by Xiaolu Guo
Skin to skin. Yes. I did instantly as I was told. But how would my hormones make the milk come? This sounded scientific but also enigmatic. I latched the little wrinkly wet face onto my breast, as if I knew what to do. But I had no idea what to do. The images from movies didn’t come to me at that moment, I was merely reacting to the real. Yes, the real. Overwhelming, beyond thoughts. The nurses were now busy gathering around my lower body. They must have been stitching me up. Suddenly I noticed a bucket under my table. I stopped myself from looking inside.
Original and Original Copy
– Would you like to have an original certificate? Or to have an original copy as well?
– An original and an original copy? You mean, they are both original? Even the copy?
A month or so after the birth, I felt I was slowly recovering. The pain from the incision still hurt every day, even after taking painkillers, but I felt I was almost human. I could be a dignified woman again, rather than a sow that had just finished producing piglets.
What came with the newborn was a little red book. I took a look at the little red book. Inside was a record of the newborn’s hospital number, birthday, weight, mother’s name and birthday, the baby’s future vaccination dates, the health visitor’s contact details and so on. There was also a leaflet, informing us that we had forty-two days to register the child with the local authority. Did that mean we would then receive a birth certificate after the registration? I asked myself. I had never done anyone’s birth certificate in my life, and didn’t know that I would not immediately receive a certificate right after the birth. How unnatural. Now weeks had passed, and we had less than ten days to register her.
As a privileged white European, owning more than one passport, you had more knowledge about nationalities than me. In the waiting room, you said:
‘The baby will be British automatically, because I have multiple citizenship. But that means she can’t have your nationality. She can’t be Chinese.’
I looked at you with blurry eyes. That’s right. The Chinese government didn’t allow dual nationalities. But still, emotionally, I found it difficult to accept. How did I end up producing an English child? Given that neither of us was English! Then I looked around. A few families with newborns in their prams were also waiting to be registered. Among all the straight-looking, same-race couples, there was a white woman with a brown-skinned man, a white man with a dark-coloured woman, and two women with a child. All sorts. Did they have similar problems to the one I had? I pulled back my gaze and looked at our baby sleeping in the pram – she looked neither Chinese nor European. Her face was still wrinkled, red, like the face of a strange, tiny, hairless old man.
Finally, our number was called and we were received by a registrar. This was the first time I had physically (not just mentally) experienced this word: multiculturalism. On all levels.
A dark-skinned man in his early fifties smiled warmly at us. The name tag on his blue shirt said: Mr Mustafa Abdo, Senior Civil Servant (G5).
Mr Abdo shook our hands. He teased the sleeping baby with his index finger (touching her left cheek gently) to show his friendliness. He then sat down, typing our details on his computer. His accent was Ghanaian or perhaps Nigerian? To my surprise, the whole registration process was simple, no fuss, no complications at all. Perhaps it was because we had presented our brand-new marriage certificate, despite your having said that this piece of paper was not relevant here. Maybe you were right. Mr Abdo didn’t seem to be particularly interested in the actual father of the child. He didn’t even look at you properly. He just asked for your birth date and your nationality, whether or not you had a middle name. He then took only a brief glance at your passport – it could have been anyone who resembled you. I could not help but think about how the registration process would be in China – what would the Communist Party do if the father was a non-Chinese?
The only puzzling moment came at the end. Mr Abdo finished off his typing and printed out the forms. He asked:
‘Would you like to have just the original certificate? Or do you want to have an original copy as well?’ Then he added: ‘An original copy costs an extra twenty pounds per copy.’
‘An original and then an original copy?’ I was confused. ‘You mean, they are both originals? Even the copy?’
‘Yes, the original copy I will produce here is original.’ He was now looking at the printed-out paper and added: ‘If you wish to order some copies in the future, then it’s different. The future copies will be produced in another place.’
You winked at me. Suddenly, I remembered the examiners’ questions during my viva. I might well have found the way to improve my arguments about reproduction and Walter Benjamin. The answer lay in the distinction between original and original copy, and then future copies! Mr Mustafa Abdo probably didn’t need a PhD to make his point clear. He had all the answers!
Disembodiment
– How do you feel?
– I feel this disembodiment. I feel half of my body has left me, but is still near me. And I can’t really function with my own body alone.
Then your parents arrived. They had brought with them many presents for our newborn. A teddy bear, a singing turtle, a bird mobile to hang above the crib, colourful plastic bowls and plates, two mini dresses. Your mother even wrapped an orange-coloured dummy in shiny paper. Each item seemed to have a German label. Not Made in China at all. I noticed the teddy bear was not new. It looked slightly moth-eaten. Your mother pointed out: ‘This is from when I was a little girl! My mother bought it for me when we were still in England. It’s been with me ever since.’ Then she squeezed the toy. ‘You’re a real antique. Aren’t you, Teddy!’
You looked embarrassed, then you said: ‘We’d better take care of it.’
I took the teddy in my hand, feeling weird about having some toy from a grandmother I had never met. I felt uncomfortable with connecting myself to this unknown woman’s world. You mentioned once that your grandmother died long ago, and that she was from Cornwall. That was all I knew. And now, we had inherited her teddy bear, through your mother. Somehow I never liked these things people called ‘teddies’. I had not grown up with toys. I played with earth and animals in the fields when I was young. And I always associated teddy bears with lonely housewives in the West. But I thanked your mother, for her good intentions.
Now the baby was dressed in one of the new suits your parents had bought. A pink one, with blue flowers. This was bizarre. All these German baby products fit her no matter what she looked like. A mixed-raced newborn, she didn’t look very much like me, or you. Her hair was light brown, her eyes light blue with dark shades.
My wound still gave me a tearing sensation in my belly when I moved. Getting up to feed the baby or go to the toilet caused agonising pain. Your parents helped us during the day. They changed nappies and cooked. In the evening they went back to their hotel. They would only stay for a week. On the final day of their stay, we went out for dinner. After we ordered and the baby had fallen asleep in her crib, your father looked at us intently, and said:
‘Do you think you will be happy staying in London? Maybe you want to try to raise the child in Germany?’
Your mother nodded in agreement and added:
‘I know London is an exciting place to be. But childcare is better in Germany. Especially with what’s happening now in Britain.’
You nodded, but didn’t say anything. I could see you were thinking about something. I didn’t make any comments. I wasn’t sure what would be good for me or for the child. I had been finding it impossible to think straight after the birth. And right then in the restaurant I was feeling even more foggy.
Your parents then began to talk about different areas around Berlin, and I heard the word Tempelhof and Brandenburg. But then the baby woke up and started to cry. I brought her to my breast, losing the thread of the conversation.
The day aft
er your parents left, I felt something was wrong. But I didn’t know what. When she was here, I had felt I didn’t very much like your mother’s presence, but now she was gone I realised she had been helpful and sympathetic. Then I thought of your father. I liked your father. I liked his straightforwardness and methodical way of thinking. I wished they could have stayed longer. The thought of them made me think of my dead parents. Would the scene in front of me now have been utterly unimaginable for them? If only the dead could imagine. But then I could not picture my parents at all. They had disappeared and my thoughts could no longer reach them or bring their presence back to me.
With only you and me and the baby, the days became long again with repetitive housework and childcare. Nights were worse. You didn’t look as stressed as me, but you had also lost your sense of self. You were not the same person I knew before. After the baby went back to sleep, you would repeatedly ask about my feelings, as if you hadn’t seen me for months.
‘How do you feel?’ you would ask with a disconcerted look.
‘I feel the same. As I told you.’
‘The same . . .’ It was as if you found this answer too abstract to grasp.
‘I feel this disembodiment. I feel half of my body has left me, but is still near me. Or staying next to me. And I can’t really function with my own body alone.’
‘Disembodiment.’ You thought about this for a moment, then said: ‘Maybe there is negative disembodiment and positive disembodiment. I hope it will become positive disembodiment for you.’
‘How can there be a positive disembodiment?’ I objected, while trying to sit up and pump milk from my breast with a pumping machine. It hurt terribly. ‘For a man, it’s really impossible to know what it’s like,’ I said. ‘Try to imagine you are me – part of your own body is now outside in the world.’ I tried to describe the sensation in between the motion of the breast pumps. ‘It is hard to get used to the idea of part of your own flesh gaining its own life and having left you.’
‘You will adjust. I am sure,’ you remarked, quite casually, as if you suddenly got the whole process. You went to open the fridge. You needed a beer, that’s what you needed after a whole day with the baby. Then you sank into the sofa, with your beer and your newspaper.
Regression / Progression
– Oh, regression! She stopped talking!
– Well, she seemed to respond to singing.
The small life inside the onesie was growing – a bundle of activity and softness, like a crab inside a shell.
‘I wish we could wear onesies too, they’re much better than jeans. And warm.’
‘Why don’t you?’ I responded, lifting the baby’s tiny arms and marshmallow legs into the onesie and buttoning it up.
Every day she was different from the day before. We noticed that the baby seemed to make a sound like ‘hello’ at four months, or were we just imagining that she had managed to utter something sensible beyond all senselessness? Staring into space with shining eyes, smiling, she would mimic the two syllables: He-Loo. You would kneel on our futon bed, facing her and encouraging her to keep saying hello. He-Loo, the little bundle repeated. Then you tried ‘how are you’ and it seemed the baby was sensitive to speech expression. Whoo-ooo-yuu, she muttered. I thought there would be progress from then on, but weeks later she stopped trying to ‘talk’ and just made coos and squawks.
‘Oh, regression! She stopped talking!’ I said.
‘Well, she seems to respond to singing.’ You carried her in your arms and hummed a little tune.
I thought I could hear you murmuring ‘your own personal Jesus . . .’ – that song Johnny Cash once sang. I could feel that you wanted the baby to make progress as much as I did.
In the fifth month, we trained her to turn over on the bed by herself. She seemed to be able to kick herself over, flipping from her back to her tummy and then back again. But a week later, she stopped doing it, and she would lie on her stomach for ages, raising her neck and crying, unable to flip.
‘Oh, poor thing. Maybe she doesn’t have a strong enough neck, and her arm muscles are too weak to turn herself over.’
‘But I don’t understand this regression.’ You observed her on the bed like a scientist scrutinising a white rat in an experiment. ‘It was clearly a new development last week. How come she can’t remember how to flip any more?’
I listened, and wondered why we were so anxious about progress. Was it that we didn’t trust nature? Or that we just wanted to control life to make ourselves feel safe and better?
The Taste of Your Milk
– I don’t really like the taste of your milk. Too sweet.
– That’s insulting. But the baby likes it!
Time passed. The newborn grew into a six-month-old. You returned to your work routine and I tried to stop breastfeeding at night. But the plan was too intellectual for my body, and for the baby. In her brief six months of life, she had always fallen asleep next to my breasts, sometimes with her mouth still attached to my nipple. Now without my nipple in her mouth, she would not sleep. Even though I bought three different types of bottle with nipple-shaped teats, she would still recognise the difference between plastic and skin flesh. Her little mouth spat out the plastic nipple the second I pushed it into her mouth. But I carried on trying, without giving in.
As soon as I reduced the frequency of the feeds, my breasts were engorged and they hurt to the point of tears.
‘You have a fever, you’re burning up,’ you said, touching my forehead.
‘It was like this last night, just the same.’
The temperature continued. My breasts turned to rocks. The milk wouldn’t come out. We were up all night fretting. Early in the morning, we got up and went to see the doctor. It was only then we heard the word – mastitis.
‘You must get the milk out from your breasts, otherwise it can be quite bad – the blocked ducts will be infected, then the fever will get worse,’ the doctor warned me, writing a prescription. ‘Take the antibiotics daily. And you have to use a pump to get the milk out.’
‘Yes, we have one,’ I said.
‘Then keep using it. It will help.’
The pump didn’t really work. It actually traumatised one of my breasts. It got worse. Even the baby got fed up with my inflamed nipples, her once beloved objects. In the middle of the night, in agonising pain, I woke you up.
‘Please, I am so sorry, but I am in pain!’ Then I stretched my upper body towards you. ‘Suck me hard. It might come out if you really try.’
Wearily and slowly, you rose from the sofa bed. You had suffered the same sleep deprivation as me since we’d had the baby.
‘How should I suck it?’ You stared at my two engorged globes, and checked my temperature. ‘Is it that bad?’ You felt the rock-hard tissue with your finger.
I pulled up a chair and sat in front of you. You tried to find a good upward position to face my breasts. This had absolutely nothing to do with lovemaking or passion. It was a medical emergency that called for collaboration and precision from both partners. You squatted before me at an uncomfortable angle and sucked my breasts. It was excruciating, but miraculously my milk began flowing. Once I was unblocked, the white liquid gushed down on your face. You almost choked.
‘Can I stop now?’ You stood up, coughing with a mouthful of milk and rubbing your knees.
Within moments I could see my breasts becoming softer, then the hard tissue turning flat. The pain gradually faded. You spat out a last bit of milk, and complained:
‘I don’t really like the taste of your milk. Too sweet.’
‘That’s insulting. But the baby likes it!’
I had never tasted my own milk. I dipped my finger in the little drops coming out of my nipple. It did taste sweet, but I wondered why you didn’t like it. You loved having milk in your tea every day. Did the act of drinking human milk disgust you,
because it forced you to confront the fact that we’re animals, when it comes down to it?
We lay exhausted on the bed, and fell asleep with the speed of a grasshopper. The baby was still sleeping. Soon she would wake up and would cry for milk.
Hysterical
– How come you have become such a hysterical person?
– Me? Hysterical? If I am hysterical, it’s you who have made me hysterical!
I had few memories of how my mother raised me during my early years. I had memories from much later, of kindergarten and primary school. All I knew was that my mother didn’t want to have a big family. She didn’t even want to have children. She was the oldest child in her family, and she had looked after her six younger sisters from a very early age. When she was a teenager, her parents became ill and she had to look after them too. Her mother was a tea farmer, who suffered from severe rheumatoid arthritis before she died. My mother’s life bore no resemblance to the life she wanted to live. Perhaps I could understand why she didn’t like having a child and having to maintain her own family. I tried to find some happy memories with my mother. A kind word, a soft smile, or a cuddle. But nothing came to my mind. I could not think of any gentle moment with the woman who had given birth to me. What did come to me was the day when our buffalo lost her unborn calf. That was before my father got a job in the town. We owned a few water buffaloes on our rice paddy. One of the buffaloes was pregnant. One afternoon my mother found the animal lying on its side, bleeding, the placental membranes hanging from the opening of the animal’s vagina. I had just come home from school, and I was in my first year. I stood beside the bleeding animal, slightly frightened, but not knowing what was wrong with it. Then my mother said:
‘That’s good. I was hoping the calf would die. I have had enough of them.’ Then she turned to look at me and added: ‘I managed to abort three before you came along. I didn’t manage to abort you.’
