Bindi Shah
“Why does your brother have an English name?” Hmmm, because my parents named him that? Wondering what this has to do with the adoption process.
“Ummm, that’s also an Indian name.”
“Oh.”
What does this mean? My parents chose my brother’s name; I’m pretty sure as a 22 month old, I had no say in the matter.
We continued, trying to ignore the uncomfortable ‘ick’ feeling. Focusing on the fact that we were desperate for this to work.
We wanted a child.
The identity questions came; the complexities of our heritage listened to, but not understood. Yes, I am a child of the British Empire – my grandparents born in British India; my parents born in British Kenya; me in British… England. Yes, I’m English and yes, I support the England team. A blank over her face as she sees my brown face and cannot comprehend what I’m saying.
But yet we continue. We yearn for this to work.
In the end they say no to our progression forward. My world collapses as I realise the enormity of this decision.
I would have no children.
Years later, I spoke to a social worker about the process, and she indicated numerous ways in which the correct procedure was not carried out. Too late by then to do anything about it, my dreams shattered years previously. The naive, hopeful couple who had gone so willingly into the process, long gone by then. In their place, a broken-by-life couple, emerging into the realities of this life.
And also on their way to a new path of life.
The adoption process was my moment of knowing that I would live a life without children. It was also the moment I realised that even though I was born in the UK, even though I was British, my experience of life was always going to be different to a white British person. Another layer to my childlessness story was added.
I always knew I would have a family. Culturally, it was expected that I would get married, have children, and have a successful career. I never questioned this ‘have it all’ attitude and how difficult that could be. My mother ‘had it all’, and I saw other successful women, and I naturally thought it would happen.
Once I started dating, I started seeing the signs of how difficult this would be. I’m not traditional, and was never brought up like that. So the young men I was attracted to, were also a bit different and usually a different culture from myself. I’m not sure if they realised it wouldn’t work, but I came up against non-commitment a lot. Was I the one to have fun with, to date; but not a serious relationship, not to get married to. Definitely not the one to bring home to the parents.
I started looking for someone from a similar cultural background to mine, in my 30s. This was one of the many complexities of being 2nd generation Asian heritage in the UK. I didn’t quite fit in anywhere, so began searching for someone similar who I could identify with a little bit more.
My heritage has definitely played a role in my childlessness. I know that there have been times during my health challenges, where my care may not have completely been what I needed. I hear this a lot, from all parts of society, so it is not something I can definitely note as being significant to the colour of my skin – but it is always something I wonder about. I do know that there have been studies into gynaecological care of Black and Asian women, which have shown that the level of care has been less than of their White counterparts.
Subconscious racial bias is something which I did encounter. In 2019, after months of an adenomyosis flare-up, I finally got a date for my hysterectomy.
I’d been to the department a lot during that time, but at the last appointment, I was questioned whether I live in the UK. I was taken aback. I had been there so many times, and my beige file was thick with papers. My NHS number was on my record, my home address, my place of birth, the dates of my previous appointments, the date of the hysterectomy which I had recently had. Yes, I said, giving my home address, which was right in front of them. I sat down, and noted that no other person was asked the same question.
Here I was, yet again, showing my naivety in another system. My identity and why I was here, being questioned.
Although my own history, and the way it is woven with British Empire history is something I have always known. The first time I went to Kenya to visit my grandparents, I was 9 months old. I celebrated my 1st birthday with aunts, uncles, and cousins I would never get to fully know – being brought up in a different country to them. I wouldn’t have the stories of going on holiday together, or weekend family gatherings. I was there for some milestones of weddings, and now too often the funerals. A lot of my extended family are in the UK now, it was always the ‘motherland’ - a strange notion to people not familiar with the concept of the Empire.
I am starting to explore my identity. I am embracing the depth of the whole of me. My identity, my heritage, my childlessness journey, my new acceptance of who I truly am. It is all connected.
I was recently on a Queen series call and I wore a bindi with my non-traditional ‘traditional’ crown. Both sides of my heritage coming through – my British part, and my heritage Asian part. I feel a freedom to explore the whole of me – a freedom which I haven’t felt previously.
Coming together in the childless community has helped me to find this freedom, to strengthen this voice. Being with others who are also disenfranchised in their voices, their grief, and the way a life is lived outside of traditional society, has supported me. I am finding my voice in this world, a deeper layer to my purpose, and discovering more of who I am.
I am a childless women of colour, with deep strength within me.
