I’ve tried to hash out a proper way to discuss how my mom and I discussed sex, and I quickly realized that I can’t do so because we never discussed sex that way. My mom, compared to some other South Asian moms, might be seen as a little bit more “liberal” or “progressive” or any of those terms used to define people who aren’t fixed in conventional (by Eurocentric standards) norms.
I remembered the first time my mom mentioned a condom to me. I was 12, and she just finished watching a show on the Food Network. She made a remark about how this guy should’ve worn a condom if he didn’t want kids. I didn’t ask her what a condom was or anything to follow up with the remark, but I picked up from my peers that a condom is something put on a penis to hold in ejaculatory fluids to prevent a pregnancy. Simple in theory, difficult in practice.
A few years later, in our sporadic conversations about high school and my friends, my mom mentioned that a guy would get “hard” when he wanted to fuck or that the “moment” can last for more than a moment. She also mentioned that if I ever got pregnant, that, despite being shit broke, she would try to support me during my pregnancy and her grandchild. No mention of abortion or adoption, but I picked up later on that she is not a fan of either option.
Though my mom said she’d support me during a teen pregnancy, she was never explicit in whether I could date or fuck premaritally. I never mentioned guys to her since I learned that every guy I mentioned would end up being a potential husband in her eyes, even if he was just a guy I had no interest in dating or fucking. Back in high school, while marriage was the last thing on my mind, sex wasn’t. I wanted to give my mom a head’s up that I probably will end up fucking premaritally.
In the 11th grade, I mentioned that I wanted to fuck premaritally. She was pretty pissed, as she always thought I would abstain from sex until marriage like she did. She remarked on men treating women like shit and how men, especially South Asian or Muslim, would never “value” me if they figured out I’d fucked outside of marriage.
I told my mom that I didn’t care what men thought about me, that I could take care of myself, and she dropped the conversation. I never had any formal sex education in school or at home, but managed to find free condoms at an event and always had a couple on hand – just in case.
The condoms ended up being pretty useless, as I ended up not fucking in high school because I didn’t feel ready.
And so, I went to college, destined to be in STEM and be the prodigal child for the family.
Though I never called myself a feminist since I always thought it was for white women only, I stumbled across a feminist center on campus and started to read about sexual health on my own time. Within the first few months in college, I learned that emergency contraception, consent, and healthy relationships exist as terms, and I was pretty intrigued.
In addition, in my first year, I struggled much academically, emotionally, physically, and culturally.
The summer after my first year in college, I really decided to reflect on all the shit that happened and plan next steps. I did enjoy reading about sexual health, but could I do this forever? Could I start talking to people about sex, sexual health, parenting options, intersections of race and everything else in relation to sexual health, and reproductive justice?
I wasn’t sure, but I took a leap outside of my comfort zone started volunteering with organizations working with sexual health, reproductive health, reproductive justice, and women of color.
Four years later, I still haven’t told my mom about my work in these fields since I’m not sure how she’ll take it. Will she be shocked that I explain lube options? Disappointed that I advocate against racist sex-selective abortion bans? Concerned that I discuss healthy relationship behaviors? Surprised that I fight for culturally appropriate and medically accurate comprehensive sex education?
I’m still thinking about how to discuss my life with her, one story at a time.
Sadia Arshad is a member of NAPAWF Atlanta and is trying to navigate all things sexual, racial, and maternal.
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