Honey No. 18

Feat. a current ankle sprain, a misremembered childhood injury, and engaging with gender with kids

Happy Sunday friends! How’s everybody doing today? My large news of the week is that I sprained my ankle in a way that was almost offensively casual- it was Tuesday. I was having a morning that was so deliciously pleasant. The sun was shining, I had the morning to myself to journal and chill, and was heading to a barre class for the first time in a minute. It was one of the first warm-warm days we’ve had in LA this season, and I threw on a pair of hand-me-down Birks that were a little too big but hey, I was wearing socks 😎. At the end of the class, the teacher pulled one of my favorite LA tricks and said, PLEASE, my citrus tree is just BURSTING with fruit, you just HAVE to take some, that’s how you’ll HELP me, and I said don’t mind if I do and gathered 7 or 8 juicy oranges to contribute to my loaded fruit bowl at home. Leila called me on my walk home and when she asked how I was doing I said, I am just having the BEST day. I got to journal this morning, the sun is shining, I’m just leaving a barre class, and then I stumbled in my Birks where the sidewalk dipped into a driveway and now I can’t put any weight on my left foot. Wednesday was Jesse driving me to different urgent cares to get x-rays (no break!) and petite crutches (xs!), and since then I’ve mostly been resting/doing small business on the couch with my foot propped up on a mountain of pillows. The great news is my foot doesn’t hurt at all! The annoying news is that the rest of my body does from crutching around hither, thither and yon.

On the first night of my injury I was feeling so frustrated- in a city and career that require so much waiting, I was exasperated at the prospect of adding more patience to the mix. What am I supposed to be doooooing, I ached, what is it trying to get me to do!! Jesse encouraged me to maybe chill out on the extrapolated think piece of it all for a second, and so now, from a place of great acceptance and peace, I would like to tell you about an injury from another tremendous moment of my life.

Until next time, “meaning of ankle injury.”

The year is 1996 and the occasion is Passover. My mom’s side of the family is Jewish and while none of the eldest 5/8 cousins (aka the only ones of us who were alive during this time) were raised with religion, our family still wanted us to have access to this touchstone of our heritage. We would gather for the occasional Hanukkah, a family friend’s bar mitzvah here and there, but the times we gathered for Passover stand out as an exciting childhood memory because 1. I always got a speaking role, aka got to read the four questions, and 2. Though my eldest cousin Julia literally always found the afikomen, the rest of us losers got the enticing consolation prize of a fistful of our grandpa’s loose change. A moment in the spotlight and a handful of coins? What wasn’t to love!

As I’ve mentioned before, I was lucky enough to grow up in the same town as the three cousins present at this dinner, and was particularly starstruck by my two older cousins, Julia and Ned. As the oldest child of my nuclear family, I relished the feeling of having older “siblings” to look up to, to be in awe of, to be scared shitless of. And an older “sister” in particular? Give me a freaking break. Julia got her ears pierced when she was 10, so I got my ears pierced when I was 10. Julia chose the clarinet when we picked an instrument in 4th grade, so I chose the clarinet when we picked an instrument in 4th grade. Julia whispered invented rumors about the rest of our family to me, gave me my first bloody nose, never let me find the afikomen, and could do no wrong in my eyes. I loved her immensely.

On this night, our Passover seder of 1996, my cousins and I were playing on the large wooden deck off of our grandparents’ kitchen. Julia and Ned had taught me and the rest of the little cousins about a brand new game from elementary school called “monkey in the middle,” aka the repeated physical embodiment of what it feels like to be left out. The three youngest cousins took turns trying to join in on the big kids’ game of catch- an achievable goal in the sport, they assured us- when all of a sudden the ball went careening off the side of the deck, down into the greenery below. One of my older cousins scampered down the stairs to retrieve it and, once it was secured, launched it as hard as they could back up to our playing field. Having been denied the chance to actually catch a ball all night, I was dead set on pawing that thing, and kept my eyes on the tiny prize as I backed up blindly across the deck until I eventually ran backwards into my grandma’s plants- my knee making distinct contact with a terracotta pot that shattered with my fall.

I remember being overcome by an immense state of calm- not panic, not even pain, just an eerie sense of serenity and the urge to get a grown-up. I quietly excused myself from the game of torture, and beelined towards the adults still lounging at the dining table, murmuring to my mom that I thought something might be wrong. After a quick glance at my right knee she referred me to a specialist just a few chairs down aka my aunt Jane- the dedicated tooth-puller of our family who didn’t flinch at the sight of blood- to ask her what she thought. With a quick, assessing scan Jane announced that I’d be needing stitches, which is when the pain finally hit and I began to cry.

The family quickly organized into emergency mode and it was decided that four of us could go to the hospital: me (the injured), my mom (the guardian), Aunt Jane (the guerilla medic), and one lucky, lucky cousin. This part is true. But in my dramatic, child memory, the selection process for contestant #4 is heightened to a place that other eye witnesses might call into question. At this point, in my memory, all of the cousins lined up and told me why they would be the most qualified to accompany me to the emergency room. Time slowed down as they each made their case- a concussion here, a dislocated shoulder there- but it was only when I heard that Julia had previously broken her arm did I know that I would be in safe, qualified hands. This was a completely objective decision based on nothing other than her relevant experience and proficiency in the field. With the wisdom she had gleaned from getting a cast put on her little arm one time she, a 9-year-old, would be able to guide me, a 5-year-old through the medical system without a hitch.

I got four stitches in my right knee that Passover, and couldn’t bend my leg for weeks. As far as I can recall, Julia never mentioned our hospital visit, but I like to think my bravery, perseverance, and unbiased selection of her as my child-guide made an impression on her. It had to. We still talk.

Me and Julia, one year before our stint at hospital.

The Doctor Was a Woman

Emma Pope is a fabulous actor/writer/comedian who has probably made you laugh online. And if she hasn’t, you haven’t seen her! You can find her @emmerpope across all social media, please and thank you!

I’ve been thinking lately about a quote that I can’t find. Is this a good way to start an essay? It (the quote) says something about how the world doesn’t need another Gandhi, but that it needs everyone to do their part in the spaces they occupy. Rather than contort ourselves to align with an image of an activist, what are ways we can move the needle forward within our own communities? In the face of a mudslide of anti trans legislation and just a general spew of nonsensical hardening around the gender binary, I’d like to offer a simple suggestion that I believe could have a tremendous impact on how kids grow up to understand gender.

I worked with kids for 20 years, and have had the pleasure of watching how malleable children are in the way they see the world. (also malleable in a more literal sense, i.e. casually jumping off a high swing onto the ground in a position that would have left me immoble for days). Children’s media (books, tv, toys, etc.) are filled with characters that lean heavily male and typically very predictably gendered. Lately, I have made a habit out of assigning unpredictable genders for characters. I will often use pronouns that seem opposite of what you might expect. If there is a masculine looking doctor in a coloring book, for example, I might use “she” pronouns and give her a feminine name. If a cartoon turtle with long eyelashes and a pink bow appears on a toy box, I might say “there’s the papa turtle, he’s looking for his babies!” After a few years of doing this, I’ve noticed that kids older than about three will usually correct my gender assignment. Younger than three: they do not care. That’s our sweet spot. Because in reality Who. Cares. The caring is taught, not inherent. The media machine works swiftly to teach kids what’s different about boys and girls and *extra credit: the space for girls on the page is much smaller. By introducing some wiggle room in perceived gender presentation, I believe we are doing a couple of important things:

1) We open up curiosity around other people’s gender in the place of assumption. If you have been told your whole life that a man looks a certain way, then when someone who doesn’t look that way identifies as a man, even the most accepting of us will have some rewiring to do. 

2) It reinforces to the kid that no matter what their gender is, they can present to the world however they want. They are allowed the freedom to explore how they feel and what they like, without rigid rules to work within (fun colors are for socks, boys, but don’t go nuts!).

The point of this suggestion is to actually do less work down the line, to cut out the middle man so to speak. We can skip the step of assuming, which then leads to being corrected, then getting defensive, then angry at ourselves, then (quickly) angry at the other person, then creating rules so that we don’t feel stupid and we don’t get “tricked” again. At its core, the “trans debate” (in quotes because debate is a pretend word here) is about power. As Alok Vaid-Menon writes in their book (and please do read their book: Beyond the Gender Binary): “Power can be defined as the ability to make a particular perspective seem universal.” The act of opening up our perspective, therefore, is revolutionary. And Revolutions (capital R) don’t all look the same. Some are riots in the streets, some are collective resistance, and some are about stories. Like the one about the bunny engineer in greasy overalls with a busted finger who worked on the railroad all day and night because the train was coming through the town very soon! Boy that work was hard. But she kept going. 

I’ll see you next Sunday my pals! Tomatomania was great, though it sounds like their launch weekend is the true tomato party, and Jesse and I have been gifted a bunch of new items for our outdoor space so it’s just getting better and better out there! We did a huge weed before I was a one-legged pony, and once I’m back on two feet I swear to god that garden is getting some LOVING!!

Hope it’s sunny in your world!

xx Olivia