I love lunches with Martika. When she’d come to work for me, I was the first real-life homosexual she’d ever met. I’ve tried to represent my subspecies well.
She is a shy Indian woman with a wide-eyed interest in all things different than her marriage and family life. She wondered how other ‘families’ worked.
“Can I be your,” she said, pausing to get her words right, “fag hag?”
I chortled, telling her that fag hag wasn’t the most complimentary of terms, and how about we just be friends. In giving her a spotlight into what it means to be a gay american, I learned more about myself and a history of my community. It boils down to I’m here, I’m queer, and let’s not make a big fuss about it. That we could be friends without my sexuality being a constant pivot point.
Martika recently started watching RuPaul’s Drag Race. Other than admitting that in drag I look like Barbara Streisand on a drunken night out, I don’t have much guidance for her.
That was until she asked, “Who is Barbara Streisand?”