Fag Hag: Friend or Foe?

Chris Blondell of G Philly, the gay oriented supplement of Philadelphia Magazine, recently posted an article entitled Your Fruit Fly is Not Your Friend, and I've been struggling with how to take it. To be fair, G Philly has done an outstanding job of diversifying the once Main Line centric Philadelphia Magazine and its writers don't shy from coloring outside the lines. Your Fruit Fly is Not Your Friend is no exception.

While the article is more rant than journalism, Blondell makes valid points that have been echoed throughout Philadelphia's Gayborhood for years. Thanks to exponential leaps in equality and acceptance, having a gay man at brunch is the new black cocktail dress. We're a must-have. And that's where Blondell nails it.

The concept isn't new, but accessorizing your entourage with a token gay has become exacerbated, especially in more progressive cities. Ever since Will and Grace and Sex and the City, every hot chick has only been as hot as her hottest (i.e. most flaming) gay. But it hasn't always been that way, and I think that Blondell falls short in ignoring the impact women have had in our very own, often violently unpopular, fight.

Things happened fast for us gays. About twenty years ago, Seinfeld treaded into risky territory by simply saying, "not that there's anything wrong with that." Today we have our own cable network. Like Latin music in the 90s, being gay is trendy and the trendiest of people want one of us in our corner. But being trendy isn't acceptance. Being trendy means being a stereotype. 

We like shopping. We worship Lady Gaga. And we live for the next cat fight on the latest Real Housewives abomination. Personally, I hate shopping. Most of my clothes come from Modell's. I listen to Matchbox 20 and Train, and I can't stand reality television.

The fruit flies that Blondell is referring to, the ones who dragged Green Eggs Cafe and Nest into my Gayborhood, are not my friends. But while these particular women may choose to stereotype my community as two dimensional cartoons, it's important not to stereotype our allies in two dimensions as well. Blondell mentions the distinction between allies and "fruit flies," but I wish he had expanded on it because the women who fought for our rights and stood beside us long before it was popular deserve the space in Blondell's article far more than the women who drove me out of Tavern on Camac last Friday night.

As pejorative as it sounds, "fag hag" never had a bad meaning to me. When I was coming out of the closet in 1995, these were the women who stood by me when sodomy was still illegal, when I could have been expelled from my college for being gay, when my home state actively refused to serve alcohol to "known homosexuals." These women risked as much as I did, just to be my friend. And to this day - through marriages, divorce, children - these women are still my closest friends, friends that my own family treats as family.

While the fruit flies of today, the Gucci clad girls twerking at Woody's, pale in comparison to the fag hags that sat beside us as we cried in our dorm rooms, there is still a mutual sense of validation between two insecure parties. Despite headways in gay rights, women are still a cultural minority, one that has digressed from Tori Amos and Fiona Apple to Mylie Cyrus and Ke$ha. 

As tedious as it may seem to brunch with these fruit flies, or even tolerate them on the dance floor, it's hard to criticize a demographic held to even more unrealistic standards than our own. Perhaps they're not seeking to stereotype us, but rather to identify with a sympathetic ear, one that understands prejudice. 

Many women played a vital role in helping us through the 80s and 90s simply because they were good people. Maybe it's time we stop and listen, read between the lines about shopping and divas, and really hear why these women have sought solace in us.