Finding Your Voice in the Dark, by Pat Gourley

For many of us in this Story Telling Group I imagine that “finding your voice” could easily be a metaphor for our individual coming out, an emerging from the dark. A truth is implied in finding one’s coming out voice and that truth is unable to flower until we start to let our queer flag fly. Of course, for many of us coming out is in some respects a lifelong process. It is hard to imagine that we simply woke up one day and said: “I am out.” Rather the coming out adventure often has many fits and starts. We eventually find ourselves in a space where we can easily find our true voice in nearly any situation. It is though something, even today, not always spoken out loud since a protective common sense often dictates whom we tell and whom we don’t.

I’d like to share an example of a lesbian friend in San Francisco finding a voice in part through her poetry. This woman’s name is Tova Green and she is a Zen priest at the San Francisco Zen Center (SFZC). In addition to her many teaching and administrative duties at the SFZC she was the co-founder of Queer Dharma an offering of the Zen Center since 2009.

During most of my extended sojourns to the City by the Bay I attend the Zen Center when I can made easy by the fact that it is located at the corner of Page and Laguna literally out the backdoor of the B&B. I most often participate in the evening Zazen session and occasionally the monthly Queer Dharma gatherings. It was at a Queer Dharma session that I encountered and struck up a budding friendship with Tova. On my most recent visit in September she again related her love for poetry over brunch, a wonderful trait it seems very common with many lesbians. Also shared was one of her own poems written about an event we were both made very sadly aware of that occurred on the night of January 9th 2015.

I was staying at the Inn that night with a dear friend from Denver named Clark. Clark and I have been friends since 1989 and share an unbreakable bond having been present for each other at the deaths of our partners from AIDS, his dear Phil in 1994 and my David in 1995. I had invited Clark on this trip to see the engraving of Phil’s name up in the AIDS Grove in Golden Gate Park. I had already had David’s name put up there the year before.

As was the case so often I was asleep early in the evening that January night but woke to the sound of what I first thought was firecrackers. It was a rapid staccato of noise that just didn’t really seem like firecrackers soon eliciting a sense of dread and quite frankly an emerging fear deep in the pit of my stomach. My worst fears were soon confirmed with the sound of many police and emergency vehicles arriving on the scene at the corner of Page and Laguna again right out the back door of the B&B and very visible from the first-floor bay window facing west.

What had occurred was a shooting, thought to be gang-turf related that left four young men dead at the scene. The probable semi-automatic weapon that was used allowed the perpetrator to snuff out four lives in a matter of seconds. An event that barely registered outside of San Francisco, since the cut off for significant media attention for a “mass-shooting” in America these days is five murders not just four.

We watched with disbelief and numbness as at least one of the victims in a body bag was loaded into an ambulance. Knocks at our front door and short interviews with police and homicide detectives soon took place. We were only able to offer after the fact partial accounts. The shooter or shooters were gone from the scene before we got to the window and realized what had happened.

By the next morning a makeshift memorial of flowers and candles had appeared at the lamppost directly out and across Page Street from the Zen Center. Living at the Zen Center, Tova was very aware of the tragedy that had occurred that night. She recently shared with me the poem she had written about that night. I am quite moved by how beautifully she was able to find her voice to acknowledge that very dark event on a dark winter night right on the doorstep of a place dedicated to compassion and meditative solace. Her poem in remembrance is titled “Prayer”.

Prayer by Tova Green

For Yalani Chinyamurindi, David Saucier, Harith Atchan and Manuel O’Neal

When my car was stolen
I remembered the four
young men, shot and killed
in a stolen car double parked
at our corner. It was nine
on a cold Friday night.
One was on his break
from work, catching
a ride with friends
to cash his paycheck.

The four had grown up
nearby, I learned,
when I joined their mothers
in a candlelight walk and saw
the wilting bouquets, photos
taped to a lamppost,
flickering flames enclosed
in glass on the sidewalk.

A girl gripped the lamp post
wailing—I want my brother back.
The next Mothers’ Day I stood
again with those women
on the steps of City Hall
and heard them tell their stories.
I’ll never know who
stole my car or what they
did with it before they left it,
wrecked, across the Bay.

I pray it wasn’t used
in an act of violence. I pray
for the safety of those
who stole it, knowing
their mothers pray for them
night and day

© 23 October 2017 

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.

Choice, by Betsy

“When did you decide to be homosexual?” A gay man was once asked that question in an interview on TV. His answer was perfect: “When did YOU decide to be heterosexual.” That says it all, doesn’t it? Did any LGB or T ever make the choice to be LGB or T. I don’t think so. That is not to say there are no choices involved. “When did you decide to come out,” might be the more appropriate question. But is coming out or not coming out even a viable choice, really. In our society today, I would say “no,” not if an LGBT person wants to live life to the fullest, then he/she must come out. But the choice must be made and that is sometimes easier said than done.

Every day is replete with decisions from the moment we wake up in the morning. Shall I get out of bed or not? Shall I have eggs or cereal for breakfast? Shall I wear this or that? Shall I go shopping? Shall I go to Sprouts or Whole Foods? Most of these choices I can make easily because I am familiar with what is required to carry them out and I can easily imagine their respective outcomes.

Here’s when I have trouble: Let’s say (theoretically) I have never been to New Mexico or Arizona and (theoretically) I know absolutely nothing about either place. We’re on a road trip. Gill says to me, “You choose where we go. New Mexico or Arizona? Which will it be? Tell me right now because there is a fork in the road up ahead and I have to know which one to take.”

I have trouble with that. Since I have no information about either place and know nothing about them, it is not a choice. It’s a guess—a “pick a name, throw a dart exercise at best.” So, “no information” renders good choice-making difficult or impossible. This is not to say there is anything wrong with guessing and taking a chance, but only in some situations.

Even in the case of coming out or not, again it’s a matter of having some information to base your choice on. When I first became aware of my sexual attractions, I did not choose to come out because I had no information about what was going on with my feelings. I didn’t even know there was a choice involved. I was convinced that those feelings would change as I matured. I was totally unaware of any other person having homosexual feelings. When those feelings didn’t change I was convinced there was something wrong with me and I needed to fix it. Now, thanks to the gay rights movement and the general availability and dissemination of information, we know better and we can honor our feelings rather than denying them.

Another problem with choice making: Have you ever been in the store looking for say toothpaste? Your favorite old stand-by kind is no longer available—at least you cannot recognize anything that looks like it on the shelf. You need to choose a new kind. How do you choose one out of 250 boxes of toothpaste and you do not want to spend your entire day comparing them? Again you are faced with guessing because there is no way you are going to get all the information about all of the different brands in a reasonable amount of time. Sometimes choices can be overwhelming. Guessing and taking a chance on toothpaste in this situation makes sense.

When I was teaching young children in school I learned it’s best to give them a choice but make it very simple. Do you want “this” or “that?” Choose between no more than two things. This way the little buggers feel empowered because they are choosing, but the outcome of their choosing will be appropriate and doable for the teacher.

Sometimes I wish choices would be kept simple for adults; namely, our electorate. Take the presidential election of 2000. The voters were given a choice of two major candidates: George Bush, Al Gore, and multiple third-party candidates, most notably Ralph Nader. Had we been given a simpler choice; i.e., George Bush or Al Gore, Mr. Gore would have been elected according to many analysts, and the world would be quite a different place today; certainly our country would be a different place today. One has to wonder if it was true that the republicans paid Nader to run that year. They knew it would split the democrat’s vote.

That was not the problem in the recent Brexit vote in Britain. A simple choice was presented: in or out of the European Union. The majority, though the vote was close, chose to leave the EU. Now, in retrospect, it seems a couple of million British voters feel they made the wrong choice. But here is a good example of the choice-making problem described above: not enough information. It seems clear now that the dust has settled that many who voted to leave the EU were persuaded by the fear mongers of the opposing side.

Sounds very much like our current presidential campaign. Mr. Trump is an entertainer and gets huge media attention. He’s different—not establishment. Many people have chosen to support him for this reason alone—literally this reason alone—ignoring his ideology and dangerous policies and beliefs. Guessing and taking a chance when choosing a president does not make sense to me.

So, for me, to create an opportunity to make a good choice requires having enough factual information, not lies, not propaganda, not spins, plus information from both sides. Unfortunately, in politics most people are not willing to listen equally to both sides. Or they have already made the emotional decision that one side is good or maybe just okay, but the other side is so bad that they cannot be believed no matter what. Often, it seems, it’s a question of which lies are most convincing. I love “fact checker” and I wish journalists would use it on the spot in interviews and debates.

In the case of making a choice, say, to avoid an accident while driving a car one cannot take the time to gather information and ponder it even for a minute. A choice is made to swerve to one side or the other, but that fits my concept of a reaction rather than a choice.

The next time I am faced with a choice I only hope I have some, not TOO much, but SOME good information, factual information, and some time to apply it. I do not want to react instantly, unless I have to, but I prefer to have enough time to think it through. In the case of a presidential election, I don’t mean years. I should think a couple of months would be enough before one is ready to cast a vote. In the case of coming out, well, I see choices to come out occurring everyday as an ongoing, lifetime process. But once the basic choice is made to open the closet door, the rest should fall into place.

© 5 July 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.

Tears, by Gillian

I saw my father cry three times.

When I was four or five we had a tiny 6-weeks-old kitten. He was all black, and sadly found a shaggy black rug a cozy place to sleep. My mother, no idea he was there, stepped right on him. We heard the terrible sound of crunching tiny bones. Tears were running down my dad's face as he scooped up the screaming little body to take it outside and put an end to its suffering.

Neither my mother nor I cried.

When our old dog, for years Dad's constant companion, died, my dad cried.

Neither my mother nor I cried.

For very different reasons neither of us cried. I, even as a child, somehow was playing a part; not being the real me. So, until the time I came out to myself in my early forties, when I did finally become the real me and no longer was simply an actor on life's stage, I felt very little real emotion. I do not remember ever crying as a child.

My mother never got over losing two children, ages two and four, before I was born. She shut down. She refused to let herself feel any more personal sorrow. She did cry, quite frequently, but never over anything personal; anything really in her life. The first time I remember her doing this was when horrific newspaper photographs accompanied the stories of Allied troops liberating Hitler's death camps; and why not, that was plenty to cry about. But she also cried at sad plays on the radio, or newspaper tales of abused animals or injured children - anything not actually personal to her. The few times I hurt myself pretty badly, as children do, neither of us cried.

But my dad had tears in his eyes when he carried a toddler me home from a pretty bad fall.

The third time I saw my dad actually cry was after I had come out. I was the authentic me. I had been back to England for a visit and when the day to leave arrived, Dad drove me to the train. As it pulled out of the station and I leaned out of the window to wave, I saw that he was crying. One of several things over my lifetime that I would rather not have seen, but you cannot unsee things.

I sobbed all the way to London. How much easier my former life spent playing a part had been, feeling emotions at best superficially.

Now, I cry at so many things, tears of sorrow or tears of joy; though tears do not necessarily flow. I find the feelings to be much the same whether in fact I literally cry, or cry just on the inside. I cried at the sight of The White House lit up in rainbow colors after The Supreme Court ruled on behalf of Marriage Equality.

I cried for the loss of Stephen and Randy, of this group, as I cry for every loss of yet another friend. I even cry when friends' pets die.

I cry for our country which currently feels like one more loss, as I cry for the planet as we know it, which is another.

But I have no regrets for my tears. Having lived for so long without them, I welcome them. I almost revel in them; celebrate them. They serve to remind me, I am really me!

© October 2017

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.

Assumptions, by Ray S

Over some 90 decades my life has been one assumption after another, some good, but the majority not so. I recall another old adage, “Never assume; it can make an ass of you and me.” So be alerted. Assumptions can not only be habit forming but lead to some curious circumstances the result of our own making. Again, some good, some not so.

That day I stood on the Capitol steps looking west across Lincoln Street at the Gay Pride celebration in Civic Center Park. It marked the time and place that I committed, after years of stealthy hiding in my hetero-closet, that I joined the tribe. My assumption being that a place called the GLBTQ Center would have room for one more late-blooming queer Troll—a popular term for active geriatrics. That was a good assumption.

It felt so wonderful to be out to family and the three very close straight couples who responded happily for me with the classic rejoinder, “We always knew.” There’s another assumption—who me?

Naively, upon one impulsive search for an evening’s recreation I ventured into the local gentlemen’s athletic club—no, not the DAC or YMCA, but maybe with that song ringing in my ears, Y-M-C-A. This club sported both outdoor and indoor swimming pools and was noted for its hospitality and comradeship. There. ASSUME on that while I commence to relate what followed after I was buzzed in through their hallowed gates.

Many years had passed since my first impromptu visit to these premises, and you guessed it, I assumed nothing had changed but perhaps some twenty-five years on my shoulders. Well things did change that evening. The gate keeper “regretted” to inform me that under new management they had chosen to limit their clientele to what I would call (in the gay vernacular) “Twinks” (free lockers 18-20 aged, and no one that even neared the appearance of being over 32 years of age. It may have amounted to gross discrimination to any gay man even edging the neighborhood of geriatric maturity, no how much dignity and class and elegance a bit of seniority would have leant.

“Sorry, sir, why don’t you try the Uptown on Zuni Street.” Head unbowed I followed his suggestion, no assumption.

I offer this bit of history to those that assume we’re never too old to dream, or assume. As I stated at the beginning of this tale, life is just one big assumption after another until the coroner assumes for you.

I leave you with a very sage assumption by one poet laureate Robert Frost:

“Forgive me, O Lord, my little jokes on thee,

And I’ll forgive thy great big one on me.”

© 27 March 2017

About the Author

Don't, by Gillian

My mother was the one who instructed me on the do's and more specifically the don't's of life. Throughout my youth they dropped effortlessly from her lips with great frequency.

"Gillian," (always a mark of displeasure when she used my whole name rather than the usual 'Gill'), frequently followed by a couple of disapproving tsk tsk's,

"Please," (emphasized to indicate that her severely-challenged patience was near it's breaking point),

"Don't do that!"

Mostly followed by,

"What will the neighbors think?" (managing to ignore completely the fact that in actuality we had no neighbors close enough to see me picking my nose or scratching my thigh or hitching up my skirt to straddle the fence or whatever this particular 'that' was. No human ones anyway, and the sheep, no matter what you may think of them, are not ones to pass judgement. Had I ever pointed out that basic fact, I'm sure she would have replied,

"Some passer-by then," managing to ignore the rarity of that, too.

Of course those same fictitious persons must also be protected from hearing the unacceptable.

'Don't shout, dear," she would say, almost in a whisper, thereby proving her point.

"I'm only three feet away. The neighbors will think we are arguing."

"Do turn that awful noise down, please!" she implored as I turned up the radio volume for my beloved Beatles. "I don't want the neighbors knowing you listen to that dreadful stuff"

My poor mother, life was simply loaded with pitfalls. If she wasn't protecting us from the negative judgment of the non-existent neighbors, she was protecting us from the negative judgment of fate itself.

"Oh, don't walk under there!" she would grab me to steer me around the leaning ladder.

"Stop! Stop!" she would cry out in alarm if a black cat - and there were many loose cats around in those days - threatened to cross our path.

If we saw a lone magpie we would gaze around anxiously for another. Where was it? There must be one! as she murmured,

"One for sorrow, two for joy."

The only judgement which apparently held no fear for my mother was that from above. She never once even suggested that anything she or I might do would incur any negative judgement from The Almighty. The God she offered me was a loving God, not one of wrath. For that I am forever grateful. In my eyes it more than compensates for any petty fears I still hang on to, such as searching relentlessly for that second magpie. I confess that I still do that, if at least a little tongue in cheek. My efforts remain a bit unsettled because I am unsure of the rules. When does the Statute of Limitations expire on that other bird? Is it actually vital to see both birds together? Or is an hour later OK? What if I successfully spot number two later but on the same day? The same week? Someone once asked me, if I could spend five minutes with my mother now, what would I want to ask her. Crazily what immediately leapt to mind was that damn bird. Quick, Mum, tell me rules of the two magpies.

It was inevitable, of course, that my dead mother was hovering around, peering over my shoulder, when I decided I had to come out to the world. Gillian, what will the neighbors think? Indeed!

No, for all her earthly warnings, I have no concern about any Heavenly fears. If by some remote, as it seems to me, chance that she is actually aware of my life as it is today, she will not condemn, she will not fear, she will not scold. If she knows everything, then she understands and accepts everything. She is free of fear. She is done with don't. And so am I!

© May 2017

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.

Reading, by Gillian

I was probably lonely as a child. I had good friends at school but when school was out I had no nearby children to play with, and I had no siblings. But I don't recall ever feeling lonely as I was always accompanied by friends from books. (I originally wrote 'from fiction' but as The Bible was one of the few books available to me, I imagine some might take exception to including The Bible as fiction.)

I say few books were available not because of any failure on the part of my family to love books, but because paper was scarce in post-war Britain and so few books were published. There was a library in the local town but that was a long and infrequent bus ride away.

So my personal book collection contained four Winnie the Pooh books, published long before the war and once belonging to my mother, an old and very tattered family Bible, and a book called Mystery at Witchend by Malcolm Saville, a prolific author of children's books in Britain in the 1940's and '50's.

So I roamed the countryside accompanied sometimes by the roly poly Pooh and a bouncing Tigger, sometimes by all or some of the five children from Witchend who formed The Lone Pine Club and together had many harmless adventures and solved gentle crimes with never a hint of violence. Indeed the only violence I ever read about was in The Bible. But the Jesus who occasionally accompanied me was the gentle fatherly figure depicted in The Children's Pictorial Bible which we read in Sunday School. Because of one of the pictures in this book, my friend Jesus always had a lamb draped around his neck like a fat wooly scarf. Looking back I rather suspect that my child mind had confused the picture of Jesus with one of the shepherds greeting His birth, but never mind. As Jesus and I frequently walked through fields dotted with grazing sheep my vision was appropriate enough.

Fast forward a few decades. I am in my early forties and finally coming out to myself, and very shortly after, to others. So. I was homosexual. A lesbian. What did that mean? Obviously I knew the meaning of the words, the definition, but what did it mean? To me, to my life. Where did I go from here? I felt very alone. Who could I talk to about all this? My friends might be very supportive, but what could they tell me? No-one I knew would have any answers.

So of course I turned to books and headed for the library. This was before the advent of internet so I searched through the catalog card files, in their long narrow boxes, for the pertinent categories. Although I was 'out' to anyone who mattered, I must confess to peeking furtively over my shoulder as I searched the LESBIAN section, the word seeming about a foot high and glaringly obvious to all who passed by.

There was amazingly little available regarding lesbians at that time, fiction or non-fiction.

What little there was, was awful. I rushed home with the few books on the library shelf, avidly read them, and wondered why I had bothered. Beyond depressing, they were just plain frightening. If this was where I was headed, I was in serious trouble. The Well of Loneliness, by Radcliffe Hall, was my introduction to lesbian fiction; one of the most depressing books I have ever read. The title alone, if you know that is the road you are now taking, is enough to to make you rush back in the closet and throw away the key. This book has become something of 'classic' in the lesbian world, in the sense that most of us have read it, though not a 'classic' in a positive sense as any mention of it is greeted by groans. I don't recall now the titles of the other few books, but in all of them the lesbian character seemed destined for a life of abject misery, or suicide, or else they are saved by a return to heterosexuality. My reaction to this introduction to lesbian fiction was, essentially, what the hell have I done??

So, lacking new characters to jump from the pages and accompany me, I thought longingly of my childhood buddies. Somehow I didn't think they would be much help. Pooh Bear would just sink his chubby head further into his honey pot, Tigger and Kanga are too busy bouncing and hopping to listen. Eeyore would say, as always,

'It doesn't matter anyway.'

But it does. It matters very much.

Those kids from the heterogeneous, clean-scrubbed families of Witchend, would look ascanse at each other and say,

'Oh dear oh dear but this is awfully difficult,'

and probably run home to mother.

I, who do not identify as a Christian, actually did have a little chat with Jesus. And He actually helped. Asking myself the question what would Jesus do, I answered myself, with every confidence, that he would love me and accept me whoever and whatever I am.

Pretty soon, I discovered Beebo's bookstore in Louisville and discovered that there really were positive portrayals of fictional lesbians. Claimed as the first of these is Patricia Highsmith's The Price of Salt, in which neither of the two women has a nervous breakdown, dies tragically, faces a lonely and desolate future, commits suicide, or returns to being with a male. But by then I no longer had need for fictitious playmates. Women at Beebo's had introduced me to the life-saving - or at least lesbian-saving - Boulder group TLC, The Lesbian Connection, which in turn introduced me to many wonderful women; real women, who in turn led me to my Beautiful Betsy.

With a real woman like that, who needs fiction?

© November 2017

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.

Clearly, by Gillian

Looking back over my life, at least the first forty or so years of it, very clearly I saw very little very clearly; both literally and figuratively.

From an early age I wore very thick glasses. Some time in my early to mid-forties I had laser surgery and discovered what seeing clearly really meant. Tests had always shown that I had 20/20 vision via my glasses, but it never offered the clarity with which I saw the world after that surgery. I cried tears of joy the next morning when I realized that I could lie in bed and clearly see the trees outside my window without first needing to grope around on my bedside table for my glasses. Betsy had to walk round the block with me when I first left the house, I was so disoriented. Everything seemed to jump up to meet me; too clear and too big and too close.

Twenty-five or so years later, my eyesight is deteriorating a little, and recently I discovered I have glaucoma, so perhaps my days of seeing so very clearly will be disappearing. Already I wear drugstore glasses for reading. That's OK. I am just so grateful that I have not lived my entire life without ever knowing the real meaning of seeing clearly.

Oh, and how sincerely I mean that in the figurative sense as well. I could, I guess, have gone through my whole life without ever clearly seeing myself. Many have, many do, and many will in the future. And, yes, I am primarily talking about being GLBT but not that alone. Seeing yourself clearly, with all your complexities, is a serious life-long challenge. There's an old Robert Burns poem which wishes that we all might have the gift to see ourselves as others see us. Sorry, Robbie, but I don't see a solution there. Every one of you at this table sees me differently so I cannot imagine much more confusing than trying to see myself as every person I ever meet might see me. On the other hand, when I eventually came out to co-workers and friends there were a few who responded with well duh! looks or well I knew that kind of comments so if I'd seen myself as they saw me I might not have had to wait till my early forties to see it clearly for myself.

A good analogy of my coming-out-to-myself process I now see, looking back on it, as trying to see myself clearly via various visual depictions of myself. You know that famous Malevich painting, 'The Black Square'? One version of it sold for the equivalent of a million dollars and, with due apologies to all sincere fans of purely abstract works, to me it looks like nothing more than a black square. Well, the first twenty or so years of my life, I might as well have been trying to see myself in that black square. Or as that black square. The more I looked the less I saw of me; hadn't a clue. Or probably in fact the last thing I really wanted to see was me, and I was perfectly happy to see nothing more than a black square. By my late twenties I maybe had progressed to a vision of myself more akin to Suprematist Composition by the same artist, a jumble of confusion which I actually quite like, if not to the extent of the sixty million dollars for which it sold. I have always quite liked myself, but certainly saw myself as a jumbled confusion at this stage.

In my thirties I progressed to around the expressionism of Munch's 'The Scream'. Far from a realistic portrait but nevertheless clearly a scream - something I was feeling ready for about then. I was awash with frustration without knowing why. My life was good - no, it was great - so why wasn't I satisfied? By my late thirties I had reached impressionism. You know, Monet's water lilies etcetera, very clearly waterlilies but nevertheless a bit fuzzy.

And suddenly, in my early forties, I took one huge step for womankind; well - for me, anyway.

I saw myself as clearly as in any realist painting but more so. I saw the reality of my queerness with all the clarity of an award-winning National Geographic megapixel photograph.

But that, great breakthrough though it was, was all about being lesbian. I still had plenty more to look deeply into if I was truly to get a clear view of my whole self; all of me.

This group has been of immeasurable help in propelling me to dig really deep inside, to try to really see and understand what's there and to be at peace with all of it - the good, the bad, and the ugly. Perhaps it explains the lack of appeal which purely abstract art has for me, and at the same time why I love photography. A photo can be so terrible it makes me cry or so beautiful it makes me cry, but I don't have to wonder what it is, just as I no longer have to wonder who and what I am. I am here, I am queer, and I'm perfectly clear!

© November 2017

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.

Anxious Moments, by Ray S

Will I be the first of us to say, “My whole life has been one blinking anxious moment for as long as I can remember”?

Instead of my 2nd birthday party, it was the awakening to someone standing over my baby bed or crib and gently, I imagine, fondling the unknowing occupant. Some moment, and I too young to be anxious. The matter of anxiety about this moment didn’t materialize for some fifteen years later.

Meantime some other more routine moments developed and were overcome, such as fainting while the children’s choir I was a member of angelically sang the “Hallelujah Chorus” for some high holiday at an Episcopal Church that my 8th grade music teacher had recruited me for. Needless to say, I resigned choir and since our family didn’t frequent Sunday services, the Episcopalians lost a dubious potential convert. But I’m sure I looked cute in that choir uniform.

Many anxious moments transpired due to becoming a high school freshman and adjusting to the surprise divorce of my parents. So much for the nuclear family.

Age 17 and the Army and my discovery of boys and men instead of the fairer sex. College days, I was too unconscious to worry about studies, I just did what I was told to do and managed a mortar board and piece of sheepskin. But, the really anxious moments came when I was desperate to be accepted by a Greek club I needed, needed, needed. And then found out myself over my head when my then lady friend announced it was time for some sort of commitment about our, or her, intentions.

You’ve heard this one before, but this was my very own “A” moment, March 31st 1951, our wedding day and all I recall is my stomach kept telling me, “Do you really think you want to do this?”

For the following years there were many more anxious times: finding a career, raising two wonderful kids, trying to make love, trying to keep the closet door closed, etc., etc., etc.

Now, the family’s grown and gone, my good and I think suspecting wife passed on, and my awakening to how very many of my new gay friends shared similar stories. Were all of our anxious moments so bad or good? Who says you can’t have your cake and eat it too?

© 12 June 2017

About the Author

New Year and Houses, by Ricky

At this point in my life, I have experienced 63 “new years”.  That’s a lot of days to review for anything to write about, especially when you must also include New Year’s Eves as well for a total of 124 days of activities.  The first one that stands out would be the one in 1958 (when I was 9 ½) which followed 3 days after my father told me about the divorce of my parents.  It was the year that began with me in a new family arrangement with an older stepbrother (a good guy) and younger twin half-brother & sister (also good).  The remaining months of school passed fairly quickly and in late May my mother, babies, and stepfather came to my grandparent’s farm to show off the twins and to pick me up.  Later that fall I became sexualized and my life further changed.

          The next new year of note would be 1968 where at age 19 ½ I found myself in Air Force basic training at Amarillo AFB, Texas and later in tech school at Goodfellow AFB in San Angelo, Texas to become a Radio Intercept Analyst.  Looking back at those days, it was actually a good thing the base psychiatrist washed me out of that program.  I did come away with a Top Secret security clearance, which followed me for the next four years.  The other good thing that came out of this “rejection” was I was sent to Florida where I met my future spouse on December 21^st.  (So there really can be a “silver lining” in the clouds of life’s storms.).  Naturally, at the time I was “washed out” I was not happy, in fact my ego was pretty much devastated as I had been the top student in my Phase 1 training class. 

          1968 was also the year I joined the LDS church, which is why I met my future spouse on 21 December.  The following New Year (1969) began many years of church association bringing me outer peace and occasionally inner joy.

          In 1971, the “new year” began with me completely dropping out of college in January after one semester to work at the Anaconda copper mine in Sahuarita, Arizona, before beginning training as a deputy sheriff.  Sixteen weeks later, in early December, I was sworn-in as a deputy in Pima County, Arizona.  I completely enjoyed that experience for the next 3 ½ years before returning to college to obtain a BS degree. 

          I would be very remiss if I did not include 1974, 1978, 1981, 1983, 1988, and 2001 as very significant because they are the first new years to follow: my marriage; the births of our four children; and the passing of my spouse and best friend of 27 ¾ years in 2001, four days after 9/11.

          While there are many new years between 1988 and 2011, those following Deborah’s death through 2010 were filled with major depression and memories I’d rather not recall.  By contrast, 2011 appears to be a year filled with opportunities for happiness at last.  It is the first new year following my coming out and finding people my age who are friendly, fun-loving, and good at making a “newbie” feel welcome.  I am looking forward now instead of living in the past.

          There are many things that our topic word “house” could bring up memories, emotions, or passions in anyone: House the TV show, House of Commons, whorehouse, White House, House of Representatives, and others are some.  In all honesty, those were suggested to me by my friend Michael King after I told him that only my houses came to mind.  Since I had already started to write about them I decided to continue in that vein; to do otherwise, those of you reading this would not be sufficiently bored.

          My life is filled with memories of the different houses I’ve occupied.  The first was in 1948 at Lawndale, California, a suburb of Los Angeles.  I remember a small octagon window set in the wall of our porch by the front door.  I remember our first pet—a purebred black and white collie named Bonnie.  My parents asked me to name her and I chose Bonnie because I liked the song “My Bonnie Lies over the Ocean” which was played over the radio rather frequently.  My parents thought that a purebred should have a fancier name so she was registered as “Lady Bonita”.

          According to my mother, Bonnie was a wonderful nursemaid or watchdog for me.  If I got past the gate to the sidewalk, Bonnie would bark up a storm; not necessarily to attract my mother’s attention but to call out to me to let her come with me.  Mother didn’t care what the motivation was; she promptly returned me to our yard and tried another way to “lock” the gate.  Eventually, I learned to take Bonnie with me, which stopped the barking, and I got “free” much more often and for longer periods.  Sadly, Bonnie got distemper and died before her 1^st birthday.

          In 1952, our next house was in Redondo Beach (also a suburb), was brand new, and bought with my father’s VA secured loan for his service in WW2.  That’s the house I unintentionally scared my mother into thinking I was missing, lost, or kidnapped.  I had been eating, playing, or just being naughty in the little café my mother owned two lots behind our house and she had told me to go home and go to bed. 

          I did go home, but being rather head-strong, naughty, and disobedient, I started playing in our side yard with Mike Pollard; my friend from across the street.  I looked up and saw my mother come out of the restaurant and come my way.  Believing that she had not yet seen me, I quickly told my friend to go home and ran in the backdoor (located on the side of the house where my mother could not see) and took off my shoes and jumped into bed pulling the covers and bedspread over me, and laying on my back, pretended to be asleep. 

          I heard my mother come into my room and then begin to call my name.  Since I was supposed to be asleep, I didn’t respond.  She then left my room and began to call my name throughout the house.  Finally, I heard her leave and I got up got undressed and went back to bed and I actually fell asleep, not awakening until much later.

          The rest of this story was told to me by my mother years later when I was about 15 or 16 when I reminded her of that day.  Apparently, after she had left the house not finding me in it, she had rather frantically looked for me over at the Pollard’s house and other homes on our short block.  Still not locating me, she then called my father at work to report me missing. 

          He left work early (losing pay for the time missed) and came home where by this time I had rolled onto my side so when he looked into my room he saw me sleeping peacefully in my bed.  Mom didn’t relate to me the exact conversation they then had, but she summarized it by saying that he thought she was crazy.

          Apparently, when I first jumped into bed and went under the covers, I pulled them over me in such a fashion that the bed looked unoccupied.  It was my habit to sleep with my head completely under the covers for many years and I was laying flat on my back, my head under the pillow.  The mattress was 6 inches of foam rubber, which I “sank” into so there was no “lump” to show I was in the bed, thus she thought I was missing.

          My favorite house was in Minnesota at which I arrived in 1956.  This was my mother’s parent’s two-story home on their farm I’ve spoken to you about before in conversations.  I’m not fluent enough in describing things so just picture in your minds a typical mid-west, 1900’s turn-of-the-century, nearly square, white-stucco, lightening rod studded farm-house typically shown on older movies.  What makes this house memorable was not only that it is the house of the divorce-notice previously mentioned, but also the one where my uncle showed me the facts of life when I was eleven (and also because it was very fun living there).  It was fun I suspect only because I was not required to work but enjoyed: riding on the tractor with my grandfather, helping with farm chores and work (where I could), and just watching when I could not.

          Naturally, as I grew and left home, marrying and raising a family I have lived in a collection of cabins, apartments, houses, military housing, and one time, in a tent.  I will not continue with this narrative except to say they also have positive and negative memories but I don’t wish to document them at this time.  I’m sure you will all understand and be greatly relieved that this, reading a long narrative, ordeal is finally over.

© 6 Jan 2011 

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

Ghosts, by Ray S

One day I read a book quite by a happy coincidence. A very wise literary mentor directed my attention to an author’s works that I would find not only well written but outstanding gay fiction and with wonderful character development.

As a child I was a slow reader as they called us in grade school. Reading was rarely fun and generally regarded a tedious chore. I wonder now that I ever got through sixteen years of reading assignments.

Update to that encounter in the library. My quest for a good erotic read had been answered. There were five or six volumes by the recommended author. Not being too adventurous I selected a slim book as an introduction to the make believe world of escapism.

My recent departure from sixty years of closeted double life required a great deal of catching up. There’s no time to waste; it’s not like you were sixteen and too dumb to know who you might be. Now that you’re at the threshold of full-blown “geom.”, it seems there is too little time and too many friends to meet.

The small book was more than a “good read” and having returned it, I went back to the well for a greater challenge. Bravely I picked up a 600 page book entitled How Long Has this Been Going On? by Ethan Mordden. For someone who was scared of any book longer than my third-grade Peter and Peggy, this choice was probably foolhardy.

Suffice it to say that my initial exposure to my author’s writing spurred me on to unknown stories and pleasures. Turns out that this volume was divided into related but not continuous stories. No chapters. Eventually I was tempted to make a family tree of the many characters just to keep up with each other’s life stories. As the saying goes, I couldn’t put the book down; my reading Renaissance had begun.

One day I finished How Long… and set it aside to return it to the library. Procrastination set in and the book kept company with some others—mostly unfinished.

The longer it stayed here at my reading chair, the longer I kept seeing all of those wonderful heroes and heroines in my quiet moments or my dreams. Something was unfinished. I can’t say they were all ghosts; ghosts are usually in another world, maybe even what we call dead.

I loved those beautiful men and women. They are alive to me and like Alice I just needed to step through the looking glass to be with all of them.

I’ve lived through the late 40s and 50s, the war protests, the fight for equal rights, AIDs, Stonewall, Harvey Milk, the wars, and up to Gay Pride March in NYC 1991.

These were stories of real people you could vicariously become and share their experiences, devoted friendships, passionate homoerotic encounters and love that we all have somewhere down deep for each other.

This is a ghost story, if you will, that I need to share with you, as you do each week with me. And I am in the process of re-reading How Long Has this Been Going On? It is more rewarding the second time, like coming home again or being there with my un-ghostly companions.

© 24 April 2017

About the Author

Games, by Betsy

1982 was an eventful year: the closet door opened for me completely that year. And I stepped out with my head held high. At the same time the world of athletic opportunity opened for members of the LGBT community world wide. 1982 was the year of the first and inaugural Gay Olympics. This event started out as and has continued to be the largest sporting and cultural event specifically for gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender people. The event is modeled after the Olympic Games. It was early on that the Olympic Games authorities pressured the Gay Olympics authorities to drop the name “Olympics” lest there be some perceived connection between the two events. Thus the title “Gay Games” came to be.

The following is the statement of concept and purpose of the Federation of Gay Games:

“The purpose of The Federation of Gay Games, Inc. (the “Federation”) shall be to foster and augment the self-respect of lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and all sexually-fluid or gender-variant individuals (LGBT+) throughout the world and to promote respect and understanding from others, primarily by organising and administering the international quadrennial sport and cultural event known as the “Gay Games.”[4]

The games held every four years are open to individuals and teams from all over the world. Entry into the games is not restricted to GLBT individuals. All people are welcomed into the competition which has become the largest sporting and cultural event in the world exceeding the number of athletes participating in the Olympics.

The 1982 and 1986 events were held in San Francisco. Since then athletes have gone all over the world to compete in such countries as Canada, the Netherlands, Australia, Germany. Paris is slated to host the 2018 games.

In the late 1980’s I was making friends and acquaintances in the LGBT community. Though I had never heard of the Gay Games, I knew a woman active in the lesbian community who played tennis and had been a high school tennis coach. I had actually been on the court with her a few times. She asked me if I would like to enter the women’s tennis competition as her doubles partner in the upcoming Gay Games. “What’s that?” I answered. All I needed was the smallest explanation and I was ready to pack my bags for Vancouver, the site of the 1990 Gay Games.

The competition was quite wonderful I did come away with a silver medal in tennis. Preparing for the event was equally satisfying. We actually had a Colorado tennis team made up of probably a dozen men and women—mostly men. I soon discovered that there existed a A Gay Games Team Colorado made up of maybe 200 athletes including swimmers (mostly), runners, cyclists, and many others. We had uniforms—really nice—black with pink trim warm up suits. We were given a send-off at none other than Boetcher concert hall. I remember standing on the stage with my 200 or so team mates with balloons dropping from above when the cheers went up from the full hall of supporters. I stepped on one of those balloons, fell down, and came very close to being trampled by my teammates.

Or was that the send off for the New York games of 1994? I’m really not sure I remember correctly. But I know I did have the privilege of attending two Gay Games events—1990 in Vancouver, and 1994 in New York City. Two of the proudest moments of my life were marching with my team into the stadiums in those two cities in their opening and closing ceremonies.

The New York event drew 12,500 participants from 40 countries.

That games experience was very special in that my lesbian daughter was participating as well— as a member of the Connecticut women’s soccer team. It was definitely a proud and memorable moment for me when I found myself marching with my daughter in a parade of 12,000 LGBT athletes through Yankee stadium to the cheers of tens of thousands of supporters and spectators. (aside:) the reason Lynne and I were able to march together was only because Colorado and Connecticut both start with C. Team Connecticut directly followed Team Colorado in the alphabet and in the parade of athletes. What luck!!

I say we were marching with 12,000 LGBT “athletes.” It is important to note that the event was never intended to be focused on athletic ability alone, however. In the words of Olympic track star Tom Waddell whose inspiration gave birth to the games in the 1980s, “The Gay Games are not separatist, they are not exclusive, they are not oriented to victory, and they are not for commercial gain. They are, however, intended to bring a global community together in friendship, to experience participation, to elevate consciousness and self-esteem and to achieve a form of cultural and intellectual synergy.....We are involved in the process of altering opinions whose foundations lie in ignorance. “

Some of this I wrote about a few years ago in a piece called “Game, Set, Match:” I love this one particular anecdote and want to take the opportunity to repeat it here:

“Four years {after the Vancouver Games} I would participate in Gay Games IV in New York. I was able to share this experience with my daughter Lynne who lived not far from NY City in New Haven, Connecticut. This is when my lesbian daughter came out to me. When I told her I was coming to New York to play tennis in the Gay Games she replied ‘Oh good!! We’ll go together. I’m going to participate in the games too, Mom. I’m playing on the Connecticut women’s soccer team.’ Yes, that was her coming out statement to me! We did enjoy that time together and watched each other in our respective competitions and cheered each other on.”

The events of that day did much indeed to define our very strong and positive future mother-daughter relationship.

These amazing games have continued every four years since their inception in 1982 and I have described my participation experience in just one of the competitions, tennis. There have been and continue to be literally hundreds of such competitive exhibitions from croquet to weight lifting to volleyball and basketball to diving and water polo—all events similar to those of the Olympic Games.

There is another aspect of the extravaganza which is worthy of mention ‘though I am not as personally familiar with its activities. The Gay Games includes cultural activities as well. Many, many LGBT choruses, musicians, and performers of all kinds gather to perform for all audiences, and to share their talent and craft.

I truly believe the Gay Games has more than fulfilled the dreams of Tom Wadell and those others who were its founders. There is no doubt the games continue to bring the LGBT community together in friendship and sharing, to “elevate consciousness and self-esteem,” and “to alter outside opinions whose foundations lie in ignorance.”

Those who work to ensure the event’s future are all heroes and heroines.

Neither my daughter nor I have been to any of the games since New York, but we will both remember our experiences for the rest of our days. I was indeed privileged and I am very proud to have been a part of both the Vancouver and the New York Gay Games.

© 10 January 2017

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.

Self Acceptance, by Ray S

The beauty of our Story Time to me is that it makes me face up to a reality-need weekly. The older one gets, the greater life’s little challenges become.

The Monday challenge is usually confronted the day before or early Monday morning.

This Sunday I wandered around the place in my robe, downing several cups of coffee and a bowl of oatmeal. Seemed like it was decision time to live or die. No not really bad, maybe to just go back to bed and tease my muse for tomorrow’s creative writing.

It was an easy choice—go back to bed. On my way to bed I picked up a book I’d recently been reading. There it laid, speaking to me from its bright yellow and black cover whispering, “Take me to bed with you.” Then my muse and the book’s author started contending for my attention and Story Time’s.

Realizing how much easier it would be to open the book and review the last chapter, I followed the path of least resistance. It was like meeting an old friend at the coffee shop and agreeing about the story and the author’s writing skills.

Muse empathetically nudged me back to tomorrow’s work to be done saying, “Remember Self Acceptance?”

I was reminded of my one time fifty five minute weekly with my Father-Confessor-Buddy, Dr. Ed. Ed’s job was to listen to me babble on for a given time about my self-love/hate relationship, that time period discovering what homosexuality meant and how I fit into that denomination, basic insecurity which used to be known as “inferiority complex” before the new age set in, envy and not measuring up in every way, etc., etc., etc.—

Did Ed accomplish any emotional miracles with his patient? Guardedly I can answer, “Yes.” Somewhat. Or perhaps I grew so weary of all that baggage I dumped it—another word for acceptance.

So now I’ve set my Self Acceptance goals on moving into 28 Barberry Lane with Ms. Anna Madrigal’s other tenants and living happily ever after.

© 12 December 2016

About the Author

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.

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.

Self Acceptance, by Pat Gourley

Well this phrase certainly sums up the entire “gay agenda” now doesn’t it?

One of the insidious accusations pitched our way around a “gay agenda” is that we need to recruit to our ranks. Reproducing, per conventional wisdom, is not one of our strong points, this despite the fact that many queers do reproduce.

I would though argue that self-acceptance is really a very potent recruitment tool. That is if you define recruitment as the creation of safe space for people to get in touch and express their intrinsic identity. No brainwashing or perverted sexual enticement needed, just provide a bit of sunlight and water and voila. Not to indulge too much in a trite metaphor but it is like a flower blooming. When given the chance queerness reaches its full potential and gloriously presents itself for all to see and appreciate. Homophobia both from external sources and the more insidious internalized form can prevent this from happening.

I could pontificate on this for a few more paragraphs and come up with a few more cheesy metaphors but since this is meant to be a personal story telling exercise I’ll just say a few words about my own self-acceptance. I was very fortunate to come of age sexually in my late teens in an environment that was in rebellion on many fronts. Civil rights, women’s liberation, strong anti-war sentiment and exploding gay liberation were all ingredients in the stew I found myself in.

We will mark the 50th anniversary of the summer of love this coming year, 2017. I strongly encourage pilgrimages to the Haight-Ashbury neighborhood in San Francisco. The neighborhood is suffering under the ravages of gentrification but a bit less so than other parts of the City. Since I rarely pass on the opportunity to quote lyrics from my favorite band these couple of lines seem appropriate here:

Nothin' shakin' on shakedown street. used to be the heart of town.

Don't tell me this town ain't got no heart. you just gotta poke around.

Shakedown Street. Garcia/Hunter

If you get the chance to visit slowly amble along Haight Street and poke around a bit.

My own coming out was certainly facilitated by the social, political and cultural upheavals of the late 1960’s. It is however the personal self-acceptance on a deep soul level that provides the spark for queer actualization and this can take awhile. It is a process and rarely a single bolt of enlightenment. There were ups and downs along this path for me during the first 10 years of that self-discovery. I would date those years of maturing self-acceptance to be roughly from 1966 to 1976. It was capped off and really cemented with the “coming-out” letter I wrote to my father.

His response to my letter was rather unexpected, loving and astonishingly thoughtful. He said that my gayness explained a lot and he now understood better why I had always been sensitive to the underdog. Being Catholic he also encouraged me to search out the Gay Catholic group Dignity. I did that but my participation was fleeting.

I truly regret loosing his letter and not following up better with inquiries as to how he found out about Dignity; dad died in August of 1980 a few short days after the second national gathering of Radical Fairies ended here in Colorado. I suspect though that the Dignity referral came from the same parish priest who I came out to in the early 1970’s. This man, who after a painful counseling session involving my expression of personal doubt about my gay path, put his arm around me and said I would make a great priest! That did not happen.

I do realize that my own personal self-acceptance was much less traumatic that it has been for many. I was truly lucky in this regard and so fortunate to have had a great dad in my corner to help the process along.

I have for some reason been listening to lots of Lucinda Williams these days, especially it seems since November 8th. She has a song that seems apropos to the whole self-acceptance gig for us queers. The title of the tune is “A World Without Tears”: Here is aYou Tube link to aversion of it:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v-W-qKAQJQo

© December 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.