Hedge Trimming Lesbian

The driveway of our 65th Avenue house was lined by a long row of Boxwood bushes. As a teacher, I have the weekends off and tasked myself with hedge trimming duty. I bought myself a beautiful hedge trimmer in anticipation of the task and marched outside on the first bright spring day ready to tackle my assignment.

In 1999 power tools weren't battery operated and I couldn't handle the weight of a gas-powered trimmer; therefore, I hauled out the 100-foot extension cord needed for the job. After attaching the cord to the new tool, I started it up and carefully trimmed the front of the fifty-foot length of shrubbery. I stood back to admire my work before starting on the top of the bushes and trimming my way back toward the garage.

Dressed in an old, faded flannel shirt, I couldn't help but revel in the sheer satisfaction of the moment. I felt like a proper lesbian holding the powerful electric hedge trimmer. It pulsed in my hands as I navigated the unruly bushes, transforming the overgrown chaos into one neat, manicured line. In this small yet empowering act, I connected with a sense of solidarity with all the women who proudly defy traditional norms. And then I made a massive mistake!

As an inexperienced lumber jack, I believed it was a good idea to wiggle through the branches to trim the back side of the bushes. Did I turn off the hedge trimmer while doing this? No, I did not. To make matters worse, I also placed my hand precariously on the blade guard over the warning stating "DO NOT PLACE HAND ON GUARD". Brilliant! Suddenly, a miscalculated twist sent me lurching forward with the trimmer still buzzing energetically in my grip. In that split second of awkwardness, my pinky finger became trapped in the scissoring blades. The sharp, stinging pain paralyzed me, and I stood frozen while the saw gnawed on the end of the digit. Finally, sense returned, and I tossed the trimmer onto the top of the bushes.

In shock, I scrambled into the house to grab a clean rag in which to wrap the injured finger. Rather than rushing to tell Ericka, I chose to sit quietly on the front porch, elevating my hand above my head in a futile attempt to stem the bleeding. I felt a strange mix of pride in my ability to endure pain and a deep-rooted fear of judgment for my carelessness. As minutes passed, I pondered the absurdity of my situation—here I was, attempting to maintain an air of calm while my pinky refused to stop bleeding. It became a game of patience, waiting for the right moment to confess my mishap and muster the courage to seek Ericka's help, all while the world continued its merry spin around me.

Finally, I told Ericka about my cut finger that just wouldn't stop bleeding. Rather than admonishing me for my carelessness, a wave of concern washed over her face. Although I felt a mix of embarrassment and anxiety, I surrendered to the reality of the situation and agreed with her suggestion to seek medical assistance. I drove myself to the emergency room and waited patiently for an available doctor.

Eventually, a young doctor walked into my sterile cubicle to assess the damage. I sheepishly recounted the placement of my hand on the blade guard, giggling nervously at my own stupidity. Instead of the sympathy I hoped for, I was met with a torrent of admonishment that made my cheeks burn with embarrassment. The doctor's stern face and unexpected shaming was almost as painful as the cut on my finger. I had always prided myself on being a strong, independent woman who could tackle any project, including landscaping with power tools. But instead of empowerment, I ended up feeling like a bad example of what a “model” lesbian should be.

After the doctor finished dressing my wound and delivering his unsolicited lecture on safety, I took a deep breath and gathered my thoughts. Sure, I had made a careless mistake, but that didn't define who I was. With a newfound resolve, I left the clinic and decided to turn this mishap into a lesson for myself and others. The shame I had clung to transformed into a rallying cry: we are all learning, we are all flawed, and that's perfectly okay. After all, being a “model” lesbian doesn't mean I have to be perfect; it means I embrace my authentic self, mistakes and all.

As the years progressed, I mastered many power tools while completing various DIY projects. I reclaimed my narrative—not just as a fierce lesbian but as a woman who turns challenges into growth, inspiring others to do the same. The cut on my finger healed, but the lessons learned in that moment shaped me into a more compassionate role model, proud of where I came from and excited for where I was going.