Mud, by Ricky

It is 11pm as I begin typing this and I am tired and sleepy. As a result, my mind is all muddled up. My eyelids are very heavy. Apparently, the Sand Man is using mud in my eyes instead of sand. This makes me feel muddy all over. Now I know what Stephen means when he says he feels, “Fair to muddling.”

I know a man who thinks he “knows it all”. I know a man who was awarded a non-medical PhD and likes people to call him by the title “Doctor”. I know a man who when he begins to talk will monopolize the conversation. I know a man who will tell you everything he knows about a subject without giving anyone else a chance to speak about the topic. I know a man who is so careless in speech that he insults people over the phone and then gets upset when they hang-up on him. I know a man who denies facts that contradict his closely held political beliefs. I know a man who believes it is perfectly okay for the wealthy to use their political contributions to buy access to politicians in order to corrupt the democratic form of government and gain more personal wealth. I know a man who believes it is okay for the poor to be poor, because, he says, “Jesus said the poor will always be with you.” I know a man who thinks Rush Limpbrain is a soothsayer. — I know a Republican. — His name is Mud.

I also know a Republican who is very caring, sensitive, generous with his money, handsome, and intelligent. — His name is Mud-lite.

© 4 October 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 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

Blue Skies by Ray S

Good afternoon, Class. 

Our subject word for today is innuendo. I trust you’ve done your homework, thus you’re cognizant of how to employ this word. Just tickle your prurient mind department and chuckle away.

First off, “Blue Skies” is the title of an old song which prompts a visit to Tin Pan Alley. You recall the next line—“Smiling at me, nothing but Blue Skies do I see.”

Now, see what these titles can do with a little alteration, interpretation, and innuendo, a la GLBTQ.

Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag and smile, smile, smile
It’s a long way to Tipperary
Over there, over there
Blow, Gabriel, Blow
Over the rainbow
I’m always chasing rainbows
The boy next door or the girl next door
I’d like to hate myself in the morning
This can’t be love
Me and my shadow
Brother, can you spare a dime?
Someone to watch over me
The man I love (or woman)
How long has this been going on?
Sweet and low down
Who cares?
I’ve got a crush on you
Bess, you are my woman, now
I got it bad and that ain’t good
I loves you Porgy
My blue heaven (you fill in the name of your choice)
Happy days are here again
I’m young and healthy
Over there
The varsity drag
Ain’t we got fun
Little girl
Change partners
What’ll I do?
How deep is the ocean?
Let’s have another cup of coffee
Say it isn’t so
Don’t lie under the apple tree
I hate men
He needs me
After I say I’m sorry
Somebody loves me
Hard hearted Hannah
I never knew
Frankie and Johnnie
I can’t give you anything but love
How come you do me like you do, do, do?
I wish I could shimmy like my sister Kate
After you’ve gone
Minnie the moocher
Willow weep for me
There’s a small hotel
The lady is a tramp
I enjoy being a girl
This can’t be love
I’ve got you under my skin
Why can’t you behave?
They say it’s wonderful
The girl (boy) that I marry
You go to my head
That old feeling
When I’m not near the girl (boy) I love,
I’m in love with the girl (boy) I’m near
Don’t worry about me
All of me
You make me feel so young
Anything goes
Oh, look at me now.

Sing along now and “Get Happy.”


© 27 June 2016

About the Author

Backseat of the Car, by Phillip Hoyle

I recall all too clearly the opening lyric of a song from the mid 70s, one that had its origin in the Jesus Movement and made its way to Wichita, Kansas, where I worked in a church. Someone in the youth group had heard it and since it had only three or four chords picked it up and sang it to us while strumming his guitar. “I’m just sitting in the backseat…” Although I was appalled at it for both its musical and theological simplicity, I saw clearly why it appealed.

I could just picture the California newly saved young person sitting in the backseat toking while Jesus, his ever so polite chauffeur took him here and there in the spiritual fantasy that dominated his smoke-filled imagination. I wondered if the Jesus driving the car was wearing a uniform or a long white robe. And I wondered at the sanity of the person singing the song—not the young person in my youth group-- but perhaps a generation of true believers who hopefully assumed that the good God would solve all their problems. Just believe, they asserted, and open the back door of the car.

Immediately upon hearing the song my mind went to a lyric written years before by Paul Evans of six girls complaining to the driver, “Keep your mind on your driving/Keep your hands on the wheel/Keep your snoopy eyes on the road ahead/We’re having fun sitting in the back seat/Kissing and a hugging with Fred.” We laughed as we kids sang that song from the backseat of the car. But the “I” who heard the gospel song sighed, “At least in the gospel ditty Jesus is in the front seat.” There was so much romanticizing of Christianity in those mid-20th century days when people were often urged to fall in love with God or with Jesus.

The little backseat song did nothing positive for me. I hated the simplistic melody that sounded like music in a TV ad for dish soap. Its cleverness seemed so juvenile. Now, my objection wasn’t in its attempt to communicate in a popular medium. Actually my objection was to its misappropriation of John Calvin’s doctrine of salvation by grace alone, and the lyric reminded me too much of the rather unattractive sermon I heard as a teenager from a cowboy preacher in which we were urged to make Jesus our Pardnuh. This song encouraged one to let Jesus, with whom the singer had a personal relationship, take the wheel. Why? So he could drive you to heaven? So you wouldn’t have to take responsibility for your life and decisions? It was just too sappy for me. I didn’t attack the song; the kids liked it and with all the social change underway churches were always interested when any kids wanted to go to church or church youth groups. Churches were in a great hurry to accommodate the culture. That’s not a bad program in a culture based on capitalism, a society given to popular advertising gimmicks, a religion offering some kind of salvation—I suppose. The problem is the basic one of all religious communication. It is based on metaphor. I though this song chose a flawed image—especially for teenagers. Had I said so out loud I would have been seen as hopeless for work in youth ministry. That didn’t worry me. I already knew I was or at least was little interested to continue with that job description.

© 6 March 2017

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

Strange Vibrations, by Pat Gourley

“Just because you are seeing divine light, experiencing waves of bliss, or conversing with gods and goddesses is no reason to forget your zip code”

Ram Dass

For me strange vibrations have usually involved bouts of anxiety, which fortunately have been short-lived and really quite rare in my 67 years. My first experience with being anxious in an uncomfortable fashion was in my early teens and can be directly related to buying into the bullshit being foisted on me by the Catholic Church and its minions.


In hindsight I do think that my budding awareness that I was a gay little kid was just beginning to come into conflict in so many ways with the Church’s teachings. The cognitive dissonance created by what I felt in my core butting up against the relentless brainwashing could be quite anxiety provoking.


It was the most insidious form of child abuse legitimately sanctioned by society and the Church and it created lots of strange vibrations. By my Junior Year in high school these religiously induced anxiety attacks were quickly abating in large part thanks to my first gay relationship with a loving queer spirit guide in the form of an elder loving mentor.


I wonder sometimes if what I view as the relentless child abuse from all organized religions, often in an extreme form of psychological coercion and intimidation, doesn’t in some ways provide the cover or rather the rationale then for actual physical abuse both sexual and non-sexual to take place. If you are willing to foist on young impressionable minds all sorts of bullshit succinctly laid out in the Baltimore Catechism for example does that make it easier to then extend this form of mind control to involve the physical? All of us are born atheists and really should be left alone with that universal view to eventually sort things out on our own.


I must say that my current spiritual view, which can best be described as Buddhist-atheism, is no longer a source of any sort of anxiety. I have finally learned the amazing calming effect of sitting quietly and focusing on my breath especially when the current fucked-up state of humanity begins to impinge, usually due to too much Internet surfing. Amazing how this can also be remediated by a walk to the Denver Botanic Gardens and a few hours of soaking up that energy.


After extricating myself from the Catholic Church in 1967 my next real bout with anxiety did not occur until the fall of 1979 and involved a bit too much psilocybin and a trip to the Empire Bathes. The resulting moderate freak-out was anxiety provoking enough for me to essentially swear off all drugs for the past 35+years with one accidental episode this past winter – details to follow.


My next strange vibrations did not occur until the fall of 1995 following my partner David’s death from AIDS related stuff. For many months after his death I would have nightmares often ending with waking up in panic mode with the sheets often drenched with sweat. This did stop eventually after about six months of talk-therapy with a great shrink. No, I do not think I was experiencing untreated sleep apnea.


My most recent bout of strange vibrations occurred this past January when I was out in San Francisco. I was being Innkeeper and mentoring a new 14-week-old puppy. It was a rainy evening with only a few guests and as is my want I started craving something sweet about 7 PM. The pup and I were ensconced in the library catching up on Downton Abbey episodes.


Wandering into the kitchen I spied a Christmas tin on the counter. Upon inspection I found cookies that I remember being very similar to ones made in large quantities around the holidays. I quickly made short work of 6 or 7 of these cookies. I thought they had a bit of an odd molasses taste but still hit the spot. About 30 minutes later I began to experience very strange vibrations. This was odd I thought since I was in one of the safest places I can imagine on earth and to have waves of anxiety sweep over me rather relentlessly soon had me wondering if these weren’t perhaps the infamous house pot cookies. Several folks in the house have medical marijuana cards and made use of the herb on occasion often in the form of baked goods but usually only ¼ to ½ of one cookie imbibed at a time.


Long story short I was able to determine that the cookies were “loaded”. After several calls to Denver friends with questions about HIV Meds and large quantities of THC I was assured there were no physical interactions. I clearly recognized the anxiety as familiar ground and was able to weather the storm with the help of a good friend who came home from work early and some conscious breathwork. After about six hours I was pretty much back on earth with the strange vibrations fading away. I was left to ponder a line from an old Grateful Dead song: “Maybe you had too much too fast”.


I was able throughout though to remember not only how to operate my cell phone and walk the dog but also I could easily recall my zip code.


© May 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.

I Used to ... but Now I ... by Nicholas

I used to ride 50 miles in a day on my bicycle. Now I do it in a week—most weeks.

I used to use a telephone like a telephone to talk to people. Now I send text messages and check email. Sometimes I’m even hoping that no one answers my call so I can just leave a message and not actually have to talk, as in carry on a conversation, with a human being.

I used to love working in my garden and I still do but my back says, get real, or I’ll hurt you.

I used to wonder what to call Jamie. Now he’s my husband. I agree, we need some new terminology to avoid all the baggage of husband and wife.

I used to think that I had nothing in common with my parents and would live a much better life because I just knew more about how to live a better life. Now, I think of them as my role models for aging well, knowing when to quit it and when to hit it.

I used to think I was brilliant and would go far in this world. Now, I don’t think I’m so brilliant but I have gone far in this world, to many places I never dreamed of, and I’m still pretty smart.

I used to be closeted, confused and alone. Now I’m not. Well, maybe still confused.

I used to try to keep up with national and world events and politics and give excellent opinions on important matters. Now, it’s all beyond me. If I had a prescription for all the world’s ills, or even any one of them, I would not hesitate to send it out to all concerned parties. But I don’t.

I used to read newspapers regularly. Now there aren’t any.

I used to feel free to have second helpings of dessert. Not anymore.

I used to ask God for help, for strength, for forgiveness. Now I’d just ask for an apology.

I used to seek more freedom. Now, I guess I have it.

© 2014

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.

Pack Rat, by Louis Brown

You could say my parents were a kind of pack rats. They inherited a large volume of furnishings, oil paintings, gowns, chinaware, crystal ware, jewelry, silverware and a large volume of 19th century photographs. My mother tried desperately to sort the photos out and put them in chronological order. Since there was just too much, she finally gave up.

The photos depicted the members of two prominent puritanical families, the Browns and the Wilcox’s. Actually they were Presbyterians. Prudence Aldrich’s portrait was particularly intriguing. She looked particularly dour. My grandmother told me that she looked “dour” and “bitter” because she had had lost three children in childbirth, i.e. 3 miscarriages, 3 still births. So despite her otherwise comfortable circumstances, she was not a happy person. Prudence was born toward the end of the 18th century and lived to be ninety years old. Prudence’s husband was the right reverend James Bishop Wilcox who founded the Middlebury Presbyterian Seminary in Middlebury, Vermont.

My parents were poor, my grandparents were poor, but my great grandfather was a millionaire. His name was Captain Francis Leicester Brown who served in the Unin Army in the Civil War. Mark Hanna of the Republican Party of post-civil war USA offered my great grandfather an opportunity to become a U. S. presidential candidate. My great grandfather turned him down. Francis Leicester tended to give his money to the union soldier veterans in his regiment, to set them up in business or just to pay bills. By the time he died there was not much left to leave his son, my grandfather, Arthur August Brown.

I remember that, among the chinaware, there were several sets of Limoges demi-tasse cups that were truly magnificent works of art. And the Wedgwood blue chocolate pitcher and the Wedgwood green cream pitcher with the dryads dancing on the outside. And the dazzling sterling silverware. And then the jewelry. During the last 4 years of my father’s life, DeWitt Brown became senile and suspicious. He let perfect strangers run around our house. I could not live home all the time. My father never listened to me. I told my brothers in California about my father’s self-destructive behaviors, but they did not believe me.

Included in the vast pile of papers were signed letters from President Abraham Lincoln. Another letter signed Aaron Burr (my great great great great uncle). Another letter was written by Horace Greeley that he had sent to Karl Marx. How it got back into the Brown papers I do not know.

Another antique was a sampler stitched by my great great great great grandmother, Hannah Hopkins Hodge, Prudence Aldrich’s mother. She spelled out a fifteen line religious poem, then the alphabet in capital then small letters. She finished the sampler on her 13th birthday, May 10th, 1819, according to the sampler. So the sampler was not only dated, it gave the birthday of the young girl who completed it. An appraiser saw the sampler and said it was worth a small fortune and belonged in a museum.

By the time my father died, all this stuff had disappeared. I could have opened a Victorian museum with the Victorian furnishings and documents I had. And then, if my father’s visitors were out to exploit him, how could any of them been educated enough to understand the actual value of these documents and antiques?

Francis Leicester Brown’s father was Hiram Brown who was a multi-millionaire due to the success of the Shortsville Drill Company, a precursor of what later became the International Harvester Company. He was also founder of the Owosso Manufacturing Company, in Owosso, Michigan. He founded another profitable company in Chanute, Kansas. But he continued to live in Shortsville, NY. Hiram’s father was Charles Brown, a poor farmer.

Pack rats are usually very poor and accumulate piles of junk to symbolize imaginary wealth. My parents do not quite fit that definition, but we did sort of live in a past of affluence and social status. Also did you know there is a category of elder abuse called “exploitation of the elderly.” It should be taken seriously although my brothers did not take me seriously.

© April 2017

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.

Keeping the Peace, by Lewis T

...IN EIGHT EXTREMELY DIFFICULT STEPS
(OR LEWIS' RULES OF ORDER)

1. Don't interrupt your adversary. Listen fully until you understand completely their position.

2. Say back to him or her what you think they said. "Did I get that right?"

3. If they say, "That's not what I said (or meant)", ask them to repeat. If they say, "Yes, that's right", continue.

4. Tell them specifically why you disagree. Ask them to repeat what you just said.

5. When the area of disagreement is clear to both parties, then: a) agree to disagree, or b) agree to break off the discussion until another day or until a mediator can be brought in or until areas of disagreement can be clarified or fact-finding takes place.

6. Never shout, threaten, or resort to ad hominem attacks.

7. Never make the argument personal or ego-centered.

8. Apologize if you step over the line. [Never be afraid to admit that you are wrong.]

9. Remember, above all, that cutting the baby in half is no substitute for lacking humility.

© 10 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.

Eye Contact, by Gillian

My father spoke a million words to me through his eyes, which is as well because he rarely spoke to me or anyone else in words. He was a very quiet man, but his silence always seemed to me to be one of contentment; a positive silence rather than a negative one, if you get my drift.

He had, I suspect, very sexy eyes. But I prefer not to go there. It makes our eye contact intimacy seem somehow slightly incestuous, so let's just say he had very expressive eyes. I really could read them like a book. It was only in recent years that I began to wonder if he could read mine as eloquently. I hope so. I think, perhaps just because I want to think, that it must have been so. That wonderful eye-conversation that I remember couldn't have been one-way, or worse still imaginary, could it?

His ocular eloquence shared with me his joy in newborn puppies or kittens - common creatures in my childhood, before prevention became a necessity. It also conveyed the beauty he saw in a sleek new car, and heard in it's purring engine. In a time and place when foxes were only good for shooting, I remember us going out one snowy morning and finding a fluffy red fox curled under the holly bush. Dad put a hand gently on my arm to stop me going any closer, gestured with his head towards the animal, and said, with his eyes: Just look at the beauty of that creature. Just look! If we leave very quietly maybe he'll stay there. In unison we backed silently away and returned to the house. I thought he would take Mom to look. But his eyes said, you give your mother this special gift. YOU take her and show her. Which I did, and by some miracle the fox was still there, though at my mother's squeak of delighted surprise, he left; a sleek red streak across the snow.

When it was time to kill an old hen for the pot, Dad's eyes screamed at me. I can't do it! I can't. But why? they begged. Why? I'm a MAN. I'm supposed to do it. Then they whispered. I'm ashamed. My mother did it many times. Why can't I? I do so hope that my eyes replied. I fervently hope that he read in them: I'm proud that you can't kill things. I love you for it. And the last thing I want you to be is anything like your mean hateful mother!

What I said, in words, was, 'I'll get Mr. Jones.'

Jack Jones was our neighbor, a farmer well versed in the killing arts. I knew he would do it without a second thought and without any judgmental commentary. My dad worked tirelessly to keep Mr. Jones's ancient tractor running and was owed a few favors.

As I left I couldn't manage to escape my father's eyes, now brimming with apology.

Sorry love, they said, I'm even too ashamed to ask him myself. I have to send you to do it for me.

Our very best eye-chats always involved my mother; completely unbeknownst to her. I firmly believe that not once in her entire life did she catch on to our endless silent conversations, so often with her as their subject. Many were variations of a single theme - don't let Mum know how unsuccessful are most of her efforts at handicrafts, cooking, etc

For example. After weeks, months, of agonized efforts, my mother has finally finished knitting me a pair of gloves.

'There!' she cries, triumphantly, dropping them on my lap.

The day I have dreaded has arrived.

One quick glance tells me they don't look exactly like a pair. I glance desperately at my father and immediately my dread turns to an almost uncontrollable need to giggle.

Go on. Be brave, his twinkling brown eyes instruct me. Maybe it's not as bad as it looks. Though ... they continue ..... I rather think it might be!

But not a WORD, they continue, the now stern gaze increasing my urge to giggle.

And show some gratitude, they conclude.

'Ooooh, Mum, thank you thank you,' my five-year-old voice squealed in excitement as I hugged her. She tssk'd me away as if it had only been an hour's effort and wasn't worth mentioning.

Unable to come up with further delaying tactics, I sat back down and picked up the gloves. I began to pull one on my left hand, then decided the other must be the left. But was it? I glanced anxiously into those eyes across the hearth.

Steady as you go, they said. Easy does it. Don't forget to smile.

Carefully I urged my little hand into the even littler glove. It was very tight and as it stretched it displayed a dropped stitch right in the center of the palm.

There! said my dad's eyes, triumphantly. Now you'll always know which is the left!

The anxiety fled and the giggles returned.

I wriggled my fingers, with considerable effort, into the too-tight, too-short finger tubes.

Oh well, not so bad, I replied silently. At least I hope I did. I couldn't do this without you: your wonderful love and humor, I hope I added.

But that left the thumb. Where was it to go? I slithered my thumb around, searching for a hole. Ah! There! No, that was the dropped stitch in the palm. After what seemed like minutes, I managed to jamb my thumb into a distorted and very miss-located little tube, causing considerable discomfort.

Triumphantly I held my gloved hand out in front of me, the way ladies of old do when trying on soft, leather, hundred-dollar gloves in the movies. My dad and I both beamed at my mother.

'By 'eck,' said my father, driven, I think, by true admiration for both Mum and me, though for different reasons.

He beamed encouragement at me. One down and one to go! said the eyes.

Turned out, the right hand was easy. It was huge.

'I thought perhaps I got the other just a bit too small so I added a few stitches.' Mum announced proudly.

My hand was lost in the wide woolly spaces. How would I ever keep it on? If I wore it I would lose it the first day.

Doesn't matter, Dad's eyes replied, you know neither of us wear your mother's creations once we're out of sight. You'll just put them in your pocket and have cold hands. Like we always do.

Dad and I gazed at each other in mutual satisfaction.

Driven to verbosity for the second time in two minutes, he avowed, 'That's grrrrand!'

My happiest memories, and in fact the majority of all my memories, of my father, are centered on what I now see as a true gift we had in our silent communication. Without it, I wonder now, how would I ever have known my silent father? Perhaps we developed it because of his lack of words? I shall never know, just as I shall never know if our conversations were truly two-way.

I shall simply choose to believe they were, and the eye contact with my dad will always be one of the true miracles of my life.

© December 2016

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.

Once in a Lifetime, by Betsy

There are many things I have done once in my lifetime. Which of those things has enough importance that I might want to write about it, I mused. Mistakes, I hope, are not too numerous.

Although, if they were made only once in my lifetime, at least I can say I haven’t repeated them.

I’ve had some once in a lifetime opportunities. Some of those events, adventures I have written about. Missed opportunities? Well, I guess I missed them so I don’t even know what they are.

Some important decisions are made once in a lifetime with consequences that last a lifetime.

In the category of decisions clearly THE most important with lifetime consequences was the decision to come out—that is, to come out to myself. I don’t remember actually making that choice in my head, but I’m sure that’s what took place. But trying to put my finger on exactly when that happened, I am stymied. Coming out, I realize, is not a onetime event. It is an on-going, hopefully progressive process. The once in a lifetime event was when it all came into my consciousness that I would have to make the choice to live as the person I was born to be—or not. That meant I would have to stop playing the role I had previously chosen and drastically change my lifestyle. The implications of doing this were, at the time, and I do remember the moment—the implications were quite profound and rather threatening. However the choice not to do this was no longer possible for me.

Analyzing further as to why I delayed making this choice until I had lived almost half a lifetime, it occurred to me that I never repressed my homosexual feelings. I acknowledged and accepted them from day one. I was totally conscious of my sexual feelings, and that I was attracted to those of my own sex and not those of the opposite sex. I remember every girl/woman to whom I was attracted and exactly how it felt and how it felt to want to look at, sit next to, touch, and, yes, get into bed with, and..do what lesbians do. I was very much aware of my feelings, I realize now, and I accepted them as absolutely natural. I had no guilt or feelings of revulsion. What I didn’t accept, and what I repressed for all those years was acting on those feelings.

I suppose one reason for that is that in almost every case and until I came out, the object of my desire was also unable or unwilling to reciprocate or initiate some sort of action. Had my feelings not gone unrequited, or had I been able to initiate acting on the feelings, my life may have taken a different course. That may be the number one reason I did not come out sooner.

Another reason I did not act on my feelings is that somewhere in my experience I learned that there was something taboo about expressing this oh-so-natural feeling I had. This didn't make sense to me, but apparently held great importance—enough importance that it became my code of conduct.

Reason number three is that I also believed it might all change one day, and my feelings and attractions would somehow turn on a dime. When I met the right man, my feelings would change, and then my behavior would be in sync with my feelings.

Needless to say that change never took place even though I stayed married to the same man for 25 years. The three children were probably one reason the marriage endured.

Now that I think about it, for me at least, there’s not much that happens just once, never to have any consequences or influence or effect on future circumstances.


© 20 November 2015

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver Women’s Chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change), and the GLBT Community Center. She has been retired from the human services field for 20 years. Since her retirement, her major activities have included tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with the National Sports Center for the Disabled, reading, writing, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 30 years, Gillian Edwards.

Military and Law Enforcement, by Ricky

I once served as a Deputy Sheriff in Pima County (Tucson) Arizona for just short of 4 years. At one time Pima County extended all the way south to the Mexican border during the time that Wyatt Earp was a lawman in that part of the county. So he and I were both deputies in Pima County. I resigned returning to college and pursuing a BS degree in Law Enforcement but the school, BYU, changed the focus of the course so I graduated with a BS in Justice Administration. During my time in Tucson, I was stationed 24 miles north in the Marana Substation and also served about 9-months in the vehicle maintenance section coordinating vehicle repairs and routine maintenance.

In those years I went to 3 fatal traffic accidents; apprehended two armed robbers—recovering $10,000 in stolen money from a drug rip-off; convinced a local “runaway” to return home voluntarily; recovered one stolen car driven by 5 escapees from a Texas Sheriff’s youth farm/ranch—the oldest being only 12; detained for ICE numerous undocumented aliens; eliminated one very potential neighborhood “feud” between a 12 yr old boy and an out of patience new neighbor; arrested 4 California men who came to Tucson to buy bricks of marijuana and who had an illegal sawed off shotgun; tracked burglars through the dessert; became a scoutmaster for the church troop; wrote over 200 traffic tickets; arrested 30 drunk drivers—one of which was a priest (I later learned the local “retreat” was one where the church sent its pedophile priests for rehab); did not arrest one drunk driver because he was only 20 feet from his driveway; got propositioned by a waitress; got propositioned by the CIA; recovered a stolen purse at a high school football game—referring one 6th grade repentant boy to his father and one unrepentant boy to the system via a “paper referral” and released him to his father; was the only lawman in 500 square miles during midnight shifts; in an act of revenge, I collected enough “dirt” on one of my supervisors that he was transferred back to Tucson and decided to resign instead—2-years short of retirement; and saving the best for last, I got married. Working in Marana was exactly like being a Wild West deputy except I drove a car instead of riding a horse. I loved the work.

When I resigned to return to college, I was in the process of collecting signatures to run for the local Justice of the Peace. Although I had more than enough signatures, when BYU called and said there was an opening in married student housing, Deborah and I decided to return so I could finish my degree. She had to quit her medical technologist position so we could go. Shortly after arriving and starting classes, I remembered why I really didn’t like school. I also joined Air Force ROTC so ended up on active duty once again when I graduated.

My first assignment as an officer was to the security police squadron at Malmstrom AFB, Montana as a Shift Commander for the on-base law enforcement and base security flights. The base security flight primarily guarded the nuclear weapons storage area. I spent two-years in that position and then was assigned as a Flight Security Officer for the flights providing security response in the off-base missile field. My flight and I would be away from the base for 3 ½ days at a time. I participated in a few incidents but the one experience I really want to tell you all about occurred after I arrived at my next base in Jacksonville, Arkansas circa 1984.

Little Rock AFB was home to a missile wing supporting the liquid fueled Titan II ICBM. In September 1980 prior to my arrival (1983), one nuclear tipped missile exploded in its silo. This is the story of what happened before, during, and after the incident. This information is not classified so I won’t have to kill any of you after you're done reading it.

Whenever a nuclear warhead is present, Air Force regulations require that at least two people must be present in such proximity to each other that each can monitor the actions of the other—absolutely no exceptions or violations are tolerated. The Titan II is a two-stage rocket. In order to save weight, parts of the very thin outer skin of the rocket are actually part of the fuel tanks. The fuel is of two types—an oxidizer and the fuel. Both are hypergolic, meaning that when the two chemicals touch, they instantly ignite. The fuel and oxidizer tanks are so thin that the rocket will collapse in upon itself if the liquid fuels are removed improperly as the fuel keeps the tanks from being able to collapse. The skin is so thin that hand-held maintenance tools to be used on the missile or its components have lanyards permanently attached to prevent the tool (sockets, wrenches, etc.) from falling between the rocket and the maintenance platforms surrounding it and puncturing the skin.

So one day all the counts, accounts, no accounts, and recounts (oh wait that’s different story). One fateful day, two maintenance technicians were in the silo performing maintenance on a component internal to the missile. One of the men needed a tool that he forgot to bring down with him. He knew that a tool box (with tools to be used elsewhere in the underground launch complex outside of the silo) was located in the tunnel towards the launch control capsule. These tools did not have lanyards attached. Being stupid, careless, or just plain lazy, he left his partner alone with the missile (major violation #1 and also stupid decision #1) and went to get the unauthorized tool rather than having them both go topside and return with the authorized tool (stupid decision #2).

The tool needed was a socket for a socket wrench. While using the socket, it slipped off the wrench and because it did not have a lanyard, the socket fell between the missile and the maintenance platform around the missile (Murphy’s Law in action). Can you guess what happened right after the “Oh shit” expletive? You guessed it. The socket fell three or more levels gaining momentum before hitting the edge of a platform below and bouncing into the side of the missile puncturing a fuel tank. Instantly, red fuming nitric oxide began to leak setting off the chemical vapor sensors which triggered the alarm. The launch crew ordered the silo evacuated and notified the base of the problem (good decision #1).

The deputy wing commander responded with the emergency response teams. Upon arrival, two environmentally suited fuel personnel went down to the silo to inspect the damage. Upon their report the base contacted the Martin-Murrieta company (the builder of the Titan II) to get their input. After a short period of time, Martin-Murrieta replied: 1st you can’t do anything to stop the leak; and 2nd the missile will explode in approximately 8 ½ hours your local time today. Periodically, the two fuel personnel were sent down to check on the progress of the leak (dangerous or even stupid decision #3). (No civilian or even some military members routinely accuse local commanders of using their brains. Yes, I am biased.) At one time, they even ordered the 740-ton silo cover door be opened so that the explosion would not be contained within the silo. Instantly the highly toxic red vapor left the silo and a large red “cloud” began to drift towards highly populated centers, so the cover was closed (good decision #2).

An order was given to send one man back down to check on the missile (the launch capsule had been evacuated by this time) (major violation #2 & stupid decision #3).

As the 8 ½ hour time limit approached, two environmentally suited personnel were ordered down to check on the missile (stupid decision #4 and also fatal). As the expected explosion time arrived, the two suited personnel were on their way back. The first one had cleared the stairwell coming up completely above ground. The second one was still half underground when the missile exploded. The first man was blown across the complex into the chain link fence where the fence fabric cushioned his impact. The second man was “cut in half” at the waist by the force of the blast. The debris from the incident was stored in an above ground maintenance shed at one of the remaining missile complex sites. I had the pass-key and I actually saw the remaining parts of the destroyed missile and the bloody environmental suit of the airman who died.

Here is the sequence of events at the time of the explosion. The fuel finally leaked out enough that the missile began to collapse. As it collapsed the other 1st stage fuel tank ruptured, the two chemicals touched and instantly exploded; the pressure lifted the 740-ton silo cover door off its foundation rails; the blast spread out circular injuring the two airman; that blast caused the 2nd stage fuel tanks to rupture and they also added to the explosion which accomplished five things; 1st the 740-ton door was lifted quite high; 2nd the nuclear warhead was blasted like a bullet into the bottom of the 740-ton door breaking it into two pieces one being 1/3rd the size of the original; 3rd the larger piece flew about 30 yards and then flattened the Air Force pickup truck that the deputy wing or base commander had been sitting in just 30-seconds earlier; 4th the smaller piece landed about 100 yards away; and 5th the warhead was nowhere to be found (major violation #3—a lost and unguarded nuclear bomb—heads will roll).

The rest of the night, military radio traffic was filled with the euphemisms “has it been found” and “where is it”. The bomb was found the following morning during daylight hours. One of the perimeter security guards was actually sitting on it all night. He never reported finding it because he didn’t know what it was.

EPILOG

1. All security police personnel were shown a dummy warhead during their initial orientation upon arrival at the base (it looks like a large milk can of the type used on family dairy farms);

2. The two environmentally suited airmen were given medals (one posthumously);

3. The surviving suited airman was given a Letter of Reprimand because he was the one who went down alone to check on the missile even though he was following orders—he was supposed to refuse to obey as it was an illegal order; and

4. Nuclear bombs are designed to be “three-point safe”. This means that they will not yield a nuclear explosion if burned, receive a high impact, or hit by a stray electrical charge. The design could never be thoroughly tested. Anecdote: When the person who created the three-point safe design was told that the bomb was found with a large dent (from impacting the 740-ton door) having survived the explosion, he was heard to say, “I TOLD them it would work!”

5. In 1984, I became the project officer for the installation, planning the procedures for use, and personnel training for a DES confidential real-time usage encrypted radio system.

I know this is the true story because I read parts of the official investigation report and reviewed the numerous photographs. One photograph sticks in my mind. It is an overhead shot of the silo taken via helicopter. The silo opening is dead center and surrounding it are compression circles. It strongly reminds me of a dart board or even a target.

Do any of you remember hearing or reading about this event? I was in the Air Force as a Missile Security Officer in 1980 stationed in Montana; I never heard of it.

For other versions of the explosion go to:

http://encyclopediaofarkansas.net/encyclopedia/entry-detail.aspx?entryID=2543

http://www.techbastard.com/missile/titan2/littlerockaccident2.php

http://www.techbastard.com/missile/titan2/littlerockaccident.php

The public versions are different than the official investigative report I read. (Nothing new about that is there?)

What did a Titan Launch Complex look like? Go to:

http://www.strategic-air-

© 31 Mar 2012
command.com/missiles/Titan/Titan_II_missile_complex.htm

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

Birthdays, by Ray S

Forgive me because I have used this opening before. Atlanta is burning, panic prevails, and to add to this mix Scarlett O’Hara and her Black slave are driving the wagon hell-bent for election to somewhere that she can deliver her baby girl. And this is the punch line hysterically delivered by Butterfly McQueen: “I don’t know nuthin’ ‘bout birthin’ no baby, Miss Scarlett!” Where was Rhett when he was needed?

The one important thing all of us everywhere have in common is our very first birthday. After that first spanking life’s up for grabs.

Some of us have been blessed with so many birthday parties that we can’t distinguish one from another. Sure, if you really think hard, there were special times in a specific year, but if you have survived eighty or so, you can’t remember. Then there is always dementia waiting to creep into one of your parties. Good luck.

On a joyful note: on the occasion of my 91st birthday I was reminded by the receipt of so many congratulatory greetings that my world still loved me and wished me well in hanging on ‘til number 92 crept up. The week featured a lunch or dinner to the point that I was relieved when I had one free night at home.

Be reminded: “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.” Birthdays—at least mine—give so much love and to give back so very much love.

Sometimes certain birthdays provoke regrets. A love life gone away, a death in your immediate or extended family, or you wonder why you had to wait so very long to discover who you really are and what to do with this newfound knowledge. The latter can become a really happy birthday gift. This is the ever-present specter, ageing, and its complications. Sometimes it seems to be really difficult to reach that ‘happy ending.’

Meantime there is one thing we could do upon meeting another birthday—yours or mine. Reach out and embrace each other. It is the best present we can give each other. Time’s a wasting!

© 14 November 2016

GLBT Hopes, by Phillip Hoyle

Growing up I had no GLBT hopes. I had no idea what those initials represented; no idea that the concepts and rich human experiences behind them had anything to do with me. I didn’t feel hopeless. I was simply clueless.

In my early twenties I began to hear and understand a little about the beginnings of the gay liberation movement. I had taken great interest in the African American movements, had begun to read about the feminist movement, and realized I needed to know more about all such movements. I had very generalized hopes for all of them, for the securing of civil rights for all Americans under law regardless of race, gender, sex, education, and a number of other differences that left them susceptible to many injustices. I saw how churches as well as the general community were unjust towards minorities. I had hopes for a better America and for better American churches.

For myself I had believed in the idea that you grew up, got educated, got married, reared children, and in my case served churches through your ministry. Since I was on route to become a minister, I accepted I would have to toe the line on some things that others in the congregation might not find necessary. Life was good. Whatever LGBT hopes I had were for others.

At the point when I accepted that homosexuality was right at the center of who I was, I hoped that my wife might find herself to be lesbian. We could then work out a special arrangement to continue living together. It didn’t happen. I assumed I would always be married and hoped I would never to go too far in satisfying my homosexual needs. I didn’t want to change the trajectory of my life.

Midlife took care of that for me. I was changing emotionally. I had no doubt that I loved my wife or that she loved me. I wanted a man to love me; I wanted to love a man. When I realized I was going to become the bad husband and a bad minister, I changed both roles. I was hurting my wife. I didn’t want to do so. We talked but there was so much emotion—so many emotions—we didn’t know what to do. Our settlement settled little. We did separate. I bore the responsibility before our families. We said goodbye with a kiss and tears.

Within a month I had GLBT hopes. Lots of them: to finish my job obligation; to move to one of three western American cities; to live openly as a gay man. For twenty years I had considered myself bisexual. Now I was going to simplify my life.

My gay hope was to learn just what gay would mean for me. First though some other things would take my attention: getting work for income, writing, and dedicating lots of time to the visual arts. I began writing episodes from my life and then writing about my new work: massage. A new gay hope emerged: to write up my gay life experiences. Before long I was pleased to find myself loving a man who loved me. I hoped we’d have lots of time together. He died from AIDS. Then I grieved a true GLBT grief. During this time I was careful with myself. I stayed busy with my work. I was still engaged as a gay man. I wrote about the loss of my gay partner. It was a sequel to one I had written a couple of years earlier when a gay friend had died from AIDS. (The two pieces may be my best writing to date.)

Then I met a gay daydream at a bus stop in my neighborhood. Our love blossomed. Then he died. I sagged. Still I wrote and realized I would write much more about my gay experiences. My arts kept me hopeful.

A straight woman friend of mine told me about the SAGE of the Rockies Telling Your Story. I attended wondering how my writing would be heard by a truly GLBT audience. It was like a gay hope come true.

From this ever-changing group of storytellers that offers every-changing and sometimes emotion-blowing perspectives, I have clarified my new GLBT Hopes:

I now hope that GLBT (etc.) folk will all someday take time to hear one another’s stories. There is no better way to come to know oneself than to hear the stories of others, no better way to be inspired than to hear the experiences of another person you know more than superficially. I hope that those stories will also become of interest to other humans—you know like those who claim to be straight or heterosexual or some other category. I want this latter so they can see how little different are all people.

I hope that GLBTs will always vote mindfully in local, state, and national elections.

I hope that LGBTs will come to appreciate and respect one another as much as we want others to honor and respect us.

© 9 January 2017

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 16th 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.

True Colors, by Nicholas

Take a Walk in the Grove

I want to tell a story today that involves one of our own, a member of this group. It’s about a group of people who showed their true colors in their loyalty to one friend and created a unique space for our entire community. Along the South Platte River on the edge of downtown Denver, is an area of Commons Park designated as a spot to remember those who have died of HIV/AIDS and their caregivers. It’s called The Grove and it is one of only two AIDS memorial gardens in this country—the other is in San Francisco. Our own Randy Wren was part of that group that labored for seven years to make it happen.

The Grove started with one man’s vision. Doug McNeil knew of the memorial grove in Golden Gate Park in San Francisco and asked, literally as his dying wish, why can’t Denver create such a spot. Doug died of AIDS in 1993, a time when the LGBT community was focused more on the battle to undo the infamous Amendment 2 than on the AIDS epidemic. Amendment 2, passed by Colorado voters in 1992, prohibited any government or government agency in this state from enacting any provisions to ban discrimination against lesbian and gay people. (There’s an excellent exhibition on that history outside this door in The Center’s lobby.) And it was a time of still rampant AIDS phobia.

A small group of Doug’s friends vowed to carry out his dream for The Grove. They weren’t the usual gaggle of community activists and politicos. They included socialites, arts community supporters, an attorney, and an Episcopal priest. Most were not gay. They organized a non-profit group called The Grove Project, got 501c3 IRS status so they could collect funds, and began the long process of taking on the bureaucracy of the city’s Parks Department.

The Parks Department never openly rejected the idea but negotiations dragged on for years. At first, the area in front of the performing arts complex on Speer Blvd was proposed. The city objected that theatre and concert goers wouldn’t want to be reminded of the awfulness of AIDS on their nights out on the town. Another location in a park in southeast Denver was suggested but that would have left the memorial far from the Capitol Hill neighborhood that was most affected by AIDS.

At some point, the riverfront came into the discussion. At that time, the area was just beginning to be developed. There was a quiet, somewhat out of the way spot in a new park—Commons Park—that the city was planning. That fit the criteria of being visible, centrally located and quiet enough to promote the atmosphere desired.

The Grove was envisioned to be a natural area for contemplation. It was landscaped very simply with trees, natural grasses and shrubs, and some rocks. A simple inscription reads: “Dedicated to the remembrance of those who have lost their lives to AIDS and to their loving caregivers who helped them live out those lives with dignity.”

The Grove was dedicated in a simple ceremony in August 2000. Doug McNeil’s loyal and persistent friends accomplished his dream after seven years of work.

Now, The Grove sits largely ignored and sort of neglected in a recessed corner of Commons Park, near 15th Street and Little Raven Street. It is surrounded by high priced condos and apartments but it is still a quiet and attractive area.

Recently, a movement got underway to renew the spot, clean it up, refresh the landscaping and, most importantly, make the community aware that this historical and spiritual resource exists. In recalling all the individuals who battled, and continue to battle AIDS, we remember how our community grew from that experience. We remember those we’ve lost. We remember when being gay changed from just giving the most fabulous parties to a truly mature community of caregivers and advocates. We remember our past and that we have a history. A history that is the root of our present and future.

I encourage everyone to seek out The Grove and spend a few quiet moments there remembering. And maybe you can help in its renewal. You too can show your true colors.

© 2016

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.

Self Acceptance, by Louis Brown

Amazons, Nose-Job, and Varicose Veins

This prompt will most likely inspire certain people to say something like, “I did not know I was gay until I was 50 years old or 60 years old.” To many people, that reaction sounds unbelievable and preposterous. I am from New York City, but I do believe these people. Our society used to keep telling us that gay people do not exist. Women never kiss women, and certainly men never kiss men. So many people assumed that that must be true. That is why large numbers of gay people used to go through life not really knowing who they were, as fantastic as that may seem.

Personally, I did not have that option. When I was in the 8th grade in elementary school and a year later as a freshman in high school, although my parents had no idea, certain street people knew I was gay. If you went to any high school in those days in New York City, you were not safe unless you had protection from a gang. I was approached by the head of the girls’ gang who told me something like, “You’re a faggot so you are going to be constantly assaulted by the toughs. Join our gang, and you will not have to worry. We know how to fight.” They called themselves the Amazons and they prided themselves on their really long fingernails that they painted meticulously with vivid red nail polish. They told me that those were their weapons. They did in fact assault and neutralize a large number of male toughs. I was safe.

I occasionally had to attend Amazon meetings. I am proud to say that, once, when they said they wanted to assault a bookish Jewish boy, I pleaded with them not to, and they didn’t. On another occasion, they wanted to assault a pretty, extremely passive, soft-spoken girl named Monica. I pleaded with them not to. So they didn’t.

So, to survive, I had to accept who I was at an early age.

About 12 years after that, I was applying for a job that required me to get interviewed by a psychologist who happened to be a woman. I spoke with her for a few minutes before she read my application. After a while, I told her yes I was gay, and I wondered if she could tell by talking to me. She said she could not tell, in fact she would not have guessed so. The psychologist assured me that she was not the one doing the actual hiring and that their company did not have an anti-gay hiring policy so that I need not worry. I did not get the job, gee I wonder why.

My point is that, if you contrast what the Amazons knew about me right away, right off the bat, and what the trained psychologist could not even guess at, what is going on? I guess sometimes street people are just more insightful in judging people than the so-called professionals.

Two examples of what I did not accept about my own body. When I was say 12 years old, a high-flying baseball came right at my face and hit me in the nose. I bled, but my parents did not take me to the doctor. That is one reason I am not a baseball enthusiast, never will be. I would prefer a sewing class any day. I had a bruise on my nose for a while, but a few years later I realized my nose was off-center, and I had to breathe through my mouth.

I was being harassed at the office, so I said to myself this is a good time to take a month or two off and get a nose job. I went to the Plastic Surgery Department of New York Hospital, and made an appointment. I had to go two or three times in advance to make sure I was physically a good candidate for surgery. They said I was. When I was talking privately with the nurse, she told me I lucked out. My plastic surgeon was going to be a famous Italian plastic surgeon who has reworked the faces of several Hollywood actresses and actors.

On the day of the surgery, I took the anesthesia, but, when I woke up, I barfed. I only stayed a day or so longer in the hospital. I had large dark purple bruises that covered my nose and the areas around my eyes. I looked like a raccoon. I could not go out in public, so I stayed with my brother Charlie in Flushing New York. After about a week I bought a pair of sunglasses with enormous lenses. When I wore them, I could go out and resumed my daily routines.

After that surgery, I was able to breathe through my nose and was more aware of my septum and sinuses. Where there used to be bone and cartilage, now there was a large, comfortable cavity.

About 15 years ago, I noticed I was getting a lot of varicose veins on my left leg. I thought to myself, don’t pregnant women get varicose veins when they are having some medical problem? Why me? Men do not get varicose veins. After the embarrassment phase was over, I went to the cardiovascular department of New York Hospital, got an appointment for an evaluation, and they said yes to surgery.

This consisted of me lying on my right side with a sort of leaden blanket to cover me up above the waist and my right leg. They anesthetized my left leg so that it was numb, then they zapped me with an electric current in several different locations, i.e. they stuck in needles to conduct the electricity. A couple of weeks after the surgery all the varicose veins were gone. Amazing.

So now with my nose job and my freedom from varicose veins, I accept myself.

P. S.: New York Hospital, unfortunately, no longer has the liberal policy of letting any one walk in to their buildings to set up medical procedures such as surgery. What if an elderly person wanted a varicosectomy operation in Denver? What happens?

© 7 December 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.