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April 24, 1974
My favorite Girl, my Josephine,
On your third birthday, my heart is unexpectedly heavy. I look at you, my Miracle Girl, and I think: How is she not enough? Well, it seems the world needs more than your mere existence to believe in my work. It’s all an attempt to steal my ideas. That’s an important lesson for you, Josephine. The world pretends it admires you only so it can take from you. The world won’t greet us as friends, Josephine, but we must stay bold in our convictions!
Apparently the tabloids—and even respected members of the scientific community—have been saying that you, Girl One, are not enough. You are a disappointment. You were born in an unorthodox manner, so why are you no different from any other child? What merit does parthenogenesis hold if you are an ordinary girl in every respect?
But what the world has apparently forgotten is that remarkable children require remarkable parents. I have pictured you Girls being extraordinary, superior to other children. But if such qualities exist in you, they will take time to grow. The best I can do is show patience and guidance as we wait for you all to blossom into true Miracle Babies.
Your loving father always,
Joseph Bellanger
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Excerpt from Scientific Daily—January 2, 1974
Sitting Down with the Man Behind the Real “Baby Boom”
Scientific Daily: Reproductive technology usually brings widespread change. It’s estimated that up to 10,000 children a year are now being born via artificial insemination, though this method has only been used on humans successfully for less than a century. You, however, have introduced virgin birth as a parlor trick, if you will, given that other researchers in your field have expressed frustration that you so closely guard your methods. Do you think it’s egotistical to hoard the secrets of parthenogenesis? Do you one day hope to see this method of reproduction more widespread?
B: [laughs] Well. A parlor trick. That’s some parlor trick, wouldn’t you say? I will not be bullied into sharing my own hard-won intellectual work. You may remember my predecessor, Gregory Pincus, who was stripped of tenure because of his parthenogenetic work with laboratory rabbits. Even thirty years later, are we ready for virgin birth among humans? My colleagues didn’t think so. I didn’t get here via cooperation and I don’t intend to start playing nice now. Nonetheless, I do intend for my work to eventually become an accepted part of our reproductive landscape. On my own terms.
SD: I recall that when you first introduced your work to the world, you often spoke of these products of parthenogenesis—these so-called Miracle Babies—as if they may change the very course of humanity. There was a distinct attitude that these Girls would be different from, perhaps superior to, children born in the usual manner. But by all accounts, these little girls are like any others. Should they be considered special?
B: [silence]
SD: If you aren’t willing to look into parthenogenesis as a widespread means of human reproduction—and if the children produced via this method are no different from any other children—is there truly a compelling reason for virgin birth to take precedence over any other method? We have to stop and think about what it may mean for fatherhood, for the very structure of the American family. These little girls will likely be growing up as pariahs, not miracles.
Do you truly believe, at this stage, that your experimentation has the potential to change the world?
B: Who’s to say what may emerge, what may materialize, in these Girls, given time? And if not these Girls, then those that come from future experiments.
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My mother writing to Bellanger first. It didn’t make sense. Each stage of my origin—the beginnings, the births, the triumph, the downfall—was as clear in my head as the structure of a beloved fairy tale. Bellanger had gathered nine women from every corner of the country and together they’d transcended their lonely pasts and become the Homestead. Fertile wombs and bare ring fingers. The idea of my mother being a ringleader—contacting Bellanger, bringing the other women together—was a startling inconsistency.
I tossed and turned under the Laura Ashley comforter. Bonnie had convinced her mother to let us stay the night. I still didn’t know whether to be grateful for the favor. The room was huge, empty, chilled by aggressive air-conditioning.
My mother obsessed with a dead girl, my mother visiting the other Homesteaders, scribbling, Tell the world about Fiona. Emily whispering about birds in the attic, the dead bird outside my house. Everything tangled together, and at the center of it was my mother’s stubborn, terrifying absence. What the hell had happened to her?