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 A GUY WHO WAS A TEST-TUBE BABYINTERVIEW BY SARAH STEINBERG PHOTO BY GUILLAUME SIMONEAU Around 30 years ago, some guy jerked off into a cup and the sperm was frozen until a team of doctors dethawed it and injected it into some lady’s egg that was in a petri dish or something. When the egg started to split into cells, they shoved it back into the lady’s womb with like a turkey baster or at least a medical instrument that is not unlike a turkey baster. And then, voilà! Jayce Newton was born. He’s a real, live test-tube baby! Vice: Did you always know that you were the product of artificial insemination, or did you just think that your father wasn’t around? Jayce Newton: I knew that my mother and father were probably never in the same room together. Why did your mom choose artificial insemination? Is she a man-hating lesbian? No, but she had trouble connecting with people, especially with men. And I think there was an element of feminism, too. She had a career and she wanted a child but she didn’t need any other variables. So was she able to customize you? No. There was no science to manipulate genes back then. But she gave the doctor a list of certain traits that she wanted from the donor and they selected his sperm based on those preferences. She wanted me to be the same ethnic background as her, Irish and Scottish, she wanted me to have a high IQ, and she wanted me to be tall. Did she get what she asked for? I mean, you’re white so that’s probably the Scotch-Irish thing nailed.  I’m white, yes. And how tall are you? Six feet. Not bad, not bad. What’s your IQ? 159. Pretty smart. But have you always been so open about the fact that you were made in a laboratory? No. In fact I lied about it to every person I knew for the first 27 years of my life. What did you tell everyone? That my father died in a car accident before I was born. I mean, I was a fat kid with glasses and braces. I didn’t really feel the need to add another target to my back. What did your friends say when you finally told them? I think they all knew something was up. My car-accident story was kind of fishy. Nearly everyone thought my mom was a maverick lesbian who went out and scored a dude just to get his seed and then raised me how she wanted to. That’s pretty much what happened except for the lesbian part. Do you know who your father is? I have no idea whatsoever and I’m not sure if I want to know. If the donor’s sperm was used with any other women and I have any half brothers or sisters I think I’d like to meet them, but in terms of meeting him I don’t have any deep longing or anything. Could you find out who he is if you wanted to? I made a half-assed attempt to contact the clinic once. I think they’re obliged to give me whatever information they have, but the thing is that at the time of my conception this stuff was so new that I don’t think they kept great records. I could pick up the phone tomorrow and maybe I could find out but I just don’t feel compelled to. These days sperm banks are pretty selective about their donors. Was the one that you’re from selective, or do you think they let homeless junkies covered in scabs donate their seed too? I don’t know. My father might have just been trying to make a quick buck. I know they recruited undergrad and graduate students from UCLA. They still do. I went to UCLA and they try to recruit there all the time. How much money were they offering? Enough to pay for beer for the semester. A few hundred or something. Would you ever do it? Shit, I’ve thought about it. I needed cash in college. But if I ever have children I’d like to know who they are. Do you think a sperm donor should have rights? If he doesn’t like the way a clinic conducts its business then he can just not jerk off into the cup. Sperm donors don’t need rights. Would you rather have an absent junkie father who spent most of his life in a halfway house or a non-dad such as you have? A non-dad. That’s preferable? Yeah, then there’s no bogeyman to blame. I prefer to have nothing to go on. At this age I’ve learned to be accountable for myself and I appreciate that. Do you really have no interest in meeting your father or is that just a cover-up because you’re scared of breaking down in tears at his feet? I really don’t care. How could you not? Because it’s all about nurture. If my mother had put me up for adoption in Bombay, I’d be Hindi. I’d speak Hindi, and I would feel like I was an Indian. But you wouldn’t be. Sure, OK. But conveniently I was raised in America where I didn’t feel out of place. I grew up, I have my own views, and there was no father present for that, so how could meeting him reveal anything about me? I’m already grown.
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