Sorry, I'm Allergic, by Phillip Hoyle

I’m allergic to several fine particles such as house dust, essential oils, and some burning incense. They sometimes provoke histamine reactions such as itchy eyes, tears, sneezes, or a runny nose.

In my late 30’s I became allergic to MSG when it is used in high proportions in the food it seeks to enhance. I started getting hives when ingesting this food additive. Originally the itchy red spots showed up just in the hair on my head, then later in my ears, then on my cheeks, eventually on my neck, and finally on my shoulders as well as all the other places. The hives tend to itch for about 20 minutes and then subside. A doctor friend gave me Benadryl when I got hives at a meal. When the medicine went to work some twenty minutes later, I wasn’t itching but was so sleepy I yawned until our friend left. I decided the treatment wasn’t really effective for me. I gave up eating anything marked MSG.

In spring and fall I tend to have congestion in my sinuses. I usually blame pollens or other things in the air. I abide them and their attending discomforts, usually without treatment. My relationship with allergies seems pretty mild and way too lame to provide fodder for stories, a fact I’m actually happy to report.

But who wants to hear such good news except the person receiving it or their partner who may have to suffer with them sneezing, wheezing, blowing, and complaining? Oh I do snore and wonder if my partner will develop an allergic reaction to this condition. He rarely complains, and for some reason I almost never am aware of my snoring.

My sister Holly was allergic to Tommy Shane, the boy next door. She’d get congested and develop hives anytime he came around much the same as she would get when eating fresh strawberries. Fortunately she eventually found a guy she was not allergic to and they have been married for decades.

No one in our family was allergic to work.

Sometimes when fresh cut flowers are on display in the living room I find I have to move to another room. I blame it on the strong aromas of some of them but suppose more realistically my reaction is to the pollen they bring into the house, but to say so seems as lame as telling my history professor my paper was late because one of the children was ill. Oh well. I just don’t talk much about my tiny allergies that seem like almost nothing compared with the skin allergies my mother and my next younger sister endured. They seemed especially reactive to springtime elm pollen. Mom also was allergic to some household cleaners. She wore gloves and smeared lots of petroleum jelly on her hands at certain times of the year.

I feel fortunate that I am not allergic to any of the art materials I choose to work with.

 That’s about it. Really boring…

I can’t even think of a personal story to treat allergies as a metaphor so broad is my acceptance of people. So you can probably conclude that if I were to make the excuse, “Sorry, I’m allergic,” I’d probably be lying or at least exaggerating a non-condition in order to get out of some situation I didn’t want to cope with or some activity I just cannot abide.

© 15 Sep 2013

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.com

Queer -- A Defining Word, by Pat Gourley

It is quite amazing to me really how little of my childhood years I remember beyond vague, though some significant, generalities. I suppose I could view this as suppression of lots of terrible stuff but I really think it is more a matter of not much out of the ordinary or worthy of sublimation ever happening. Lord knows my rather intense at times Catholic upbringing and schooling might have been a source of great consternation and resulting psychopathology, but for whatever reason I think I sailed through those years queer as a three dollar bill and largely unscathed.

As I have written before (my apologies for the repetition) one episode though that has stuck with me was when I asked my mother what the word “queer” meant.  I think I was about 12 years old when I first heard it used. She said it was a bad word and I should never use it. I then went straight to the dictionary but the only definition provided that stuck with me was that it meant “odd”. I went back to her with this piece of information but she persisted that it was not a word to incorporate into my vocabulary. I suspect that I or someone near me had been called a “queer” and being totally oblivious to any homosexual connection with the word thought this to be a weird choice especially delivered in less than loving fashion.

Queer to this day remains a loaded and offensive word by some LBGT folks, despised as much as the “F” word. The “F” word being “faggot” of course and not “fuck”. I could have written about “Faggot” as a defining word but thought I had enough to tackle on my plate with “Queer”. And I actually thought for a fleeting minute of writing on the word “fuck” one of my favorites but decided to keep it closer to home. And besides other than this little phrase I ran into on Facebook the other day I don’t have much more to say about “fuck”: “I have been told I am going to hell for my excessive use of the word FUCK. I have rented a bus if any of you fuckers need a ride.” From Fsensitivity Web Site

Back to Queer. Certain words used to describe us are ones that we have simply and innocently appropriated like “gay”.  Others are words that have been used to denigrate and belittle us, some of which we have reclaimed and others not so much. The use of language to offensively describe some folks as ‘other’ has often been used as a means of control. Though for a minority struggling for self-definition and empowerment the re-appropriation of often-derogatory words is I think a legitimate exercise that can enhance identity and liberation. And such is the case I believe with the word “Queer”.

In looking for the origins of the word I kind of fell down an Internet rabbit hole. The use of it as a derogatory term aimed at homosexual folks may well date back to 16^th century Scotland. The actual roots of the word seem perhaps lost to time. However, my go to person, for meaning of the Queen’s English if you will, remains Judy Grahn and her seminal work from 1984 Another Mother Tongue. Grahn states that the original word was “cwer” (c-w-e-r) without directly attributing any tribal or national origin to that word. After an hour or so of floundering around the ether a possible source for “cwer” I stumbled on is that it was old Welsh in origin. However, don’t take that to the bank.

Let me quote Grahn’s take on the possible meaning of this descriptive moniker:

“ ‘Sinful,’ ‘of the devil’ and ‘evil’ are all expressions that have been used very effectively against gay culture, as has ‘queer’, which derives from cwer, crooked not straight, kinked. Perhaps the difference between queer and straight originated very simply with the difference between the straight-line dance of male/female couples and the Fairy round dance”. From Another Mother Tongue. Page 276.

So perhaps it was a word used originally to acknowledge that we were different from straight folks in a rather kinked or crooked sense and that the evil or sinful associations were added later. Maybe we were the ones who preferred to dance in circles rather than in straight lines and this bit of nonconformity was one thing I hope, among many, that set us apart. And of course anyone set apart from the norm was often then fair game for ostracism that could become nasty.

I suspect there is a rich history to this word “Queer” that is lost to the mists of time. I am choosing to reclaim it as a defining word, one that helps set us apart from the hetero-hordes. A word that hints at our uniqueness and the valuable contributions we bring to the human tapestry by way of our otherness.

© 19 Feb 2016 

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.

Cool - Barak Obama, by Louis

Cool as a cucumber, means people with a calm, unflappable demeanor. Recently, “cool” has been a colloquial adjective used to describe President Barack Obama. “Cool” can also mean, “aware of issues and problems that most people are not aware of.” Again President Obama has been described as having all these “cool” qualities. At one time, Mr. Obama had these qualities, but he has caved in to the corporatist democratic tendencies of his party so that he has slowly but surely turned into yet another unsuccessful president.

It was good he was against the War in Iraq. But recently he has sent U. S. troops back in and is renewing a battle the American public is against. Mr. Obama seems perfectly comfortable with perpetual pointless war in the Middle East despite the widespread opposition by the American public. He happily continues a pointless endless war in Afghanistan. Another war the American people are against. I think that is one reason Senator Rand Paul became rather popular in Colorado. He spoke out against our unthinking interventionist foreign policy that does not benefit the American public in the slightest. Somebody is benefitting, who?

 Mr. Obama has supported trade deals that are designed to disenfranchise American labor unions, to disenfranchise working people. Many of his liberal allies have told him his disastrous trade policies such as the Trans-Pacific Partnership, will result in millions of Americans losing their jobs. After a while, Mr. Obama answered that the trade deal will create many new jobs in the U. S. NAFTA and CAFTA have already decimated thousands and thousands of towns and small cities in the U. S. TPP will be even worse.

Mr. Obama does not seem to care. When the public service employees unions were trying to recall Scott Walker in Wisconsin, Mr. Obama’s silence was deafening. Somehow, despite some liberal happy talk, Mr. Obama has turned into a hostile bellicose, pro-Wall Street, corporatist Democrat indistinguishable from the most obnoxious Republican right-wingers.

Historically Barack Obama will be counted as another failure as a U. S. President.

© 9 May 2016 

About the Author 

 I was born in 1944, I lived most of my life in New York City, Queens County. I still commute there. I worked for many years as a Caseworker for New York City Human Resources Administration, dealing with mentally impaired clients, then as a social work Supervisor dealing with homeless PWA's. I have an apartment in Wheat Ridge, CO. I retired in 2002. I have a few interesting stories to tell. My boyfriend Kevin lives in New York City. I graduated Queens College, CUNY, in 1967.

You'll Never Know, by Gillian

No, I probably won't, but I suspect that expression might soon need to be protected under the Endangered Species Act. It surely must be close to extinction. Extremely popular as recently as our younger days, attitudes have changed so much that people rarely say, or even think, these days, you'll never know ... whatever.

Not only people, but computer systems, know more about us than we do ourselves. King Soopers knows what I eat, Argonaut knows what I drink, Amazon knows what I read. A part of us seems to resent and fear this, yet we relentlessly feed the world endless information.

We shout everything from the rooftops. We tell everyone everything, from inane trivia to what would once have been deep dark secrets.

Take Facebook for instance. (Please, take it! I don't want it.) So many people telling me so much more than I could ever need, or want, to know. Am I supposed to be enthralled by the final success of some friend of a friend's grandchild's potty training? Or someone whose name means nothing to me proclaiming that he, without fail, flosses his teeth six times every day? Or the myriad of lunatic responses to this claim from people I don't know and don't want to know?

I'd like to say that I hate Facebook, but in all honesty I simply stay away from it so I'm not involved enough to hate it. I do, however, regret the way in which it has created impersonal communication from the personal.

Once upon a time - and not so very long ago - cousin Fred would send a postcard when he visited New York. It would have the same tired photo of the Empire State Building on the front, and some version of wish you were here on the back. Nevertheless, how nice of him, you would say, to think of me. It was personal. It made you feel good.

Now, you look at Fred's photo-journal on Facebook, detailing his trip to Bangkok. He recounts every event of every day, down to what he ate for dinner. You can imagine his trip much more vividly then you did from the old postcards, but what happened to that warm fuzzy you used to get from them? What happened to the personal touch? What happened to that oh how nice of you to think of me feeling? I haven't a clue whether he ever gave me a thought or not. He sent this report out into the ether to be read by anyone who cared to do so. I would really get more out of a boring photo and a banal message; at least it was for ME.

A while back I heard via a mutual friend that a good friend of mine had just returned from New Zealand.

'I didn't even know she'd gone to New Zealand!' I wailed.

'It's all been on Facebook,' she replied, looking pitying and puzzled as if I'd just told her I couldn't read.

A couple of weeks ago, a group of old lesbians Betsy and I belong to were joined for lunch by a few teenagers who shared with us their experiences with being .... um .... and here I shall begin to flounder because I am not too sure what they would consider the politically correct terminology. My apologies to any of you wonderful young people who happen ever to read this, which I think highly unlikely. I think their version of the alphabet soup was LGBTQIA+, the QIA being questioning, intersex, and asexual. What an education these kids are. They talk with assurance about identifying as gender-queer, gender-fluid, non-binary, and half the time I'm not sure even what they're saying. It's another language. And here we were, many of us in this room, when we were that age, ignorant of even one word to describe what we knew, at some level, ourselves to be. I recall that huge hurdle, as it appeared at the time, we had to leap in order simply to inform others that we were attracted to those of the same sex, or that we were trapped in the wrong body. Can you even begin to imagine trying to explain to your parents that you are never sure, at any given moment, whether you will feel that you are female or male, or to which sex you may feel attracted. Or that you chose not to identify as any gender. You just are.

For some of them, their preferred pronoun is 'they' rather than he or she, which is vaguely possible in the English language but when I try it I find it very confusing.

It was all starting to make my head hurt.

Don't get me wrong though, I have every admiration for these young people: out to the world, apologizing for nothing, completely proactive on their own behalf. I'm not foolish enough to think it's easy for them, but none of them is ever going to think, in some secret, inner, self, you'll never know ....

Everyone knows, and I bet they're all out, loud and proud, on Facebook.

Perhaps, if I used Facebook, I would be more familiar with the the language of today's LGBTQIA etc. youth, though I am not ashamed to admit my deplorable ignorance face to face.

Maybe I just have to accept that if I am to keep up with what is happening in the world in general, and with those nearest and dearest, I shall have to resort to Facebook. But I'd still rather receive a postcard.

© November 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 been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty years. We have been married since 2013.

Slippery Sexualities, by Will Stanton

When it comes to sexuality, both Mother Nature and many humans have a peculiar way of dealing with it.  Starting with non-human animals, there are several creatures that display surprising characteristics.

For example, male mourning-cuttlefish actually display male or female physical characteristics depending upon which cuttlefish are beside them.  Males can appear to be male on one side and female on the other when next to another male.  The other male thinks he’s seeing two females but no rival male.  Clown anemonefish all start out life as male.  If the female dies, the dominant male can change sex and become female.  Another male will become the dominant male.  Parrotfish start out as male or female but have sex organs of both sexes.  They are protogynous hermaphrodites, meaning they can change from female to male.

Human beings' screwing with the environment is causing some unexpected and potentially serious problems among the animal kingdom.  A common pesticide called atrazine has been found to induce sexual changes in frogs. The pesticide affects the frogs' production of estrogen, transforming males into successfully reproductive females. Scientists are working to find exactly how atrazine causes this change, since it could become an issue with other animals as well.  Maybe that accounts for, when I am attending adult swim, my seeing so many man-boobs.

Complete hermaphroditic humans are very rare, although perhaps one baby in 2000 is born with some degree of intersex characteristics.  Sometimes the organs of one gender are visible on the outside of the body, whereas the opposite gender organs are inside.  Some medical researchers believe that the famous Joan of Arc was, in fact, an intersex male.

By now, most people are fairly familiar with gender reassignment for those individuals whose psychological and emotional nature are at odds with their physical forms.  Currently, a surprising number of people choose surgery to approximate the opposite gender.

What is hard to explain, however, is that there are a small number of males, including here in America, who have a psycho-sexual compulsion to have themselves castrated.  If any behavior can fit into the category of “slippery sexuality,” I think this might be.

Of course, that is the perfect segue to the Far-Eastern tradition of Hijra, sometimes known as “the third sex,” and otherwise recognized as eunuchs.  India, with its ancient culture and religions, is so complex that one would have to be a scholar to even begin to understand that part of the world.  In India, the hermaphrodite, the homosexual, and the transvestite have a symbolic value and are considered privileged beings.  Ample examples of this are found in Indian religion, mythology, and folklore, which are replete with traditional religious narratives such as in the Mahabharata, and the Vedas in the Puranas.

For example, Ardhanarishvara, "The Lord whose half is a woman," is said to have been created by the merging of the god Shiva and his consort Parvati.  This form of Shiva is said to represent the "totality that lies beyond duality."  A similar merger occurs between the beauty-and-prosperity goddess Lakshmi and her husband Vishnu, forming the hermaphrotitic or androgynous Lakshmi-Narayana.

Consequently, and for hundreds of years, literally millions of young boys and men have chosen to totally emasculate themselves in rather lengthy, traditional ceremonies in order to dress and to live as the opposite gender - - an extremely bizarre phenomenon to us here in the West but quite common in India, Pakistan, Thailand, and, to some extent, Singapore.

Real Hijra

Hijra Illustration

Mid-Eastern cultures have had similar polysexual myths.  And of course, Greek culture includes the god Hermaphroditus.  Actual intersex individuals were considered to be special.

Hermaphroditus

Mr. Horsley's first girlfriend.

Apparently, sexual compulsion is so irresistible in some people that they sometimes engage in peculiar sexual aberrations that might be described as “slippery sexuality.”    Bestiality, having sex with animals, is one example.  I spoke once about Republican Congressman Neal Horsley.  He is the man who, among other things, called for the arrest and imprisonment of all homosexuals.  I assume that he felt that sex among same-gender persons is disgusting.  He admitted, however, in an interview with Alan Colmes on the Fox News Radio, to having engaged in sex with a mule.  He tried to excuse his behavior by stating, “When you grow up on a farm in Georgia, your first girlfriend is a mule.”  In an attempt to prove to his constituents, however, that he really is a decent man, he quickly went on to say that Jesus had forgiven him and cleansed him of his “sin.”   How convenient.

Then there was that young Georgia redneck who became so drunk one night that he pulled his car over at a pumpkin patch and was arrested for copulating with a pumpkin.  That sounds pretty slippery.  He was taken to court, but most of the charges were dropped because the judge and whole courtroom broke out laughing when the arresting officer related the incident.  She testified that she had approached the defendant and asked, “What are you doing with that pumpkin?” whereupon he responded, “Oh shit!  Is it midnight already?”  This story was not made up.  It actually happened!

Well, I've arrived at this point only to realize that I have barely begun to mention human urges that may be regarded by some as “slippery sexualities,” such as sadomasochism, bondage, necrophilia, compulsive onanism, hebephelia, ephebephilia, and even the opposite of the desire to have sex, genophobia, the fear of having sexual relations.  Maybe I will write about these later.  As it is, I already am becoming confused by all of this.

© 9 January 2016 

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.

Any Writing Is Experimental (Attack of the Giant Cootie), by Ricky

As one of our group members stated in his writing to this topic, “all writing is experimental.”  The Muse finally struck me upside my head and so, what follows is her experimental writing.  She hopes you will find this, amuseing as this story is based on an actual event I witnessed while my family was visiting a close friend in Tucson a few years back.

Attack of the Giant Cootie

“Daaaad! Someone just drove into our driveway.”[I wonder who that could be.]

“That’s my friend Rick and his family.  They’re from South Dakota.”    [He doesn’t like to meet strangers so I didn’t tell him to forestall any whining.]  “Didn’t I tell you they were coming for dinner?”

“No you didn’t.”  [I don’t like to meet strangers.  That’s probably why he didn’t tell me.]

“Don’t worry son.  This fact is interesting.  We have two boys, a girl, and another boy in our family.  They have two girls, a boy, and another girl in their family.  The oldest girl is your age—10.”  [Hmmmmm.  Wouldn’t it be interesting if their girls married our boys and their boy married our girl?]

“Yuck!  Girls!  I’ll get cooties and they only play with dolls and dress up.  I hate that stuff.”[I am going to be sooooo bored.  I need to find a hiding place until they’re gone — even if I miss dinner!”]

“You’ll be fine.  Don’t make a fuss, and make them feel welcome.”  [Just don’t embarrass me in front of Rick.]

“Will they be staying the night?  [I’m not sleeping on the couch or floor so THEY can use MY bed.]

[Silly question.  We don’t have room for 8 kids and 4 adults.] “No.  Just for a visit and for dinner.”

“Ok Dad.  I’ll be good.  Wait!  Is that their oldest daughter?  She’s huge!”  [A giant cootie.]

“Yes.  That’s her.  She is rather tall for a 10-year old.  Her mother told me that she is as far above the normal growth curve for girls as a girl’s normal growth curve is above a boy’s normal growth curve.  Since you’re short for your age she will appear quite large next to you.  But, she is also a tomboy, so she’ll probably like the same things you do.”  [I hope they get along.  I can’t stand it when he whines about anything.]

“Yeah, but her size bothers me and she still has cooties.”  [What’s a tomboy?]

“Now listen!  These are my friends and I expect you to be nice.”  [I hope he obeys me this once.]

“Okay, I’ll do my best.”  [Dad can’t see that I have my fingers crossed behind my back].

“Uncross your fingers and let’s go meet our guests.”

…..

“Glad to meet you too, Mr. Dawson.”  [What happened?  He shook my hand then my tummy feels funny and it’s harder to breath.  Why do I feel this way?]

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Dawson.”  [I like her smile.  She seems friendly enough.]

“Hi.”  [Ugh!  I’m shaking hands with a giant cootie.  If she were any taller my neck would break from looking up at her.  I gotta get away from her and wash my hands.  I think I might pass out.]

“Are you okay?”  [He looks pale like he’s going to faint.]

“Excuse me; I need to use the bathroom.”  [She sounds sincere, but…]

“Are you okay, son?”  [I hope he’s not getting sick.  He looks pale like he might pass out.]

“Yeah Dad.  I’m okay.”  [Just a few more feet to safety. Okay. I’m locked in the bathroom.  I’m safe.  Just splash a little cold water on my face.  Ahhhh that feels good.  I’m breathing easier.  A bit more water should do it.  Oh yeah.  Now I can breathe okay.  Even my tummy is feeling better but is a bit tingly.  I wonder what happened.  It started when I shook hands with Mr. Dawson.  Why did that make me feel funny and not be able to breathe easy?  Did the giant cootie have anything to do with it?  Did she make it worse?  Uh oh.  It’s all starting again.  Maybe more water in my face…Yeah.  That’s better.  Mr. Dawson is a good looking man.  Oh no.  Here it comes again.  I need more water.  Ahhhhh.  That did it.  I’m alright again.  I guess I should not think about Mr. Dawson.  Oops.  More water.  Who’s that knocking on the door?]

“Are you okay in there, son?”  [I wonder what’s taking so long.  Maybe I should have THAT talk with him after our guests have gone.]

‘Yeah, Dad.  I’ll be out in a minute.”  [Out, but hiding somewhere else in the house.]

…..

[Ahhhh.  They’re all in the livingroom.  I promised dad to be good and make them feel welcome so I can’t hide in my bedroom they’ll find me and dad will be angry.  Where can I hide?  Hmmmmm.  The kitchen? No, it’s too open.  The hallway?  No, that’s even more open dummy.  The closet?  No, I’m already in there.  The attic?  That’s dumb.  We’ve been told to stay out of there because of the spiders.  I hate spiders worse than cooties.  I know!  I’ll hide under the dining room table.  That way I can hear the conversation in the livingroom but not be seen so if I’m questioned later I will know what was said.  Yeah, that’s a great plan.  I’ll just crawl under the end nearest the window and they won’t be able to see me from the livingroom or the kitchen.  Owww!  Gotta remember not to raise my head too much or I’ll hit the table again.  Now, I’ll just relax and wait.]

“Hi whatcha doing under there?”  [Is he playing at being a spy?]

“Owww!  Just looking for a nickel I dropped.”  [How did she find me?]

“Oh.  Sorry I startled you.  Do you want me to help look for it?”

“No.  I just found it.”  [Lucky for me there really is a nickel under here.]  “Owww!” [Dang it!]

“Did you bump your head again?”  [What a klutz]  “Your name is Jason, right?”

[Why is she standing so close to me?  I’ll get big cooties.]  “Yes.  And your name is Suzie.”  [’ll just backup a step to get more space between us.]

 “No, my name is Susan.  No one calls me ‘Suzie’ except my grandmother.”  [Why is he backing up?  Is he going somewhere?  I’ll just follow him.] 

  “Oh, sorry.  Are you really only 10 years old?”  [She’s coming closer.  Danger! Danger, Will Robinson!    I’m being attacked by a giant cootie.  I’m going to backup two steps this time.]

“Yes just turned ten last November.  I’m very tall for my age.”  [There he goes again.  I’ll just follow his lead.  My dad said not to make fun of his size but I want him to say it before I believe it.]  “Are you really 10, because you look younger?”

[She’s closing in for the kill.]  “Yes I’m 10 and I can’t help that I’m short for my age right now.  Dad says that I’ll grow like a weed in a year or two.  I can’t wait for it to happen.”  [Okay this time back up THREE steps.]

[Wow.  He sounded irritated by my question.]  “Do you get picked on by bigger boys?”

 “Yes I do.”  [I move back THREE steps and she follows keeping one foot between us.  She is scaring me.  I’ll back around the table this time.]

[He’s backing away again like he’s afraid of me.]  “Well, in my class, I don’t let any of the bigger boys pick on anyone.  When they tried, I made them back down.  If you were in my class, I would protect you from them.”  [I like this little guy.]

[I like her attitude but…] “If you did that, it would be worse for me after school.  The bullies would pick on me even more whenever you were not around.”  [Ooops.  The wall is at my back.  I can’t back up any further.  What can I do?  Wait.  There’s a chair.  I’ll drag it over here and stand on it.]

[Now what’s he up too?  Standing on a chair so he becomes taller than me?  Because I’m so tall does he think I am going to pick on him?]  “At recess at my school, I play baseball, football, and basketball.  Do you play any of those?”

[She likes sports?  Weird.]  “I’m too small to be much good at any of them but I do like to play them.  Do you want to go into the backyard and play catch?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll go get my glove and ball and another glove for you too.”

…..

“Well son they’re all gone now.  What did you think of them?”

“I liked the family.”

“The whole family or just Susan?”

“All of them.  You were right, Dad.  Susan was okay and does like the things I like.  We played catch and other games.”

“And what about the cooties?”

“Well.  Susan is okay, but all other girls have cooties.”

“Even your sister?”

“No.  She is okay too.  But all the others DO have cooties.”

“Hold that thought, son; at least until you are 18.”

© 7 September 2015 

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 was sent to live 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 9-11-2001 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.

True Colors, by Ray S.

Long ago in the days of Tin Pan Alley—that was when popular music lovers were still buying sheet music and the latest 78 RPM records. Our subject “True Colors” reminded me of a song titled “The Night that You Told Me Those Little White Lies.”

Here, today we have been able to hear your thoughts (and/or maybe confessions) about True Colors.

Certainly there may be a liberal (no pun intended) number of patriotic red, white, and blue references as well as our tribe’s Rainbow flag palette.

Shame and guilt-ridden as I am, my dominant thoughts promptly unearthed a lifetime of lots of little white lies and a few under the heading shady black. So many that it is very difficult to recall when and if any true colors of virtue stand out. I can’t recall when I had occasion to show those True Colors. I don’t believe I am alone in this category.

Think which were the true colors when you were confirmed in a faith and didn’t really know what all of that stuff was about, but maybe you were cleansed of everyone else’s sins, or swore secret allegiance to some quasi lodge, fraternity, sorority, high school clique. Mind you, I do not disrespect the various Orders’ goals; it is just the way we obey. True Colors where are you when needed?

Of course true colors are always subject to slight adjustments or reinterpretations as the times and circumstances demand.

Did you have your fingers crossed way down deep at your wedding? True colors prevailed with pride (depending if it was unintended) and love upon the arrival of the baby girl or boy. Color me pink or color me blue—lavender came later.

Final reason for the showing of true colors, one of celebration and liberation, after a long struggle finding our way out of the blackness of many closets, the Coming Out we all rejoice in, with the True Colors of the beautiful rainbow.

© 29 February 2016 

About the Author 

Patriotism, by Phillip Hoyle

Last weekend while travelling south along I-25, we approached the Broadway exit. A large American flag held aloft on a sturdy pole sunk in concrete and sitting at the top of a rampart flapped in the breeze. “I’ve never noticed that before,” my friend commented.

“Nor I. Must be new,” I responded.

Her next comment was about how good it is to live in America. I agreed with my rather minimal statement that I, too, was happy to live here. I believe for her the sentiment is rather standard fare formed from listening to too much conservative talk radio. We don’t talk about that. For me the issue of being “proud to be an American” is something quite different. She seems some kind of absolutist while I am surely a relativist. So are we philosophers? Since we spotted the flag on I-25 I’ve been thinking about patriotism—perhaps that does make me a philosopher of sorts.

I believe patriotism most dramatically relates to an image of heroes who put their very lives on the line for their identity as part of a particular people. The history of any Fatherland or Motherland obviously has its origins in the LAND. For me the land is always the Flint Hills of Kansas. I grew up in wide open spaces with a broad river valley and low bluffs nearby. The landscape was further defined by creeks: so grassy highlands and wooded valleys with stretches of plowed fields in the bottomlands of waterways are all a part of my fatherland. Agriculture abounded there.

In my particular patria a military presence with a long history lent gravity and opened me to a larger society and world. I grew up around the U.S. Army’s Seventh Cavalry; Custer was once stationed at Fort Riley just across the river from our town. The presence of historic stone buildings that housed both the officers and the fine horse stock of the cavalry, of wooden barracks for the enlisted men, of parade grounds, of rifle ranges, of helicopters coming and going in the air around the base’s heliport, of convoys made up of personnel carriers and artillery, jeeps and guns, trucks and heavy machinery often impeding traffic on highways, and of our lively community that entertained GIs provided endless variety for a Kansas town me. Then there were the children of Army families in our school population, and for me, the family-owned IGA store providing groceries for families of GIs, Civil Service employees, as well as the townies like me.

Thus my patria was racially mixed, with multiple languages, mixed-race families, and people who had lived all over the world—especially Germany and Japan as I recall it. Soldiers marched in local parades and cannons and other Army equipment impressed the youngsters and brought tears to the eyes of elders.

My fatherland was rather new by world standards yet as a youngster I felt connected to the antiquity of the place by the presence of an old log cabin church and by stories of my ancestors who had long lived in the area. Still the Hoyle and Schmedemann families arrived only three generations before my advent. My great grandparents came to Kansas to homestead. Some may have come to help assure that Kansas would be a free state in the political heat up that eventuated in the US Civil War. Yet in my family there were no ultimate patriots—those who made the ‘ultimate sacrifice’ for their country—in any of the stories I heard.

Growing up I heard lots of talk of such sacrifices of life, but most of them were in sermons not about the country but quoting a “no greater love” value as applied to the ultimate vicarious death of Jesus as the Christ. Religion figured heavily in my fatherland.

I became aware of the country as something much larger than my state when I heard my parents talk about the differences between Ike Eisenhower and Adlai Stevenson, then when I met men who had served in the Korean conflict, when I further realized just what the US Army did besides entertain us with wild stories and exotic tattoos, when I became aware of missile crises, the Cold War, the building of the interstate road system, the anti-communist diatribe, the deaths of national leaders, the threat of the draft, the Vietnam non-war, the peace movement, and the growing realization that our USA motivations idealized in myth and PR announcements didn’t well match my own vision of reality or basic values.

Welcome to thoughtful adulthood, Hoyle.

AND EVEN MORE THAN THAT, THERE WAS ALWAYS THAT NAGGING REALIZATION THAT IF ANYONE REALLY KNEW ME, THEY CERTAINLY WOULDN’T LET ME BE A PATRIOT IN ANY SENSE OF THE WORD.

But I am a patriot who feels a deep sense of meaning in being American. I love it but not in an exclusivist, better-than-any-other identity or country.

© 25 Sep 2013 

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.com