Like a Virgin Read online

  LIKE A VIRGIN

  A Oneworld Book

  Published by Oneworld Publications 2012

  This ebook edition published in 2012

  Copyright © Aarathi Prasad 2012

  The moral right of Aarathi Prasad to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved

  Copyright under Berne Convention

  A CIP record for this title is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978-1-85168-911-8

  Ebook ISBN 978-1-78074-067-6

  Cover design by Dan Mogford

  Oneworld Publications

  185 Banbury Road

  Oxford

  OX2 7AR

  England

  Stay up to date with the latest books, special offers, and exclusives content from Oneworld with our monthly newsletter

  Sign up on our website

  www.oneworld-publications.com

  CONTENTS

  Prologue: Conceiving the Inconceivable

  Part I. The Myth of the Natural Birth

  1 Planting the Seed

  2 The Story of Safe Sex

  3 Desperately Seeking a Virgin Birth

  4 The Concert in the Egg

  5 Secrets of the Womb

  Part II. A New Way of Making Babies

  6 Out of the Test Tube

  7 Out of Time

  8 Real Men Bear Children

  9 Going Solo

  Epilogue: Next Generation

  Selected Bibliography

  Acknowledgements

  Index

  For my mother, C. D. Nalini, my father, Tarran Persad Rambarran,

  and my daughter, Sita-Tara

  LIKE A VIRGIN

  PROLOGUE

  CONCEIVING THE INCONCEIVABLE

  For most of human history, women have been given little credit when it comes to childbearing.

  Sounds strange, I know. Women clearly carry babies and give birth to them, but you could argue, as many have through recorded history, that the female of the species merely serves as a ‘vessel’ – a kind of living incubator. This sort of thinking was by no means the preserve of the uneducated; the very reason it persisted as long as it did in mainstream cultures and medical practice was because it was ‘tested’, endorsed by the great scholars and shapers of medicine, from Plato through to Leonardo da Vinci. Plato appears to have made the claim that only men are complete human beings. Aristotle believed that men had the ability to generate a full human being, and that women were reproductively defective. Some four hundred years later, the physician Galen asserted that the female is imperfect compared with the male. Even when da Vinci made the first accurate drawings of a foetus in utero – sketching in chalk a single womb rather than multiple chambers, which were believed to give rise to twins – he still compared the growing embryo to the seed of a plant.

  Such prejudices were handed down, generation after generation. Take, for example, Thomas Bartholin, a pioneering Danish scientist from an esteemed family of anatomists and medical scholars. Bartholin lived in the seventeenth century and discovered the lymphatic system – a finding that would have required a keen eye and the proficiency to carry out a detailed investigation of human anatomy. Yet, when it came to women and pregnancy, he also documented accounts of the birth of ‘monstrosities’ – such as the woman who delivered a rat, or another whose child had the head of a cat, because a cat had frightened her when she was pregnant. The idea that what a woman saw and felt, or that specific shocks or scares during pregnancy, would lead to specific defects in her baby was widespread. Being frightened by a mouse, for example, might lead to the baby having a mouse-shaped birthmark – or worse. Today, we would laugh at ideas like this, or dismiss them as urban legend. Why would a great scientist, an empirical type, treat any of these things as conceivable?

  But then, many outdated ideas about sex and reproduction still persist in many places around the world. These beliefs at times prevent a woman from claiming full biological ownership of her child, though she is still culpable for any reproductive shortcomings (such as giving birth to a baby with defects; experiencing recurrent pregnancy loss; failing to get pregnant). Even in our genetic age, there are women who are blamed (and who blame themselves) for giving birth to girls instead of boys. On the other hand, while the scientific evidence is still mounting, it appears to be true that a mother who, for instance, suffers stress during pregnancy will leave a lifelong mark on her child. And while we all know that the sperm determines whether a child is a boy (XY) or a girl (XX), new research shows that a woman’s immune system screens sperm after they have entered her body, and some women’s bodies are more likely to discard Y-carrying, boy-making sperm. Many of these ideas, based in fact or fiction, are descendants of the cultural vocabulary of ancient Greece and the Renaissance. Despite the reality of test-tube babies and sperm banks, it seems we haven’t moved much beyond Bartholin’s theory of a rat-child or blame being placed at a mother’s feet.

  Far stranger, however, is another long-lived belief: the concept of a virgin birth. From the fertilization-by-feather of the Aztec Coatlicue to Isis’s recipe for resurrecting her dead husband Osiris’s phallus, to the Blessed Virgin Mary, there appears to be no culture that does not embrace some legend of a woman giving birth without mortal man. You could imagine that because, in the view of classical thinkers, women were viewed as crude vessels for reproduction, a repository for the vital semen of man, that they could just as easily have their bodies appropriated by their gods (who, of course, are generally male). But the myths extend to active agents that are not all divine. Human virgin births have been said to be caused by such things as sunlight and eating magical fish. These examples illustrate just how compelling was the notion of impregnation without sex, in part because there was so little real understanding, for so long, of how babies are actually made.

  We now know that a mother makes an essential contribution of genetic information to her child, as well as providing a protected environment and the physical building blocks for the embryo’s developing body. Biologically and genetically, women clearly are not mere vessels, nor are they redundant. Still, even when confronted by the double helix of DNA, the combination of the sex chromosomes X and Y, and genetic variants and mutations, the belief in the possibility of virgin birth has proved surprisingly enduring. It has ranged from the technology-fuelled optimism of the post-war boom, when doctors hunted for a virgin mother via the tabloids; to the absurd insurance policy, offered in the past decade, that would cover the cost of bringing up a child should you experience a virgin birth.

  The simple truth, for humans at least, is that neither women nor men are currently redundant when it comes to making babies. Though the females of many animal species have the option of reproducing quite on their own, for us, a mutual need was established in our distant evolutionary past, and once that treaty was written in DNA, it could never be broken. Never, that is, until now.

  In the future, technology might vindicate a few of the ancient, seemingly absurd concepts – at least in some respects. It might someday be possible to create a child from one parent alone. Ironically, because of the way men and women’s chromosomes are arranged, the virgin parent will more likely be a man. Geneticists are cracking the codes that block our eggs from becoming embryos without sperm; stem cell scientists are creating eggs and sperm from bone marrow; artificial wombs are being built; artificial chromosomes are being constructed. And it seems not a minute too soon. Both male and female infertility is on the rise, and some scientists are warning that the Y chromosome, the very thing that makes men both fertile and male, is slowly but surely dying; it now has only around forty-five genes of the 1400-
odd genes with which it began the human species. If the Y chromosome’s genetic information essentially disintegrates, what solution could technology offer to sustain, well, us?

  This is more than a question of futuristic science. The gender roles assigned to us by the fact of sex have, over the centuries, been used to oppress women and justify anti-homosexual prejudices. If we can make babies without sex, the family structures that we’ve come to view as traditional may well change beyond recognition. All of these attitudes will need to be reconfigured to fit our new lives ‘after sex’.

  In this way, the ancient myths of a virgin birth may prove to be the prehistory of our species’ future. As Miss Miniver exclaims in H. G. Wells’s feminist novel, Ann Veronica: ‘Science some day may teach us a way to do without [men]. It is only the women matter. It is not every sort of creature needs – these males. Some have no males.’ To which Ann Veronica replies, with some hesitation, ‘There’s green-fly.’

  I began to wonder about these paradoxes, ironies, misnomers, interpretations, and reinterpretations of the reproductive role of women. Are the ideas of the ancients all myth, and all those of modern biology fact? What does the future hold in store? What will we face if we start making babies like a virgin? Will we ever be able to return to sex, and do we even have the choice?

  PART I

  THE MYTH OF THE NATURAL BIRTH

  Sit down before fact as a little child,

  be prepared to give up

  every preconceived notion

  Thomas Henry Huxley

  1

  PLANTING THE SEED

  We must first establish ‘how’ in order to know whether or not we should be asking ‘why’ at all...

  Stephen Jay Gould, Natural History, 1987

  On 28 October 1533, the fourteen-year-old Catherine de Medici married the fourteen-year-old Henry, the Duke of Orléans. Catherine brought a substantial chunk of the Medici family fortune to France as her dowry, but as soon as it became clear that her husband would rise to become King Henry II, her true value was seen to be in her womb, in which she would produce the nation’s heirs.

  Over the following ten years, however, Catherine failed to become pregnant. This was not for want of trying. A dispatch to the Milanese government reported that her father-in-law, Francis I, had made a point of watching the royal couple in their bed to make sure the union was consummated – and was pleased to observe that each ‘jousted valiantly’. As attempt after attempt failed, rumours of an imminent divorce spread through the court. Catherine promptly surrounded herself with doctors, diviners, and magicians. She refused to travel by mule, believing that the infertile beast would transmit its sterility to anyone who rode one. She consulted tarot cards, charms, and alchemy. She drank the urine of pregnant animals; ate the powdered testicles of boars, stags, and cats; dutifully swallowed cocktails of mare’s milk, rabbit’s blood, and sheep’s urine. Catherine’s sterility was torture to her.

  But the young queen was not alone. Henry’s lifelong mistress, Diane de Poitiers, never bore him a child, even though she was already a mother of two. Though she remained an exceptional beauty throughout her life, Diane was nineteen years Henry’s senior, well past peak fertility at the time their love affair began. She knew Henry better than anyone, even Catherine, who was atrociously envious of the king’s mistress. Diane’s advice was that Henry and Catherine should make love à levrette, in the style of a greyhound bitch. She likely suspected that Catherine was perfectly capable of getting pregnant, and her advice was not unfounded: she knew that Henry’s genitalia were misshapen, from a condition known to doctors as hypospadias, in which the urethra develops abnormally. But then, Diane was not the only person to know of Henry’s affliction. As one seventeenth-century biographer put it:

  It is sufficient to say that the cause [of infertility] was solely in Henri II… nothing is commoner in surgical experience than such a malformation as the prince’s, which gave rise to a jest of the ladies of the court.

  The odd position of the opening of Henry’s urethra appears to have twisted his penis into a downward curve. Chances are that he simply couldn’t get the royal semen to where it needed to be. Yet, Catherine got the blame.

  Throughout human history, our understanding of how babies are made has been draped in layers of myth and assumptions, many quite heavily stained by the politics of gender. Human dissection was taboo for most of recorded history, and effective microscopes would not be fabricated until the seventeenth century. For millennia, it was not easy to figure out what was really going on inside a pregnant woman’s body, which made it much easier to assume that what was happening there was either miraculous or meaningless.

  Fertility appears to have been among the earliest concerns of the earliest humans. In Bronze Age societies, these reproductive affairs were viewed simply: by some form of magic, a woman grew large, and out of her body came a child. It was women, not men, who were worshipped as the givers of life; women who were placed on a pedestal for their seemingly miraculous powers. Some of the very earliest objects of worship found by archaeologists working around the Mediterranean are wide-hipped, corpulent-bellied, ample-breasted figures: unmistakably female. In some cases, these figures appear to have once held opium-rich poppy heads – an invaluable panacea, often used to ease the excruciating pains of childbirth. One such statue, carved from mammoth ivory, has been dubbed the Venus of Hohle Fels; discovered in 2008, it is thirty-five thousand years old, the oldest known figurine representing any human form. These early artworks, and the Venus of Hohle Fels in particular, emphasize our external sexual organs, that is, how sex works, superficially.

  The next great breakthroughs in exploring the mechanics of sex are found housed in the archives of Tehran University. There, the catalogue lists one of the few remaining manuscripts of the Kitab al-Hayawan, or Book of Animals, by the ninth-century Muslim scholar al-Jahiz – a document too delicate for any but the most circumspect of scholars to handle. In this great work describing hundreds of animal species, al-Jahiz included a volume, then only recently translated into Arabic, entitled On the Generation of Animals by the philosopher Aristotle. Aristotle’s tract had been salvaged from near oblivion by the physician Thabit ibn Qurra, who wrote widely on medicine, astronomy, and mathematics. Al-Jahiz and Thabit were part of a group of medieval Islamic thinkers who, through the darkest ages of European science, preserved, utilized, and developed the medical ideas that had been elaborated centuries earlier by the Greek masters – Hippocrates, Plato, Aristotle, and Galen. Thus, when in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries Western Europe emerged into the Renaissance, the biological concepts they resurrected belonged squarely in the third century BCE – including the belief that reproduction was predominantly a male affair.

  This idea was not a completely new one, even in the third century. The Egyptians and the Indians as far back as the fourteenth century BCE described a man’s contribution as the seed sown in the fertile ground of a woman’s body. The great Greek dramatist Aeschylus, in his tragedy The Eumenides from 485 BCE, defines a parent as ‘he who plants the seed. The mother is not the parent of that which is called her child but only nurtures the new planted seed that grows.’ Even following that line of thought, men and women should have held the same reproductive value, because women were, in theory, still required. But a parent was the person who planted the seed, which meant a woman could only play the role of nurse.

  Aristotle was the son of a doctor, so he may have been familiar with these common conceptions long before he attended Plato’s Academy in Athens to study philosophy and science. Around the time of his teacher’s death, in 347 BCE, Aristotle moved to Assos, in Turkey, to set up his own school, and then moved on to the neighbouring island of Lesbos, where he became tutor to the son of King Philip II of Macedon, later Alexander the Great. Inspired by Aristotle’s teachings, Alexander was inclined towards medicine, but he eventually preferred conquering the world. Once his teaching assignment was fulfilled, the master returned to A
thens and sat down to complete his book on the animals. In it, he covered a massive amount of ground, including the origin of sperm, the causes of pregnancy and infertility, and the purposes of menstruation and lactation.

  From the outset it was clear to Aristotle that semen was the male contribution to making a baby. In trying to pinpoint the female equivalent, he landed on menstrual blood. In Aristotle’s well-honed reasoning, both ejaculation and menstruation appeared during adolescence. He also observed, perhaps from home experiments, that after repeated ejaculation semen became bloody; thus, like a woman’s monthly period, semen, too, must be made out of blood. As far as Aristotle was concerned, each animal could only have one kind of bodily fluid from which to make babies. Because the female had bleeding, she could not have semen – or something else that contributed to the creation of children.

  However it was that Aristotle conducted his research, he was aware that a woman didn’t just bleed; she could at times also release a clear fluid during sex. He resisted the idea that this fluid might contribute to reproduction in the way that semen did, since the part of the woman that experienced pleasure from sexual contact was not the part from which this fluid was released. In any case, if a woman had her own semen, then she really should be able to make babies without a man, a hypothesis for which he had no evidence – at least not in humans.

  He suspected some female animals could have babies without males, and noticed some animals had no males or females, that is, no sexes at all. But Aristotle may have worked out this theory by observing animals in which it is extremely difficult to tell the males and females apart, just by eye. For instance, some vultures, where the males and females have identically coloured feathers so that the sexes appear exactly the same, as opposed, say, to peacocks and peahens, where the sex is very evident.