I had a tense and antagonistic relationship with my mother when I was growing up. At the age of 16, I was sure that I would never speak to her again once I could move out of the house. We were too dissimilar: she, a methodical scientist and introvert; me, a free-spirited writer and extrovert. The tchotchkes around the house that gave her such joy made me want to scream, and the pop culture I adored seemed toxic and damaging to her feminist politics.
It took me many years and 3,000 miles of distance for me to realize my mother was not just a parent, but a person with life experiences of her own. While I thought that she was just trying to ruin my life (as teenagers are wont to believe), I realize now how she was trying to protect me from the trauma that she experienced when she was my age. Thankfully, we now have a deeply loving, playfully teasing relationship — not just as mother and daughter, but as friends.
And we got there thanks, in part, to porn.
Yes, that is an incredibly weird thing to say. So many people I know can barely talk to their parents about sex, or their queer identity, or their multiple partners, never mind their lives as sex workers. I've always been grateful that my mother encouraged me to ask any and all questions that my public schools couldn't answer — questions like, "Oh my god, are the lumps under my nipples cancer??" (No.) Or, "Does it make me less of a feminist if I fantasize about being dominated?" (No, not if that's what I really want.) That openness was valuable to me.
Still, I tried to hide my work in the porn industry from my mother. She's a second-wave feminist, so I grew up marching next to her at NOW rallies. By the time I was dabbling in the adult industry, I had read enough about the history of feminism to feel pretty confident that she would not welcome my "alternative lifestyle." I didn't feel very close to her at the time, and I certainly did not feel prepared to talk to her about this career choice. As I worked and blogged under a different name, I didn't think she would ever find out.
She did.
My mother emailed me to say she had discovered that I was doing sex work — and that I was using the name "Stryker," a family name with which my mother had a difficult relationship. My heart caught in my throat. Not only had I been caught doing sex work, which seemed against her feminist politics, but I was doing it using a name that she hated. I was sure I was about to get disowned.
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