, 2009; Goldberg et al., 2012; Lewin, 2009; Mallon, 2004; Quartrioni, 1996; Wells, 2011). These studies primarily focused on men who had eventually become parents (although Berkowitz and Marsiglio’s study notably included a comparison of non-fathers). For this reason, this body of research has been important in identifying how men were able to reconcile the gay and fatherhood components of their identities. Brinamen and Mitchell (2008), for example, proposed a six-stage model of identity development for gay men in the United States who become fathers. These stages included increased self-awareness and confidence, the recognition and valuing of the strength of gay families and parenthood, and an integration of the gay and father components of identity. Interestingly, Sbordone’s

(1993) study, also in the United States, found higher levels of self-esteem and lower levels of internalised homophobia among gay fathers compared to non-fathers. As noted by Goldberg et al. (2012), much of this research has also tended to focus on what pushes gay men away from parenthood rather than what pulls them towards it. I would also argue that, while this research has provided answers to important questions about overcoming barriers to achieving parenthood, it has provided fewer insights into the development of parenthood desire, which remains an issue not yet fully explored in relation to gay men.

The contradiction between fatherhood and gay identity noted in studies from the United States has also been highlighted in research undertaken in France (Gratton, 2005), the United Kingdom (Hogben & Coupland, 2000; Weeks et al., 2001) and Australia (Dempsey, 2013; Riggs, 2007a, 2007b). For example, Gratton’s (2005) study of gay men in France noted that among these men a sense of crisis emerged during the development of a gay identity because coming out as gay was seen to foreclose the possibility of having children. Weeks et al. (2001) argued that, until recently, the notion that parenthood could be ‘openly chosen by non-heterosexual people’ was almost unimaginable (2001: 159). Only among the younger men’s accounts in this UK study did parenthood emerged as a possibility, which was either through opportunity (for example, being asked to be a donor or co-parent), or by choice. Hogben and Coupland’s (2000) analysis of parenting advertisements in a national UK gay newspaper in the late 1990s also noted that gay men were required explicitly to account for their parenting desires, given that there was a ‘seeming incompatibility of homosexuality and parenting in the public eye’ (2000: 464).

Despite the consistency of these findings across many studies from different countries, recent research among young gay men suggests that a form of generational change may be underway. In Rabun and Oswald’s (2009) study of young gay men in the United States, all of the participants indicated a desire and an intention to be a parent at some time in the future. Factors that framed this intention included career and financial stability, moving to an area that was conducive to same-sex parenting, and developing a long-term partnership. In fact, these men imagined parenthood only in the context of a relationship. This finding may also reflect the increasing social acceptance of sexual minorities and an increased acceptance of gay men as parents. Similarly, D’Augelli et al.’s (2006–07) US study found that a majority of young gay men expected to raise children and only 14% reported that they had no interest in

15 parenthood. Similarly, earlier US research from the 1990s revealed that those participants who said they wanted children were younger than those who did not (Bryant & Demian, 1994; Sbordone, 1993; also cited in Berkowitz and Marsiglio, 2007).

Many studies have observed that the belief that gay identity and parenthood are incommensurable is typically reinforced by the gay community (Armesto & Shapiro, 2011; Goldberg et al., 2012; Greenfeld & Seli, 2011; Mallon, 2004; Schacher et al., 2005; Stacey, 2006; Wells, 2011). This means that gay men often report a sense of disapproval from their peers in relation to their decision to have children. This goal was seen to contradict notions of freedom (Mallon, 2004) individuality (Goldberg et al., 2012) gender and sexual norms (Schacher et al., 2005; Stacey, 2006), sociality (Armesto & Shapiro, 2011) and youth (Armesto & Shapiro, 2011). As a result, expressing a desire to have children was seen as potentially limiting one’s romantic and sexual options (Goldberg et al., 2012). Not surprisingly, then, in much of the research on gay male parents, these men tended to position themselves as distanced or disconnected from ‘commercial’ gay social and sexual scenes either as a deliberate strategy or as a result of the changes in circumstances and responsibility brought about by parenthood. In some instances, this distancing also included reproducing a particular stereotype of gay men as ‘superficial’ in order to redefine themselves as choosing to pursue a more ‘meaningful’ life course (Armesto & Shapiro, 2011). An interesting contrast to this observation can be found in Weston’s (1991) study in which parenthood was viewed positively as a symbol of optimism and generativity amidst the devastation of HIV/AIDS at that time.

The conceptual separation of homosexuality and fatherhood suggests a particular way in which ‘procreative consciousness’ (Berkowitz, 2007, 2011b; Berkowitz & Marsiglio, 2007; Marsiglio, 1991; Marsiglio & Hutchinson, 2002) operates for gay men. This term was developed to conceptualise how men understand themselves as procreative beings. Such awareness is believed to emerge through sexual and romantic relations and direct experience with fertility-related events, such as pregnancy, miscarriage, abortion, and birth (Marsiglio, 1991; Marsiglio & Hutchinson, 2002). Berkowitz and Marsiglio (2007) subsequently explored how procreative consciousness develops among gay men in the United States in the absence of a direct experience with fertility. They found that, after coming out as gay, these men became aware of barriers to becoming parents. These obstacles

16 included concerns about accusations of paedophilia, fears about negative social impacts on the children, and awareness of legal barriers at state and federal levels. However, many men also reported experiences that activated their desire to become parents. These changes included positive experiences with children, as well as significant life changes, such as the terrorist attacks on New York and Washington in 2001, and purchasing a home in a suburban area.

Goldberg et al.’s (2012) national study of gay men in the United States who had become adoptive parents identified several barriers to parenthood: personal doubts, financial instability, being single and living in a homophobic community. However, the men in this study also described factors that influenced the decision to become parents: the notion of parenthood as psychologically or personally fulfilling and role- related benefits of children, in particular the enhancement of personal and social support in later life. Factors affecting the timing of becoming parents were older age, career and financial stability, and having children as a symbol of relationship longevity. Gianino’s (2008) study of gay adoptive parents in the US also identified advancing age and a notion that having children demonstrated their commitment as a couple as catalysts to parenthood. Some of the men in this study also chose to conceal that they were gay couples in order to be approved for either domestic or transnational adoptions. Some authors (Berkowitz, 2007, 2011a; Berkowitz and Marsiglio (2007); Lewin, 2006) have also noted that institutions, such as adoption agencies and fertility clinics that assume heterosexuality, also shape these men’s ‘procreative consciousness.’ This discrimination was not always enacted through an explicit exclusion, but rather through assumptions about heterosexuality.

Berkowitz & Marsiglio’s (2007) study on men from Florida and New York also identified the importance of relationship dynamics on parenthood choices. Other research has also found relationships to be an important factor affecting parenthood desires among gay men. These relationship influences include both the fact of being in a relationship (associated with a higher likelihood of pursuing parenthood) and the influence of the partner’s desire (or lack of desire) to have children. Stacey (2006) noted that a small proportion of men in a study in southern California were highly motivated to become parents; however, the majority were drawn towards either parenthood or childlessness, depending on their partner’s views. According to Stacey, a convergence of cultural, social, and historical influences in southern California (rather than solely factors such as a predetermined degree of motivation)

17 has made this particular part of the United States conducive to gay men becoming parents. Goldberg et al.’s (2012) research, also in the United States, similarly highlighted the influence of partners in terms of decisions about whether to pursue parenthood and the timing of such an activity. They noted that having a partner who indicated a strong desire for parenthood ‘flipped a switch’ for these men, as though this could literally ‘turn on’ a desire to become parents (2012: 65). However, it should be noted that this study included only men who had ultimately become parents. It would have excluded couples where partner influence was a factor in deciding not to have children.

Parenthood and masculinity In addition to fatherhood presenting a challenge to gay identity (and the reverse), several studies have observed an important interplay between parenthood and gender-related norms and expectations among men. Based on a study in four US cities, Schacher et al. (2005) argued that gay fathers rework masculine gender roles and thereby expand gender role norms, the implications of which reach far beyond the setting of same-sex parented families. In particular, this research proposed that gay men violate masculine gender role norms as defined by heterosexuality. They also noted, coinciding with the increase in gay male parenthood, changes in the meanings of masculinity in the United States, ‘from a more traditional stance that emphasized achievement, aggression, and restricted emotionality to a more progressive stance that advocates a balance between work and family roles, collaboration and power-sharing, and emotional responsiveness’ (2005: 42). Similarly Wells’s (2011) study of gay adoptive parents in the San Francisco Bay Area noted that within families with same-sex parents, new possibilities were opened up regarding gender roles because ‘parental roles were not chosen or assigned based on one parent’s biological sex, as often occurs in heterosexual parenting couples’ (2011: 161). Wells also pointed out that this disruption of gender roles can also expose sociocultural beliefs about men and parenthood, for example the presumption that ‘men are generally not motivated to have children out of a need or desire to parent’ and that they ‘lack certain nurturing qualities that are generally attributed to women’ (2011: 170).

These investigations correspond with a growing and important body of work on fatherhood and masculinity among heterosexual men. Tina Miller’s (2011) recent sociological research in the United Kingdom, for example, explored how the meaning of fatherhood is changing and considered whether the increasing 18 involvement of men in caring for their children disrupts traditional understandings of gender. Her narrative analysis found that men are able to draw on a range of different discourses and use these to present themselves in several distinctive ways, particularly as good fathers and good providers. Overall, Miller suggested that these fathers used language that was noticeably more emotional, tender and caring than language used in the past. She also noted willingness among men, particularly during their partner’s pregnancy, to describe themselves in language associated with stereotypes of femininity, including their fears about the upcoming birth. Michael Flood (2003) has also noted the emergence in Australia of the ‘new father’ role. He described this role as ‘the man highly involved with his children and sharing the parenting with his female partner,’ which has a strong influence on popular perceptions (2003: 7–8). However, his analysis also concluded that despite this change in public image, there has not necessarily been a commensurate shift in men’s involvement in child care and domestic work. Therefore, to some extent, this contradiction suggests there is an emerging gap between contemporary expectations and experiences of fatherhood.

Gay men and surrogacy Developments in technology, especially the emergence of gestational surrogacy in 1985 (Utian et al., 1985) have enabled some gay men to pursue parenthood in ways not previously possible. However, very few studies have examined the experiences of gay men pursuing surrogacy, with the notable exceptions of recent work by Bergman et al. (2010), Dempsey (2013), Greenfeld and Seli (2011), Grover et al. (2012), Lev (2006), Ressler et al. (2011), Riggs and Due (2010) and Tuazon- McCheyne (2010). In addition, surrogacy is addressed within a broader analyses of gay male parenthood by Berkowitz and Marsiglio (2007), Dempsey (2010), Lewin (2009), Mallon (2004), Mitchell and Green (2007), Ryan and Berkowitz (2009), Sbordone (1993), Schacher et al. (2005), and Stacey (2006). Tuazon-McCheyne (2010) and Bergman et al. (2010) locate surrogacy as a technological development that has enabled gay men to become parents on an equal footing with heterosexual couples and lesbian couples. Tuazon-McCheyne’s (2010) Australian study of 13 gay fathers attending an action research discussion group described surrogacy as a new option that allows for the ‘intentional creation of gay-led families’ (2010: 312). Tuazon-McCheyne noted that parenting through surrogacy has led to the politicisation of these men as gay fathers because they were required to overcome a hostile legal and social environment. Bergman et al.’s (2010) study of 40 clients of a surrogacy agency in Los Angeles found that for those gay men, parenthood 19 decreased intimacy with their partner (although all relationships remained intact), increased a sense of connection to their families of origin, and heightened self- esteem. An additional aim of Bergman et al.’s study was to describe the demographic profile of men becoming parents through surrogacy. They found that these men were mostly White, with a mean household income of $USD270,000 and a mean age of 40.8 years.

One of the outcomes of the availability of gestational surrogacy has been an increase in gay men forming families that include biogenetically linked children outside of either co-parenting arrangements or families with children from previous heterosexual relationships. Curiously, however, neither Tuazon-McCheyne (2010) nor Bergman et al. (2010) reported in any detail on the specific aspects of surrogacy that make it different from other ways of pursuing parenthood for gay men. The emphasis of these studies was instead largely on changes in the lives of these men as a result of parenthood, such as impacts on the couple, relationships with other parents, families of origin and other gay men. This focus excluded any examination of surrogacy from an ontological perspective. Bergman et al. (2010) did, however, allude to the significance of surrogacy in their suggestions for future research where they noted that decisions about biogenetic paternity might affect family dynamics, the division of labour and relationships with families of origin (2010: 135). They also argued that future research should explore relationships between the family and the egg donors and surrogates.

Dempsey’s (2013) recently published study from Australia undertook an examination of the meaning of biogenetic paternity among a small number of men who had become parents through surrogacy. She found that, although there was some resistance to acknowledging the importance of biogenetic links within these families, biogenetic paternity remained an important resource to be managed in creating and maintaining relationships between male partners, and between parents and children. For most men, this meant both partners having an equal chance to be biogenetic parents—through simultaneous fertilisation of eggs (from one or two egg donors) with the sperm of both partners or taking monthly turns to provide semen for insemination. Importantly, although all couples knew or intended to know the biogenetic father, this information was usually not disclosed to others. Similarly, Mitchell and Green’s (2007) earlier analysis, based on their own experience and on their observations as psychotherapists in the United States, examined the ways in

20 which biogenetic links and the gestational role were conceptualised by intended parents. They observed that couples in particular negotiated uncertainty about equal parental legitimacy through careful management of this information.

Greenfeld and Seli’s (2011) study of 15 gay male couples seeking surrogacy and egg donation at a Connecticut fertility centre also examined decision making around biogenetic paternity. The choice of which partner would provide sperm was based on older age, greater desire for biogenetic parenthood, and mutual decisions about which partner had ‘better genes’ (2011: 227). For those with an equal desire for paternity, eggs were fertilised by sperm from both partners and one embryo from each was transferred to the surrogate. Grover et al.’s (2012) study of men attending a clinic in Canada identified a 20-fold increase in same sex couples or single men using their services between 2003 and 2011. The mean age of 40 years (range 24–58) was the same as Bergman et al.’s (2010) study. The couples had been in a relationship for an average of eight years. Among couples, three-quarters (72%) chose to use semen from both partners to produce embryos, and the majority of men (88%) used an anonymous egg donor.

Riggs and Due’s (2010) analysis of gestational surrogacy arrangements among gay men was based largely on an examination of a documentary television report (60 Minutes) that followed a gay male couple from Australia to India. Riggs and Due concluded that these representations of gestational surrogacy practices reify genetic relationships as the most privileged form of kinship. They argue that this emphasis on genetic connections versus other biological connections results in a narrative within gestational surrogacy of a non-existent relationship between the woman and the child she gives birth to (see also Raymond, 2007 [1993]). When gestation is constructed in this way, any ongoing relationship is able to be ‘denied’ and the ‘product’ of the surrogacy arrangements, that is, the child, can be made conceptually separable from the mother. However, separation is not always the inevitable outcome. Stacey’s (2006) US study, which included a small number of families formed through surrogacy, found that gestational surrogacy sometimes leads to unexpected and enduring links that can include the gestational surrogate and even the surrogate’s husband as part of an extended family, with the egg donor sometimes also maintaining ongoing involvement. The formation of these social connections can occur even in the context of commercial arrangements between people who were previously unknown to each other.

Gay male kinship The preceding sections of this chapter have reviewed a representative selection of the literature on parenthood desires and practices among gay men. It is worth reflecting briefly on how this research has come to dominate research on gay and lesbian kinship and what gaps have emerged as a result of this focus. Berkowitz (2009), for example, suggested that the pursuit of surrogacy by gay men and lesbians can be seen to reinforce the ‘heteronormative dichotomy between chosen and blood families’ (2009: 127). Even if we do not accept that an emphasis on biogenetic connection has completely supplanted other ways of determining and doing kinship, there has undeniably been a focusing of attention on intergenerational links between parents and children. This seems to mark somewhat of a departure from the earlier ‘families of choice’ thesis developed by Weston (1991) in her study of gay and lesbian kinship in the San Francisco Bay Area in the 1980s. ‘Families of choice’ was a notion that was taken up elsewhere, notably in the United Kingdom by Weeks et al. (2001). Weston’s research found that ‘[b]iological relatedness appeared to be a subsidiary option ranged alongside adoption, coparenting, and so on, within the dominant framework of choice that constituted families we create’ (1991: 189). Similarly, Pash (2008) noted in her study of gay co-father families in the United States that these men’s narratives: diverge from traditional notions of kinship in the American gay community, which has historically emphasized unconventional family configurations. Such configurations have generally not included children, and friends and friendship networks have taken on familial importance.’ (2008: 124).

As already mentioned, Weston also argued that gay men’s interest in relationships with children was at least partially influenced by the effects of HIV/AIDS on the gay community. Children in this case were seen to represent a form of continuity that would ‘carry gay families forward into what for many will be a heterosexual future’ (1991: 185).

Another area of research on kinship formation by gay men that is important to note is the kind of relationships developed through donor-conceived families among gay men and lesbians. Dempsey’s (2006b; 2010) work on the creation of kinship among gay men who have donated sperm identified a continuum of kinship intentions with different degrees of innovation and convention. Dempsey’s work highlights the status of friendship as a form of kinship within donor-formed families. In addition, there has been a significant body of work published on the experiences and family

22 narratives of gay men who have become parents through adoption. This literature has emanated mostly from the United States where this route to parenthood has been reported as the most common means by which gay men form families (Armesto & Shapiro, 2011; Berkowitz,2011a; Berkowitz and Marsiglio, 2007; Brinamen & Mitchell, 2008; deBoer, 2009; Gianino, 2008; Goldberg et al., 2011; Goldberg et al., 2012; Lewin, 2006, 2009; Mallon, 2004; Patterson & Riskind, 2010; Stacey, 1996, 2006, 2011; Quartrioni, 1996; Tornello & Patterson, 2010; Wells, 2011). These studies have also shown the ways that families headed by gay men are created across racial (Tornello & Patterson, 2010) and national (2011a) lines for example, and how the act of becoming parents was viewed by some men in couples as a demonstration of their commitment to the relationship.

There has also been research interest in the recognition, or otherwise, of same-sex relationships by the state and the ways in which kinship privileges heterosexually based ties based on blood and marriage (Heath, 2005; Hicks, 2011). Calhoun (2000) suggested that the recognition of same-sex relationships would expand concepts of kinship by acknowledging that all kinship involves cultural ties, thereby depriving heterosexuality of its presumed natural basis. Butler (2004), however, proposed that the legitimisation of same-sex relationship by the state comes at the expense of relationships that fall outside these couple-centred relationship forms. These other relationships subsequently remain unrecognised and illegitimate. Examples are ‘those who live nonmonogamously, those who live alone, those who are in whatever arrangements they are in that are not in the marriage form’ (2004: 115–116). Butler also noted that access to parenthood through adoption or ART has often not been granted alongside legal recognition of same-sex relationships. Butler proposed that traditional kinship is based on the idea that heterosexuality reproduces cultural norms through the production of children. Opponents of gay and lesbian parenting often invoke the notion that children in such families will not be acculturated to argue against parenthood rights. What Butler proposes is a resistance both to reducing kinship to the ‘family’ and to marriage defining ‘the parameters within which sexual life is thought’ (2004: 129–130). She argues that displacing the centrality of biological and sexual relations from the definition of kinship is important because it ‘allows for the durable tie to be thought outside the conjugal frame and thus opens kinship to a set of community ties that are irreducible to family’ (2004: 127).

Prior to the mid-2000s, research on parenthood and parenting by gay men was mostly incorporated into broader studies on gay and lesbian kinship that was inclusive of non-birth families, households, partners and ex-lovers, as well as children (Weston, 1991, 1994; Weeks et al., 2001; Stacey, 2004, 2005). There has also been some research on friendships between gay men and lesbians and their heterosexual friends that noted kin ties between individuals that crossed gender and sexual orientation divisions (Muraco, 2006). Scholarship relating to gay male kinship has increasingly focused on domesticated families comprised of (usually two) parents and children living in the same household. Many of the empirical studies discussed in this chapter take this family unit to be the object of research. However, a large body of work has sought to understand other dynamics of gay men’s relationships, with a particular focus on relationship satisfaction, sexual agreements and HIV risk (Bauermeister, 2012; Blais, 2006; Gomez et al, 2012; Hoff, Beougher, Chakravarty, Darbes, & Neilands, 2010; Hosking, 2013; Kippax et al., 1997; Mitchell, 2013; Mitchell, Harvey, Champeau, Moskowitz, & Seal, 2012).

The recent literature on gay male parenthood also pays some attention to these relationship concerns. For example, Bergman et al.’s (2010) study examined romance and intimacy after gay men had become parents through surrogacy. Gianino’s (2008) study of gay adoptive parents in New England noted a decline in sexual activity within the relationship, although participants in that study reported that this was compensated by increased intimacy with their partner. One other recent study in Salt Lake City and San Francisco explored issues relating to HIV risk, as well as relationship satisfaction and commitment, among gay male couples with children (Huebner, Mandic, Mackaronis, Beougher, & Hoff, 2012). This inclusion of HIV risk is unusual because it seems to be the only recent study that has specifically examined sexual behaviour among gay male parents, both within the relationship and with other partners. Huebner et al. (2012) found that couples’ negotiated agreements regarding sex with outside partners closely resembled those documented in studies of gay couples who are not parents. Men reported that parenthood typically decreased their opportunities to engage in sex with outside partners and also posed barriers to discussing these behaviours with their partners and health-care providers. HIV- related sexual risk behaviour was relatively rare, but nevertheless present in some men. In another US study based on narrative accounts and his own experience as an adoptive gay father, deBoer (2009) also suggested that people in nonmonogamous

24 relationships may change that arrangement after the arrival of children, although this finding was not based on empirical data.

A notable exception to the overall focus on links between parents and children and between men in steady relationships is Stacey’s (2004, 2005, 2006, 2011) research on gay male sexuality, intimacy and kinship in Los Angeles. In this work, Stacey provided an extensive analysis of the myriad forms of gay male kinship possibilities that included (but were not limited to) gay men with children. Of particular interest was the way that ‘cruising’ (the search for casual sex partners) and the ongoing relationships that sometimes developed out of these casual or commercial sexual encounters sometimes generated forms of kinship that crossed race, age, and class divisions (Stacey, 2004). This research also demonstrated the way that kinship had evolved based not only on dyads of current sexual partners, or parents with children, but also friends, employees, carers, and previous sexual partners (Stacey, 2004, 2005).

As Berkowitz (2009) has noted, much of the research on gay and lesbian kinship has emphasised concepts of choice (Mallon, 2004; Stacey, 1996, 2006; Weeks et al., 2001; Weston, 1991) ‘because dominant models of kinship do not allow for the inclusion of non-heterosexuals or the blurring of kinship and friendship ties’ (2009: 126). The emphasis on choosing or creating kinship stands in opposition to assumptions about automatic blood (or biogenetic) ties and also draws attention to the impermanence—rather than the endurance—of such connections (Weston, 1991). According to Weeks et al. (2001) and Giddens (1992), this emphasis on choice also indicates a shift from identity to intimacy in gay and lesbian forms of kinship. In particular, Giddens (1992) proposed through his concept of ‘the pure relationship,’ a form of union that was entered into not as a result of social obligation or economic necessity but for pleasure and the fulfilment of emotional needs. Subsequent critiques have argued that Giddens’ account of the pure relationship overlooks gendered inequalities (Jamieson, 1999; Mulinari & Sandell, 2009). Berkowitz’s (2009) critical review of the literature from a number of countries on gay and lesbian parenting, however, found that although research on gay and lesbian families questioned assumptions about family that had previously been unchallenged, this same scholarship has not challenged assumptions about gay and lesbian identity. She claimed that scholarship based on identity has shaped what is known about experiences of gay fatherhood (2009: 120). She also convincingly argued that

25 although gay men and lesbians now have the opportunity to make choices ‘regarding the design of their families’ (2009: 126), they do so based on the cultural prescriptions that privilege biogenetic and legal forms of kinship.

Donor choices Very few studies have examined egg donor choices among gay men pursuing parenthood through surrogacy. Exceptions are Berkowitz and Marsiglio (2007), Dempsey (2013); Greenfeld and Seli (2011), Grover et al. (2012), Mitchell and Green (2007), Ressler et al. (2011) and Ryan and Berkowitz (2009), although in the case of Ressler et al. (2011), and Grover et al. (2012), this included only whether these were known versus anonymous donors. Studies that have included donor choice have revealed a tendency to choose an egg donor with physical similarities to one or both partners in male couples. Ryan and Berkowitz’s (2009) study in the United States noted the deliberate strategy of choosing egg donors who shared similar characteristics with the non-biogenetic father. Dempsey’s (2013) study of six gay couples in Australia who had become parents through surrogacy also showed evidence in three of the couples of matching the egg donor to the non-biogenetic father. The couples pursued this goal of matching either in general terms through phenotypic matching with regard to racial/ethnic background, or specifically through the use of one father’s sibling as the egg donor (in the case of one couple). Similarly, Mitchell and Green’s (2007) analysis of gay and lesbian couples in the United States using ART to attain parenthood found that gay men were likely to choose egg donors with physical, cultural, and vocational characteristics similar to their own. One inter- racial couple, in particular, chose an egg donor that they believed would reflect their ‘racial heritage’ (2007: 86).

Berkowitz and Marsiglio’s (2007) study of gay men in Florida and New York, which included some men who had become parents through traditional or gestational surrogacy, found that choices regarding the birth mother or egg donor were influenced by assumptions and beliefs about age, race and physical attractiveness, as well as other considerations, such as medical history, intelligence, athleticism, and artistic ability. Berkowitz and Marsiglio (2007) noted that ‘a fascinating feature of gay men’s procreative identity is how it becomes intertwined with the real or imagined identity of the child’s birth mother’ (2007: 377). These authors also speculated that adoptive fathers might avoid discussing the biological father to legitimise—or at least not undermine—the authenticity of their own father identities (2007: 377). Similar concerns about legitimising parent identities in the absence of 26 biogenetic connections have also been identified in the more extensive literature on sperm donor choices among women and heterosexual couples. Some of this literature is discussed below.

Given the importance placed on biogenetic connectedness in understandings of Western kinship and, in particular, the symbolic significance of having biogenetically related children, an important area of research is decision-making (or ‘choice’) about the origin of gametes in non-heterosexual contexts and among heterosexuals seeking sperm or eggs for assisted reproductive procedures. There is a significant body of published literature on women’s (especially lesbian couples’ and single women’s) decisions to use known versus anonymous donors (Brewaeys, Ponjaert, Van Hall, & Golombok, 1997; Dunne, 2000; Englert, 1994; Golombock, 1998; Haimes & Weiner, 2000; Hertz, 2002; Hood, 2002; Mamo, 2007; Mumford, Corrigan, & Hull, 1998 ; Nordqvist, 2010, 2011; Touroni & Coyle, 2002; Donovan, 2005; Ryan-Flood, 2005). The findings of these studies suggest that decisions were historically influenced by a number of factors such as exclusion from accessing donor insemination through clinics or a desire for the child to know its genetic history. Among lesbians, the research indicates a mix of preferences regarding the use of known versus anonymous sperm donors. Reasons include the child’s psychological well-being (Touroni & Coyle, 2002), the importance placed on children knowing the identity of their genetic father (Ryan-Flood, 2005), a desire for control over how conception takes place; (Touroni & Coyle, 2002; Nordqvist, 2011), and a desire for the father to be involved in the child’s upbringing (Touroni & Coyle, 2002). This research has also highlighted the symbolic importance of kinship among those who become parents via sperm donation and the ways in which the absent donor/father is imagined. Findings suggest that creating an ‘idealized’ version of family is often as important as knowing one’s genetic heritage (Hertz, 2002; Hood, 2002). In her study of single women creating families with anonymous and known sperm donors, Hertz (2002) concluded that these women often ended up reaffirming particular forms of kinship, notably the two-parent heterosexual family, rather than challenging them.

A related body of research examines decision-making about gamete providers in terms of phenotypic or other characteristics. Birenbaum-Carmeli, Carmeli, Madjar and Wissenberg’s (2002) study of Israeli heterosexual women’s choice of non- identified sperm donors reported a tendency for married women to match donor

27 characteristics with those of their male partners. These choices were made to facilitate the appearance of a ‘natural’ looking family. Single women’s choices tended to reflect more stereotypical notions of attractiveness and were more homogeneous (in height, weight, ethnic origin) than those of the married women. Similarly, studies have also identified the desire for resemblance among heterosexual couples in the United States (Ehrensaft, 2000); Becker, Butler, & Nachtigall, 2005), the United Kingdom (Haimes, 1992) and Spain (Bestard, 2004). Both the Israeli and US studies also identified the importance of clinic staff, who advised couples to seek ‘matching’ donors and made recommendations about particular donors. In Spain, clinicians and biologists conduct this matching and are required by law to seek a maximum phenotypic similarity between donor and recipient. Prior to changes in Israel, donor matching in that country had also been the responsibility of clinicians.

Among lesbian couples in the United Kingdom, Jones (2005) identified a preference for sperm donors who resembled the non-biological mother in terms of racial and ethnic background. This preference was attributed to a desire for children to have a resemblance to both the biological and non-biological mother. More recent research also in the United Kingdom (Nordqvist, 2010) found a similar preference among lesbian couples for seeking resemblances in sperm providers. These families sought out sperm donors with likeness to the non-biogenetic mother as a way of creating distance from the sperm donor who could then be effectively erased: The logic that runs through the various practices is that when the donor is out of sight in the physical body of the child, he is also out of mind in the imagined ‘other’, as well as in the mind of the mothers. This means that he ‘disappears’ in a number of ways: as a person; as someone to whom the child is related; as a potential parent; and as a potential threat to the lesbian family unit. The picture that is constructed, and the family that lesbian couples aspire to display, is one in which the child unambiguously belongs to the lesbian mother family unit (Nordqvist, 2010: 1141).

If the donor resembles the non-biogenetic mother, it is believed that when he is no longer in sight, the child will share resemblance to both mothers, thus minimising the threat to the family. As Nordqvist (2010) noted, this ‘construction of relatedness using the particular resource of physical resemblance depends on the careful exclusion of the donor as a potential relative’ (2010: 1138). Other studies in the United Kingdom (Almack, 2008), the United States (Suter, Daas, & Mason Bergen, 2008) and France (Cadoret, 2009) found similar matching strategies in order to create resemblance within the lesbian family unit. Nordqvist (2010) suggests that this type of ‘display work’ (Finch, 2007) holds extra significance in lesbian donor conception

28 compared to heterosexual donor conception because looks and physical resemblance can play an important role in the ‘recognition and legitimization of (marginalized) family relationships’ (Nordqvist, 2010: 1141). This emphasis on resemblance and display highlights that it is not only the display of family that is important but also that others recognise it as legitimate.

It is evident that recipients of donor sperm give much care and thought to the creation of a coherent ‘story’ of family through resemblance. In heterosexual couples, this ‘story’ can hide the fact that donor sperm or eggs were used at all. For gay and lesbian couples this option is not available in the same way as it is for heterosexual couples. However, the literature suggests that there is still a desire to seek out donors who resemble the non-biogenetic parent. This strategy not only makes the donor ‘disappear’ but can also obscure any explicit assumptions about which partner is biogenetically related to the child. The existing literature however has not explored in great detail either gay men’s choices in relation to egg donors or decisions about biogenetic paternity within male couples. It is these gaps in the literature that this study will address.

The practice and ethics of surrogacy The other body of literature that has informed this study is research on surrogacy practices. The literature on surrogacy draws upon a range of scholarly disciplines including feminist studies (Dillaway, 2008. Munro, 2001; Pfeffer, 2011; Rothman, 1988; Vora, 2010–2011), anthropology (Ragoné, 1994; Goslinga-Roy, 2000; Kahn, 2000; Teman, 2008, 2009), sociology (Hochschild, 2009, 2011; Markens, 2007; Pande, 2009, 2010, 2011; Shaw, 2008), law (Grayson, 2000; Weisberg, 2005), ethics (Mahoney, 1988; Parks, 2010), psychology (Edelmann, 2004; van den Akker, 2007; Poote & van den Akker, 2009) and philosophy (Bailey, 2011; Diprose, 2002; Munro, 2001; Mahoney, 1988). However, very little of this research has included empirical work on the subject, with a small number of studies conducted with women who act as surrogates—in the United States (Ragoné, 1994; Goslinga-Roy, 2000), Israel (Kahn, 2000; Teman, 2008) and India (Pande, 2010, 2011). Even fewer studies have included other participants in surrogacy arrangements, such as the prospective parents or egg donors (for exceptions, see Almeling, 2007; Goslinga-Roy, 2000; Konrad, 1998). However, there is an increase in research on prospective parents, including those involved in transnational reproductive treatments, also referred to as cross-border reproductive care (CBRC) (Crockin, 2011; Franklin, 2011; Hochschild, 2009; Hudson et al., 2011; Inhorn, 2011; Inhorn & Birenbaum-Carmeli, 2008; Inhorn 29

& Gürtin, 2011; Muraco, 2006; Shenfield et al., 2010; Smerdon, 2008-2009; Van Hoof & Pennings, 2012). This body of literature has expanded research on the varying geographic and cultural contexts in which surrogacy is undertaken, such as in southern Europe, Eastern Europe and the Middle East.

The legal scholarship has documented the changes to surrogacy practices from those described in ancient Jewish law (Schenker, 1997) to their current commercialisation (Smerdon, 2008–2009). Smerdon argues that the increasing coordination of surrogacy through marketing agencies and private attorneys, rather than new reproductive technologies has led to the increasing popularity of surrogacy (Smerdon, 2008-2009: 17–18). Gestational surrogacy accounts for the overwhelming majority of all surrogate pregnancies and in fact was already estimated in 2003 to account for up to 95% of surrogacy in the United States (Hamilton, 2003; Smith, 2011). In addition, as current guidelines (as well as proposed legislation) in India relate only to gestational surrogacy (Smerdon, 2008-2009: 17–18), it is likely that gestational surrogacy is the most prevalent form of surrogacy in that country.

It has also been argued that surrogacy reinforces and reproduces particular family models. Grayson (2000: 113) claimed, for example, that US courts were willing to assert the primacy of the closed, privatised and homogeneous family even if this meant making inconsistent and contradictory decisions in relation to parentage. In particular, according to Grayson, the Johnson vs. Calvert case demonstrated the courts’ intention to maintain the primacy of a private, genetically based family, despite the growing public, commercial and professionalised processes involved in achieving parenthood (2000: 101). The majority decision by the California Supreme Court in Johnson vs. Calvert found in favour of the ‘intended parents,’ the Calverts, on the basis of ‘contract action.’ That is, although both women had a claim to be the mother of the child and Californian law did not indicate a preference for the genetic relationship over the gestational, Mrs Calvert had the intent. In other words, she ‘intended to bring about the birth of a child that she intended to raise as her own’ (Laqueur, 2000: 91).

A large body of research across a number of disciplines describes surrogacy as ‘exploitative’ along the lines of sex, gender, race and class. Much of the literature describes commercial surrogacy, for example, in terms such as ‘reproductive servitude’ and ‘reproductive trafficking’ (Raymond, 2007 [1993]), and a

‘reproductive supermarket’ (Spar, 2006). Such critiques follow similar analyses of the global circulation of human tissues, and, in particular, of whole organ transplantation. These analyses include Cohen’s (2001, 2004a, 2004b, 2011) theory of ‘supplementarity’ (the ability of an individual or population to secure longevity through the mobilisation or acquisition of the organic form of others) and ‘bioavailability’ (a measure of the likelihood that an individual or population will become the source of flow of organic form towards another). Although the transplantation-as-exploitation, or surrogacy-as-exploitation, thesis may have intuitive appeal, Cohen noted that tissue migration is not always—or even principally—directed from young global South to old global North (2011: 36). On a similar note, Pande (2010) has suggested that the argument about the expendability of women in commercial surrogacy masks the fact that ‘there are more couples waiting to hire a surrogate than there are women waiting to be surrogates’ at the clinic in India where she conducted her research (2010: 977).

For Riggs and Due (2010), transnational surrogacy represented an expression of race privilege by ‘[W]hite gay men,’ in which Indian women are represented as objects of commodification by those living in the ‘overdeveloped west.’ Riggs and Due argued that surrogacy per se was not the focus of their concerns but rather commercial surrogacy arrangements, which establish surrogacy as an industry with only a small proportion of profits that going to the surrogates (and particularly in the growing use of Indian versus American surrogates). The authors argued that only through denying the relationship between the surrogate and the child could the ‘commissioning’ parents be seen as the only parents and the role of the surrogate as simply ‘work.’ Women are considered to be subject to exploitation through surrogacy arrangements because ‘commercial surrogacy agencies attempt to reduce the relative financial bargaining power of potential surrogates by rhetorically framing the surrogate’s act as altruistic and rewarding in and of itself’ (Drabiak, Wegner, Fredland, & Helft, 2007: 303). This assumption of exploitation is also informed by a gender-based analysis of emotion as ‘work’ (Hochschild, 1979), whereby emotions are viewed as commodified and associated with rules about how to appropriately express and regulate feelings. Women are historically more likely to undertake emotional work. Surrogates are viewed as quintessential ‘emotional workers’ in that their affective responses to performing the functions of surrogacy are carefully scripted and managed. Hochschild (2011) also applied this analysis to commercial surrogacy in India. The arguments made by Smerdon (2008-2009: 15–16) and others is that

31 surrogacy—and especially international surrogacy—should be abolished because only through its eradication can all parties can be protected and ethical concerns overcome.

As noted above, little empirical research has been conducted among women who act as surrogates themselves. Where such research exists, it does not necessarily support the ‘surrogacy as exploitation’ thesis. Helena Ragone’s (1994) study in the United States dispelled numerous popular misconceptions regarding the notion that surrogacy ‘reduces or assigns women to a new breeder class,’ and constitutes ‘a form of commercial baby selling’ (1994: 1, cited in Peletz, 1995: 365). Teman (2008) argued that Western assumptions about motherhood and the family inform scientific research on surrogacy and that researchers in the field ‘respond to the cultural anxieties that the practice provokes by framing their research methodologies and questions in a manner that upholds essentialist gendered assumptions about the naturalness and normalness of motherhood and childbearing’ (2008: 1104). Through this lens, it is assumed that ‘normal’ women bond with the children they carry and would not voluntarily be able to become pregnant with the intention of relinquishing the child for money. Teman’s (2008) review of the literature concluded that women who act as surrogates do not universally experience attachment to the child and do not experience regret after the birth. Teman (2008) argued that the relationship with the intended parents determines the surrogate’s satisfaction with the surrogacy experience. If this relationship does not meet expectations, then this can negatively influence the surrogate because the surrogate forms a bond with the intended parents and, in particular, the intended mother. This finding suggests that an ongoing relationship between the surrogate and intended parents might contribute to better long-term outcomes for the surrogate. Pande’s (2010) ethnographic study of a clinic in India also questioned the veracity of the ‘attachment’ argument, although she noted that attachment ‘is produced through a disciplinary project that deploys the power of language along with a meticulous control over the body of the surrogate’ (2010: 976).

The notion of surrogacy as exploitation fails to apply the same critical lens to altruistic surrogacy arrangements. Instead, this analysis depends on a distinction between its commercial and non-commercial forms, with the assumption that the latter does not have the same ethical implications as commercial surrogacy. Critics of surrogacy suggest that a commercial trade in reproductive material and services

32 undermines principles relating to human dignity. This position is based on the notion that particular services should be able to be purchased while others should remain beyond the reach of the market. Related to the assumption that surrogacy is necessarily always exploitative of women is the division of the market and kinship into separate domains. This notion that certain corporeal functions should remain immune from commercialisation also implies that those who sell their reproductive labour suffer ignominy, and those who purchase this labour are not stigmatised through the suggestion of ‘baby buying.’ As Goslinga-Roy (2000) argues, this encroachment of the market into kinship relations challenges established boundaries between what is considered public and what is private (2000: 101, 124; see also Franklin, 1995).

Assisted reproductive technologies and kinship Taking an even broader perspective on this topic, a large body of literature has developed over the past few decades regarding the understanding and impacts of new reproductive and genetic technologies (Åkesson, 2001; Carsten, 2004, 2007; Čepaitienė, 2009; Edwards, 2000; Edwards, Franklin, Hirsch, Price,& Strathern, 1999; Edwards & Salazar, 2009; Franklin, 1993, 1997, 2001, 2003; Franklin & McKinnon, 2001; Franklin & Roberts, 2006; Konrad, 1998, 2005; Lundin, 2001; Marre & Bestard, 2009; McGowan & Sharp, 2013; Strathern, 2005, 1999a, 1999b, 1992; Thompson, 2005). This research has explored issues such as the regulation of access to these technologies (that is, who actually gets to use them), the incorporation of these reproductive technologies into existing kinship understandings and practices, the ways that reproductive technologies might expand notions of relatedness, and the emergence of new concerns and objects (for example the ‘balanced family’ and the ‘designer baby’).

Important questions in relation to reproductive technologies are who is able to access such technologies, and how the technologies are deployed. In the United Kingdom, for example, some authors have observed that the Human Fertilisation and Embryology Act (1990) threatened the access of single women and lesbians to donor insemination by requiring clinicians to consider the welfare of the child before undertaking the procedure (Franklin, 1993; Haimes & Weiner, 2000). Similarly, Kahn’s (2000) work noted a similar concern inherent in the regulations governing assisted reproduction in Israel. To this end, Roberts (1996), also writing in the 1990s, argued that new reproductive technologies had failed in their progressive and liberating promise of expanding procreative options and creating ‘novel family 33 arrangements that break the mould of the traditional nuclear family’ (1996: 935). Instead, she claimed these technologies helped to reproduce a privileging of the nuclear family form (1996: 936). The development of these technologies has therefore not been associated with an expansion of reproductive choices, but rather the regulation of such technologies to restrict their use.

Several authors (Sheldon, 2005; Taylor, 2005; and Weisberg, 2005) have argued that these technologies can lead to a ‘fragmentation’ in the meaning and experience of parenthood. These findings suggest that there are now multiple designations of motherhood and fatherhood based on genetic, gestational, social and legal criteria (Taylor, 2005). It is clear that surrogacy provides a useful means through which to explore understandings of kinship because of the ways in which ‘real’ motherhood is determined, in cases where there are different possibilities. As Ragoné (1994) illustrated, this designation most often follows American kinship ideology, which emphasises biogenetic relatedness (over gestation) and nurturing. However, Susan Kahn’s (2000) book on reproductive technologies in Israel showed how sometimes the opposite outcome can be the case. That is, in Jewish-Israeli culture, rabbinical interpretations were invoked to designate the woman who gives birth as the ‘real’ mother. Such a designation has had important implications for determinations of Jewishness, which is matrilineal, and thereby of Israeli citizenship.

In relation to men’s roles, Sheldon (2005) argued that the laws regulating ART illustrate the symbolic importance of fatherhood. Similarly, Donovan (2005) claimed that the importance of fathering as a social role has intensified in the late twentieth century, bolstering the primacy of the heterosexual nuclear family and undermining the validity of other family types, especially single-parent and lesbian families (Saffron, 1994). Wilson (2007) also noted that the social and biological distinction is a gendered one. The emphasis on the biological connection reveals a heterosexist assumption of the nuclear family (2007: 68). Wilson and others conclude that only in debates on the rights of fathers do we see the emergence of the significance of genetics (see also Bainham, Day- Sclater & Richards, 1999). Most discussion about surrogacy has accepted the distinction. Notably, feminist theorists have been virtually alone in disputing the primacy of biogenetic definitions of motherhood (Rothman, 1989; Rowland, 1992). These critics argue that the emphasis on genetic parenthood privileges men’s relationship to the child and positions women as ‘vessels.’ However, these arguments against the privileging of genetic parenthood

34 paradoxically tend to assert an alternative form of ‘natural’ connection, which is that of a woman’s connection to the child she carries.

Despite some recent attention to conceiving and negotiating surrogacy arrangements outside of heteronormative family models, the literature overwhelmingly assumes surrogacy to be an issue with greatest relevance to heterosexual couples. This focus (or omission) tends to take for granted that the subject of surrogacy is a heterosexual couple. In terms of the intended parents (the heterosexual couple), there is also a strong emphasis on a child who is biogenetically related to both partners, which is commonly conceptualised as the desire for ‘a child of their own’ (Edelmann, 2004: 124, 126). Surrogacy is therefore enacted as assisting reproduction in a heteronormative fashion, which reinforces the Western kinship model of a two- parent domesticated family with biogenetically related children.

Conclusions This review of the literature indicates that there is an existing body of research on gay male parenthood. Much of this research has chronicled the transition to parenthood for gay men in a post-’coming out’ context and in particular has explored issues of identity including the nexus of fatherhood, sexuality and masculinity. An important area of research has also examined the development of a desire to become parents among this group of men. Very few studies have explored surrogacy as a route to parenthood among gay men; however several other studies, both by design and by default, have included gay men who have become parents in this way. Although sampling issues make it difficult to estimate the number of gay men seeking to become parents through surrogacy it is clear that this option is becoming more common. What remains relatively unexplored to date however are the specific aspects of surrogacy that make it different from other pathways to parenthood, and how gay men enact kinship in this context. By leaving these questions unexplored, the existing literature fails to consider how the use of surrogacy by gay men might open up a more interesting way to consider the practices associated with surrogacy and other reproductive technologies, and perhaps even provide new ways of understanding kinship and family formations in general. It is these gaps in the literature that this thesis will address.

The findings from two other areas of research are also important in locating this thesis. The first is the literature on the choice of gamete donors by women and by heterosexual couples through both home insemination and ART. The findings from 35 these studies have outlined the considerations that these people invest in choosing donors and the overwhelming trend for both lesbian and heterosexual couples to ‘match’ donors to the non-biogenetic parent. This tendency has also been noted in the small number of studies that have looked at this question among gay men becoming parents through surrogacy. This thesis seeks to make an important contribution by exploring this further among a group of gay men in two different geographic locations.

As demonstrated in this review of the literature there is also a large body of writing on surrogacy practices. Although this thesis is not undertaking an examination of the ethics of these practices at either a local or global level, it is important to acknowledge the existence of this work as a reference point in particular for the discussion of value, commercialisation and gift giving that I undertake in Chapter 8. Having now discussed some of the extant literature that has informed the development of my thesis I turn in the next chapter to outlining the theoretical influences that have had a bearing on my methodological and analytic approach.

CHAPTER 3: THEORETICAL CONSIDERATIONS

Introduction In the previous chapter I reviewed the literature on gay male parenthood aspirations and pathways, on donor choices among people using ART and home insemination, and also briefly the literature on surrogacy practices. This review highlighted how research on reproductive technologies and surrogacy has provided new insights into the meanings of kinship, even though this literature has largely overlooked the unique experiences of gay men. Further, the literature on gay male parenthood increasingly pays attention to surrogacy, but surrogacy per se is left largely unexplored. In this chapter I discuss the theoretical literature that guides my approach to the research questions.

The chapter proceeds with a discussion of the literature on choice that I argue is most useful for conceptualising parenthood desire by gay men and accounting for the increase in parenthood aspirations among this group. In particular, I draw on Actor Network Theory (ANT) and governmentality theory. Next, I describe the theories of kinship that I draw on as an analytic basis for understanding family formation. In particular I engage with the work of David Schneider who described the symbolic aspects of American kinship in the late 1960s, which I take to share many similarities with other Western neoliberal societies, including non-Indigenous kinship in Australia. Schneider’s theory of kinship symbols demonstrated the importance of biogenetic connection. I draw on subsequent critiques of the study of kinship that question the extent to which biogenetic understandings of kinship can adequately account for non-heterosexual family forms, for families brought about through ART and surrogacy, or for cross-cultural observations. Finally, I undertake an exploration of theories of value and gift giving, primarily from the fields of anthropology and sociology that may frame understandings about the relations that are formed, managed or disallowed, through commercial surrogacy arrangements.

Choice The contrast between the ‘natural’ desire for parenthood among heterosexual people and the ‘choice’ to become parents among gay men (and to some observers, the unnaturalness of this desire) is rarely questioned in the theoretical literature. In fact, in their critiques of surrogacy, some feminist theorists reinforce essentialist and heteronormative ideas regarding the ‘naturalness’ of pregnancy and attachment to

37 children (Scott, 2008). Nonetheless, despite the inadequacy of conceptually limiting gay men’s experience of parenting to one of ‘choice,’ it is important to try to understand why, at this time, gay men are increasingly seeking to become parents through surrogacy.

The answer must certainly reach beyond the notion that new reproductive technologies have made this option more widely available than before. Although since the mid-1980s the technologies that facilitate gestational surrogacy have become more accessible, public policies still discourage or preclude gay men from taking up these options. Further, in many jurisdictions, commercial surrogacy arrangements are explicitly banned, as is the advertising of surrogacy. Discouraging gay men from becoming parents is prevalent even in some jurisdictions that recognise civil partnerships between same-sex couples, with such couples disallowed from adopting children or accessing reproductive technologies. The increasing pursuit of parenthood by gay men, despite the existence of policies that make attaining this goal so difficult, begs the question: What factors are contributing to this desire for parenthood? Is the proliferation of internet-based communication technologies and the marketing strategies of commercial surrogacy agencies a factor in these changes? A related question pertains to why so many of these men are seeking to become parents in remarkably similar domestic arrangements to heterosexual couples. Gay men pursuing parenthood as couples seems to be a trend that varies quite considerably from the extended family arrangements described by Kath Weston (1991) in her study of gay and lesbian kinship in California only two decades earlier.

To provide a framework for answering these questions, this section will explore some of the theoretical literature on choice. This literature establishes a basis for understanding how choice is operationalised and guides the analysis in Chapter 6 of interviews with gay men who have become parents through surrogacy. Individuals, according to Nikolas Rose, not only make choices but also are obliged to ‘understand and enact their lives in terms of choice’ (1999: 87). As one of several examples of this new relationship between choice and power, Rose—referencing Strathern—cites the area of human reproduction: Having or not having children is no longer a matter of fate or nature; it too is represented as a matter of lifestyle choice and regulated through voluntary relations between aspiring parents and entrepreneurial doctors (Rose, 1999: 86; see also Strathern, 1992).

The concept of governmentality is a useful theoretical tool for this study (Rabinow, & Rose, 2006; Rose, 1999; Rose, 2001; Rose & Novas, 2004). This theory provides way of conceptualising the myriad modes of power and persuasion (large and small) that culminate in the obligation not only to choose, and to assume responsibility for the choices made, but to also desire and demand the right to make such choices in the first place. Gay men’s enactment of family and kinship, especially in neoliberal states such as the United States and Australia, where the state is in many ways retreating from maintaining direct control over the operations of the family, can be thought about through this notion of ‘acting on actions.’ Proper familial relations are now more likely to be adjudicated through the guidance of experts—as in advice on the best interests of the child, and counsellors and psychologists—and through regulatory bodies that control access to ART than through direct intervention by the state. This notion of parenthood desire as ‘choice’ corresponds with Rose’s emphasis on government being about a new relationship between individuals and expertise (1999: 87).

The theories of choice discussed in this thesis originate from Michel Foucault’s concept of biopolitics, which he developed to explain the processes involved in the administration of life itself, especially at the level of populations, and distinct from earlier phases of power imagined as sovereignty or discipline (Foucault, 1997). This kind of politics, which emerged in the 19th Century seeks to enhance lives through the application of norms and is concerned with family, lifestyle, health, economic growth, and standards of living, rather than the exertion of force (Dean, 2004: 99). It is also concerned with the ways in which it is possible for individuals to control their own passions or instincts (Rose, 1999). Foucault referred to biopolitics as ‘the conduct of conduct’ (Foucault, 1991), including the ways in which people have come to understand and produce narratives of themselves. Nikolas Rose similarly describes how new forms of government rely on recognising and enhancing the capacities of those being governed: To dominate is to ignore or even attempt to crush the capacity for action of the dominated. But to govern is to recognize that capacity for action and to adjust oneself to it. To govern is to act upon action (Rose, 1999: 4).

According to this view, subjects are active individuals who seek to maximise their quality of life through acts seen as being governed by choice—giving life a value and meaning that is understood as an outcome of choices already made, or of choices to be made in the future (Miller & Rose, 2008: 214). As Miller and Rose argue, the new ‘actively responsible’ individual has been shaped through the integration of their 39 subjectivity into the very processes by which they appear to act out their most personal choices. This conceptualisation implies that individuals’ capacities, competencies and wills are nurtured through mass media communication, including soap operas, and documentaries, opinion polls, marketing, advertising and expertise, all of which fall outside the formal control of ‘public powers’ (2008: 214). The ways in which the concept of choice is developed here seems to be similar to how it is taken up in the concept of ‘procreative consciousness’ (Berkowitz, 2007, 2011b; Berkowitz & Marsiglio, 2007; Marsiglio, 1991; Marsiglio & Hutchinson, 2002) to conceptualise how men understand themselves as procreative beings.

The identification of choice-making subjects exhibits some similarities with Bruno Latour’s (2005) theory of subjectivity. According to Latour (2005), competencies are produced in specific locations and are achieved through the metaphor of ‘plug-ins’ to which one can subscribe in order to render a situation interpretable (2005: 209). Latour’s theory proposes that, far from being an innate desire that bursts forth from within, the aspiration to have children can instead be conceptualised as something that is made available from without. This suggests parenthood desires are not carried around inside, but become available and knowable so long as one subscribes to the necessary plug-in. Importantly, however, this process is not imposed from above but rather is made available through the circulation of these plug-ins, in what he calls a flattened landscape (2005: 214). A desire for parenthood must therefore have a vehicle, techniques, conduits, and equipment. This notion of parenthood desire as emerging through the circulation of plug-ins that are neither fully external nor fully internal is a more plausible way of conceptualising the aspiration to become a parent for gay men—or for anybody—than that of an inherent desire that is present in some people but not others. This concept of the plug-in may, however, have less value in relation to the subjectivity of parents vis-à-vis Latour’s example of a consumer, in the sense that it is not as simple to unplug again from parenthood in the way one can unplug from being a consumer by leaving the supermarket or switching off the television. Keeping these limitations in mind, I believe this concept is nonetheless useful in conceptualising parenthood desire.

Gay men becoming parents through surrogacy could be conceptualised as quintessential choice-makers because they are not simply following an expected cultural script (as would be most of their heterosexual counterparts). Rather, they are challenging the cultural association between gay sexuality and childlessness.

Stacey’s (2006) theorisation that the majority of men choose to become parents or not is due to the influence of the man with whom they partner is perhaps closer to Latour’s theory than it would seem on first reading. For the majority of men (who in her analysis are understood to be indifferent to parenthood), being influenced by their partners in the decision or aspiration to parent could be thought of as one of the plugs-ins to which Latour referred. Other important things that gay men could plug into, however, would presumably be those factors already alluded to: the marketing and promotional strategies of surrogacy agencies; conversations with other gay men who have become parents; popular culture; the advice of experts disseminated through media, legislation covering birth certificates, family court orders, gestational surrogacy contracts; and the specific procedures used in egg fertilisation and embryo transfer.

As with everyone else in neoliberal societies today, gay men are shaped by the increasing imperatives to be responsible for the self and to take control of ones’ own destiny. This form of government extends from matters of health and the body to matters of pleasure, desire, and kinship. This thesis draws inspiration from the idea that the increase in gay men’s parenthood aspirations and its actualisation through surrogacy and other means is illustrative of this increased responsibilisation and the trend to understand oneself as a choice-making agent. As Latour argues, these desires or choices neither flow from within nor are imposed from without, but can instead be understood as an assemblage of actors in specific locations. Therefore, as the number and proportion of gay men who become parents increase, it is timely to examine the ways these men conceptualise and narrate their desire to have children. Chapter 6 explores in more depth how the notion of choice is negotiated among these men.

Kinship concepts and critiques This study takes as its point of departure the anthropological concept of kinship. Anthropological analyses and theories of kinship date back to the work of Lewis Henry Morgan in the 1880s, who described kinship as a practice of ‘drawing a border around certain aspects of human behavior, isolating them for study and affirming that they do indeed constitute an object, that they cohere’ (Morgan cited in Trautmann, 1987: 4). Much of the scholarly work on kinship has been in the areas of classification and systems (Levi-Strauss, 1969 [1949]; Radcliffe-Brown, 1957). In David Schneider’s words, ‘kinship is clearly and sharply differentiated from all other kinds of social institutions and relationships’ (1980 [1968]: vii). For this thesis I want

41 to keep open the possibility of kinship as dynamic in the sense that it is constantly being created rather than simply describing an existing state of affairs. I am therefore sympathetic to Donna Haraway’s (1997) definition of kinship as a ‘technology for producing the material and semiotic effect of natural relationship, or shared kind’ (1997: 53).

For the purpose of this study, kinship is taken to mean the ways in which individuals are organised into social groups, roles, categories, and relatives based on particular forms of social relations created through narratives of affinity and ancestry. Moreover, because of where this study is located—in Australia and the United States—this rendering of kinship encompasses the concept of the domestic family unit. I assume for the most part that non-Indigenous Australian concepts of kinship share much with American (and European) concepts, as described by Schneider (1980 [1968]) and others, often referred to as Euro-American, although I will in general use the term Western kinship throughout this thesis. Analyses of the Australian family can be found elsewhere (Gilding, 1991). However, in the Chapters 6, 7 and 8 of this thesis, I explore this assumption by considering how these dominant understandings of kinship compare to the accounts of gay men (living in either Australia or the United States) who have become parents through surrogacy.

Schneider’s American kinship: A cultural account, originally published in 1968, is perhaps the most influential anthropological analysis of Western kinship. The importance of this book in Schneider’s own words is that it is about ‘the symbols which are American kinship’ (Schneider, 1980 [1968]: 18). Schneider emphasises that his work focuses on these symbolic aspects of kinship and is ‘not an account of what Americans say when they talk about kinship’ or even about ‘what Americans think . . . about kinship’ (1980 [1968]: 18). Nor is it a description of roles and relationships. According to Schneider, the key symbols of American kinship are sexual intercourse and the connection between intercourse and procreation. In addition, Schneider is concerned with, ‘the distinctive features which define the person as a relative’ (1980[1968]: 61). In his conceptualisation of how people in the United States understand kinship, there are two orders—the natural order (the order of nature) and the order of law. Nature comprises the consanguineous connection of blood, such as between a biogenetic parent and child. This is a relationship as natural substance (the order of nature). Schneider also observes that US Americans place particular importance on connections of shared natural substance (in this case,

42 blood or genes). He makes this distinction explicit by arguing that the domain of nature or natural substance differs from its counterpart, the relationship as code for conduct (the order of law), primarily because US Americans understand a connection in nature as one that cannot be severed: ‘Legal rights may be lost, but the blood relationship cannot be lost. It is culturally defined as being an objective fact of nature, of fundamental significance and capable of having profound effects, and its nature cannot be terminated or changed’ (1980 [1968]: 24). Schneider provides examples of how a connection in nature may in some circumstances not be acted upon, such as when a child is given up for adoption. However, he also emphasises how this connection in nature cannot ever be completely severed.

Schneider’s theorisation includes the observation that Western notions of kinship require cultural or institutional endorsement to turn a relation from one that is in nature alone to one that is in both nature and law. This dual connection is symbolically represented as the relative ‘by blood.’ Kinship here is understood to rest on biogenetic connections (i.e., so-called ‘natural facts’). In this way, social relations are built on the facts established through nature, or the natural order. This model of kinship also allows for a biogenetic relationship that is not ratified by law and therefore does not become a recognised kin relationship. Schneider provides examples of such relationships. The first is the relationship of a ‘natural child’ to his father if this man is not married to the child’s mother (1980[1968]: 27). Common understandings of this relationship have changed somewhat since Schneider developed his theories, however, and more recent conceptualisations would not necessarily consider the father of such a child (if he were known) to have no legal relationship. In fact, the state would almost certainly consider that he does have such a relationship—and obligations that flow from that—whether the man in question wishes it or not. Schneider’s other example of a ‘natural relationship’ without a relationship in law was that of ‘the “real mother” of a child adopted in infancy’ (1980 [1968]: 27). This child remains connected to the woman who gave birth to it but has no legal relationship with her.

In terms of this study, these examples are useful to consider because they have certain parallels with the relationships of the egg donors and the gestational surrogates to children born through surrogacy arrangements. Participants in surrogacy arrangements usually see egg donors and surrogates as having a natural relationship to children but no legal, or often even social, relationship. This is despite

43 the ambiguity created by the presumptive recognition of the gestational mother as a legal parent in many jurisdictions.

In Schneider’s model of kinship, the natural facts related to procreation are undeniable, although individuals can reject them (1980 [1968]: 24-25). However, I would argue that such an act somehow also reinforces the unavoidable and ‘natural’ aspect of such ties because it requires an active renunciation rather than replacement, atrophy, or waning of interest. In Schneider’s view, Western kinship prioritises biogenetic connections, especially those created between parents and children. In addition, although the non-recognition of a relationship in nature is achievable, but perhaps complicated in ways not imagined by Schneider, blood relationships are impossible to sever. Schneider illustrates the permanence of these relationships through the language, or lack thereof, employed to explain different relationships. For example, although the terms ex-wife, ex-husband or ex-mother-in-law are commonly used terms for describing connections that existed in the past but have been dissolved, there is no terminology for ending the relationship between parents and their children. The terms ex-daughter, ex-father or ex-sister simply do not exist (1980[1968]: 24). For Schneider, such connections are understood by Westerners to be permanent or, to use his term, ‘enduring.’ Parents may disown or disinherit a child, and two siblings may never see or communicate with each other. However, nothing ‘can really terminate or change the biological relationship that exists between them, and so they remain blood relatives’ (1980 [1968]: 24).

In theorising about the pre-eminence of biogenetic relatedness, Schneider does not specifically mention the enactment of connections that were previously unknown. The examples above do not clearly illustrate whether it is the biological connection per se that creates permanence or that such a relationship already existed in the past (for example, parent-child) and thus, once it is acknowledged as such, it cannot be rescinded. In terms of connections previously unknown, we must ask: How to conceptualise relations where the biogenetic connections are obscured? For example, when someone finds out later in life that they were adopted, what is this person’s relationship with his or her biogenetic parents, and, indeed, with the adoptive parents? To draw on the language that circulates in Western culture, there are ample references to adopted people finding out their ‘real’ parents or siblings and subsequently explaining feelings of never quite belonging in their adopted family, whether they knew they were adopted or not. Perhaps a better example is the

44 conceptualisation of a relationship between a man and a child he believed to be biogenetically related to him but subsequently discovers is not. There is one such case in this study where one of the participants, Sam, who had a child in the context of a previous heterosexual relationship, later discovered that he was not the biogenetic father.

Schneider also conceptualises American kinship as sufficiently flexible to accommodate new ‘facts’ about natural substance. Specifically, he says that kinship is perceived to be whatever the biogenetic relationship is, and therefore, if ‘science discovers new facts about biogenetic relationship, then this is what kinship is and was all along’ (1980 [1968]: 23). This emphasis on biogenetics and on the relationship between epistemology and ontology is what makes Western understandings of kinship unique.

As already observed by others, Schneider argues that science has a symbolic quality in Western societies and, as a result, has the power to create kinship (Franklin, 2001: 306). This observation about Western kinship is a particularly important because it proposes that kinship can be created, as it were, by discovery. That is to say, if new ‘facts’ about biogenetic connections come to light, this information cannot be ignored. The new facts replace—or at least take priority over—the facts previously informing understandings of who is and is not biogenetically related. This emphasis on new facts is important because it can reveal new knowledge about the self, such as genetic information or ancestry that has consequences for identity (Franklin, 2001).

Children born through surrogacy arrangements may present a paradox for traditional Western conceptions of kinship. In a situation where the gametes of only one social parent is used—which is, by necessity, the case for gay male couples where only one partner can provide the sperm—only one is connected in nature. The conundrum in the case of the non-biogenetic parent in (gay) surrogacy is that although this parent lacks a ‘natural’ basis for the relationship—that is, lacks connection through natural substance—his relationship is not ‘in law alone’ either. Essentially, he is usually considered by those involved to be as connected to the child as is his partner. This concept is quite different from Schneider’s concept of ‘in law alone,’ which implies no feeling of love but only one of acceptance (Schneider, 1980 [1968]: 27) This example of gay men’s experiences of surrogacy highlights the limitations of Western

45 concepts of kinship. What kinds of relationships do these gay male parents have with their children if it is neither one that is grounded ‘in nature’ nor able to be relegated to one that is in law alone? Is it possible for kinship to be created through the parenthood project itself (that is, through the planning and intention invested in having a child together), rather than solely through biogenetic relationships? In addition, to what extent are surrogacy and other reproductive technologies pursued by same-sex parents highlighting the heteronormativity of Western kinship models?

Despite Schneider’s claim that kinship can accommodate new biogenetic ‘facts,’ his model of kinship also apparently involves much looking backwards (to find relationships and relations that already exist), rather than making new connections and possibilities. This idea of kinship as based on facts also positions kinship as subject to revision. As the British anthropologist Marilyn Strathern (1999a) notes, kinship is to do with continuity, ancestry, and tradition. Therefore, despite being built on supposedly solid and natural foundations, kinship as a concept is somewhat paradoxically conservative, vulnerable, and retrospective (1999a: 179). According to Strathern, this connection to the past is what makes kinship seem so susceptible to destabilisation in the face of innovations such as those brought about by the new reproductive technologies. The contradictory aspects of kinship are reinforced by a certain inherent ambivalence: kinship can create a sense of belonging but also perhaps one of constraint. Thus, we need to explore further the idea of biogenetic facts and the ways in which these facts determine kinship and kinship categories. Perhaps it is even possible to reverse the ways in which we usually understand kinship. Can we, for example, understand kinship as creating the facts on which it is understood to be based and not the other way around?

In the late twentieth century, the field of kinship studies started to attract criticism for being based on the Eurocentric assumption that all cultures and individuals understood and devised kinship structures based on the ‘natural facts’ of procreation (Stone, 2001). This critique accused Western kinship scholars of assuming that all terminologies, systems of descent and alliances, were derived from relationships founded upon biological reproduction. In this model, it was claimed, the transmission of ‘blood or genetic material, is considered the unambiguous and only determinant for a person’s place in the network of relations’ (Dousset, 2002). In addition to these direct criticisms, anthropological work conducted in non-Western settings had already been influential in demonstrating the cultural specificity of assuming biology

46 as part of kinship practices. Pitt-Rivers’ (1973) notion of consubstantiality, as well as Bourdieu’s (1977) theory of practice, had modified this domain and demonstrated that biological ties are far from universal. They showed that relatedness or kinship can be established through means other than simply being born into one family or marrying into another. For example, kinship might be created through sharing space, food, or other substances (Galvin, 2001). Among Indigenous Australians, this kinship might include shared connections to country and categories of shared ‘skin.’ In Japan, the notion of ‘skinship’ refers to kinship through touch and physical contact (Gregory, 2011). Kinship through ritual is also significant in many cultures, not only in non-Western cultures. The mixing of blood to become blood brothers or ritual inductions into mafia families, or gangs, are some examples.

Schneider’s later work argues that it is not possible to export the Western model. In A Critique of the Study of Kinship (1984), Schneider outlines how a Western understanding that kinship is based on the so-called natural facts of life (that is, biological reproduction and its symbolic relationship to sexual intercourse) has assumed that other cultures are based on the same principles. This assumption has occurred even where it is clear that kin relationships do not correspond directly to biological ones. Schneider criticises kinship theory along the lines that it always takes as a given that biological reproduction is highly valued and that kinship is based on biology rather than interrogating these biological facts themselves. Schneider claimed that kinship studies had fed into—and in fact, helped produce— the notion of a distinct difference between advanced societies of North America and Europe, on one side, and exotic, primitive societies on the other (Stone, 2001). This ‘othering’ was associated with contrasts between societies with ‘more kinship’ (as evidenced by clan structures and extended families) and modern industrial societies with lean, nuclear family units, where social institutions have taken over some functions of traditional kin units. Schneider’s proposed solution, however, is not to broaden—and in his view weaken—the Western biogenetic definition of kinship. In fact, he implies that the model may not explain kinship in Western settings in any case. He bases his argument for retaining kinship as a specific domain on the claim that if kinship were expanded to include connections established on other bases, it would become indistinguishable from other relationships.

Marilyn Strathern (1999b) has also examined Western—and in particular English— kinship systems in relation to Schneider’s critique. She observes that kinship is

47 enacted in ‘a context in which Euro-Americans talk about relationships based on biology’ (1999b: 22). In addition, kinship as a term is usually used to refer to the relational rather than the institutional aspects of people’s interactions. Kin relations appear as ‘concrete, intimate and personal’ (1999b: 5). This understanding of the domain of kinship distinguishes kinship from relationships created through other domains, such as the market, for example. Kinship systems in the West are based on the assumption that individuals are ‘biological beings’ (Strathern, 1992, also cited in Åkesson, 2001: 133). Strathern’s earlier writing argued that this notion of biological beings is reinforced by the metaphor of sexual reproduction and that reproduction underpins beliefs about individuality, variation, and the idea that two individuals equally engender their offspring (Strathern, 1992). This notion of bilateral genetic inheritance is central to Western kinship.

Strathern also observes that Western kinship is a domain that links conceptions of nature and culture. This idea of kinship goes further than Schneider’s theory about the relationship between nature and law in kinship systems. According to Strathern (1992), kinship is a hybrid phenomenon in which cultural concepts are borrowed by nature (for instance, through genealogy). The reverse is also true: ideas about nature are installed in culture (for example, through the idea of a biological relative). Strathern (1992) notes that Western concepts relating to nature have shifted over time and that theories of anthropological kinship in the mid-nineteenth century coincided with the development of Charles Darwin’s theory of evolution. Darwin’s theory led to the replacement of the idea that nature was something to be cultivated—as it had previously been conceptualised—with a new understanding of nature as something with its own character or ‘natural system’ (1992: 132). Strathern (1992) speculates that perhaps, ‘evolutionary thinking also facilitated the equation of procreation and biology. The “natural facts” of life were natural in the sense of belonging to the biology of the species’ (1992: 119). These observations reveal that kinship studies have borrowed from other domains such as the natural sciences. Further, kinship studies are also a more dynamic field than a superficial interpretation of the biogenetic model implies. Also of importance is Strathern’s argument that notions of kinship have influenced other realms; recent literature explores the impact of the genealogical model in considering other practices and knowledge making, such as race, ethnicity, and personhood (Bamford and Leach, 2012).

Gay and lesbian kinship Stephen Hicks (2011) argues that Schneider’s theory of kinship privileges heterosexual relationships because it is based on biological reproduction (2011: 28). In the United States, ethnographic accounts of lesbian and gay cultures of relatedness have challenged the primacy of the biological model of kinship. Studies undertaken in the 1980s and 1990s revealed that the meanings of the biological could be interwoven with the language of kin formation in ways that paralleled the authenticity and enduring permanence of biological ties (Franklin, 2001; Hayden, 1995; Weston, 1991). Some of this research, in particular Kath Weston’s (1991) analysis of kinship practices among lesbians and gay men in San Francisco, demonstrated that gay families were built on the conscious incorporation of kinship symbols, rather than a loose network of friends. To some extent, this finding challenges Schneider’s description of American kinship by illustrating the endurance and solidarity of kinship based on relations with lovers, ex-lovers, friends, neighbours: [G]ay families differed from networks to the extent that they quite consciously incorporated symbolic demonstrations of love, shared history, material or emotional assistance, and other signs of enduring solidarity. Although many gay families included friends, not just any friend would do (Weston, 1991: 109).

Hayden (1995) also argues that, although many gay men and lesbians may still use the old heterosexual symbols of kinship, they have different and new meanings in their arrangements. Thus, non-heterosexuals are seen to be taking advantage of the ambiguity of dominant cultural symbols. One example includes having one lesbian partner take responsibility for manually inseminating the other in order to be both symbolically and literally part of the conception process. Another example is the designation of names for children and parents that indicate equal relationship between both partners and the child (see also Cadoret, 2009). Going further than this ambiguity and adaptation is the claim that ‘biology’ is not quite the same for heterosexual and non-heterosexual parents. If biology can be used creatively, perhaps it is not so immutable and might be considered simply a resource to be used? This point is also made by Ragone (1994) in the context of surrogacy and by Franklin (1993) and Strathern (1992) in the context of assisted conception.

Additionally, Weston’s (1991) families of choice drew attention to the impermanence—rather than the endurance—of biogenetic relations, for example, when lesbians or gay men were cut off from their families of birth after ‘coming out’:

Claiming a gay identity in the presence of parents or siblings frequently involved an anxiety-filled struggle to bring speech about sexual identity (if not sex) into the cultural domain of ‘the family.’ Coming out to a biological relative put to the test the unconditional love and enduring solidarity commonly understood in the United States to characterize blood ties (Weston, 1991: 43–44).

However, critiques of the gay kinship studies have claimed that Weston’s data do not support her conclusions. Shapiro (2010) for example suggests gay kinship is merely a ‘structural derivative’ of heterosexual kinship and not a ‘Brave New World in which heterosexual kinship is minimised’ (2010:15).

As discussed earlier, Schneider discussed the notion of severed links with blood relations and proposed that in US notions of kinship, those ties could be cut but kinship would remain. In relation to the broader issue of gay and lesbian kinship, Schneider explicitly proposed in later writings that the model would incorporate homosexuality and reproduction in same-sex relationships if discrimination did not exist: [F]rom the evidence at hand, it would seem that gays and lesbians could live very well within the well-established forms of Euro-American kinship if they were allowed to and were not the objects of homophobic prejudice. That is, the difference in object-choice does not in itself necessarily engender or make more likely other differences’ (Schneider, 1997: 272).

His argument clearly is that Western kinship practices can indeed accommodate the experiences of same-sex-attracted people. However, Schneider seems to rely too heavily on symbolic and structural notions of kinship, rather than considering the practices that enact kinship in specific circumstances. This focus on symbols and structures also perhaps exposes a potential shortcoming of Schneider’s model. That is, how should relationships based neither in nature nor in law be conceptualised? This is the case for the relationship between children and the non-biological parent in gay and lesbian couples and is particularly relevant for this study of kinship among gay men becoming parents through surrogacy.

Other studies of ART and genetic testing suggest that what counts as a biogenetic relationship can also be a matter of choice. Charis Thompson (2005) coined the term ‘flexible choreography’ to characterise the interplay between different factors which are not easily labelled as either biological or social because the boundaries are not clearly established and they shift or merge in practice. Through her ethnography of IVF clinics she demonstrated that scientific understandings of procreation may determine kinship relations, but that ‘recognition’ of kinship is sometimes much 50 more complex and that people involved in egg donation and gestational surrogacy can actually transform biology by coding it back to socio-economic or cultural factors. Thompson’s observations demonstrate that biology does not always provide an immutable blueprint for kinship shared equally by all, even in Western cultures, and seems to provide a contrast to Schneider’s proposal that Western kinship always follows from a biogenetic relationship.

Reworking of Western kinship Galvin (2001) has also reworked Schneider’s model of American kinship in an attempt to provide a more cross-cultural account of kinship systems. Galvin’s model replaces Schneider’s ‘orders of nature and law’ with ‘orders of sharing and ratification,’ permitting room for a new theorisation of familial relationships. ‘Sharing’ is understood here to involve an expansion of the order of nature to include additional elements, such as the allocation of food and space in addition to biogenetic substance. An example of this form of kinship was identified by Amrita Pande (2009) in her ethnographic study of Indian surrogates. Pande theorised kinship between these women as forged through shared company, and in the practices of gestation and giving birth.

The second order in Galvin’s model, ‘ratification,’ allows people to become kin through processes of endorsement or legitimisation that do not necessarily depend only on legal institutions, such as marriage or adoption but could, for example, be achieved through rituals or simply through the passage of time. It would seem that Galvin’s model should be able to account better for lesbian and gay kinship formations, as well as other examples of Western kinship, in which empirical data have indicated that biogenetic relations are not as important as Schneider’s model proposes. These examples include the ambivalent sense of affinity or connection felt by some adoptees towards birth parents (Carsten, 2004), the absence among many egg donors of specific feelings of connectedness to children born as a result of their gametes (Konrad, 1998), and the emphasis placed on socio-economic or cultural similarities with surrogates by prospective parents (Thompson, 2005). Galvin’s model may also provide a way for conceptualising how kinship is enacted within families of gay men with children in which connections are produced at least partially through ongoing and everyday practices in addition to the recognition of biogenetic connections.

This reworking of the biogenetic basis of kinship also challenges the acceptance of sexual procreation as ‘natural’ or ‘given’ (Carsten, 2004: 59, 164). Butler (1990) raised a similar question regarding gender. She proposed that, instead of being conceived as based on a prior biological division between the two sexes, the ostensibly natural facts of sex could be thought of as an effect of gender categories. Through a similar reversal, Yanagisako and Collier (1987) offer a way of understanding kinship as not as emerging from the biological facts of sexual reproduction, but as natural biological facts instead emerging from the cultural concept of kinship. This theory of kinship positions the so-called natural facts of sexual reproduction as an effect of kinship categories (e.g., mother, father). That is, the concept of bilateral genetic inheritance in which person can only have two genetic parents—genitor and genetrix—(Schneider, 1980 [1968]: 23) emerges from understandings of kinship and gender rather than these kinship terms simply describing natural facts. In her later work, Butler (2004) also specifically analysed kinship in relation to debates about same-sex marriage. She proposed that the linking of biological and sexual relations in ‘traditional kinship’ (2004: 127) naturalises heterosexuality and provides the basis for the claim that ‘kinship is always already heterosexual’ (2004: 123). She also proposed an alternative conceptualisation of kinship, which has had an important influence on this thesis. This conceptualisation is that ‘kinship is a kind of doing, one that does not reflect a prior structure, but that can only be understood as an enacted practice’ (2004: 123; italics in original].

Carsten (2000) proposed the term ‘relatedness’ to conceptualise connections that depart from the pre-constructed analytic opposition between the biological and the social in traditional models of Western kinship. In her view, relatedness should be described in terms of local statements and practices, some of which fall outside what anthropologists have conventionally understood as kinship. This approach— recognising relatedness in its concrete and variable cultural forms—emphasises the meaning making of the actors and offers a way of understanding kinship without over-structuring the fluidity of behaviours, beliefs, and meanings into fixed patterns and systems. Gestational surrogacy provides a fascinating opportunity to examine these practices of making meanings through family formation, as the participants negotiate dominant cultural norms of kinship. For example, when biological connections are multiplied into the separate roles of gestation and genetics, who is understood to be the mother? And what does ‘mother’ mean in a context where the woman who gives birth or provides the genetic material does not intend to have any

52 ongoing role in the child’s life and may, in fact, remain anonymous? The answers to these questions are not straightforward. In most cases, the gestational surrogate is conceptualised as not related to the child, despite the attention paid to the surrogate’s conduct during the pregnancy including how her behaviour and diet could affect the child. The de-emphasis of the gestational role requires a denial of the surrogate’s biological/gestational connection, in favour of the connection made through the provision of genetic material—in this case, the oocyte (egg).

Surrogacy has, in effect, called into question the ‘naturalness’ of motherhood and, by implication, kinship. Whereas historically, in Western cultures, the mother was the woman who gave birth to a child, surrogacy has now made it possible for the woman who gives birth to not be genetically related to the child but to also not to have any ongoing relationship with the child after birth. In the United States, surrogacy has therefore led to a potential redefinition, including a legal redefinition, of kinship categories including mother. These implications demonstrate that surrogacy practices represent a productive site for the exploration of contemporary kinship understandings, practices, and terminologies.

Value Notions of value, particularly in relation to commercialisation, have dominated debates about surrogacy. Two theoretical issues related to value are important for addressing the research questions and analysis of empirical data collected as part of this study: commodification, and the relations formed by the exchange of gifts (Pinker, 2006). Both of these issues are introduced in this final part of my review of the theoretical literature. The distinction between commodities and gifts is important because the boundary between these two types of objects has tended to correspond with the boundary between kinship and other domains. The commercialisation of surrogacy moves reproduction into the marketplace and is seen to make visible and public what has traditionally remained within the less visible private realm of the family (and especially the heteronormative domesticated family that reproduces ‘naturally’). However, as described by many theorists in this section, the distinction between gift and commodity systems is not always clear: commodities are not free from obligation and, conversely, gifts are not always given without calculation.

At the heart of the discomfort with commercial surrogacy—and, for that matter, the sale or purchase of human tissue such as reproductive material, organs, or blood—is

53 an ontological distinction between objects that can be bought and sold (commodities) and others that can, or should, not. A commodity has full or partial fungibility. That is, the market treats it as roughly equivalent no matter who produces it. Its value is held to be relative. Non-commodities, however, are seen as unique objects for which there is no equivalent. They are non-generic and their value is in their singularity. They are held to have absolute value, and by implication, also dignity (Kant, 1981 [1785]; Rabinow, 1999; Waldby & Mitchell, 2006). Commodity exchange creates a quantitative equivalence (i.e., value) between objects (Gregory, 1982; cited in Graeber, 2001: 36). That is to say, whatever has a price can be replaced by something else that is its equivalent in value, however that value is determined. This strict distinction can be thought of as a form of enclaving, which is the protection of certain things from commodification (Appadurai, 1986: 26). This analysis proposes that gifts and commodities are not only objects but also transactions, through which value is accrued and social relations constituted.

It has generally been agreed in Western Europe and Australia that human tissue should remain exempt from the market, that is, it should not be commodified, although this distinction is not made as clearly in the United States. It is not difficult to understand how the commercialisation of surrogacy and of reproductive material could be potentially susceptible to ethical and moral concerns. These practices seem to be problematic for a number of reasons: they undermine notions central to Western concepts of kinship, such as people being unique individuals (i.e., no two people are the same) and individuals being the outcome of equal genetic contribution from both parents (Strathern, 1992). Further, commercialisation challenges the specificity of the body and human tissue as distinct from any other objects and renders reproductive material or labour is detachable from the individuals from which they originated. Finally, these practices undermine the function of the non- commercial or altruistic exchange of human tissue (such as blood and organ donation) as a positive means of constituting social relations between citizens (Waldby & Mitchell, 2006: 22–23; Titmuss, 1997[1970]).

In his introduction to The Social Life of Things, Arjun Appadurai (1986) made a number of observations about commodification that are useful for thinking about surrogacy, and kinship. The most crucial is the contention that commodities are not quintessentially or inherently different from other things. In addition, along with others, Appadurai has demonstrated that no pure gift or commodity economy exists

54 and, in fact, people move freely between these different domains (Gregory, 1998, cited in Graeber, 2001: 36; see also Offer, 1997). If we shift the focus from production to examine the whole biography of a commodity as it circulates and is exchanged, it is possible to see that things are more fluid than they first appear. According to Appadurai, being a commodity is simply ‘one phase in the life of some things’ (1986: 17). An object may change from gift to commodity or the reverse according to the network of relationships in which it circulates. Commodities are therefore things in a certain ‘situation’ (1986: 13). A thing may be pushed closer or further away from commodification according to a number of factors: the commodity phase of its social life, its commodity potential, and the commodity context in which it is placed.

What is also clear from the theoretical literature is that the material objects themselves can now also change as they circulate, especially from the form of tissue to ‘information’ and then to intellectual property (Waldby & Mitchell, 2006: 26). Organs and blood can be changed to create information in the form of cell lines and annotated genetic sequences (which allow such material to be patented as intellectual property). Information can also be added to human reproductive material to change its value. Under intellectual property regimes, value—and therefore ownership and profit—is created only through intellectual labour and is not able to be asserted over naturally occurring substances (Waldby & Cooper, 2008: 67). National gift economies also prevent individuals from claiming rights over their reproductive material and potential. Moreover, as has already been noted in relation to other human tissues, the strategy of preventing ‘self’ ownership has had the counter effect of positioning the body, through informed consent procedures, as ‘an open source of free biological material for commercial use’ (Waldby & Mitchell, 2006: 24). This transformation of human tissue from valueless waste or surplus to valuable product or service is an example also of the way things can move from gifts to commodities and presumably back again.

Although Waldby and Mitchell were referring to biomedical waste, the same could be said of reproductive material or labour (Waldby, 2008; Waldby & Cooper, 2008). The restricted surrogacy market means that women who act as surrogates are usually employed through a small number of agencies who tend to dominate the field including the setting of prices. This control corresponds with Appadurai’s (1986) description of the exchange of new commodities whereby merchants and political

55 elites control the market by restricting exchange (1986: 33). According to Appadurai, maintaining a large knowledge gap between the producer and the consumer, traders can maximise their profits while minimising those of the producing countries and classes. This division also exposes a problem with the ontological politics of arguing for a strict conceptual division between commodity and non-commodity. It is not sufficient to claim that something has a particular value because it is related to the body, as do those who reject commercial surrogacy. In this way, it would be possible to think about value as an achievement rather than a starting point.

Leaving aside the issue of commodification, there is also a rich anthropological literature on concepts of exchange and value, particularly in relation to the notion of gifts. Gift giving has often been theorised (see, for example, Titmuss, 1997[1970]) as creating relations between persons (Gregory, 1998; cited in Graeber, 2001: 36) and, as previously mentioned, the donation of human tissue as representing a positive means of constituting social relations between citizens (Titmuss, 1997; also cited in Waldby & Mitchell, 2006: 22–23). Gift giving has mostly been studied in relation to pre-modern societies (see, in particular, Mauss, 1990 [1922]) but some research and theory has focused on gifts and exchange in Europe and the United States—for example in relation to Christmas gifts (Werbner, 1996), organs (Cohen, 2001, 2004a, 2004b; 2011; Waldby, 2002, 2008; Waldby & Mitchell, 2006), blood (Titmuss (1997 [1970]); valentine, 2005) and reproductive material (Tober, 2001; Waldby, 2002). Surrogacy has tended not to be examined in this way because of its dominant conceptualisation as a service rather than an object. As Appadurai notes, services have tended to be excluded from such analyses in favour of the production and consumption of specific objects.

Titmuss (1997 [1970]) contends that giving blood anonymously and without payment epitomises the pure gift relationship because the donor, who is not paid, has no motivation apart from a desire to help others. He employed this argument in his comparison of the blood donation systems in the United States and the United Kingdom in the 1970s. His analysis was based on a Marxist analysis of production, which assumes that the market has an inevitably alienating effect on individuals. In Titmuss’ theory, the anonymity of the system also adds to its purity because the donor cannot expect direct reciprocation from the recipients. This understanding of gift giving as disinterested has been questioned by Callon (1998), Frow (1997) and Waldby and Mitchell (2006). Blood donation may provide a model for

56 conceptualising gamete donation given that both may be anonymous and occur in the absence of any pre-existing relations between donors and recipients. However, its usefulness may also be limited in determining value in surrogacy where prospective parents and surrogates do engage in social relations, although their interactions are influenced by factors such as the advice of the surrogacy agencies and related experts, contractual obligations and the exchange of money. It is therefore useful to introduce some of the thinking about the meaning and relations created through the exchange of gifts in traditional societies, as examined by anthropologists such as Marcel Mauss, and also to examine other examples contemporary gift-exchange that do not involve anonymity.

Mauss (1990 [1922]) proposes that gift giving, far from being disinterested, reinforces pre-existing—and usually hierarchical—relations. Frow (1997) also notes that gifts in both traditional and Western societies typically contribute to constituting power relations and are therefore not free of calculation: [O]n the one hand gift and commodity economies are always intertwined in various hybrid configurations and present a range of alternative possibilities for the use of objects; on the other, gift and commodity are not mutually exclusive modes of transaction, since they tend to have in common certain forms of calculation, strategy and motivation. The gift therefore cannot and should not be conceived as an ethical category: it embodies no general principle of creativity, or generosity, of gratuitous reciprocity, or of sacrifice or loss (Frow, 1997: 124).

Bourdieu (1977) and Appadurai (1986) have made similar arguments about gift exchange involving self-interested calculation. As Bourdieu (1977) notes, a ‘rational contract would telescope into an instant transaction which gift exchange disguises, by stretching it out in time’ (1977: 171). These observations about self-interest demonstrate or at least suggest that gifts can provide ongoing forms of relations and obligations that are codified in ritual and cultural understandings and that commodity exchange can expose these as more self-interested than they would appear. It is also important to note the symbolic aspects of gift giving that are not encapsulated in analyses of gift giving as self interested and calculative. According to Jacques Derrida, when someone intends to give he [sic] rewards himself with ‘a symbolic recognition, to praise himself, to congratulate himself, to give back to himself symbolically the value of what he thinks he has given, or what he is preparing to give’ (Derrida 1992: 14). Several theorists have also argued that the satisfaction and social identity provided by giving are gendered. Thus, in giving appropriately

57 individuals are reaffirming their gender identity (Ashwin, Tartakovskaya, Ilyina & Lytkina, 2013:400; Gerstel, 2000; Gerstel & Gallagher, 2001).

Titmuss’ claim that gift exchange produces positive forms of sociality has been challenged by technological developments since it was published in the 1970s. Apart from the move to informational forms of value through genetic sequencing and other data, increased globalisation has undermined the ability of any nation state to isolate human tissue transfer from international networks (Waldby & Mitchell, 2006: 22– 23). This globalisation means that blood, organs, reproductive material, and services are constantly moving across borders and continents. Specific sites have emerged as highly influential in these movements. In surrogacy, these sites include California and more recently India, with other states such as the Ukraine also being important regional hubs in this flow. Improved technologies for storing (some) human tissue have also created more extended periods of time between the donation of material and its subsequent use, and allowed for its transportation over greater distances, both of which further undermine national gift systems, particularly of reproductive material. This global movement is examined in relation to representations of surrogacy in print media in Chapter 5 and the negotiation of the commercial aspects of surrogacy in Chapter 8.

As Graeber notes (2001), gift economies also tend to personify objects (2001: 36), that is, they add a human ‘face’ to the exchange of objects. Mauss (1990 [1922]),who argues that gifts are inalienable and create ongoing relations, in fact obligations, to the giver, also observes the propensity for gifts to retain the identity of the giver. Recent analyses of the ‘gift’ in relation to human tissue transfer have revealed that this personification occurs even in modern societies, supporting the idea that the gift is not experienced as a purely altruistic or non-reciprocal exchange. Several other studies have identified complex dynamics in gift giving including identification, embodiment, and ambivalence. In cases of organ donation, this ‘gift’ is seen by some to represent an impossible burden because it can never be repaid and the inability to reciprocate can hang over the relationship (Fox & Swazey, 1992; Daniels, Curson & Lewis, 1996). Intermediaries and procedures are established to prevent this burden of reciprocation or what has been called the ‘tyranny of the gift’ (Daniels et al., 1996). As Waldby notes, the ‘material incorporation of the organ involves a powerful identification or disidentification with the donor, a major adjustment of the self’s composition and structure’ (2002: 248). Identification can include feelings of

58 connectedness and even beliefs by recipients that an organ donation will be accompanied by transference or assuming of the physical characteristics or personality traits of the donor. As is explored more extensively in Chapter 7, this notion of identification and non-detachability also seems to fit with understandings of Western kinship. In this kinship model, children born as a result of gamete donation are still considered to be connected to the donor, and to a lesser extent to the gestational surrogate, even if these woman have no ongoing social relationship with the children. Chapter 8 undertakes an analysis of value as it operates in surrogacy arrangements and the social relations between those who provide eggs (paradoxically called ‘donors’) and/or gestational services and those who make use of them. This includes an analysis of the way commercial surrogacy practices are arranged in a way that generally discourages contact between the intended parents and the egg donor, and carefully manages contact with surrogates (and their families).

Conclusions This chapter examined the conceptual ideas that have informed my approach to exploring and understanding the empirical data in this study. First, I examined the concept of choice, in particular the theory of governmentality and Actor Network Theory (ANT), and. Both these approaches are important in understanding how choice has emerged as a way of expressing parenthood aspirations alongside the capacity and desire to make choices about other aspects of their lives. In particular I am sympathetic to the notion of the ‘plug-in’ as conceptualised by Bruno Latour (2005), in theorising gay men’s parenthood desires. The review of anthropological theories of kinship, particularly the work of David Schneider, showed how Western kinship is based largely on the recognition of biogenetic facts. However, this chapter also examined alternative models of kinship that have emerged from studies of non- heterosexual-based families, non-biogenetic-based families, and other non-Western cultures, and feminist studies of science. These other models are important for thinking about kinship as dynamic, or processual. Finally, the chapter explored some of the anthropological and sociological understandings of value. In particular, I drew on some of the literature on gift giving, and examined how these theories have been applied to debates about the exchange of human tissue in general, and what implications these theories may have for analysing surrogacy and kinship.

The theories outlined in this chapter have informed my framing of the individual research questions of this thesis, and the main research aim of exploring how kinship is enacted among gay men who are pursuing parenthood through surrogacy. The next chapter outlines the methodological approach taken in this thesis to explore kinship relations and meanings among gay men who have become parents through surrogacy. In addition, I describe the research design and the methods that I employed to collect and analyse the data and information for this study.

CHAPTER 4: METHODOLOGY AND METHODS

Introduction The previous chapter outlined the key theoretical literature that has informed my approach. That review of the theoretical literature was divided into the broad areas of choice, anthropological kinship and value. This chapter outlines my methodological approach to answering the research questions and analysing and interpreting the empirical data and information. In particular I draw on Mol’s (2002) theory of ontological multiplicity and John Law’s insights from ANT to frame my research. I also describe a discursive approach, influenced by Discourse Theoretical Analysis (DTA), to focus attention on the limits of what can be said and how discursive practices frame and structure the emergence of different phenomena. By drawing on these ontological considerations I allow for a dynamic approach to kinship.

After introducing these methodological commitments, the chapter proceeds with a description of the study methods. The description includes my choice of data and information sources and sites, the sampling frame, study procedures, the research instrument, and a description of participants. The chapter ends with a discussion of ‘juxtaposition,’ a novel way of organising the data and information collected for this study that allows for unexpected insights and is intended to minimise the temptation to treat the material in a hierarchical way.

The concept of enactment Before I describe my research design and the methods used to explore the research questions, I outline in this section some key concepts that have shaped the epistemological choices made in conducting and reporting this research. Contemporary social theory provides a range of new ways to understand how research methodologies and methods are implicated in the production of the objects of inquiry. Annemarie Mol (2002), who uses the term ‘enactment’ to conceptualise how such objects are brought into being, provides a detailed analysis of the understanding of the disease atherosclerosis in a hospital setting. As she argues: It is possible to say that in practices objects are enacted. This suggests that activities take place—but leaves the actors vague. It also suggests that in the act, and only then and there, something is—being enacted. (2002: 32–33; italics in original)

Mol draws attention to the practices that make things ‘visible, audible, tangible, and knowable’ (2002: 33). If practices enact objects, then different practices can be seen

61 to produce different objects. The emphasis here is on the performativity of an object, or the two-way traffic between enactments and realities (2002: 56). In Mol’s words, enactments ‘don’t just present something that has already been made, but also have powerful productive consequences.’ (2002: 56). Research data and information, therefore, are not simply descriptions ‘in-here’ that relate to a reality ‘out-there.’ Mol also speaks about realities as being relational. That is, they are produced, and have a life, only in terms of the relations between and among practices and beliefs and the objects they enact. That distinction is quite different from saying that practices describe realities or objects (Mol, 2002; cited in Law 2004: 59).

Sharing some similarities with Mol’s notions of multiplicity and enactment, Karen Barad’s (2007) theory of agential realism questions the existence of ‘words’ and ‘things,’ as well as the idea of truth as based on the correct correspondence between them (2007: 56). For Barad, the practices of knowing, thinking, measuring, theorising and observing are material practices of intra-acting within and as part of the world (2007: 90). What she refers to as a ‘performative’ approach questions the distinction between representations and the entities awaiting representation (2007: 49). Critical to this epistemological approach, she points out is that when we engage in knowledge practices, we do not uncover pre-existing facts about independently existing things as if they were frozen in time. Rather, we learn about phenomena, that is, about specific material configurations (2007: 90–91). However, considering knowledge to be made through practices does not mean that it is necessarily subjective, according to Barad. This conclusion would presume a pre-existing distinction between object and subject, which is exactly the representationalist approach that she cautions against (2007: 91). She does not reject the notion of objectivity completely but reframes it as ‘being attentive to the specific materializations of which we are a part’ (2007: 91).

Although Mol and Barad were referring to medicine and physics respectively, the same epistemological approach can be applied to thinking about the social sciences. In his book, After Method: Mess in Social Science Research, John Law (2004) argues that methods play a part in creating social realities rather than simply describing them, and that objects are not distinct from the practices that bring them into being. Realities are constructed or brought into being by ‘material instrumentation,’ which are ‘the practices made possible by networks of elements that make up the inscription device.’ (Law, 2004: 21). Although the name suggests otherwise, an inscription

62 device is not necessarily an instrument or technology. It is rather ‘a set of arrangements for labelling, naming and counting’ (Law 2004: 29). In qualitative research, inscription devices could include the methods of the interview schedule, audio recording, transcription, coding, and analysis. The realities that are produced through these practices contain several assumptions, according to Law, such as out- thereness, independence, definiteness, singularity, and prior existence (pp. 24–25). Law’s assertion about reality also draws on the work of Latour and Woolgar (1986 [1979]), who note that in scientific research, realities are ‘produced along with the statements that report them.’ (1986: 38). That is, if realities appear as out-there, independent, definite, singular and prior, this appearance is ‘an effect that has been produced in practice, a consequence of method’ (Law 2004: 38; italics in original).

Law also uses the concept of enactment, which he emphasises is dependent on continual crafting, by people but often also ‘in a combination of people, techniques, texts, architectural arrangements, and natural phenomena (which are themselves being enacted and re-enacted)’ (2004: 56). Mol and Law’s notions of enactment also share some similarities with Latour’s (2005) concept of assemblage. For Latour, an object is comprised of all the associations of human and non-human actors that allow it to exist in a particular time and place. Thus, in this sense it is a ‘provisional achievement,’ rather than a starting point (2005: 208). This approach therefore proposes the need to examine the associations out of which objects are ‘made’ (2005: 233). Chapters 5, 6, 7 and 8, which form the ‘results’ section of this thesis, engage directly with this process of unpacking kinship enactments, which can be seen to be a ‘provisional achievement’ in the media, on surrogacy agency websites and in narratives of gay men.

So what does this approach mean in relation to addressing the primary research aim of this thesis, which is to understand how kinship is enacted among gay men who are pursuing parenthood through surrogacy? As Law (2004) argues, by enacting an object through research, social science methods give the sense that it is out-there, independent, definite, singular and prior (as described above). According to Law the enactment of an object through research methods will create one kind of reality but other possible realities will be be simultaneously unmade (2004: 33). By adopting this approach I acknowledge that the methods I employed will enact a particular reality of kinship and yet other possible kinships will by implication not be produced. These methods will be described in detail below. It is important to acknowledge here

63 however that these research practices, namely the sampling frame, the design of the interview schedule, the selection of participants, the recruitment process, the conduct of the interview, and the narrative genre of storytelling, all play a role in the enactment of the research object. It is these practices as well as the coding and organisation of information into themes, and the analytic approach, that have a bearing on what realities are produced by the research.

Also productive of these realities are the researcher’s own biography along with several years of discussion and exchange of ideas with supervisors and colleagues and friends about the topic. It is important, therefore, to be attentive to these practices and to consider how their discursive construction can shape the kind of data and information and apparent realities that are produced through these practices. Therefore, I have tried to conceptualise the interview data and information, as well as the media texts, as discourse. Recognising the discursive boundaries across the entire set of data and information helps me to understand better how these boundaries limit or define what can be said about a particular topic, and who can say it.

Data and information collection The following data and information were collected and analysed for this project: 1. Websites: Copy and images on the website of four surrogacy agencies based in the United States (reviewed in May 2013). 2. Print media: Articles on surrogacy published in major daily newspapers in Australia and the United States and over a five-year period (from 1 January 2006 to 31 December 2010). 3. In-depth interviews: Semi-structured interviews conducted with gay men in Australia and United States who had become parents through surrogacy or were in the process of pursuing this option at that time (recorded between October 2006 and March 2008).

Websites The first set of data and information collected for this study comprises the websites (including imagery) of four surrogacy agencies located in the United States. I reviewed the content of these websites regularly throughout the data collection period—from 2006 to 2013. The four agencies are Growing Generations (Los Angeles), Circle Surrogacy (Boston), The Center for Surrogate Parenting (Annapolis, Encino and San Diego), and Fertility Institutes, (Los Angeles, New York

64 and Guadalajara, Mexico). These agencies were purposively sampled: they were selected in a deliberative and non-random fashion to include certain key criteria. Firstly, as this thesis is examining the issue of how kinship is enacted in the context of gay men pursuing parenthood through surrogacy, I selected websites of agencies that explicitly targeted the gay community (Growing Generations and Circle Surrogacy), as well as agencies that primarily targeted heterosexual couples, but also included gay men and lesbians as potential clients (Fertility Institutes and The Center for Surrogate Parenting). To examine any differences among agencies according to their geographic location, I deliberately included agencies based in different parts of the United States. In addition, as my study addressed the meanings ascribed to gay men’s surrogacy practices in two different country settings, as well as a global context, I also included agencies that targeted international as well as US-based clients. I excluded the websites of surrogacy services based in other countries such as India and Thailand to align with the broader methodological decision to explore the particular experiences of study participants who had pursued surrogacy in North America.

The primary target audience of these websites was ‘intended parents’ or potential clients, with the secondary target audience being any potential surrogates (and sometimes also egg donors). Because this thesis aims to explore the ways in which kinship is enacted through surrogacy arrangements, I limited data and information collection primarily to the areas of these websites that targeted intended parents: home pages and web pages clearly aimed at intended parents. Included in the analysis was copy published on these pages, as well as accompanying visual imagery including photographs, logos, and page design. The relevant website pages were saved as separate files and entered into NVivo software program (QSR International) for coding and analysis.

Surrogacy agencies engaged in other promotional activities in addition to the material on their websites. Some conducted information sessions in the United States and sometimes in other countries. I attended two such events in Sydney, where I live, during the data and information collection period for this study. These information sessions were incorporated into the regular meetings of a local gay fathers’ group. At these events, I generated detailed field notes regarding their content, approach, and social dynamics. I ensured the confidentiality of participants in these events—gay fathers, or aspirant fathers—by not recording names other than those of the speakers

65 representing the surrogacy agency. To immerse myself in the field I also had an informal meeting in mid-2006 with one of the directors of a surrogacy agency in Los Angeles.

Print media Surrogacy has attracted a great deal of media attention over the last few decades. Thus, print media provided a valuable source of data and information for identifying both the degree of cultural interest in surrogacy practices and the particular issues that appear to generate controversy or concern over time and in different settings. To examine recent print media stories relating to surrogacy, I collected articles published between 1 January 2006 and 31 December 2010 in broadsheet and tabloid newspaper from a number of different states and cities in both the United States and Australia. This timeframe and publication list was chosen in order to provide a broad picture of the range of stories and events that featured during the same period of time as the in-depth interviews were conducted and also to include different geographic regions from both countries. I sourced these articles from the Factiva database (http://dowjones.com/factiva/index.asp) using the search terms, ‘surrogacy’ and ‘surrogate.’

Included were twenty daily newspapers from the United States: The New York Times, New York Post, The Washington Post, The Wall Street Journal, Chicago Tribune, Chicago Daily Herald, Los Angeles Times, Los Angeles Daily News, The Washington Times, USA Today, The San Francisco Chronicle, The Christian Science Monitor, The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, The Miami Herald, Houston Chronicle, Dallas Times Herald, The Dallas Morning News, The Boston Globe, Boston Herald, and Denver Post. I also reviewed eleven newspapers from Australia: The Age, Sunday Age, Herald-Sun, Sunday Herald Sun, The Sydney Morning Herald, Sun Herald, Daily Telegraph, Sunday Telegraph, The Australian, Australian Financial Review, and The Courier-Mail. Articles, editorials, and opinion pieces that included the words ‘surrogacy’ and ‘surrogate’ were included in the data and information set, while film, television, and book reviews were excluded. This search revealed 325 separate articles (after excluding duplicate articles). This comprised 269 articles published in the Australian print media, compared to 56 in the US print media. Figure 1 provides a summary of the total number of articles per year in both countries.

Figure 1: Articles on surrogacy by year in the United States and Australia

80 80 61 57 60 35 40 36

20 9 8 13 13 13 United States 0 2006 Australia 2007 2008 2009 2010

The articles were entered into the NVivo software package and coded according to their major content themes: gay, commercial surrogacy, celebrity, legislation/regulation, India, reproductive tourism, and court cases.

The clear difference in the overall coverage of surrogacy matters by the print media in the two countries is possibly because surrogacy is a more established practice in the United States, although the legal framework varies considerably across the different states. In contrast, surrogacy was still considered an emerging practice in Australia and therefore generated more debate and controversy. Media attention as represented by the articles included in this analysis has focused disproportionately on legislative changes related to reproductive technologies in several jurisdictions in Australia, the practice of extra-territorial surrogacy, and one high-profile case involving a federal government minister and his wife travelling to another Australian state to pursue parenthood through an altruistic surrogacy arrangement. For example, the difference between these two settings in terms of the total number of articles published was greatest in the years 2006 and 2007, when the story of the Australian federal minister received a high amount of coverage in the Australian media. In the next chapter, I analyse these media texts in relation to their discursive construction 67 and discuss in greater depth some of the possible reasons for the difference in media coverage between the two countries and between the east and west coast of the United States.

In-depth interviews My third and most significant information source was in-depth qualitative interviews (Denzin & Lincoln, 2005; Minichiello, Aroni, Timewell, & Alexander 1990; Fontana & Frey, 1994) conducted with gay men who had become or were in the process of becoming parents through surrogacy. The study was not specifically designed to explore differences between Australia and the United States. However, because commercial surrogacy is a well-established practice in the United States and Los Angeles is uniquely positioned as ‘the surrogacy capital of the gay globe’ (Stacey, 2006: 31), I decided to include men who lived in southern California. At the time I started my research in 2006 most gay men from Australia who had become parents through commercial surrogacy had been assisted by one single agency based in Los Angeles—an agency that specifically marketed its services to gay men and lesbians. Subsequently, I met other men who had used other agencies (usually in the United States but also one in Canada) as well as men who had contracted the services of surrogates living in Canada.

As I have already mentioned, I did not design the study as a comparison between the way gay men from the United States and Australia pursue surrogacy. The research approach however made me attentive to local practices and I was interested in the breadth and diversity of ways in which men based in these two settings enacted kinship, particularly considering the availability of commercial surrogacy in the United States in contrast to Australia. In addition, I was interested in exploring how Los Angeles, as an epicentre of surrogacy, influenced the kinship practices of its clients both in the city where it was located as well as those at the geographic periphery.

Sampling and recruitment Recruitment involved a purposive sampling frame consistent with the aims of the study. Participants were eligible if they were gay men who had become parents through surrogacy, or were in the process of pursuing parenthood in this way. This sampling frame obviously meant that I was excluding men who had deliberately chosen not to become parents, or those who were interested in parenthood but had

68 not yet taken any active steps to pursue this goal. Notably, I was also excluding gay men who had become parents in other ways, such as through adoption, or in the context of previous heterosexual relationships, except where these same men had also had children through surrogacy.

I recruited participants through two main strategies—advertisements on mail lists and a recruitment postcard (see Appendix B). In general, I employed similar recruitment strategies in the United States and Australia. Interviews were conducted between October 2006 and March 2008. Men in couples were offered the opportunity to be interviewed separately or together. However, I did not conduct any separate interviews with members of the same couple. In Australia I placed advertisements on gay parenting email lists in the states of New South Wales and Victoria and also on the yahoo group, gay dads. I was a member of these groups, however, I asked the moderator to post these advertisements on my behalf. I supplemented these advertisements with snowball recruitment by also asking participants to pass on details about the study to other gay men who had become parents through surrogacy. I conducted 11 interviews with men from Australia, including four interviews with individuals and seven interviews with couples. Two of the men interviewed as individuals were in a relationship but their partner was not a study participant. In total, I interviewed 18 men from Australia.

In the United States, I contacted the largest gay fathers’ group in Los Angeles in 2006. The contact person for this organisation agreed to circulate my advertisement to all members on the group’s email list. This strategy only resulted in one interview. In late 2007, I contacted the same gay fathers’ group, who sent my advertisement around again. I also contacted other gay and lesbian parenting groups in Orange County, Riverside, San Bernardino, San Diego, Santa Barbara and Ventura by email to ask if they would pass on information about my study to their members. However, only two groups definitely acted on this request, including the same group as the previous year. In the other cases, I am unaware if information about the study was sent to members because I did not receive a response from the moderators. In Los Angeles I also placed recruitment postcards for the study in a coffee shop in West Hollywood. As a result of this strategy I received two inquiries. I subsequently adopted a snowball recruitment method in which I asked interviewees to pass on details of my study to any gay men they knew who had become parents through surrogacy. This strategy produced several more participants. I visited southern

California three times throughout the study to conduct interviews—in July 2006, November 2007 and February 2008. I conducted nine interviews in the United States including six individual interviews and three couple interviews. In total, there were 12 participants from the United States. All the US participants, including the six interviewed individually, were in relationships.

Interview schedule and protocols The interview schedule focused on the participants’ experience of surrogacy. I conducted all the interviews and commenced each with the same question, which asked participants to describe their family. I then followed a semi-structured format in the sense that subsequent questions were not always asked in the same sequence. This format allowed the participants to tell their stories in a way that made sense to them and also allowed them to highlight particular issues or experiences that were not in the schedule or may not have been raised in a more structured format. The interview schedule covered the following areas: family description, desire for parenthood, reasons for pursuing surrogacy, legal and institutional arrangements and barriers to parenthood, decisions about biogenetic paternity, selection of egg donors and gestational surrogates. While conducting the interviews I paid particular attention to the language that was used in the interviews, in order to create a ‘sharedness of meanings’ (Fontana & Frey, 2005) between the researcher and participants. First, this was attended to by reflecting on the words used by participants to describe their current or intended relationship with their children— such as ‘parent’, ‘father’, or ‘dad’. Also, with regards to their accounts of surrogates and egg donors, I reflected on the language used by the study participants, for example whether they referred to these women’s first names or used a generic label such as ‘the egg donor’. Second, I paid attention to the participants’ use of language by not seeking to clarify or correct terminology. At the end of the interview I reviewed the schedule to ensure that all the questions had been covered and asked the participants if there were any other things they would like to add that had not already come up in the course of the interview. The interview schedule is included as Appendix C. The Human Research Ethics Committee of the University of New South Wales, Australia, granted approval for the study (Approval number HREC 06029).

I conducted the interviews in a range of different locations. As most of the participants had infant children, the interviews usually occurred in the men’s homes.

Several interviews took place in other locations, such as a cafe, restaurant, and on one occasion a park. On one occasion, the interview was not conducted face-to-face because the participants were overseas at the time but were keen to be included in the study. This interview, with a couple, was conducted via online chat. The interviews were between 35 and 90 minutes in duration. The interviews were digitally recorded and transcribed by a professional transcriber. From the transcriptions I removed all identifying information such as the names of participants, partners, family members, surrogates and egg donors. These names were replaced by pseudonyms.

Data analysis I undertook a thematic analysis of the interview material, which Braun & Clarke (2006) describe as the ‘foundational’ and most common method of analysing qualitative data. My analysis combined an inductive approach (Boyatzis, 1998), and a template approach (Crabtree & Miller, 1999). This latter method involves applying a template in the form of codes from a codebook as a way of organising text for interpretation. When using a template, a researcher defines the template (or codebook) before commencing an in-depth analysis of the data. The codebook for this study was developed prior to data collection through my review of the empirical and theoretical literature, and was also informed by the original research questions. The design of the semi-structured interview schedule also influenced the themes I included in the codebook. In addition to this a priori approach, I also generated supplementary codes in a systematic and reflexive way across the data set following the coding system steps as described by Boyatzis (1998), which includes determining labels, defining what is included in (and excluded from) each theme, and deciding how to identify the occurrence of new themes. This stepwise process included thoroughly familiarising myself with the data, and noting down initial ideas as they emerged through this process (Braun & Clarke, 2006).

As I conducted the interviews over an extended period, I was able to transcribe the earliest interviews and read them several times before coding them. This reading and re-reading of the initial interviews gave me the opportunity to review the codes, to check these codes against the preliminary interview data, and to add new codes as described above. This process resulted in re-ordering the codes into a smaller group of main themes, most of which contained sub-themes. I coded data relevant to each theme using QSR NVivo data management program, collated codes into potential themes, and reviewed these themes across the coded extracts. I then undertook the

71 coding and analysis of the whole data set based on the codes confirmed in my analysis of the preliminary data. This process of coding and analysis allowed for the identification of similarities and differences across the interviews. I ensured rigour in this process by referring to, and refining, the coding, throughout this analysis. Themes were not discussed explicitly with participants, however I discussed emerging themes regularly and in-depth with the supervision team as well as with colleagues and fellow students. I also ‘tested’ these themes by presenting them at various conferences and forums throughout the life of the project. All the feedback I received through such discussions and feedback from peers informed my analysis of these data.

Study participants A summary of participants is provided in Table 1. In all, 30 men were interviewed as part of the study: 12 in California, 16 in Australia, and an Australian couple living temporarily in Europe. All participants from the United States lived in Los Angeles or Palm Springs. Participants from Australia lived in the eastern states of New South Wales, Queensland and Victoria. Most participants were in long-term relationships. Two were single at the time of interview. Two others had been single when they started pursuing parenthood but they were both in relationships at the time of interview. Of the men in relationships, these relationships had ranged in length from two and a half to 18 years. The men came from a range of ethnic backgrounds, describing themselves as Anglo or Caucasian, European, Chinese or another Asian heritage, Mexican, African-American and Native American. Several men were in mixed-ethnic couples. Many of the men—and in fact the majority of the Australian participants—had been born outside the country in which they currently resided. The mean age of the men interviewed was 39.7 years (range 25 to 62 years) and the majority of men were in their 30s or 40s.

Notably, the mean age of participants was the same as two other recent studies of gay men pursuing surrogacy through agencies and clinics in the United States (Bergman et al., 2010) and Canada (Grover et. al., 2012). The household incomes of participants averaged over $USD200,000 per year. Most participants were in professional occupations, such as law and medicine. A small number reported that they operated their own businesses. Several US participants worked in the entertainment industry.

Table 1: Interview participants

Interview Participants’ Partner’s pseudonym (if Country number pseudonyms not interviewed) 1 Robert & James – Australia 2 Jamie & Darren – Australia 3 Andrew – Australia 4 Brian & David – Australia 5 Damon & Nick – Australia 6 Jeremy Allan Australia 7 Ian & Terry – Australia 8 Basil & Paulo – Australia 9 Patrick & Phillip – Australia 10 Steve Lleyton Australia 11 Donald – Australia 12 Kevin & Rick – United States 13 Paul Matthias United States 14 Joe & Rupert – United States 15 Ron & Carlos – United States 16 Sam Thomas United States 17 Keith Malcolm United States 18 Rocco Sebastian United States 19 Jack Adrian United States 20 Michael Dino United States

The participants had 31 children in total, with four current pregnancies at the time of interview. Among these children, 26 were born through surrogacy, ranging from one month to nine years of age. In all but one case, the surrogacy arrangement had been coordinated by an agency based in the United States. The only non-US surrogacy arrangement was coordinated through an agency in Canada, and the child was also born in that country. One participant had a child through a non-commercial surrogacy arrangement. In this case, the surrogate was a friend of the participant; however, a commercial egg donor was used. All but one of the surrogacy arrangements were gestational, meaning that the eggs from one woman were fertilised and then the resulting embryo was transferred to another woman who carried and gave birth to the child or children. The majority of egg donors were anonymous. For one couple, the sister of the non-biogenetic father was the egg donor. Some participants had other children prior to pursuing parenthood through surrogacy. One man had a child from a previous heterosexual relationship. Two of the US participants (both of whom were part of a couple) also had one adopted child each, one of which was adopted domestically and the other transnationally. One Australian couple were known-donor fathers with a lesbian couple. At the time of interview one other Australian couple were discussing a co-parenting arrangement with a lesbian couple. One couple, also Australian, had acted as foster parents, but that child was no longer living with them.

The shared and diverse experiences of gay men pursuing parenthood through surrogacy were the focus of my interest, with the two settings offering opportunities to provide a broader picture of how these men navigated this terrain. However, I did pay particular attention to local practices and enactments of kinship in relation to surrogacy. Differences between the two national contexts—often based on the availability of commercial surrogacy—emerged as an important issue and as a point of consideration in the recruitment, data and information collection, and analysis.

Key concepts in data and information analysis My approach to data and information analysis included an internal analysis of the material that formed each data and information set—print media, surrogacy agency websites, and interview transcripts—as well as an analysis that spanned across all the different data and information sets. I engaged in learning about how contemporary social research methodology and theory could inform my approach to thinking about and interpreting the material. In addition to the concept of enactment, discussed above, I discuss two further important concepts (discourse and juxtaposition) in the remainder of this chapter. Each was essential to the development of my approaches to data and information analysis.

Discourse According to Foucault (1984), discourse is a historically specific system of meaning that shapes identities of subjects and objects (1984: 49). Discourse also refers to a formalised way of thinking that can be manifested through language, creating a boundary around what can be said about a specific topic. This boundary making therefore delineates ‘the limits of acceptable speech’—or possible truth (Butler, 2004). Alternatively, as Karen Barad (2007) says, drawing on Foucault (1977; 1980), discursive practices are the material conditions related to power that define what counts as meaningful statements (Barad, 2007: 63). Discourse is shaped by three aspects, which can be summarised as objects, ritual, and privilege: what can be spoken of; where and how one may speak; and who may speak. Chosen discourses provide the vocabulary, expressions, and style needed to communicate. Two or more notably distinct discourses can be used to make sense of the same object or phenomenon. These discourses are embedded in the rhetorical genres that constrain and enable them. In the context of the current study, for example, surrogacy could be described either as ‘baby buying,’ in which privileged (mostly) White Westerners exploit working class women, or as ‘equal rights’ for gay men who are seeking to

74 form families. These divergent possibilities illustrate how discourses play a significant role in mediating meanings and shaping the parameters of the particular realities being constructed.

By taking a discursive approach to the data and information in this study, I therefore aimed to look beyond the manifest meanings to examine the invisible or hidden meanings of the text and to identify the ontological limits imposed by discursive choices. This approach draws attention to the rhetorical devices, i.e., the style, as well as the subject matter. It comprises two dimensions: the textual and the contextual. For example, how are the visual, linguistic and contextual elements of the text involved in the construction of meaning and value? In addition, what broader discourses or repertoires does the text draw upon? The theoretical approach that has most influenced this approach is Discourse Theoretical Analysis (DTA), developed by Laclau and Mouffe (1985) and subsequently applied to media, culture, and art by Carpentier and Spinoy (2008). Critical to this approach is the understanding that media, and narratives produced in interviews, do not passively reflect facts, but can instead be seen as practices that produce, reproduce and transform social phenomena (Carpentier & Spinoy, 2008: 17).

Included in Chapter 5 is an analysis of media and websites of surrogacy agencies that asks whether media practices function as part of a hegemonic project in which particular forms of kinship (and surrogacy) obtain social dominance (Carpentier & De Cleen, 2007; Carpentier & Spinoy, 2008; Laclau & Mouffe, 1985). The objective of such projects may be to construct and stabilise signifiers so that they become a social imaginary, that is, not just one object among many possible others, but as devices which structure a field of intelligibility and the conditions of possibility within which objects come to relate to each other (Carpentier & De Cleen, 2007; Howarth, 1998; Laclau, 1990). Kinship and surrogacy, in this view, can be seen to act as floating signifiers (Carpentier & De Cleen, 2007: 279), which means that they have no fixed or unique meaning but rather are articulated through and shaped by different discourses and take on different meanings according to the specifics of these articulations. This approach has implications for research design and analysis in the sense that it emphasises the importance of gathering texts from different sources, for example from media and web-based materials of surrogacy agencies, sampling widely within each data source, and being attentive to attempts to close down rather than open up new possibilities for thinking about surrogacy and kinship.

A discursive analysis of surrogacy practices and representations makes it possible to examine assumptions made about the audience, as well as ask how the text is similar to, or differs from, other texts on the same subject. Such an analysis examines the enactment of the object (surrogacy) by people (journalists, agency directors, clinicians, lawyers, psychologists, and ‘ordinary’ citizens), techniques (genres such as human interest, science out of control, moral panic, commodification, ‘best interests of the child’), texts (written copy, as well as accompanying photography), spatial arrangements (geographic location, country and state of residence, citizenship), and so-called natural phenomena (parenthood desire, procreation, birth, biogenetic inheritance). Media can also obscure a ‘hinterland’ (Law 2004) of other possibilities that might enact surrogacy and kinship in different ways. These practices include the conventions of journalism (the appearance of balanced reporting and statement of ‘facts’) and assumptions about the disposition of the reader (outrage, sympathy, concern, fear, desire). Importantly, however, following in particular Barad (2007) and Mol (2002), I was not interested in treating these texts as direct insights into the ‘nature’ of surrogacy, which would be to suggest that surrogacy is pre-existing and that some representations are closer to the truth than others. Rather, I am arguing that these practices enact surrogacy, and that these enactments have implications for how kinship is understood. As will be seen in Chapter 5 this means I did not approach media and the websites of surrogacy agencies as different representations of surrogacy, but instead as practices that are performative of what constitutes surrogacy, and in fact produce a number of different surrogacies.

In-depth, face-to-face interviews allow participants the opportunity, within the parameters of the topic of interest, to provide an account of their own experiences in their own words. The interview provides some possibilities for generating new and unexpected accounts and does not pre-determine the available options in the same way as the classic instruments of quantitative research, such as surveys or questionnaires. However, it is also important to acknowledge that the accounts provided by research participants—even in the most unstructured interview design— do not provide some kind of direct or privileged access to any particular truth. Their words do not represent a reality that other methods obscure; rather, they come to represent a particular enactment of reality, constructed at a particular moment in time. These accounts are therefore just as shaped by discourse, as are the media and

76 web-based promotional materials. As Law (2004) notes, there are not necessarily any independent or a priori processes out there waiting to be discovered, if only we had the correct methods to adequately access or illuminate them (2004: 6).

Juxtaposition The process of data and information analysis also led me to consider carefully the role of the research process in turning these materials into insights and to consider the implications of the ways in which different data and information sources are placed in relation to each other. John Law (2007) encourages a novel way of approaching analysis that brings all data and information sources together and encourages analysis in a way that subverts orthodoxies. This approach abandons what he sees as the hierarchy of social science research. A book, or in this case a thesis, ‘is a system of juxtapositions, a set of techniques for arranging elements to produce reality effects’ (Law, 2007: 131; italics in original). Following Latour (1990), he also argues that a study draws things together: ‘it puts them in relation to one another’ (Latour, 1990, cited in Law 2007: 131). Law argues that as a book organises material, ‘it enacts the significance of its components, and . . . it does so in particular ways’ (Law, 2007: 131). Therefore, in order not to give greater weight to one form of data and information over others, or to privilege particular enactments of reality over others, Law recommends arranging data and information using the device of a traditional pin board. Law (2007) used this method to analyse the outbreak of foot-and-mouth disease in Britain, and it was taken up by Celia Roberts (2010) in analysing discourses relating to early puberty. The main advantages of this approach are that by conceptualising the arrangement of data and information visually on a pin board, it is possible to both flatten out any presumed hierarchies and to also push things together to create interesting tensions that will not be seen when materials are organised in more traditional ways—such as in books or on maps.

In the case of kinship and surrogacy, this methodological approach meant that I placed the laws governing surrogacy and other reproductive technologies next to stories of gay men (who feared having their child taken away as they moved through airport immigration) and contrasting tabloid media headlines about gay men buying babies with the personal narratives of embryo transfers, a supreme court decision to uphold a surrogacy contract, and the profiles of potential surrogates published on agency websites. Although a certain order or logic is taken as a starting point, for example, that the concepts of biogenetics, choice, and value all contribute to the

77 enactment of kinship, this process also allows surprising associations to be considered. Engaging with this process attempts to take up Law’s (2004) challenge to imagine research methods that do not seek the definite, the repeatable, or the stable, but can be open to instability, tensions, and incoherence (2004: 6).

Examining how the data and information relate to each other in this way, new possibilities emerged in the areas of space, time, and singularity (Law 2007). Taking this approach meant that I was not assuming that one data and information set was closer to the truth than any others; further, I was not assuming there was a singular truth to get close to in any case. The implications of this approach meant that kinship was ‘flattened out’ and no longer viewed as hierarchical. That is, the design of the interview schedule did not position the theoretical and empirical literature and legal frameworks as determining kinship. Neither did it assume that gay men’s personal narratives provided a response that either contested or reproduced dominant kinship models. Also, things were not necessarily excluded because they do not fit into the story. Instead, the possibilities of kinship were able to be seen when taking this approach because the practices of the participants in the study were accorded equal weight with theories, law and expertise. In terms of time, the linear structuring of events (with its implied causality) was interrupted by viewing the past and present together. Therefore, for example, gay men’s narratives about their experiences of having children through surrogacy can be viewed as producing parenthood desire, rather than the other way around. Even the development of new reproductive technologies could be thought about in ways other than as the cause of what they enable. For example, has the evolution of gestational surrogacy as the norm been the outcome or the cause of changes in reproductive technologies?

Finally, this approach meant not having to conceptualise kinship as singular and coherent. I was freed from the impossible attempt of making every piece of data and information fit into an overall picture like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, and instead able to identify different surrogacies as they were being made or enacted. According to Mol (2002), things may seem solid and may seem to have a history that they acquired some time ago, but thinking about objects or realities as being continually enacted ‘gives them a complex present, too, a present in which their identities are fragile and may differ between sites’ (Mol 2002: 43; also cited in Law 2004: 57). This approach emphasises the need to question the power of research to uncover the singular reality of a given phenomenon—a reality that existed prior to the methods

78 used to make it knowable. According to Mol’s (2002) notion of ontological multiplicity, if practices enact objects rather than discovering them, it follows that there must be some variation between objects even if they are given the same label.

Juxtaposing material enabled me to reflect on the function that each type of data and information tended to perform. Legislation allows, and disallows, surrogacy, and therefore families and kinship; print media describes; it also evokes. Often what is being evoked in the print media is outrage (at the excess, the inappropriateness) of gay men or celebrities having children through surrogacy. The websites also evoke, but typically the successful outcomes of surrogacy, that is happy people with children, through statistics, images, and testimonials. The failed attempts—the heartbreaks of infertility that are common in print media accounts of surrogacy, for example—are nowhere to be seen. The narratives of gay men who have had children through surrogacy also evoke. The evocation here is of social justice, and of a ‘natural’ desire for children. The exercise of placing these material together heterogeneously in the same place draws attention to their tensions (Law 2007: 129). It also highlights some of the epistemological practices of research and reveals the constructed nature of research.

Conclusions This chapter outlined the methodological approach I have taken to explore the primary research aim and individual research questions of this thesis. Print media, the websites of surrogacy agencies and in-depth interviews with gay men form the sets of data and information used to examine this question. The key methodological concepts, in particular ‘enactment,’ which have influenced this project, have come mostly from the field of science and technology studies (STS). Other concepts for analysing these data and information include discourse, and juxtaposition. These concepts have been useful for approaching the research questions related to kinship and surrogacy, by thinking about objects as emerging through practices, and highlighting how discursive practices place limits on what can be said and frame and structure the emergence of different phenomena. These approaches encourage self- reflection on the part of the researcher in also drawing attention to the way in which realities are also produced by the tools of social science themselves.

The next chapter is the first of four data and information analysis chapters and it focuses on representations of gay men’s surrogacy practices as they are enacted on

79 surrogacy agency websites and in print media. In that chapter, I explore the multiple surrogacies and kinships that become evident in relation to these new uses and experiences of reproductive technologies and in considering how these are seen to be coordinated or in conflict in these different discursive settings.

CHAPTER 5: BRAVE NEW WORLD: REPRESENTING GAY MEN’S SURROGACY PRACTICES

Introduction In this chapter I analyse a range of media and cultural texts that are engaged in enacting surrogacy as a cultural practice. Drawing on Laclau and Mouffe’s (1985) Discourse Theoretical Analysis (DTA) (see also Carpentier & De Cleen, 2007; Carpentier & Spinoy, 2008; Carpentier, & Trioen, 2010), this chapter first examines promotional materials on the websites of commercial surrogacy agencies based in the United States and then examines print media articles from Australia and the United States related to surrogacy. These materials illustrate the contested discursive terrain negotiated by the men who pursue parenthood through surrogacy. The analysis examines the way gay men are framed in relation to other potential surrogacy clients or users. My argument is that these texts enact surrogacy in particular ways and that these discursive enactments provide the conditions of possibility through which gay men’s own experiences of surrogacy are shaped.

The DTA approach involves looking beyond the traditional model of communication, which focuses on the exchange of messages, towards a broader conceptualisation of discourse (Torfing, 1999: 218). This approach is based on the notion that meaning is constructed discursively through the hegemonic operations of media industries and practices. Most important is the understanding that the message, communicators (both actual and potential) and audience are all, as Torfing (1999) explains, ‘discursively constructed in and through forms of power that are not reducible to the interest-driven and relatively predictable effects of the communicative actions of the sender’ (1999: 219). This chapter explores the extent to which messages, communicators and audiences emerge in these texts.

Websites of surrogacy agencies The Internet has increasingly become a place where fertility clinics and surrogacy agencies advertise their services and where people find out about third-party reproduction, such as donor insemination and surrogacy (Shenfield et al., 2010; Hudson et al., 2011). This development makes the Internet an important site for research, in particular for the study of virtual communities of potential users of reproductive services (Inhorn & Gürtin, 2011). This chapter does not attempt to study the activities of such virtual communities but has the more modest aim of

81 describing the promotional activities of large surrogacy agencies through those agencies’ own websites. As will be described in the interview analysis chapters, the ways in which the gay men in this study became engaged with the surrogacy option were very much shaped by the promotional activities of these agencies. Some men, as described in Chapter 6, found out about surrogacy through the websites of agencies or information sessions at which representatives of these agencies were present. For some men, this was the first time they realised there was a possibility of having children ‘of one’s own.’ It is significant that these agencies framed gay male parenthood in both positive and realistic (or achievable) ways that had hitherto not been experienced by these men.

Apart from being an important source of knowledge about surrogacy and the possibility for parenthood, the commercial agencies, which were based in the United States, shape the way in which surrogacy is pursued through both their advertising strategies and their policies. What I am particularly interested in here is the extent to which gay men in this study accepted and reproduced the narratives of surrogacy agencies, or to what extent they challenged or reinvented them. In particular, I was interested in accounts about who would be accepted as a client, the appropriate degree of interaction between clients and surrogates, and even the type of procedures that would be undertaken. For example, the shift in favour of gestational surrogacy over ‘traditional’ surrogacy is likely to have been influenced by advice from agencies and gendered/genetic understandings of maternal attachment to biogenetically related children. The shift has also been supported by case law in California (Johnson v. Calvert, 1993) which held that ‘intention’ confers parentage rights. Additionally the California Supreme Court also provides for the intended parents—including same- sex couples—to be granted parentage if a pre-birth paternity judgement has been obtained (Berkowitz, 2013; Lev, 2006).

A description of these agencies assists in explaining how surrogacy services are organised and who they imagine as their primary intended client base or audience. In this section I analyse how surrogacy is enacted through the websites of the agencies. Included in this analysis are the promotional materials (written copy and imagery) from four surrogacy agency websites. This selection of agencies includes those that specifically target the gay community, such as Growing Generations (http://www.growinggenerations.com) and Circle Surrogacy (http://www.circlesurrogacy.com). I discuss these sites in greatest detail, as over half

82 the men in this study used these agencies, in particular Growing Generations. Also examined are two older surrogacy agencies (The Fertility Institutes and the Center for Surrogate Parenting), which did not primarily target gay men as clients but did offer services to gay men and lesbians—although the latter provided services only to couples (both gay and straight). This agency was also used by several participants in the study. Of particular interest in describing these agencies’ websites is the how the agency positioned itself in relation to other agencies and to other ways of achieving parenthood.

Gay-specific agencies The two agencies that fall into this category both describe themselves as ‘pioneers’ in offering services to gay men. A gay man and a lesbian (both of whom had children of their own through surrogacy) founded Growing Generations in Los Angeles in 1996. Among the men interviewed for this study, over half had used Growing Generations to become parents. In addition, in another four interviews, men indicated they had initially made contact with this agency or even started the matching process, but had moved to a different agency because of differences of opinion. In one additional case, Keith and Malcolm noted that they would have used Growing Generations, but, because at that stage the agency had not moved to assisting in making gestational surrogacy arrangements, their lawyer advised against using it.

This section briefly describes the way the agency presents itself in terms of the information, organisation and design of the material on its website. On its home page, Growing Generations described itself as follows: Since 1996, Growing Generations, a surrogacy and egg donation agency, has been a company passionately dedicated to the vision of creating life and, in the process, changing the world. Growing Generations was the first surrogacy agency dedicated to serving the gay and lesbian community and the only agency to offer online egg donor videos. Growing Generations has expanded beyond its gay surrogacy program to work with all family types, regardless of marital status or sexual orientation (http://www.growinggenerations.com).

Additionally, in a dedicated page on HIV in the section of the site for intended parents, Growing Generations described its provision of surrogacy and egg donation services since 2006 to HIV-positive men as an example of its ground-breaking role in the field. At that time, the agency ‘launched a program to provide its services for people with HIV—allowing them for the first time to become biological parents

83 through surrogacy. Since then, more than 50 babies have been born to parents with HIV and the number grows every year’ (http://www.growinggenerations.com).

The design of the Growing Generations website, including the imagery used, made it clear that their primary audience was prospective parents. The line, ‘Worlds Created, Lives Changed,’ appeared at the head of every page. An additional mission statement, ‘We Deliver: Family dreams since 1996,’ appeared on the home page. The site provided different sections for surrogacy and egg donation; both sections were further divided into subsections for intended parents and surrogates (in the case of the former) and intended parents and egg donors (in the case of the latter). A section of the site entitled, ‘Explore GG,’ provided links to pages on history, mission and vision, reviews, and staff profiles. The logo featured on all pages of the site was the company’s name at the centre of an image of a tree, which signifies both fertility and genealogy. The main photograph on the home page was an image of a gay couple and their two children. A video on the home page provided a message from the agency’s founders.

The language used by the agency on its website invoked the notion of a global gay and lesbian community. Its mission statement in the ‘About us’ section of the site noted its intention ‘[T]o value and serve individuals and couples all over the world who want to have and raise children, regardless of sexual orientation, marital status, or HIV status’ (http://www.growinggenerations.com). The proportion of single male clients, both gay and straight, was reported by one of the agency’s founders to have risen to 24 per cent of its total clients (Navarro, 2008). A triptych of maps on the page devoted to the agency’s history charted the geographic expansion and number of live births from 1996 to over 1,000 in 2013 covering all continents). The section of the site, ‘Surrogacy for Intended Parents,’ provided potential clients with the option of consulting in person in Los Angeles, New York or throughout Europe, or online. These consultations could be conducted in a number of languages, namely English, Spanish, Catalan, Chinese, Italian and French. The agency also emphasised its leadership in the area of technical innovation in relation to both reproductive and communication technologies. Apart from offering services for HIV-positive men, Growing Generations claimed to be the first agency to introduce videos on its egg donor profiles. Several of the study participants who used Growing Generations also noted this use of videos.

One of the appeals of an agency like Growing Generations, apart from explicitly offering services to gay male clients, was that it offered a complete service. As Rocco, one of the US participants put it: ‘They basically are a one-stop shop, so everything from finding the egg donor to surrogate to the lawyers to psychologists to insurance companies, medical companies, life insurance. I mean, you name it, they cover it.’ Also, as noted by some of the interviewees, Growing Generations formerly conducted weekend retreats where prospective parents and surrogates could get together after matching had taken place, although these events had been discontinued at the time of the research. Some of the men in this study described these occasions as confirming that they had been matched with an appropriate surrogate and observed that other prospective parents had been matched with surrogates who seemed appropriate for them.

Not surprisingly, surrogacy agencies placed a great deal of emphasis on the notion of ‘choice.’ Growing Generations’ previous motto was in fact, ‘Building families of choice since 1996.’ (However, this was changed to, ‘We Deliver. Family dreams since 1996,’ as mentioned above.) The way choice was used on the site was associated with ‘intent’ and placed emphasis on the biogenetic connections that the ‘families of choice concept’ originally challenged. Biogenetic connection was deployed strategically by the agencies to prioritise some connections as relational and others as not. What is particularly interesting here is the way in which surrogates were represented as not biogenetically connected to the children to which they give birth.

This idea of surrogates as merely custodial is underlined by the trend towards gestational surrogacy. In fact, on all the sites discussed here, a preference for gestational over traditional surrogacy arrangements was explicitly stated or implicitly assumed. Growing Generations cited the move to gestational surrogacy as an innovation that was led by their clients’ needs. On the page devoted to the history of the agency, they described this in a somewhat counterintuitive way by suggesting that, although previously most surrogates used their own eggs, ‘[B]ecause so many of our clients were men, egg donation became a greater and greater need. So, we started an egg donor company’ (http://www.growinggenerations.com). However, it is not immediately clear why the needs of gay men would have necessitated this shift. Unlike some heterosexual couples, none of these men would have been able to provide their own eggs and presumably, only a relatively small number would have

85 had a known egg donor, such as a sister, as was the case for one couple in this study. It seems rather more likely that the shift towards gestational surrogacy as the dominant practice, thereby separating the genetic and gestational roles and privileging the intention to have a child over all other possible claims to kinship was determined by other factors.

The other main gay pioneer agency, Circle Surrogacy (based in Boston), was established in 1995, making it slightly older than Growing Generations. Although it was not established as an agency specifically targeting gay men, on its home page, this agency claimed to be one of the largest and provided services for ‘gay and heterosexual parents all over the world.’ In total, the agency had facilitated over 650 births (http://www.circlesurrogacy.com). The agency’s logo was suggestive of a child’s face, or perhaps a pregnant woman (or both). The images of families on its home page include gay men alongside heterosexual couples, as might be expected, given the proportion of clients who are from this group. The site had a section for ‘parents’ (and ‘gay parenting’ formed a further subsection of this part of the site). Other sections of the site were aimed at surrogates and donors. Like Growing Generations, Circle Surrogacy promoted its inclusion of HIV-positive men as clients and on the ‘FAQs’ page in the parenting section of the site noted its partnership with a laboratory in Boston to provide a Special Program of Assisted Reproduction (SPAR) program, which undertakes sperm washing techniques and HIV testing.

In addition, the agency offered expertise in international surrogacy law and on its home page noted its record in assisting ‘intended parents from well over 50 countries bring home children safely.’ Apart from its Boston headquarters, the website referred to representatives in Denver, the UK and Sweden. Further, in addition to the countries with permanent representation, the ‘Events’ section of the site noted upcoming information sessions to be held in France, Germany and Iceland. Like Growing Generations, in its information targeted to parents, the agency emphasised its staff members’ knowledge of several languages, in this case, French, Spanish, and Russian. Also similar to Growing Generations, this site offered a large base of surrogates and donors—over 1,000 egg donors. In the case of Circle Surrogacy, the notion of the inherent rights of intended parents was made explicit in the information for parents. This was emphasised through the agency’s ‘legal contacts in many foreign countries and in nearly every US state,’ and suggestions that this legal

86 expertise enabled it to understand ‘what is needed for gay and heterosexual intended parents to go home with their legal rights as fully secure as possible.’

The policies adopted by these agencies are likely to have significant impacts on the way parenthood is pursued by gay men. As noted in relation to Growing Generations, the agencies were strongly in favour of gestational surrogacy. As with Growing Generations, it was clear that Circle Surrogacy promoted this option. However, it noted in the ‘FAQs’ section of the site for surrogates that, ‘in rare cases, we will consider traditional surrogacy.’ The equivalent section of the site for parents explained the difference between traditional and gestational surrogacy but did not include the same note about willingness to consider traditional surrogacy. Instead, the page stated that gestational surrogacy contracts ‘make up the vast majority of modern surrogacy arrangements.’ This framing of gestational surrogacy as the most common, as well as the most modern, form of surrogacy indicated a subtle form of guidance in terms of what is considered the most preferred option. Unlike Growing Generations, which seemed to have no particular preference in relation to egg donors, Circle Surrogacy strongly favoured known egg donation, which on the ‘Parents’ section on the site it claimed, ‘provides ongoing access to the egg donor’s medical history and gives each child an understanding of their genetic makeup when they get older.’

Also of note here is the language used in relation to selecting egg donors and surrogates. Both Growing Generation and Circle Surrogacy emphasised that intended parents were ‘matched’ with surrogates. However, in contrast, they used the language of ‘choosing’ egg donors (although there was some slippage, particularly in the case of Circle Surrogacy between choice and matching in the case of donors). This difference was quite stark in the way Growing Generations described the selection of egg donors and information that was made available in assisting this choice. For example, in the ‘Egg Donation’ section of the site for intended parents, the page describing how the process worked included examples of the criteria by which one could select a donor—height, eye and hair colour, blood type, ethnicity, and state of residence. There were also photos and a video of each donor. Information about choosing surrogates emphasised reducing the financial and emotional risk and included such things as legal aspects, state of residence, and the screening process, which included psychological evaluation, medical examination, drug testing and a criminal background check.

The language of ‘matching’ versus ‘choosing’ was reiterated in the interviews conducted for this study, which suggests that the distinction was meaningful for participants. In the case of eggs, one chooses the criteria on which the selection is made, as described above; but with the gestational surrogate one is matched according to particular criteria. Chapter 7 and Chapter 8 explore this notion of matching in greater detail; in general, the criteria that men reported being matched (or not matched) on were sexuality, religion, intentions about raising the children, and willingness to agree to multiple embryo transfers, selective reduction, and availability for subsequent pregnancies. Chapter 8 also poses the question of whether this distinction serves to deal with ambivalence towards of the egg donor. By being chosen, are eggs (via donors) more easily conceptualised simply a resource that does not invoke kinship?

Gay-inclusive agencies In addition to the agencies that prioritise gay men in particular as clients, other agencies do not primarily provide services to the gay community but are openly inclusive of gay men as clients. The Center for Surrogate Parenting (http://www.creatingfamilies.com) is one such large, national agency, with offices in Encino, California, and Annapolis, Maryland. Several of the participants in this study had used the services of the Center for Surrogate Parenting. According to the information on its home page this agency had facilitated over 1,770 CSP births.

The agency was established in 1986; before that, the director coordinated surrogacy contracts as an attorney. Despite not having its primary focus on gay clientele, the Center for Surrogate Parenting claimed to have had its first gay male clients in the late 1980s, which is earlier than either of the two nominal gay pioneer agencies. It claimed to be the first agency to assist a gay couple to become parents through surrogacy. Despite this excitement regarding their role in facilitating new approaches to forming families, the ‘Gay Parenting’ section of the site stated that for this agency it is not the sexuality of the couple per se that is important, but rather the ‘desire’ and ‘intent’ to create a family.

The most significant policy difference between the Center for Surrogate Parenting’s website and those already discussed was the emphasis they placed on couples. Although the promotional material of the other agencies assumed that the majority of

88 clients were couples, they also explicitly highlighted their willingness to provide services for individuals. In contrast, the Center for Surrogate Parenting had an explicit policy of providing services only for couples, either heterosexual or gay. As it stated in the ‘Gay parenting’ section, ‘We do require that our clients be in a committed relationship, and we cannot work with single individuals.’

In many ways, the overall design and appearance of the site was not dissimilar from the two already described. The agency logo was the letters, ‘CSP,’ with the first two letters in brushstrokes and joined in a way that was suggestive of a sperm cell, with the motto, ‘Creating Families’ alongside it. One notable difference from the other sites was the section on the home page that featured news stories about celebrities that had been clients of Center for Surrogate Parenting, such as Elton John and Elizabeth Banks. Presumably, these stories aimed to promote the agency’s brand over other agencies by emphasising its link with celebrities. Courting the media and attaching the agency’s name to celebrities was, of course, not particular to this agency; for example, the fact that Growing Generations had facilitated Sarah Jessica Parker and Mathew Broderick in becoming parents was promoted by that agency’s statements to the media.

The home page of the Center for Surrogate Parenting’s website presented visitors with three main options: ‘Become a Parent,’ ‘Become a Surrogate, and ‘Gay Parenting.’ The link to each of these sections was represented by a photograph that featured a number of alternating images that change when the page is refreshed. The ‘Become a Parent’ and ‘Gay Parenting’ sections were represented by several different images of people with children, presumably indicating satisfied clients. All the images representing ‘Become a Surrogate’ included a pregnant woman standing alone (either against a white background or dressed in white), with her hand protectively covering the unborn child. ‘Gay Parenting’ included photographs of different men with children, all of them in outdoor environments and usually engaged in activities such as cycling, walking, or other forms of recreation.

This section of the site included extensive information specifically for gay men and was a separate sub-site with its own domain name, www.gaysurrogacyagency.com, with a different design and colour scheme from the main site. This sub-site contained links to other pages including pages describing legal aspects, matching with surrogates, services for international clients, and testimonials from previous clients.

The gay subsection of the site was divided into two programs: one related to IVF and egg donation (i.e., gestational surrogacy) and the other to ‘artificial insemination’ (traditional surrogacy). What is particularly fascinating is how the agency provided very detailed advice for gay male couples about how to proceed with surrogacy. In relation to gestational surrogacy this included three options: 1. Half of the egg donor’s eggs are fertilized with the sperm of one partner and the other with the second partners’ sperm. The surrogate mother is then implanted with two embryos, one genetically related to each dad. The blessing of this arrangement is that the resulting children are therefore biologically related to both parents and biologically related to each other through their egg donor.

2. The egg donor’s eggs are all fertilized by one father.

3. The sister or family member of one partner is the egg donor and these eggs are fertilized by the sperm of the second partner. The advantage of this situation is that the child is biologically related to both fathers (http://www.creatingfamilies.com).

It is clear that the agency was positioning biogenetic connection to both male partners as preferable for clients. Biogenetic connection could be achieved either simultaneously through siblings, who would also be biogenetically related to each other through the genetic material of the egg donor, or alternatively indirectly through the sperm of one partner and the egg of the non-biogenetic father’s sister, who would in this sense be ‘standing in’ for her brother. Chapter 7 describes the strategies undertaken by gay men in the study with regard to biogenetic connection in surrogacy arrangements and the understandings thereof. Those strategies connect very closely with the information outlined on this site, although presumably they are mutually reinforcing rather than being dictated by the agencies. However, the main reason for describing these sites was to demonstrate how the large surrogacy agencies potentially, and presumably also in practice, have a major influence on the practices of gay men seeking to parent.

The way traditional surrogacy was described in this section of the sub-site is also interesting in terms of the way it ‘normalised’ a particular reproductive strategy: The surrogate is inseminated with the sperm of the intended biological father. As a general rule most [insemination] pregnancies are singletons with only 1% resulting in twins. In our experience, after the birth of their child, the second partners’ sperm is used to achieve a second pregnancy with the same surrogate mother (http://www.creatingfamilies.com).

What is useful to note here is both that traditional surrogacy is mentioned at all, as it was generally discouraged by other agencies, and also the way that a strategy was

90 offered implicitly (‘[i]n our experience’) for gay male couples to produce families in which the children were again biogenetically related to each other and both male partners maintained a sense of biogenetic connection to their children. As is also discussed in Chapter 7, a variation of this strategy, which I call ‘turn-taking,’ was pursued by some couples in the study, albeit in gestational rather than traditional surrogacy arrangements. That these alternatives reflect the decision-making processes described by gay male couples when choosing surrogacy makes a compelling argument that these men are influenced at least in part by these kinds of agency materials.

However, lest the idea that biogenetic connection be seen to enact kinship in and of itself, the Center for Surrogate Parenting emphasised the legal aspects of the arrangements, again somewhat more explicitly than other agencies. In particular, on the ‘Legal Aspects of Surrogacy’ section of this sub-site they noted that two California court cases illustrated: [L]egal parental relationships may be established when Intended Parents initiate and consent to medical procedures intending to create a child they will raise, regardless of whether there is a genetic relationship between them and the child. The clearest manifestation of this intent is the contract (http://www.creatingfamilies.com).

These court decisions and the way they have been absorbed into the policies and practices of surrogacy agencies demonstrate that, on their own, neither biogenetic connection nor gestation automatically confer a relational connection, which is reminiscent of David Schneider’s (1980 [1968]) order of law that must be added to nature, i.e., biogenetic connection to confirm kinship.

All three agencies described so far differentiated themselves from smaller single- operator agencies by emphasising the myriad legal, medical, psychological, ethical and financial issues that a larger operation can negotiate successfully and professionally. In all cases, they drew on their history, as well as their size, as indicating security in terms of management of risk, reducing stress and unforeseen costs. The Center for Surrogate Parenting, for example, promoted these aspects to prospective parents on a page of the site called, ‘Comparing Surrogacy Programs,’ in which it promised that its ‘in-depth experience and unique approach allow you a smooth, successful journey’ (http://creatingfamilies.com).

The fourth and final agency described here is Fertility Institutes (http://www.fertilityinstitutes.com). This agency was founded in 1986 and had offices in Los Angeles and in New York City, as well as in Guadalajara, Mexico. Fertility Institutes differed from the other agencies described above because it offered all clinical services in-house. Surrogacy accounted for only part of its infertility and IVF services. As the clinic’s website stated on its home page, this co- location was an advantage for clients because ‘patients never need to shuttle between the wide variety of agencies and specialized attorneys involved in donor and surrogacy arrangements.’ The Fertility Institutes offered a travel desk that provided assistance with travel and accommodation arrangements for prospective parents. Although this particular clinic had not been used by any of the participants in my study, it did receive some media attention in Australia during the study period in relation to its provision of services to gay male clients (is discussed in the analysis of print media in this chapter).

The Fertility Institutes’ website looked somewhat different from the others previously described in the sense that the menu included links to various pages describing a range of fertility services namely ART, fertility tests, sperm tests, egg donation, egg freezing, surrogacy, sex selection, gay surrogacy, and clinical trials. The company’s logo was largely consistent with that of the other agencies, in that they usually comprised soft, pastel colours. The logo itself (appeared to be either a flower) or a cell undergoing division, both of which suggest fertility or generation. The imagery on the site was somewhat different from the others in that the only picture on the home page was that of a group of babies. Very few adults were pictured on the site; there was only one picture of a family with children, which was the dominant image on the other agency’s sites. The trademarked line on the home page was ‘Helping Couples Become Families,’ which suggested that the focus was solely on couples. However, this was not the case, as in various sections of the site, including the page on gay surrogacy, the clinic’s willingness to assist single people was explicitly stated.

Although this website did not focus on gay men as its main clientele, on the ‘gay surrogacy’ page it nevertheless claimed to be ‘one of the largest providers of parenthood options to the worldwide gay community’ (http://www.fertilityinstitutes.com). This quotation suggests that, like Growing Generations, it attempted to invoke the notion of a global community from which its

92 clients were drawn, presumably to increase its appeal with this particular market. In terms of its positioning vis-à-vis other surrogacy providers, the information on the website emphasised the clinic’s incorporation of all aspects of the surrogacy process in one location, which made it unique. According to the information on the site, it was able to make parenthood an achievable and affordable option. In the surrogacy sections of the site, gestational surrogacy was assumed; on the gay surrogacy page this assumption was made explicit through the subtitle, ‘Gestational Surrogacy Options for Gay Males.’ Like all the other agencies discussed, The Fertility Institutes argues that it breaks new ground in this area.

What set The Fertility Institutes apart from other agencies discussed in this section was one of the services it offered: sex selection, a term used interchangeably with gender selection on the site. The subtitle of the ‘Sex selection’ part of the website was ‘sex selection and family balancing.’ The term, ‘family balancing,’ is a culturally acceptable form of sex selection. Recent research showed that heterosexual couples in the United States using a clinic for this purpose contrasted family balancing with other forms of sex selection, in particular sex selection, based on the preference for male children in low-income countries (McGowan & Sharp, 2013). The website highlighted the sex selection program’s television coverage in the US, UK and Germany. Sex selection was offered along with other forms of pre- implantation genetic diagnosis (PGD), which included screening for over 400 hereditary diseases. This clinic was, however, by no means the only clinic offering sex selection; in fact, one of the study participants and his partner had opted for sex selection for reasons of ‘family balancing’ through another clinic in Los Angeles.

It may seem somewhat surprising that none of the other agencies that coordinated surrogacy arrangements highlighted sex selection as a feature of available assisted reproductive techniques. The reason may be that PGD, including sex selection, invokes the spectre of the ‘designer baby’ (Franklin & Roberts, 2006: 1–2, 26; Whittaker, 2011) and is therefore considered a problematic, or at least controversial, technology by many. The ‘ambivalent figure’ of the designer baby is suggestive of both scientific progress and science ‘going too far’ (2006: 1). This figure becomes emblematic of popular concerns regarding excessive consumer choice, or ‘playing God,’ both of which feature in media stories, as well as in literature and the arts as part of ‘a distinct artistic genre of technoanxiety about reprogenetic futures’ (Franklin & Roberts, 2006: 26). As discussed later in the chapter, the issue of sex

93 selection and ‘designer babies’ emerged during the research when an article that appeared in the print media in Australia featuring a doctor from The Fertility Institutes. In addition, the media analysis of ‘gay surrogacy’ and ‘celebrity surrogacy’ demonstrates that these two areas were the focus of most concern about ‘designer babies.’ Interestingly, however, the men in this study also tended to share a concern about this kind of choice. Participants mostly only considered sex selection as being justified in terms of ‘family balancing’ (McGowan & Sharp, 2013), and other forms of PGD were only ever discussed as hypothetical examples of the ways they might use excess embryos for medical purposes that would potentially save the lives of their existing children.

Summary of surrogacy in web-based materials of agencies The analysis in this section of the chapter has outlined the way gay male parenthood is enacted through the web-based materials of several large US-based surrogacy agencies, including agencies that primarily target gay men as their client base and others that are inclusive of gay men alongside other clients. The communicators in relation to surrogacy agency materials were primarily the agency representatives and staff, and legal advisors, whose expertise was invoked to justify policies. Psychological discourse also featured, particularly in relation to the screening and selection of surrogates. The agency owners also claimed a particular kind of professionalism and expertise in relation to their long history in the field. The voices of the satisfied customer was also an important device for ‘authenticating’ these websites, whether explicitly through testimonials and visual images or implicitly through disclosed statistics regarding total client numbers, successful matches and births. The voices of egg donors and surrogates were deployed (sometimes quite literally) to articulate motivations and to legitimise and normalise the way surrogacy and kinship were being enacted. It was also clear that the prospective parent as the potential client was the primary intended audience, although potential egg donors and surrogates could also be described as a secondary audience.

These materials communicate strong, and mostly consistent, messages. These messages also reveal particular themes that presumably influence the way gay men conceive of their options and preferences regarding becoming parents today. The materials of surrogacy agencies have the potential to create or mobilise a desire for parenthood through the development of ‘procreative consciousness’ (Berkowitz & Marsiglio, 2007; Marsiglio, 1991; Marsiglio & Hutchinson, 2002). Overall, the

94 notion of intention was highlighted as an important aspect of kinship in the area of reproductive technologies. Most agencies prioritised couples as clients, which promoted the assumption that a couple is the most appropriate context in which parenthood should be pursued. Similarly, biogenetic connection between the intended parents and the children was encouraged, if not explicitly mandated, as was gestational surrogacy (vis-à-vis traditional surrogacy). In this way, the discursive practices of these agencies achieved a form of discursive legitimacy for gay men’s surrogacy practices through creating a framework that prioritised particular ways of proceeding over others. Although some of these discursive practices may seem to reproduce normative understandings of family, a more radical influence of these agencies is suggested by their emphasis on normalising the notion of gay men having children.

Print media The print media reporting on surrogacy examined in this chapter was published during the five-year period between 1 January 2006 and 31 December 2010. As described above in Chapter 4, the majority of these publications were Australian. In the earlier period (2006 and 2007), they were comprised mostly of articles related to legislative and policy development in Australian jurisdictions, as well as reports on Australian citizens travelling to the United States to pursue commercial surrogacy arrangements (Wade, 2009c). Also covered in this period was the Conroy/Benson story, which accounted for many of the articles. From 2008, both the Australian and US press conatined a number of stories that focused on people from high-income countries becoming parents through surrogacy arrangements in low-income countries. These articles focused on US, European, Israeli, East Asian and Australian residents pursuing surrogacy in India, and in particular two clinics—Rotunda: The Center for Human Reproduction in Mumbai, and the Akanksha infertility and IVF clinic at Kaival Hospital in Anand in the state of Gujarat (Baby Inc., 2008; Benson, 2009; Gray, 2009; Wade, 2009a, 2009b, 2009e, 2009f). Other articles mentioned surrogacy in China, Georgia, Ukraine, Greece and Panama, in addition to India (Toy, 2008).

A small number of high-profile stories received substantial coverage in both countries. One such example was a legal case in which a child (born through surrogacy in India to a Japanese couple, who had divorced prior to the birth of the child) was unable to leave the country until the case was settled by the Indian

Supreme Court (Audi & Chang, 2010; Wade, 2009a). This story also received coverage in the Indian press (Thacker, 2008). Other stories receiving widespread coverage were those featuring a number of celebrities who became parents through surrogacy (Cartwright, 2010; ‘Elton’s Baby Boy Has a Big Family’, 2010; Hamill, 2009; Olshan, 2009; ‘Pop singer Ricky becomes pop to twin boys’, 2008). In 2008, several articles published in the US-based press featured single men (both gay and straight) pursuing parenthood through surrogacy (Cahalan, 2008; Miller, 2008; Navarro, 2008). In the section below I analyse the dominant themes evident in this set of media articles.

‘Justified’ surrogacy An important aspect of a Discourse Theoretical Approach is to examine how identity is constructed through textual representations of a particular phenomenon. Further, according to Lams, an essential component of how identity is formed is through creating an ‘us’ category that can be differentiated from an ‘other’ (‘them’) category (Lams, 2008). In relation to surrogacy, one way in which this dichotomy operates is through the creation of an implicit hierarchy between those who are involuntarily (medically) infertile and those who are voluntarily (socially) infertile. This dichotomy can result in antagonism between those who are included in the involuntary or ‘worthy’ definition of infertility (almost invariably, heterosexual married couples) and those who fall on the other side (particularly gay men, lesbian couples, single men or women, professional women who have deliberately left childbearing until later in life, and celebrities). This enactment of a binary of ‘deserving’ versus ‘undeserving’ surrogacy is evident in the possibilities created through the messages, the audiences who are imagined in these articles, and the voices of those who are included (either as spokespeople, affected individuals, or other parties with a potential interest).

The conceptual division of infertility into involuntary and voluntary designations is evident in most of the print media coverage of surrogacy. Reports of married heterosexual couples who pursued surrogacy almost always included references to the despair and shame of infertility (Winerip, 2007) and often to the distressing circumstances that had led to childlessness. The feature article, ‘“Irrational” surrogacy law adds to families’ heartache,’ (Nader, 2007b) is a typical example of this type of media coverage. In this article, a woman called Katrina Harrison is described as having had to undergo a hysterectomy after an emergency caesarean.

Katrina survived the surgery. However, her ‘precious’ daughter died five days later. The article goes on to explain that, a ‘generation ago, they might have adopted or resigned themselves to not extending their family. Today, there is another option, one rarely used but increasingly sought out by a small group who are desperate to have children: surrogacy.’ The surrogacy law referred to was a state law in Victoria that prevented fertile women from accessing fertility services in that state—a law which was originally passed to restrict the access of single women and lesbians to fertility services. The law also meant that a clinic could not offer surrogacy services because a woman acting as a surrogate is by definition not infertile. Such a law could be described as ‘irrational’ (as in the title of this article) and elsewhere called ‘unjust’ because it prevented women like Katrina from using services in her home state and forced them into the uncertain and dangerous world of interstate or transnational commercial surrogacy. Consistent with this notion of ‘justified’ surrogacy, these article usually position heterosexual couples as potential prey for unscrupulous operators.

The distinction between involuntary infertility, on the one hand, and voluntary infertility, on the other, has already been stabilised to some extent in media and public policy related to reproductive technologies. This distinction was most notable in Victoria, where the official terms of ‘medical’ and ‘social’ infertility were introduced to distinguish who would be granted access to reproductive services in that state. The identification with involuntary infertility provides the authorisation for the next step: seeking to have a child through surrogacy. Interestingly, infertility is also distinguished from childlessness in this article because it is revealed that Katrina and her husband, Darren, already have one son together, as well as another son from Darren’s previous marriage (Nader, 2007b). The intended message is clearly that surrogacy is acceptable in some circumstances, even though it is reserved only for a ‘small group’ of people who are ‘desperate.’ In other words, a distinction is being made between those who are ‘deserving’ and those who are not. This distinction is supported by the weight given to the personal accounts, which comprise over half the content of the articles about surrogacy in Australia. For example, there is no voice in this article for those who do not fit this narrow definition of eligibility, such as gay men. This sympathetic approach is emphasised by the article’s title, ‘“Irrational” surrogacy law adds to families’ heartache.’ The audience is clearly being invited to identify with Katrina and Darren and to support reform within surrogacy laws in specific circumstances and for specific ‘worthy’ people.

The notion of involuntary infertility is also associated with innocence in this medium. Those who fit these criteria are considered to be infertile through no fault of their own; they are portrayed as having no other option available to them. For this reason, involuntary/innocent infertility has been deployed as a frame to support advocacy for particular legislative changes. In the article, ‘Time to change “unjust” surrogacy laws, says MP’ (Nader, 2007a), for example, a member of state parliament was reported to be lobbying for changes to Victorian laws so that couples who become parents through surrogacy could be granted legal parentage. She also advocated on behalf of a couple who were seeking to adopt their twins who were born eight years previously through surrogacy. As she said, ‘They were going through what should be a very happy occasion and full of joy, only to be distressed at a situation that can only be described as unjust and unnecessary’ (Nader, 2007a).This case involved a friend acting as surrogate, with the procedure carried out in the Australian Capital Territory.

Consistent with the dominant strategy of using personal accounts in relation to the theme of ‘justified’ surrogacy is the focus on one particular surrogacy story, that of Senator Stephen Conroy and his wife, Paula Benson, who lived in Victoria. The Conroy/Benson story accounts for a majority of the articles related to surrogacy in Australia in 2007. These articles focus sympathetically and almost exclusively on Conroy and Benson’s involuntary infertility, reported to be the result of Benson’s treatment for ovarian cancer (Riley, 2007). An example of the tone of this coverage is provided by this article, ‘Other paths to become a parent’ in the Daily Telegraph: Surrogacy is illegal in Victoria, so the baby had to be born in Sydney, where Isabella was conceived through IVF using an egg donated by a friend of the Conroys that was fertilised by Conroy’s sperm. Benson’s dream of having a family was destroyed when she discovered she had ovarian cancer at age 35 (Masters, 2006).

Although the couple circumvented Victorian law (which prevented fertile women from accessing fertility services), the necessity of pursuing surrogacy extraterritorially was almost universally presented within media commentary as a ridiculous and unfortunate situation that placed unnecessary additional stress on the family.

The framing of infertility as involuntary has another implication: some cases of commercial surrogacy—often positioned as ethically questionable within print media

(especially when it involves surrogates in low-income countries)—can be differentiated from others and made acceptable. This framing is illustrated in an article entitled, ‘Mother’s love priceless: Miracle end to a desperate dream,’ in the Herald Sun, in Melbourne in 2006: This Aussie infant was born with a $200,000 price tag and three mothers— two of them on the other side of the world. Infertility and strict Australian surrogacy laws forced her mother to visit a revolutionary baby factory in California, where she hand-picked her egg donor and the woman who would give birth to her baby. The business transaction made her dream of a second child come true.

“She is a miracle—what price do you put on a miracle,” said the commissioning mother, Nadia, who did not wish to be identified. “Her creation was approached in a very business-like manner, but she is my baby” (Anonymous, 2006a).

This article illustrates some of the tension and ambivalence associated with commercial surrogacy. It evokes sympathy with the plight of Nadia who was ‘forced’ to pursue this option because of her innocence (infertility) and ‘strict Australian surrogacy laws.’

Simultaneously, the practice of surrogacy is described in critical and value-laden terms, for example, ‘$200,000 price tag,’ ‘baby factory,’ ‘hand-picked,’ ‘business transaction,’ and ‘commissioning mother.’ This article creates identification with the female subject, while sensationalising the story by highlighting the potential excesses of surrogacy, in particular, its commercial aspects. In this way, surrogacy is positioned as morally questionable, but this concern is overridden by the ‘natural’ desire of Nadia to have children, which forces her to pursue surrogacy. Like the Conroy/Benson stories, the ‘Time to change ‘unjust’ surrogacy laws’ article (Nadar, 2007a) and the ‘“Irrational” surrogacy law . . .’ article (Nadar, 2007b), this identification is achieved through the use of the personal account of the woman involved. Even conservative newspapers, such as Melbourne’s Herald Sun, have generally been sympathetic to the cause of these couples, for example, by highlighting the ‘silliness’ of differing state laws and pointing out the unfairness that many childless couples in Victoria ‘who would love to become parents do not have the means to go interstate or overseas to realise that dream through surrogacy’ (Anonymous, 2006b). In the print media from the United States there were far fewer examples of these kinds of sympathetic, personal accounts.

The style of these articles is remarkably consistent. The personal account is favoured; identification with the subjects is encouraged, along with the taken-for-granted notion that a desire to have children is normal; and the plight of the family is pitted against the heartlessness of the state (even in the case of a senator who also became a federal minister). Although the cost of surrogacy, especially if pursued in the United States, is often mentioned in these articles, it is counterbalanced with the argument of ‘pricelessness’ and ‘miracle’ as in the article above. In this way, the market does not necessarily intrude on the family or at least the family is not tainted with this association because the family still stands apart from it. My argument is that these media also produce these kinds of accounts of ‘justified’ surrogacy users. Other users—or potential users—of surrogacy appear in quite different forms in the print media.

Gay surrogacy On the other side of the ‘us/them’ dichotomy related to infertility are those who do not fit the criteria described above. First and foremost among these, in terms of media coverage, are gay men. Far from being ‘forced’ to pursue surrogacy (as in the examples of the heterosexual couples above), these men are generally described as simply ‘choosing’ surrogacy. As gay men (both individuals and couples) are not able to conceive children within their relationship, they fall outside the group who are treated sympathetically in the sense that they are described as the ‘involuntary’ infertile. For these men, becoming parents is not generally viewed as a ‘natural’ event. Thus, unlike the infertile heterosexual couples, there is no reproductive imperative (or ‘natural’ desire) to become parents in these media discourses.

Discourses of choice and consumption were commonly drawn upon in media accounts of gay men and surrogacy. In 2007, for example, the News Corporation press in Australia published an article, ‘Gays “buy” twins: Couple travel to US for their boys,’ about a gay couple from Melbourne who had ‘travelled to the US to buy “designer twin boys” through a surrogate mother at a cost of up to $133,000’ (Hellard & Houlihan, 2007). In contrast to the examples above, there was no suggestion in this article that these men were compelled to have children or were forced into the hands of possibly unscrupulous surrogacy providers. There was no emotion described and, significantly, no personal account provided by the men involved. Instead, the experience of seeking a commercial surrogacy arrangement was described as a ‘shopping trip’ and the consumerist and calculative nature of the

100 arrangement emphasised through the claim that the men had ‘ordered the two babies—even choosing their preferred sex, male—through US IVF pioneer Dr Jeffrey Steinberg.’

In contrast to a heterosexual couple forced overseas because of ‘strict Australian surrogacy laws,’ the experience for the gay couple is framed as ‘opportunism’ in the sense that they were seen to have deliberately chosen to ‘sidestep Victorian law, which prohibits commercial surrogacy.’ Whereas laws were invoked as unjust in the examples of the heterosexual couples, here they are communicated as neutral and the men presented as literally going outside the law. This couple is further problematised by making reference to the fearful concept of eugenics, with the suggestion that these men were seeking to ‘choose a baby to order—taking into account the physical characteristics and education level of egg donors, who are aged between 18 and 27.’ The voices in the article are those of the fertility specialist.

In print media gay men are more implicated in the commercial aspects of surrogacy than their heterosexual counterparts. As Melinda Tankard Reist (2006) proposed in her article, ‘Motherhood deals risk deeper anguish’ in The Sydney Morning Herald in 2006, commercialisation means cutting (implicit ‘moral’) corners in the interest of profit. She cites the example of a journalist who, posing as an HIV-positive gay man, was told he would be a perfect father. There is no further discussion about serostatus, sexuality and paternity. However, the reader is invited to conclude that he would not make a suitable father and that the exchange of money (i.e., ‘deals’) means decisions are being made on commercial grounds rather than taking other factors into account. It is not clear whether it was his alleged HIV status or his sexuality that disqualified him. Perhaps it was both. In a rather bizarre journalistic twist, the reader is told that although this man was encouraged to become a father through surrogacy, he was not allowed to adopt a puppy from the dog pound. No explanation is given for this, but the reader is encouraged to conclude that the dog pound, which presumably is not motivated by the desire to make a profit, has higher ethical standards than the surrogacy agency in the story. A parallel is being made here between kinship and privacy, on the one hand, and the market and the public sphere, on the other, with the encroachment of the market into this domain positioned as a common enemy to normative family values. It is presumed that this crossing of domains creates the ‘deeper anguish’ referred to in the title of the article. The enactment of commercial surrogacy in this form invokes the spectre of a threatening ‘other,’ which, in this

101 case, is the agencies who facilitate commercial surrogacy arrangements (i.e., the surrogacy agencies based in the United States). However, the clients of these agencies, if they are gay men, also tend to be implicated in a negative way through these representations.

The discourse of ‘baby buying’ was commonly drawn upon in relation to gay men and surrogacy in these articles, particularly in the Australian media, as exemplified by several articles: ‘Thanks, India, where bundles of joy are less than a bundle’ (Benson, 2009b), ‘Gays flock to US for babies’ (McLean, 2008), and ‘Baby Ethan a priceless “gift” worth every cent’ (Nader, 2007c). Even in articles that avoided the inflammatory style of ‘Gays “buy” twins: Couple travel to US for their boys’ (Hellard & Houlihan, 2007), the narrative frame for reporting gay men’s experience was typically far less sympathetic than that used to describe the experience of heterosexual couples. However, the number of articles that described gay men in neutral terms was relatively few. This tendency seems to have changed in more recent media coverage (not included in this analysis).

The article, ‘Thanks, India, where bundles of joy are less than a bundle’ (Benson, 2009b), published in The Age in January 2009, and also published with a different title, ‘$12 for bootees, $5 for bib, $30,000 for a baby,’ in The Sydney Morning Herald on the same day (Benson, 2009a), is somewhat typical of the genre. This article focused on India, where it is explained that surrogacy was legalised in 2002. India is described as becoming a popular place for Australians since the ‘the falling exchange rate pushed the cost of buying a baby from the US to more than $300,000 last year.’ Having a child in India is allegedly only one-tenth of this price, ‘plus an extra $10,000 if the couple want to use a Caucasian egg donor, usually flown in from South Africa’ (Benson, 2009a). The gay couple featured in the article is believed to be among the first Australians to have a child born through surrogacy in India. It is not clear from the article whether these men, Trevor Elwell and Peter West, used a non-Indian egg donor. Consistent with the way in which ‘gay surrogacy’ is enacted in media, there is very little space devoted to their personal accounts. The story is mostly told in the third person, with only two direct quotations from the men at the very end. This marks a contrast with the narratives of ‘justified surrogacy,’ where the first-person account predominates. Although the article seems to present Trevor and Peter’s story in a somewhat neutral way, their desire for parenthood is in no way considered to be a ‘normal’ or ‘expected’ aspiration. The main communicator is a

102 spokesperson from a group called Australia India Surrogacy Advocates, who is positioned as defending surrogacy in India and other low-income countries. However, the overall emphasis on the commercial aspects of the arrangements reinforces the notion of the inappropriateness of commercial surrogacy.

The photographs accompanying the article (in both its Melbourne and Sydney editions) reinforce this ambiguous characterisation of gay men pursuing parenthood through transnational surrogacy. In the photograph accompanying the article in The Sydney Morning Herald, Trevor and Peter are shown shopping for their yet-to-be- born twins. They are surrounded by clothing and toys. In a sense, the image seems designed to cause surprise and perhaps even some discomfort, as it shows two men shopping for baby clothes for their child. Their gender is invoked as being somewhat out of place, although they clearly seem to be having a good time. However, one wonders if the image might also be doing a different job. By this I mean perhaps it is forcing the viewer to confront and rethink ideas about fatherhood and masculinity? Is it the fact that they are a gay couple that causes surprise, or is it that they are men? The caption, ‘Shop till it drops,’ however, very much emphasises the relationship between commercial surrogacy and shopping and implies that shopping is a favoured pastime for these men. The ‘it’ referred to is the baby and this description as a neutered object reinforces its status as a consumer object, which enforces the dichotomy between natural and unnatural families.

The choice of photographs invites the impression that the men are enjoying the experience of shopping. They are smiling (or laughing) and this obvious joy is in contrast to the plight of the infertile couple described in the media accounts discussed earlier. In addition, perhaps this sense of excitement and anticipation is evident among gay men because they are not coming to surrogacy from a sense of loss and negative affect in relation to infertility, as are many heterosexual couples. This difference was noted by Gregory Wells (2011) in his analysis of gay male couples forming families through adoption. Unlike the heartbreaking journeys of trials and tribulations (and stigma) recounted by heterosexual couples, which ultimately led them to commercial surrogacy, gay men are, in contrast, usually presented as far more carefree.

Although the problematisation of gay men and surrogacy was more common in the Australian media than in the US media, it was by no means absent from the US

103 publications. For example, an article about Indian surrogacy practices, ‘India Nurtures Business of Surrogate Motherhood,’ published in the New York Times (Gentleman, 2008), reported on an Israeli gay male couple having a child through a clinic in Mumbai. As the title of the article suggests, the notion of surrogacy as a business was being broadly promoted here. It may also be appropriate to suggest that the concept of India as ‘nurturing’ conjures up the image of a gendered mother India encouraging the development of an industry that exploits the ‘reproductive labour’ of its female citizens for profit (Waldby & Cooper, 2008). The surrogate, it was revealed, had not met the couple (which is often the case in India). This idea of surrogate workers being alienated from the product of their labour was emphasised by the journalist, who seemed to suggest that the surrogate was likely to be unaware that the child she was carrying was for foreigners, and perhaps more specifically, that it was for a gay male couple. The reader was also reminded that gay sex is illegal in India (at the time of publication). As a result of these additional facts, the reader is invited to assume that the surrogate had been tricked into agreeing to something with which she would not have been comfortable had she been in possession of all the facts. An implicit observation here is that commercial surrogacy itself is framed as inherently deceptive, which further adds to its apparently questionable ethics.

Other examples of the US media articles also presented gay men as cold and calculating, as in the article, ‘A Search for a Surrogate Leads to India’ in 2009 in the Wall Street Journal. Although the main characters in this article tried unsuccessfully to adopt a child for several years, their subsequent attempt to have children through surrogacy is not invested with the same level of compassion as the examples of heterosexual couples cited above. The article reveals only that they ‘decided to try surrogacy in India.’ They are also represented as savvy consumers (they ‘looked at Panama and the Ukraine’), who have weighed up their available options in different markets, choosing the one that best suited their needs: Michael Bergen and Michael Aki, a gay American couple who got married in 2004 and work as graphic designers in Massachusetts, decided to try surrogacy in India after they waited unsuccessfully for three years to adopt a child in the U.S. To hire a surrogate, “we looked at Panama and the Ukraine,” recalls 39-year-old Mr. Bergen. “But India had better infrastructure, more high-tech facilities and the healthier lifestyle. (Most women) don’t smoke, they don’t drink and they don’t do drugs” (Cohen, 2009).

In this account, Bergen and Aki were portrayed as affluent Westerners able to make an informed decision based on their own desires. There is also something odd

104 implied in the fact that the men in this couple have the same career and the same first name, as well as both being men. It feels almost as if something more is being suggested here, that there may be something ‘untoward’ about an environment of such homogeneity. The sole sympathetic reference relates to their earlier attempt to adopt a child; however, it almost reads as though they were more impatient than ‘deserving.’

This article conceptualises surrogacy through the frame of reproductive (or medical) ‘tourism,’ which was common to media representations of gay surrogacy in the media reviewed. At least two articles refer to Rudy Rupak, co-founder and president of PlanetHospital, described as ‘a medical tourism agency with headquarters in California’ (Gentleman, 2008). Rupak was described as assisting Bergen and Aki, by referring them to a clinic in Mumbai, called Rotunda: The Center for Human Reproduction. This clinic is described as being ‘upfront about marketing its services to the overseas gay community. Its website highlights a video of a gay Israeli couple who made headlines after taking home a baby from Rotunda last year’ (Cohen, 2009). The reader of these stories is almost always assumed to be heterosexual. He or she is invited to take a position on gay men, and single men, pursuing surrogacy, whereas the reader is invited to empathise with infertile heterosexual couples who travel to India. As described earlier, this empathy is revealed through the use of adjectives such as ‘heartbreaking’ to describe these experiences.

Despite the overwhelming dominance of the frame of ‘baby buying’ in this media reporting of gay men’s pursuit of commercial surrogacy, there were also some brief references to kinship among these gay men. For example, the following quotations come from an article, ‘Gays, lesbians seeking parenthood increasingly turn to infertility clinics,’ in The San Francisco Chronicle: Jeff Eichenfield, 46, a gay man from San Francisco, said he’s perceived a lot of isolation and unhappiness in the gay community partly because of limited opportunities to have families. That changed for him in October when his son, Nate, was born using a surrogate. “I’ve talked to a lot of gay men, and they say, ‘How many trips can you take? How many restaurants? How many new cars?”‘ Eichenfield said. “I want people to see there’s a whole other side to gay life. Gay life is changing” (Hall, 2007).

This is a somewhat unusual example among the media references to gay men and surrogacy, as it seems to set up parenthood and surrogacy as a panacea or alternative to consumer culture. This example is interesting given the way that gay men are usually presented in these articles. Also notable is the fact that it comes from The San

105

Francisco Chronicle, and as mentioned, is one of the very few articles on surrogacy covered in California over the period in question.

Celebrity surrogacy The final category of media articles represented surrogacy arrangements among celebrities. There has been increased media attention on celebrities having children through surrogacy in recent years, especially since 2008 with actors (Sarah Jessica Parker and Nicole Kidman), singers (Ricky Martin and Elton John) and a football player (Christiano Ronaldo) making public their pursuit of parenthood through surrogacy. In these print media articles, celebrity surrogacy is more closely aligned with the frame of ‘gay surrogacy’ than ‘justified surrogacy,’ even when pursued by heterosexual couples. In addition, alongside the expected group of celebrities such as actors, singers and sportspeople, other wealthy individuals and socialites such as those featured in articles such as ‘Her Body, My Baby’ (Kuczynski, 2008) are also included in this category.

Male celebrities were often reported as having children as a kind of ‘accessory’ and if they were gay, their parenthood was also sometimes taken as a ‘political’ statement. This reporting is in some respects similar to gay surrogacy reporting in general, although it comes with the implication that parenthood through surrogacy may even be pursued to help revive a flagging career (‘Pop singer Ricky becomes pop to twin boys’, 2008; ‘Elton’s Baby Boy Has a Big Family’, 2010). The way narratives about female celebrities unfolded was less expected. Although these women often meet the criteria of other women deserving of sympathy (that is, the presence of a male partner, and ongoing yet unsuccessful attempts to have a child) (Hamill, 2009; Olshan, 2009; Cartwright, 2010), there were other features of celebrity surrogacy that marked it out as different from justified surrogacy. One essential feature was that it was seen to be motivated by vanity. The article, ‘Womb for one more at Martha Manor’ (Peyser, 2010) in the New York Post provides an example of this genre: The rich don’t reproduce like you and me. They replicate expensively, dramatically—and before an audience.

Martha Stewart’s only child, Alexis, this week became the latest narcissistic demi-celeb to behave as if she’s the first person on earth to try to birth a baby, an act performed with minimal effort by younger lights, from Britney Spears to Bristol Palin.

106

Now it’s reported that Alexis will get her bundle. After wasting hundreds of thousands on unsuccessful fertility treatments – and thumbing her nose at donor eggs and adoption – Alexis is going the Frankenstein route (Peyser, 2010).

Alexis is clearly part of the celebrity world because she is Martha Stewart’s daughter, and therefore a ‘narcissistic demi-celeb’ but also because she is ‘rich.’ This world in which such people live is represented as one that is separate from that inhabited be other people. In this world, people ‘don’t reproduce like you and me.’ This framing is an attempted alignment between the author and the reader against this world. What is particularly fascinating is how the same facts are used to evoke sympathy for infertile couples who are not celebrities. Thus ‘unsuccessful fertility treatments,’ in this instance, suggest wastage and excess. Instead of being forced against her will to pursue motherhood through surrogacy, Alexis is described as ‘going the Frankenstein route.’ The way in which Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein is drawn on is a common reference made in relation to surrogacy to suggest that a child is being ‘designed,’ and that the social implications of this are troubling.

Another example of this media coverage of demi-celebrities pursuing surrogacy was ‘The tilting yard: Rent-a-womb is where market logic leads,’ (Frank, 2008) published in the Wall Street Journal. This article was a response to Alex Kuczynski’s (2008) long autobiographical piece for the New York Times Magazine. This article drew a great deal of disdain within the media towards the super-rich, perhaps exacerbated by the Global Financial Crisis, which began in that year. Kuczynski, it is described, ‘worked the plutocracy beat for the New York Times, and in her whimsical way she described the travails of the world’s supermodels, the scene-making that went on at this or that high-end restaurant, and the feeling on the hard streets of Greenwich and the Hamptons’ (Frank, 2008). The crossover between the wealthy and celebrity set is emphasised by Kuczynski’s own marriage: ‘Somewhere along the way, Ms. Kuczynski went from observer to observed. She married a hedge-fund billionaire’ (Frank, 2008). The way in which Kuczynski’s story was criticised is typical of the other main feature of female celebrity surrogacy, which is that they are assumed to be having children the easy way, presumably without the ‘inconvenience’ of going through pregnancy and childbirth (Frank, 2008; Hoyt, 2008). As Frank (2008) described in his article about Kuczynski: She tells us, very sincerely, how much she enjoyed spending the last few months before the child arrived “by white-water rafting down Level 10 rapids on the Colorado River”—presumably Level 10 rapids are really quality rapids—“racing down a mountain at 60 miles per hour at ski-racing

107

camp, drinking bourbon and going to the Super Bowl.” She also does a lot of “Bikram yoga,” which is presumably a really quality form of yoga (2008: A17).

These articles clearly evoke excess, that is, as an artificial world where nothing is unobtainable, nobody says no, and normal rules do not apply. Central to both gay and celebrity surrogacy narratives was the amount of money paid to surrogates, which was claimed to be wildly disproportionate and significantly higher than that usually, paid by non-celebrities. Whether the figures are accurate is unknown but the assumption that they are paid so much illustrates a belief in such excess. In several cases, the contrasting lifestyle between the surrogate and the celebrity was also emphasised. This was done dramatically in the Kuczynski example, largely because the photographs accompanying her own article drew attention to the stark contrast between Kuczynski’s life and that of the surrogate, as described by Frank (2008) and in Hoyt’s (2008) article, ‘The Privileged and Their Children’ in The New York Times. This contrast was also emphasised in media coverage of Sarah Jessica Parker, such as the article, ‘$ex and the pity – Sarah’s surrogate stuck in Ohio’s “armpit”‘ (Cartwright, 2010), in the tabloid publication, the New York Post.

Not surprisingly, the discourse of baby buying featured in almost all the celebrity examples. There were some parallels with media reports of wealthy Westerners travelling to India to have children through surrogacy—extreme contrasts of income and lifestyle, inability of the surrogate to negotiate the terms of the contract and also secrecy on the part of the intended parents about their identity to the surrogate. However, much of this coverage of non-celebrity surrogacy still drew on a metaphor of justified or deserving surrogacy because of their supposedly blameless infertility even (and perhaps especially) if they were ‘forced’ to negotiate the murky world of commercial surrogacy. Celebrity surrogacy, on the other hand, tended to be enacted only as vain, excessive and largely undeserving, which in turn helped to shore up its more morally deserving counterpart.

Some of the findings in this section have resonances with Susan Markens’ (2007) analysis of surrogacy stories published in three major US newspapers in the 1980s and 1990s. Markens identified two framings: 1) the plight of infertile couples; and 2) ‘baby selling’ (or buying): The aspect of surrogacy each frame emphasized made certain kinds of policy solutions desirable and ruled others out. Those who framed surrogate motherhood as a form of baby selling viewed an outright ban on the practice as the only morally and socially acceptable policy solution. Those who 108

framed surrogate arrangements as a compassionate response to infertility that would safeguard the right of the individual to procreate saw legalizing and regulating the practice as the only equitable and just solution (Markens, 2007: 81).

Based on the analysis of print media presented in this chapter, it seems reasonable to claim that these two frames still existed into the late 2000s, just as they did in the 1980s and 1990s. The plight of infertile couples was associated with surrogacy as ‘justified,’ along with legal and regulatory protection, such as the transfer of legal parentage. Baby buying/selling was almost exclusively linked with gay men and celebrities. This framing emphasised the way surrogacy was seen to be facilitating parenthood for those who fell outside the ‘deserving’ heterosexual couple and was associated with excess, experimentation and extreme contrasts between those who were the prospective parents and those who were providing reproductive services.

The present/absent surrogate As described in the previous section on celebrity surrogacy, these media framings tended to focus in on the relative socio-economic disadvantage of women who acted as surrogates. It was also claimed that surrogacy did not lift them out on poverty. Michelle Ross, who acted as a surrogate for Sarah Jessica Parker, was described as ‘living in the same dilapidated house, driving the same Ford Taurus, and is working hard to get by’ (Cartwright, 2010). This focus on the experiences and vulnerabilities of the surrogate was not as evident in the framing of justified surrogacy and, in some cases, there was even the suggestion of kinship between the women involved. For example, a child was described as having ‘three mothers’ in the article ‘Mother’s love priceless: Miracle end to a desperate dream’ (2006). One notable example contradicted this typical framing of surrogates. Cheryl Miller (2008), writing for the Wall Street Journal, described the cover of an issue of Newsweek: [T]he abdomen of a pregnant woman appeared with the words, “Womb for Rent,” emblazoned upon it. The issue’s lead story, “The Curious Lives of Surrogates,” ignited a small media frenzy with its sensationalistic revelations about military wives cashing in as surrogates – in part by bilking1 their government-provided health plans (Miller, 2008: 11).

This fascinating account of US military wives acting as surrogates positioned these women as calculating opportunists and represents a departure from the way that surrogates are generally positioned, which is as having limited options. These women were also assumed to have the capacity not only to make such decisions but also to

1 To defraud, cheat, or swindle.

109 take advantage of their free health care. Perhaps it was this suggestion of defrauding the taxpayer that caused such a stir. However, one wonders whether it was also the fact that these women were acting outside the role usually defined for surrogates, that of passive victims of those with greater socio-economic capital.

Most articles in the period covered by this analysis conceptualised surrogates through the more common frames, with particularly extreme examples of reports on surrogacy arrangements in India. An article published in 2009 in The Sydney Morning Herald called ‘The takeaway baby boom’ (Wade, 2009f), demonstrates this one-dimensional framing of the Indian surrogate. The photograph accompanying the article is that of a surrogate, Rajni, having a ‘scan’ as part of the screening process. The photograph includes the screen and the image on it as the central feature. The technician’s hand holding a pen is just visible in the darkness in front of the keyboard. Rajni is in the background, in a ray of light that creates an angelic quality to the image. Her finger is placed over her mouth in a gesture that usually indicates silence. The caption, ‘keeping mum’ also suggests silence and secrecy in addition to the paradoxical double entendre of ‘mum’ when, in fact, this mother would not be ‘keeping’ the child to which she will give birth. The screen is facing the technician and the viewer, but is facing away from Rajni, who is thus symbolically separated from her own body. This arrangement of equipment, techniques and bodies provides a metaphor for commercial surrogacy in India in which the women who are the surrogates are seen to be physically present but emotionally absent.

The growing role of India in global reproductive networks is positioned in much of the media analysed here as complementary to India’s role as a service economy to the Western world. Central in these articles were questions about the ethics of engaging Indian surrogates and the small amount of compensation that Indian women receive in comparison to their US counterparts. Also questioned were the conditions imposed on them during their pregnancy, including, in some cases, the requirement that they live in a facility with other surrogates, which seemed to imply that foreigners were insisting that these women not remain part of their local culture and environment while pregnant with their unborn child. Other articles, however, cited the disproportionately high value of surrogacy fees in the context of average salaries in India. Almost invariably, however, Indian women were positioned as passive, compliant or even invisible. This subtext around exploitation of the low- income countries foreclosed other possible readings, for example that some of these

110 issues may have much to do with privacy and confidentiality. In fact, there could be entirely valid social and cultural reasons why the women live in these facilities during pregnancy, for example, to protect themselves from stigma and community gossip, or to make use of additional supports and comforts.

Summary of surrogacy in print media The ways in which parenthood and family are articulated in these print media texts include a range of different subject positions or ‘communicators.’ These include the ‘infertile couple,’ ‘gay (or sometimes lesbian) couple,’ ‘single man,’ ‘expert,’ ‘lobby group spokesperson,’ and ‘representative of surrogacy agency or fertility clinic.’ ‘Family’ is defined through these media practices and supported primarily by identification with one or other of these subject positions. As a DTA approach suggests, all the messages, communicators and audiences are being produced through these discursive constructions. These media contribute to perpetuating and reinforcing a hierarchy of family models with the nuclear family at the top (represented by the mother, father and children as the joint progeny of the parents). This implicit cultural discourse shapes how different players in these media stories are presented and how different surrogacies are enacted.

Further down this hierarchy is gestational surrogacy, in which there is joint genetic contribution of both heterosexual parents. Less preferable are arrangements where the couple does not provide the eggs and/or sperm. Such examples include the circumstances of gay or lesbian couples where a sperm or egg donor is required, or, indeed, a single man or woman pursuing parenthood through the use of donor material and possibly also a surrogate. However, within this last group, heterosexual couples who are ‘forced’ to use donor gametes are seen to be elevated over non- heterosexual couples. This hierarchy can be seen to be related to the signifier of ‘involuntary’ infertility, and is particularly evident in the media reportage on the Conroy/Benson story, where Pula Benson, as a result of her ovarian cancer, was unable either to provide eggs or to gestate a child. Thus, two other women who were friends of the couple performed these roles. This altruistic arrangement between private parties is also generally represented as preferable to any commercial transaction.

As already outlined, the construction of ‘us/them’ dichotomies related to surrogacy— and therefore the development of identity—is particularly clear in relation to

111 involuntary (medical) infertility versus voluntary (social) infertility. This binary highlights the assumed ‘naturalness’ of parenthood and parenting for (preferably married) heterosexual couples and the trauma and shame of childlessness or infertility. This assumption has led to calls in newspaper editorials to change the laws to allow for easier access to surrogacy in Australia. In contrast, parenthood as the exclusive right of heterosexual couples was challenged in only a few of the articles reviewed. Several other hegemonic constructions supported this privileging of involuntary infertility in this print media: the notion that children are best served by male and female influences (or role models); that heterosexual couples have a natural desire to have children; and that infertility is medical. These tropes supported the notion that parenthood should ideally be reserved for heterosexual couples. Further, as I have shown, they promoted the belief that surrogacy was appropriate as an option for pursuing parenthood only when other conditions could not be met. The ‘baby-buying frame,’ on the other hand, emphasised the (apparent) inappropriateness of contracting out, outsourcing, or offshoring fertility services where they can only be accessed by those with high disposable incomes who can bypass the regulatory systems in specific jurisdictions in both Australia and the United States.

Media representations frame discursive possibilities for gay men in thinking about their options and preferences regarding surrogacy and parenthood. What is absent is any account of biogenetic kinship except as the ideal for heterosexual couples, which in that case is seen to justify their pursuit of parenthood through surrogacy. For gay men and celebrities, biogenetic links are generally described in terms of ‘baby buying’ or the ‘designer baby.’ Gay men must by default negotiate these presumptions that heterosexuality is the natural place for kinship and parenthood, and that commercial surrogacy is a form of (unjustified) baby buying. This is likely to then influence the way they experience and pursue parenthood through surrogacy, and their subsequent development of an identity as gay male parents.

Conclusions In surrogacy agency materials gay men were encouraged to become clients and ultimately parents. Gestational surrogacy and to a lesser extent, being a couple, were reinforced as the norm, as was biogenetically based kinship, although the latter was usually implicit rather than explicit in these web-based materials. In print media, parenthood through surrogacy as pursued by gay men—and celebrities—was generally framed in the print media as a conscious and deliberate choice in contrast

112 to surrogacy pursued by heterosexual couples, which was linked to involuntary infertility and an absence of other options. A key discursive tension here, therefore, operates between the notions of surrogacy by choice and surrogacy by default (or ‘justified’ surrogacy). The discursive practices of surrogacy agencies and the print media have had a significant impact in terms of mobilising a procreative consciousness in this pioneering generation of gay male parents.

The analysis undertaken in this chapter demonstrated how the message, communicators and audience of these media articles and agency websites are discursively constructed. The methodological approach I have taken is useful for approaching the research questions related to kinship and surrogacy because it allows for thinking about objects as emerging through practices, and highlighting how discourse shapes what is possible to think and ultimately, also, what comes ‘to be.’ These media and websites produce what it means to be a gay male parent, as well as the conditions under which this transpires. This chapter explored two sets of data that are important to this research topic because they frame public—including gay public—notions of surrogacy and kinship. The analysis also provided evidence of the ontological multiplicity (Mol, 2002) of surrogacy, particularly in relation to what I have termed ‘justified surrogacy,’ ‘gay surrogacy,’ and ‘celebrity surrogacy.’

The next chapter turns to the issue of choice as it relates to the enactment of kinship within the narratives of gay men in the study. That chapter specifically focuses on how these men understand their own desires and the narratives they produce about themselves, particularly in relation to their aspiration to have children and the family structure in which that occurs.

113

CHAPTER 6: THE NEW NORMAL: PLUGGING INTO DISCOURSES OF GAY MALE PARENTHOOD

Introduction The previous chapter examined texts that enact particular forms of surrogacy in relation to social meanings regarding kinship, or family. That analysis provided many insights into the media and surrogacy agency discourses negotiated by gay men who pursue parenthood through contract surrogacy. My examination of these texts revealed how surrogacy is enacted differently in different sites. In this chapter, my analysis turns to the ways participants described their experience of wanting to become parents. The chapter considers why these desires and practices might have emerged at this time. Given that parenthood is still sought out by a minority of gay men in the United States and Australia, the chapter undertakes an analysis of the discourses that contribute to making parenthood seem more or less achievable via surrogacy. Further, the chapter explores the influence of discourses of resistance to heteronormativity or of inclusion as equal citizens in liberal democracies and, as such, are drawing on particular notions of what constitutes a ‘normal’ family.

As described in Chapter 5, ‘choice’ in the media analysis was framed in terms of consumerism and lifestyle through the discourses of ‘baby-buying’ and ‘designer babies’ in relation to gay men who pursue surrogacy. In this chapter, I explore the kinds of choices that relate to both the emergence of the desire to have children and how that desire is framed by particular understandings of gender and sexuality. Initially, the chapter examines what is referred to in the literature as ‘motivations for parenthood’ (Goldberg et al., 2012; Rabun & Oswald, 2009). I begin by analysing parenthood desires and expectations in the men’s accounts, considering how coming out as gay interrupts this expected life course. I then explore how parenthood re- emerges as a possibility. The data and information presented in this chapter are drawn from the interviews with gay men who have become parents though surrogacy. The analysis is informed by Actor Network Theory (ANT), in particular, the work of Bruno Latour (2005), as well as theoretical debates about the meaning of choice in the context of neoliberal societies. These fields of inquiry offer innovative ways of exploring the questions of why and how gay men ‘choose’ to become parents and/or make sense of their desire to become parents. This approach also enables a new way of thinking about the existing empirical literature on parenthood desires and choices among gay men by reframing the ‘motivation’ to become a

114 parent as something not innate but made available ‘from without’—through advertising, marketing, media, peer networks and legislative/regulatory conditions.

Understanding the desire to become parents Latour’s concept of the ‘plug-in’ (2005: 207) was described in Chapter 3. Briefly, it is a metaphor for thinking about the ways subjectivities are assembled. Latour used the example of consumers to explain this concept. In this chapter, I analyse the accounts of gay men by using his metaphor in relation to parenthood desire. Latour’s theory is particularly useful for thinking about the production of parenthood desire because such desires can be understood as social competencies produced in specific locations. Subscribing to ‘plug-ins’ allows for a situation to be rendered ‘interpretable’ (2005: 209). In this way, the aspiration to have children could be recast as something that is neither innate nor chosen, but rather as available as long as one subscribes to the requisite ‘plug-ins.’ This approach is attractive because it offers an opportunity to analyse parenthood desires in ways that extend beyond a dichotomy between innate desire and choice. Thus, ‘plug-ins’ that facilitate parenthood aspirations among gay men to become parents could include any or all of the following: the marketing and promotional activities of commercial surrogacy agencies; media; contact with peers; entering a relationship with a new partner; popular cultural representations of surrogacy practices; and the advice of experts as disseminated through legislation, family court orders, and surrogacy contracts. These new situational competencies can be contrasted to participants’ earlier exposures to outside messages that equated homosexuality with childlessness.

The first part of this chapter explores how the participants described their desires to have children. Given that all were men with children or in the process of becoming parents, I asked them if parenthood had been a longstanding desire and, in the case of couples, whether it was primarily a desire of one partner or a joint aspiration (see Appendix C for the research instrument). Two main themes emerged: the development of an active, conscious desire to have children and a somewhat less conscious desire, more accurately put as something they simply expected would happen. These themes were not necessarily mutually exclusive. Articulating an innate desire to parent was evident in the accounts of several participants. As Jeremy, one of the Australian participants, explained: ‘Well, I guess it’s a fulfilment of a dream come true. I always wanted to have children, always said I’d have children. Didn’t know how I’d actually go about it, but it was always my intention in life.’

115

Jeremy believed he had always wanted to become a parent; this idea of an ever- present longing was evident in the way he invoked notions of dreams, desire and intention. Jeremy’s account was possibly the strongest example of this innate desire recorded in the interviews.

Others, such as Michael, one of the US participants, spoke of a longstanding desire to have children that he shared with his partner, Dino: ‘We had discussed both wanting to have children from the very beginning.’ Other US participants, such as Keith, recounted, ‘I always felt that I was going to be a dad,’ and Jack spoke about how he had ‘always, always [wanted to have a child], and I want more as well. I want to have at least a girl, you know, somehow.’ Carlos, who had entered a relationship with Ron after the latter had already started the surrogacy process, described how he felt about the impending arrival of triplets: ‘For me, to be quite honest, I’ve thought about children, and I wanted children and it’s always been one of my, you know, desires as well, so I’m excited about it.’ For one Australian participant, Andrew, ‘children for [him] were something [he] really wanted,’ although he described it as ‘quite an artificial kind of construct.’ It is not clear exactly what Andrew meant by ‘artificial construct’ but it seems to allude to awareness that such desires are socially produced, rather than being innate.

For this small number of men, becoming parents represented the fulfilment of a pre- existing desire. More common were accounts of expecting parenthood to be a part of their life course, rather than consciously longing to have children. In these accounts, desire was clearly part of the story, but there was a strong suggestion that these men were influenced by a traditional social ‘script’ regarding the reproductive imperative. That is, those men had grown up expecting to marry (typically) and have children like their parents and most of their peers. For example, one of the Australian participants, Nick, recalled: ‘I always wanted, like when I grow up I thought that, well yes I know I want to be a father one day.’ For Nick, a longstanding desire to be a parent preceded having a child through surrogacy. However, that desire was also intertwined with expectations, which ‘prepared’ him for the birth of his son: So when it all was happening, I knew what to expect. I felt, “okay, I’m going to have a baby.” So I sort of like expected it already. As soon as the surrogate mother got pregnant it was sort of like, yeah, it’s real for me, and yeah, I’m definitely going to be a dad.

Nick also described his Asian background as being influential regarding his expectations of parenthood. Similarly, Donald drew on his family background to

116 explain the belief that he would have children: ‘I’m from a very large kind of Irish Catholic family, and children have always been very important.’ Carlos also referred to his family—’I come from a big family as well, I’m the youngest of six’—to make sense of his parenting expectations, which had set him apart from his friends who were also in their twenties. Patrick described how he and his partner, Phillip, both grew up in a different country ‘where families are very important,’ and believed this was an important factor in producing their desire for parenthood.

For a few of the men, their recollections revealed how the expectation of parenthood became enmeshed with other imperatives regarding heteronormative life. Andrew recounted: ‘So I always imagined myself (it’s funny now I think about it: marrying Jessica). I was going to be a lawyer, ‘cause I’d started doing a law degree, so I imagined being a lawyer, marrying Jessica, and us having 2.5 kids and a golden retriever.’ Jeremy’s account was similar in terms of the way parenthood was associated with a heterosexual relationship: I always thought I’d have kids. Went down the path of trying to be a sperm donor. Went down the straight path thinking, you know, end up having children that way. Even actually . . . after coming out as a gay man, I ended up back in a relationship with a woman.

These accounts point to the strong influences of normative cultural expectations regarding sexuality and reproduction. As David Schneider (1997) has asked, why should gay men and lesbians want a different version of kinship from others— including the desire for children—when they grow up in the same culture, surrounded by the same kinship symbols? Some of the men who suggested they had always held a desire to become parents also seemed similarly to be influenced by heteronormative notions of the appropriate circumstances in which to have children. That is to say, their desires for parenthood were most likely to be bound up with, rather than distinct from, traditional expectations of heterosexual relationships and marriage. These recollections also show how expectations of parenthood span different cultures, in the case of the men quoted here, from Australia and North America, Europe, Southeast Asia and Latin America. The idea of a future that involved a family and children was not generally questioned, even for those who had an early awareness of their homosexuality. After coming out as gay, however, they found themselves excluded from this heteronormative dream.

117

Unplugging from parenthood As described in the previous section, many participants described having the desire to become a parent—or at least an expectation—before they came out as gay. For most, an awareness of their gay sexuality was something that served to cut them off from parenthood narratives and prospects. For each—as for everyone else—being openly gay meant that parenthood was no longer seen as an option. As one US participant, Paul, put it: ‘I’ve always enjoyed children. However, you know, growing up as a gay male in the US, it wasn’t something that was real possible.’ He described how his partner, Mathieu, in contrast, ‘always planned for children and if he wants to do something he does it, so there was no stopping him.’ Jamie and Darren, Australian participants, said they had not considered it earlier in their relationship, and Jamie admitted, ‘I’d discounted it because of my lifestyle.’ Donald, an Australian, poignantly captured this idea of being shut out of parenthood in his recollection: So, so basically, I came out when I was relatively young, sort of 19, or 20 . . . I think people sort of say, ‘Oh, that’s a shame, you’ll never have children.’ That’s often sort of the response when you come out of the closet as it were. So, and I think in a way, you kind of believe that yourself, because the kind of heterosexist sort of culture (dominant culture) that we live in.

For Donald and others, coming out as gay made parenthood appear to be less of a possibility. This belief was reinforced through messages received both implicitly and explicitly: part of the discursive practices that ‘push [gay men] away from parenthood’ (Goldberg et al., 2012: 159; italics in original). Such barriers include laws and institutional obstructions, but also discouragement from family and friends and also social norms (see also Mallon, 2004), which reinforce the conflation identified in previous research between ‘gayness’ and ‘childlessness’ (Berkowitz & Marsiglio, 2007; Brinamen & Mitchell, 2008; deBoer, 2009; Goldberg et al., 2012; Mallon, 2004; Quartrioni, 1996; Schacher et al., 2005; Weeks, et al., 2001; Wells, 2011). This notion of being cut off from one’s parenthood expectations also has some resonance with Michael Bury’s (1982) notion of chronic illness as a ‘biographical disruption.’

In contrast, Rabun and Oswald’s (2009) recent study of young gay men in the United States observed no such conflict between parenthood desires and homosexuality, as all of the men in their study indicated a desire to become parents in the future. This finding may reflect a degree of generational change, as well as some evidence of the increasing social acceptance of sexual minorities, including the rights and opportunities for gay men to become parents. As Weeks et al. (2001) noted, based on

118 their UK study, the ‘notion that parenting can be openly chosen by non-heterosexual people is relatively recent’ (2001: 159). Where and when people ‘come out,’ as well as access to community resources, are crucial factors in shaping the range of possibilities that can be articulated. The gay men in the present study, mostly aged at least in their late 30s, tended to have experienced a strong push away from parenthood. For those with strong desires for children, this longing created tensions. Giving responses consistent with other research findings (Rabun & Oswald, 2009), the few younger men in the study, such as Carlos, Jamie and Darren, did not report the same degree of tensions as the older men did. As mentioned, Jamie, who was 33, had previously considered that parenthood was not an option because of his ‘lifestyle’—by which he meant that his relationship with Darren was in an early stage and his focus was more on his career and social life. Darren, 35, reported that when he was in his 20s, he ‘didn’t want children.’ However, even for younger men who did not experience the same degree of conflict between homosexuality and parenthood—either internally or externally—by choosing to become primary parents, all of the men to some extent were acting out a conceptual challenge to the conventional definitions of masculinity, paternity and gay sexuality (Armesto & Shapiro, 2011; Schacher et al., 2005; Stacey, 2006; Wells, 2011). I examine examples of these challenges to the conventional scripts of homosexuality and parenthood in subsequent sections of this chapter.

Although all participants in the present study were parents—or in the process of pursuing parenthood— they were also keen to emphasise that they did not feel the same availability of parenthood as is the case for heterosexual men. In fact, it was quite the reverse: they felt required to justify this desire or choice, which (they believed) was not expected of most heterosexual people. Several of the men accepted (or at least acknowledged) the idea that homosexuality and parenthood were widely viewed as incommensurate. One of the Australian interviewees, Donald, described a kind of ‘inner conflict’ between two selves or identities, that of parent and that of gay man. As he put it, ‘you’re holding the dual identity, being a parent and being gay as well, because they’re mutually exclusive.’ In agreement with Stacey (2006), these men felt they were refused access to the default ‘script’ of parenthood (but heterosexual men were not).

Although some participants described a powerful and innate desire for parenthood, for many of them, coming out as gay was the first time that they became conscious of

119 such desires. Making clear their sexual preference established a contrasting narrative to the cultural conflation of parenting and heterosexuality, which for the first time they felt unable to access. Most of the men recounted engaging in a process of working towards accepting that they no longer had the option of becoming parents. As one of the Australian participants, Ian, put it, ‘I know myself. I quite quickly recognised that I wouldn’t be having kids, and got over that quite quickly and moved on with my life.’ Ian suggests that at first he accepted uncritically the notion that being gay meant he could not become a parent, despite a desire to—or at least an expectation that he would. For some men, however, the abandonment of a heterosexual ‘script’ regarding future parenthood appeared to intensify their desire to become parents. Damon, for example, still held onto a hope that he would have children several years after coming out and starting a relationship with Nick: After five years I was thinking, “oh, maybe we could somehow get married and somehow have a baby,” they were my thoughts. I had no idea how this could happen . . . ‘cause I only came out to my parents a year and a half ago: to my mum a year and a half ago and to my father only September last year.

In addition to receiving broad ‘social’ messages, once they came out as gay, many of the men also received messages from within the gay community that militated against or discouraged parenthood. This process of being ‘unplugged’ from the parenthood script was mobilised not only by general social conventions but also by those relating to gay identity and community, wherein the absence of parenthood could be heralded as one of its freedoms. This state might apply to men such as those in this study, most of whom had not had children from a previous heterosexual relationship (only one had a child in this way) and were not young enough to have come out as gay after the ‘gayby boom.’

Some participants even provided examples of explicit antagonism towards parenthood by some gay men. After they became parents, that response led to some distancing from former peers. Many accounts identified community-related tensions that echoed the findings of Goldberg et al. (2012) and Armesto and Shapiro (2011). For most men, this distancing came about because of opting out of the commercial bar and club scene. As Michael noted, parenthood set him and his partner Dino apart from their friends, whom he described as somewhat frivolous and superficial. In addition, as Michael argued, gay parenthood was a somewhat challenging concept for some gay men: For gay men it brings up a lot of issues of, like, “wow, what am I doing with my life?” You know, I’m going to the bars on the weekend, that’s really fun, but suddenly looking at them does that feel like it’s enough? So the 120

resentment is that I’m making them think about that or anger that I’m like trying to be something I’m not. Or, jealousy, lots of weird, a gamut of stuff. It’s funny. You have to be really constantly aware and we downplay the role of our kids in our lives with a lot of our gay friends ‘cause most of them don’t want to hear about it. They want to hear about Project Runway; they want to hear about, you know, whose . . . what we’re doing and where we’re going, and, like, the bars.

As Michael’s quotation suggests, parenthood can create divisions between those gay men who choose to pursue parenthood and those who do not. As Jamie’s earlier quotation demonstrates, the ‘lifestyle’ of younger gay men can make the pursuit of parenthood unlikely.

The accounts of the men who initially accepted the idea of childlessness because of exposure to messages that denied—or at least discouraged the idea that gay men can be fathers—reveals more broadly the social construction of parenthood desires. In addition to overcoming their exclusion from parenthood, the men in this study also acknowledged other barriers to becoming parents, such as the legal recognition of same-sex relationships. This observation is consistent with the findings of Berkowitz and Marsiglio’s (2007) study, in which men identified the social, structural, and institutional barriers to parenthood. Similarly, Rabun and Oswald (2009) reported that even the young gay men in their study initially accepted the ‘internalized’ messages that disallowed parenthood for gay men (2009: 279). Therefore, what seems evident is that, for the (older) men in the study at least, exposure to and influences from external messages affected their parenthood desires—initially discouraging them from viewing themselves as potential parents.

Replugging into parenthood I now turn to the notion of parenthood as emerging ‘from without.’ That notion begins with the idea that parenthood desires are not (only) inherent, but rather are enacted and shaped by social practices and discourses. I propose that thinking about parenthood ‘from without’ may be useful in conceptualising the parenthood desires articulated by these gay men. It may help to account for the emergence of such desire at a specific time. I analyse four specific influences that re-introduced availability of the parenthood plug-in to these gay men: the influence of partners; the promotional activities of surrogacy agencies; the impact of peers becoming parents; and the media.

121

The influence of relationship partners Previous research identified the importance of partners in leading gay men towards or away from parenthood. In particular, Judith Stacey (2006) observed the importance of partner choice in her ethnographic research on gay male kinship in Los Angeles. Stacey developed a ‘passion for parenthood’ continuum as a conceptual model that combined partner choice and desire for parenthood. The continuum ranges from ‘predestined’ parents on one end of the spectrum to ‘refuseniks’ (2006: 40) on the other. In Stacey’s study, the majority of gay men occupied some intermediate position on this continuum; a small proportion of these men would form partnerships with men who had a strong desire for parenthood and would become parents by default, but the majority would remain childless. Goldberg et al. (2012) also noted that partners were a major influence for some men. In that study, many men described the influence of their partner in their decision to become parents.

In my study, two different themes emerged in the men’s narratives: mutual pursuit of parenthood; and partners as pushing towards parenthood (with one partner as the initiator). Regarding the ‘mutual pursuit of parenthood,’ study participants sometimes described deliberately selecting a partner who would support their goal of becoming a parent. In most cases, participants described establishing an agreement about having children early in the relationship and viewing this pact as a key feature in the relationship’s longevity. As discussed in the first part of this chapter, some men also described themselves in ways similar to Stacey’s ‘predestined’ parents. The significance of parenthood is likely to have influenced why finding partners with similar desires was important to some men. One of the US participants, Kevin, described early conversations with his partner, Rick, in terms that suggested he considered they were ‘predestined parents’: We started talking about kids really early on. I don’t even remember when we started but we both definitely wanted to have kids. In fact, I think it was one of the reasons why we ended up getting married. I mean I think because we had these sort of big life goals and ideas about what we wanted in life.

Applying Stacey’s (2006) model, men like Kevin would perhaps be expected to choose to stay single rather than partner with a man who was opposed to being a parent. Kevin’s partner, Rick, who was in his late 30s, had initially implicitly accepted the mismatch between homosexuality and parenthood. He delayed coming out until ‘late in life’ because he ‘wanted to have kids’: I didn’t come out until very late in life ‘cause I wanted to have kids and so when I came out, I didn’t think I would have kids, and so it was wonderful

122

when we started talking about it, and then it all kind of worked out pretty well.

Even though he described how parenthood was important for him (consistent with the theme of incompatibility between gay identity and parenthood explored earlier), Rick initially hid his homosexuality. The narrative style of his account was much less proactive than his partner’s account. Given that he accepted that he would not have children, it is probably fortunate that he ended up in a relationship with Kevin. The account they produced in their joint interview, however, was definitely one of mutual pursuit of parenthood. They were careful always to use the plural pronoun when they referred to planning for parenthood.

Keith, another US participant, in his mid-40s, was much more of a typical ‘predestined’ parent, and highlighted this identity in his reflection on searching for a relationship partner who also wanted to have children: I never, myself never had a problem being gay. I always had a problem not having a family. I always felt that I was going to be a dad, and so once I figured out I could do that myself, then I went out to find someone that wanted to do it with me.

Even though Keith claimed that he ‘went out to find someone that wanted to do it with me,’ he described his partner Malcolm (who was not interviewed) as equally keen to become a parent. In fact, Malcolm had previously been in a long-term relationship with someone who had not shared that goal. This is a typical example of partnering through the mutual pursuit of parenthood.

Andrew’s account offers a contrast to the mutual pursuit of parenthood. He suggested that there was a conflict between his desires and those of his partner, although this divergence was not a deal-breaker for them: ‘I discussed it with my partner. And, essentially he was not keen on the idea. He subsequently said, “well, you know, you must do what you want to do”.’ In Andrew’s opinion, one partner pursuing the goal of parenthood without the active support or interest of his partner was possible in gay relationships. However, he felt it was very unlikely to occur in heterosexual relationships: I would say that he tried to stay neutral, I guess. In gay relationships, I think there’s a fair bit of freedom, often. So, had we been a straight couple and been married or in a de facto relationship, and one partner decided they’re going to go ahead and have a child, I can see that it would be a completely different dynamic. But in this case, I think you have gay men who are independent and autonomous. One makes a decision and the other one

123

accepts that decision. So I suspect the dynamic was probably different as well.

Despite Andrew’s belief that it would be possible to sustain different views on parenting within a relationship, this relationship ended soon after the discussion about parenthood. At the time of the interview, Andrew was a single parent with two children, born separately using the same surrogate mother.

The second theme related to the influence of a relationship partner was where one partner acted as the driving force. In cases when one partner in a couple was seen by both as the initiator of plans to being parents, he would also be likely to be chosen as the biogenetic father, at least of the first child born through surrogacy. Some men were adamant that parenthood would not have occurred if not for the initiative of one partner. In Jeremy’s case, it was his own: And then when finances became available, we went down that path. So, yeah, and then I guess I was a driving force behind it, and then, you know, there was at one point, when we were actually quite a fair way through the process, that he started to get cold feet. And, you know, I was honest, I said, “Look, you know, tell me now because if we’re not going to go down the path and have children then there isn’t a relationship here.” So yeah, but he obviously came around.

Jeremy could be described as a quintessential ‘predestined parent’: he was clearly the initiator of the parenthood project and gave his partner an ultimatum when he felt the latter was wavering in his support. In his account, he was prepared to leave the relationship if his partner did not ‘come around.’

Paul, one of the US participants, also invoked the idea of the ‘driving force.’ Like Jeremy, he used this exact term to describe his partner’s more proactive role: Certainly, Mathieu was the driving force. Mathieu has always planned for children . . . . Eight years ago when we started, you know, there were people out there but a lot of the gay men had children through um, previous heterosexual relations, so we were kind of early on in the trend.

Paul described his role almost as ‘just going along for the ride.’ Paul’s ambivalence seemed to relate mostly to pursuing parenthood via surrogacy rather than parenthood per se. They already had one child through transnational adoption. Although Paul said they would most likely continue to pursue parenthood through surrogacy, he said he wouldn’t mind adopting another child.

In these examples, the more ‘neutral’ partners—Allan and Paul—would fit Stacey’s model as ‘parents by default.’ Their accounts and Stacey’s model also illustrate how 124 parenthood is socially produced and highly dependent on circumstances. Some men became parents only because one proactive partner pursued the parenthood ‘plug-in.’

Marketing by surrogacy agencies When gay men become parents, it necessarily involves a series of choices and deliberations that are not only about deciding between the various options available to achieve that end, but also about imagining a possible range of different futures. However, what narratives of parenting futures are made available to gay men who seek them out? It is clear that advertising is one way they learn about options. As discussed in Chapter 5, advertising includes commercial surrogacy agencies’ web- based promotional materials (some of which specifically target gay men as potential clients). I argue that the advertising strategies and linguistic choices of commercial surrogacy agencies play a role in shaping that desire, particularly through promoting their services via information sessions, statements in the media, and on their own websites.

I reflected on what my participants said about the information sessions organised by the agencies and concluded that they served as marketing opportunities, not only for the individual agencies involved, but also for the promotion and acceptability of the concept of surrogacy for gay men in general. Some of the men in this study had also attended these events, which sometimes included representatives of surrogacy agencies as speakers. At these events, the agency representative would typically provide a detailed account of the services available, including assistance with immigration for clients intending to take their children out of the United States. Information sessions usually also included the testimony of local gay clients. In the following quotation, Nick, one of the Australian participants, who was in a relationship with Damon, described the impacts of attending an information session: After we came back from the info night, I was pro-surrogacy. For some reason, because, I don’t know, probably it was more like a main goal for me, ‘cause I always wanted to have a baby for myself. I did not want to share it with anyone. And then, so I sort of, like, started searching that night on the internet about surrogacy. And, so, okay, that’s what it means and that’s how it works and things like that.

Although Nick described the possibility of becoming a parent as something that he had already hoped to do without developing a co-parenting arrangement (‘I always wanted to have a baby for myself’), the information session presented parenthood to him as a real possibility for the first time. Nick was suddenly able to envisage possibilities previously unknown to him. The idea of surrogacy—although he did not 125 at that point understand what it involved—connected with what he described as a pre-existing desire to have children without having to enter into a heterosexual relationship or co-parenting arrangement: ‘I did not know what the word surrogacy meant at the time but I knew that one day a lady was going to carry the baby for me and it turned out that way.’ The marketing of the surrogacy agency seems to have provided the necessary plug-in for men such as Nick to think about parenthood as a desirable and viable option. Promotional materials and events may be particularly significant because they are also occasions when the idea of gay men becoming parents is presented in a very deliberately positive frame, in contrast to potentially more negative representations of gay male parenting in other settings.

Rocco, who lived in Los Angeles, recounted feeling that the advent of his newfound knowledge about surrogacy had opened up possibilities that had previously been unexplored because of his and his partner’s beliefs that homosexuality meant parenthood was not possible, or at least unlikely. For Rocco there was a convergence that created the conditions of possibility for parenthood: the emerging reproductive technologies, the agencies that coordinate them and the specific targeting of new markets—gay men: But he is a lot younger and he always wanted to have kids too but thought he couldn’t because he was gay. Then because of all this technology and so on that’s happening, we knew that we could have kids. And then we started talking about it and, ah, you know, probably started, “oh yeah, we should have a kid,” sort of as a light joke and then started talking, you know, about how we had thought about it in the past and, and what it would really mean. Then I’m sure we got scared and stopped talking about it and then started talking about it again.

Similarly, Andrew, an Australian participant, recounted his experience of being made aware of the existence of an agency in Los Angeles that coordinated surrogacy for gay men who were seeking to become parents. Previously, he had been unsuccessfully trying to pursue parenthood through co-parenting arrangements, first with friends and then through advertisements: Through a member of Maybe Baby, he mentioned the existence of an agency in Los Angeles called Growing Generations. Now what did I do? I don’t think they even had a . . . I think I made contact with them, I think it was, I don’t think they even had a website at that point. I made contact with them, and my brother was in [another North American city] and I flew down from there to have an appointment with them.

For Andrew, like some of the other men, the marketing of surrogacy agencies— albeit in this case by word-of-mouth through a gay parenting group—enabled him to consider parenthood to be a realistic possibility. 126

The web-based promotional materials published by commercial surrogacy agencies are intended to inspire potential users through constructing a particular image of surrogacy that affirms the aspirations of gay men to become parents. The emergence of surrogacy agencies, and in particular Growing Generations, played an important role in facilitating parenthood for gay men, but also in plugging these men into scripts of possible parenthood that had previously been unavailable to them. Clearly, commercial interests were at play on the part of the agencies. Gay men in particular, but also lesbians, were seen as an important potential market. Keith’s account demonstrates how fertility specialist and surrogacy agencies actively sought out gay men as a new market for reproductive technologies in the late 1990s. He described how the fertility specialist his sister was consulting with in another city asked her to make an introduction with the hope that he could attract them as his first gay clients: And he heard from [my sister] that we were looking at agencies and he said, “please have him come; I want to meet with him.” We later found out that he was about a year later going to sell this company and he had had, ah, women come through his agency but he had never had two men go through it. He had two men start and then they dropped out, and he wanted to have two men also go through the agency ‘cause he was going to sell the company, and he was writing a book and he wanted to work with everyone.

If Keith was correct that attracting a gay clientele was the aim of this clinician, this example demonstrates the potential that agencies and clinicians saw in this market. Therefore, not surprisingly, fertility clinics and surrogacy agencies seek to access this potential client group by using marketing strategies such as those described in Chapter 5. They hoped to expand this market by also contributing to the production of new discursive representations of the potential for gay men to become parents.

‘But then slowly the world changed’: The influence of parenting peers A very strong theme in the accounts of men reflecting on the origin of their emerging parenthood desires was of the role of other gay men with children, and specifically children conceived and born through surrogacy. As Phillip put it, having gay male friends who had themselves become parents inspired him and his partner, Patrick, to consider that it was also possible for them: It’s hard to imagine that we would have done it if we hadn’t seen that it was possible for another couple to do it. You know, I don’t, we might have but, just, yeah, I just can’t imagine us suddenly thinking, “hey, we should try to find a way to have children.”

As Phillip and Patrick had close friends with children born through surrogacy, they had direct contact with this new phenomenon. Other men described more 127 opportunistic encounters that made them aware of gay men having children in this way. For example, Brian remembered seeing a gay couple with children at a café, which made him aware of surrogacy for the first time: I said to the waiter, “Who are those two, who are those guys?” And he said, “Oh, that’s Brad and Shane; they’re, they, that’s their twin girls; they’ve had them through surrogacy in America.” And I went, “right.” I just had no idea that you could even do that. So, that’s when I first discovered that surrogacy was a possibility, not thinking then that we would ever do it.

For Australian men, in particular, awareness of other gay men becoming parents through surrogacy was viewed as important because of concerns about the possible legal and immigration barriers to pursuing surrogacy (given that commercial surrogacy was not legal in Australian jurisdictions, which remains the case) (Millbank, 2011).

Seeing other gay men become parents was also viewed as an important ‘plug-in’ for Jamie and Darren. As Jamie recounted: But then slowly the world changed, both externally and in my mind, and co- parenting and surrogacy became known to us. It truly hit home for me when I saw a documentary on two other guys who went through the process. We knew them.

These accounts not only provide insights into the importance of gay peer networks for producing and reproducing notions of parenthood and kinship, but also reveal the density and closeness of these networks. For several of the participants, knowing gay men (or merely knowing about them) that led them to think about pursuing parenthood and, in particular, pursuing parenthood through surrogacy. Further, as several of the men noted, the idea of other men like them becoming parents made these events more relevant. This importance was noted in Jamie’s emphasis that he and Darren knew the couple who had been profiled in the television documentary. Parenthood was therefore not only theoretically possible, but was also being pursued by people within their own circles. Those stories, in turn, were being picked up by national media. By these men’s own accounts, not only were they becoming aware of parenthood possibilities, but the ‘world’ itself had also ‘changed.’ I take this to mean that for most of these men, being exposed to these new scripts on gay men becoming parents put to bed the assumption that coming out as gay meant abandoning that potential dimension of the life course.

128

A final note on media… In his interview, Jamie noted the influence of electronic media in making parenthood scripts available to gay men, and in particular, of circulating ideas about a new form of parenthood—surrogacy. Reflecting the density of peer networks already mentioned, there was also sometimes crossover between peers and the gay men featured in media stories, as Jamie’s story demonstrated. It may not be unusual— given the relatively small number of gay men pursuing surrogacy in Australia—that documentary accounts of surrogacy in the media featured men who the participants knew or at least recognised. Another example of the density of networks was the overlap in references to particular media stories by participants in the study. One was the documentary produced by one of the Australian public broadcast networks mentioned by Jamie. It featured two Melbourne men who had pursued surrogacy arrangements in the United States. The other story was that of a gay couple in the UK who had twins via a US surrogate in 1999. This story was covered by a television current affairs program in Australia, and various print media outlets. As Jeremy, one of the Australian participants, recounted, it was this story that made him aware of Growing Generations, in particular: I’d found out about Growing Generations through a news article about those . . . [the] English couple that went for all that publicity—the English guys that had a lot of money—but nowhere had I seen the actual name of the organisation. Then eventually, further on, there was somewhere that mentioned Growing Generations and I kept the article.

Donald, another Australian participant, recalled that the story of this same couple, although probably from a different media source, first made him aware of surrogacy: I had no personal networks about it; I really hadn’t got a clue of anybody who had done this. There was a couple from the UK in Essex, I don’t know if you know it, but it’s a bit sort of . . . they had press actually; they were these two blonde beauties. So they got kind of a bit of bad press. I don’t know them, so that was my first kind of hearing about it. And then I started to do much more of a rigorous search.

These examples demonstrate how a small number of media stories were truly pivotal in making this group of gay men aware of their options to pursue parenthood through surrogacy. Ian also described how a chance reading of an article in a gay magazine opened up the idea of surrogacy, which had not previously been considered: And it was only about seven or eight years ago, that both Terry and I started to talk about the fact that we could possibly have children. And then we started to look at some of the ways that we could create our family. Through that we went through foster care and adoption and possible co-parenting scenarios. And a friend brought back an article from America, a gay magazine, about surrogacy, and at the same time an article appeared in the weekend magazine from one of the main papers. 129

Several participants identified both electronic and print media as ways that the prospect of parenthood became known to them. Media coverage of surrogacy was particularly important, as, for some men, it highlighted a pathway to parenthood that had previously been unknown. It seems that media coverage was more important for the Australian men than their US counterparts, as none of the latter noted the role of the media in their awareness of surrogacy or promoting their interest in parenthood. This absence is perhaps not surprising, as surrogacy was a much more established practice in the United States. An important aspect of the interest by Australian men provoked by the media was awareness that gay men could have children through surrogacy in the United States and bring the children back to Australia with relatively few obstacles.

Prior experiences of parenthood In addition to the four dimensions described above that contribute to a ‘replugging’ into parenthood for these gay men, a small number of the men had already become parents in other ways before becoming parents through surrogacy. Brian and David had twins through a co-parenting arrangement with a lesbian couple; Sam had a daughter from a previous marriage; and Jack had adopted a son just before the arrival of his other son through surrogacy. These men offered slightly different accounts of becoming aware of the possibility of parenthood. As Brian, one of the Australian participants, explained, being asked to co-parent with a lesbian couple provided a revelatory moment of insight regarding the possibility of an alternative ‘script’ in which he could be both a parent and a gay man: ‘We never really, hadn’t given it a lot of thought because you don’t, because you think, “oh well, you’ll never have kids, being gay men”.’ Again, this quotation refers to the contradiction that many men see between homosexuality and parenthood. An experience of helping a lesbian couple become parents led to them to imagining new possibilities for their own experience of parenthood. It is almost as though helping others to have children opened up a new portal of possibility: it ‘introduced [us] to the whole world of having children.’

The accounts of the men in this study show that changes in external conditions created new opportunities for them to think of themselves as parents. These changes were not only historical or generational (such as the social changes affecting gay men, identified by Weeks et al. [2001), but also took place within a remarkably short time for these men. The evidence that parenthood desire and expectations can be 130 animated or influenced by social scripts in this way clearly reveals not only the changing notions of parenthood for gay men, but also the social construction of parenthood more broadly.

Choosing to be a ‘good citizen’ Media discourses on gay men and surrogacy, in particular, evoke a consumer-choice narrative. My main argument in this chapter is that there is a multiplicity of ways of looking at ‘choice’ among these men that is more interesting and complex, and provides a way of thinking about the social production of parenthood that de-links it from an inevitable heterosexuality. As described above in this chapter, men’s expectations of parenthood were organised around an assumed societal imperative to reproduce before these expectations were interrupted by coming out as gay. A third twist involved men becoming ‘plugged’ back into these expectations—notably, through the emergence of surrogacy and its related marketing—providing the conditions of possibility for parenthood. These conditions were organised around or mobilised by the activities of a particular group of people and businesses based in Los Angeles.

Another important aspect of gay men’s parenthood aspirations and practices is the reflective nature of such projects. What are the implications of planned and deliberate parenthood projects such as those undertaken by gay men pursuing surrogacy? The accounts of men in this study conveyed a sense of heightened responsibility regarding parenthood. Some of the men highlighted what they believed were differences between this way of forming a family and the approaches of heterosexual couples. For example, Brian, one of the Australian participants, noted: ‘you know, you think of all of those things, because it’s not like you’re just a heterosexual couple, like, and it’s expected of you to have kids. For us it’s, it’s expected of us not to have kids.’ Brian’s quotation indicates that parenthood and parenting for these men were considered a very ‘public’ project, with associated pressure not to make any errors. Similarly, Rick, one of the US participants, suggested that, even though there was an increasing range of parenting models to draw on (including non-heterosexual models), there was still pressure to parent in ways that were in the best interests of the child, that is, ways that conformed to acceptable—presumably heteronormative— models of ‘family’: I mean, there’s so many different parenting models these days that it’s just, it’s just another one. But—and I also think because it’s so hard to have a

131

child that you’re—like, you don’t just happen to have an accident, so you’re much more committed to doing it, but in the right way.

Like Brian, Rick emphasised the deliberate nature of gay male parenthood and parenting (‘you don’t just happen to have an accident’) and suggested that this planning resulted in higher quality parenting than might be expected from heterosexual couples following the expected ‘script’ of marriage and family.

Similar narratives of intensified ‘responsibility and choice’ were noted by Berkowitz and Marsiglio (2007: 377) in their study of gay men in Florida and New York. Like these authors, however, I would caution against accepting these narratives at face value and reflect instead on the conceptual hierarchy being constructed through such appeals. The intention seems to be to place the families of gay men in a privileged position because they are presumed to be formed through careful planning and overcoming of legal, institutional, and biological barriers. A distinction is established between these families and ‘other familial arrangements and practices that are generally formed through less privileged and structured means’ (2007: 377). Although it is evident that all the men in this study entered parenthood in a considered way, this fact should not suggest that heterosexual couples or single women are less measured in their decision-making, and especially those who, like the men in this study, have pursued parenthood through ART. The supposition that gay men are more invested in having children and are ‘more committed to doing it’ is clearly untested and significantly too generalised to be applicable in all settings.

As described in Chapter 5 the notion of intention has been drawn on to make claims for parentage in cases where legal parentage is being contested (Johnson v. Calvert, 1993). It is not surprising perhaps that this concept would be drawn on by participants to support their claims not only to planned family, and children that were ‘wanted,’ but that intention itself supported this notion. Also, it seems to refer back to Schneider’s theorisation of kinship in that ‘intention’ plays the role of authorisation (in this case, authorisation in advance), which along with biogenetic connection form the two co-constituting elements of kinship. I would also argue that intention is suggestive of another element of Schneider’s model which is the ‘diffuse, enduring solidarity’ that he described as constituting the relationship between people who are kin.

132

In addition to the intensified responsibility inherent in their parenthood projects in general, careful and deliberate planning were also evident in some of the reasons for choosing surrogacy over other ways of achieving parenthood. For example, Joe, one of the US participants, recalled how his then-partner had first discussed parenthood seriously on the way home from dinner with the family of a business partner. Joe, who already wanted to have children, described how that same evening his partner undertook a methodical analysis of the ways in which they could become parents: He was a lawyer and an MBA so he had a kind of an analytical background, so he spent the whole night going through the different ways we could have children—adoption, surrogacy, foster parenting and the pros and cons of each and made a flow chart of it. And when I woke up in the morning, we went through the flow chart and said, “this is it! We want to do surrogacy.”

The idea that it was possible to weigh up ‘the different ways [they] could have children’ in a systematic and dispassionate way (that is, ‘pros and cons,’ ‘flow chart’) suggests a departure from the ways in which most heterosexual couples arrive at the decision to pursue surrogacy, as explored in Chapter 5. For the latter group, surrogacy is usually associated with a dearth of choice and is pursued only when other ways of having biogenetically related children have failed. In contrast, the pursuit of parenthood was very much presented here as a succession of deliberate and enterprising decisions for gay men.

The ways in which these men articulated their parenthood planning suggests that they can be read as quite classic examples of the western neoliberal subjects who ‘understand and enact their lives in terms of choice’ (Giddens 1991: 87). In fact, as already described, some men described their capacity to choose to become parents— and also the way in which they pursued this goal—as factors that elevated their families above those formed through less considered means. It is worth considering the nature of these choices. Governmentality theory proposes that subjects are governed through a logic that is designed ‘to recognize [that] capacity for action and to adjust oneself to it’ (Rose 1999: 4). Governmentality has arguably become the primary means by which medical and legal authorities understand and engage with people at a population level, and also the way in which people have come to understand and produce narratives about their actions (Rose & Novas 2004). It is through this logic that government also assumes its power because citizens, in the name of health, wellbeing, and prosperity, act according to the principles or behaviours recommended by experts and consume as encouraged through marketing and advertising. The attractiveness of this approach in relation to parenting is that it

133 allows for a way of thinking about concepts such as parenthood desire as influenced by and shaped by external factors,’ despite their feeling as if they come from ‘within.’ This theory assists in providing some explanations for the increasing popularity of gay male parenthood in recent years. In addition to pursuing parenthood according to the marketing of surrogacy agencies, these men are also assuming a particular form of subjectivity: that of responsibilised citizens and reproducers of the population. This assumption was also noted by Berkowitz and Marsiglio (2007), who suggest that such discourses have the potential to elevate same-sex-parented families to an idealised paragon of ‘responsibility and choice’ (2007: 377).

Choosing a different way to do family This study focuses on the notion of choice in a somewhat different way from the concept of ‘families of choice,’ which became a popular way of conceptualising lesbian and gay cultures of relatedness in contrast to the dominant Western biological modes of kinship. In particular, Kath Weston’s (1991) analysis of kinship practices among lesbians and gay men in San Francisco Bay Area showed that connectedness could be created in ways that paralleled the enduring permanence of biological ties (Weston 1991; also cited in Franklin 2001). To some extent, these practices challenge Schneider’s description of American kinship by highlighting the endurance and solidarity of kinship based on relations that do not always include shared biogenetic substance: [G]ay families differed from networks to the extent that they quite consciously incorporated symbolic demonstrations of love, shared history, material or emotional assistance, and other signs of enduring solidarity. Although many gay families included friends, not just any friend would do. (Weston 1991:109)

The ‘families of choice’ concept offered an alternative to, and questioned the durability of, kinship relations reliant on biogenetic substance. That model was able to propose, for example, that ties with families of birth were often severed as a result of lesbians and gay men ‘coming out,’ which Weston identified as events that ‘put to the test the unconditional love and enduring solidarity commonly understood in the United States to characterize blood ties’ (1991: 43–44). The notion of choice that is of interest in this chapter, however, is more directly engaged with the particular constructions and meanings ascribed to the desire or motivation to become parents among gay men.

134

Gay men having children through surrogacy offer a unique lens through which to view different people ‘doing’ family today because they are in some ways forced to account for their desire to have children. Parenting—and, in particular, surrogacy— for these men was associated with having more choice in what their families would ‘look’ like. Brian, for example, described how he and his partner, David, had previously been in a co-parenting arrangement with a lesbian couple, and this arrangement was very much ‘on [the lesbian couple’s] terms.’ After the women started reducing their access to the children, Brian and David started to consider ways in which they could have a more meaningful relationship (or ‘bond’) with children without this relationship being controlled by others. Brian described this thinking as ‘forging ahead’ with their own family ‘without any complications.’ For men like Brian and David surrogacy seemed to offer a way of imagining a family structure for themselves that reduced the role or influence of other people. Paradoxically, surrogacy requires the close involvement of considerably more, rather than fewer, people. Nevertheless, there remains a sense in which this is still a way of ‘doing family’ that is a deliberate choice of the gay men as parents.

Sam’s story also had some similarities with Brian and David’s. Sam described his desire for a biogenetic connection as the result of his experience of a previous heterosexual relationship in which he discovered he was not the biogenetic father of his daughter. As will be explored in Chapter 7, surrogacy offered the opportunity to for a biogenetic connection with his hoped-for child, thereby consolidating his identity as a ‘bio-dad.’ However, it could be argued that it was not only the biogenetic connection that was important to Sam, but also having a greater sense of control over the process, in contrast with his previous experience of becoming a parent, which led to him feeling powerless. It was this notion of having a greater capacity to control the parenting process, as indicated by these accounts, that was important in creating a ‘child of one’s own’ for these men. This is an important finding in the sense that it suggests surrogacy was viewed as a preferred way of creating a family not simply because of their desire to produce biogenetically related children (which actually presented other challenges to be negotiated, as will be discussed in Chapter 7). Instead, surrogacy seemed to be valued because it enabled the development of a family in which they could be considered the primary parents.

Finally, some of the most compelling examples of choosing a new way to ‘do’ family related to the ideas about familial normality articulated and challenged by men in this

135 study. It is tempting to suggest that the idea of gay men having children through surrogacy offers an alternative to conventional parenting models. However, overall this research did not reveal that to be the case. Recent research has shown how the heteronormative model of the two-parent family has a strong influence on the family aspirations of young gay men (Rabun & Oswald, 2009) and prospective adoptive gay male parents (Goldberg et al., 2012). As already described, studies have highlighted many of the symbolic aspects of traditional families, in particular being in a committed and stable relationship (Armesto & Shapiro, 2011; Goldberg et al., 2012), co-habitation (Rabun & Oswald, 2009), financial security (Berkowitz & Marsiglio, 2007; Rabun & Oswald, 2009), work and career stability (Goldberg et al., 2012) and emotional ties to partner and children (Armesto & Shapiro, 2011). The symbolic importance of this family form has remained strong despite its decreased prevalence in the post-modern age in Western countries (Stacey, 1996).

Similarly, the men in the present study tended not to challenge the two-parent model. In fact, they were more likely to emphasise the strength and cohesion of the family unit and the reproduction of normality, than the gender of the parents. In particular, men in same-sex couples had a very strong interest in portraying themselves as similar to other parents. Jamie, an Australian participant, interviewed with his partner, Darren, said of their plans to become parents through surrogacy: ‘I do see us as lucky to be able to get something as close to a normal-traditional family as possible for two gay men.’ Similarly, Joe, a US participant, described how same-sex parenting could demonstrate that such arrangements were non-threatening to dominant notions of family and of kinship more broadly: I really think the next part of the gay movement in the United States is gay parents. I mean, if we’re going to get rights in this country, rights for marriage, property inheritance rights, it’s going to be because of families, you know. People are going to see us as, “oh, yeah, they have, well I know, there, there’s a couple in my school, who, who are gay and have kids and they, they go to my kids’ class and they seem normal.”

Although he is speaking from his position as a member of a gay couple, Joe appears to believe that acceptance would most likely be achieved by fitting into pre-existing definitions of what constitutes a ‘normal’ family, rather than challenging or expanding these ideas. Therefore, the desire of gay men to become parents might in this scenario be considered as an example of governing through aspiration. Not only has parenthood become something towards which gay men increasingly aspire; it is also a means by which a normative monogamous dual-parent family model is reproduced and becomes entrenched. 136

In addition to Jamie and Joe, some other participants were very keen to have their choices legitimated and their accounts demonstrated an aspiration to be accepted as ‘normal.’ It was important for these men to show to the world that it was potentially possible for two men to ‘bring up kids properly as a family,’ in Damon’s words: Being in sort of an unusual situation with two men looking after the baby, I think it makes us want to show that, you know, we can actually bring up kids properly as a family. And the kids can grow up normal, and, so it gives us I guess another, not incentive, but maybe a bit of pressure too, and positive pressure. Like, we want to actually show people, some of the people who are negative. Like for instance on my side there’s my uncle who is very reserved. You know, it makes us want to prove to them that, you know, we actually can bring up this kid and this kid can enjoy life.

Damon’s commitment to proving that ‘the kids can grow up normal’ and the pressure that this creates is another reminder that these men tended to think of themselves as parenting in a very ‘public’ way, or with a very public gaze on how well they do. He went on to describe how having their son baptised in the Catholic Church was part of this objective of seeking social acceptance for their family: So, by having this baptism along with four other kids from straight families, as a normal baptism, that’s actually another statement that, I guess, shows that it’s normal. That there’s nothing wrong with this kid, nothing wrong with, you know, with our family. So, it was actually, I think, quite important to us to have this, a normal baptism.

This quote suggests a strong interest in minimising any suggestion of difference between their own child and the children of ‘straight families.’ That he used the word ‘normal’ repeatedly clearly speaks to his desire to efface any difference between his own family and other non-gay families. Damon’s account also seems influenced (at least to some extent) by normative beliefs that gender identity, gendered behaviour and sexual orientation will be influenced by same-sex parenting, despite a wealth of research indicating that this is not the case (Hicks, 2005a, 2005b; Patterson, 2000, 2006, 2009; Stacey & Biblarz 2001).

It is noteworthy that participants avoided using the term ‘fatherhood’ in accounts of their existing or envisaged role as parents. This may well be because these men sought to distance themselves from the rather more distanced figure of ‘father’, which did not accord with their intended relationship with the children. In addition, I propose that fatherhood, as opposed to parenthood, connotes a purely biogenetic relationship as suggested in the quote from Modern Family at the outset of the thesis. It was clear in this study that parenthood was a term that was seen to have the

137 capacity to encompass both biogenetic connection and other ways of enacting kinship that ‘fatherhood’ could not. Also, the notion of having two parents was highly idealised, despite a decreasing number of families conforming to this model in society more broadly, so in this sense it enabled the men to position their families as being more similar to heterosexual families than might be the case if they emphasised that there were two ‘fathers’. In this way, the emphasis on parenthood rather than fatherhood served a strategic purpose in aligning their families with others as well as downplaying the significance of the biological sex of parents.

Although this study was not focused on childrearing and care responsibilities within these families, some participants talked specifically about their caring practices. Nurturing capacities were to a large extent ‘de-gendered’ in the sense that paternal caring was seen as equivalent to care provided by a mother. Several of the couples noted that they had assumed the traditional roles of breadwinner and homemaker, such as Damon and Nick who had clearly defined roles in their relationship, and also Jeremy who stayed at home with the children while his partner worked. Only rarely did men describe their practices of parenting as ‘mothering’. One such example was Michael, who despite being a doctor explained that he and his partner Dino: ended up developing very traditional roles. Bizarrely traditional roles. Like, I was like the, the working mom, and he would come home wanting dinner on the table, it was bizarre. And most gay couples, I find that’s what ends up happening. You need a mother figure in there.

For other couples there was some flexibility in the designation of these roles. As Kevin explained: ‘I’m now the stay home dad at least for the first year of her life and then we’ll re-evaluate.’ Interestingly, it was not always the higher income earner who remained at work full time. This corresponds with other recent research in the United States that found most fathers experienced changes in their work life since their child’s birth, involving fewer hours at work and more time at home, as well as less business travel (Bergman, et al., 2010: 122, 131–132).

However, not all of the men were invested in the idea that their families were completely ‘normal.’ Parallel to the aspiration for normality, exist doubts about how ‘normal’ gay parenthood can be. The possibility of gay parenting having a negative impact on the children was of great concern to these men. Andrew, an Australian participant who was not in a relationship, confessed his sensitivity to any negative comments about gay parenting:

138

I mean, as a gay man, you get very used to passing and being out, so you manage your identity in a particular way, and likewise you use those skills unconsciously to manage who you say, who you tell and who you don’t. Now that gets more problematic when there’s a child and I can’t control that, what they say and what they don’t say. So that’s an anxiety, but in many ways I think there’s enough of a narrative around about sort of what to say to others and, so the child is not impinged upon, you know, so their development is not impinged and so their self-esteem is not, you know, affected.

For some men such concerns caused them to question whether fulfilling their desires to become parents would be detrimental to the children. For example, Brian’s reflections show how these men engaged with some of the popular discourses around gay parenting and surrogacy, rather than simply defending it. In particular, Brian wondered whether the desire to be parents was something that might be just a ‘fad’ or a ‘novelty’: What are we doing, you know, what are these kids going to grow up like, and what sort of world are we going to bring them into and is this just a phase we’re going through? Is it just a fad, what sort of parents are we going to be like, and will the novelty wear off?

Describing gay men’s desire to become parents as a ‘novelty’ that might ‘wear off’ reveals how self-conscious these men were regarding the popular narratives on gay male parenting that had begun to circulate in the mainstream media during the course of this study (analysed in detail in Chapter 5). The notion of consumer choice was something that was constantly negotiated by these men. This tension was exacerbated by their involvement in commercial arrangements, the complexities of which are explored in detail in Chapter 8.

The social barriers to gay men becoming parents identified by Berkowitz and Marsiglio’ (2007) also included concerns among the men about accusations of paedophilia and fears about discrimination toward the children (2007: 374–375). Similarly, in the current study, some men such as Donald also reported these concerns: I think, certainly, there’s an anxiety, there’s an anxiety about having children anyway, but there’s an anxiety around, well, I don’t know, it’s very hard to articulate. I think to have a boy child is much more “problematic” or comes with a lot more anxiety. Now I don’t know of other people’s experiences, because, and it’s interesting, the . . . the media mythology, picking up about linking boy children and it’s often linked with paedophilia.

This comment by Donald was made in response to a question about sex selection, which was asked of some participants because of reports in the Australian print media at the time suggesting that gay men having children through surrogacy in 139

California were undertaking this practice. The media report in question focused on a gay couple in Melbourne who had selected for twin sons (Hellard & Houlihan, 2007). What became clear, however, was that for many of these men, having sons was a less preferred option for the same reasons identified by Berkowitz and Marsiglio (2007). As Keith also recounted, when asked about his preference for the sex of his twins: I thought myself it would be easier as, for two men to raise a daughter than a son. So I don’t know, that was my thought, and then I thought a boy would be fine too. But I was just hoping for a girl and when it was two girls, I was delighted.

Keith’s desire for girls was clearly framed by his beliefs about how society views gay men raising boys. Although it is possible to extrapolate from his quotation that he was worried about perceptions about paedophilia, it is likely that he was perhaps referring to assumptions about perceived appropriate gendered role models for male and female children.

Not all of the men attempted to legitimise the ‘normality’ of their family. Two of the men were single, and two other participants had started their parenthood projects as single men but were in relationships by the time they were interviewed. These single men were very aware that they did not comply with the more ‘acceptable’ image of the gay male couple with children and therefore did not feel the same assurance or interest in being included in the normative definition of family as did others in the study. As Donald observed: I think, for gay couples, some of them, they do mock up as the heterosexual “we’re just like you,” and kind of play that card. So “we’re just like you but my partner happens to be a man.” And people understand that, it’s safe, you know. And for the single guys I think you’re always then marred with, you know, I think gay men are sort of you know, the predatory male, you know, the predatory person. So men generally are defined like that, and then gay men, and single gay men, you’re not neutered. And I think a neutered face of gay sexuality is much more acceptable than potency.

This illuminating quotation from Donald demonstrates the corollary of striving for acceptance by appealing to ‘normality.’ In his words, same-sex couples, by drawing upon their similarities with heterosexual couples, become ‘neutered’ in contrast to the ‘potency’ or danger that gay men would usually represent. As a result of the increasing acceptability of same-sex couples as parents, this stereotype of the ‘predatory’ gay man applies only to single men. Therefore, it is interesting to note that only the single men in the study remarked about their version of ‘family’ as being radical or a change to the status quo.

140

This notion of gay masculinity being ‘neutered’ by parenthood has some resonance with the findings from Armesto and Shapiro’s (2011) study of adoptive gay fathers in the United States, in which the ‘meaning that participants ascribed to the fathering role dramatically changed how they understood and enacted their homosexual identity’ (2011: 89). The men in that study created new definitions of themselves because of parenthood including ‘using fewer external referents, such as personal attractiveness or an active social life’ (2011: 89). Armesto and Shapiro also found that participants tended to start associating more with other parents and became somewhat distanced from the gay community, which they perceived as being ambivalent towards parenthood. The theme of drifting away from gay community, and, in particular, the commercial gay social scene, was also evident in this study. Although this division was in some cases experienced as stigma within the gay community towards men with children, several participants explained that they felt they now had more in common with heterosexual parents with similar lives and responsibilities than what they had with their gay friends. In some cases, the men in this study portrayed other gay men in stereotypical ways, such as in Michael’s previous comments about Project Runway and ‘the bars.’

What is consistently striking about these accounts is the appeals to normality they contain—to being ‘just like other parents.’ Perhaps worthy of note is that, while the choice for gay men to become parents may appear to resist stereotypes of the ‘childless homosexual,’ parenthood can also transform what ‘normal’ looks like for some gay men. This notion of inclusion raises the question of the extent to which aspirations for parenthood divide gay men into those who seek legitimacy or ‘normality’ and those who do not. To follow through on the theoretical basis of the overall analysis of this chapter it might also be useful to think about this question in the reverse. That is, perhaps the appeal to greater acceptance of same-sex desire and recognition of such relationships is an additional ‘plug-in’ that contributes to the emergence of parenthood desire in parallel with these political demands. A potential consequence is that striving for legitimacy may further marginalise gay men who do not have children, do not seek to have children, or those who become parents outside the context of a couple.

141

Conclusions This chapter explored why gay men are increasingly pursuing parenthood after coming out as gay. Undoubtedly, there are more opportunities for parenthood available for those who have access to resources, through new technologies, and the increasing globalisation that has facilitated cross-border reproductive services. It seems that at this historical moment, several factors have come together to facilitate gay men becoming parents through surrogacy. One of these is the impact of external messages to which men are exposed: messages that increasingly allow for, rather than discourage, the possibility of parenthood. These messages are part of the ‘plug- ins’ to which these men can subscribe. Specific contributions to these ‘plug-ins’ came from relationship partners, the global expansion and promotional activities of surrogacy agencies, and an increasing awareness of other gay men becoming parents. All these factors influence and give rise to new messages and possibilities. By documenting how these men came to feel excluded from traditional parenthood ‘scripts’ after coming out as gay and then ‘plugged-in’ again through external messages that constituted them as potential parents, this analysis also reveals the social production of parenthood more generally.

The other significant factor that has influenced gay men’s parenthood aspirations is the discourse of ‘normality’ through which gay men increasingly make claims for legal and social recognition. As I have shown, it is clear that discourses of inclusion are influential in this sample of gay men pursuing parenthood through surrogacy. Gay men are also increasingly framing their parenthood aspirations and their family structures in ways that reflect a particular model, that of the two-parent family with children who live together in the same household. In terms of the political agenda, this has involved significant changes, such as shifting emphasis away from sexual freedom and towards conduct that mirrors that of the normative nuclear (heterosexual) family unit. Parenting projects may therefore lead to a greater alignment between gay and heterosexual couples with children.

An important postscript in drawing this conclusion is that the majority of men in the study are in long-term, stable couples. These men overwhelmingly sought to claim that their families should be treated on an equal footing with families of opposite-sex parents. Only the two single men in the study did not appeal to ‘normality,’ perhaps because they did not have access to it by virtue of their status as single men. This logic of inclusion represents a departure from the ‘families of choice’ that were

142 described two decades earlier. The following chapter examines the importance of biogenetic connection in the kinship practices of gay men, and the ways that the symbolic aspects of kinships—in particular biogenetic connection and bilateral genetic inheritance—are negotiated by these men when pursuing parenthood through surrogacy.

143

CHAPTER 7: WHAT’S MINE IS YOURS: NEGOTIATING KINSHIP AND BIOGENETIC CONNECTION WITHIN SURROGACY-FORMED FAMILIES

Introduction The previous chapter analysed the emergence of parenthood desire among study participants, who represent a particular generation of gay men in Australia and the United States. That analysis showed how parenthood is socially produced, or made available, through discourses. The analysis also revealed that the kinds of families formed by these men were predominantly domestic, two-parented, nuclear family units that reflected dominant ideas about appropriate kinship arrangements. This chapter examines the symbolic aspects of kinship and how biogenetic connections feature in the formation of these men’s families. In particular, the chapter considers how biogenetic connections are strategically emphasised and de-emphasised in these men’s enactments and negotiations of kinship.

As described in Chapter 3, David Schneider (1980 [1968]) argued that biogenetic connectedness is the pivot on which American and other Western understandings of kinship turn. What is less understood is the role that biogenetic connection plays in families that fall outside the classic image of the family symbolised by a married heterosexual couple living in the same household with children to whom they are biogenetically related. This chapter explores how this theoretical model holds up in relation to empirical data from gay men forming families through surrogacy, if not literally then perhaps at least symbolically. For the families who took part in this study, the social reproduction of children is necessarily separated from their production. This separation—and the fact that only one male partner can be the biogenetic father—means that the symbols of kinship need to be reworked to enact filiation through means other than biogenetic connection alone.

‘Bio-dads’ There is strong emphasis in gay and lesbian politics on the potential for enacting kinship through ‘choice’ (intent, affect). Nevertheless, in this study, participants placed a great deal of importance on biogenetic connectedness. This finding forms an important sub-theme of the overall metaphor of producing a child ‘of one’s own.’ In general, men indicated a preference for biogenetically related children, although of course the study design would have favoured the inclusion of men with a stronger

144 interest in biogenetic connection than others. An important question therefore is how these men make sense of the preference for biologically related children while also in many cases negotiating the absence of biogenetic connection in relation to one partner in the couple and the presence of biogenetic substance from a non-parent in relation to the egg donor and perhaps even the gestational surrogate. It is also worth pointing out that this focus on biogenetic connection represents somewhat of a departure from the findings of Weston’s (1991) study where ‘[b]iological relatedness appeared to be a subsidiary option ranged alongside adoption, coparenting, and so on, within the dominant framework of choice that constituted families we create’ (1991: 189).

One of the participants for whom a biogenetic connection was important was Sam, 46, from Los Angeles, who at the time of interview was pursuing parenthood through surrogacy. A few months earlier, he and his partner had suffered a setback when their gestational surrogate miscarried early in her pregnancy. Sam, however, had also been married twenty years before. There was one child from this relationship, born a month prior to the marriage. As Sam recounted, ‘I found out six months into our daughter’s life, that she wasn’t mine biologically.’ This fact ‘made it really sort of difficult for me for the next couple of years,’ he added. The sense of loss evident in his account demonstrates the symbolic importance of biogenetic paternity, in enacting kinship. Sam went on to say, ‘although I loved her and still love her it made the choice really clear to me that I wanted to be a bio-dad.’ Significantly, although Sam described finding out that the child was not ‘mine biologically,’ he simultaneously described her as ‘our daughter.’ By retaining this kinship term to describe his relationship with her Sam implies that a biogenetic connection is not the only basis for a parent-child relationship. He made it clear that finding out that he was not her biogenetic father did not mean that all connections were broken, and he drew on the symbol of love to express ongoing connection. However, at the same time, the experience of being denied a biogenetic connection made him determined to achieve this goal in the future. Sam seems to believe that a biogenetic connection—being a ‘bio-dad’—would provide for a more complete or fulfilled experience of parenthood. His use of the neologism, ‘bio-dad’ (my first encounter with the term) also suggests that a more complete or ‘authentic’ kinship link with a child would exist if the biogenetic and social aspects of parenthood were combined.

145

This view hints at Schneider’s (1980 [1968]) theorisation of Western kinship being determined primarily through biogenetic connection that is then authorised through social institutions. Sam’s account seems to support the dominant understanding of Western kinship described by Schneider: people might be related in nature, in law, or both. Although pure biogenetic or social connections are possible, full kinship—that of being related by blood—is viewed as involving both. However, Schneider was analysing the key symbols of American kinship, which might have only limited utility when applied outside the context of heterosexuality. For example, what would these symbols mean for gay men involved in having children through contract surrogacy, when only one partner is biogenetically connected to the child? Is the relationship between the biogenetically related father and the child privileged over the other parent, as the kinship model would suggest? Alternatively, is kinship practised or enacted in ways that play creatively with these symbols?

Joe, one of the US participants, who had become a parent to twin sons during a previous gay relationship, described having biogenetically related children as ‘more of a process of vanity.’ As he went on to say, ‘you want to reproduce so that your whole, so that you, your line kind of goes on. And, I mean he was Harvard-trained and I’m Mayo Clinic-trained, and we thought, well, you know, these, these genes need to keep going, you know.’ In addition to the views of Joe and Sam, the following excerpt from Andrew, who was a single gay father with two children, detailed the perceived ‘naturalness’ of a biogenetic connection with children: I guess a lot of parents probably would deny this, but I think that for a lot of people there’s a biological imperative to reproduce and I don’t know if it’s to do with ego or what, but to almost, to almost see themselves in their children . . . I think with an adoptive child, maybe, of course you’d love them, but maybe there’s not that actual, it’s an animal kind of thing, that animal connectedness with them. Maybe.

Andrew’s quotation, particularly its emphasis on ‘animal’ or instinctive connections, evokes a belief in both the naturalness of biogenetically based kinship and the naturalness of the desire to reproduce. Again, like Sam, Andrew reaffirmed the idea that a biogenetic link creates a ‘natural’ connection between a parent and child in a way that social parenthood does not. An important aspect of this notion is what Andrew referred to as the need for people to ‘see themselves in their children.’ In his view, this mirroring creates ‘natural’ connectedness, which is, in turn, reinforced through resemblance. Correspondingly, as accounts of surrogacy have also suggested, the lack of physical resemblance can allow detachment by a surrogate (see Pande 2009, 2010). I return to this notion later in the chapter to show how 146 resemblance can also be drawn on to enact kinship in the absence of known or assumed biogenetic connection.

On the face of it, this division between biogenetic and social parenthood seems to reflect Western kinship, as theorised by Schneider, where kinship follows biogenetic facts. However, on closer inspection, the accounts of both Sam and Andrew suggest that kinship is somewhat more complicated than simply recognising a biogenetic link and creating a real and enduring connection from it. As a more complex reading of Schneider indicates, kinship is not automatically forged solely through the biogenetic connection, but must be ‘authorised’ through cultural or social recognition. A biogenetic connection can remain outside kinship (as in the example provided by Schneider of a child not acknowledged by its biogenetic father). As I discuss later in the chapter, this need for authorisation fits in well with gestational surrogacy practices—which were not known at the time Schneider was writing in the late 1960s—because a biogenetic connection through gametes only (for example with egg donors) can be de-emphasised or not authorised through the necessary social relationship. This discussion of the importance of both biogenetic substance and social acknowledgement also opens up the possibility of alternate forms of kinship that are not based on biogenetic connection, although they might well require forms of additional work, or ratification, that are not necessary for kinship formed through biogenetics. An example is the way that Norwegian families incorporate children they have adopted transnationally. These families, who do not share biogenetic links create kinship through social practices that have been termed ‘kinning’ (Howell, 2003; Howell & Marre, 2006).

The process of authorisation, which, in Schneider’s symbolic order, turns a relationship in nature alone to one of blood, was often articulated by study participants through what they sometimes referred to as the ‘nature-nurture’ division. This is a commonsense way of speaking about the processes through which socialisation or institutional endorsement is added to a biogenetic connection to ratify or authorise this bond. Rarely did the men interviewed as part of this study question this conceptualisation of kinship as a combination of so-called biogenetic facts and specific social practices. In effect, as demonstrated by the examples below, many men were deeply invested in maintaining a distinction between these domains. Participants in the study also produced quite detailed and contradictory accounts of

147 what was inherited naturally and what was acculturated. For example, the following quotation from Andrew refers to biogenetic links as ‘hardwiring.’ I actually, well, I, I think it’s partly, it’s obviously, it’s both nurture and nature, but I, and so from seeing my children, this business of hardwiring. … I guess that’s the other thing I’ve learned, I used to think men and women were very similar, I used to be a big believer as somebody with a degree in sociology that, you know, one’s socialisation was all, all important. … I think hardwiring is, is seventy or eighty percent of it. And I think, which is, you know, why I think the adoption thing wouldn’t have worked out, because I do believe in hardwiring.

Although Andrew was primarily referring to gender, an analogy can be drawn between the notion of ‘hardwiring’ and the point I am making about kinship. The enactment of gender and kinship were intertwined in Andrew’s account of nature- nurture because he was reflecting on raising a child as a single parent. However, he specifically spoke about the distinction between kinship connections in the context of surrogacy versus adoption. In his account, genetic connections feature as important, undeniable facts. ‘Nurture,’ or socialisation is a relevant, albeit less significant factor. It is clear in this model that nurture is something that is added to ‘nature.’ Andrew claimed that adoption ‘wouldn’t have worked out’ because it was premised on the attempt to enact kinship without the building blocks of biogenetic connection.

One of the US participants, Rick, also identified ‘environment’ and ‘biology’ as the two elements on which personhood is based, both of which can be influenced. In this case, Rick was referring to the decision by him and his partner, Kevin, to accept Rick’s sister as the egg donor: I just, I mean, I think it’s just ‘cause you know where the gene, where the genes are from and there’s, there’s just less uncertainty then around, you know, whether, and whether a child’s biology versus environment, you know, who knows and if you’ve managed both, you know, both the biology and, and obviously environment.

Similar to Andrew and Rick, Basil, an Australian participant raised a point about the unpredictability of the biogenetic influence with his argument that the absence of a biogenetic link between parents and children—as in the case of adoption—could lead to ‘problems’: Well, I think we’re both, you know, medically trained . . . and I suppose that, you know, means that we have some thoughts about this whole nature- nurture sort of thing. And I think that it is more likely for problems in relationships to arise when there is not a biologic link. I think that there are undeniably, personality traits that are genetically inherited, whether those are good or bad traits, they’re inherited. So therefore like-seeks-like. I think the relationship is more likely to be more comfortable if there is a, you know, a genetic link. So that was very important to us. And, all being equal, if we 148

could choose adoption over surrogacy, we would choose surrogacy every time, because of that genetic link.

Basil’s reasoning that ‘the relationship [between parents and children] is more likely to be more comfortable’ if there is a genetic link illustrates a fundamental finding in this section of the chapter: a genetic link is understood as unchangeable fact, but a social relationship can be built on this foundation. A similar point about the distinction between biological facts and social practices is made by Lynn Åkesson (2001) in relation to discourses on genetic counselling. Her analysis demonstrates that genetic ties do not always lead to active relationships. By employing the notion of ‘kinship as practice,’ she illustrates how ‘nearness and distance are created on other premises than biological ones’ (2001: 129). Marilyn Strathern (2005) echoes this finding and describes how relations need to be enacted. Contrary to expectations, in cases where family is discovered through genetic connections, that is what Dolgin (2000: 558) refers to as the genetic family, relations are not always made out of these links. Instead, this knowledge sometimes reverts to being merely ‘information’ (Strathern, 2005: 72). Again, this is a useful analogy for thinking about the relations created or not created between an egg donor and the children born as a result of her genetic material. Can such knowledge also revert to be merely ‘information’?

In general, study participants indicated a preference for biogenetically related children. This desire for a biogenetic connection with their children forms an important sub-theme of the overall metaphor of wanting a child ‘of one’s own.’ The emphasis on biogenetic connection might not be surprising in a study that actively recruited gay men who had become parents through surrogacy. However, it does highlight the importance of biogenetic links as one of the building blocks of kinship. It also raises interesting questions about how to conceptualise the connection between the non-biological parent and the child in the case of gay male couples. These questions will be explored in the following section.

Non-bio-dads As it is impossible for two men to be (directly) biologically related to the same child, the couples in the study (that is, the majority of participants) had to negotiate considerable complexity in relation to biogenetic notions of kinship. Only one couple, Kevin and Rick, described themselves as both having a direct biogenetic connection with their daughter. As just mentioned, they were able to achieve this because Rick’s sister had been the egg donor. Although this connection was in a

149 sense fixed, it was also important for Kevin and Rick to recognise themselves in their child as a confirmation of the link that both had to her. As Kevin contended, ‘she truly is a, you know, genetic mixture of the two of us, which is special and we can see both of us in her, I think.’ The idea that Rick’s sister could stand in for the genetic contribution of Rick also reflects the cultural understanding of bilateral genetic inheritance in that Rick and his sister were genetically similar because they both inherited half their genes from their mother and father. Rick’s sister provided Rick’s contribution, which when fertilised with his partner’s sperm, would approximate a child that was their own direct offspring, and importantly, that they could ‘see both of [them] in her.’

For other male couples, the cultural importance accorded to biogenetic connection created somewhat of a conundrum in terms of deciding which partner’s sperm they would use to fertilise the donor’s egg. Many participants went to great lengths to obscure the biogenetic connections between the two fathers and their children, the importance of which was alluded to in the story about the ‘the swirl’ from the beginning of the thesis. On the face of it, this obscuring would seem to challenge the importance of biogenetic links, as they were engaged in denying any interest in who the ‘real dad’ was. However, on closer analysis it became evident that biogenetic kinship poses a particular problem for non-biogenetic parents because it privileges the connections between the child and one parent at the expense of the other parent. Thus, both men actively seek to resolve this potential problem. This section explores the strategies employed by the study participants in managing biogenetic connection.

‘Turn-taking’ Several tactics were employed to deal with this dilemma. The first I call ‘turn- taking,’ in which one partner would provide sperm to conceive their first child(ren) and the other partner would provide sperm for subsequent children. In these cases, there was sometimes also a preference by participants for using eggs from the same donor so that in addition to a genetic link between each of the two men to one of the children, the children could also be genetically related to each other. Basil and Paulo, an Australian couple, discussed their original intention to follow this path: Paulo: Because if nothing else, you want the boys to be biologically linked together, which, you know, if either of us has one biologically, let’s say, then you want a link, and the mother is the link.

Interviewer: Or daughters, they could be . . .

150

Basil: Well yeah, that’s right, that’s right.

Couples used three main criteria to decide which partner would ‘go first’ as the sperm provider. The first criterion was age (with the older partner taking precedence); the second was based on which partner was considered to be the initiator of the parenthood planning; and the third was based on strengthening connections with one partner in the couple and ultimately his birth family. In Basil and Paulo’s case, Basil suggested that Paulo be the sperm provider because the couple were already close to Basil’s family and having a child using Basil’s sperm could have enhanced or exacerbated this connection in a way that was potentially threatening to Paulo’s role in Basil’s family. In Basil’s words: It then seemed pretty unfair for Paulo to be, you know, if it was my biologic family with whom we were interacting, and if they were my biologic kids, primarily, it could be an awkward situation where Paulo might have felt left out. So it was really my suggestion in the situation that Paulo go first.

For this reason, Basil and Paulo were one of only three couples who were open with people about which partner was the biogenetic father.

Sam described how turn-taking could be truncated temporally by combining sperm from both partners in the same pregnancy attempt. That approach became a greater priority for Sam and his partner after a recent miscarriage: Ideally, we’ll have two. That’s the ideal picture, but we’ve already been pregnant once, and we miscarried, and that was when I was the sole contributor. The next time we’re planning to do it with both of us at the same time; so embryos from both of us. For Sam and Thomas, providing sperm at the same time and transferring embryos that had been fertilised by both partners was a way of maximising their chance of success in the shortest time possible, yet still approximated the turn-taking approach. Many other couples also followed the strategy of both partners contributing sperm at the same time although this was for quite a different reason as outlined in the next section.

Intentional unknowing The second strategy for dealing with the quandary of which partner would be the biogenetic father I have termed ‘intentional unknowing.’ This tactic draws on the same principle as the myth of ‘the swirl’ discussed in the introduction to this thesis. Darren and Jamie, an Australian couple, who were in the early stages of pursuing parenthood through surrogacy, both intended to provide sperm and wait to see which partner’s sperm, as they put it, ‘wins.’ In this sense the attempt to become parents

151 was conceptualised as a competition between partners’ sperm to fertilise the egg first. Another interviewee, Rick, however believed that mixing the sperm in this way would lead to a different kind of competition in which sperm from different men would ‘kill each other.’

Mixing the sperm of gay male partners seems to have been practised historically in home insemination contexts in particular. In Berkowitz and Marsiglio’s (2007) study, for example, one couple who had a child through surrogacy, Billy and Elliot mixed sperm prior to fertilisation (2007: 378). However, in more recent times, rather than mixing sperm—which I believe is not undertaken by any clinic and is in fact more of a cultural myth than a reality—’intentional unknowing’ has been pursued by fertilising eggs from the sperm of both partners and then transferring multiple embryos to the surrogate. As Rick’s partner, Kevin explained: They take a certain number of eggs [fertilised with] one guy’s sperm and the other eggs with the other guy’s sperm . . . it’s only in embryos . . . and then they put in three, implant three eggs and so some would be from one guy so it’s actually not physically mixing it up.

For Michael and his partner Dino, who had twins via surrogacy, it was important—as with many other couples in the study—not to know which one of them was biogenetically connected to the children. Like several other participants, they obscured this fact by fertilising eggs from the sperm of each partner and then transferring embryos originating from both. As Michael explained in the interview, this strategy was not necessarily the most efficient way of achieving a pregnancy, as the embryos from eggs fertilised by one of them were deemed more suitable for transferring than the others in terms of their likely success. However, it was important to Michael and Dino to ensure that both partners had an equal chance of achieving biogenetic parenthood.

Like Michael and Dino, Jack and his partner arranged for the transfer of embryos fertilised by the sperm of both partners to the gestational surrogate, and chose not to know which partner was the biogenetic parent of their son: And as of right now, we still don’t know. What we did is we told the doctor, you know, get some embryos, some with mine, some with his, and then, like, each time when we implanted, say, four embryos, two were mine, two were his and we have no idea whose took. Of course, now since he’s born, it’s everyone’s first question: “God, he looks like you,” or “he has your nose.” And we’re, like, “yeah, whatever,” you know, it’s interesting to look and see who he’s going to look like, but it’s not important, you know.

152

Jack and his partner denied having any particular interest in knowing the identity of the biogenetic parent. Although Jack described it as ‘interesting’ to observe physical features, he then quickly dismissed it as not really important. The process of the interview itself most likely contributed to this strong denial of the significance of biogenetic connections. When asked if they would ever seek to find out who was the biogenetic parent at any time in the future, Jack explained that such information would only ever be sought out for medical reasons.

Absolute secrecy The third and final strategy employed by participants was that of non-disclosure of the biogenetic father’s identity. In this instance, couples would decline to disclose to outsiders which partner was the ‘bio-dad.’ Joe and Rupert recounted how they dealt with questions from other people on this issue: ‘Oh, people comment all the time, “oh, who’s the real father?” We tell them that we’re both the real fathers. You know, genetics doesn’t make a father”.’ This claim to both being the ‘real’ father has an added paradoxical dimension because, in fact, neither was biogenetically related, as the sperm provider was Joe’s ex-partner.

Participants tended to explain the secrecy around biogenetic parenthood in terms of protecting the family unit. That is, if other people, for example grandparents, knew who had provided the sperm, some men believed this knowledge would create (in the eyes of others) an asymmetrical bond between the partners and the children. As Michael observed, ‘it’s very novel for everyone outside the gay world. So we felt it was really important for everyone to realise these are our children, it’s not like one is mine and one is his.’ In his account, the uniqueness of the situation required this degree of secrecy. Ian also described how he and his partner, Terry, refused to respond to inquiries about who was biogenetically related to their two children: We don’t talk like that, we certainly recognise each other as equal, equal fathers, equal parents, and we do not reveal whose sperm was used or biologically who’s connected to our children. Because it is irrelevant, we guarantee you after five years of raising our son that it makes no difference whatsoever who, who genetically is linked or not. And more importantly in the most public context, we don’t allow people to pigeonhole us. So we don’t want people thinking: “Oh right, you’re the real father,” and “no, you’re not.” We’re both equal fathers, we want to be recognised that way, and we want our kids to know that, know that they have two fathers in every way as well.

Particularly notable here is Ian’s repeated use of the word ‘equal’ to emphasise parallel connection as fathers and parents despite biogenetic link with only one

153 partner. As in the earlier examples, Ian described how among the network of gay men who had become parents through contract surrogacy, ‘we all talk about biology as an issue around surrogacy, but we actually don’t talk to each other about who the bio-dad is, even within that close circle.’ Thus, in the Australian city where he lived, even among this small group of couples ‘that we’re quite intimate with,’ with most of these families ‘we do not know whose sperm was used.’ These men had a strong desire to maintain privacy, notwithstanding the speculation that often engaged in about these links.

As noted in the previous sections in this chapter, the term ‘dad’ was used by several participants. It is clear that ‘dad’ was not referring solely to biogenetic paternity in the way that might be associated with ‘father’. Interestingly, ‘dad’ was almost always used with a qualifying term—such as ‘bio-dad’, ‘non-bio-dad’, and ‘real dad’. What I am suggesting here is that ‘dad’ was considered a gender neutral term equivalent with parent, so a child could have two ‘dads’.

Negotiated / creative affinity Jennifer Mason (2008) proposes a conceptual framework for understanding kinship based on four dimensions of affinity: fixed affinities, negotiated and creative affinities, ethereal affinities and sensory affinities. She describes these dimensions as ‘tangible’ affinities to refer to the way they are experienced by people as vivid, real, palpable and resonant (2008: 42). Mason draws on Jeanette Edwards’ (2000) work to describe how these profound experiences of connection enact kinship in sometimes mysterious and otherworldly ways in addition to ‘fixed affinities’ for example when kinship is recognised primarily through biogenetic connection. Mason suggests that these affinities have not been given much academic attention, even in anthropology. The kinship practices described in this chapter so far fall into the category of ‘fixed affinities.’ However, kinship is not only about the recognition or creation of biogenetic links. It is also about forming enduring and recognisable relationships in the absence of any biogenetic connection. Many of participants’ accounts might more usefully be conceptualised as negotiated or creative affinities, primarily in relation to conception stories and choosing egg donors (although the latter also ventures back into the area of biogenetic substance and fixed affinity). The following sections examine some examples of negotiated or creative affinities in relation to the interview material, and in particular how participants follow deliberate strategies to enhance or reinforce particular connections and to challenge or diminish others.

154

As illustrated by Ian’s account, almost all gay couples interviewed employed the same strategy to circumvent the emphasis on biogenetic connections: creating equal kinship links between partners and their child(ren) by not disclosing the identity of the biogenetic father. However, this secrecy does not mean that it was not of great interest, even among those within the gay surrogacy networks. As one Australian couple put it: Brian: And we don’t say who it is. That seems to be a little thing with the surrogacy group, you know, the biological father is never discussed amongst any of the group. Of course the big discussion is when you get in the car on the way home, ‘Oh, they look so much like … look at the ears, look at that nose.’

David: If you want to drop a faux pas in the surrogacy circles, just say to somebody: ‘who’s the real dad?’

Even though Brian and David did not themselves disclose which one was the biogenetic parent of their twins, they freely acknowledged that guessing the ‘real dad’ among other gay couples was of great interest to all. As Joe also said, ‘actually we have some couples in LA that it’s obvious that one of the twins is one father’s and one of the twins is the other.’ One wonders what function this secrecy serves if it only intensifies such speculation. Surely, being more open about the biogenetic connections between parents and children would defuse this persistent questioning and guessing? Alternatively, perhaps the answer is the very opposite? That is, by refusing to acknowledge biogenetic connections, the men in the study actually serve to illustrate just how important they are. If these connections mean so little, they would not need to be so actively silenced.

Conception stories The participants’ accounts indicate, biogenetic connections are of great interest to other people, including other gay parents. Even men who maintained strict secrecy regarding their own arrangements were very interested in guessing the biogenetic connections in other families. Although Keith and his partner, Malcolm, knew which one of them was the sperm provider, they created a story (relating to procreation) to deflect such inquiries. As Keith recalled: And it was important to me when we did it that with our friends and family that, you know, we didn’t tell people that I was the biological father. We told people that we were both the father and then when they got to details and wanted to know well how, we just told them that we’d mixed our sperm.

155

It is intriguing that Keith and Malcolm’s story yet again invoked the image of mixing the sperm (‘the swirl’), which as already outlined has a strong cultural resonance. There are strong parallels here with Charis Thompson’s (2005) analysis of heterosexual couples negotiating IVF treatments, which she theorised as ‘ontological choreography.’ Thompson argued that the ‘recognition’ of kinship is sometimes much more complex than the biogenetic model is able to capture. She observed that people involved in egg donation and gestational surrogacy have the opportunity to transform biology by coding it back to socio-economic or cultural factors. In the following sections I explore the practices participants in this study pursued to enact kinship in relation to recognising (or not) a connection between the child and the egg donor or surrogate. In addition to negotiating or managing connections with donors and surrogates, it seems that particular practices are also followed to create connections between both the male parents in gay couples.

As I have already suggested, the elaborate strategies undertaken to preclude the recognition of biogenetic connections possibly belies the very importance of biogenetics in determining kinship for study participants or, in their view, for others such as friends or family. These strategies might have been successful in terms of protecting the family unit from assumptions of greater connectedness between one partner and the children. However, interestingly, they introduce another myth, or conception story. This myth exemplifies the importance of creating equal connections between the parents and children in these families. For Keith and his partner Malcolm, the story of mixing their sperm served a similar function to the dual fertilisation of eggs described earlier by participants such as Michael (even if in Keith’s case it was an invention).

Only three couples in the study disclosed to outsiders the identity of the biogenetic father. Some other participants disclosed to me which partner was the biogenetic parent, although they made it clear that this was only because it was an important part of the study and they would not have revealed this information had the conversation occurred outside the context of a study. Among the three couples who were open to outsiders about biogenetic connections, one involved a scenario where the egg donor was the sister of Rick, the non-biogenetic father. For another couple, Ron and Carlos, Ron had started pursuing parenthood through surrogacy as a single gay man before meeting Carlos. In the final couple, that of Basil and Paulo, the disclosure aimed to emphasise kinship links for the latter. As already described, this

156 decision was to prevent Paulo from feeling excluded from Basil’s extended family, who were much closer in terms of both geography and affinity. This couple also indicated some hope that being open about this connection may in fact bring Paulo’s birth family closer. In all but the last example, it was difficult, if not impossible, given the circumstances, to prevent others from knowing the identity of the sperm provider.

All other couples in the study employed deliberate strategies to obscure information about biogenetic connections. Those stories, some of which were discussed above, usually aimed to generate evidence of kinship and thus protect the status of the non- biogenetic parent in the eyes of outsiders (and to the men themselves). As Brian argued, disclosing such information would be ‘disempowering’ to the non-biological parent because it would potentially privilege the role of one parent over the other: It’s not a problem. It’s more disempowering for the non-biological father because as far as we’re all concerned biology really has nothing to do with our bond with our children. Biology is just the means we had to use to get our kids but the biology is not important when it comes to parenting.

This issue presents a particular paradox for theorising kinship among this group of men. That they resorted to instrumental approaches in articulating and negotiating so-called biological ‘facts’ suggests that the biogenetic ‘facts’ were resources to be managed. Certainly, Brian is correct that biogenetic connections have nothing to do with parenting. Along similar lines, Joe said, ‘the importance of the genetic connection is totally gone for me.’ Although he admitted that this attitude might be because he was the non-biogenetic parent, he argued, ‘I honestly do not see how I could love a child any more than I love these two.’ In this example, love again is again used as the sign of connection, as in Sam’s account mentioned earlier.

Brian’s distinction between parenthood and parenting is an important one. De- emphasising the former, which is based on biogenetic connectedness, can preserve the practice of parenting as creating the ‘bond’ of kinship. Although Brian does not specifically spell out what is important when it comes to parenting, I would suggest that he is referring to the ongoing nurturing, which is described by Werbner (1996) as a flowing metaphor of care giving, which occurs post-fertilisation. Werbner’s argument is that the symbolic importance of blood to Western kinship cannot be reduced to biogenetic substance alone. Its definition could be expanded to include the ‘flow’ of gestation and of giving or caring after birth. This notion of flow is useful for thinking through the kinship practices among these men, who emphasised the

157 ongoing, everyday care and love required of parents towards children. This approach enables an appreciation of the work of social reproduction as opposed to the mere production of new life, as in procreation.

Looking like us: matching partners Generally, mixed-race couples in the study undertook creative strategies in terms of selecting and using reproductive material with the intention of creating families that shared phenotypic characteristics—between both male parents and the children, as well as between the children. Two of these couples (Robert and James and Steve and Lleyton), who were both in Caucasian-Asian relationships, reported that they had chosen two egg donors—one each from the same background as the non-biogenetic father. Both male partners then provided sperm that was used to fertilise eggs from the two different donors. One other Caucasian-Asian couple, Keith and Sebastian, adopted a slightly different strategy in that they chose one egg donor only, who was Eurasian, which they felt would make it possible for either of them to be viewed as the biogenetic father. Only one couple, who were from a mix of Caucasian and Asian backgrounds, Damon and Nick, did not follow any strategy of matching the egg donor and the non-biogenetic father. It is possible to argue that like the lesbian families in previous studies these couples were choosing donors as a proxy for the non-biogenetic parents, and in a sense, this would make the donor disappear. However, their reason for matching donors may not have been an explicit attempt to efface the egg donor’s contribution, but rather was about playing strategically with phenotype in order create kinship through what they understood to be a visually coherent family unit. In this way, it was also possible to obscure or evade the question of who the biogenetic father was, as discussed earlier in the chapter. The child was therefore able to ‘pass’ as the offspring of either male partner—and perhaps even more interestingly, also appear as if it might be the offspring of both partners.

Robert and James, for example, described the steps they followed in choosing two separate egg donors: Robert: Well we wanted, we wanted a Eurasian child, because obviously only one of us is going to be the father unless we got twins and was one of each, so we wanted a Eurasian child so we chose an Asian egg donor and a Caucasian egg donor and [transferred] two eggs or two embryos and actually one has taken.

James: Yeah, and you, you’ll be with the Asian girl and I’ll be with…

158

Robert: . . . the Caucasian, yep. So whatever comes out is going to be Eurasian, which is what we wanted.

Steve and Lleyton followed the same strategy in which both partners provided sperm after choosing two separate egg donors: So in that sort of sense as well, we’ve decided that’s good, that we’ll go with the original plan, that all of our children will be Eurasian. So the truth of the matter is I know everyone will assume instantly that they’re Lleyton’s kids. That doesn’t worry us, you know. At the end of the day it doesn’t worry me at all. And probably more importantly, it’s, when we go back to China, that’s where it’s more important, that they actually really see it as his child. So there’s no risk involved whatsoever that, you know, Josh and his siblings, whatever they might be, will not be seen to be Lleyton’s children.

For Steve and Lleyton, having Eurasian children made it possible that their children would be presumed to be related to the Chinese grandparents and therefore able to pass as Chinese when visiting them in China. Lleyton was, in fact, the biogenetic parent of their son, Josh. However, they intended that Steve would be the biogenetic parent of their next child.

Sam and his partner, Thomas, who were from different ethnic backgrounds, also chose two different egg donors whom they thought would stand in for the other partner. As Sam recounted: Originally, ethnic background made a difference because we were both wanting biracial kids like I said. In fact, this woman, when I was looking, I was looking for a woman that looked like Thomas’s sister, you know, blonde, green or blue eyed, didn’t matter, relatively his height range. And he was going to do the opposite, look for a woman that, you know, American Indian, African-American and Irish mix if he could find one. And, so all that mattered.

In addition to these deliberate strategies, Ron and Carlos, spoke in terms of a fortuitous coincidence that Carlos and the egg donor, were from similar backgrounds: Carlos: Both my parents are from Mexico.

Ron: And our egg donor is actually half Mexican. Her dad’s Mexican, her mum’s Spanish-French. So the kids are going to be at least ethnically matching.

In Ron and Carlos’ case, the ethnic ‘matching’ of donor and parent happened before the existence of the relationship. Thus, Carlos was in a sense ‘matched’ to the donor, not the other way around. Or rather, the development of a new relationship was seen to justify the choice of a particular egg donor that had occurred in the past. This

159 choice reinforced for Ron and Carlos the idea that their family would be displayed as a ‘coherent’ family and would be accepted as such.

The practice of matching the ethnic background of the egg donor to the non- biogenetic father demonstrates a desire to code back the choice of donors to cultural backgrounds (Thompson, 2005). For the men in this study the ethnic background of the egg donor also stood in for the biogenetic link with the non-biogenetic parent. Again this importance was demonstrated in Steve’s account of egg donor selection in which Lleyton’s origins from a particular Chinese province, as well as a notion of classic Chinese beauty—in this case royalty—were important. Steve recalled the features that were significant for Lleyton in choosing a donor to code back to that specific culture: A lot of the traditional Chinese things about what’s pretty. So fair skinned, larger eyes, that kind of stuff, a more pointed nose. All these kind of things, yet still needed to be a pure blood Chinese. You know, so all those kind of things kind of fly, you know, so it kind of goes down that path. It’s almost like, you know, if you look in Chinese history, it’s kind of what the princesses were to some degree.

And as I said we’re lucky we just found someone who was from, from Taiwan but originally family came from the same province as Lleyton’s family.

Some couples who were not from different racial or ethnic backgrounds also sought to choose an egg donor who ‘matched’ the non-biogenetic father. Basil and Paulo, who were from different European countries, spoke about how this desire to find an egg donor from a similar background to the non-biogenetic father had factored into their considerations. As Paulo explained, ‘We tried to match as much as possible Basil, so his looks, his height, his ethnic background, and she fit the bill, and her intelligence, of course, that was crucial. And we had a fantastic result.’ This couple believed they had been successful in finding a donor that ‘matched’ Basil in that she shared both his physical features and ethnic background. Like all the other examples in this section, Paulo and Basil’s account indicates that likeness was important in conveying the message of a coherent family unit and in enacting kinship.

In some instances where biogenetic links were uncertain, men drew on resemblances to create kinship. They also drew on resemblances to promote the notion of an equal contribution of both male partners, which, as discussed, was important in these families, and especially so when a great deal of effort had been spent on maximising this possibility. For example, in his interview, Michael was asked whether he and his 160 partner Dino knew which of the embryos had led to the birth of their children (they had transferred embryos fertilised from the sperm of both partners). He spoke about physical resemblances and character traits between each partner and the children to suggest that one embryo fertilised from each of them had ultimately led to the birth of their twins, despite the embryologist’s opinion that the embryos from one partner had a much better chance of success: Officially, we don’t, but one looks exactly like me as a child and one looks exactly like Dino’s sister as a baby, and her two daughters, they look exactly like her daughters. And their temperament, he is a mini me, I mean it’s bizarre. It was like the egg donor basically had no genetic contribution, because he is a mini me and she is a mini his family. That’s the most bizarre thing. So everybody knows, the grandparents, everybody knows, even though no one is supposed to know.

In addition to identifying resemblances between Michael and Dino and the children, Michael also drew on resemblances with other family members (e.g., ‘Dino’s sister as a baby’) to emphasise those biogenetic links. He went so far as to suggest that those resemblances between Michael and Dino’s families and the children were so strong that ‘[i]t was like the egg donor basically had no genetic contribution.’ This is a particularly compelling example of how biogenetic connections—even if they are only presumed—are strategically deployed to strengthen some kinship connections, while at the same time negating others.

Again, this example refers back to Mason’s (2008) negotiated or creative affinity. As Åkesson also observes, ‘it is striking how often this practice of kinship is motivated by arguments about physical similarity’ (2001: 129). Among the participants in her study in Sweden, physical resemblance to particular relatives was deployed to either enhance or diminish the likelihood of being affected by genetically inherited diseases (2001: 130). Similarly, Mason (2008) outlines how in relation to hereditary breast and ovarian cancer, people tend to believe heritability is more likely between people who resemble each other physically and in appearance, and that cancer is likely to occur at a similar age when it does develop (2008: 34). In transnational adoption processes, as well, such ethereal affinities are identified or sought out to confirm kinship where there is no biogenetic link, which creates a sense of fate or destiny and of recognising an adopted child as always intended to become part of that family (see Howell, 2001; Howell & Marre, 2006; Marre & Bestard, 2009).

161

Ethereal affinity and the importance of resemblance Gay men who have become parents through surrogacy are engaged in practices that enact kinship in particular ways, organised around the metaphor of creating a child ‘of one’s own.’ An important element of recognising a child as their own appeared to be generating forms of physical resemblance between parents and children. Mason’s (2008) fourth area of ‘tangible affinity’ is that of ethereal affinity, which refers to the ‘magical, psychic, metaphysical, spiritual’ matters that escape rational explanation (2008: 37). This type of connection can ‘emerge inexplicably in transitory flashes that are visual, sensory, based in feeling or familiarity, and certainly in perception’ (2008: 38). As Mason argues, ‘people do not have a completely free hand to create what they desire, but neither do they simply follow geneticist or biological versions of kinship, origin and consequence’ (2008: 37). My analysis of the accounts of gay men in this study has identified a small number of examples where these men see or feel particular connections in the absence of any biogenetic connection or even the lack of any creative attempts to enhance physical resemblances through the choice of egg donors.

Most interesting in relation to these ideas is the recognition of resemblance within families where there is no biogenetic link. Steve, for example, drew on family resemblances—in this case, between the egg donor and his own female relatives—to create kinship links even though his partner, Lleyton, was the biogenetic father: We’ve really been very blessed actually, because one of the reasons we actually really liked Kelly as well was when we looked at the photos, they sent photos, there’s a photo of Kelly with her mother and her sister, which could be my mother’s cousin and her daughter. They are the spitting image of those two people.

So it’s really good in that sense. Even to the point even when Josh was born, they had no idea, they’re like, “Whose is it? I mean, he sort of looks a bit Chinese, he looks more like you Steve than Lleyton.” You know, this kind of stuff, we’re like, “Oh, that’s how it works.”

Similarly, he made a kinship link between Lleyton, who has a Chinese background, and the egg donor, Angela, for an upcoming fertilisation and surrogacy arrangement in which Steve would be the sperm provider: And what’s worked really now well with Angela is that she is actually the spitting image of one of Lleyton’s nieces. So in that sense as well, we’re kind of hoping, well it’s kind of cool, that maybe there might be that kind of, for both of us, there’s family resemblance that might come through.

Steve’s account shares some similarities with the examples of negotiated and creative affinity—and in fact other excerpts from this interview are included in that section of 162 the chapter— there is something quite different in the way he is enacting kinship here that comes closer to ethereal affinity as proposed by Mason (2008). The connection between both egg donors and members of Steve and Lleyton’s family respectively, which was described in the colloquial term, ‘spitting image,’ evoked an elusive and mysterious connection. In Steve’s account this seemed to extend beyond the deliberate selection of a donor who shared similar physical features or ethnic background of the non-biogenetic father. As already discussed, another connection was made between Lleyton’s family and Josh by the discovery that Angela came from the same province in China as the family and that she epitomised classic standards of Chinese beauty, which again forms part of the fortuitous and inexplicable notion of ethereal affinity.

This section has examined the ways in which biogenetic understandings of kinship can present challenges for gay male couples in particular, which, in turn, inspire the pursuit of multiple strategies that seek to enhance or obscure biogenetic links. These negotiated and/or creative ways of enacting kinship are made possible through the cognatic model. The sense in which I am using ‘cognatic’ here is to emphasise the flexibility in the ways kinship is determined with regard to biogenetic connections. In a cognatic system, relatives are designated by genealogical ties but without particular emphasis on either patrilineal or matrilineal connections (see Schusky, 1965). Those links with donors, however, were not seen to be constitutive of kinship. Within these gay family units, it was clear too that biogenetic connections were important in determining the ways in which these men conceptualised their relationship to their children, and how they imputed kinship within gay surrogacy circles. Kinship is also enacted through other creative practices, such as the attribution of physical and other resemblances that can stand in for biogenetic links or, more interestingly, sometimes supplant them. However, kinship sometimes also emerges mysteriously through the recognition of connections, and in particular confirm the choice of particular egg donors.

The egg donor The accounts of participants demonstrate that within domestic family units, information about biogenetic paternity was important information that needed to be managed carefully. As these men had all become parents, or were in the process of pursuing parenthood, through surrogacy, an important area to explore is their decision making about egg donors and whether they conceptualise eggs as

163 contributing an equal amount of genetic material as sperm, or do they consider eggs to be simply a necessary material to for the creation of children. That is, in this unusual context where the egg donor is not part of the family, and is often anonymous, does this have an impact on the way that her genetic material is understood. In particular, this section explores how the biogenetic contribution of the egg donor was understood, emphasised or downplayed. It also considers the implications this emphasis or denial may have for understanding kinship relations in this setting. The analysis presented here shows how biogenetic connection can be emphasised at the same time as delimiting the potential for social relations to be made out of these links.

Brains or beauty As already discussed, donor choices for some of the study participants were mobilised by a desire to match the ethnic background of the non-biogenetic father and therefore to contribute to the notion of conceiving and raising a ‘child of one’s own.’ This section analyses the choices made regarding egg donors. In general, the biogenetic link between the egg donor and the child seemed to be much more easily acknowledged and discussed than that of the male parent who had provided the sperm. This increased comfort was perhaps because the men did not experience acknowledging the egg donor as threatening to their family narratives in the same way as disclosing which partner had been the sperm provider. In fact, the participants were generally very willing to speak about how they chose an egg donor, including the range of traits that were important to them.

The choice of egg donor was often influenced by the characteristics highlighted on the donor websites or in donor catalogues and sometimes by the photographs or videos of the potential donors on the agency’s website. These included physical features, race or ethnic background, IQ, college or university grades, and so on. As Jack recalled, ‘Oh, well we picked, you know, healthy obviously, athletic. We were looking for blonde hair, blue eyes, just because why not, you know. You know, just pretty.’ This description reflected the range of options that were available, but also rather unproblematically described a Euro-American understanding of beauty. Similarly, Joe’s description of looking for an egg donor with his ex-partner indicated some of the available options. At the time, Joe and his partner were hoping to find a Jewish donor. They later abandoned the search for a Jewish donor when his partner’s mother assured them that it did not matter:

164

We were looking online and we were looking, and, and so we actually took a trip down to San Diego near the Mexican border and this lady was running one out of her kitchen and we thought that’s, this is a little too shady. Ah, Perfect Match in San Diego, has things like people with SAT scores, which is a college entrance exam, of only twelve hundred or above. And we found an Olympic fencer from Harvard who, you know, graduated magna cum laude, and she was Jewish and it was, we thought that was going to be important. But her fee was just astronomical; it was about thirty-five thousand dollars, I think.

In addition to these choices based on intelligence and physical characteristics, some participants, such as Brian, also highlighted medical history. As he put it, ‘well, you know, at least you’re reducing the risk of having a child that is visually impaired.’ In this sense, the choice was about managing risks, in addition to selecting for culturally defined notions of physical attractiveness. Medical history was also a consideration for others such as Keith, who recalled that, ‘The history is very detailed about how their grandparents died and, you know, I think the main thing I was looking for was depression and, and things like that in the family.’

Most of the participants had chosen egg donors through donor agency websites. These websites presented donors in profiles along with physical information, family history, photographs, and sometimes videos and testimonials about their reasons for becoming donors. Many participants had chosen anonymous donors over donors who were willing to meet the recipients of their donation (or to be contacted by children in the future). This decision often seemed to be related to a desire to protect the two- parent family model that the participants were seeking to establish. Notable exceptions were Andrew and Donald, who were not in a relationship. For Michael and his partner, Dino, the detachment of the biogenetic connection from any social relationship also meant that social or relational aspects could be bypassed and intended parents could be more strategic in choosing an egg donor: In the egg donor we wanted healthy, smart, attractive, you know, all the genetics. It’s like an ideal thing if you were straight and you could, like, pick. Which nobody can if you’re straight, it’s, like, “Well, I want to be married to this woman because she’s sweet and great, but the mother of my child I want to have these other characteristics.” So we were able to utilise that, which most people can’t, where we wanted the mother, the genetic mother of the child to have, like, all these characteristics, but we didn’t care if she was a total bitch. We didn’t have to deal with her; she was anonymous.

The personality of the egg donor was not of particular interest to Michael because she would remain unknown, and presumably being a ‘total bitch’ was not a trait that they considered inheritable. In contrast they believed being ‘healthy, smart, attractive,’ were features that donors could pass on to the children. This notion of 165 personality traits as being unimportant because they were not hereditable was not universally agreed among participants. Several of the participants chose donors based on personality or what they described as almost instinctive responses to their photographs or video profiles. A few men made comparisons between this selection process with how they imagined having children usually occurred for heterosexual couples. As Jeremy explained, ‘It’s really hard. It’s not like you’ve met somebody and you’ve fallen in love and, you know, you love them so much you want to have children with them. This is, you’ve got a choice. So, why are you choosing this one over that one?’

For Jeremy and others, choices were imposed on them because of the coordinating and marketing practices of donor agencies. To some extent, this forced choice meant they were also required to make explicit the choices that might otherwise have remained implicit. (The research interview also forced them to articulate their choices explicitly.) The tendency to seek donors who shared similar backgrounds and features with the non-biogenetic father is similar to Bestard’s (2004) description of the experiences of people undergoing fertility treatment in Spain in which the phenotype of the egg donor was matched to that of the recipient, as discussed in Chapter 2, although in Spain matching is carried out by clinicians. Similarly the choice of sperm donors in a major Israeli hospital setting conformed to images of their own ‘natural family’ (Birenbaum-Carmeli et al., 2002). The studies of sperm donor choices among lesbians also demonstrate the desire for resemblance within the family unit and, as suggested by Nordqvist (2010), the achievement of resemblance can make the donor ‘disappear’ in terms of the everyday life of the family and kinship narratives.

For the participants in this study, choice was, however, also associated with an increased burden in choosing an egg donor. Like Jeremy, Keith made an explicit comparison with heterosexual family formation by drawing on the kinship symbols of love, marriage and procreation, as identified by Schneider (1980 [1968]). The result of so much choice meant additional risks and responsibilities. As Keith reflected: You know, when you, I think that that’s the hardest part, is when you’re looking for a, for an egg donor, you can get really bogged down with details and wanting to find the perfect person . . . . You know, traditionally if you want to have a child, you meet someone and you fall in love with them and you have a child. It doesn’t matter what happened to their grandparents or, you know, what’s in their family. You don’t really get involved in that stuff.

166

So you, you have to realise when you’re going through the process that you can’t get bogged down in that. So we picked her just ‘cause it seemed like she lived a healthy lifestyle and she, I thought she was pretty.

Keith’s account yet again invoked the intangible notion of being ‘pretty’ that is culturally prescribed. However, these stories demonstrate that participants felt some discomfort regarding this strategy for choosing egg donors in that it not only departed from a traditional scenario but also left participants open to criticism. For the Australian participants, in particular, this discomfort might also have been partially because of negative coverage in the conservative press about gay men and surrogacy at around this same time (Hellard &Houlihan, 2007). Some participants, like Patrick, were aware of those criticisms and believed that surrogacy was often equated with the notion of ‘designer’ babies. For this reason, Patrick was self- conscious about describing the choice of an egg donor and made it clear that it was not something he would openly discuss outside the context of a study: Well, the sort of things we’ve talked with you about, you know, how we chose the egg donor, I wouldn’t talk about that to people normally because it’s veering towards that sort of designer, “we want to tick the box, we want a baby that’s white or brown.”

The ways in which the market for eggs was organised meant that there was a great deal of choice available for those who sought out donors in this way. As discussed in the previous sections of this chapter, this way of presenting donors allowed couples in particular to find reproductive material from a donor that matched the ethnic background of the non-biogenetic parent(s) and therefore to have a child that could be seen by outsiders as potentially connected to either or both male partners.

Genetic families In general, participants did not problematise biogenetic links between children and egg donors. They acknowledged that pursuing contact with egg donors might be important for their children in the future. That is, those who are genetically related (in this case, the egg donor) might be sought out in terms of accessing new ‘information’ about them. Thus, choosing an egg donor who could be contacted in the future was sometimes spoken about as important for children to be able to find out more genetic information or other information about their origin. In anticipation of this eventuality, some men chose egg donors who disclosed their identities and were willing to be contacted in the future. As Basil explained: It was important for us to be able to have some sort of contact with our egg donor, because if our kids in years to come want to track down their heritage

167

and track down their biology, well, then, we want them to at least give them the best chance of doing that.

With the emphasis on bilateral genetic inheritance, interaction with family and kin might not be required for people to recognise relatedness and connection. Kin are, after all, believed to be people who can be called upon to meet a range of obligations regardless of whether they feel personally sympathetic towards the specific individuals involved (Giddens, 1990; cited in Finkler 2001).

Steve spoke about how he conceptualised this obligation of the fixed, yet distant, relationship brought about through shared biogenetic material in the absence of any particular social relationship: What we’ve got now with her is actually a sort of, a semi-open relationship, in the sense that we’ve said to her at any time, when she gets older, if she wants to know Josh, she’s more than welcome to make contact . . . .So, in essence, what we’ve done is, our attorneys in the States are in constant contact with her attorneys in the States, as well just to keep an updated profile. And same thing as well, ‘cause she’s come forward saying that, you know, for medical reasons or special reasons, you know, if Josh needed, whatever, needed some special blood or something like that, that she’s more than happy to be contacted as well on those grounds.

The use of the term ‘semi-open relationship’ is worth noting here. This is a common term or model for non-monogamous romantic partnerships. It implies some degree of relational obligation but also a large degree of freedom to pursue other interests. However, the emphasis on the egg donor offering to make herself available for ‘medical reasons’ or to provide some ‘special blood’ reveals the way that kinship in this instance has been medicalised, which as Finkler (2001) suggests, creates new forms of interaction that might be embedded in the very absence of interaction (2001: 247). People are compelled to recognise biogenetic connections even when in the lived world they define family by a sense of sameness that might be grounded in friendship or sharing of affect and interest, rather than in genes (2001: 247–248).

For some participants, the potential for donor-conceived children to seek out their genetic mother was something they had concerns about, especially if the egg donor was anonymous. This emphasis on children potentially seeking out egg donors is reminiscent of the concept of ‘genetic families’ or ‘informational families,’ as articulated by Dolgin (2000). The genetic family is one in which any unit (person) or combination of units can exist without reference to any others. Relatives are only seen to be valuable in this way of thinking in terms of the information that they carry (Strathern, 2005: 71–73; see also Finkler, 2001). This concept of the diffuse genetic 168 or informational family is a useful model for thinking about how the men in this study conceptualised reproductive material from egg donors and egg donors as individuals. Donors were considered most important in terms of the information they held, and men imagined that this information, rather than any desire for establishing social relations, would be the reason children would seek out donors in the future.

This distinction between genetic families and kin seems to align with the idea expressed by participants that the egg donor can be viewed as a resource to be sought out in the future. The distinction also provided a way for these men to think about their families in relation to other people who shared biogenetic links with their own children. Ian, one of the Australian participants, discussed how he conceptualised other children who were also born from eggs from the same donor. He made a distinction between the kinship term, siblings, who were part of the ‘family unit,’ and that of being ‘genetically linked,’ which was a mere fact and did not in itself signify kinship: We don’t necessarily see them as siblings, but genetically, our egg donor has her own children, and she has donated for other people and continues to do so. So there is a whole range of kids out there that are genetically linked to our kids. I don’t see them as siblings because they’re not part of our family unit, and, and clearly I don’t, obviously part of that process is me realising that I mustn’t, it reinforces that I don’t play a, that biology or genetics is not a huge part of my thought process.

This instrumental use of reproductive material initially seems to present somewhat of a challenge to Schneider’s theory that Western kinship always follows the biogenetic relationship. However, as discussed in Chapter 3, Schneider’s analysis also allowed for the possibility of biogenetic connections not being authorised through social institutions. Informational or genetic families seem to correspond with this scenario. Even though biogenetic connections are present, they are not in the case of egg donation, activated as kinship.

The gestational surrogate This final section of this chapter examines how study participants conceptualised connections between the gestational surrogate and the child. A significant shift has occurred in recent years that has a significant bearing on this relationship. As already described in previous chapters, in the United States, at least, there has been a trend away from the practice of ‘traditional genetic’ surrogacy and towards ‘gestational’ surrogacy. While I do not provide an analysis of the reasons for this change here, it is important to note that this shift to gestational surrogacy has, in a crucial way,

169 repositioned the role of the surrogate. The gestational surrogate is viewed as not having contributed any genetic material to the child to whom she gives birth. This ‘fact’ of genetic non-contribution is rarely questioned within the surrogacy field. However, it was questioned by some of the study participants when they were asked about the biological connection between the surrogate and the child. For these participants, the strict separation of genetic and gestational was not so easily accepted. The following exchange between Basil and Paulo highlighted this ‘open question’ about connections being made at a cellular level between a surrogate and child: Basil: Well as far as we know, there’s no genetic passing on and all genetic material, the mitochondrial come from the, of course, the egg donor and who knows.

Paulo: I thought mitochondrial DNA comes from . . .

Basil: Yeah, it’s possible, it is possible that mitochondrial material comes from her, but . . . our surrogate mum had had alcohol problems over time. That was, I suppose, one of our concerns: would she be able to stay off drinking any alcohol during the pregnancy, ‘cause that was demanded.

Mitochondria (which contain DNA) supply cellular energy and are involved in a range of other processes, such as cellular differentiation and cell growth. Mitochondria have been implicated in several human diseases and might play a role in the ageing process. The discussion between Basil and Paulo above questioned the notion that a gestational surrogate makes no genetic contribution to the child she carries. Paulo challenged the assumption that all genetic material is provided by the egg donor in a gestational surrogacy situation. After initially dismissing this possibility, Basil conceded there might be some mitochondrial DNA transferred from the surrogate to the child. This thought was quickly followed by an account of the surrogate’s history of alcohol use. It was ‘demanded’ that she refrain from alcohol during the pregnancy. The concern, of course, was that the child might be harmed by alcohol use during the pregnancy. This interchange highlights the belief that even if there is no genetic connection—a question that was left unresolved—there are other biological connections. These well-established biological connections are acknowledged and, in fact, closely monitored as part of the surrogacy process, usually via a written contract.

Some other participants, such as Terry, accepted the notion that there was no genetic connection between the gestational surrogate and child. As Terry responded to this question, ‘I don’t know. I suspect not, but obviously environmental factors are

170 important in the development of a child, and a traumatised child during pregnancy could be, have issues.’ His partner, Ian, added, ‘our kids didn’t come out with American accents or anything, so, yeah, so I agree, I expect not.’ Similarly, Ian moved attention to the influence of the gestational environment on the child, and described their experience of ‘fretting that our surrogate would eat the right things and having jokes over, joking over email that, ‘are you eating enough spinach and are you drinking fewer coffees each day, or no coffee, or any of that sort of thing’? Many of the participants’ accounts reflected a similar sense of intimacy with the surrogate, and sometimes with her family, that was absent in their description of egg donors, which possibly reflects that some of men formed relationships with surrogates over the period from matching to the birth, and beyond.

Michael, a doctor, did not accept that there was absolutely no biogenetic link between surrogate and child. However, as with Basil and Paulo, and Ian and Terry, this reflection quickly turned to an articulation of concerns about the surrogate’s behaviour during the pregnancy and the potential risks this behaviour may pose to the unborn child: Well, as a doctor, I mean I think for Dino, there’s no sense of that. For me, I know that a lot of the health and even potential for future health problems like allergies and diabetes and autoimmune conditions, are all very much connected to what happened during pregnancy. So that freaks me out, because I couldn’t, if it was my wife, I would know exactly how many Diet Cokes she had, and, you know, and what she was doing.

These reflections suggest that study participants often felt a need for surveillance of the surrogate during pregnancy in order to minimise possible adverse consequences because of the potential for some form of biogenetic exchange with their unborn child. This scrutiny was achieved through a contract in the case of Basil, or proximity in the case of Michael.

Participants also provided many examples of other ways in which they conceptualised the surrogate as biologically related to the child, whether through diet, emotional state, environmental influences, even music and language. As Damon reflected: When she goes through pregnancy, you know, she nurses the baby in her womb. You know, she sleeps; she talks to the baby. I think that she influences to some extent the early development as well. Not genetically, but I think more like, overall, I guess.

171

All of these examples seem to question the strict division between genetic and other biological connections. However, there was widespread acceptance of the notion that biogenetic connections do not imply a social relationship. On many occasions, the study participants repeated the official policy of most of the surrogacy agencies, which was that these women are not the mothers of the children. There was also a general understanding by intended parents (promoted by the surrogacy agencies) that the lack of biogenetic connection between the surrogate and the child will reduce the risk that she will refuse to relinquish the child after the birth.

The determination to reinforce this division between genetic and gestational links has been an important factor in the shift towards gestational surrogacy—along with the legal precedents that supports this separation (at least in California) and also the willingness of some other US states to issue birth certificates that include both male partners. As Kevin recounted, the state in which the surrogate was resident was important: ‘Well we wanted her definitely to be in California because we wanted both [of us] to be on the birth certificate so that was—location was important.’ Similarly, Joe described how the legal and regulatory frameworks enabled men such as him and his ex-partner to be recognised as the only legal parents of their children. As he recalled, ‘that’s why we used the Illinois court systems . . . and he’s the biological father and I’m the non-biological father but we’re listed as parent one and parent two on the birth certificate, so that’s basically a done deal.’ Some of the Australian men expressed ongoing concerns about being able to ensure the legal protection of their family units through second-parent adoption. As Ian argued, ‘that’s important to us as dads through surrogacy, that we are allowed, that the laws open up so we can adopt our own children. The non-bio-dad can adopt the bio-dad’s kids.’

The acceptance of what is a biological, or at least a biogenetic, connection also demonstrates a specific understanding of nature as being something that exists a priori, that is, as neither artificial nor manipulated by the social. This deployment of nature is indeed evident in these men’s narratives. However, despite the ease with which it is possible to find references to nature in these narratives, these divisions between nature, on the one hand, and artifice, on the other, are in themselves largely arbitrary and do not seem to hold up under closer scrutiny. As Charis Thompson (2005) concluded, there is an interplay evident among factors that are not easily labelled as either biological or social because the boundaries are not clearly

172 established and might shift or merge in practice. Recognition of kinship is, therefore, sometimes complex and people can transform biology by coding it back to socio- economic or cultural factors. Biology does not always provide an immutable blueprint for kinship shared equally by all, even in Western cultures.

Conclusions The accounts of men in this study reveal how social and so-called ‘natural’ facts can be deployed to both support and undermine each other in the process of facilitating kinship. The kinship practices of the participants in this study demonstrated that many gay men, especially those in two-parent families, with children born through surrogacy, tended to de-emphasise (or play with) biogenetic connections. For gay male couples, the necessity of separating the production and social reproduction of children meant that filiation needed to be reworked through processes that did not rely on biogenetic connection alone. These strategies of negotiation included not disclosing the identity of the biological parent to others (and sometimes to themselves). This obscuring of biogenetic connections was achieved via a variety of strategies that I have called ‘turn-taking’ as sperm providers, ‘intentional unknowing’ about the identity of the biogenetic father, and ‘absolute secrecy’ in relation to (not) revealing this fact to outsiders. These strategies were not mutually exclusive and many couples used more than one approach.

Such negotiated strategies play with the ‘facts’ of biogenetic substance to create kinship. These reworkings expose the constructedness or fiction of the dominant Western kinship model in which the social is believed to map directly onto the biogenetic facts of conception. However the complex strategies pursued by these men to obscure biogenetic connections also suggested that such connections retain symbolic importance even among same-sex parented families. Additionally, the choice of eggs donors—and the downplaying of biological connections between surrogates and children—demonstrated the importance of biogenetic connectedness in these men’s accounts of negotiating kinship in relation to forming families through surrogacy arrangements.

The following chapter examines the ways gay men understand and negotiate another complex area of surrogacy, which is that of the commercial aspects of these arrangements. As outlined in the literature review (Chapter 2) and the analysis of print media (Chapter 5), criticisms of surrogacy have highlighted the potential for, or

173 exploitation of, women in lower socio-economic circumstances and in in low income countries. Chapter 8 explores how the study participants navigated the complex ethical terrain of commercial surrogacy arrangements, including notions of ‘baby buying’ and the ‘designer baby’ and how these men negotiate discourses of value, altruism and the market to frame their pursuit of parenthood.

174

CHAPTER 8: A CLEAN TRANSACTION? ARTICULATING AND ATTRIBUTING VALUE IN SURROGACY ARRANGEMENTS

Introduction The analysis now turns to an investigation of the ways gay men negotiate the commercial aspects of surrogacy. Chapters 6 and 7 analysed the emergence of parenthood desire and the importance of biogenetic connections in enacting kinship among study participants. Still unexamined, however, is the way that value was understood and articulated in surrogacy arrangements and the insights this valuing provides about kinship. This chapter returns to issues raised in Chapter 5, and in particular to concerns about the involvement of ‘the market’ in providing surrogacy services, and determinations of who should be able to access such services. The analysis of interview material explores the ways in which the participants deployed various notions of value, altruism and the market to distance themselves from particular critiques. I adopt a broad interpretation of value that includes two different aspects. The first feature of value is the worth or importance of things in relation to other objects or acts. The second aspect of value relates to shared beliefs or ideals about what is desirable or undesirable, and in this sense could also be referred to as values.

The chapter proceeds by first outlining some of the legislative and regulatory issues related to surrogacy and the assumptions embedded within them. This section also includes a brief reminder of the theoretical discussions from the fields of anthropology and sociology on the exchange of human tissue and the constitution of social relations through those exchanges. Next, drawing on the interview material, I explore how the study participants navigated the complex ethical terrain of commercial surrogacy arrangements. In particular this analysis examines two major, and sometimes overlapping, concerns related to commercial forms of surrogacy: ‘baby buying’ and the spectre of the ‘designer baby. The chapter also explores how these men engaged with egg donors and surrogates, and how these experiences were framed by the metaphor of a ‘child of one’s own.’ Attention is paid to narratives about donors and surrogates and the motivations that study participants ascribed to these women. This analysis is quite different from that undertaken in Chapter 7, in which I described some of the participants’ views about what characteristics were inheritable. This chapter looks at the donor as a person, and explores notions of social obligation, ambivalence (Peletz, 2001) and gratitude.

175

Crossing borders, crossing boundaries In this chapter I review how the participants made sense of the crossing of boundaries: not only across national borders for the Australian participants, but also how all men negotiated the border between the private domain of kinship and the public domain of the market. I am interested in exploring the narratives they drew on when they spoke about their experiences with commercial surrogacy. All the study participants undertook this discursive negotiation, as all had engaged the services of a commercial egg donor or surrogate, (through an agency, fertility clinic or donor website). The only non-commercial arrangements involved one couple who used the eggs of the sister of one partner, and one man whose friend offered to carry the child. However, even these men used commercial services for the surrogate and egg donor respectively, giving them experience of the commercial world of surrogacy.

The rapidly changing world of commercial surrogacy and egg procurement offers a unique lens through which to examine the notion of value. Surrogacy, according to Goslinga-Roy (2000), is important culturally because it drifts into the marketplace and challenges established boundaries between what is considered ‘public’ (market relations) and ‘private’ (family relations) (2000: 124). Gay men’s pursuit of parenthood through surrogacy adds an additional layer of complexity or interest because of the way these practices challenge ideas of gender and sexuality, in addition to kinship, reproductive technologies, globalisation and the market. As Marilyn Strathern (1999a) points out, limits are recognised when people become aware of crossing over into other domains of life and where other factors, such as consumerism, challenge what kinship is supposed to be about (1999a: 178–179). She argues that when the language of the market is substituted for other ways of expressing preferences or exercising reproductive choice, it makes explicit a crossing of the boundary between the domains of kinship and commerce (1999a: 189).

New reproductive and communication technologies have facilitated the expansion, fragmentation and globalisation of surrogacy and simultaneously expanded markets in reproductive tissue and reproductive services. This globalisation has exceeded the ability of any nation state to isolate its citizens from international networks and has given rise to new identifications (or biocitizenship) in addition to national citizenships (Waldby & Mitchell, 2006: 22–23). As technologies for in vitro fertilisation and the storage of sperm, embryos—and, increasingly, eggs—have developed, the amount of time required between the supply of reproductive material

176 and its subsequent use has been extended. These developments have enabled the extension of practices of biocitizenship temporally, as well as geographically. Globalisation has facilitated development of ‘surrogacy hotspots,’ where the availability of fertility services, a non-restrictive regulatory environment, entrepreneurialism, and good international travel connections offer conditions conducive to the development of such an industry. One such area is the city of Los Angeles. As discussed in Chapter 5, several agencies that coordinate surrogacy services are now established in that city. Those agencies facilitate contact with local fertility services, as well as maintaining a pool of potential surrogates in other states throughout the United States. Notably, in recent years India has also become a major site for surrogacy, as has Thailand. These Asian countries, with lower costs and a regulatory environment that is conducive to surrogacy, have attracted an increasing number of people from all parts of the world who are pursuing parenthood. The government of India, however, has introduced regulatory changes that severely restrict this country as a surrogacy options for gay men.

In addition to the ‘pull’ factors towards centres such as Los Angeles, a series of ‘push’ factors also influence those interested in pursuing surrogacy arrangements because their local states or countries do not permit or encourage these arrangements. In most jurisdictions in Australia for example, as in Western Europe, there is a strong emphasis on regulating surrogacy and the donation of embryos and gametes (eggs and sperm) as ‘gift’ systems, in a similar manner to blood and whole organ donation. Although the late 2000s saw increasing debates and policy development in Australian jurisdictions related to surrogacy, in all these debates, a distinction was made between altruistic and commercial surrogacy, and discussion was limited to the former (Millbank, 2011: 13). In general, it is not surrogacy per se that is considered anathema but rather the commercialisation of these practices. Paid surrogacy remains proscribed, with some jurisdictions also specifically banning residents from pursuing paid surrogacy extraterritorially. It was the intention that policy discussions in the late 2000s at a national level in Australia would lead to greater consistency across the country, but this did not, in fact, eventuate (Millbank, 2011). Between 2007 and 2009, the Standing Committee of Attorneys-General sought to ‘harmonise’ the regulation of surrogacy. However, three individual jurisdictions passed their own legislation in that period and another four have subsequently introduced and/or passed reforms (Millbank, 2011: 12). This leaves one jurisdiction, the National Territory, alone in not having undertaken any reform in this area.

177

In this study, all of the Australian men had travelled internationally to pursue parenthood through surrogacy. Many of the surrogates had also travelled across state borders to be ‘matched’ with the intended parents; egg donors had similarly travelled to clinics in other states to provide eggs for fertilisation. Among gay male couples, there was a belief that it was legally preferable for the child to be born in California, although a small number of other states were also considered to be conducive to surrogacy births. California was considered particularly attractive because of the possibility of a pre-birth judgment transferring legal parentage to the prospective parents (Pinkerton, 1998; cited in Berkowitz, 2013.)

Gift or commodity? Discussions of human tissue donation often invoke the language and metaphor of the ‘gift’ (for example, the ‘gift of life’) and this tendency is evident in relation to reproductive services. In terms of social relations, as already discussed in Chapter 3 Richard Titmuss’ (1997 [1970]) comparative analysis of blood banking systems in the United States and the United Kingdom in the 1960s concluded that the voluntary exchange of human blood (through a centralised blood-banking system) promoted social cohesion among citizens. Anonymous donation epitomised the pure gift relationship because the donor has no motivation apart from the desire to help others. The conclusion that the voluntary donation of blood is associated with altruism, responsibility and social cohesion is based on an understanding of the market as inevitably alienating. Titmuss’ sociological analysis of gift giving has resonances with Giddens’ (1992) theory of the ‘pure relationship,’ which is associated with equality and negotiation between partners, although as noted earlier this assumption of egalitarianism has been criticised by later sociologists such as Jamieson (1999). Several critiques of the sale of reproductive materials (Daniels & Lewis, 1996; Konrad, 1998; Shanley, 2002; Tober, 2001; Waldby, 2002) have both extended and challenged the arguments of Titmuss (1997 [1970]). Monica Konrad’s (1998) UK study of egg donors in the United Kingdom, for example, found evidence of calculated decision-making. However, instead of receiving individual benefits, the women in that study had a sense of shared benefits and group reciprocity. Daniels and Lewis (1996) argue that incentives provided through financial compensation prevent the ‘donor’ from reflecting on what they call the true meaning of the action and are consequently an unethical means of obtaining consent. Challenging the

178 possibility of altruism in sperm donation practices altogether, Tober (2001) argues that donors are always motivated by potential individual and social benefits.

The idea of gift giving as constituting relations between embodied citizens (Waldby & Mitchell, 2006) is quite different from the way that gift exchange is typically understood in anthropology, which tends to associate gift giving with the reinforcement of existing social differences. This conclusion was made most famously by Marcel Mauss, (1990 [1922]) but has also been observed in Western societies such as in Werbner’s (1996) analysis of Christmas gifts that she describes as flowing unilaterally from older to younger, and from richer to poorer. In terms of the transfer of human organs, Cohen (2001, 2004a, 2004b, 2011) theorised this flow as ‘bioavailability,’ which is the degree to which one’s tissues are made available for extraction and redistribution. It is therefore useful to examine the ways in which this flow of gifts in surrogacy arrangements generates, or is associated with, forms of obligations, attachments and ambivalence among those who are the beneficiaries of others’ ‘bioavailability.’

It would seem that this anthropological approach has direct relevance to gestational surrogacy where relations are usually based on at least some direct contact between those who are the recipients of the gift (the intended parents) and those who are the donors (the surrogates). It is useful to examine human tissue transfer and surrogacy in relation to value because, to some extent, the gift giving that takes place in this context reverses the usual ‘flow’ of gifts from those with more power and wealth to those with less. In addition, the intense feelings associated with the enactment of kinship through surrogacy are likely to be very different from the diffuse social relations formed through blood donation. Titmuss’ (1997 [1970]) observations, however, may be useful for considering the motivations of egg donors in diffuse systems such as those provided by the egg donor agencies in the United States. In those systems, the donors are sometimes anonymous, although there may be the potential for contact in the future. Donors in those systems may also be more likely than those in commercial systems to feel motivated by general feelings of altruism, given that they are likely not to meet the recipients of their donation. However, there may also be many key differences between donation of blood and of reproductive material that limit this analogy. The latter follows a pattern of donation from one-to- one (or perhaps more correctly, one-to-few), compared to the one-to-many ratio. Further, recipients of blood or blood-related products, such as plasma, are not able to

179 choose donors based on particular characteristics (although to a certain extent such practices were possible historically). The differences might prevent a diffuse sense of sociality and citizenship emerging between egg donors and recipients. Further, in the case of egg donation through agencies, women are paid for these ‘donations.’ Study participants in general focused on this payment as indicating the conclusion of their involvement in the donation process and argued that this cessation benefited both donors and families.

A ‘clean transaction’ A strong narrative in the surrogacy stories of study participants was that of freedom from social and emotional obligation to others, which one participant described approvingly as ‘a clean transaction.’ From this perspective, individuals were understood to be able to contract ‘out’ of such social obligations through contracts and payment. This contracting out represents a ‘negative freedom,’ which is the freedom from social obligation to and from strangers (Frow,1997: 105). This freedom also meant they could act in more instrumental ways than if there had been no payment. They were in this sense free to further their own self-interest, without feeling that they were transgressing any social expectations related to acting altruistically. The idea of a ‘clean transaction’ also assumed that both parties were disinterested in an ongoing relationship and that both benefited from the immediate cessation of contact. This way of viewing egg donation or surrogacy was also based on the assumption that emotions could be managed, or bracketed off, in this exchange. This seems a particularly gendered view of emotion management, in which emotions are viewed as commodified and associated with rules about how appropriately to express and regulate feelings appropriately (Hochschild, 1979, 2011). It is also interesting paradox in light of the emphasis in gay men’s parenting on disrupting assumptions about masculinity (see Hicks, 2006).

The notion of egg donation as a casual exchange was highlighted by Keith, who, when asked about egg donors and their motivations, emphasised their youth and the belief that ‘they’re making some money and they’re paying off maybe some credit card debt’ This remark suggests that he felt that commercial egg donation was approached rather lightly by both recipients and donors, although he did add that donors ‘have to go through a lot’ and he compared this act to how easy it was for a man to donate sperm. Keith also made an additional observation that nicely illustrates the two parallel narratives at play: ‘They all say on their profile that they

180 want to help a family that can’t have a child, which is great.’ This comment suggests that, apart from a desire to make money, potential egg donors are encouraged to engage in discourses of giving and generosity. Although the exchange of money was acknowledged and accepted rather unquestioningly by all involved, prospective parents also valued the narrative of altruism in donors’ accounts.

Both Robert and Basil highlighted what they believed to be a freedom from social obligations in the practice of commercial surrogacy and they both lauded the regulatory and policy context of the United States, in contrast to that of Australia. Their quotations highlight the idea of ‘negative freedoms’: that money removes any additional obligations on the part of both the ‘donor’ and the ‘recipients’ beyond the contracts or regulations that govern these transactions. Robert made an explicit connection in this regard between blood and egg donation: But, in the [United] States, it’s quite different and I think that’s true with the egg donors. They see it as a commercial transaction, a way of getting money like donating blood over there. You get paid to do it. They may have some altruistic aspect to it, thinking, ‘oh, this is good, I’m helping, you know, an infertile couple or a gay couple to have children,’ but I don’t think it’s the reason they do it. They do it for the money and that’s what we liked, so it was a clean transaction. There wasn’t emotional baggage that was going to be attached to it.

Robert emphasised here the understanding that individuals (egg donors, in this case) can contract themselves ‘out’ of any social obligations through the mechanism of financial reimbursement, which makes for a ‘clean transaction.’ His quotation also emphasises the idea that payment is associated with detachment and detachability: preventing, in his words, ‘emotional baggage.’ It is worth noting the positive affect associated with ‘clean’ in this example, which in Robert’s usage seemed to refer to the transaction being simple or straightforward. This positive positioning of the notion of ‘clean’ also invokes its binary opposites: that of dirt, mess and complexity, presumably associated with the emotional entanglements that can potentially arise in relation to matters of reproductive and kinship relations. That emotions were believed to be ‘containable’ through a system of financial payment in this setting offers further testament to the idea that they can be ‘contracted’ away. This containment emphasises the conceptual boundary between the market and kinship based upon the different orders of value in these two domains.

Australian participants typically described the United States (and particularly California) in an almost clichéd way, as the ‘land of freedom.’ This was a place

181 where ‘anything is possible’ and where government and policy makers do little to interfere in the choices made by individuals. This description was markedly different from the way they defined Australia, which they believed to be far more restrictive and regulated by a style of government that was more actively and deliberately involved in social policy. As Basil put it: Yep, I think, I think firstly, there has to be a perception that this is okay to do, and I think California is probably more of a place where it’s, like, you do your own thing, “you go, girl,” whatever you decide to do is fine. And I think our society is more restrictive than that, so I think that’s, there has to be certain social factors that come into play. To be a surrogate is okay, to be a surrogate for money is okay, and if you have that within the culture, within the society, then, you know, like everything, people are going to come forward to say, “well this is an option for me.”

Similarly, Robert believed there were differences between the two national contexts: In Australia it’s quite the opposite, you know, somebody wants to carry a baby for another couple, well, then, the government has to get involved and, you know, it becomes a social issue and—so that’s why—and it’s true of most Western European countries, is that the government prevents most of this happening for that very reason. But in the [United] States—not all of the States, but in a lot of the States it’s, it’s quite different.

These Australian participants’ comparisons between their own country and the United States should be read as an observation about the different cultures because, in fact, there is no federal legislation (in either country) that allows, or forbids, commercial surrogacy. Rather, the regulation of surrogacy and egg donation falls under state laws. In addition, there are some national regulations pertaining to reproductive technologies. Both Basil and Robert (quoted above) were well aware of the state-federal division of power regarding surrogacy arrangements. Nevertheless, they believed in a fundamental difference between the two cultures that allowed for the commercialisation of surrogacy (and egg donation) in the United States but not in Australian jurisdictions. This difference invokes the distinction made by Titmuss between the United States and United Kingdom in relation to blood banking systems. As discussed above, the restriction of surrogacy and egg donation to the non- commercial domain does not, however, facilitate social relations between citizens; instead, it tends to limit surrogacy to those people with pre-existing social relations.

Brian also emphasised the opposition between the market and social relations—and the idea that one can free up the other—this time in relation to surrogates, as well as egg donors. In addition, he invoked the idea of geographical distance as creating additional ‘safety’ and fewer ‘complications.’ Moreover, as he suggested, there was a clear difference or boundary being established here between a ‘business 182 arrangement,’ on the one hand, and ‘emotion,’ on the other. He argued explicitly that the former would cancel out the latter: I think some would prefer foreign people because there’s less chance of complications, kids rocking up on their doorstep in years to come. That’s the benefit of distance: it can actually make it more of a business arrangement and take the emotion out of it. There’s safety with distance.

Brian also emphasised the conceptual and geographic space between families and egg donors (‘foreign,’ ‘distance’) to foreclose the very idea of a social relationship. Brian’s account also argues that distance and the transactional nature of the arrangement benefits both parties, not only the prospective parents. Indeed, his comment reads almost as if he is being protective of the egg donor or surrogate. In addition, in their interview, Brian and David discussed the cultural (and even generational) gulf between them and the surrogate’s family to argue that they could never form a social relationship naturally: Brian: And we were sort of all glad to see the end of each other at the end of three days, it was like “phew,” you know, it’s just . . .

David: We don’t have much in common.

Brian: Well they’re kids. I’m old enough, we’re old to be their parents, I mean . . .

David: We’re two middle-aged gay men . . .

Brian: Different generations.

David: And they’re, you know . . .

Brian: Different generations and different countries, so we’re, we’re quite different.

It was clear from Brian’s and David’s account of this visit during the pregnancy that this felt forced into a relationship that did not feel ‘natural’ to them and possibly was also stressful for the surrogate and her family.

What is particularly fascinating about the idea of the ‘clean transaction’ in relation to egg donors is that (in this context) it is not seen to apply equally to both donors and recipients. That is, although payment to egg donors (and to a lesser extent, surrogates) was perceived to weaken any kinship link with the child on the part of the donor, payment by the intended parents (in this case, the study participants) was not seen as having the same effect. Rather, participants suggested that payment strengthens relations within the family by creating a distance between the family and egg donors. The transaction was seen to ‘void’ any kinship claim by the egg donor 183 but to have no negative impact on the relationships between the participants and their children. This tightening of the family unit reflected the desire not to share parenting with other people. It also made surrogacy a particularly attractive option for men seeking ‘a child of [their] own.’

Altruism Importantly, all participants did not view these transactions as liberating. It was not at all clear if the market prohibited kinship links or even if such an outcome was desirable. Despite the emphasis on surrogacy and egg donation as being a ‘transaction,’ a ‘business arrangement,’ and other similar representations that suggested distance and disinterest, participants felt the extent to which the market severed social relations and obligations was negotiable.

This paradox was evident in the way some participants spoke about surrogates. Joe, a US participant, explained how he favoured commercial surrogacy because it severed any obligations (‘cut the ties’) regarding ongoing contact. As Joe, recalled: So we wanted to meet somebody, we wanted them to have our baby, and then cut the ties and that’s it. We didn’t want any more to do with them afterwards. And we want someone who’s very healthy and very stable so that this whole process goes well.

This emphasis on the disentanglement of ongoing relations through financial compensation, however, was contradicted by his expressed interest in believing that surrogates were motivated by an interest in helping people: She’s married, she had two kids and she made it very clear that she didn’t want any more children, she just wanted to, she liked being pregnant and wanted to help other people. And what better people to help than two guys because we absolutely couldn’t have kids without her?

Joe re-emphasised an altruistic narrative in his description of how he intended to talk about the surrogate to his children, which was, ‘that she was a special woman who her two dads couldn’t have them without and she carried them like in an oven until they were ready and then she gave them to us.’ This vignette provides an interesting contradiction in the sense that the ‘clean transaction’ was the preferred way to conduct surrogacy arrangements. Nevertheless, these men felt that it was important to create a positive family narrative through the inclusion of emotional connections and self-sacrifice in the story. Joe’s account also clarifies that there was no intention to ‘cut the ties’ between them and, in fact, the surrogate had travelled from the Midwestern United States to California on at least two occasions ‘to spend time with the kids.’ 184

Ron painted a similarly mixed picture in relation to his thinking about surrogates: Yeah, I mean it is altruistic to an extent, but they are being paid. So, you know, for Stacey, it’s something that she’s wanted to do for a long time, because, I guess her initial reason (she had a couple), one she saw it on a soap opera. So when she saw it on a soap opera she thought “well that’s something that I want to do.” So that was one thing, and then she had her first child out of wedlock, so her cousin, who’s gay, offered to adopt him. She wasn’t able to do that, but she, since then she thought that, that she would like to be able to help a gay couple have a child. So a lot of it was altruistic, but then a, a big part of it also, she wanted to be able to help her family financially, because it is a, a financial compensation that’s involved, so, yeah.

This curious mingling of ideas about financial incentive, altruism, and other motivations seems to suggest that participants needed to believe that surrogates were not driven solely or even primarily by money. As Rocco observed: ‘I think for our surrogate, who’s quieter, it was like a point of pride and self-esteem that she could do this. She felt good, you know, throughout the pregnancy, I mean she hardly ever complained.’ In this case, it seems that stoicism was important in performing this role and it was valued by Rocco and his partner. Rocco added that he thought ‘that just overall she felt good that she was doing this for somebody else.’ He also emphasised that she was ‘really a good, kind person.’ Joe, Ron and Rocco’s narratives tended to stay quite close to the rhetoric provided by the surrogacy agencies, which in general described surrogates as kind and altruistic, and, if they had careers, as coming predominantly from the ‘helping’ professions (teachers and nurses). Rocco contrasted surrogates with people who were ‘highly ambitious, successful people in the corporate world.’ In this way, these accounts also drew on gendered understandings of giving and the way in which giving can reaffirm gender identity (Ashwin et al, 2013; Gerstel, 2000; Gerstel & Gallagher, 2001).

Study participants also drew on broader discourses about what they believed were the motives of women who acted as surrogates. Their accounts again challenged the dichotomy between the gift and the market. Michael, for example, emphasised that financial compensation was not sufficient motivation for women to become surrogates and that there were other factors involved: And she wasn’t in it for the money, ‘cause frankly the money isn’t enough to be pregnant for nine months, it really isn’t. You do it because you want to help other people. And, and I’ll never forget, we said ‘why are, would you do this?’ And she said, “because no matter what else in, I do with my life, I always feel like I’ve done something for somebody else. I always feel like I’ve done something, I’ve made a meaningful difference in somebody’s life.”

185

And I believed her, I knew that came from the heart, it wasn’t bullshit. So we had dinner with her and we were like, “she’s it, she’s perfect.” And we said, you know, we’ve spent more time picking out suits for one dinner, we can’t possibly go with the first person we met. When you renovate a house you get three bids for the kitchen. But she was right, and we knew it, so we didn’t have to meet anybody else.

That money is not sufficient motivation to be pregnant for nine months—and that there must be other reasons for wanting to be a surrogate—suggest that the remuneration was undervalued by the agencies and their clients. This discrepancy was partially justified by assuming altruistic motivations on the part of surrogates in general. Considerable evidence supports the conclusion that altruism provided a much more attractive and stable narrative for all involved. The language of a desire to ‘help’ people was strong, as were other variations on this theme, such as ‘[doing] something for someone else,’ making a ‘meaningful difference,’ and ‘from the heart.’ Participants drew on all these concepts to assist in explaining the actions of surrogates.

Rocco’s account shows how he and his partner ascribed noble intentions to the surrogates. He described how they: Talked with [the surrogacy agency] about that and also with friends. I mean for some women. I think it is like the crowning achievement of their lives, like what could be really more important than bringing, you know, a baby into the world?

Keith also described how he thought surrogates felt pride and pleasure in being pregnant and in being able to ‘help’ people: Surrogates are women that love being pregnant. They feel good about themselves and I think there are a lot of women that do, that, that feel they’re the most beautiful when they’re pregnant, and many women probably are. So, they have a family and they want to help other people. It’s nice that they can do that.

In relation to surrogates, participants were interested in viewing payment in terms of helping the surrogate’s family pay off their mortgage, send their children to college, and/or to meet other legitimate expenses. The following exchange between David and Brian demonstrates that these men understood the importance of the money from surrogacy as basic income support and that it would benefit the surrogate’s family as a whole: David: Everybody says because they want to give another family a family but, you know.

186

Brian: You know, there’s financial reasons, obviously ‘cause they get, you know, for a twenty-three year old, the compensation is about, they get about twenty-two thousand or something. But then, maybe she got extra ‘cause she had the twins, that’s an extra five thousand and there’s certain allowances they get every month, you know . . . . So, you know, for a twenty-three year old, um, she doesn’t work, he is in between jobs. So, you know, they don’t earn a lot of money. And, you know, it’s a great kick start, head start for them, great.

There was certainly no sense that surrogates did not need this money. The terms ‘kick start’ or ‘head start’ suggested that the money would help them meet basic needs. By contrast, these attributions of motivation were usually quite different from the range of options attributed to egg donors. This variation in ascribed motivations suggests much greater investment in managing the motivations of the surrogates than the donors. It may also reflect a concern about the socio-economic division between intended parents and surrogates.

As already seen in Joe’s account, participants also used largely positive descriptions of the surrogates as they explained how they intended to describe them to their children. The US men also often used the affectionate term ‘surro-mom.’ Andrew, one of the two single men in the study, who was also the only man who had used a traditional surrogacy arrangement, retained a very strong relationship with the surrogate who had given birth to both his children. She had visited Andrew and his family in Australia on two occasions and they had visited her several times in the United States. This familial relationship may have developed more easily in this situation because Andrew was not in a relationship. For other participants, relationships with surrogates varied from being warm, convivial to distant or completely non-existent. A noticeable trend among men in this study was for contact with surrogates after the birth to be quite frequent but then to fade away over time. Rocco described this in the following way: ‘We’re still, we are in touch but now instead of it being a couple of times a week it’s, it got to be every couple of weeks and now it’s every month or two.’ He also believed that the relationship would be permanent in the sense that, ‘I think we’ll always . . . be in touch with her to some degree.’ The most common pattern was for contact to settle down to exchange of cards or gifts and photographs at birthday and holidays, which is a familiar pattern for contact with more distant relatives.

Payment to egg donors did not necessarily sever all obligations or interests for either party. Despite the notion of the ‘business’ arrangement, some participants discussed

187 their preference for egg donors to remain available so they could be contacted in the future, for medical reasons in particular. Although many claimed that they did not care about ongoing contact (and made this explicit through payment) some participants also expected donors to have a sense of obligation and altruism and to be honest about their family medical history. And in the quotation from Steve already referred to in Chapter 7, there is the possibility of re-establishing contact with an egg donor especially if she were needed ‘for medical reasons or special reasons, you know, if Josh needed, whatever, needed some special blood or something like that.’ In this sense, the egg donors were ‘informational’ rather than ‘relational’: any ongoing connection was closely aligned with the notion of a genetic or informational family (Dolgin 2000; Finkler 2001; Strathern 2005), rather than social relations. Similarly, Brian described the reasons he and David chose an egg donor who was willing to be contacted in the future: It was important for us to be able to have some sort of contact with our egg donor, because if our kids in years to come want to track down their heritage and track down their biology, well then, we want to at least give them the best chance of doing that.

This idea of ‘heritage’ and ‘biology’ as immutable and unable to be completely contracted away is consistent with Schneider’s (1980 [1968]) theory of the way Westerners understand bilateral genetic inheritance in which the mother and father each provide half the genetic material and therefore are seen to be both equally related to the child they produce.

Many participants, however, had no ongoing contact with the egg donor. As Joe recounted: We never heard from her again. We never attempted to contact her again. We have her information so that if we ever need to in the future, if the kids should want to then. I think her request, it’s unclear, her request is to be as anonymous as possible, because she’s done this about ten times so who knows how many kids she has running around in the world.

In relation to egg donors, there was much less concern about the overt benefits that these women would receive than with surrogates, and as described above, participants were more comfortable thinking about this arrangement as strictly financial than they were about surrogacy. Even so, in some cases participants expressed a desire to view egg donors as not being motivated only by money. For example, Rocco remembered that the egg donor: Had written that her uncle is gay and that she knows that at some point maybe he’d want to have children and . . . she’d want to know that

188

somebody else was there to do this for him. So, I don’t know how much that impacted her or not.

Attachment and detachment Almost all participants were invested in the establishment of a conceptual boundary between the surrogate and the child she carried. This belief reflects the emphasis on biogenetic links (or lack thereof), as well as a cultural belief in the boundary between the domains of commerce and that of kinship. An interesting case is Jack’s story. Jack was the only participant who had not contracted a commercial surrogate. Although he had originally intended to do so, a friend offered to carry the child instead. His story about this arrangement seemed to imply that she needed to do additional emotional work because there was no commercial transaction to delineate what was being explicitly contracted. This work involved a constant performance of detachment (on the part of his friend) to reiterate the separation of the gestational role from any emotional or legal claims to motherhood. This performance is demonstrated in the following extract, in which Jack also simultaneously emphasised that his friend was not biogenetically connected to the child: Yeah, I think if, you know, you do it, gestational surrogacy where there’s, you use a different egg donor, I think that’s better. You know, ‘cause it’s not a part of her at all. The whole time, the whole nine months of pregnancy, she always was like, “oh, your, your child’s kicking me,” or, “I got nauseous from your child this morning.” And, ah, you know, when we’d go to the doctor, “this is his child,” you know, “just, I’m just along for the ride.” You know, we treated her very special, but never as the mother. People sometimes at restaurants, we’d go to eat after the doctor’s appointment or something and they’d be like, “oh, when is it due?”, “Is your baby a boy or a girl?” And she’d say, “You know, it’s a boy,” no need to explain to them. But she really was able to keep, you know, I, and I knew she would, knowing her, the type of person she was. She was able to keep it separate, you know.

Jack placed a strong emphasis on the surrogate’s detachment through her use of the pronoun ‘your’ when speaking to Jack about the child, which perhaps would have been unnecessary with a commercial arrangement. In addition, Jack recounted that he was able to use his relationship with his friend to monitor any signs that she might be developing any feelings of attachment towards the child: ‘But yeah, she was good about that. I really kept, you know, I tried to feel her out all the time to see if there was any of that starting up.’ The claim that ‘it’s not a part of her at all’ involves an acceptance that gestation does not form a biogenetic link, as I already discussed in Chapter 7. The ‘it’ here is, of course, the child, who is described as separate based on its genetic origin from a separate egg donor.

189

The approving tone evident at the end of the quotation can be seen to confirm that the surrogate was ‘successful’ in ‘managing’ this separation or detachment. Even in commercial surrogacy arrangements, however, participants sometimes also described the ways that surrogates performed non-attachment or detachment from the children they were carrying. Rocco, recounted: It’s just such an emotional time, anyhow. But with our surrogate, she, she was always, from the beginning, “your baby, your baby.” “Oh, your baby is kicking.” You know, I don’t know, somebody else might say, “Oh, our baby is kicking.”

This idea of the detached surrogate challenges some assumptions about an essential naturalness of motherhood and childbearing (Teman, 2008: 1104). Teman, however, cites widespread findings that many women who act as surrogates do not universally experience either attachment to the child or regret after the birth, which the findings of this study seem to support. However, of course, this study is based on the accounts of the intended parents rather than the surrogates themselves. How emotions are described in the excerpt above also supports the theory of emotion as ‘work’ (Hochschild, 1979). Jack and Rocco’s stories provide a useful example of how the emotions of surrogates are carefully scripted and managed by the women themselves but also by a comprehensive surveillance system that included the expectations of the prospective parents, the policies and monitoring practices of the surrogacy agencies, and the contract itself.

Theoretical reconceptualisations have questioned the strict division of gift and commodity systems (Callon, 1998; Frow 1997; Rapport, 2002). The ways in which the exchange of reproductive material and the provision of reproductive services occur on an increasingly global scale and between people who are connected neither by pre-existing social relations nor by citizenship, shows how, in practice, objects can be attributed different value at different times and in different places. For the study participants, all of whom were engaging in commercial reproductive services of some kind, the role of financial compensation in enabling a clean transaction—or the removal of ongoing social or emotional obligations—was highly prized.

‘Baby buying’ Participants in this study typically positioned their choice of pursuing parenthood through surrogacy as distinct from practices of ‘baby buying’ and ‘designer babies,’ which, as discussed in Chapter 5, have often been invoked in media portrayals. The men appeared eager to distance themselves from what they considered the excesses

190 of surrogacy highlighted in the media. One way of negotiating this terrain was to question the division between commercial surrogacy and alternative ways to pursue parenthood and to suggest that all such decisions required planning and therefore financial considerations. As seen in the quotation below, Robert argued that, while (commercial) surrogacy involves a financial transaction, it was more accurate to acknowledge that all decisions to have children involve financial considerations or are at least driven by particular motivations or calculations: But it really is a financial transaction, of course it is but, you know, straight people having their babies is a financial transaction as well, from simply having their baby to get the [government’s] baby bonus, which there are people who do that, to having the baby to keep the husband, or keep the family together so he can keep providing and you can stop work and there’s those aspects. There’s so many different ways, and there’s always the financial aspect to it. It doesn’t mean it’s wrong; it’s just different.

Robert was claiming that commercial surrogacy simply makes explicit what is already implicit in all decisions about parenting. His final line—[i]t doesn’t mean it’s wrong, it’s just different’—appears to be a strategic attempt to close the conceptual gap between the practices of commercial surrogacy and those that are considered acceptable kinship practices. Although there is a hint of defensiveness in his comments, Robert was also making a distinction between his own experience of pursuing parenthood through surrogacy and ‘straight people having their babies.’ I believe that he was making the argument, albeit without substantiation, that for gay men, the options for having children are more limited than for heterosexuals or lesbians. Therefore, if commercial surrogacy were not available, it would make parenthood even less achievable for this group. He was also challenging the idea that, in pursuing parenthood through surrogacy as a gay man, he was crossing a boundary that was not being crossed by other more ‘socially acceptable’ parents, especially those who identify as heterosexual

The desire to legitimise the decision to pursue surrogacy was influential in participants’ accounts of surrogacy as no more strategic and calculated as other ways of having children. This argument needs to be considered in light of the typically negative framing of gay surrogacy in popular representations, as discussed in Chapter 5. For example, despite Robert’s mention of a government bonus working as an incentive to become parents, what seemed to position the participants as being most similar to other middle-class heterosexual couples was the notion that parenthood should be pursued only after one had attained a degree of security in terms of one’s finances and career. This expectation was emphasised by several of

191 the men, including Basil who said: ‘we were, I suppose still getting ourselves on track in terms of our careers, and then, you know, by the time it all came into being able to solidify what we were going to do in terms of having kids.’ The same was true for Jamie and Darren, who said that reaching the age of 30 made them consider parenthood. These participants viewed parenthood as a reflection of the stability of the relationship and financial and career security, which they argued was similar to any individual or couple considering becoming parents.

Specifically in relation to surrogacy, some men reported that they also had had to negotiate the discursive terrain that framed surrogacy in these negative, commercial terms. As Donald confessed: ‘I was concerned about the ethics; I was concerned about the, you know, the ‘design a baby’ aspect. You know, buying a womb and renting a womb and all that sort of stuff.’ His discomfort suggests that these men’s accounts were informed by the popular media’s portrayal of (gay) surrogacy. However, the interviews revealed how the participants overcame those negative connotations, usually by reframing surrogacy as being an ideal form of ‘planned parenthood.’ As described in Chapter 6, all the men assumed that ‘planned’ parenthood was both the preferred and more responsible option. Paid surrogacy was sometimes described as epitomising planning because of the way it encouraged participants to be more reflective about their own intentions and those of others. For example: David: I think it’s better to do it with somebody you don’t know because you’re more suspicious, and you’re more likely to take more precautions on both sides.

Brian: That’s right. And then it can be more of a business arrangement, there’s no friendship emotions and you can be up front and discuss things openly and frankly because you don’t have any friendships at stake.

David’s and Brian’s account here describes a calculated approach, or one that reworks this negative framing of surrogacy as a positive feature. It provides a clear example of the explicit calculations invested in parenthood decisions for those who pursue surrogacy. These men were negotiating the boundary between, on the one hand, acceptable notions of family planning and, on the other hand, too much planning, which was seen to be crossing a line into commercialisation. David and Brian’s account shows that they also needed to manage emotions in commercial arrangements. At the very least, there was the expectation that emotions must be managed. Emotion is positioned in this quotation as getting in the way of open and frank discussion and interfering with the possibility of negotiating a ‘business

192 arrangement,’ a term Brian used more than once, including in his quotation in the previous section of this chapter.

These accounts also reveal how socio-economic privilege shapes the experience of surrogacy, and in particular, how the men positioned themselves in relation to the surrogates and in terms of their competence in negotiating contracts with representatives of surrogacy agencies. Privilege and competence were evident throughout the accounts, for example, as Basil stated, ‘we wanted to cover our bases and control the variables.’ As mentioned in Chapter 5, Rocco described the surrogacy agency as a ‘one-stop shop’ that finds the egg donor and surrogate and also facilitates legal, insurance and medical aspects, and psychological assessments. The men clearly valued the way risks were seen to be manageable and the surrogacy process seen to be controllable through surrogacy agencies. The findings are similar to those in Berkowitz’s (2011a) analysis of gay men’s adoption stories and Riggs’s and Due’s (2010) account of gay men pursuing parenthood through surrogacy, based on an analysis of an episode of a television current affairs program in Australia. However, in this study socio-economic position was not associated only with White gay men or with reproducing whiteness, as suggested by some critiques of egg donation and surrogacy (Bergmann, 2011; Quiroga, 2007; Rigg & Due, 2010). Although it may be true that the majority of gay surrogacy agency clientele are White men, this study does not reflect that sample composition. Thus, it is not possible to make such a claim based on these data. I would, however, note that this unusual sample composition does make this study an interesting counterpoint to previous research on surrogacy and gay men.

In summary, the accounts of the men described here positioned ‘planned’ parenthood in a very positive light. Surrogacy was elevated to a more privileged position because of the careful planning and calculation involved. There was also a sense that the ‘right’ context for parenthood was important and that all parents should make decisions about having children based on their relationship and financial/career security. Clearly, for these gay men, having children could come about only as the result of a very deliberate strategy. This decision implied a very calculated approach in which emotions are understood as getting in the way of negotiations. The context of being gay was seen to position surrogacy as an option for those with the resources to afford it. In this way, these men reframed the negative connotations associated

193 with surrogacy in line with what they considered to be common understandings of how parenthood should be approached in the wider community.

‘Designer babies’ A subtle but persistent concern about ‘designer babies’ was evident in the men’s accounts. The analysis of print media in Chapter 5 highlighted that this suggestion was focused mostly on gay men and celebrities pursuing parenthood through surrogacy. This concern was particularly marked in the ways participants described some decisions as ‘reasonable,’ rather than as crossing a boundary into what might seem like genetic interference or manipulation. For example, Donald, who rejected a potential egg donor because her nephew had just been diagnosed with a form of leukaemia, was careful to frame this fact as reducing a potential risk once it became known: I said, “Look I’m really sorry about the situation but I’m going to decline.” Because I think knowingly going in to something, it’s different in a way. It’s not so much designer babies, but knowingly going in when you know there’s this kind of a risk.

This reference to ‘designer babies’ shows that he considered it a sufficiently well understood reference point that required no further explanation. It also suggests that he and other men felt compelled to frame their accounts of pursuing parenthood through commercial surrogacy arrangements in relation to the popular discourses that circulate around surrogacy and its perceived excesses. As already discussed in Chapter 5, the image of the ‘designer baby’ is illustrative of popular concerns regarding excessive consumer choice, or ‘playing God’ (Franklin & Roberts, 2006: 26). The accounts of study participants suggest that they were aware of these concerns and, even if they did not share them, were determined to position their own choices as not venturing into areas that evoked such cultural anxiety.

Apart from a general reference to ‘designer babies,’ participants sometimes also positioned surrogacy against the specific technologies of PGD (pre-implantation genetic diagnosis) and in particular ‘sex selection.’ In all cases, the men referred to these technologies as justifiable only in specific circumstances and tended to draw on a distinction between ‘everyday surrogacy’ and these other technologies. As the Australian media (Hellard & Houlihan, 2007) had raised concerns about sex selection practices among gay men pursuing surrogacy during the course of this study, it was not surprising that Australian participants were wary of this criticism and took care to position themselves as generally not supporting the use of this

194 technology. Only one participant disclosed that he and his partner had pursued sex selection. Jeremy framed this choice in terms of what has become known as ‘family balancing’ (McGowan & Sharp, 2013): Yeah, we certainly didn’t first time. And I don’t even know if [the clinic] would do it first time. You know, it’s only if they’ve seen you have, you know, you’ve had girls before or there was a genetic reason, I don’t think first time they’d do it. You know, even in America, where you can almost buy anything, I don’t know if they’d do it. But, yeah, so we did sex selection.

Jeremy’s account makes it clear that they selected for a boy because they already had daughters. He also positions clinicians as managing any inappropriate use of sex selection by implying that they would not offer this choice of sex selection to first- time parents and would only offer any form of PGD if there were a concern about hereditable genetic conditions.

Overall, the accounts of participants indicate awareness of negative framings of surrogacy, especially perhaps when pursued by gay men. Perhaps for this reason, the men seemed to feel compelled to position their own practices and choices in ways that aligned surrogacy with other ways of becoming parents. These descriptions were therefore what I refer to as a form of ‘everyday surrogacy,’ rather than the extreme forms of reproductive technologies, such as sex selection. Even Jeremy, who actually pursued sex selection, was in a sense forced to position himself in opposition to it.

Ambivalence and the ‘oppressive’ gift Based on observations of a number of different cultures, Marcel Mauss (1990 [1922]) described in great detail how gift exchange creates an economy which brings with it particular forms of obligation to reciprocate. Mauss also argued that in Western cultures, this obligation is demonstrated in how ‘we vie with one another in our presents of thanks, banquets and weddings, and in simple invitations’ (1990 [1922]: 7). His theory was that gift exchanges work to constitute power relations. As Frow (1997) notes, this means that gift giving is not free of calculation, strategy, obligation, and motivation (1997: 124). Another important conclusion of Mauss (1990 [1922] was that gifts retain something of the personality of the giver. This notion of gifts creating an ongoing relationship between the giver and the recipient has been analysed in relation to the exchange of human tissue, especially whole organ donation, and as already noted in Chapter 3 this burden of impossible reciprocation has been termed the ‘tyranny of the gift’ (Daniels & Lewis, 1996).

195

Almost all the study participants used both commercial egg donation and surrogacy agencies. Given that egg donation and surrogacy for these men was organised in a system of exchange that involved a fee for service, I wanted to make the final area of investigation an exploration of whether these arrangements obviated any feelings of connection with the donors or surrogates along the lines of a ‘clean transaction,’ as discussed earlier in the chapter. If participants did perceive such a link, did they experience this as oppressive or burdensome in any way and/or did it lead to feelings of ambivalence towards the donors and surrogates? Because of the particular way in which genetic material is always coded back to the donor, I wondered if these men might have perceived this connection as a ‘tyrannical’ gift, one that they could not ‘escape.’

Notwithstanding the attraction of the ‘clean transaction’ for study participants—the exchange of services for financial compensation—there was also a sense that some connections or obligations did continue into the future despite the surrogacy contract having been executed. Keith and Malcolm’s story provides an insight into this sense of ongoing obligation, which seemed to be associated with ambivalence on their parts. That they felt a sense of obligation was hinted at by Keith in the way he described the ending of their relationship with the surrogate after the birth: the obligation to the surrogate was in fact ongoing, at least until it was marked as ended by the surrogate, referred to in this instance as ‘moving on’: And there was a complication, and so they were premature and after, you know, she checked out the next day, and we kept in contact with her and called her. And then she moved and didn’t tell us where she lived, which was fine, and we ended up tracking her down ‘cause her kid’s birthday was coming up and we wanted to send some presents, we tracked her down through someone else, and she answered the phone and said she was on her way to work and she’d call us back, and she never did. So she just kind of moved on. She was going through a lot, her husband was, was a, she’s not married to him anymore, they were getting divorced shortly after that and so she moved on, which is fine. I think she did us a favour by moving on.

This description contains what might be described as a sense of relief that their obligation to the surrogate was lifted. What Keith seems to be suggesting by his expression ‘she did us a favour’ was that he and Malcolm perhaps also wanted not to have ongoing contact but did not feel it was possible to initiate this break themselves. Keith’s recounting also illustrates the gratitude that these men felt towards surrogates, (demonstrated through the obligation towards maintaining some sort of relationship with them).

196

The notion of obligation does not necessarily mean resentment, although it could, of course, take that form. More often, obligation was infused with feelings of gratitude and a sense that these women had made an incredible and necessary contribution to the making of their families. How participants talked about the women who carried their children made it clear that they felt gratitude. Many expressed this gratitude through the rituals of gift giving. These gifts were often given to the surrogates at the time of the birth or less often during the pregnancy. The men also gave gifts to the surrogates’ children, as Keith’s quotation above implied. The practice of giving gifts to the surrogate was referred to by Ron, who recalled that it had become something of a joke between him and the surrogate. He was slightly embarrassed that he was not as wealthy as other clients of the same surrogacy agency were: I think most of the clients of [surrogacy agency] are, tend to be millionaires or, or very wealthy, so I, sometimes we joke with my surrogate. Because she talks to other surrogates within Growing Generations and they get gifts like, you know, cars and so, you know, I’m not able to provide that. I apologise all the time, I’m like, “I’m sorry that I can’t get you a SUV after the birth.”

In some ways, these reflections could be seen as a way of ‘restoring’ the natural hierarchy through giving gifts, which as Werbner’s (1996) analysis indicates are expected to flow unilaterally from older to younger and from those with more money to those with less.

The idea of restoring this balance is alluded to in the following quotation from Joe, recollecting the worries he and Rupert had about the surrogate not relinquishing the child after the birth: So we flew them out, we clicked with them immediately, it was a great. They were a great couple, wonderful people. And one of the issues we always worried about in the surrogacy process is, “Oh, my God, the surrogate’s going to keep our baby.”

Joe’s account here provides an important insight into the power dynamics ascribed to this particular exchange. In terms of class and social position, Joe was in control (‘we flew them out’). However, the surrogate was invested with the capacity still to choose to keep the child, thus potentially holding power over the prospective parents. This tension was evident in many accounts of surrogacy among intended parents. For example, participants’ accounts contained references to ‘flying’ the surrogate, and her partner or family, to meetings or visits and sometimes flying the egg donors to clinics for the egg retrievals. As in Joe’s quotation, these descriptions seem to indicate a desire for control over the situation, expressed through paying for travel, accommodation and other expenses. However, payment did not obscure the

197 conceptual link between the surrogate and the child, even though the child was conceived from a donor’s egg. Legal determinations of parenthood emphasised the ongoing link between surrogate and child in some jurisdictions. As Damon described: In law in Australia, we are not the parents of Oscar—Melanie, the surrogate is. But we are the carers. We are not the parents and we never will be parents. We can only get a parenting order that will give us parental responsibility, but we actually in law will never be parents of Oscar.

This tension was ever present in the participants’ narratives and was possibly another reason for the expression of some feelings of ambivalence towards the surrogate. To reduce this fear, many participants maintained a preference for their child to be born in California, where case law supported the parentage rights of the intended parents over those of the surrogate.

Valuing the egg donor Chapter 7 included an analysis of the ways in which participants selected egg donors in terms of physical features and ethnic background. The participants in this study made these choices largely in order to match donors with the non-biogenetic fathers in gay couples. In this section, I make conclusions about the ways that egg donors were valued in surrogacy practices. One of the most fascinating observations is the persistence of the term ‘donor’ in the language of the field. The study participants used this term (and admittedly so did I, the researcher). This terminology is rather odd, considering that eggs are not donated but rather provided for a fee. It also suggests some discomfort in accepting the language of the market, despite participants simultaneously appreciating its benefits in terms of a ‘clean transaction.’ Perhaps there is something uncomfortable about the idea of an ‘egg seller’ or even ‘egg provider’? This discomfort may be particularly pertinent when attempting to create a positive family narrative for the children born through surrogacy.

However, in participants’ accounts, egg donors were valued according to the information that was provided in donor profiles. This section highlights some of the ways this value was determined. Most participants had identified egg donors through services based in California. The majority were anonymous, although there was some degree of flexibility in these arrangements, with several donors agreeing to meet participants at the time of the egg retrieval. Explicit monetary valuing of donors was evident in the materials of surrogacy agencies and in my interviews with gay men. The payment received by donors, started at around five thousand US dollars for a

198 first-time donor. In the United States, eggs are classified as renewable and can be— and are—traded without regulation (Waldby & Cooper, 2008: 63). As has been described elsewhere, in anonymous (and semi-anonymous) egg donation systems, phenotype is privileged above everything else in donor choice (Pollock, 2003: 252; Waldby & Cooper, 2008: 62). Information about physical characteristics therefore adds to the value of material from individual donors, as does information about family medical history and ‘proven’ abilities as a donor. This information is kept in the donor agency files and includes photographs and sometimes videos of the available donors. Study participants were usually able to describe clearly the criteria they used in making decisions about egg donors.

In general, the Australian participants expressed surprise at the range of options available, in terms of the number of donors and the amount of information provided by them. For some participants, such as Jeremy, this experience was not without its negative side: I guess everybody would originally like to say medical, you’d look at the medical side of it. But the reality is you’re looking at all these faces of girls, initially it comes down to looks. You can’t, you are not going to look at a girl that you find unattractive and say yes, you want her to be your egg donor. So initially I guess it is physical appearance, and then you certainly straight away look at, you know, their medical history and whatever. We also wanted somebody with a bit of, well you’ve got so many choices you have to make some list of what you’re looking for. So we sort of said we wanted somebody over five seven, so that straightaway cut out three-quarters of them. And then, just sort of went through, through looks, I guess, who you found appealing, and then you went through medical history and family history and what sort of person they were. So, yeah, you actually think that’ll be the easy part, or the fun part, but it’s actually the most stressful part and the hardest part and I didn’t enjoy it really at all. It’s very difficult.

Here, Jeremy describes feeling quite uncomfortable about choosing an egg donor, despite his acknowledgement that, as discussed in Chapter 7, certain features are prioritised in selecting an egg donor. In his account, the excess of choice made it a stressful experience, whereas he had imagined that it would be ‘easy’ or even ‘fun.’ Even though a commercial transaction can have positive attributes, as already discussed, an overabundance of choice seemed to cause discomfort among these participants. Certainly, their descriptions of the experience of selecting from a catalogue were imbued with some of the negative connotations of consumerism associated with ‘gay surrogacy.’ This implication was something from which these men seemed to be actively trying to distance themselves.

199

Further, Jeremy expressed particular discomfort about focusing on physical attractiveness. Rather, he preferred a narrative related to medical history (‘everybody would originally like to say medical, you’d look at the medical side of it’). Here he seems to be responding in advance to potential accusations of baby buying by suggesting that valuing physical attributes over medical history is more open to those kinds of critiques. This thinking implies that attractiveness was seen as more closely connected to commodification, whereas the medical history was seen as less so, and therefore seen as a more socially ‘legitimate’ concern. Jeremy believed that the way the catalogue was organised (‘you’re looking at all these faces of girls’) enforced a hierarchy of choices and values based on ‘physical appearance,’ although he again re-emphasised what he considered to be a more acceptable criteria (‘then you certainly straightaway look at, you know, their medical history and whatever’). He also described how choice was enforced through both the sheer volume of available donors and the organisation of the material, which he described as: ‘We also wanted somebody with a bit of, well you’ve got so many choices you have to make some list of what you’re looking for.’ This forced choice culminated in having to make a ‘list’ of possible candidates, which again draws on metaphors of overabundance to evoke the excesses of the market.

Like Jeremy, the majority of other participants seemed more comfortable describing choices about egg donors based on medical and family histories than other characteristics. Generally, those histories were seen to represent a more acceptable domain for determining the desirability or otherwise of specific donors in relation to, for example, a family history of mental illness or poor eyesight. As Jack explained below, there could also be a sense of urgency in finding a donor. Availability was very much dependent on demand, which made the experience of finding a donor a very competitive one: So, some, and they’re all pretty young and, you know, but different looks, you know, they all, vary across the board as far as looks. But of course the pretty ones were, got snatched up quickly and then, if they redo it, if they do it again, they’re, the price goes up. You know, like a thousand. So we went with one that had never donated before, just ‘cause that made it five thousand, and we got lucky, you know.

For Jack, the increased market value of proven donors led him and his partner to select a first-time donor to keep the cost down. He described this decision as a risk because her eggs might not have resulted in a successful pregnancy and they would have had to go through the process again. However, for him it was a risk that paid off: ‘We got lucky.’ 200

Two different processes of appraisal seemed to be playing out in relation to egg donors. The first related to particular attributes believed to be inheritable (as discussed above). The other was value attributed to the number of eggs retrieved and a history of successful fertilisations and children born as a result. Basil described the latter as ‘good stats in terms of how many eggs you produce and how many kids you’ve produced.’ He implied that being a highly successful egg donor required a particular entrepreneurial approach on the part of the donors, captured in the expression, ‘she set herself up,’ which contrasted with the gestational surrogates: But the egg donor situation is far more, I suppose commercial. And I think that’s reflected also in the personality of our specific egg donor. She kind of liked that. She made, she made a good amount of money, ‘cause we were not the only people she worked with, and she set herself up. I mean she was, I’m talking about the specifics of the money, we were her second family, she was, she charged six thousand for a cycle. She told us subsequently she got up to twenty-five thousand per cycle. So, you know, it’s a bit of a no-brainer, isn’t it? You’ve got a nice picture, nice profile, good stats in terms of how many eggs you produce and how many kids you’ve produced, and, you know.

Value was attributed here according to particular characteristics of the egg donor, as well as her donation history. Further, the donor’s entrepreneurial skill seemed to be respected. In addition, as already alluded to, other factors affected the fees paid to specific donors. Several participants sought specific donors, or at least donors with specific characteristics, who ‘matched’ the ethnic background of the other partner. The scarcity or otherwise of those donors affected their value. Steve described, for example, how the scarcity of egg donors of Chinese ethnicity affected the fees that the donors could receive: Then once we’d sort of come down to the fact that we wanted to have an Asian woman, which apparently now are super popular, so they’re harder to find based on that, ‘cause they’re so, they’re on the market and off the market really quickly. Lleyton is very picky about what’s a pretty Chinese person.

As I argued in Chapter 7, the matching of the background of the non-genetic father with that of the egg donor enabled the couple to disguise the identity of the genetic parent to other people and potentially even to themselves. This strategy had an interesting and somewhat contradictory outcome in terms of the ways in which these women were valued. Although the value of their eggs in these instances was determined by physical resemblance and even specifically by their ethnic background, the women were at the same time made to ‘disappear’ as individuals, to a certain extent. By this, I mean that their contribution was reduced to ‘standing in’ 201 for the non-biogenetic father (in the case of couples). This strategy made the donors simultaneously present and absent in the display of these families. This notion underlines the idea of surrogacy arrangements as an attempt to achieve the sense of having ‘a child of one’s own.’

Valuing the surrogate The value attributed to potential surrogates tended to be related specifically to their ‘proven’ history in providing surrogacy services. The agency portfolios organised and presented information about the surrogates in this way. A somewhat stark difference was observable between what was valued or sought after in surrogates as opposed to egg donors. Particularly prominent was the absence of specific physical characteristics in preferences for surrogates. Also, most of the participants spoke about being ‘matched’ with a surrogate through an agency, which was consistent with the language promoted by the surrogacy agencies as discussed in Chapter 5. This approach contrasts with the way egg donors were actively selected by participants. This arrangement was therefore less overtly organised like a market, and, in fact, more like a matchmaking service.

Intriguingly, many participants claimed to be unsure about the criteria used in the matching process. As Jeremy recounts in the quotation below, he did not know how he and his partner were matched with the surrogate. His only memory was that they had requested an experienced surrogate, who he believed was accorded a higher commercial value: ‘Well, I guess I ‘don’t really know what that was. We said we wanted somebody that had been a surrogate once or twice before, even though you’re paying more for it.’ One of the US participants, Ron, believed the criteria used included the level of preferred contact, and agreement on selective ‘reduction’ in the case of a multiple pregnancy. Additionally, Ron’s relationship status was an issue, as he was single at the time of negotiating the surrogacy contract: We both fill out, a questionnaire, and then the agency matches us according to the questionnaire. And we, other than me not being in a couple, everything matched perfectly with our questionnaires, like as far as our, how much involvement or communication, reduction, you know, all that matched perfectly. She didn’t envision doing it with a single male, she pictured a couple, but when we met, we hit it off, her and her husband flew out from Minnesota and we had a match meeting. And it was funny because both of us, you know, called the agency within minutes after dropping, you know, after I dropped her off, to say, “this is someone I want to work with.” So it, you know, kind of clicked right away.

202

Having had previous (and successful) experience as a surrogate was used by agencies to determine the payment a woman would receive. However, a number of other factors was also important in matching a potential surrogate to her clients. These factors—primarily related to the questions of trustworthiness and contract adherence—are also important criteria to explore in relation to the meanings of value in this setting, as discussed below.

Relationships between participants and surrogates were quite different from relationships with egg donors. These different relationships were based on different valuing. Whereas egg donors accrue value primarily according to physical characteristics, surrogates were more likely to be sought out for their proven record and their willingness to undergo particular regimes of surveillance and control, particularly relating to ‘healthy’ behaviours while pregnant. It is worth noting here that the most common discursive technique employed by participants was to discuss whether or not they felt the surrogate was someone they could ‘work with,’ as in Ron’s quotation above. The use of this metaphor, which is also favoured by the surrogacy agencies, as mentioned in Chapter 5, seems to suggest a role for a surrogate that also paradoxically distances her from the products of her ‘reproductive labour’ (see also Waldby & Cooper, 2008, 2010).

Another major difference between how participants interacted with surrogates and egg donors was that participants met the surrogates, whereas very few had met their egg donors. Contact between the participants and surrogates was required at the time of matching; generally, additional contact occurred at the time of the embryo transfer and at the birth. Ongoing contact before, during and after the pregnancy was common and was encouraged by the surrogacy agencies. Many participants, including those from Australia, also visited the surrogate and her family during her pregnancy. As a result of these meetings, ongoing relationships developed. In this sense, they had a social relationship in addition to a contractual one. This observation demonstrates some of the interesting interplay between social and financial aspects of surrogacy. It may be that men were able to form these relationships with gestational surrogates because surrogates were seen to be less of a ‘threat’ to the family in the sense that they did not provide the main biogenetic material.

In relation to the health maintenance practices of the surrogate during the pregnancy, participants described a range of contractual requirements, specifically those related

203 to health of the foetus. Jamie articulated his terms for choosing a surrogate: “I want to ensure that she is on the same wavelength—non-smoker, doesn’t drink much during pregnancy, considers diet.’ The focus also revealed socio-economic differences that typically operated as an unspoken background to the social dynamics between surrogates and intended parents. This divergence was particularly apparent in relation to concerns about diet during pregnancy, with participants often making assumptions about surrogates not having a good diet because they did not have the resources to eat more healthily or that they lacked the knowledge about what that would entail. These concerns were often based on observations of the potential surrogates with their own children, when the men were able to meet with (and sometimes even stay with) the surrogates during the pregnancy. As a result, particular techniques of surveillance were established, primarily including negotiation and monitoring of surrogacy contracts, as well as direct observation during visits. This type of surveillance system is a common feature of surrogacy, as represented in popular culture, such as the movie Baby Mama (Michaels, Goldwyn & McCullers, 2008), for example. It is also highlighted in media reports of surrogates in India, who spend most of their pregnancies at live-in facilities where they can be kept under close supervision. Such surveillance is intended to ensure that the surrogate can fulfil the expectations promised to prospective parents, as well as to the clinics or surrogacy agencies that represent them. Additionally in India, there may be cultural reasons such as protecting the surrogates from stigma.

Surrogacy contracts often stipulate particular dietary regimes, as well as bans on the use of alcohol and other drugs (including caffeine) during pregnancy. The participants usually described these as standard clauses in the contracts they had signed: Michael: It was, yeah, that was hard for me, that was definitely hard because, I know she wasn’t like drinking or whatever but I also know she doesn’t have a lot of money and she feeds her kid mac and cheese, you know, and they eat fast food a lot and that isn’t how we raise our children, it isn’t how we eat. That’s, you know, so, oh, yeah.

Interviewer: Were any of these things written into the contract you had with her?

Michael: Yeah. Some of them, the amount of caffeine was written in.

Interviewer: Really?

204

Michael: Yeah. Alcohol was written in. Mostly the, it was a standard contract, you know. We didn’t add that stuff, it was all pretty much in there, but yeah, it is all written in there.

The contracts were important in describing the agreements and part of the surveillance of the women. Keeping to these agreements was expected even though they could not be monitored in reality. As shown by the experiences of the study participants as they negotiated the field of surrogacy, the value attributed to surrogates is comprised of quite different criteria to that associated with egg donors.

Conclusions This chapter has outlined how value is attributed within commercial surrogacy arrangements and the implications of such determinations for enacting kinship among gay men. My analysis found that the value attributed to different actors in these networks varied according to a range of factors. For egg donors, phenotype was important, as was genetic history and family medical history. For gestational surrogates, their prior history of being a surrogate influenced their value. The commercial aspects of the arrangement were highly valued because they meant that these gay men could use these services and become parents in a way that would otherwise have been difficult, unlikely, or impossible. In this sense, those arrangements enabled them to create a child that was theirs—a ‘child of one’s own.’

Importantly, these men were able to achieve their goal of parenthood without also generating any residual social obligations, especially to the woman who provided the genetic material. However, the altruistic dimensions of surrogacy were also highly prized, and encouraged, especially in relation to the gestational surrogate. Altruism was valued for enabling these men to feel that their children would have access to a reproductive narrative that was meaningful and socially legitimated. It was important for them to ensure that their children and their family were viewed as morally and socially acceptable. The commercial nature of these surrogacy arrangements did not necessarily remove social obligations. Notably, the commercial and altruistic aspects of surrogacy were seen to be mutually reinforcing, with each rendered incomprehensible without the other. Those involved in those exchanges seemed to engage in a constant interplay that moved back and forth across the domains of the market, on the one hand, and the enactment of kinship and social relations, on the other.

205

CHAPTER 9: CONCLUSION

Surrogacy is a global phenomenon characterised by controversial discourses, proliferating forms of advice and information, troubling and conflicting media messages, visible and invisible bodies, and new and old economies for the circulation of reproductive material. This thesis offers a set of topical insights into the ways in which gay men are negotiating this complex field today, in the pursuit of a family model that enables them to have the experience of raising a ‘child of one’s own’.

Scholarly interest in the experiences of gay men becoming parents has been increasing in recent years. However, to the best of my knowledge, no previous research among gay men has focused both on both domestic and transnational surrogacy arrangements in the same study. Although this thesis is able to take a more global perspective than most other research on this topic, it is still interesting to note the significance of the city of Los Angeles in the narratives of the men who took part in this study. Almost all the men had used surrogacy agencies based in that city, so this study supports Stacey’s (2006) notion of Los Angeles as ‘the surrogacy capital of the gay globe’ (2006: 31). This pre-eminence is primarily the outcome of the establishment of one particular agency that markets its services specifically to the gay community, both in the United States and abroad. It is fascinating to see how the model of gay male parenthood and kinship (that can be seen to be promulgated by agencies and citizens based in that city) has been exported across the Pacific to shape the kinship practices of urban gay communities on the east coast of Australia. The links with that city will most certainly continue, as most of the children conceived in these arrangements were granted US citizenship at the time of their birth. Also important in maintaining the continued prominence of Los Angeles as a magnet for surrogacy is the favourable legal environment in the state of California for prospective parents.

This study contributes to the growing field of international research on the many complex and unexpected ways in which parenthood desires are informed by contemporary understandings of gender and sexual identity. Like most people, the study participants had grown up with expectations of becoming parents, although these expectations had been challenged when they assumed a gay identity. An important contribution to the field made by this study is the theorisation of the ways that this linking of gay sexuality and childlessness were questioned and ultimately overcome by these men. By drawing on some of the insights from Actor-network 206 theory, notably the concept of ‘plug-ins’, it was possible to demonstrate that parenthood desire is not innate but rather socially produced: men come to experience parenthood desire largely because of the new narratives and opportunities available to them today. This new way of thinking about gay men’s parenthood desires contrasts with much of the empirical literature that frames parenthood desires as solely achieved by overcoming internalised homophobia. This study also goes further than previous accounts by offering a theoretical basis for conceptualising how parenthood desires among these men were viewed as conceptually unavailable to them and then re-animated by social plug-ins that opened up new prospects for parenthood both as a conceptual and material reality. Plug-ins that animated parenthood scripts included relationship partners, media, peers, and the promotional activities of surrogacy agencies. As I explored the social production of these scripts, I found that parenthood emerged as both de-naturalised and de-linked from discourses of heterosexuality.

Gay men can also be seen to be navigating complex discourses on parenthood and surrogacy in their pursuit of a ‘child of one’s own.’ The ways in which they make sense of family structures, kinship symbols, desire for parenthood, and even the ongoing relationship with egg donors and surrogates are informed by the discourses available to them. It is interesting, therefore, to note that these discourses are primarily associated with normative Western kinship models: a couple with children living together in the same home, with the children related biogenetically to the parents and to each other. This notion of a two-parent family in which both are equal parents to the children living in the same household was strongly reinforced by the men in the study. This definition of kinship is suggestive of standard Western concepts of the domestic nuclear family. However, at the same time, these families both challenged and reinforced dominant notions of masculinity, gay sexuality and family life. By invoking concepts of the ‘new normal’ family model, these men presented a kind of non-threatening and de-sexualised homosexuality. At the same time, they disrupted gendered expectations by demonstrating that men could assume the primary care-giving roles usually seen to be the domain of women. However, these men were also not impervious to discourses related to the socialising of children through what they saw to be ‘appropriate’ gender roles. This susceptibility was most evident in relation to concerns by some participants about being inappropriate role models for socialising male children. These concerns were influenced by a sense that they were parenting in very ‘public’ ways.

207

According to David Schneider (1980 [1968]), kinship consists of bonds on which one can depend, which are compelling, and which take priority over other kinds of bonds. Kinship is also dynamic; it is an achievement, rather than a given, and must be enacted rather than simply discovered. In line with this view, the enactment of kinship by gay men pursuing parenthood through surrogacy offers an important insight into familial relations. Assisted reproductive technologies are being employed today in ways that enable biogenetically connected families to be created, no matter what the gender configuration of the parents. The gay male couples in this study provided examples of ‘playing with’ the symbols of Western kinship—including biogenetic connection and bilateral genetic inheritance—and reconfiguring them in ways that enabled them to create a coherent family structure with children who were seen to be related equally to both partners. The creative and strategic ways that biogenetic connection was negotiated by gay couples shows that this was an important and potentially destabilising resource to be negotiated. For these couples, biogenetic connection was managed and/or obscured by means of the three strategies identified in this study: ‘turn-taking’ in relation to the provision of sperm; ‘intentional unknowing’ with regard to which partner’s sperm had fertilised the egg; and ‘absolute secrecy’ concerning the disclosure of biogenetic paternity to outsiders.

The notions of physical resemblance and similar cultural background were also creatively negotiated in making decisions about egg donors. In this sense, for many couples in the study, the egg donors were ‘standing in’ for biogenetic connection with the non-biogenetic father. Some of the most fascinating examples of the ways kinship symbols were subverted and re-invented came from couples comprising men from different ethnic backgrounds (who comprised one-third of the couples in this study). Most of these men chose to use separate egg donors that matched the phenotypic characteristics of the non-biogenetic parent in order to achieve the specific ‘blinding’ of biogenetic relatedness described as ‘intentional unknowing’. In addition, importantly, the egg donors were essentially ‘written out’ of the narratives of these families through this careful selection. Physical resemblance to both male partners meant that the absent ‘other’ was never invoked and, in these cases, remained absent and non-threatening. This writing out of the donor was reinforced through the emphasis of resemblance to both male partners through family narratives that supported the idea of a ‘child of one’s own.’ Finally, in terms of playing with kinship symbols, the enactment of kinship among these men also sometimes

208 reworked the notion of bilateral genetic inheritance to suggest that the egg donor had contributed only the substance required for conception without contributing genetic material.

This research also revealed and discussed some of the potentially problematic dimensions and critical representations of commercial surrogacy practices. The commercial and altruistic aspects of surrogacy were seen to be drawn upon simultaneously in enacting kinship. These men valued the commercial dimension of surrogacy for enabling them to have a ‘child of one’s own’ in the sense that financial compensation appeared to remove any residual social obligations to the gestational surrogate or the egg donor. At the same time, altruism was attributed to these women, especially the surrogates, in order to create reproductive narratives for children that were both meaningful and socially legitimised. This legitimisation enabled these families to be viewed as morally and socially acceptable. These observations clearly identified that there were particular expectations regarding how one must ‘do’ the pursuit of parenthood via surrogacy.

This study provided an opportunity to reveal some of the stories and experiences of the first generation of gay-identified men in the United States and Australia to pursue parenthood through contract surrogacy arrangements. Future research could usefully be conducted on the experiences of gay men pursuing surrogacy arrangements in other locations, notably India and Thailand, which have become popular sites for surrogacy (although new restrictions in India make this country an unlikely option for gay men in the future). Future research will need to remain attentive to the socio- economic differences that accompanies such transnational surrogacy arrangements. Further, such studies should look beyond the economic disparities between intended parents and surrogates and remain open to understanding the full complexity of kinship relations enacted through these arrangements. In Australia, there is also a need for more research on the trends of gay men pursuing parenthood through surrogacy, including an understanding of which countries they are travelling to for these transnational surrogacy arrangements. Also, it would be important to consider a broad range of media influences on gay men’s pursuit of surrogacy, notably those published in the gay media.

Given that generational changes have been identified by recent research in terms of parenthood desires and expectations, there is also an important role for more

209 longitudinal research studies. These studies could follow gay men from young adulthood to explore parenthood and kinship, as well as sexual and relationship practices, and how these change over time. In addition, it would be valuable to conduct research about the local and international social networks that might be developing among gay men who have become parents through surrogacy. In particular, it is important to explore issues of identity among these groups and the development of their own mechanisms of support and communication, and to consider the extent to which these are viewed as separate from the broader gay community and even from other gay fathers. Future research could also explore the expansion of these networks and the transformations this expansion might reveal regarding the experiences of gay men in making new kinds of families today. This study, however, has provided the building blocks for understanding the enactment of kinship among gay men pursuing parenthood through surrogacy, including the particular meanings ascribed to these practices regarding the right and opportunity to have a ‘child of one’s own.’

210

REFERENCES

Åkesson, L. (2001). Bound by blood? New meanings of kinship and individuality in discourses of genetic testing. In L. Stone (Ed.), New directions in anthropological kinship, (pp. 125 –138). Lanham, Maryland: Rowman & Littleford. Almack, K. (2008). Display work: Lesbian parent couples and their families of origin negotiating new kin relationships. Sociology, 42(6), 1183–1199 doi:10.1177/0038038508096940 Almeling, R. (2007). Selling genes, selling gender: Egg agencies, sperm banks and the medical market in genetic material. American Sociological Review, 72(3), 319–340. Retrieved from http://www.jstor.org/stable/25472466 Appadurai, A. (1986). The social life of things: Commodities in cultural perspective. New York: Cambridge University Press. Armesto, J. & Shapiro, E. (2011). Adoptive gay fathers: Transformations of the masculine homosexual self. Journal of GLBT Family Studies, 7(1–2), 72–92. doi:10.1080/1550428X.2011.537202 Ashwin, S., Tartakovskaya, I., Ilyina, M., & Lytkina, T. (2013). Gendering Reciprocity: Solving a Puzzle of Nonreciprocation. Gender & Society, 27(3), 396–421. doi:10.1177/0891243213479444 Audi & Chang, (2010, 11 December) Assembling the global baby. The Wall Street Journal. Retrieved from http://online.wsj.com/home-page Australian Bureau of Statistics. (2012). Same-sex couple families. Reflecting a nation: Stories from the 2011 census. Retrieved from http://www.abs.gov.au Baby Inc. (2008, November 2). Sydney Morning Herald Online. Retrieved from http://www.smh.com.au Bailey, A. (2011). Reconceiving surrogacy: Toward a reproductive justice account of Indian surrogacy. Hypatia, 26(4), 715–741. doi: 10.1111/j.1527- 2001.2011.01168.x Bainham, A., Day-Sclater, S., & Richards M. (1999). Introduction. In A. Bainham, S. Day Sclater & M. Richards (Eds.), What is a parent? A socio-legal analysis (pp. 1–24). Oxford & Portland Oregon: Hart Publishing. Baiocco, R., & Laghi, F. (2013). Sexual orientation and the desires and intentions to become parents. Journal of Family Studies 19(1), 90–98. doi:10.5172/jfs.2013.19.1.90 Barad, K. (2007). Meeting the universe halfway: Quantum physics and the entanglement of matter and meaning. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Bauermeister, J. (2012). Romantic ideation, partner-seeking, and HIV risk among young gay and bisexual men. Archives of Sexual Behavior, 41(2), 431–440. doi:10.1007/s10508-011-9747-z Becker, G., Butler A., & Nachtigall, R. (2005). Resemblance talk: A challenge for parents whose children were conceived with donor gametes in the US. Social Science and Medicine, 61(6), 1300–1309. doi.org/10.1016/j.socscimed.2005.01.018 Benson, K. (2009a, January 24). $12 for bootees, $5 for bib, $30,000 for a baby. Sydney Morning Herald. Retrieved from http://www.smh.com.au.

211

Benson, K. (2009b, January 24). Thanks, India, where bundles of joy are less than a bundle. The Age. Retrieved from http://www.theage.com.au. Bergman, K., Rubio, R., Green, R-J., & Padròn, E. (2010). Gay men who become fathers via surrogacy: The transition to parenthood. Journal of GLBT Family Studies, 6, 111–141. doi:10.1080/15504281003704942 Bergmann, S. (2011). Reproductive agency and projects: Germans searching for egg donation in Spain and the Czech Republic. Reproductive BioMedicine Online, 23(5), 600–608. doi:10.1016/j.rbmo.2011.06.014 Berkowitz, D. (2007). A sociohistorical analysis of gay men’s procreative consciousness. Journal of GLBT Family Studies, 3(2–3), 157–190. doi:org/10.1300/J461v03n02_07 Berkowitz, D. (2009). Theorizing lesbian and gay parenting: Past, present, and future scholarship. Journal of Family Theory and Review, 1(3), 117–132. doi:10.1111/j.1756-2589.2009.00017.x Berkowitz, D. (2011a). It was the Cadillac of adoption agencies: Intersections of social class, race, and sexuality in gay men’s adoption narratives. Journal of GLBT Family Studies, Special Issue GLBTQ Issues in Foster Care & Adoption, 7(1– 2), 109–131. doi:10.1080/1550428X.2011.537227 Berkowitz, D. (2011b). Maternal urges, biological clocks, and soccer moms: Gay men’s procreative and fathering narratives. Symbolic Interaction, 34(4), 514– 535. doi:10.1525/si.2011.34.4.514. Berkowitz, D. (2013). Gay men and surrogacy. In A. Goldberg & K. Allen (Eds.), LGBT-Parent families: Innovations in research and implications for practice (pp. 71–85). New York: Springer Science+Business. Berkowitz, D., & Marsiglio, W. (2007). Gay men: Negotiating procreative, father, and family identities. Journal of Marriage and Family, 69(2), 366–381. doi:10.1111/j.1741-3737.2007.00371.x Bestard, J. (2004). Kinship and the new genetics. The changing meaning of biogenetic substance. Social Anthropology 12(3), 253–263. doi:10.1111/j.1469- 8676.2004.tb00107.x Biblarz, T., & Savci, E. (2010). Lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender families. Journal of Marriage and Family, 72(3), 480–497. doi:10.1111/j.1741- 3737.2010.00714.x Birenbaum-Carmeli, D., Carmeli, Y. S., Madjar, Y., & Weissenberg, R. (2002). Hegemony and homogeneity: Donor choices of Israeli recipients of donor insemination. Journal of Material Culture, 7(1), 73–95. doi:10.1177/1359183502007001306 Blais, M. (2006). Vulnerability to HIV among regular male partners and the social coding of intimacy in modern societies. Culture Health & Sexuality, 8(1), 31– 44. doi:10.1080/13691050500391232 Bos, H. (2010). Planned gay father families in kinship arrangements. Australian and New Zealand Journal of Family Therapy, 31(4), 356–371. doi:10.1375/anft.31.4.356 Bourdieu, P. (1977). Outline of a theory of practice. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press. Boyatzis, R. (1998). Transforming Qualitative Information. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage Publications. 212

Braun, V. & Clarke, V. (2006). Using thematic analysis in psychology. Qualitative Research in Psychology, 3(2), 77–101. doi:10.1191/1478088706qp063oa Brewaeys, A., Ponjaert, I., Van Hall, E. V. & Golombok, S. (1997). Donor insemination: child development and family functioning in lesbian mother families. Human Reproduction, 12(6), 1349–1359. doi:10.1093/humrep/12.6.1349 Bryant, A., & Demian, R. (1994). Relationship characteristics of American gay and lesbian couples: Findings from a national survey. In L. Kurdek (Ed.), Social services for gay and lesbian couples (pp. 101–117). New York: Haworth. Brinamen, C. & Mitchell, V. (2008). Gay men becoming fathers: A model of identity expansion. The Journal of GLBT Family Studies, 4(4), 521–541. doi:10.1080/15504280802191772 Bury, M. (1982). Chronic illness as biographical disruption. Sociology of Health & Illness, 4(2), 167–182. doi:10.1111/1467-9566.ep11339939 Butler, J. (1990). Gender trouble: Feminism and the subversion of identity. New York: Routledge. Butler, J. (2004). Undoing Gender. New York & London: Routledge. Cadoret, A. (2009) The contribution of homoparental families to the current debate on kinship. In J. Edwards & C. Salazar (Eds.), European kinship in the age of biotechnology (pp. 79–96). New York & Oxford: Berghahn. Cahalan, S. (2008, April 13). Single and hot to tot: Pop wannabes in surrogate grab. New York Post, p. 9. Retrieved from www.nypost.com Calhoun, C. (2000) Feminism, the family, and the politics of the closet: Lesbian & gay displacement. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Callon, M. (1998). The Laws of the Market. Oxford: Blackwell. Carpentier, N. & De Cleen, B. (2007). Bringing discourse theory into media studies: The applicability of discourse theoretical analysis (DTA) for the Study of media practises and discourses. Journal of Language and Politics 6(2), 265– 293. Retrieved from http://web.ebscohost.com.wwwproxy0.library.unsw.edu.au/ehost/search Carpentier, N., & Spinoy, E. (2008). Introduction: From the political to the cultural. In Carpentier, N. & E. Spinoy (Eds.), Discourse Theory and Cultural Analysis: Media, Arts and Literature, (pp. 1–26) New Jersey:Hampton Press. Carpentier, N. & Trioen, M. (2010). The particularity of objectivity: A post- structuralist and psychoanalytical reading of the gap between objectivity-as-a- value and objectivity-as-a-practice in the 2003 Iraqi War coverage. Journalism 11(3), 311–328. doi:10.1177/1464884909360922 Carsten, J. (2000). Cultures of relatedness: new approaches to the study of kinship. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Carsten, J. (2004). After kinship. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Carsten, J. (2007).Constitutive knowledge: Tracing trajectories of information in new contexts of relatedness. Anthropological Quarterly, 80(2), 403–26. Retrieved from http://www.jstor.org/stable/30053060 Cartwright, L. (2010, May 24). $ex and the pity - Sarah’s surrogate stuck in Ohio’s ‘Armpit’. New York Post, p.9. Retrieved from www.nypost.com

213

Center for Surrogate Parenting. http://www.creatingfamilies.com/ Retrieved May 7. 2013. Čepaitienė, A. (2009). Imagining assisted reproductive technologies: Family, kinship and ‘local thinking’ in Lithuania. In J. Edwards & C. Salazar (Eds.), European kinship in the age of biotechnology (pp 29–44). New York & Oxford: Berghahn. Circle Surrogacy http://www.circlesurrogacy.com Retrieved May 7, 2013. Cohen, L. (2001) ‘The other kidney: Biopolitics beyond recognition’, Body & Society, 7(2–3), 9–29. doi:10.1177/1357034X0100700202 Cohen, L. (2004a) ‘Operability, bioavailability, and exception’. In A. Ong & S. Collier (Eds.), Global assemblages: Technology, politics, and ethics as anthropological problems (pp. 79–90). Oxford: Blackwell. Cohen, L. (2004b). ‘Operability’: Surgery at the margin of the state. In V. Das & D. Poole (Eds.), Anthropology in the margins of the state (pp.165–190). New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Cohen, L. (2011) Migrant supplementarity: Remaking biological relatedness in Chinese military and Indian five-star hospitals. Body & Society, 17 (2–3), 31– 54. doi:10.1177/1357034X11400766 Cohen, M. (2009, October 8). A Search for a Surrogate Leads to India. Wall Street Journal, D1. Retrieved from http://online.wsj.com/ Commonwealth. (2008). SCAG Summary of Decisions - March 2008. Standing Committee of Attorneys-General Communiqué. Crabtree, B., & Miller, W. (1999). A template approach to text analysis: Developing and using codebooks. In B. Crabtree & W. Miller (Eds.), Doing qualitative research (pp. 163–177.) Newbury Park, CA: Sage. Crockin, S. (2011). Legal perspectives on cross-border reproductive care. Reproductive BioMedicine Online, 23(7), 811–813. doi:10.1016/j.rbmo.2011.09.015 Crouch, S., McNair, R., Waters, E., & Power, J. (2013). What makes a same-sex parented family? Medical Journal of Australia, 198(12), 1–3. doi:10.5694/mja12.11234 Daniels, K., & Lewis, G. (1996). Donor insemination: The gifting and selling of semen. Social Science & Medicine, 42(11), 1521–1536. doi.org/10.1016/0277- 9536(95)00251-0 Daniels, K., Curson, R., & Lewis, G. (1996). Semen donor recruitment: a study of two clinics. Human Reproduction, 11(4), 746–751. Retrieved from http://humrep.oxfordjournals.org/ D’Augelli, A., Rendina,J., Sinclair, K., & Grossman A. (2006-2007). Lesbian and gay youth’s aspirations for marriage and raising children. Journal of GLBT Issues in Counselling 1(4), 77–98. doi:10.1300/J462v01n04_06 Dean, M. (2004). Governmentality: Power and rule in modern society. London: Sage. deBoer, D. (2009). Focus on the family: The psychosocial context of gay men choosing fatherhood. In P. Hammack & B. Cohler (Eds.), The story of sexual identity: narrative perspectives on the gay and lesbian life course (pp. 327– 346). New York: Oxford University Press.

214

Dempsey, D. (2004). Donor, father or parent? Conceiving paternity in the Australian Family Court. International Journal of Law, Policy and the Family, 18(1), 70– 102. doi:10.1093/lawfam/18.1.76 Dempsey, D. (2006a). Active Fathers, natural families and children’s origins: Dominant themes in the Australian political debate over eligibility for assisted reproductive technology. Australian Journal of Emerging Technologies and Society, 4(1), 28–44. Retrieved from http://www.swin.edu.au/ajets. Dempsey, D. (2006b). Beyond choice: family and kinship in the Australian lesbian and gay ‘baby boom’. (Unpublished doctoral dissertation), La Trobe University, Melbourne, Australia Retrieved from http://hdl.handle.net/1959.9/57282(australia:235981) Dempsey, D. (2010). Conceiving and negotiating reproductive relationships: Lesbians and gay men forming families with children. Sociology, 44(6), 1145–1162. doi:10.1177/0038038510381607 Dempsey, D. (2013) Surrogacy, gay male couples and the significance of biogenetic paternity. New Genetics and Society, 32(1), 37–53. doi:10.1080/14636778.2012.735859 Denzin, N., & Lincoln, Y. (2005). The SAGE handbook of qualitative research. Thousand Oaks: Sage Publications. Derrida, J. (1992). Given time 1: Counterfeit money. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Di Loreto, D., Adler, A. & Murphy, R. (2012). The New Normal [Television Series]. United Sates: NBC. Dillaway, H. (2008). Mothers for others: A race, class, and gender analysis of surrogacy. International Journal of Sociology of the Family, 34(2), 301–326. doi:10.2307/23070756 Diprose, R. (2002). Corporeal generosity: On giving with Nietzsche, Merleau-Ponty, and Levinas. Albany: State University of New York Press. Dolgin, J. (2000). Choice, tradition, and the new genetics: The fragmentation of the ideology of family. Connecticut Law Review, 32(2), 523–566. Retrieved from http://www heinonline.org Donovan, C. (2005). Who needs a father? Negotiating biological fatherhood in British lesbian families using self-insemination. Sexualities, 3(2), 149–164. doi:10.1177/136346000003002003 Dousset, L. (2002). Introduction to Australian Indigenous Social Organisation: transforming concepts. http://www.pdc.org.au/scarf/res/file/Useful%20Reading/Introduction%20to%2 0Australian%20Indigenous%20Social%20Organisation.pdf Drabiak, K., Wegner, C., Fredland, V., & Helft, P. (2007). Ethics, law, and commercial surrogacy: A call for uniformity. Journal of Law, Medicine & Ethics, 35(2), 300–309. Retrieved from http://aslme.org/publications/ Dunne, G. (1999). The different dimensions of gay fatherhood: Report to the Economic and Social Research Council. London: London School of Economics. Dunne, G. (2000). Opting into motherhood: Lesbians blurring the boundaries and transforming the meaning of parenthood and kinship. Gender & Society, 14(1), 11–35. doi:10.1177/089124300014001003

215

Edelmann, R. (2004). Surrogacy: The psychological issues. Journal of Reproductive & Infant Psychology, 22(2), 123–136. doi:10.1080/0264683042000205981 Edwards, J. (2000) Born and Bred: Idioms of Kinship and New Reproductive Technologies in England. Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press. Edwards, J., Franklin, S., Hirsch, E., Price F.,& Strathern, M. (1999). Technologies of procreation: Kinship in the age of assisted conception. New York: Routledge. Edwards, J., & Salazar, C. (2009) European kinship in the age of biotechnology. New York & Oxford: Berghahn. Ehrensaft, D. (2000). Alternatives to the stork: Fatherhood fantasies in donor insemination families. Studies in Gender and Sexuality, 1(4), 371–397. doi:10.1080/15240650109349165 Elton’s baby boy has a big family. (2010, December 30). New York Post, p. 14. Retrieved from www.nypost.com Englert, Y. (1994). Artificial insemination of single women and lesbian women with donor insemination. Human Reproduction, 9(11), 1969–1971. Retrieved from http://humrep.oxfordjournals.org/ Fertility Institutes. http://www.fertilityinstitutes.com/ Retrieved May 7, 2013. Finch, J. (2007). Displaying Families. Sociology , 41(1), 65–81 doi:10.1177/0038038507072284 Finkler, K. (2001). The kin of the gene: the medicalization of family and kinship in American society. Current Anthropology, 42(2), 235–263. doi:10.1086/320004 Flood, M. (2003). Fatherhood and fatherlessness. The Australia Institute. Discussion Paper Number 59. (November 2003). Canberra. Folgerø, T. (2008). Queer nuclear families? Reproducing and transgressing heteronormativity. Journal of Homosexuality, 54(1–2), 124-149. doi.org/10.1080/00918360801952028 Fontana, A. & Frey, J. (1994). Interviewing: The art of science. In N. Denzin & Y. Lincoln (Eds.), Handbook of qualitative research (pp 361–376). Thousand Oaks: Sage Publications. Foucault, M. (1977). Discipline and punish: The birth of the prison. New York: Vintage Books. Foucault, M. (1980). Power/Knowledge: Selected interviews and other writings 1972- 1977. London: Harvester. Foucault, M. (1984). The archeology of knowledge. New York: Pantheon. Foucault, M. (1991). Governmentality (translated by Rosi Braidotti and revised by Colin Gordon). Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Foucault, M. (1997). Ethics, subjectivity and truth. In P. Rabinow (Ed.) The essential works 1954-1984, vol 1. (New York: The New Press. Fox, R. (1967). Kinship and marriage: An anthropological perspective. Harmondsworth: Penguin. Fox, R., & Swazey, J. (1992). Spare parts: Organ replacement in American society. New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press. Frank, T. (2008, December 10). The tilting yard: Rent-a-womb is where market logic leads. The Wall Street Journal, A17. Retrieved from http://online.wsj.com/ 216

Franklin, S. (1993). Essentialism, which essentialism? Journal of homosexuality, 24(3), 27–39. doi:10.1300/J082v24n03_02 Franklin, S. (1995). Postmodern procreation. In F. Ginsburg & R. Rapp (Eds.), Conceiving the new world order: The global politics of reproduction (pp. 323– 345). Berkeley: University of California Press. Franklin, S. (2001). Biologization revisited: Kinship theory in the context of the new biologies. In S. Franklin & S. McKinnon (Eds.), Relative values: reconfiguring kinship studies (pp 302–322). Durham: Duke University Press. Franklin, S. (2003). Re-thinking nature-culture: Anthropology and the new genetics. Anthropological Theory, 3(1), 65–85. doi:10.1177/1463499603003001752 Franklin, S. (2011). Not a flat world: the future of cross-border reproductive care. [Comment]. Reproductive Biomedicine Online, 23(7), 814–816. doi:10.1016/j.rbmo.2011.09.016 Franklin, S., & McKinnon, S. (2001). Introduction. In S. Franklin & S. McKinnon (Eds.), Relative values: reconfiguring kinship studies (pp. 1-26). Durham: Duke University Press. Franklin, S., & Roberts. C. (2006). Born and made: An ethnography of preimplantation genetic diagnosis. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Friedman, C. (2007). First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes baby carriage: Perspectives on gay parenting and reproductive technology. Journal of Infant, Child, and Adolescent Psychotherapy, 6(2), 111–123. doi:10.1080/15289160701624407 Frow, J. (1997). Time and commodity culture: Essays in cultural theory and postmodernity. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Galvin, K. (2001). Schneider revisited: Sharing and ratification in the construction of kinship. In L. Stone (Ed.), New directions in anthropological kinship, (pp. 109–124). Lanham, Maryland: Rowman & Littleford. Gates, G., Badgett, L., Macomber, J., Chambers, K. (2007). Adoption and foster care by lesbian and gay parents in the United States. The Williams Institute, UCLA School of Law & The Urban Institute, Washington, D.C. Retrieved from http://www.urban.org/UploadedPDF/411437_Adoption_Foster_Care.pdf Gentleman, A. (2008, March 10). India nurtures business of surrogate motherhood. The New York Times, p. 9. Retrieved from http://www.nytimes.com/ Gerstel, N. 2000. The third shift: Gender and care work outside the home. Qualitative Sociology, 23(4):467–483. Retrieved from http://search.proquest.com.wwwproxy0.library.unsw.edu.au/docview/6040523 4?accountid=12763 Gerstel, N., & Gallagher, S (2001). Men’s Caregiving: Gender and the contingent character of care. Gender & Society, 15(2), 197–217. doi:10.1177/089124301015002003 Gianino, M. (2008). Adaptation and transformation: The transition to adoptive parenthood for gay male couples. Journal of GLBT Family Studies, 4(2), 205– 243. doi:10.1080/15504280802096872 Giddens, A. (1990). The Consequences of Modernity. Cambridge: Polity. Giddens, A. (1991). Modernity and self-Identity: Self and society in the late modern age. Stanford, California: Stanford University Press.

217

Giddens, A. (1992). The transformation of intimacy: Sexuality, love & eroticism in modern societies. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Gilding, M. (1991). The making and breaking of the Australian family. Sydney: Allen & Unwin. Goldberg, A., Downing, J., & Moyer, A. (2012). Why parenthood, and why now?: Gay men’s motivations for pursuing parenthood. Family Relations, 61(1), 157–174. doi:10.1111/j.1741-3729.2011.00687.x Goldberg, A., Kinkler, L., & Hines, D. (2011). Perception and internalization of adoption stigma among gay, lesbian, and heterosexual adoptive parents. Journal of GLBT Family Studies, 7(1–2), 132–154. doi:10.1080/1550428x.2011.537554 Golombock, S. (1998). New families, old values. Human Reproduction, 13(9): 2342– 2347. doi:10.1093/humrep/13.9.2342 Gomez, A., Beougher, S., Chakravarty, D., Neilands, T., Mandic, C., Darbes, L., & Hoff, C. (2012). Relationship dynamics as predictors of broken agreements about outside sexual partners: implications for HIV prevention among gay couples. AIDS and Behavior, 16(6), 1584-1588. doi:10.1007/s10461-011- 0074-0 Goodenough , W. (1965). Yankee Kinship Terminology: A Problem in Componential Analysis. American Anthropologist, 67(5), 259–287. doi:10.2307/668766 Goslinga-Roy, G. M. (2000). Body boundaries: Fiction of the female self: an Ethnographic perspective on power, feminism, and the reproductive technologies. In P. Brodwin (Ed.), Biotechnology and culture: Bodies, anxieties, ethics (pp. 121–146). Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Graeber, D. (2001). Toward an Anthropological Theory of Value: The False Coin of our Dreams. New York: Palgrave. Gratton, E. (2005, October). Gay fatherhood: desire and achievements. Paper presented at the 3rd International Conference on Homosexual Parenting, Paris. Gray, S. (2009, March 11). Does it matter where babies come from? Sydney Morning Herald Online Retrieved from http://www.smh.com.au. Grayson, D. (2000). Mediating intimacy: Black surrogate mothers and the law. In P. Brodwin (Ed.) Biotechnology and culture: Bodies, anxieties, ethics (pp. 99– 120). Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Greenfeld, D., & Seli, E. (2011). Gay men choosing parenthood through assisted reproduction: medical and psychosocial considerations. Fertility and Sterility, 95(1), 225–229. doi:10.1016/j.fertnstert.2010.05.053 Gregory, C. (1982). Gifts and commodities. New York: Academic Press. Gregory, C. (1998). Savage Money: The anthropology and politics of commodity exchange. Amsterdam: Harwood Academic Publishers. Gregory, C. (2011). Skinship: Touchability as a virtue in East-Central India. HAU: Journal of Ethnographic Theory, 1(1), 179–209. Retrieved from http://www.haujournal.org/index.php/hau/article/view/16 Gross, N. & Simmons, S. (2002).Intimacy as a Double-edged Phenomenon? An Empirical Test of Giddens, Social Forces, 81(2): 531–556. Grover, S., Shmorgun, Z., Christensen, J., Sojecki, A., Moskovtsev, S., & Librach, C. (2012). Analysis of a cohort of gay men seeking help with third-party 218

reproduction. Fertility and Sterility, Supplement ASRM Abstracts, 98(3), S48. doi.org.wwwproxy0.library.unsw.edu.au/10.1016/j.fertnstert.2012.07.173 Growing Generations. http://www.growinggenerations.com/ Retrieved May 7, 2013. Haimes, E. (1992) Gamete donation and the social management of genetic origins. InM. Stacey (Ed.),Changing Human Reproduction. Social Science Perspectives (pp. 119–147). London: Sage. Haimes, E., & Weiner, K. (2000). ‘Everybody’s got a dad...’. Issues for lesbian families in the management of donor insemination. Sociology of Health & Illness, 22(4), 477–499. doi:10.1111/1467-9566.00215 Hall, C. (2007, May 6). Gays, lesbians seeking parenthood increasingly turn to infertility clinics [Corrected 05/09/07] The San Francisco Chronicle, A1. Retrieved from http://www.sfgate.com/ Hamill, S. (2009, September 5). Town is riveted as celebrity surrogate story takes criminal turn. New York Times, p. 10. Retrieved from http://www.nytimes.com/ Hamilton, D. (2003, February 4). She’s having our baby. Wall Street Journal, D1. Retrieved from http://online.wsj.com/ Haraway, D. (1997). Modest_Witness@Second_Millennium. FemaleMan©_Meets_OncoMouse™: Feminism and technoscience. New York and London: Routledge. Hayden, C. P. (1995). Gender, Genetics, and Generation: Reformulating Biology in Lesbian Kinship. Cultural Anthropology, 10(1), 41–63. doi:10.1525/can.1995.10.1.02a00020 Heath, M. (2005). Matrimony, American-style: Losing sight of shifts in kinship and family. Feminist Theory, 6(3), 355-365. doi:10.1177/1464700105057385 Hellard, P. & Houlihan, L. (2007, October 14). Gays ‘buy’ twins: Couple travel to US for their boys. Herald Sun. Retrieved from http://www.heraldsun.com.au. Henehan, D., Rothblum, E.D., Solomon, S.E., & Balsam, K.F. (2007). Social and demographic characteristics of gay, lesbian, and heterosexual adults with and without children. GLBT Family Studies, 3(2/3), 35–79. doi: 10.1300/J461v03n02_03 Hertz, R. (2002). The Father as an idea: A challenge to kinship boundaries by single mothers. Symbolic Interaction, 25(1), 1–31. Retrieved from http://search.proquest.com.wwwproxy0.library.unsw.edu.au Hicks, S. (2005a). Queer Genealogies: Tales of conformity and rebellion amongst lesbian and gay foster carers and adopters. Qualitative Social Work, 4(3), 293– 308. doi:10.1177/1473325005055597 Hicks, S. (2005b). Is gay parenting bad for kids? Responding to the ‘very idea of difference’ in research on lesbian and gay parents. Sexualities, 8(2), 153–168. doi:10.1177/1363460705050852 Hicks, S. (2006). Maternal men–perverts and deviants? Making sense of gay men as foster carers and adopters. Journal of GLBT Family Studies, 2(1), 93-114. Hicks, S. (2011). Lesbian, gay and queer parenting: Families, intimacies, genealogies. Basingstoke, Hampshire: Palgrave Macmillan.

219

Higginbotham, A., & O’Shannon, D. (Writers), Spiller, M. (Director). (2012). Aunt Mommy [Television series episode]. In Levitan, S. & Lloyd, C. [Executive producers], Modern Family. United States: ABC. Hochschild, A. (1979). Emotion work, feeling rules and social structure. American Journal of Sociology, 85(3), 551–575. Retrieved from http://www.jstor.org/stable/2778583 Hochschild, A. (2009). Childbirth at the global crossroads. The American Prospect Retrieved from http://prospect.org/cs/articles?article=childbirth_at_the_global_crossroads Hochschild, A. (2011). Emotional life on the market frontier. Annual Review of Sociology, 37, 21–33. doi:10.1146/annurev-soc-081309-150137 Hogben, S. & Coupland, J. (2000). Egg seeks sperm. End of story...? Articulating gay parenting in small ads for reproductive partners. Discourse & Society, 11(4), 459–485. doi:10.1177/0957926500011004002 Hoff, C., Beougher, S., Chakravarty, D., Darbes, L. A., & Neilands, T. (2010). Relationship characteristics and motivations behind agreements among gay male couples: differences by agreement type and couple serostatus. AIDS Care, 22(7), 827–835. doi:10.1080/09540120903443384 Holland, J., Weeks, J., & Gillies, V. (2003). Families, intimacy and social capital. Social Policy and Society, 2(4), 339–348. doi:10.1017/S1474746403001398 Hood, J. (2002). The power of gametes versus the tyranny of master narratives: Commentary. Symbolic Interaction, 25(1), 33–39. Retrieved from http://search.proquest.com.wwwproxy0.library.unsw.edu.au Hosking W. (2013). Agreements about extra-dyadic sex in gay men’s relationships: Exploring differences in relationship quality by agreement type and rule- breaking behavior. Journal of Homosexuality, 60(5), 711–33. doi:10.1080/00918369.2013.773819. Howarth, D. (1998). Discourse theory and political analysis. In E. Scarbrough & E. Tanenbaum (Eds.), Research strategies in the social sciences (pp. 268–293). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Howell, S. (2001). Self-Conscious kinship: Some contested values in transnational adoption. In S. Franklin & S. McKinnon (Eds.), Relative values: Reconfiguring kinship studies (pp. 203–223). Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Howell, S. (2003). Kinning: The creation of life trajectories in transnational adoptive families. Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, 9(3), 465–484. doi.org/10.1111/1467-9655.00159 Howell, S. & Marre, D. (2006). To kin a transnationally adopted child in Norway and Spain: The achievement of resemblances and belonging. Ethnos, 71(3), 293– 316. doi:10.1080/00141840600902679 Hoyt, C. (2008, December 7). The privileged and their children. New York Times, p. 9. Retrieved from http://www.nytimes.com/ Hudson, N., Culley, L., Blyth, E., Norton, W., Rapport, F., & Pacey, A. (2011). Cross- border reproductive care: a review of the literature. Reproductive BioMedicine Online, 22(7), 673–685. doi:10.1016/j.rbmo.2011.03.010 Huebner, D., Mandic, C., Mackaronis, J., Beougher, S., & Hoff, C. (2012). The impact of parenting on gay male couples’ relationships, sexuality, and HIV risk. 220

Couple and Family Psychology: Research and Practice, 1(2), 106–119. doi:10.1037/a0028687 Hughes, K. (2005). The adult children of divorce: Pure relationships and family values? Journal of Sociology, 41(1), 69–86. doi: 10.1177/1440783305050964 Inhorn, M. (2011). Diasporic dreaming: return reproductive tourism to the Middle East. Reproductive BioMedicine Online, 23(5), 582–591. doi:10.1016/j.rbmo.2011.08.006 Inhorn, M. & Birenbaum-Carmeli, D. (2008). Assisted reproductive technologies and culture change. Annual Review of Anthropology, 37, 17–196. doi:10.1146/annurev.anthro.37.081407.085230 Inhorn, M. & Gürtin, Z. (2011). Cross-border reproductive care: a future research agenda. Reproductive BioMedicine Online, 23(5), 665–676. doi:10.1016/j.rbmo.2011.08.002 Johnson v. Calvert (1993) 4th 84 No. S023721 (Cal.). Jamieson, L. (1999). Intimacy Transformed? A Critical Look at the ‘Pure Relationship’. Sociology, 33(3), 477–494. doi: 10.1177/S0038038599000310 Johnson, S. & O’Connor, E. (2002). The gay baby boom: The psychology of gay parenthood. New York, NY: New York University Press. Jones, C. (2005). Looking like a family: Negotiating bio-genetic continuity in British lesbian families using licensed donor insemination. Sexualities, 8(2), 221–237. doi:0.1177/1363460705050856 Kahn, S. M. (2000). Reproducing Jews: A cultural account of assisted conception in Israel. Durham, North Carolina: Duke University Press. Kant, I. (1981 [1785]). Grounding for a metaphysics of morals. Indianapolis: Hackett. Kippax, S., Noble, J., Prestage, G., Crawford, J., Campbell, D., Baxter, D., & Cooper, D. (1997). Sexual negotiation in the AIDS era: negotiated safety revisited. AIDS, 11(2), 191–197. Retrieved from http://journals.lww.com/aidsonline/pages/default.aspx Konrad, M. (1998). Ova donation and symbols of substance: some variations on the theme of sex, gender and the partible body. Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, 4(4), 643–667. Retrieved from http://www.jstor.org/stable/3034826 Konrad, M. (2005). Narrating the New Predictive Genetics: Ethics, Ethnography and Science. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Krivickas, K. & Lofquist, D. (2011). Demographics of same-sex couple households with children. SEHSDWorking Paper Number 2011-11. Washington: U.S. Census Bureau, Fertility & Family Statitics Branch. Kuczynski, A. (2008, November 30). Her body, my baby. New York Times Magazine, p. 42. Retrieved from http://www.nytimes.com/pages/magazine/index.html Laclau, E. (1990). New reflections of the revolution of our time. London & New York: Verso, 1990. Laclau, E. & C. Mouffe (1985). Hegemony and socialist strategy: Towards a radical democratic politics. London:Verso. Lams, L. (2008). Embedded identity building in Chinese/Taiwanese English-language press narratives. In N. Carpentier & E. Spinoy (Eds.), Discourse Theory and

221

Cultural Analysis: Media, Arts and Literature (pp. 71–94). Cresskill, New Jersey: Hampton Press. Laqueur, T. W. (2000). From generation to generation: Imagining connectedness in the age of reproductive technologies. In P. Brodwin (Ed.), Biotechnology and culture: Bodies, anxieties, ethics (pp. 75–98). Bloomington: University of Indiana Press. Latour, B. (1990). Drawing Things Together. In M. Lynch and S. Woolgar (Eds.) Representation in Scientific Practice. Cambridge, Mass, MIT Press: 19–68. Latour, B. (1993). We have never been modern (translated by Catherine Porter). London: Harvester Wheatsheaf. Latour, B. (2005). Reassembling the social: An introduction to actor-network-theory. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Latour, B. & Woolgar, S. (1986 [1979]). Laboratory life: The construction of scientific facts (second edition). Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Law, J. (2004). After method: Mess in social science research. London: Routledge. Law, J. (2007) ‘Pinboards and books: Learning, materiality and juxtaposition’. In D. Kritt & L. Winegar (Eds.) Education and technology: Critical perspectives, possible futures (pp. 125–150). Lanham: Maryland. Lev, I. (2006). Gay dads: Choosing surrogacy. Lesbian & Gay Psychology Review, 7(1), 72–76. Lévi-Strauss, C. (1969) [1949]. The Elementary Structures of Kinship (translation by J. Bell, J. von Sturmer, & R. Needham). Boston: Beacon Press. Lewin, E. (2006). Family values: gay men and adoption in America. In K. Wegar (Ed.), Adoptive families in a diverse society (pp. 129–145). New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press. Lewin, E. (2009). Gay fatherhood: Narratives of family and citizenship in America. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Lofquist, D. (2011). Same-sex couple households: American community survey briefs. Washington DC: United States Census Bureau. Retrieved from http://www.census.gov/prod/2011pubs/acsbr10-03.pdf Lundin, S. (2001). The threatended sperm: Parenthood in the age of biomedicine. In L. Stone (Ed.), New directions in anthropological kinship (pp. 125–138). Lanham, Maryland: Rowman & Littleford. Mahoney, J. (1988). An essay on surrogacy and feminist thought. The Journal of Law, Medicine & Ethics, 16(1–2), 81–88. doi:10.1111/j.1748-720X.1988.tb01054.x Mallon, G. (2004). Gay men choosing parenthood. New York: Columbia University Press. Mamo, L. (2007). Queering reproduction: Achieving pregnancy in the age of technoscience. Durham & London: Duke University Press. Markens, S. (2007). Surrogate motherhood and the politics of reproduction. Berkeley:University of California Press. Marre, D. & Bestard, J. (2009). The Family Body: Persons, Bodies and Resemblance. In J. Edwards & C. Salazar (Eds.), European kinship in the age of biotechnology, (pp. 64–78).New York & Oxford: Berghahn.

222

Marsiglio, W. (1991). Male procreative consciousness and responsibility: a conceptual analysis and research agenda. Journal of Family Issues, 12(3), 268–290. Marsiglio, W. & Hutchinson, S. (2002). Sex, men, and babies: Stories of awareness and responsibility. New York: New York University Press. Mason, J. (2008). Tangible affinities and the real life fascination of kinship. Sociology, 42(1), 29–45. doi:10.1177/0038038507084824 Mauss, M. (1990 [1922]). The Gift: forms and functions of exchange in archaic societies. London: Routledge. McGowan, M. & Sharp, R. (2013). Justice in the context of family balancing. Science Technology Human Values, 38(2), 271–293.doi:10.1177/0162243912469412 McLean, T. (2008, July 2). Gays flock to US for babies. Herald Sun, p. 2. http://www.heraldsun.com.au Melhuus, M., & Howell S. (2009). Adoption and assisted conception: One universe of unnatural procreation. An examination of Norwegian legislation. In J. Edwards & C. Salazar (Eds.), European kinship in the age of biotechnology (144–161). New York & Oxford: Berghahn. Michaels, L. & Goldwyn, J. (Producers), & McCullers, M. (Director). (2008). Baby Mama. [Motion picture]. USA: Universal Pictures. Millbank, J. (2009). De facto relationships, same-sex and surrogate parents: Exploring the scope and effects of the 2008 Federal Relationships Reform. Australian Journal of Family Law, 23(3), 1–33. Retrieved from http://www.lexisnexis.com.au/en-au/products/australian-journal-of-family- law.page Millbank, J. (2011). The new surrogacy parentage laws in Australia: Cautious regulation or ‘25 brick walls’? Melbourne University Law Review, 35(1), 165– 231. Miller, C. (2008, April 25). Taste: Outsourcing childbirth. The Wall Street Journal, Weekend Journal, p. 11. Retrieved from http://online.wsj.com/ Miller, T. (2011) Making sense of fatherhood: gender, caring and work. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Miller, P., & Rose, N. (2008). Governing the Present: Administering Economic, Social and Personal Life. Cambridge: Polity Press. Minichiello, V., Aroni, R., Timewell, E., & Alexander, L. (1990). In-depth interviewing: researching people. Melbourne: Longman Cheshire. Mitchell, J. (2013). Characteristics and allowed behaviors of gay male couples’ sexual agreements. Journal of Sex Research. Published online 20th March 2013. doi:10.1080/00224499.2012.727915 Mitchell, J., Harvey, S., Champeau, D., Moskowitz, D., & Seal, D. (2012). Relationship factors associated with gay male couples’ concordance on aspects of their sexual agreements: establishment, type, and adherence. AIDS and Behavior, 16(6), 1560-1569. doi:10.1007/s10461-011-0064-2 Mitchell, V., & Green, R-J. (2007). Different storks for different folks. Journal of GLBT Family Studies, 3(2–3), 81–104. doi:10.1300/J461v03n02_04 Mol, A. (2002). The body multiple: Ontology in medical practice. Durham, NC: Duke University Press.

223

Mother’s love priceless: Miracle end to a desperate dream (2006, November 11). Sun- Herald, p. 14. Retrieved from http://www.smh.com.au/ Mulinari, D. & Sandell, K. (2009). A Feminist Re-reading of Theories of Late Modernity: Beck, Giddens and the Location of Gender. Critical Sociology, 35(4), 493-507. doi: 10.1177/0896920509103980 Mumford, S., Corrigan, E., & Hull, M. (1998). Access to assisted conception. Human Reproduction, 13(9), 2349–2355. doi:10.1093/humrep/13.9.2349 Munro, V. (2001). Surrogacy and the construction of the maternal-foetal relationship: The feminist dilemma examined. Res Publica, 7(1), 13–37. Retrieved from http://link.springer.com.wwwproxy0.library.unsw.edu.au/journal/11158/7/1/pa ge/1 Muraco, A. (2006). Intentional families: Fictive kin ties between cross-gender, different sexual orientation friends. Journal of Marriage and Family, 68(5), 1313–1325. doi:10.1111/j.1741-3737.2006.00330.x Murphy, D. (2013). The desire for parenthood: Gay men choosing to become parents through surrogacy. Journal of Family Issues, 34(8), 1104–1124. doi:10.1177/0192513X13484272 Nader, C. (2007a, January 20). Time to change ‘unjust’ surrogacy laws, says MP. The Age, p.16. Retrieved from http://www.theage.com.au Nader, C. (2007b, April 2). ‘Irrational’ surrogacy law adds to families’ heartache. The Age, p. 3. Retrieved from http://www.theage.com.au Nader, C. (2007c, April 2). Baby Ethan a priceless ‘gift’ worth every cent. The Age, p.2. Retrieved from http://www.theage.com.au Navarro, M. (2008, September 7). The bachelor life includes a family. The New York Times, p. 1. Retrieved from http://www.nytimes.com/ Nordqvist, P. (2010). Out of sight, out of mind: Family resemblances in lesbian donor conception. Sociology, 44(6), 1128–1144. doi:10.1177/0038038510381616 Nordqvist, P. (2011). ‘Dealing with sperm’: comparing lesbians’ clinical and non- clinical donor conception processes. Sociology of Health & Illness, 33(1), 114–120 doi:10.1111/j.1467-9566.2010.01279.x Offer, A. (1997). Between the gift and the market: the economy of regard. The Economic History Review, 50(3), 450–476. doi: 10.1111/1468-0289.00064 Olshan, J. (2009, April 30). A fertile biz aids Sarah - Parker-style pregnancies part of national rent-a-womb boom. New York Post, p. 9. Retrieved from www.nypost.com Pash, D. (2008). The lived worlds of gay co-father families: Narratives of family, community, and cultural life.(Unpublished doctoral dissertation), University of California, Los Angeles, United States. Retrieved from http://search.proquest.com/docview/304658123?accountid=12763 ProQuest Dissertations & Theses Full Text database. Pande, A. (2009). It may be her eggs but it is my blood: Surrogates and everyday forms of kinship in India. Qualitative Sociology, 32(4), 379–397. doi:10.1007/s11133-009-9138-0 Pande, A. (2010), Commercial surrogacy in India: Manufacturing a perfect mother- worker. Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society, 35(4), 969–992. doi:10.1086/651043

224

Pande, A. (2011). Transnational commercial surrogacy in India: gifts for global sisters? Reproductive BioMedicine Online, 23(5), 618–625. doi:10.1016/j.rbmo.2011.07.007 Parks, J. (2010). Care ethics and the global practice of commercial surrogacy. Bioethics, 24(7), 333–340. doi:10.1111/j.1467-8519.2010.01831.x Patterson, C. (2000). Sexual orientation and family life: A decade review. Journal of Marriage and the Family, 62 (4), 1052–1069. Retrieved from http://www.jstor.org/stable/1566724 Patterson, C. (2006). Children of gay and lesbian parents. Current Directions in Psychological Science, 15 (5), 241–244. Retrieved from http: //www.jstor.org/stable/20183123 Patterson, C., & Riskind, R. (2010). To be a parent: Issues in family formation among gay and lesbian adults.Journal of GLBT Family Studies, 6, 326–340. doi:10.1080/1550428X.2010.490902 Patterson, C., & Tornello, S. (2010). Gay fathers’ pathways to parenthood: international perspectives.Zeitschrift für Familienforschung – Journal of Family Research, 7, 103–116. Peletz, M. (1995). Kinship Studies in Late Twentieth-Century Anthropology. Annual Review of Anthropology, 24(1), 343–372. doi:doi:10.1146/annurev.an.24.100195.002015 Peletz, M. (2001). Ambivalence in knship since the 1940s. In S. Franklin & S. McKinnon (Eds.), Relative Values: Reconfiguring kinship studies, (pp. 413– 444). Durham: Duke University Press. Perlesz, A., Power, J, Brown, R., McNair, R., Schofield, M., Pitts, M., Barrett, A., Bickerdike, A. (2010) Organising work and home in same-sex parented families: findings from the work love play study, Australian New Zealand Journal of Family Therapy, v31(4), pp374–391. Retrieved from http://www.anzjft.com Peyser, A. (2010, December 2). Womb for one more at Martha Manor. New York Post. Retrieved from www.nypost.com Pfeffer, N. (2011). Eggs-ploiting women: a critical feminist analysis of the different principles in transplant and fertility tourism. Reproductive BioMedicine Online, 23(5), 634–641. doi:10.1016/j.rbmo.2011.08.005 Pinker, R. (2006). From gift relationships to quasi-markets: An odyssey along the policy paths of altruism and egoism. Social Policy & Administration, 40(1), 10–25. doi:10.1111/j.1467-9515.2006.00474.x Pinkerton, T. (1998). Surrogacy and egg donation law in California. Kennesaw, GA: The American Surrogacy Center, Inc. (TASC). Retrieved from http://www.surrogacy.com/legals/article/calaw.html Pitt-Rivers, J. (1973). The kith and the kin. In J. Goody (Ed.) The character of kinship (pp. 89–105). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Pitts, M., Smith, A., Mitchell, A. & Patel, S. (2006). Private lives: A report on the health and wellbeing of GLBTI Australians. Melbourne: Australian Research Centre in Sex, Health and Society. Pollock, A. (2003). Complicating power in high-tech reproduction: Narratives of anonymous paid egg donors. Journal of Medical Humanities, 24(3–4), 241– 263. 225

Poote, A. & van den Akker, O. (2009). British women’s attitudes to surrogacy. Human Reproduction, 24(1), 139–145. doi:10.1093/humrep/den338 Pop singer Ricky becomes pop to twin boys. (2008, August 22). Sydney Daily Telegraph, p. 30. Retrieved from http://www.dailytelegraph.com.au/ Power, J., Perlesz, A., Brown, R., Schofield, M., Pitts, M., McNair, R., & Bickerdike, A. (2010). Diversity, tradition and family: Australian same-sex attracted parents and their families. Gay and Lesbian Issues and Psychology Review, 6(2), 66–81. doi:10.1080/15299716.2012.729432 Power, J., Perlesz, A., McNair, R., Schofield, M., Pitts, M., Brown, R., & Bickerdike, A. (2012), Gay and bisexual dads and diversity: fathers in the Work, Love, Play study, Journal of Family Studies, 18(2–3): 143–154. Retrieved from http://jfs.e-contentmanagement.com Quartironi, B. (1996). The new gay fathers: An exploratory study of their experiences, perceptions, and concerns. (Unpublished doctoral dissertation). Ferkauf Graduate School of Psychology, New York, NY. Quiroga, S. (2007). Blood is thicker than water: Policing donor insemination and the reproduction of whiteness. Hypatia, 22(2), 143–161. doi: 10.1111/j.15272001.2007.tb00986.x Rabun, C., & Oswald, R. (2009) Upholding and expanding the normal family: Future fatherhood through the eyes of gay male emerging adults. Fathering, 7(3), 269–285. doi:10.3149/fth.0703.269 Rabinow, P. (1992). Studies in the anthropology of reason. Anthropology Today, 8(5), 7–10. Retrieved from http://www.jstor.org/stable/2783568 Rabinow, P. & Rose, N. (2006). Biopower Today. BioSocieties, 1(2), 195–217. doi.org/10.1017/S1745855206040014 Radcliffe-Brown, A. (1957). A natural science of society. Glencoe, Illinois: Free Press. Ragoné, H. (1994). Surrogate motherhood: Conception in the heart. San Francisco: Westview Press. Rapport, F. (2002). Titmuss and the gift relationship: altruism revisited. Journal of Advanced Nursing, 40(5), 495–503. doi:10.1046/j.1365-2648.2002.02406.x Raymond, J. (2007 [1993]). Reproduction, population, technology and rights. Women in Action 2 Retrieved from http://www.isiswomen.org/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=53 4&Itemid=200). Ressler, I., Bessett, D., Sroga, J., Rompola, S., Thomas, M., & Lindheim, S. (2011). Perspectives among gay male couples choosing fatherhood using assisted reproduction. Fertility and Sterility, ASRM Abstracts, 96(3), S15. doi.org.wwwproxy0.library.unsw.edu.au/10.1016/j.fertnstert.2011.07.067 Riggs, D. (2007a). On being ‘acceptable’: State sanction, race privilege, and lesbian and gay parents. Reconstruction online journal: Studies in contemporary culture, 7(1). Retrieved from http://reconstruction.eserver.org/071/Family.shtml Riggs, D. (2007b). Becoming parent: Lesbians, gay men, and family. Teneriffe, QLD: Post Pressed. Riggs, D. (2011). What about the children! Homophobia, accusations of pedophilia, and the construction of childhood. In B. Scherer & M. Ball (Eds.), Queering paradigms II: Interrogating agendas (pp. 245–258)). Oxford: Peter Lang. 226

Riggs, D., & Due, C. (2010). Gay men, race and surrogacy in India. Outskirts online journal: Feminisms Along the Edge, 22. Retrieved from http://www.chloe.uwa.edu.au/outskirts/archive/volume22/riggs Riley, R. (2007, February 25). My baby ended showers of tears Senator’s wife breaks silence on surrogacy. Herald Sun, p 15. Retrieved from http://www.heraldsun.com.au/ Riskind, R., & Patterson, C. (2010). Parenting Intentions and Desires Among Childless Lesbian, Gay, and Heterosexual Individuals. Journal of Family Psychology, 24(1), 78–81. doi:10.1037/a0017941 Roberts, C. (2010). Early puberty and public health: a social scientific pinboard. Critical Public Health, 20(4), 429–438. doi:10.1080/09581596.2010.508103 Roberts, D. (1996). Race and the new reproduction. Hastings Law Journal, 47(4), 935–948. Retrieved from http://www heinonline.org Robinson, P. (2012). Fatherhood settings and stories of gay men. Retrieved from http://apo.org.au/node/28251 Rose, N. (1999). Powers of freedom: Reframing political thought. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Rose, N. (2001). The politics of life itself. Theory, Culture & Society, 18(6), 1–30. doi:10.1177/02632760122052020 Rose, N. & C. Novas (2004). Biological citizenship. In A. Ong & S. Collier (Eds.), Global assemblages: technology, politics, and ethics as anthropological problems, (pp. 439–463). Oxford: Blackwell Publishing. Rothman, B. (1988). Reproductive technology and the commodification of life. Women & Health, 13(1–2), 95–100. doi:10.1300/J013v13n01_08 Rothman, B. (1989). Women as fathers: Motherhood and child care under a modified patriarchy. Gender & Society, 3(1), 1 89–104. doi:10.1177/089124389003001006 Rowland, R. (1992). Living laboratories: Women and reproductive technologies. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Ryan, M. & Berkowitz, D. (2009). Constructing gay and lesbian parent families ‘Beyond the closet’. Qualitative Sociology, 32(2), 153–172. doi:10.1007/s11133-009-9124-6 Ryan-Flood, R. (2005). Contested heteronormativities: Discourses of fatherhood among lesbian parents in Sweden and Ireland. Sexualities, 8(2), 189–204. doi:10.1177/1363460705050854 Saffron, L. (1994). Challenging conceptions: Planning a family by self-insemination. London: Cassell. Sbordone, A. J. (1993). Gay men choosing fatherhood. (Unpublished doctoral dissertation). Department of Psychology, City University of New York, New York. Schacher, S., Auerbach, C., & Silverstein, L. (2005). Gay fathers expanding the possibilities for us all. Journal of GLBT Family Studies, 1(3), 31–52. doi:10.1300/J461v01n03_02 Schenker, J. (1997). Infertility evaluation and treatment according to Jewish law. European Journal of Obstetrics & Gynecology and Reproductive Biology, 71(2), 113–121. doi.org/10.1016/S0301-2115(96)02621-8 227

Schneider, D. (1980 [1968]). American kinship: a cultural account. Chicago & London: University of Chiacgo Press. Schneider, D. (1984). A critique of the study of kinship. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Schneider, D. (1997). The power of culture: Notes on some aspects of gay and lesbian kinship in America today. Cultural Anthropology, 12(2), 270–274. Retrieved from http://www.jstor.org/stable/656586 . Schusky, E. (1965). Manual for kinship analysis. New York, Chicago, San Francisco, Toronto and London: Holt, Rinehart and Winston. Scott, E. (2008) Surrogacy and the Politics of Commodification. Columbia Public Law & Legal Theory Working Papers. Paper 08153 Retrieved from http://lsr.nellco.org/columbia_pllt/08153 Shanley, M. (2002). Collaboration and commodification in assisted procreation: Reflections on an open market and anonymous donation in human sperm and eggs. Law and Society Review, 36(2), 257–283. Retrieved from http://www heinonline.org Shapiro, W. (2010). The old kinship studies confront gay kinship: A critique of Kath Weston. Anthropological Forum: A Journal of Social Anthropology and Comparative Sociology, 20(1), 1–18. doi:10.1080/00664670903524178. Shaw, R. (2008). Rethinking reproductive gifts as body projects. Sociology, 42(1), 11– 28. doi:10.1177/0038038507084823 Sheldon, S. (2005). Fragmenting fatherhood: The regulation of reproductive technologies. The Modern Law Review, 68(4), 523–553. Retrieved from http://www heinonline.org Shenfield, F., de Mouzon, J.,Pennings, G., Ferraretti, A., Nyboe, A., de Wert, G., Goossens, V.& the ESHRE Taskforce on Cross Border Reproductive Care. (2010). Cross border reproductive care in six European countries. Human Reproduction, 25(6), 1361–1368. doi:10.1093/humrep/deq057 Shenkman, G. (2012). The gap between fatherhood and couplehood desires among Israeli gay men and estimations of their likelihood. Journal of Family Psychology 26(5): 828–832. doi:10.1037/a0029471 Short, E., Riggs, D., Perlesz, A., Brown, R., & Kane, G. (2007). Lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender (LGBT) parented families: A literature review prepared for The Australian Psychological Society. Melbourne: The Australian Psychological Society Ltd. Smerdon, U. (2008–2009). Crossing bodies, crossing borders: International surrogacy between the United States and India. Cumberland Law Review, 15, 15–85. Retrieved from http://www heinonline.org Smith, D. (2011). What are the reproductive options when a same-sex couple wants a family? Sexuality, Reproduction and Menopause, 9(3), 30–36. Spar, D. (2006). The baby business: How money, science and politics drive the commerce of conception. Boston: Harvard business School Publishing. Stacey, J. (1996). In the name of the family: Rethinking family values in the post modern age. Boston: Beacon Press. Stacey, J. (2004). Cruising to familyland: Gay hypergamy and rainbow kinship. Current Sociology, 52(2), 181–197. doi:10.1177/0011392104041807

228

Stacey, J. (2005). The families of man: Gay male intimacy and kinship in a global metropolis. Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society, 30(3), 1911– 1935. doi:10.1086/426798 Stacey, J. (2006). Gay parenthood and the decline of paternity as we knew it. Sexualities, 9(1), 27–55. doi:10.1177/1363460706060687 Stacey, J. (2011). Unhitched: Love, marriage, and family values from West Hollywood to Western China. New York: NYU Press. Stacey, J. & T. J. Biblarz (2001). (How) does the sexual orientation of parents matter? American Sociological Review, 66(2), 159–183. Retrieved from http:www.jstor.org/stable/2657413 Stone, L. (2001). Introduction: Theoretical Implications of New Directions in Anthropological Kinship. In L. Stone (Ed.), New Directions in Anthropological Kinship (pp. 1–20) Lanham, Maryland: Rowman & Littlefield. Strathern, M. (1992). After nature: Kinship in the late twentieth century. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Strathern, M. (1999a). Regulation, substitution and possibility. In J. Edwards, S. Franklin, E. Hirsch, F. Price & M. Strathern (Eds.), Technologies of procreation: Kinship in the age of assisted conception (Second Edition pp. 171–202). New York: Routledge. Strathern, M. (1999b). Introduction, first edition: A question of Context.In In J. Edwards, S. Franklin, E. Hirsch, F. Price & M. Strathern (Eds.), Technologies of procreation: Kinship in the age of assisted conception (Second Edition pp. 9–28). New York: Routledge. Strathern, M. (2005). Kinship, law and the unexpected: Relatives are always a surprise. New York: Cambridge University Press. Suter, E., Daas, K., & Mason Bergen, K. (2008). Negotiating lesbian family identity via symbols and rituals. Journal of Family Issues, 29(1), 26–47. doi:10.1177/0192513X07305752 Tankard Reist, M. (2006, November 8). Motherhood deals risk deeper anguish. Sydney Morning Herald, p. 13. http://www.smh.com.au/ Taylor, B. (2005). Whose baby is it? The impact of reproductive technologies on kinship. Human Fertility, 8(3), 189–195. doi:10.1080/14647270500277693 Teman, E. (2008). The social construction of surrogacy research: An anthropological critique of the psychosocial scholarship on surrogate motherhood. Social Science & Medicine, 67(7), 1104–1112. doi.org/10.1016/j.socscimed.2008.05.026. Teman, E. (2009). Embodying surrogate motherhood: Pregnancy as a dyadic body- project. Body & Society, 15(3), 47–69. doi:10.1177/1357034X09337780 Thacker, T. (2008, 4 November 2008). No more baby Manjis in India, draft law on surrogacy ready. Indian Express Retrieved from http://www.indianexpress.com Thompson, C. (2005). Making parents: The ontological choreography of reproductive technologies. Cambridge, Massachusetts: MIT Press. Titmuss, R. (1997 [1970]). The gift relationship: From human blood to social policy. New York: The New Press.

229

Tober, D. (2001). Semen as gift, semen as goods: Reproductive workers and the market in altruism. Body and Society, 7(2-3), 137–160. doi:10.1177/1357034X0100700205 Torfing, J. (1999). New Theories of Discourse: Laclau, Mouffe and Zizek. Oxford:Wiley-Blackwell Tornello, S., & Patterson, C. (2010) Gay fathers’ pathways to parenthood: Has there been a generational shift? (Unpublished manuscript), Virginia, USA: Department of Psychology, University of Virginia. Touroni, E., & Coyle A. (2002). Decision-making in planned lesbian parenting: An interpretative phenomenological analysis. Journal of Community & Applied Social Psychology, 12(3), 194–209. doi:10.1002/casp.672 Toy, M. (2008, March 8). China’s new entrepreneurs cash in on baby business. The Age, p. 20. Retrieved from http://www.theage.com.au Trautmann, T. ( 1987). Lewis Henry Morgan and the invention of kinship. Berkeley: University of California Press. Tuazon-McCheyne, J. (2010). Two dads: Gay male parenting and its politicisation - A cooperative inquiry action research study. The Australian New Zealand Journal of Family Therapy, 31(4), 311–323. doi: http://dx.doi.org/10.1375/anft.31.4.311 Utian, W., Sheean, L., Goldfarb, J., & Kiwi, R. (1985). Successful pregnancy after in vitro fertilization-embryo transfer from an infertile woman to a surrogate. New England Journal of Medicine, 313(21), 1351–1352. doi:10.1056/NEJM198511213132112 valentine, k. (2005). Citizenship, identity, blood donation. Body & Society, 11(2), 113– 128. doi:10.1177/1357034X05052464 van den Akker, O. (2007). Psychosocial aspects of surrogate motherhood. Human Reproduction Update, 13(1), 53–62. doi:10.1093/humupd/dml039 Van Hoof, W., & Pennings, G. (2012). Extraterritorial laws for cross-border reproductive care: the issue of legal diversity. European Journal of Health Law, 19(2), 187–200. doi:10.1016/j.rbmo.2011.07.015 Vora, K. (2010–2011). Medicine, markets and the pregnant body: Indian commercial surrogacy and reproductive labor in a transnational frame. The Scholar and Feminist Online 9 (1–2). Retrieved from http://sfonline.barnard.edu Wade, M. (2009a, 26 January). Warning to couples on Indian surrogacy laws. The Age. Retrieved from http://www.theage.com.au Wade, M. (2009b, 26 January). Law not keeping pace with Indian baby industry. Sydney Morning Herald Retrieved from http://www.smh.com.au Wade, M. (2009c, 31 January). Cheap wombs for rent … nine-month contracts only and no bond. Sydney Morning Herald. Retrieved from http://www.smh.com.au Wade, M. (2009d, 31 January). For hire: Indian wombs. The Age. Retrieved from http://www.theage.com.au Wade, M. (2009e, 31 January). India the surrogate mother country for Westerners. The Age. Retrieved from http://www.theage.com.au Wade, M. (2009f, 31 January). The takeaway baby boom. Sydney Morning Herald. Retrieved from http://www.smh.com.au

230

Waldby, C. (2002). Biomedicine, tissue transfer and intercorporeality. Feminist Theory, 3(3), 239–354. doi:10.1177/146470002762491980 Waldby, C. (2008) Oöcyte markets: women’s reproductive labour in embryonic stem cell research. New Genetics and Society, 27 (1), 19–31. doi:10.1080/14636770701843576 Waldby, C. & M. Cooper (2008). The biopolitics of reproduction: Post-fordist biotechnology and women’s clinical labour. Australian Feminist Studies, 23(55), 57–73. doi:10.1080/08164640701816223 Waldby, C. & M. Cooper (2010). From reproductive work to regenerative labour: The female body and the stem cell industries. Feminist Theory, 11(1), 3–22. doi:10.1177/1464700109355210 Waldby, C. & R. Mitchell (2006). Tissue economies: Blood, organs, and cell lines in late capitalism. Durham and London: Duke University Press. Warner, Michael (1991), Introduction: Fear of a Queer Planet. Social Text; 9(4[29]): 3–17. Retrieved from: http://www.jstor.org/discover/ Weeks, J., Heaphy,B., & Donovan, C. (2001). Same Sex Intimacies: Families of Choice and Other Life Experiments. London: Routledge. Weisberg, D. (2005). The birth of surrogacy in Israel. Gainesville: University Press of Florida. Wells, G. (2011). Making room for daddies: Male couples creating families through adoption. Journal of GLBT Family Studies, 7(1–2), 155–181. doi:10.1080/1550428X.2011.537242 Werbner, P. (1996). The enigma of Christmas: Symbolic violence, compliant subjects and the flow of English kinship. In A. Warde, S. Edgell & K. Warde (Eds.), Consumption matters: The production and experience of consumption (pp.135–162). Oxford and Cambridge MA: Blackwell. Weston, K. (1991). Families we choose: Lesbians, gays and kinship. Albany: Columbia University Press. Whittaker, A. (2011). Reproduction opportunists in the new global sex trade: PGD and non-medical sex selection. Reproductive Biomedicine Online, 23(5), 609–617. doi:10.1016/j.rbmo.2011.06.017 Wilson, A. (2007). With friends like these: The liberalization of queer family policy. Critical Social Policy, 27(1), 50–76. doi:10.1177/0261018307072207 Winerip, M. (2007, December 23). My sister, my surrogate. The New York Times, p. 4. Retrieved from http://www.nytimes.com/ Woolf, V. (1989 [1929]). A Room of One’s Own. New York: Harcourt Brace & Co. Yanagisako, S. & Fishburn Collier. J. (1987). Toward a Unified Analysis of and Gender and Kinship. In J. Fisburn Collier & Yanigasiko (Eds.), Gender and kinship: Essays toward a unified analysis, (pp. 14–50). Stanford: Stanford University Press.

231

APPENDICES

Appendix A: Glossary of terms

Altruistic surrogacy is a situation where the surrogate receives no financial reward for her pregnancy or the relinquishment of the child (although expenses related to the pregnancy and birth are paid by the intended parents such as medical expenses, maternity clothing, and other related expenses).

‘Bio-dad’ is the term referred to by some men in the study to refer to the biogenetic father of a child. This is usually used to distinguish between partners in a couple where the other is the ‘non-bio-dad.’

Commercial surrogacy is a form of surrogacy in which a gestational carrier is paid to carry a child.

Cognatic kin are ‘relatives by genealogical ties without particular emphasis on either patrilineal or matrilineal connections’ (Schusky, 1965). In a cognatic system, descent is calculated from generation to generation through any combination of male and female links.

In gestational surrogacy the surrogate becomes pregnant via embryo transfer with a child of which she is not the biological mother. The surrogate mother may be called the gestational carrier.

Heteronormativity refers to pervasive and invisible norms of heterosexuality— sexual desire exclusively for the opposite sex—embedded as a normative principle in social institutions and theory, which deems those who fall outside this standard to be devalued. It also refers to the notion that people fall into distinct and complementary genders. A ‘heteronormative’ perspective assumes alignment of biological sex, sexuality, gender identity, and gender roles. The term was first used by Michael Warner (1991).

Homoparental is sometimes used to describe families headed by gay men or lesbians.

Intended parent(s) is the individual or couple who plans to rear the child after its birth. Also referred to as prospective parent(s).

Phenotype is used to refer to observable traits, characteristics and features of an individual. This contrasts with genotype, which is the inherited instructions carried within genetic code. The genotype-phenotype distinction is usually used to distinguish between genetic inheritance and what that heredity produces in combination with other factors.

A surrogate mother is the woman who is pregnant with the child and intends to relinquish it after birth.

In traditional surrogacy the surrogate is pregnant with her own biological child, but this child was conceived with the intention of relinquishing the child to be raised by others such as the biological father and possibly his spouse or partner, either male or female. The child may be conceived via insemination using fresh or frozen sperm or

232 impregnated via IUI (intrauterine insemination), or ICI (intra cervical insemination) which is performed at a fertility clinic.

233

Appendix B: Recruitment flyer

234

Appendix C: Interview schedule

Can you describe your family to me?

What does it feel like to have a child [or children]?

How has having a child changed your life?

*Were you both keen to have a child? Or was it more the project of one of you? / How did your partner feel about it? Was it a decision that you made together? When did you first start thinking about having children? Did it create any changes in the relationship?

How did it come about—having a child?

Can you take me through the steps you took to become a parent? Did you use an agency/clinic? How did you provide the sperm? What was the experience like? How long did it take before the pregnancy occurred?

Can you describe the surrogacy agency? What was it like? i.e. design Did you undergo a counselling session? What things were discussed with you? Had did you feel about this?

How would you describe the clinic that you went to? What was it like? i.e. design Can you describe for example the room where you provided the semen/sperm? How would you describe the other people at the clinic i.e. staff and other clients? Did you talk to other clients? How did you feel about going there?

What procedures were in place—in terms of blood tests, medical history-taking, behavioural questions, and so on—prior to providing the sperm? How was this handled through the clinic? What procedures were followed—tests, periods of celibacy, etc. Was it inconvenient? Did it disrupt your sexual life? Sperm count? Was the sperm frozen? How much time was there between the time you provided the sperm and the first attempt at insemination? Did you get advice through self-help books, friends, etc.? What equipment was used to collect the semen?

*How did you decide who was going to be providing the sperm?

*Was there ever an option of mixing the sperm?

What specific procedures were used to achieve the pregnancy? Insemination, IVF, ICSI, egg donation? [Did you pursue sex selection or any kind of pre-implantation genetic diagnosis?]

235

How did you decide that having a child through surrogacy was the right thing for you to do? Did you talk to others? Did you know others who had done it? Were they friends? Did you go to any meetings of gay parent groups or groups for prospective gay parents? What things were important for you in terms of making the decision?

How did you find out about surrogacy?

How did you choose the surrogate? What things were important to you about surrogate—in terms of physical, financial, emotional, or relationship status, or sexuality, religion, for example? Were these important (i.e. conditions) or just preferences, and why was this so?

What about the egg donor? How did you choose her?

How would you describe the relationship between you and the surrogate? In what ways has this changed over time? How well did you get to know her? Were there any restrictions/conditions that were important for you to negotiate with her? What kind of things were in your contract with her? e.g. multiple pregnancies, etc. What things (if any) do you think a surrogate passes onto the child? What connections (if any) do you believe a surrogate has with the child she carries? What is your relationship with the egg donor? Do you meet her? Did you have any contact with her? What do you think about the language used in the area of parenting through surrogacy—for example surrogate, egg donor, commissioning couple? Have you found it limiting or inadequate in any way? What made you decide to have a child in this way rather than through adoption, for example? Is it important is it that you have a biological connection to the child? (If it’s important, ask them in what way, or to say more about this.) Had you tried to have children before? What would you say makes a good parent? What models of parenting/fatherhood do you draw on? What values do you want to pass on to your children? What do you think are the role of fathers in a child’s life? How do gay men achieve that? How will you divide the day-to-day care of the child between you?

What kind of women do you think become surrogates? Why do they do it?

What kind of women become egg donors?

What kind of people do you think become sperm donors—both known sperm donors and anonymous sperm donors?

What do you think it means to have gay men involved in parenting?

Why do you think more and more gay men are becoming parents? What do you think it would have been like 20 years ago?

236

So when you were younger, what did you think gay life would be like? For example, did you think you could be gay and also have children?

Do you know many other gay men who have children—either as donors, or surrogacy, adoptions, etc.? Formal or informal? How did you meet them? Were they influential in your decision-making?

Do you feel part of the gay community? In what way?

What sorts of reactions have you received from other gay men, friends, family?

What about reactions in terms of people’s perceptions or opinions about (commercial) surrogacy?

Do you intend to have more children?

Have you experienced any barriers or discrimination being a gay man (or gay men) with a child?

What about gay characters with children on television or in movies? Can you relate to any of them? Do you have any opinions about these characters in general?

What are your feelings about the future? Demographics Age Child’s age Ethnicity/language/cultural background/country of origin Occupation Household income Relationship? (how long?; legal partnership?) Structure of family of origin Who do you live with? State and country of residence

*Only asked of men in couples

237