Clubs, by Will Stanton

Joining a club sometimes can be a good fit, sometimes not.  DPMC, or Denver Professional Men's Club, is a euphemism.   I suppose that, if the club were located in a more cosmopolitan area with a reputation for having a large gay population, such as San Francisco, the club might have been named “Denver Gay Men's Club.”  Also, to me, “Professional Men's Club” sounds rather presumptuous.  All it really means is that a member is supposed to have enough money to host and cater large gatherings of around one hundred men, has an elegant home large enough to accommodate such a group, and money to hire bartenders.

A few years ago, Dr. Bob persuaded me to join DPMC and sponsored my application.  After all, “Not everyone is suitable for admission.”  This reminds me of the quotation attributed to Groucho Marx, “I wouldn't want to be a member of any group that would have me as a member;” for I do not have a very large, expensive home, and I cannot afford to cater food for a hundred men or to hire professional bartenders.  I did join DPMC, albeit only briefly.  My rationale was that I needed to get out more, meet more people, socialize more, because I had been so isolated living alone and running a home office after the death of my partner.

I generally am open-minded, enjoy people's company, and give people the benefit of the doubt unless proven otherwise.  Eventually, however, I realized that I was not particularly happy in DPMC.  So many of the members seemed so full of themselves.  Everyone stood about, shoulder to shoulder or occupying the various chairs and couches, chatting to their few  selected friends to the exclusion of others.  Most of the members drank, some drank heavily.  There was plenty of catered food, although the heavy drinkers often ignored food or merely nibbled at it.  The gay bartenders were kept very busy and made a lot in tips.  I never have been big on alcohol.  If I ever had a drink, it was only one, and that was for the taste, not to get a buzz or to loosen up.  One egotistic member, known to give private cocaine parties and popular with those who attended, tried to give a recovering cocaine addict some cocaine as a birthday present.  Those factors alone set me apart from most of the members.

I made a point of circulating among everyone, trying to get to know them.  I discovered, however, that the long-established cliques tended to stay together and were little interested in getting to know new members.  Also, although ages ranged from early twenties to, in one case, early eighties, most were at least a generation younger than I and clearly preferred to remain within their own age group.  This certainly was true in one particular case.

Long enough ago when brick-front stores sold CDs and DVDs, as opposed to generally buying on-line, I used to frequent Tower Records.  That large store had a separate room for classical music so that those of us with sensitive ears would not be accosted by the sound of pounding drums and screeching pseudo-singers blaring from the speakers in the main part of the store.  Naturally, I found few, more discerning shoppers in the classical room.  That is where I was surprised to find a boyishly-young shopper sorting through the opera recordings.  We struck up a conversation, and he mentioned that he was studying opera and sang tenor.  We found that we had a lot of interests in common.

I later discovered that this young tenor was a member of DPMC.  I found him chatting with a small group of twenty-somethings.  I greeted him and spoke with him for a moment; however, I quickly felt that I was regarded as an intruder, my being older and not a member of their clique.  It also became apparent that another in that group had taken the young tenor as a partner and preferred not having any strangers talking to him.  So, regardless of having similar musical interests with the tenor, I did not fit in.

I found that the older members of DPMC were more courteous and accepting of newcomers, yet I had little in common with them.  The eighty-two-year-old multi-millionaire, who made his money in Texas hogs, sheep, and most likely some oil, lead an ostentatiously flamboyant life, as evidenced by his owning a pink Rolls Royce, a much younger, former drag queen, and a large home decorated in a style that would have embarrassed Liberace.  Yes, they were kind enough to invite me to their Christmas party, but our interests were so different that we did not make socializing together a regular habit.

The most unusual member whom I met was Jimmy.  (I am leaving out his surname.)  I was puzzled by his arrival at a DPMC party one evening, his appearing to be no more than fourteen-years-old and in the company of a tall man in his mid-forties.  I dismissed the idea that the older man had the indiscretion to bring an underage partner, so I wondered why this man was bringing his son or nephew to an adult party.  Later in the evening, I noticed that Jimmy sat alone, abandoned, ignored, and obviously very sad.  When I witness people feeling hurt or sad, that distresses me.  So, I approached Jimmy to see if I could cheer him up.

During our conversation, Jimmy revealed that he had an off-again / on-again relationship with the tall man, and was living with him.  I sensed that Jimmy felt that he was being used but had no practical idea how to find an alternative life.  I was interested to hear that he loved classical music and owned a grand piano, although it had been placed in storage because the tall man had no room for it, leaving Jimmy without the opportunity to play.  He also enjoyed opera and cooking.  I was able to observe very clearly that he never smiled, that his apparent sense of sadness and loneliness were disturbingly deep-seated.  He surprised me when he mentioned that he was employed.  I also noticed that, contrary to Jimmy appearing to be too young to shave, he sounded much more mature than a mere fourteen.  I said to him, “I don't wish to be too personal in inquiring, but how old are you?”  He stunned me when he replied, “Forty.”  Trying in my mind to reconcile the dramatic difference between his age and his appearance, I quickly concluded that he must be an extremely rare case of Kallmann syndrome, an affliction of the hypothalamus and pituitary gland that, at the very least, prevents puberty.  I then understood Jimmy's sense of alienation and isolation, his being a forty-year-old man who looked fourteen.  He being so different, he did not have a sense of belonging.  

My having been working for many years in behavioral health, I wished that there were some way that  I could help Jimmy and offered to be available to talk with him if he desired.  He seemed thankful and provided me with his full name and phone number.  The next weekend, I phoned Jimmy a few times to see how he was doing and if he needed someone to talk with.  I received no answer, and he did not call me back.

At the next DPMC gathering, Jimmy again appeared.  I spoke with him, saying that I hoped that he was OK.  He puzzled me when he stated that I could have phoned him.  I replied that I had but had received no answer.  About this time, a DPMC member with camera came around, taking pictures for the next newsletter.  The moment Jimmy spotted him, he bolted from his chair and hid behind a large fish tank, refusing to have his picture taken.  The cameraman tried to persuade Jimmy to come out from behind the fish tank and to have his picture taken, but he adamantly refused.  I interpreted Jimmy's action as having been so self-conscious and unhappy with himself that he would not allow his picture to be taken.  I never saw Jimmy after that.  I wonder what became of him.  I hope that he has found happiness.

I did not stay in DPMC much later, either, mostly because I was not impressed with what this club turned out to be, and I did not find people with similar interests who could become friends.  Another contributing factor was that the events coordinator must have thought of himself as a twenty-something, slam-dancing, hot club-guy; and he arranged events to suit himself, despite the fact that most of the members were more mature than that.  He arranged for a Halloween party in a huge warehouse and hired a DJ to play ear-splitting, pounding noise.  Literally, I could not remain in that warehouse, even though I had stuffed paper napkins into my ears and stood in the farthest corner away from the towering speakers.  The decibels must have been about twenty points above the level that causes hearing damage.  I was forced to flee to the parking lot, finally deciding that I might as well leave.  There was no way I could go back inside and be comfortable, let alone protect my hearing.

When I was about to leave, a long limo with a bunch of queens and driven by a Russian émigré came into the parking lot.  It just so happened that my costume was that of a KGB officer, with a KGB general's hat, black-leather coat, trousers, boots, and gloves.  The Russian noticed me immediately, came over, and addressed me in Russian, which, obviously, I did not understand.  He turned and walked away when he realized that I was not Russian and that my apparel was merely a costume.

The events coordinator arranged another gathering at a bar that was built like a concrete box.  Apparently he had hired the same DJ, who played ear-damaging noise.  Several of us fled to the rear of the building and finally left the event early when the bar needed that area to set up for another event.   Later, when I politely inquired of the events coordinator why he arranged extremely loud events, he gave me a very snotty reply.  I increasingly became disillusioned with DPMC.

There was one annual event that was supposed to be very chique, the Christmas black-tie dinner.  Formal tuxes were expected and an extra fee charged.  I did not attend.  Friends, who are no longer members, have told me that they found the event rather artificial and ostentatious.  They, too, became disenchanted with DPMC and quit.

The very last gathering I attended consisted of several cliques that clung to each other and ignored everyone else.  At that point, I finally concluded that DPMC had almost nothing to offer me.  I let my membership lapse and ignored membership-fee notices mailed to me.

Since then, I was introduced to the Story Time group.  Here I have found people who have something worthwhile to say, who have had interesting lives, and who are interested in hearing about other's experiences, thoughts, and feelings.  These members are genuine people who share without pretense and who provide a welcome atmosphere of trust.  These are the people I look forward to seeing each week.

 © 4 March 2015      

About the Author 

  

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories.  I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones.  Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

Reputation, by Ricky

In 8th grade I was given a reputation as a DAR, Damn Average Raiser, when my teacher pointed out to my classmates that I received the highest grade on a test when I only had one night to prepare and they had two weeks.

In high school that reputation followed me but was undeserved as I was mostly an “A” and “B” student, mostly because I did not study but just crammed information the night before a test. At that point in my life, I still had a pretty good memory.

In the military as an enlisted member, my reputation was outstanding because I had a logical oriented brain and I could accomplish multiple tasks in a timely manner. As an Air Force officer, in the eyes of the enlisted men/women I supervised, I had a reputation of always helping the enlisted force rather than being a severe disciplinarian. In the eyes of my commanders, my reputation was one of being too soft and not “hard core” by building my career on the number of careers I could destroy.

As a deputy sheriff, my reputation was of being very tough on DUI drivers and speeders. But my patrol district traffic accidents dropped from 93 to 47 in one year with traffic related deaths from 7 to 3. So locals could call me what they will; I don’t really care. We saved at least 4 lives my first year on the job.

As a husband and father, my family set my reputation as a “fix-anything” person. I has taken me a life-time to dispel that belief, but it just won’t go away.

In this group, you all know me for a pun loving smart ass.

© 27 October 2014

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.


When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

Reputation: Too Precious to be Trusted, by Phillip Hoyle

Reputation has little to do with the way I see other people. I’ve come to this rather strange way of thinking because for me people are much too interesting and potent to be known for what actually is an outsider’s point of view and idolization. A fine reputation is the result of the appearance one makes in regard to his or her adherence to reified social norms. I developed quite a reputation as an effective minister. I was nice to people, worked hard, provided creative and unusual programming for people of many ages, prepared my choirs adequately, appreciated the work of volunteers, spoke publically with enough charm not to offend, had a great attendance record in the church office and in hospital calling, worked well with the church staff, and had a family that also participated in the congregation’s life. People liked me. I didn’t embarrass them with my ideas. They knew I was not afraid of the strange folk like foreigners, poor, and needy. I was a great resource for a large church organization for my ability to work with difficult people. And eventually I wrote curriculum resources for religious education. I was somewhat known for whatever that is worth.

I took a job at a church in a western city. I loved the church facility. I found the congregational leaders delightful. I appreciated the strong core of folk who nurtured liberal concerns and practical approaches to church work. I enjoyed the support of a cadre of retired ministers in the congregation. I liked the music program. On and on. The Senior Minister, Bill, told me one day I was supposed to be a woman. I responded, “I’m trying as hard as I can.” We laughed. He said that the search committee for the associate minister had made obtaining a female clergy as its goal. They found me. He also said the hiring was influenced because of my fine reputation.

I thought about that and realized that the Area Minister, Jim, had wanted me to come to that Region because he trusted my leadership, appreciated my willingness to work in summer camp and conference programs, and liked my cheerful disposition. I wondered what all he had said to move the committee away from their original intention. Although I knew that one person’s likes often influenced committee members, I also knew the appeal to reputation actually set up a minister for failure since the minister would never really know how he or she was represented, what actually was the content of that reputation. I trusted that work-wise I would sufficiently meet the needs of staff and congregation. I was already doing so when I heard I was supposed to be a woman and about my fine reputation. But I wondered.

Some years before I had known a past minister of the church where I worked. His divorce from his wife several years after leaving our congregation made the local gossip. People expressed such deep disappointment to me about the divorce. I don’t recall if the minister or his wife initiated the proceedings, but do remember clearly that the critics didn’t voice much interest in the whole picture of his life. Still, like is true in the kind of church I came from, they did fall short of saying “tut, tut,” this last probably out of deference for his then ex-wife. I listened and wondered how this change affected their feelings about what he had taught them, what leadership he had provided, what sense of faith he had engendered. Their sense of disappointment seemed larger than necessary to me. He had spoiled their ideal.

So when in my next congregation I knew the search committee had been influenced by my reputation, I became extremely alert to the function of reputation and its relation to ideals and expectations. When I learned I was hired because of my reputation, I wondered over my work and its consequences, especially were it ever to come out that my life might have changed within just a few years after my exit from that fine church. What would those fine folk think when they got the gossip that I, who was widely appreciated, left ministry fifteen years before retirement age, left my wife, moved to a large city to live as a homo (probably the largest reputation spoiler), and took up a new career as a massage therapist (oops, maybe this was the main spoiler). I knew I couldn’t control whatever people chose to think. I couldn’t save them from themselves. And I knew exactly why I could never believe in reputation. Besides I have lived through too many American general elections cycles. Even the best—and the worst—reputations are far too fragile, too precious to trust.© Denver, 2014

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot

My Favorite Queer Role Model by Pat Gourley

Chelsea Manning 

A personal role model is someone whose behavior you admire to the point where you might actually try and emulate it and hopefully use it as impetus for creating change. Chelsea Manning is that queer person for me these days.

Let me briefly re-cap her history and I’ll finish with a bit of her current activities. She enlisted in the army in October of 2007 and eventually ended up in Iraq in 2009 as an Intelligence Analyst with access to classified documents. What transpired as a result of Manning having access to copious documentation of U.S. military and private contractor actions in both Iraq and Afghanistan is succinctly stated in this quote from a piece written by Nathan Fuller in March of 2013 for the Bradley Manning Support Group:

“What would you do if you had evidence of war crimes? What would you do if ‘following orders’ meant participating in grave abuses you opposed? Would you have the courage to risk everything - even your life – to do the right thing? Most of us would keep our mouths shut. Not Pfc. Bradley Manning.” Nathan Fuller 3/2013.

Manning released a very large trove of classified government documents to WikiLeaks certainly as a matter of conscience. Once exposed and arrested she endured months of torture in solitary confinement. Her subsequent trial resulted in a 35-year sentence based in part on several counts of violating the Espionage Act of 1917. This antiquated piece of legislation is by the way being put to unprecedented use by the Obama Administration to prosecute and persecute whistleblowers.

The prison sentence was handed down in August of 2013 to one named Bradley Manning and the following day she announced that from now on she wished to be referred to as Chelsea Manning and would be further pursuing her transition and hopefully receive appropriate hormone therapy. Last week on February 13th, 2015 her hormonal therapy was approved after suing the Federal Government for the right to receive this treatment.

A criterion I have for my role models is that they cannot be silenced even in the face of great obstacles. This applies to Chelsea in the most remarkable ways. In spite of years of humiliation, months of actual torture and a monkey trial for espionage she is still resiliently standing up for her core values and beliefs. Transitioning is always a great challenge but to persevere with it in a military prison after years of physical and psychological abuse and humiliation in attempts to break your spirit and crush your soul is simply a breathtaking act of courage. I know I will never have the fortitude to be anywhere near as brave.

In any piece I might write today that addresses the brave act of transitioning I cannot forego the opportunity to address the recent comments of Pope Francis on the matter. There are a whole string of his outrageous comments on gender transition I might quote here but I think this one is the most amazing: “Let’s think of the nuclear arms, of the possibility to annihilate in a few instants a very high number of human beings…lets also think of genetic manipulation of life, or of the gender theory, that does not recognize the order of creation.” WTF! Sorry Pope Francis but your head is way up your ass on this one. Our trans brothers and sisters are not a threat to the survival of the human race but quite to the contrary a true expression of out evolutionary potential.

Let me close by updating you on Chelsea’s current job in prison. She is now writing for the Guardian. One article she authored appeared December 8th 2014 and was titled: “I am a transgender woman and the government is denying my civil rights”. I encourage you to read the whole thing: (http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2014/dec/08/chelsea-manning-transgender-rights ) I’ll close with just a few of her words from that article:

“A doctor, a judge or a piece of paper shouldn’t have the power to tell someone who he or she is. We should all have the absolute and inalienable right to defend ourselves, in our own terms and in our own languages, and be able to express our identity and perspectives without fear of consequences and retribution. We should all be able to live as human beings – and to be recognized as such by the societies we live in.

We shouldn’t have to keep defending our right to exist”. Chelsea Manning

Chelsea Manning, my favorite Queer role model!

If you are interested in learning more about this great queer heroine checkout the web site for her support group: http://www.chelseamanning.org

© February 2015

About the Author

I was born in La Porte, Indiana in 1949, raised on a farm and schooled by Holy Cross nuns. The bulk of my adult life, some 40 plus years, was spent in Denver, Colorado as a nurse, gardener and gay/AIDS activist. I have currently returned to Denver after an extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California.

Scarves by Gillian

I know those of you who've been in this group for some time are just tired of hearing me whine about poor battered Britain in the years immediately after WW11. Well, too bad! It happens to be the environment I grew up in and so the time and place which generated many of my childhood memories and so my stories.

And here we go again!

In the U.K., children began (and still do begin) elementary school at the age of five, not six as we do here. So in 1947 I began the daily walk to and from the same little two-room school where my mother taught. That winter has gone down in history as one of the worst U.K.winters ever, with snow on the ground for over two months and bitter cold. I developed a bad cough and what appears in my memory as a constant cold, but then most kids were sick, as I'm sure were many adults. Most of our houses were cold and damp, without central heating - for which there would have been no fuel anyway - and few people had adequate clothing and food which were still severely rationed, as were most things until well into the 1950's. Frequently, even if you had saved enough coupons, whatever you wanted was simply unavailable anyway.

My mother decided that to survive the bitter cold, we needed scarves. But we had no clothing coupons as my growing feet had gobbled them all up in a new pair of boots. So she would knit them. Now, I doubt that wool was actually rationed, but it was not to be had. If you had old knitted garments that were simply beyond further darning, you unravelled them and saved the worn and kinky wool for future use. My mother had a cardboard box, which probably should have been sacrificed, as just about everything had been, to the War Effort, always spoken of in capitals. Somehow this tatty old thing had survived and Mum used it for storing various balls of recycled wool. We took them out reverently, handling them like cut glass. The cats had been banished from the room lest they decide that wool is a perfect plaything. I recognized some scarlet wool which I knew came from an old sweater I had had when I was little, (I now considered myself quite grown. I had started school for goodness' sake!) and which I had worn until it threatened to inhibit my breathing. Some very ratty gray wool I recalled came from out-at-heel socks of my dad's. Where the rest of the bits and bobs came from I had no idea. It didn't matter anyway, they were moving on!

Perhaps a more skilled needlewoman than my mother would have been able to knit patterns, or at least stripes, with all the different colors. But Mom's skill level was, shall we say, elementary. Before the War, when there was material available, she used to teach basic knitting to the six-year-olds. It was always facecloths, knitted on big fat needles so they came out looking more like fishing nets for the Little People. I suspect it was invariably these easy square pieces more because of my mother's limitations than that of the kids. But my dad and I both had faith she could do scarves. What is a scarf, after all, but an elongated facecloth? She just started out with one color, tied the last piece of it to the beginning of the next, and created quite an interesting hodgepodge of colors. But Mom's knitting was always a bit erratic. She would start out tense, her stitches too tight. But soon she would be distracted by some entertainment on the radio and the stitches got looser and looser. Before long the scarf was taking on a somewhat rolling countenance, swelling and shrinking like ocean waves. Also, to be fair, the fact that the wool was of different thicknesses did nothing to add to the consistency of the stitches. So each scarf ended up with very wavy edges, and considerable variations in width and thickness. If I could only recreate them now, I'd think they would have a pretty good chance of becoming THE fashion accessory.

My father did have a scarf but was badly in need of a new one. His apparently dated from some time Before the War and he had worn it During the War but now, After the War, it was in rags and must not have offered much protection from the bitterly cold winds of that 1947 winter.

We didn't talk of decades in those days. All of life was divided into three time periods, always spoken of in Capitals as was The War Effort. There was Before the War, During the War, and After the War, sometimes simply referred to as Now. Before the War was a wonderful place of endless sunny days, with peace and laughter; a land of relative abundance. During the War was the land of stoicism and heroics and carrying on and making do and tightening belts and stiff upper lips, and a lot of pride. But Now, After the War, was disillusion and resentment following rapidly on the heels of the euphoria of the long-awaited peace. What had it all been for? So many dead, even more homeless and everyone was broke. Rationing and shortages were even worse Now than they were During the War.

Mum also already had a scarf from Before the War, but it was flimsy and, though pretty, not made to provide warmth. Not only was it from Before the War, but it came from some mysterious place called The Twenties. Most of the things my mother had, seemed to have come from The Twenties. She never referred to it as The Nineteen-Twenties, so I had no idea that she was talking about a time. I envisioned The Twenties as being some huge department store loaded with wonderful things - even more exciting than Woolworth's.

Now, three strangely serpentine scarves lay proudly stretched out on the table. My mother watched proudly, waiting for Dad and me to pick the one we wanted. Dad shook his head.

"By heck! This'll be a decision."

He gazed solemnly at me and offered a grave wink. I wanted to giggle but somehow knew I must not. Instead I entered whole-heartedly into the game. I gave a little girly squeal, which I have to say did not come naturally to me, and wriggled in excitement.

"That one! Can I have that one?"

Mum wound it around my neck, Dad and Mom each wore one and we looked appreciatively at ourselves.

"By heck!" said my dad again, "that's just grand!"

I have often thought, looking back, how absurd the three of us must have looked when we were out together in those ridiculous scarves; like escapees from some Dr. Seuss book. But in those days, everyone wore strange combinations of mend-and-make-do clothes, and nobody thought much about it. The aim was warmth, after all, and that we got.

Success went completely to my mother's head. A few days later found her once again studying what was left of differently colored little balls and scraps of wool, and various needles, then at my eternally red, raw, and chapped hands.

"Gloves," she was saying rather doubtfully to herself. "We all need gloves."

A fleeting look of panic crossed my father's face, to be replaced instantly by a bland smile.

"Ay, that'd be grand." He winked at me. "But mittens," he added, "they'd be warmer."

"Ooh yes, mittens! Mittens!" I echoed, though I'm not sure I knew what mittens were. But I knew what gloves were, with all those fingers sticking out of them and, young as I was, I knew, as my dad did, that Mum's knitting was not up to gloves.

"Yes," she agreed with great relief. "Mittens. Mittens are much warmer."

My dad was away for the next two weeks. He was an engineer, and deemed too valuable by the powers that be to be allowed to volunteer as canon fodder. Instead he worked at a huge factory a long way, at least for those days, away from home. To get to work he had to take two buses, then a train, then another bus, then walk two miles. He also worked very long very erratic hours, and so stayed in a rooming house near the factory for several days and sometimes weeks. Whatever they made at this distant factory was classified as Top Secret, another phrase which was always capitalized, so Dad never, in his whole life, talked about it. The question, what did you do in The War, Daddy? went unanswered for many a child as so many adults lived in terror of contravening the Official Secrets Act (in capitals) by saying too much, and disappearing into some distant dark dungeon. My dad did say, in some unguarded moment, that if the most exciting thing you did throughout the war was wash milk bottles, they'd find some way of sweeping it in under the Official Secrets Act.

When my father returned home this time, he was greeted by three pairs of mittens, all more or less identical except for size. The colors of all were the same random multi-colored blotches as the scarves and, on closer inspection, the shapes were not so different from the scarves. After all, with a little imagination, mittens are little more than short scarves folded over across the middle, the sides sewn up, and elastic threaded around near the open end to fit them to your wrist. But wait! What about the thumb? I had watched in fascination as poor Mum tried to knit the thumb part but could not seem to get the hang of it. After many failed attempts, she fell back on her old favorite, the elongated square. She knit what was in fact a very tiny scarf, folded it over as in making mittens, and sewed up both sides. Then, having left an opening when closing up the side of the mitten, she stitched the end open of the tiny mitten to the opening in the side of the big mitten and, voila! a mitten complete with thumb. Though in fact they looked, lying flat on the table, like nothing more than the old knitted facecloth with a miniature facecloth attached.

"Ay, that's just grand!" Dad slid his hands into his and held his hands up, waggling his fingers open and closed. I learned later that they were way too big and would have fallen off if he had not held up his hands, and the little thumbs, as I also discovered about mine, were way too short and not quite in the right place. Who cared? They were warm! I simply tucked by thumb into my palm where it stayed nice and cozy, and ignored the little thumb addition. I must say, though, it gave me a better understanding of why hominids didn't get far with the use of tools until they developed opposable thumbs!

Again, in hindsight, I marvel at the vision of this engineer, too valuable to be allowed to fight, turning up at this huge, Top Secret, factory, in those wildly colored, sadly misshapen mittens.

Especially in combo with the equally wildly colored and misshapen scarf, it conjures up quite a picture. And in a time and place where men rarely wore anything other than dark, conservative, clothes! But, to be honest, it wouldn't surprise me if Dad didn't wear them once away from home, though he always wore them when he left and when he returned. What makes me suspect this is that I caught him out in another way. I went to where he was planting potatoes in the garden, to tell him tea was ready. He started for the house and then stopped. Pulling the mittens from his jacket pockets he winked at me.

"Mustn't go in without my handbags," and he slid them on. And always after that I noticed him popping them on before returning indoors.

Oh, and I was so delighted with that term. Handbags. Hand bags. It described them perfectly. Bags to put your hands in! For many years after that, when Mom mentioned her handbag - it was never called a purse in Britain - I would giggle and my dad would wink solemnly, which only made me giggle more. My father said much much more to me with his wonderful winks than he ever did in words

I know this is where I'm expected to say how much I loved those mittens and that scarf, and carried them everywhere with me like Linus with his blanket. Sorry! Not so. I was ever grateful for the added warmth, but they ... what is the word? To say they frightened me is way too much.

But perhaps they did make me a little uneasy. They had something of living creatures about them as they constantly changed shape. The bigger gaps in the relaxed stitching snagged too easily on things; particularly on little fingers. There was an occasional dropped stitch in there too, increasing the problem. The wool was old, some of it several times recycled and so, brittle and thin. It broke here and there, causing further unraveling, as did the slow mysterious undoing of my mothers knots. I seemed eerily to me as if they were slowly but steadily unknitting themselves, some future day to disappear, returning to little variously colored balls of yarn.

After clothing rationing finally ended, after fourteen years, in 1954, we had the luxury of store-bought gloves and scarves and my mother was relieved of the challenges of knitting. But for sure nothing ever again had such character. Nor did any clothes ever again represent so much love and laughter. My mother taught me that for those you love, you do what you must the best you can. And that is all any of us can do. And my father taught me to see the humor in just about anything, and to be ever solicitous of the feelings of others.

I searched through my old photos after I wrote this, hoping to do a show and tell of those mittens and scarves. No luck. Then of course it dawned on me. Mom did have an old camera which came, of course, from The Twenties, but even if it had still worked there would have been no film available over many years.

And that reminds me of one of my dad's favorite expressions. It's not original, it was a common saying used by many at the time. It's also probably the longest sentence my father ever spoke.

"If we had any eggs, we could have bacon and eggs, if we had any bacon."

© March 2015

About the Author

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25 years.

Lizzie Goes to Sunday Dinner by Betsy

It was a sunny Sunday afternoon in 1939. A large family group of 10-12 people is seated around a long table at the Pudding Stone Inn, a cozy hotel tucked into the side of a hill in rural New Jersey. The inn’s restaurant is frequented by this same family at least monthly during the warmer time of the year.

The matriarch and the patriarch, the eldest of the family, are seated each at opposite ends of the gleaming white linen-draped table. It is by their invitation, rather, by their request, that the family is here all having attended church together that morning.

Lizzie is the youngest member of the group at the age of three years. That place of distinction is soon to be usurped by a cousin whose entrance into the world is expected to take place in a couple of months. Lizzie sits in a high chair pulled up to the table but she has her own tray attached to her chair where her food is about to be placed. A napkin matching the gleaming white linen table cloth is tied around her neck and flattened in front to form a bib. Her father, brother, aunts, uncles and cousins complete the group.

Even at the tender age of three Lizzie knows exactly what foods she likes and dislikes. Ever since she started eating solid food, which was not that long ago, she knew also the foods she did not like. She hated oatmeal. At age 3 she did not know enough to call it by its proper name, but she knew she didn’t want any. At home at breakfast time, “Eat this up,” her mother would gently cajole. “I don’t want my ‘up’,” Lizzie would cry. Well, she would not have to eat any ‘up’ at this meal. ‘Up’ is a breakfast food and this was Sunday dinner.

Sunday dinner. The vision of one of her favorite foods enters her mind--a dill pickle spear. Finally, after waiting way too long, the food is brought out to the table. As usual Lizzie’s mother will share her food with her and probably deliver it to her mouth. It’s the usual Sunday afternoon dinner fare--turkey with gravy and mashed potatoes and some vegetables--probably overcooked--but that’s okay; Most children like vegetables that way--soft and soggy. On a plate, way out of her reach is Lizzie’s favorite food, a dill pickle. It does seem odd for a three year old to be so fond of such a strong tasting, puckery food as dill pickle, but it’s true--it is her favorite.

“Can I have my pickle,” asks Lizzie. “No, first you must eat some of this food, Lizzie,” she is instructed by her mother. One or two bites is all that is needed for this rather puny child. She manages to down enough to satisfy Mom. Before she knows it dessert is on the way. Ice cream it is for Lizzie and Ice cream she likes well enough. She hardly has any room left for anything but takes a taste or two to please Mom who is coaxing a cajoling her into finishing dessert. Finally Lizzie looks at her mom as she finishes the last sweet, creamy spoonful at the bottom of the dish. “Now can I have my pickle?” she asks.© 29 March 2014

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change). She has been retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years. Since her retirement, her major activities include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys spending time with her four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards.

When I Get Old by Will Stanton

What do you mean, “When I get old”? What a weird topic suggestion. I already am old. And, why would I want to go and get it? That doesn't make sense, considering all the problems associated with old.

I never got old. I became old, or one could say “I grew old.” But, I sure did not go out to get it. As far as I'm concerned, that would be like going to some place to get Ebola. If I had had some means of avoiding old, I would have done so.

If, for some inexplicable reason, one wished to go somewhere to get old, where would one go to get it? Are there shops that have old? Can one get old on-line, perhaps through Amazon? If so, how much do they charge for getting old? I assume that there are different sizes, colors, qualities, and prices for old. Considering what has happened to me now that I am old, I assume that the price can be quite high - - in my case, extremely high.

I don't encounter very many young people; but if I do, I certainly won't suggest that they go looking for old. That myth about the so-called “golden years” rarely lives up to its reputation. The only gold that I associate with old is what I need to pay for daily expenses, along with all the medical bills.

Now that old has been dumped on me, I “give it the finger.” Old is shabby and not worth the price.

© 9 February 2014

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

Angels by Ricky

I don't believe in angels, at least not androgynous beings with wings that one sees in classical religious paintings. I do believe in messengers from God and, in these contemporary times, those messengers we call "angels". I have never knowingly seen one nor have I had anyone give me a message from God. The one time a voice in my head warned me that two boys riding on one bicycle would fall down into the path of my car, the warning did not pass through my ears first but went directly into my brain and did not resemble or feel like my thoughts.

I attribute that warning to either the Holy Ghost or to one of the boys' Guardian Angel because, if it had been my brain's analysis of the situation, I expect the warning: 1. would not have been repeated with more emphasis and, 2. with an explanation that was a statement of fact—not speculation. On the other hand, I don't know if guardian angels exist as some believe, but the above incident leaves my mind open to the idea.

When one has received the Gift of the Holy Ghost the Holy Ghost will be one’s constant companion as long as one remains sufficiently righteous. Since the "voice" in my head was not mine, I can believe it was the Holy Ghost. I don't even want to consider, “if not the Holy Ghost, who else is in here with me?” I'm pretty sure guardian angels would be external to my body. So perhaps it is some Heavenly spirit hiding out as it were–sort of like being in the closet. More likely than that, it could be my split personality—my 12-year old self lurking in the background and not yet fully integrated into one whole adult. I prefer the Holy Ghost version.

There are three kinds of angels. Not to be flippant, but two categories are good ones and bad ones. Good ones serve God and the bad ones serve not God but whatever name one calls the supernatural being who is opposed to most of what God wants. There are two subcategories within the good and bad categories. Now pay attention even though there is no test later.

The first subcategory is angels who are "Resurrected Beings" which are people already resurrected and now serving as messengers (angels) of God. Most Christian denominations believe that only Christ has been resurrected and that everyone else must wait until “the morning of the first resurrection” sometime in the future. [See KJV Mathew 27: 52-53 for the truth of “resurrected beings”.]

The second subcategory is angels who have “Spirit Bodies” which are those who have not yet been resurrected, or yet been born to receive their bodies, or are among the spirits cast out of Heaven during their rebellion against God and thus cannot have been resurrected yet. [KJV Revelations 12:7-9] Of these, the first two listed serve God and the spirits “cast out” serve the not God that you can name yourself.

If you are ever visited by an angel, how can you tell which type, good or bad, you are talking too? Apparently, angels have laws or rules they must obey. Just ask them to shake hands. If the angel is a resurrected being he will shake hands with you. If the angel is still in his spirit body, one serving God will refuse to shake hands while one serving “the one you must name” will shake hands but you will not feel his hand in yours. What could be simpler, assuming that being in the presence of an angel will not have reduced you to a quivering mass of protoplasm barely able to function let alone remaining rational?

The third of the three main categories of “angels” is where we humans have assigned angelic attributes or qualities to mortal men, women, and children. Hence, the popular phrase, “You are such an angel.” Many such mortals probably deserve the comparison at least until their “feet of clay” are uncovered and exposed to the world, if they are famous enough. Mother Theresa’s case comes to mind. Personally, I can overlook her shortcomings and remember her as serving God among the poor.

As I said at the beginning of this piece, I have no experience with actual angels that I consciously know of but, from what little of him that I do know, I view our group member, Pat Gourley, as an angel due to his work among the sick and dying. Florence Nightingale, Mary Martha Reid, Catharine Merrill, Anna Etheridge, Cornelia Hancock, Louisa May Alcott, Clara Barton, and Walt Whitman were also famous nurses working among the sick and dying. Pat has followed in the path of nursing “greats”. Surely, he deserves the mortal title of “angel” despite any flaws he may have. I am sure God will judge him kindly because, as Jesus said, “Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” [KJV Mathew 25:40 – see verses 35-40 for the complete concept]

I believe many people engage in angelic-like behaviors at one time or another. As we go through life, let us all remember the words of King Mosiah from the Book of Mormon, “And behold, I tell you these things that ye may learn wisdom; that ye may learn that when ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God.” [Mosiah 2:17]

© 13 December 2014

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

Drifting by Phillip Hoyle

In a very important sense I was drifting through life back then. Oh I had goals in my career and a highly structured schedule, but I was living into the common cultural expectation of marriage with children. I appreciated that my ministerial work afforded me the luxury of reading, researching, teaching, and the like. I easily tolerated the work conditions. In regard to family, I lived with a wonderful woman and by then two very interesting and creative children. I floated my way downstream keeping in the current but letting it move me along well-worn channels.

Then Mike A drifted into my life. He showed up one afternoon at the church where I worked, out on Camp Bowie Boulevard in west Fort Worth, Texas. I didn’t know what he expected, but there he stood looking a little beat down yet clean in cowboy boots, western shirt, Levis, and sporting a tooled leather belt with a big metal buckle that announced in all caps STUD. I was amused as well as concerned. We talked. He wanted help getting his life back together.

I don’t remember if Mike had his equipment with him but he told me he was a welder and needed to get a job. He may have had his welding mask and gloves and probably a suitcase or a box of clothes. He did have a rather pleasant manner and spoke working-class Texan with a distinct twang, drawn-out syllables, and what seemed to me, strange pronunciations. He also had a sense of humor and a charming smile. He was down on his luck but he wasn’t done with life or with living it.

Mike assured me he would be able to get work if he could just get to a particular place to apply. Realizing he’d have to rely on me for a few days, I drove him to a fabrication shop way out in east Fort Worth where he secured a job. Maybe he’d worked there before; I didn’t know. In fact I knew nothing about this world, but Mike did start work at that shop the next day.

Mike knew his trade. While returning to our apartment, he said my car was “arkin’” and asked me to pull into the grocery store and give him a dollar. He’d fix it. I knew there was something draining the power from my car and had wasted quite a bit of money paying mechanics who didn’t repair it. I had no idea what was wrong, nor had I ever heard the word “arkin’.” For 89 cents Mike bought electricians tape and wrapped the places where the insulation had worn off a couple of spark plug wires. He knew the sound of an electric arc; after all he was a welder. And his fix held for many years!

Mike went home with me to my wife and two kids and stayed for a week. I gave him a ride to work and picked him up at the end of his shift—what in the church office I called my paper route. One parishioner overheard the reference and asked the secretary if the church wasn’t paying me enough to live on. That week as we traveled back and forth across the city, I picked up random details about his life, his loss of job, his estrangement from his wife, their two girls who lived with her. I felt like I’d gone down this road before; assisting someone, wondering if my efforts would really help.

Within a week Mike arranged two-way transportation for work. It didn’t occur to me that he was probably back into a network of relationships he had known for years; I was too busy with my life to worry over his details. Mike met church people at our apartment. For him being around educated folk may have seemed odd. One of them perceived Mike’s alcoholism. I knew he drank; she knew of his disease. Her insight made sense of some things I had observed.

One night Mike called me. He had burned his eyes at work—a common hazard for welders. “Could you get some eye drops and bring them to me?” he asked. “Of course,” I answered inquiring just what kind he needed. I drove over to his by-the-week motel, knocked on his door, and administered the eye drops. That’s when Mike gave me one of the most precious gifts I’d ever received. As the sting was abating from his eyes he looked up and said, “I love you, Phillip.”

“I’m happy to help,” was my defended reply to this rather crass, beer-guzzling, Texas cowboy stud. But I was stunned. No man had ever said those words to me, not even in my family.

I knew about love. In college years I had learned to speak words of love to my girlfriend, who became my wife. Actually she taught me how. Saying such words seemed a requirement to get married. I’d said “I love you” many times to her, to my son, to my daughter, and I meant it. A couple of years before Mike drifted into my life I realized that I had fallen in love with a male seminary classmate. I refrained from saying “I love you” to him lest it seem manipulative or, worse, scare him away. Now this drunk said “I love you” to me. I took it to mean he deeply appreciated my help. At the same time I realized I was not interested to explore any further dimensions of its potential with him. My heart was already elsewhere—way too committed to my family and to the one male friend I adored.

I also came to realize my patient and caring help to this man who may have been starved for any kind of love—that along with his lowered threshold of defenses due to his drinking—left him open to say whatever he felt. I received his drifting expression with deep appreciation and realized how much I wanted, even needed to be loved deeply by a man, especially one who might open his non-alcoholic heart to me.

It took twenty more years of maturing for me to do what my heart of hearts desired: to live with a man I loved and who loved me. But I wonder how many more years may have passed if I had not heard those words from my Texas cowboy STUD. His gift to me far exceeded mine to him, and I continue to appreciate that Mike A. had drifted my way.© Denver, 2014

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot

One Summer Afternoon by Lewis

When I was a child, my parents didn't take a "family vacation" some summers. Instead, they sent me off to summer camp, which was enough vacation for them, I guess. On one such occasion, they sent me off for an interminable ten days to a YMCA camp called "Camp Wood". I was about nine years old and an only child. I was introverted and a non-swimmer. For me, swimming was, to quote Bill Cosby, "staying alive in the water". I had allergies and my sinuses were constantly inflamed. If chlorinated water got up my nose, it felt like someone had set my snot on fire. Therefore, if I was in water more than four feet deep, out came my nose plugs. It was swimming that kept me from getting beyond a "Star" rank in Boy Scouts.

When I got to Camp Wood, I soon discovered that it was organized a little like a country club. The lake had two beaches--the shallow one with the kiddy swings for the non-swimmers and the cool beach with the deeper water and the water slide for the swimmers. I was a few years older than almost all the kids on the kiddy beach and was going to make myself absolutely miserable unless I could graduate to the older boys' beach. To do that meant that I would have to swim from the edge of the kiddy beach out to a floating dock about 50 yards out into the lake. From where I stood on the edge of the water at the kiddy beach, the dock looked to me to be only one or two strokes closer than hell itself. Not only that, but there would be kids and adults nearby watching me. Who knows if they were rooting for me to make it or were hoping to see something their parents would be most interested hearing about?

There was a lifeguard standing on the dock. He looked to me to be a young man of about 17. I'm not very good at judging these things, as I never had an older brother or even a male relative under 21. I suspect that it was only the prospect of that young man coming to my rescue that gave me the courage needed to attempt to swim toward the raft.

I would give anything to see a home movie of my valiant effort to look graceful while flailing all four skinny limbs in a desperate attempt to keep from consuming too much of the lake. By the time I reached the dock, I was totally exhausted, a fact that I'm sure was obvious to the young man looking worriedly down at me. Nevertheless, one got no credit for merely reaching the dock. No. One had to swim back to the shore from whence I had come.

I'm sure the lifeguard offered me his hand. But I was too embarrassed and determined to pass the test, so I turned back toward shore hoping against hope that I would find the strength somehow to make it all the way. Well, I only made it a few yards before I started to flounder. The lifeguard was on me in a couple of seconds, lifting me up and putting me under his arm to sweep me back to the safety of the dock.

"This must be what it feels like to be Sleeping Beauty," I thought. No, not really. But it did feel pretty sweet, though humiliating.

None of the other campers ever mentioned my fiasco, nor did I ever tell my parents about it. Camp ended on a much higher note, when I placed first in the broad jump in the track meet on the last morning of camp. Somehow, solid ground just seems to suit me better.

© 17 June 2013

About the Author

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn't getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth. Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband's home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.

A Picture to Remember by Nicholas

Picture this. Jamie and I are decked out in our tuxedos with purple silk bow ties and purple cummerbund, standing near to each other—he a head taller than me. We have boutonnieres of white carnations in our lapels and we are smiling. We look like two grooms because we are two grooms, celebrating our wedding in 2008.

Now, picture this. We are in a hospital room. Jamie, in a hospital gown, is in bed and has a nasal-gastric tube in his nose. I’m standing next to him wearing a polo shirt and khaki slacks. The minister who officiated at our ceremony is signing our marriage license as our witnesses—my sister, Jamie’s sister-in-law, my nephew, and Jamie’s mom—watch. Just married. Our smiles are trying to make the best of a bad situation.

Which picture is true? Which picture do we really remember? The answer is: both. We have the official picture of our wedding, as it was supposed to have happened. And we have the actual picture of our wedding, as it did happen in Stanford University Hospital. The official photo, which is actually from a reception we held months later, sits proudly on our mantel. The other rests indelibly in our memories of that August day in 2008 when the grand celebration we’d planned all summer turned into a desperate rush to the nearest ER. It sits in a box on a closet shelf.

Early on the morning of our wedding day, Jamie complained of a stomach ache that seemed more than a case of wedding day nerves. At 6 a.m., we went to the Emergency Room at Stanford Hospital where doctors quickly diagnosed that they didn’t know exactly what was going on but Jamie had to stay in the hospital until they could figure it out. Sorry, said the doctors, no wedding that day.

Then someone, I don’t recall who, asked about having our wedding in the hospital. The docs were surprised but said, sure, if the nurses were OK with it. The nurses were thrilled to have a wedding in their hospital and they set about making Jamie look presentable.

We hastily arranged for just family to squeeze into Stanford’s tiny chapel where we recited our vows and were pronounced married. The reception with catered dinner and fancy cake with two grooms on top went on as scheduled since we had 80 people gathered—some travelling from far away—to help us celebrate this momentous day. Jamie, of course, had to remain in the hospital while I, so tired I could hardly think, had to play host—alone. Yes, I received countless good wishes that day but I barely remember that.

A few days later, Jamie was operated on to relieve a bowel obstruction and began a long, slow recovery that kept us both in California for over a month but not for the honeymoon we’d planned.

So, we have our pictures—the one we happily remember and the one we can’t forget.

© March 2015

About the Author

Nicholas grew up in Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.

Homophobia Hell by Gillian

I used that title because I firmly believe that homophobes inhabit a Hell on Earth. They are consumed by anger and hatred, all driven by fear. They fear a wrathful God. They fear the unknown. And, perhaps the greatest, they fear that deeply-hidden part of themselves which they absolutely dare not acknowledge.

It must be nothing short of terrifying to be a Fundamentalist Christian. (Or probably any kind of Fundamentalist but that's another discussion.) If I truly believe that every word of The Bible is true, and my church tells me that according to that Good Book, homosexuality is a sin, you'd better believe I'm going to condemn it. With that Vengeful God watching my every move, waiting to pounce on my slightest miss-step and fling me into the Fiery Furnace for Eternity, what else would I do? It's easy to poke fun at such extreme beliefs, but I sincerely am not. I cannot imagine living in that kind of fear every day of my life. We cannot save them. It is impossible to have any logical discussion with someone who's answer to every question or comment is, it says so in The Bible. I would like to save them from their life of fear, but I cannot, any more than they can save me from my life of sin. I don't hate them for all that they rail against us. To return their words to them - I hate the sin, but not the sinner.

No phobias are rational, that is their very essence. I have been, from as far back as I can remember, an arachnophobe. I hate to deprive any living creature of life, but I had flattened every poor innocent spider I ever encountered with great energy and little compunction. Then, many years ago, I was ill for quite some time after being bitten by a Brown Recluse which I never even saw. I had to laugh at the irony. But the result was surprising. No, it didn't cure me of my spider-frights, but it did decrease their strength and hold over me. I still call to Betsy to deal with any I find in the house, but reasonably calmly; not curled in a gibbering heap on the chair.

I suppose that is what encountering the object of our phobias does. That is what exposure therapists would have us believe, anyway, though I don't see myself hugging a tarantula any time soon.

Not so long ago, most people didn't know anyone Gay; or didn't know they did. Most Straights feared us because they didn't know us. We were just these weirdos out there they didn't understand and sure as hell didn't want to. Then those closet doors started creaking open.

At first it was oh well, yeah, Jimmy's OK. It's the rest of 'em.

Then the rest of 'em came out. It wasn't just your nephew. It was your high school sweetheart and your best friend from college and your neighbor down the street. And you know what? Surprise, surprise! They live very much like we do.

Homophobia began to dissipate.

But it hung on.

Most of us remember the battle over Amendment 2.

Everything was going fine. It had little support. Then, suddenly, in the last two weeks of the campaign, the ad. blitz was on. I can see those ads as clearly as if they were on a TV in front of me right now.

Picture it.

A serene, middle aged, white woman appears on the screen; middle America's perfect mother. She smiles slightly as she looks into the camera. She speaks in a gentle tone with a well-modulated voice.

"Of course I don't hate homosexuals!" she says, implying something close to horror at the very thought. "I have nothing at all against them," with complete sincerity.

She leans in towards the camera a little, a slightly worried look appears on her face.

"But special rights," and she shakes her head sadly, regretfully. "That's just going too far."

God, they were good, those ads. I was almost talked into voting for Amendment 2 myself. They were so reasonable. So sorry that they just couldn't go that far for us; much as they'd like to, they implied. This attack-ad fest turned the campaign around and the amendment passed.

There's an interesting article in the online archives of publiceye.org, part of which details this buildup of frenzy around Amendment 2. For the sake of history, I am glad it is so well documented, but I find myself at odds with it's title, Constructing Homophobia. Much as the opposition tried, I don't believe that is actually what they succeeded in doing. Via misinformation, manipulation, and downright lies, enough people were convinced that a no vote equalled a vote granting homosexuals in Colorado special, rather than equal, rights. It was that which changed the minds of many otherwise accepting, middle-of-the-road, voters. And my bet is that many of the same people who voted for Amendment 2 are now greeting the State's legal acceptance of gay marriage with equanimity.

Try as they might, those real homophobes, too many people just don't care. Young people, especially, just don't get it. What's the big deal?

So who are they, these real homophobes? The ones who lead the campaigns against us? Some are those truly led, or misled, by religion, some possibly still fall into the category of fear of the unknown. But most, I believe, are those who are terrified by what they feel within themselves.

In recent years, Ted Haggard, the evangelical leader who preached endlessly and fervently against homosexuality, resigned after a scandal involving a former male prostitute. Larry Craig, a United States senator who opposed including sexual orientation in hate-crime legislation, was arrested on a charge of lewd conduct in a men’s bathroom. Glenn Murphy Jr., a leader of the Young Republican National Convention and vocal opponent of same-sex marriage, was accused of sexually assaulting another man. Haggard himself actually said,

“I think I was partially so vehement because of my own war.”

A New York Times article from 2012, actually entitled, Homophobic? Maybe You're Gay,* cites an April 2012 issue of the Journal of Personality and Social Psychology in which researchers claim to provide empirical evidence that homophobia can result from the suppression of same-sex desire.

Given my original premise, that homophobia is driven by essentially three basic types of fear, I see strong reason for hope that it is rapidly decreasing, as those fears dissipate. But let's not fool ourselves. It will never go away. Even if it becomes politically incorrect and lies largely dormant, it will remain a smoldering coal to be re-ignited at the slightest breeze. Prejudices live on. We have seen, recently, the fanning of the flames, in the attacks, both physical and political, on people of color. No minority group can ever rest on it's laurels of equality gained; rather we must live a life of collective eternal vigilance. We need to maintain positive images of ourselves in the public eye; and I have a plan!

Did you know that we are awash with National Days? In the first week of January alone, we had sixteen of them, not even counting New Year's Day. And I bet you missed them all. Today, by the way, is National Pharmacist Day, National Curried Chicken Day and National Marzipan Day.

Who knew? Tomorrow, incredibly, (honest, I'm not making this stuff up,) is National Rubber Duckie Day. And January 31st is national Backward Day, so be careful out there. The whole crazy thing has even gone international. For example, January 17th is International Hug a Tree Day, so get it on your calendars.

Now, hugging is very in, these days. And we of the GLBT community are so very huggable. So I think we need a National - oh what the Hell, let's think big - International Hug a Gay Day. I can see bumperstickers (which we found out last week we all love so much) saying,

HAVE YOU HUGGED A GAY TODAY?

I was really getting into this idea when my thoughts got crazy, as in, we could even have a National Hug a Homophobe Day, so I had to stop. In the words of that Amendment 2 ad., that's just going too far!

* http://www.nytimes.com/2012/04/29/opinion/sunday/homophobic-maybe-youre-gay.html?


© January 2015

About the Author

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25 years.

ABCs of Life by Betsy

A FEW THINGS I HAVE LEARNED IN MY OLD AGE

Respect your elders--even 'though they may become fewer and fewer in number left on this earth.

Take care of your body--no new models are available.

Make friends with and understand your ego. When it is out of control you will need to counsel it and put it in your pocket.

Take your medicine everyday and know what it is and why you are taking it.

Exercise every day.

Learn something new every day.

Think, think, think---everyday.

Never stop seeking adventure. Never stop dreaming.

Take a nap everyday even if it’s only a two minute one.

Listen--listen to the birds, listen to the wind, listen to your children--even after they have become adults.

Measure your worth and accomplishments according to your own values--not those of others.

© 2 April 2012

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change). She has been retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years. Since her retirement, her major activities include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys spending time with her four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards.