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On Being a Fag Hag
by Margaret Cho
Interact
Bent Lit 101
Starstruck
Also on PlanetOut
An interview with Margaret Cho
Margaret Cho on Starstruck
More queer books
I'm the One That I Want
The movie
Get the book!
I am fortunate enough to have been a
fag hag for most of my life. A fag hag
is a woman who prefers the company
of gay men. The marriage of two
derogatory terms, fag and hag,
symbolizing the union of the world's
most popular objects of scorn,
homosexual and woman, creates a
moniker that most of those who wear it
find inoffensive, possibly because it
smacks of solidarity.
Some women have come to me
urgently expressing their desire for a
new name. Countless fruit flies, queen
magnets and even a swish dish or two
have begged me to reconsider the title
of such an important entity. While no
woman wants to be thought of as a
"hag," you must acknowledge that the
gay man in your life is not concerned with your youth and
beauty. He wants to know your soul. He loves you for your
courage and intellect. Whether you are lovely or plain, you
are beautiful to him for these qualities -- and many more.
Similarly, most of the homosexuals I know bristle at the
word "fag." It conjures up images of awkward, limp-wristed
adolescence, of the taunts and catcalls of bullying jocks
who are insecure in their own sexuality, all too willing to
lash out to mask their fear.
But when you put these two words together, they seem to
cancel each other out. The pain vanishes, and as you
know, bees without sting offer only pure honey.
As a teenager, I found myself drawn to the slight,
sensitive young men in my theater group, perhaps
because they reminded me distantly of my beloved Forbes
and Dante. High school was a dangerous place, and my
search for sanctuary led me to gay men once again, even
if they didn't yet know their own sexual identities. Or
maybe they did know and just weren't telling. The only
thing that mattered was that we found each other. If you
are a gay man, think back on the girl you took to the
prom. She was your first fag hag.
I was a loud, fat girl, and saw as my natural companion
the fey, lithe boy. We were both scared. Thank God we
met.
Growing up, getting older, shedding baby fat for womanly
curves, my fag, Berry, watched me burst forth from my
fleshy cocoon, and I was suddenly seen by the world as
the butterfly he always knew me to be.
I heard his voice get deeper, saw his long limbs become
corded with lean muscle. His lips, once hesitant and shy,
blossomed sweetly, confident and ready. When we walked
down Castro Street together, longing looks would be cast
his way, and I saw he was beginning to return them.
We never went home with anyone back in those baby
days. We just stayed with each other, watched John
Waters movies late into the night, daydreamed while
listening to Roxy Music's "Avalon," cut each other's bangs
and talked about Madonna and what we'd do when we left
school and all the bullshit behind.
Berry cried in my arms after he told his family he was gay,
and he let me throw things and break them when I was
rejected by my first boyfriend because his friends thought
I was too fat.
We sneaked into the gay hustler bars on Polk Street and
laughed as the chickens and the chicken hawks cruised
each other and ignored us. We dressed each other up and
took pictures. When we both got lovers, we weren't
jealous. We grew up, but we didn't grow apart. When Berry
was gay-bashed on Market Street, greeting me the next
morning with a black eye and a smile on his face, he tried
to make the best of it, dismissing the whole thing as,
"Truly funny, if you really think about it," but I knew that it hurt him more than he could say.
When my parents told me they hated me because I was a
failure at everything, Berry baked me a cake, made me a
mixed tape and loved me madly.
Berry and I dressed more and more alike as we got older.
We told everyone we were brother and sister, but it is
almost as if we were closer than that.
We both tended to pick boyfriends who cared little about
us, which makes me glad that we had each other to love.
We are friends even now, in what seems like a lifetime
later. We grew together, grew apart, then together again.
We still love to make dinner together and talk about the
days when everything was new and life was so exciting
because it was just beginning.
If this relationship sounds familiar to you, it is very likely
that you are a fag hag. We are from all walks of life, all
classes, all ages, all races; straight, lesbian and
somewhere in between. We are as diverse as we are
numerous. The common bond that we share is our alliance
with gay men, a connection that is both nurturing and
powerful, sweet and sour, retail and wholesale.
Although our fag hag experiences vary greatly, there are
generalizations that can be made. Fag hags usually make
all the plans and see that they are carried out in a manner
that pleases both the fag and the hag equally. This is
because most of us have a knack at organizing and
mobilizing. We are leaders and keep our troops in line.
Fag hags like to be the center of attention. It is ironic that at a gathering of men, coming together for the sole
purpose of meeting one other, they will all spend the
better part of their evening hanging on the only woman's
every word.
Unfortunately, this situation does not last. By the end of
the party, a fag hag often finds herself alone in the room,
in the midst of the overflowing ashtrays and half-finished
drinks, deserted by all her admirers -- who have paired off
to admire each other. This brings us to the next fag hag
rule of thumb: We always drive ourselves to events, and
for the most part, we enjoy going home alone. I suppose
it could be looked at as a depressing end to an evening,
but I find it joyous. I love to sleep in bed alone, tossing
my body in slumber every way I can, waking up without
having to kiss some sour mouth or awkwardly realizing I
have no idea whom that sour mouth belongs to.
I can carry on with plans I made for brunch without having
to consult or bring along the "trick." I don't have to gauge
his expression to see whether our drunken episode
resulted in a fight and try to gauge his mood. I don't have
to dress quietly and duck out the back door or learn a new
language. Tricks are always much more trouble than they
are worth. That is why, every Halloween, when I am asked
"Trick or Treat," I always err on the side of chocolate. Yes, it's true. I do live in paradise.
Fag hags, contrary to the wisdom of popular culture, are
not "beards." The term "beards" refers to the complicit
relationships between some women and gay men, wherein
they pretend, for the "benefit" of family and sometimes
employers, that they are a conventional straight couple.
This is so that they might enjoy the "status" of being
"normal" heterosexuals.
I find this a violation, a travesty and an aberration of the
fag hag/fag relationship. However, I do not wish to judge
those who find themselves in the kind of predicament that
requires such a facade. It is not their fault, but the fault of the ignorance of those around them. In my world, honesty
rules above all and the truth helps everyone. So have a
beard if you must, but I would prefer that you be
clean-shaven.
We fag hags love drama and are skilled thespians on the
stage of life. We also crave scandal and gossip. Be
warned, we don't keep secrets, we harvest them. Of
course, we do know when and where loyalty is required,
and in these cases, we are true to our beloved. Bitchiness
is always appreciated, and insulting others behind their
back is a favorite pastime. This is a way for us to repay
the world for the way we are treated. Women and gay men
have long been considered second-class citizens by the
dominant culture. How do we keep our strength? By talking
shit about those who think they can oppress us. Herewith
one caveat given me by a particularly elegant and
flamboyant gentleman: "Fight fire with flame!" Do not
underestimate the power of our wagging tongues. Cross
us and you will get burned, not licked.
Most of us like to shop and love to be taken to lunch at a
restaurant in a department store. Not the food court, mind
you. We are still ladies, regardless of how we behave at
times.
I still lobby for a "Fag Hag Day," when we might be shown
the gratitude we deserve en masse. We are important. We
are the backbone of the gay community and, as such,
should be honored! Consider that there are holidays as
innocuous as "Secretary's Day" -- with special greeting
cards to celebrate them. What might a "Fag Hag Day" card
look like? Possibly a photograph of a winsome young man
in an evening gown, with a darling bit of verse at the
bottom: You have stuck by me now and then,
Even though you know I like men.
We are so close, my sweet fag hag,
Sometimes I think you are me in drag!
Gentle reader, if you wish to join us, I bid you "Welcome"
with open arms and an arched eyebrow. Let it be known,
however, that this is certainly a profession that chooses
you. Many of us did not plan to become fag hags, we just
looked around one day and realized that was what we
were. Others aspired to greatness, and then greatness
materialized around them in the form of a group of cute
advertising executives spending Labor Day Weekend on
Fire Island.
The fastest way to become a fag hag, if you are so
inclined, is to get a job as a makeup artist, but this is not
practical or realistic for most. (I do not offer the perfect
solutions, only the ones I know work.) Another is to
become a grand dame of the stage and screen. For
myself, this route has been most rewarding. This way, I
can "hag" as many "fags" as I like, and bring to the world
this kind of love story that is so common, yet so often
overlooked.
Whatever road you take, when you get there, be good to
the men in your life and let them take care of you. Know
that what you have is precious and holy. Remember,
regardless of sexual orientation, men and women will
always need each other.
So if you've nothing nice to say, go sit next to the cutest,
most elegantly dressed and well-mannered guy at the
party. He will appreciate it, I promise.
Excerpted from "I'm the One That I Want" by Margaret Cho. Copyright 2001 by Margaret Cho. Excerpted by permission of Random House, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights
reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or
reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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