Book Review: Mad Honey

Mad Honey
Jodi Picoult and Jennifer Finney Boylan
2022

 Spoiler Alert: Please read the book before this blog entry.

No one opens for Springsteen. When you achieve rock star status, you don't need it. And Jodi Picoult is a literary rock star.

I attended the first stop on the authors' Mad Honey tour in Madison CT. First Congregational Church was packed to the rafters with long-time JP enthusiasts. Before the event began, everyone around me was chatting about their favorite novel, the rumored return of a character from a previous book, and what they knew/didn't know about beekeeping. They tried to included me, but I had to admit I'd never read a Picoult novel.

"So why are you here then?"

"I'm a fan of her co-author, Jenny Boylan."

"Her what now? Jodi doesn't have co-authors. Are you sure you're in the right place?"

I held up my signed copy of the book, pointing to the name.

"See? Jennifer Finney Boylan. She's one of the leading voices for transgender advocacy. She's written a few memoirs; She's Not There is very important to me."

"Huh. Hadn't even noticed her name there."

By the end of the evening's discussion, the Picultists were committed fans of Boylan, won over by her candor, wit, and heart.

The Mad Honey elevator pitch: a trans girl (Lily) is murdered. Her boyfriend (Asher) is arrested for the crime. The boy's mother (Olivia) must decide whether or not to believe her son.

This is slippery ground. For a long stretch in the 80s and 90s, queer representation in pop culture was more often than not as The Victim. Consider the film Philadelphia, Rod Stewart's The Killing of Georgie, Wanda in The Sandman, Tara on Buffy, or an infinite number of Law & Order episodes. 

These stories were better than the hateful stereotypes or complete erasures of previous generations. But they weren't our stories, told by us. Mad Honey is, thanks to Boylan. Chapters alternate between Lily (whose story is told in reverse) and Olivia's (whose tale is told front-to-back). The Lily chapters are full of insights and observations that a cis reader might not have considered before.

It's a storytelling conundrum. Transwomen are killed for being transwomen at an alarming rate. That needs to be acknowledged and brought into the spotlight. But as a narrative trope, I don't like seeing one more dead sister. I wasn't nearly as invested in the whodunnit as I was steeped in grief for Lily.

It made the book a challenge for me. People say of some novels, "I couldn't put it down." I found myself so sad at points that I had to convince myself to pick it back up. Lily's narrative was so compelling that I was risking vicarious depression. That's a compliment, by the way, JFB. 

The story hinges on an aspect of transness that I've yet to reconcile for myself: passing. Lily does; I don't. So I looked on with a mixture of envy and "You go, girl" as Lily started on puberty blockers, cross hormones, and was admitted early for bottom surgery. 

Passing has its privileges. You're unquestioned in your day-to-day. People unambiguously accept you as the gender you're presenting. It must be immensely satisfying to receive that sort of validation. To see 100% of who you are in the mirror.

Of course, passing comes with its own cost. If you're living stealth, do you have an obligation to tell anyone? Employers? Friends? Intimate partners? If you choose to do so, whenwherehowwhy? What happens when the wrong people find out? And how do you counter the mistaken belief that you've been lying, dissembling, trapping?

The prosecuting attorney builds a case based on trans-panic against Asher and the jury buys it because of course he was so angry at "the big reveal" that he killed her. We all saw Crying Game. He must have felt so betrayed. If she really loved him, she'd have disclosed immediately. Right? A trans story told by a cis attorney to a cis jury.

At one point, Olivia reaches out to a trans woman named Elizabeth to educate herself. Elizabeth doesn't pass, and Olivia is embarrassed to realize she considers Elizabeth "a subcategory of woman." I know how that feels. Lily, by contrast, was a delicate, vulnerable person pretransition. A cis person might be forgiven for thinking Lily's transition was destiny, whereas mine and Elizabeth's was just. . .awkward.

Toward the end of the book (the beginning of Lily's narrative) she and Olivia have a conversation during a long car ride. The topic is defining the term "woman." The definition is more elusive than you might think. Every attempt to be prescriptive is foiled by descriptive realities. And in that mass of Venn diagram circles I, and most transwomen live, every day.

Mad Honey was a powerful reminder that I need to resolve these questions of passing, sisterhood, and self-acceptance before I can expect others to understand me. 

postscript to all cisgender Jodi Picoult fans:

I apologize. Don't judge all trans women by my mistakes.

After finishing the novel, I posted to a JP fan site on Facebook that I wanted to do an episode of my podcast Transqat on the subject. "Especially if this was your first exposure to a trans character, I'm very interested in hearing your opinions. Did the book raise questions? Change your ideas?" I offered to set up a Zoom call for all and sundry.

I woke up the next day to a chorus of angry Picultist comments:

"Thanks for spoiling the book, you %$#&!"

"I was only on chapter two. Now I probably won't even finish it."

"Trans women hate fiction!! Let's ban them from libraries and book stores before they recruit children to spoil things!"

Management humbly regrets the error. The appropriate people have been sacked.