Abbi Jacobson and Ilana Glazer in Broad City (2014). Image: IMDb.com/Comedy Central
For me, like many others, 2020 was a real clusterfuck. A pandemic/break-up combo—two major life-transforming events, one personal and the other global, blowing up just days apart—left me, at the anxiety-inducing age of thirty-two, living on my mother’s couch with no job, no partner, deep in the depths of grief, and completely without direction. The strategies I might usually use to deal with a break-up—go out with friends and get drunk—became impossible overnight. Instead, I spent weeks lying in bed watching with mild interest as war raged between the despair that threatened to engulf me and the pre-packaged takeaway cocktails I recruited to keep it at bay.
The only thing that seemed to bring me comfort during those first few months was full re-immersion into one of the internet’s, and my own, most beloved shows, Broad City. I’ve probably watched the series five times through over the years, and what always draws me back is the uplifting, intimate friendship shared by main characters Abbi and Ilana, and their unabashed celebration of friendship. This time round it became my reason for, okay, not quite getting up, but at least waking up, in the morning. (Oh, and did I mention that one of the main characters is the spitting image of my ex?)
Theirs is a full-on, loved-up platonic romance, which sustains the women through those moments when life feels too hard and the world too senseless (2020, anyone?). It is a friendship founded on radical acceptance and unwavering, if a little misguided, devotion. What couldn’t you do, I thought, with a friend who sincerely believes that you are ‘the best artist this world has ever seen’, with the ‘ass of an ageless angel’, as Ilana reminds Abbi on the daily? In return, Abbi works tirelessly to save Ilana from the depths of melancholy, whether of the Seasonal Affective Disorder variety, or political (read: Trump era) despair.
What always draws me back to Broad City is the uplifting, intimate friendship shared by main characters Abbi and Ilana.
I began looking longingly at my own friendships, hoping to find that evasive antidote for the loneliness I was feeling. I found that, though I am lucky to have a small handful of close friends, my friendships didn’t feel intimate like the one I was watching—I did not completely feel that I belonged.
I found some answers during one late-night binge, which was really just a more covert way of asking Google ‘how to find a best friend’. On Oprah’s Soul Sessions, Dr Brené Brown explains that intimate friendship requires the following: that we communicate our boundaries and respect those of our friends; accept imperfection without judgment; own our mistakes; and do what it takes to rebuild. Perhaps most importantly, it demands integrity, which Brown defines as ‘choosing courage over comfort; choosing what’s right over what’s fun, fast or easy; and practicing your values, not just professing your values’. Crap, I thought, I suck at all of those!
I began to wonder: how might my relationships feel if I wasn’t afraid to show all the parts of me, including the parts that I think are ugly or unlovable? Could we collectively reconceive of the shapes friendship takes, and so make more room for all we have to offer one another? And, what kind of friendships might we build that are more equipped to serve us through new collective experiences such as pandemics and climate collapse?
This line of questioning opened the door to a fringe world of intimate friendships. Aminatou Sow and Anna Friedman are best friends, hosts of podcast Call Your Girlfriend, and have recently released their book, Big Friendship: How We Keep Each Other Close, a tale of what it really takes to have—and keep—deep friendship. Sow and Friedman are clear about the fact that supporting their relationship takes constant and conscientious work, communication, compromise, and even counselling. ‘At a cultural level, there is a lot of lip service about friendship being wonderful and important, but not a lot of social support for protecting what’s precious about it,’ they write. ‘Even deep, lasting friendships like ours need protection—and, sometimes, repair.’
What kind of friendships might we build to serve us through new collective experiences such as pandemics and climate collapse?
The thing about intimate relationships is that they require big compromises of us—of time, needs, and desires. They ask us to be tirelessly honest when we’d rather gloss over something, and to stay with difficult feelings instead of walking away. They demand we do the necessary work. They require commitment. We make these compromises not only because we want the other person in our lives, but because we want to share our authentic selves with them. We instinctively accept this of a romantic partnership, but how many of us experience this devotion in our friendships? It might not sound that radical but, looking around, I think that it is.
Confronted by the choice between courage and comfort, I often choose to take the easy road—to shrug it off or walk away. But that not only does an injustice to the relationship, it also stifles me. How many opportunities have I missed to talk about something that really matters, with someone who really matters? As I fangirled over Abbi and Ilana, and the generosity with which they give all of themselves to their friendship, it dawned on me: the quality of my friendships was not determined by what I was getting, but what I was giving.
So, I began a tentative experiment: becoming a Big Friend. That started with reaching out and asking for help, something that requires immense vulnerability and, to be honest, scared the hell out of me. Contrary to my expectations, my friends didn’t resent my neediness, and weren’t too busy to spend long hours debriefing the break-up.
As I fangirled over Abbi and Ilana it dawned on me: the quality of my friendships was not determined by what I was getting, but what I was giving.
I also began to show up for my friends in ways I hadn’t before. Instead of shying away from a difficult and potentially hurtful conversation about a friend’s self-destructive behaviour, I pointed out, lovingly, the patterns that were hurting her. Rather than being angry, she was grateful for my concern. To my amazement, my friendships did not fall to pieces around me. Instead, I found that being open, honest and prepared to sit with discomfort allowed my friendships to blossom and trust to deepen.
It is these moments of vulnerability, I realised, that help build Big Friendships.
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A few years ago, I was invited to the platonic ‘friend wedding’ of an old school friend to her bestie. At first, I was sceptical. Weddings, I felt, were an outdated mechanism of patriarchy that we misguidedly believe legitimise romantic partnerships. Why subject our friendships to this external valuation too? But I was curious to see what was motivating this lifelong, platonic commitment.
The ceremony was heartfelt and joyful, the two friend-brides running towards one another in slow-mo like a scene out of any hetero 90s rom-com. Later, the speeches recounted their years of friendship, and the unconditional love they had for one another was evident.
It surprised me how easily the sentiments of the speeches, the atmosphere of celebration and the ceremony of commitment transferred from the traditional wedding. This was friendship elevated to the level of importance, veneration and sentimentality that we typically reserve for romantic relationships.
A scene comes to mind of Ilana, casting around for the right words to adequately encapsulate her relationship with Abbi: ‘This is my… um, oh god… she’s my everything. But you know what, I’ll just boil it down to soulmate.’
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This past year we have come to understand the real weight of the word ‘isolation’. Changes to how we come together, socialise, and engage in community has illuminated a much deeper trend. Many of us report being lonelier than ever before, and levels of empathy and trust are decreasing—we are losing our capacity for connection.
Ilana and Abbi showed me that in deep friendship we can find that most precious thing: belonging.
But there is another way. As unfamiliar as it may seem to us now, the centring of friendship is far from new. For many queer people, the concept of the ‘chosen family’ speaks to a long history of intimate and interdependent connections that might include agreements such as long-term cohabitation, co-parenting and care giving. This model of community cares for everyone, including those who do not want or have a romantic partner.
Perhaps this is the true power of intimate friendship: its ability to move us away from self-centred conceptions of relating, and to recognise our deep reliance on one another. True friendship develops our capacity for non-judgment and radical acceptance, mutual aid and commitment to others, and in doing so offers us greater social security and belonging.
When we are committed to staying in relationship with one another we are able, and indeed have incentive, to uplift one another. Because, really, the only choice is connection.
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As I watched the last few episodes of Broad City, in moments between sobs, I found that I had hope again. In their loving, vulnerable, and joyful bond, Ilana and Abbi showed me that in deep friendship we can find that most precious thing: belonging. So now I turn my attention to weaving the kind of friendships that, like theirs, challenge me to be my best, hold space for evolution, and are truthful expressions of all my many iterations. One day I want, not necessarily a friend wedding, but to be able to say what Ilana tells Abbi in the final episode: ‘This is still gonna be the most beautiful, deep, real, cool and hot, meaningful, important relationship of my life.’
Broad City is available to stream on Stan.
