Pride, by Terry Dart

I don’t consider myself a proud person. “Pride goeth before a fall”, at least that was something I absorbed growing up. As a young person I was proud of being part of a championship women’s softball team. That feeling has lasted through to the present.

Pride in being gay? Just being gay was not enough, is not enough. I am proud of how people in the gay community came together when the horrific AIDS troubles began. I worked in the Colorado AIDS Project office a couple days a week, a few hours, answering calls from New Yorkers who’d seen our posters in the subway.

(For a short time Denver CAP was one of a few sources for information.) So much went on: a man called whose house had been burned down because he had AIDS.

I do not know whether the AIDS quilt is being expanded. It occurs to me that maybe it should be part of our parade, or maybe there could be a modern event celebrating GLBTQ history.

When I was a little girl in the late fifties there was a film at the movie theater in Minot, North Dakota, the town where I grew up. The police came and shut it down. I saw this as Mom and I were driving by. When I asked her what “The Killing of Sister George” was about, she did not answer. Out of fear and self protection Gay people most often tried to make themselves invisible, or at least inconspicuous.

There were a few, like writer Truman Capote later on who managed to be out during hostile times when pride in gayness could not be shared or demonstrated in public.

Gay people endured physical attack and endangerment at the hands of bullies, police, and homophobes. I remember Matthew Shepherd. He was often in the CAP office.

I was attending a Rainbow Camp for Gay people at Medicine Bow, near Laramie, Wyoming. My girlfriend and I encountered Matthew’s killers at the Taco Bell or Taco John’s. We had no idea what they would do. They worked there. I recall hearing them discuss “When he gets out of class.” Later my friend recognized the picture of the prisoner in the Denver post. I recalled the coldness in the eyes of the person who waited on us. The murder took place—a pistol whipping with Matthew tied to a fence post. They left him there to die of his wounds. I would like to think this part is over and that we are safe now. But we are not. Proud we may be, but “the price of freedom is eternal vigilance.”

© 25 June 2018

About the Author

I am an artist and writer after having spent the greater part of my career serving variously as a child care counselor, a special needs teacher, a mental health worker with teens and young adults, and a home health care giver for elderly and Alzheimer patients. Now that I am in my senior years I have returned to writing and art, which I have enjoyed throughout my life.

Springtime and Suicide, by Pat Gourley

It is well documented that suicides spike in the spring and then again in the fall but less so. A popular myth is that it is the holiday season when suicide is most likely but this is simply not the case. As to why this happens in the spring is pretty much speculation with one theory being that it is all the pollen in the air that is the root of this increase. This rather sketchy theory suggests that the increase in pollen causes an increase in inflammation and this leads to irritability and suicidal ideation I guess. I would suggest that further study is needed or perhaps more Claritin. file://localhost/. https/::www.cnn.com:2016:05:16:health:suicide-rates-spike-in-spring:index.html

“Many who drive their own lives to help others often realize that they do not change what causes the need for their help.” David Buckel - from the NYT 4/14/2018

The above sentence is from the suicide note left by David Buckel the well known LGBTQ rights lawyer who self immolated himself in a Brooklyn park early on Saturday (4/14/2018) morning. I must admit I had never heard of David Buckel but he is perhaps most well know for his work on the Brandon Teena murder, a transgender person from Nebraska. Buckel was the lead attorney in a case that found a Nebraska county sheriff guilty of liable in Teena’s murder. Hilary Swank played Teena in the 1999 movie Boys Don’t Cry for which she won an Oscar.

David Buckel also was a prominent activist in several other areas of LGBTQ rights particularly in the area of marriage equality. For the past ten years however his focus was environmental issues and he was the moving force behind a major recycling/composting effort in the Brooklyn area.

Quoting further from his suicide note per the NYT:

“Pollution ravages out planet, oozing inhabitability via air, soil, water and weather …Most humans on the planet now breathe air made unhealthy by fossil fuel, and many die early deaths as a result – my early death by fossil fuels reflects what we are doing to ourselves.”

I have been unable to find the entire suicide note as of today but this is a further piece of the note in addition to those quotes above:

"I am David Buckel and I just killed myself by fire as a protest suicide," read a handwritten suicide note, according to the New York Daily News. "I apologize to you for the mess."

Despite the fact that there were 44,965-reported deaths by suicide in the United States in 2016 they often receive little press coverage and this may be out of legitimate concern for impulsive copycat action by others. The one thing that is hard for me to reconcile around David’s protest suicide is the anguish this is causing for his loved ones, co-activists and undeniably his partner of 34 years. I am not at all sure though that this pain and suffering should distract in any meaningful way from the power and perhaps even the legitimacy of his protest.

Many of us may have first heard of suicide by self-immolation by Buddhist monks in Viet Nam. Visual images of these acts were certainly a slap in the face to me to wake up to the unbelievable tragedy that war was. More recently the self-immolation again by Buddhist monks this time in Tibet as a form of protest to Chinese genocide continues. There have been at least 148 reported suicides in this manner by Tibetans since 2009.

Deaths from the potential catastrophic effects of climate change may far out strip deaths from all the wars in human history. Apparently roll backs to climate protections by the Trump administration and in particular by that selfish weasel Scott Pruitt had been causing David Buckel considerable consternation.

I do hope this raw and powerful form of protest on his part will not detract but rather enhance the legacy of this great gay hero. Though he was definitely a strong and successful proponent for issues of marriage equality and Trans rights maybe his last ten years and death are pointing us toward even more important issues facing all of humankind including the LGBTQ communities.

Though this has been perhaps the most painful piece I have written for Story Telling I’d like to close with just a few more paraphrased words from David’s suicide note, words for me personally to ponder: “Privilege is derived from the suffering of others”.

This a link to NYT article on David’s suicide – one of many I have read this past weekend and referred to in this piece: https://www.nytimes.com/2018/04/15/nyregion/david-buckel-brooklyn.html?hp&action=click&pgtype=Homepage&clickSource=story-heading&module=second-column-region&region=top-news&WT.nav=top-news

© April 2018

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.

Evil, by Ray S

At the table and waiting for our lunches to arrive, my partner asked, “What is the subject for next week’s Telling Your Story? Seems he is always curious about what literary creations result from those Monday afternoons in the “upper room” at the LGBTQ Center.

“It’s EVIL.”

“Okay, but what is it—the subject’s title I mean?”

“Evil is the subject’s title,” was my response, and I’m not sure what to write about it. I’m guessing there will be moralizing and maybe some Judeo-Christian “prophesizing.” Perhaps some references to how well we as humankind have succeeded in messing each other up and the world in general as well. It is hard to know where to begin, so what else is new?

Our food arrived and we began to eat. After his first bite—he had been quiet up to this point—I guessed deep in thought—he looked me in the eye from across the table and said, “Good and Evil are arbitrary.” It is a matter of one’s judgment. End of the discussion.

With this in mind, what had been a daunting subject was reduced to a minimalist one word. EVIL. One can’t discount it, but as my friend said, it is arbitrary. So, “go figure”!

Webster’s dictionary:  Evil; adj. (OE, yfel) 1. Morally bad or wrong; wicked, 2. Harmful; injurious, 3. Unlucky; disastrous. Noun-wickedness; sin 2. Anything that causes harm, pain, etc. Adverb-evilly.

© 20 Jul 2017 

About the Author 

Journal, by Betsy

“With pen in hand I write of our arduous journey from Lancaster County, Pennsylvania to our new home in Niagara County, New York. A covered wagon is the conveyance for the family. The track is badly rutted. The journey will take a few weeks.”

These words are a facsimile of those written by my great, great, great, great grandmother Mary Hershe Long, who moved from Pennsylvania to Niagara County, New York in 1820. This is the oldest example of journaling in my family that I have in my possession. There are many, many other examples such as this and many, many stories that have been told over the years since this one.

Inasmuch as we have taken up this activity of story telling and particularly the topic of “journal” I have come to realize that the women in my family have been great journalists. I don’t mean we have professional journalists in my family. But we do have many women on my mother and my father’s side who have been inclined to write down things that were happening in their lives. Some only recorded the major events, others kept daily diaries of their comings and goings.

I am truly grateful to have the stories of my great grand father and his forebears who settled in the wilderness that was western New York state in the early years of the 19th century.

On the same side of the family, my mother’s, my grandmother did a lot of writing especially for a non-professional woman of her time. Her’s were not diaries per se, but rather narratives and poems describing mostly her grandchildren and other people she loved. For example, “Betsy’s Hanky:”

Bets has a little handkerchief
To wipe her little nose
And everywhere that Betsy runs
She’s sure the hanky goes.

She dusts the car—then wipes her face
She cleans her shoes with this wisp of lace
’Twill be the emblem of her place
And wipe away her woes.

I can learn some things about myself from these words as well as learning about my grandmother.

Another favorite is the story of the Drib Yoj bird and how she flew to the rescue of some very sad children and cheered them up. The Drib Yoj always flew forward, not backwards as her name might imply.

Some of these papers of my grandmother’s are elaborately illustrated. Her writings were all done by hand, of course, and never published. I am fortunate to be the owner of these manuscripts which I am carefully preserving in acid-free plastic protectors.

The same grandmother, Edith Rand, wrote a collection of poems which she had typed (on Rand Company type writers, I’m sure) and bound together into a booklet called “Selected Poems”. I knew my grandmother, but know her so much better having read her poetry. The woman clearly loved life and everything about it, she was full of love and gratitude for everything she had, although her life was not without tragedy.

On my father’s side my great grand mother Cecelia McConnell wrote volumes about her travels across the mid west in a covered wagon, a career teaching on Indian reservations, and her exploits as a political activist. I do not have any of her writings, but I do have numerous newspaper articles describing her experience returning to the east coast in 1938 via one of the first commercial passenger flights as she approached the age of 100 years.

Cecelia’s daughter-in-law, my grandmother, had a daily diary which I lent to my cousin about 25 years ago. In this journal she recorded her day to day activities. From it I learned that she was a very active woman, but the diary tells me very little of her feelings or outlook on life.

My oldest daughter is a prolific writer. As well as the books she has written about her field of study, she keeps a journal in which she records her deepest thoughts and feelings. She does not share her journal and I think regards the journaling as a very private activity strictly for her own benefit.

When I was in my teens I acquired, probably as a birthday gift, a book in which I could record my deepest thoughts and feelings—— or just my daily activities, or both. This diary has enough pages for five years of writing. It actually came with a key with which one could guarantee to keep it free of any prying eyes. I long ago lost the key but fortunately it was left unlocked so I could look and see what I was doing/ thinking/ feeling in my youth—not much, really: a typical entry

“Dear Diary,

School was okay today. After school I had my hair set for the Freshman Frolic…….

Audrey was not in school today. DARN!

“Dear Diary,

Today Mother and Marcy and I went to Morristown to get Easter stuff.”

Like I said—not much. Even if I did allow you, my friends, to look inside this journal, I guarantee you would not find one single word about my deepest, darkest secret. There are no words in here about my sexual orientation as the idea of confronting the subject had at the time not yet entered my consciousness.

On several occasions during my adult life I have attempted to record my deepest thoughts and feelings in a journal. I have actually 4 of these journals. In my later years right after I retired, I did write about some of my deepest thoughts and feelings—especially about coming out and being out. I have never managed to fill one of my journals, however, but it is interesting to take a look and be reminded of what I did and how I felt in past years.

I did a fair amount of writing in my job, so when I retired, writing of any kind did not have an immediate appeal.

As I later wrote in 2013 in a piece for this group called “One Monday Afternoon”

“The only writing I did (after retirement) was in our travel log as we journeyed here and there in our beloved VW camper van to many different parts of the U. S. “Mileage today was 350. Spent the night at Frigid Frosty Forest Service campground. Woke up to snow and froze our butts,” would be a typical entry into the journal.”

I have kept in storage all my diaries better known as appointment books since 1989, a habit I developed at work. If I need to know when something happened, I can look in there, but no deep thoughts or feelings can be found in my appointment books.

One day about twelve years into retirement Gill and I were presented with the opportunity to join a certain writing group at the LGBT Center.

“….a writing group? Creating a piece of writing EVERY week. Telling my story. That sounds like work to me. I’ll have to exercise my brain and delve into memories and emotional stuff of the past and present. Do I really want to do that? Writing. Much harder than talking or thinking or imagining. After all, I thought, writing my story I will have to finish my dangling thoughts as well as correcting my dangling participles. Do I really want to get into that?

That was six years ago. I had no idea I would get so much out of being a part of this group when I was considering whether or not to join.

…… there is tremendous value to me in documenting experiences I have had, feelings I now have or have had in the past, beliefs I hold dear; ie, documenting who I am. The process of telling one’s story is not always easy, but with practice it gets easier. How much value the stories have for anyone else I will never know. But I find it oddly comforting knowing that I am leaving them behind when I depart this life.

Finally I believe this activity of writing and telling our stories gives me a broader perspective of my own life--a perspective perhaps not otherwise attained and certainly a perspective not easily attained.

So my journal has become this collection of stories I have been sharing now weekly for six years. I feel quite satisfied that although it is not a journal in the traditional sense of the word, the pages do tell a story of who I am and what my life has meant to me and my loved ones. Maybe in their later years my great, great grand children, who will never live in my lifetime, or maybe even my grandchildren, who do know me even if only slightly, will want to read some of the stories to understand more about who their grandmother was just as I am fascinated to learn about those who came before me.

© 3 August 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.

The Eyes of Love, by Ray

She was standing nearby, and I couldn’t stop looking at her beautiful cornflower blue eyes. Having said this to you all, it could have been the conclusion of this Story Time offering, but there was no need to apologize for my surreal intrusion because a good ‘LGBTQ’ friend greeted me with a happy ‘L’ squeeze saying, “I want you to meet my partner.” Guess Who? The pretty young thing with those beautiful blue eyes! Serendipity maybe. The two of them are to be married next winter.

That afternoon at Denver Pridefest 2017 I found four eyes of love at the AIDS Quilt exhibit. Two beautiful or should I say handsome men arrived at the desk as volunteer docents. As we talked and got acquainted it wasn’t difficult to sense they were partners, it was so evident in the way they looked at each other. To me, it said not only love but also respect for each other. What a beautiful thing to experience; and how wonderful to know and witness and enjoy these testimonies of lesbian and gay love.

Sincerely,

“None But The Lonely Heart”

© 19 June 2017

About the Author

Back Seat of the Car, by Gillian

Back in the days when I was young and foolish enough to indulge in gropings in the back seats of cars, I was still young and foolish enough to be doing it with boys. By the time I was old and wise enough to figure out who I really wanted to be groping, I was old and wise enough to have a lovely bedroom available for such purposes, as did most of the gropees, so the back seat of the car held no appeal.

I can only think of one car back seat that I remember with any affection. Betsy and I were in our early days together, so it must have been in 1987 or '88. Two younger women friends, temporarily a couple, decided to go to Santa Fe for a romantic weekend and invited us to go along. They had a lot of money, or at least spent as if they did, and at the time had a brand new Mercedes. Friday night after work they picked us up at Betsy's house and installed us in the back of the car. It smelled deliciously of brand new upholstery; leather, of course. Who has ever caught a wonderful whiff of vinyl? The back set creaked and sighed elegantly as we settled ourselves. Surround sound speakers spilled gentle music. Ah, luxury! Speeding south on I25 heading out of Denver, a subtly disguised side panel slide open, to display an expansive cooler; electronically cooled, of course, in which nestled bottles of expensive champagne and two perfectly cooled glasses.

'Help yourselves,' called Jan, the driver.

'Will either of us be driving at all?' Betsy asked, cautiously.

'Nope!' came the chorus from the front.

'We're doing the driving. You two just have fun.'

No need to tell us twice. We sipped and snacked. The cooler also contained a selection of very expensive cheeses, and crackers. A softly-sighing little spring door opened to offered entertainment in the form of playing cards and puzzle books, this being before the days of those dreadful little overhead car TV's, but we declined, simply sitting back to watch the night lights go by and sing along with the music. Try a night like that now, and we'd both be rolling around on that spacious back seat fast asleep. But that night we stayed well awake the entire six hours. Of course we did not realize just how drunk we were until we attempted to get out of the car upon arrival at a very swanky adobe dwelling where we crashed for a sadly short time before that blazing New Mexico sun came streaming in the window to wake us up.

Now, our old VW camper, Brunhilda, was not exactly the lap of luxury - except when compared to sleeping on the cold hard ground. The transformation of the back seat tot combine with the cargo floor into a double bed often required much tussling with stubborn metal catches that refused to release and hinges that declined to bend until the necessary level of grunting had been reached or the magic bad words yelled. But after a little blood and sweat - we were never quite driven to tears - we always succeeded, to snuggle down together for the night at least partly on the back seat. So in a sense I guess we could say we spent literally hundreds of nights on the back seat of the car; and loved every single one of them!

© March 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.

Birthdays, by Betsy

The following is an imaginary voice from the Universe heard inside a woman’s uterus by a viable life preparing for its day of birth.

“Now is the time for you to make your choice.  You may choose from these two options: gay or straight.  In other terms—homosexual or heterosexual.  Before you decide, let me explain the consequences of your choice.

“If you select the gay option you will have many obstacles in your life that you otherwise would not have. You will be considered abnormal by many people from the start, you could very easily find yourself being discriminated against by employers, landlords, merchants, and service providers. The law may possibly not offer any recourse for you if and when you are discovered depending on how the movement goes and the state of civil rights.  You could actually be put in jail if you are found out.

“You may feel constrained to stay in the closet for a long, long time, maybe forever. That means denying your truth to yourself and to others. This could have a serious impact on your emotional and mental health—possibly on your physical health as well.

“If you try to express your sexuality and live as the person you are; i.e. live as an openly gay person, you risk your safety, security, and wellbeing. You will keep your self-esteem and self-respect however. But there may be a price to pay for that.

“If you select the straight option life should be easier for you.  You will derive benefits from marrying a person of the opposite sex. As a woman, you will be safe if you serve him well.  You will be secure if you do his bidding.  You will have no difficult choices to make because they will all be made for you and to your advantage if you stay in line.  The only risk for you is that you might screw up because you don’t realize that you have all the advantages. 

“As I said, it’s your choice.”

The above scenario is, of course, absurd. None of this would happen because this choice is not available to us. This choice is never given to any of us before birth. We are born LGBTQ or heterosexual or gender fluid or whatever else yet to be defined—whatever else exists on the sexuality spectrum. 

The choice is made when we become aware, conscious, of ourselves—our feelings, what drives us, with whom we fall in love. We make the choices later in life when we understand that there IS a choice— and that choice, as we all know, is not who we ARE by birth, but whether or not we choose to LIVE as an expression of who we are.

Personally, I understand very well the consequences of denying who I am and living as someone I am not. Once I became aware of my sexual orientation I was able to make that choice, respect myself, and be happy and fulfilled. 

Those who wish to change us LGBTQ’s, punish us, put us away, or whatever, seem to imagine that we all experience the above in-utero scenario and we should be punished or, at least, forced to change because we made the wrong choice.  We made the choice in-utero and were born gay yes on our first birthday, because we chose to. REALLY!  Or, if they do not accept that absurdity, they want to punish us for expressing our real selves—for living as gay people.

I choose to live in a world which accepts every newborn baby for exactly what it is—everything that it is.  I choose to welcome every life into this world as perfect as I did one week ago my first great grandchild.

You know, I’m convinced he’s gay because of the way he waved when he was born. Then when he started primping his bald head his mother and grandmother and Auntie Gill were convinced too.  He’s lucky. He knows he is loved by us all—gay or straight.

© 14 Nov 2016 

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.

Disconnect and Fear in the Aftermath of the Orlando Massacre, by Donaciano Martinez

There is a major disconnect between the experiences of LGBTQ young people of color and the broader LGBTQ community. That was the main message behind the need for a separate vigil that took place in mid-June 2016 in Denver to remember the victims of the Orlando massacre. Organized by the nonprofit Survivors Organizing for Liberation (SOL) and Buried Seedz of Resistance (BSEEDZ), a youth project of SOL, the vigil was led by LGBTQ young people of color.

The separate vigil was in direct response to the first vigil that was hastily organized at a Denver gay nightclub that featured speeches by public officials and spokespeople from a few nonprofit organizations. When two carloads of SOL and BSEEDZ activists arrived at the nightclub, they were shocked at the extensive presence of police officers who were searching people as they entered the building. Appalled, SOL and BSEEDZ activists unanimously decided not to attend the event.

“The history of queer and trans communal spaces are rooted in acts of resistance against police brutality,” proclaimed the public statement of BSEEDZ and SOL in direct reference to the 1969 Stonewall Rebellion, which is widely recognized as the start of the movement that has evolved to the modern-day fight for human rights for LGBTQ people. “We refuse to accept suggestions that increased police presence in our queer and trans spaces will improve risks of violence or increase any sense of safety.”

The BSEEDZ and SOL vigil was attended by a diverse group of about 100 people from the Latina/Latino, Muslim, LGBTQ, American Indian, Two-Spirit communities and allies. In addition to remembering and reading the names of the victims of the Orlando massacre, attendees paid tribute to and read the names of 14 trans women of color who have been murdered so far in 2016.

“We wanted to let everybody know and remind folks that this isn’t an isolated incident, that this has been happening, that we forget the 25 plus transwomen who were murdered last year, the 14 transwomen who have already been murdered this year,” stated BSEEDZ activist Diana Amaya at the start of the vigil. “All of this is just part of genocide to our people."

The murders of 25 transwomen last year marked the deadliest on record for transgender people in the U.S., according to statistics tracked by SOL and other nonprofit entities that are part of the National Coalition of Anti Violence Programs (NCAVP). According to NCAVP, last year’s record does not include trans women whose deaths were not reported or investigated nor do the statistics include victims whose gender was misidentified or not even recognized by police and the media.

Speaking about why LGBTQ young people of color oftentimes feel disconnected from Denver’s Pride event that has been organized annually over the past 40 years by the nonprofit GLBT Community Center, a BSEEDZ activist noted that it “hurts so much” that Pride’s history is being erased and that the LGBTQ largest organizations “sell out.” Attendees were urged to remember Pride’s history, which started as an act of resistance at the Stonewall Rebellion.

Other vigil speakers included an American Indian Two-Spirit individual who is transgender from female to male. Recognizing the privilege that comes with being a man, he said his life has been so much easier as a man and he has been negligent upon forgetting that other people in the LGBTQ community are not as fortunate as he is as a man. One mother spoke about being “scared” and having a “hard time” upon learning that her child is a transboy. Another woman attendee recounted her gay brother’s recent experience of being escorted off stage at his college graduation when he raised his fist and yelled the “Orlando” word.

Ayla Sullivan and Emery Vela, both members of the slam poetry team called Minor Disturbance, read a poem they wrote for the occasion. Before reading the poem to the attendees, they acknowledged: “Queerness has not always been something that was shamed before the colonizers came, it was something that was sacred. It was something that was beautiful and it’s still something that is beautiful.”

Addressing the irrational fears of LGBTQ people and Muslims, BSEEDZ activist Amanas pointed out that the Orlando killer’s Muslim identity makes all Muslims vulnerable to acts of violence by white racists. “We know Islamophobia and homophobia as the same monster known by different names,” said Amanas, who urged vigil attendees to break the fast during the Muslim religious season of Ramadan by sharing a bowl of dates with other people.

Fear was the topic of a recent communication sent to the constituents of Denver City Council (DCC) elected member Robin Kniech, an open lesbian who represents all of Denver as the at-large representative at DCC. She stated that, despite the vigils and the camaraderie at Denver’s Pride parade (which she noted had fewer spectators this year), she is “not feeling better” nowadays. “Most of my LGBTQ friends and colleagues don’t report feeling better, not when you ask them privately,” she added.

“The reason I don’t feel better is because I feel fear,” proclaimed Representative Kniech. “And for me, it isn’t a new fear. It’s about fears I’ve long held. Fears I struggled with, tried to talk myself out of, suppressed. The inability to shake the feeling that all of these fears were real and true after all. That at some point, someone who has real issues with gay people, will want to hurt me because of who I am. Hurt my partner. My son because he is with me. My friends. I am afraid, and angry about my fear. In a state where I’m protected from being fired, could get married, and was elected as an out lesbian, I am once again thinking twice about whether and where to hold hands with my partner.”

Acknowledging that she has a certain privilege status despite being a woman and an out lesbian, DCC Representative Kniech stated: “Many folks who see me on the street don’t assume I’m gay, and I’m white in a world where violence still happens less to those of my ethnic background. So I feel even more fear for those in our community who don’t share those privileges. And more anger about that fear.”

Regarding many people’s rush to prove that the “terrorists haven’t won” in an effort to resume a life of normalcy, Representative Kniech declared: “I write this piece to honor pausing. Pausing to feel and name the personal fear and pain that was lying in wait and has been triggered by these events, whether among Latino/a or LGBTQ folks, those impacted by other forms of gun violence, or others. I don’t think naming this personal pain disrespects those who were lost, or the causes that have to be fought.”

Upon addressing the issue that pausing to face the fear and pain somehow means that the terrorists have achieved their goal of making people emotionally paralyzed from fear, Representative Kniech ended her insightful communication by stating: “It doesn’t reward terrorists. In fact, I think talking about fear, and how dangerous it can be, within ourselves, or motivating evil acts by others, might be important to really changing the world where these acts of hate motivated by fear are proliferating.”

© 12 Jul 2016 

About the Author 

Since 1964 Donaciano Martinez has been an activist in peace and social justice movements in Colorado. His activism began in 1964 by knocking on doors to urge people to vote for peace and justice, but in 1965 he and other activists began marching in the streets to protest against war and injustice. His family was part of a big migration of Mexican-Americans from northern New Mexico to Colorado Springs in the 1940s. He lived in Colorado Springs until 1975 and then moved to Denver, where he still resides. He was among 20 people arrested and jailed in Colorado Springs during a 1972 protest in support of the United Farm Workers union that was co-founded by Cesar Chavez and Dolores Huerta. For his many years of activism, Martinez received the 1998 Equality Award, 1999 Founders Award, 2000 Paul Hunter Award, 2001 Community Activist Award, 2005 Movement Veterans Award, 2006 Champion of Health Award, 2008 Cesar Chavez Award, 2013 Lifetime Achievement Award, and the 2013 Pendleton Award. La Gente Unida, a nonprofit co-founded by Martinez, received the 2002 Civil Rights Award. The year 2014 marked the 50-year anniversary of his volunteer work in numerous nonprofit situations.

Queens, Lesbians, and Gay Pride Committee by Louis

Geographical Note: Jackson Heights is located in Queens County in New York City. The big pride parade takes place in Manhattan. Jackson Heights is the second biggest lesbian and gay neighborhood in NYC outside of Greenwich Village. The population is primarily Hispanic and Hindu. 3 major subway lines converge in Jackson Heights so it is easily accessible from anywhere in Queens and Manhattan.

I was the recording secretary of the Queens Lesbian and Gay Pride Committee from 1986 to 1988, for 3 years. It was hard work. At the monthly meetings I had to record pretty much what all the committees had to report. The march in Jackson Heights, Queens, took place and still takes place on the 4th Sunday of June every year. There were the Treasurer’s report, the advertising-promotion committee report, the lawyer’s report, the President’s report, the mass mailing committee report. The promo-advertising-committee had a sub-committee, the fundraising committee that had its own separate report, the website maintenance committee.

The lawyer usually reported on the status of his application to the IRS of the 501.c status of our not-for-profit corporation, QLGPC. For some reason this was an on-going process as opposed to a one-time settled issue.

Of course, the fundraising sub-committee had to report directly to the treasurer, and the treasurer told the General Meeting where the money was being kept, in what bank account. The treasurer had to report to the (rather expensive) CPA of the corporation. The treasurer also reported on the payment of the expensive liability insurance premiums. The officers of the corporation, including myself, had to sign the certificate of incorporation. The fundraising sub-committee was no joke; they received large donations both from gay bar owners and large corporations such as Citibank. Then of course QLGPC sold advertising to businesses that wanted to purchase ads in QLGPC brochures and other promotional material. Naturally, wherever there is a large accumulation of cash, there are going to be embezzlers. But QLGPC was quite successful in finding out and getting rid of its embezzlers. Some of them were jailed.

Then there were more reports from the liaisons to the elected officials, the liaison to the Mayor’s Office (referring to the Mayor of New York City), the liaison to the department of sanitation, the liaison to the police department. And finally there was the liaison committee to the civic organizations, both gay lib type civic organizations and other groups. Among all of these, the most important was

P-FLAG that became a major sponsor of the Queens March. Another important group was ACQC, or the Aids Center of Queens County. In this case the liaisons were also officers of their own organizations, and they would report back to their organizations what they heard at our monthly general meeting. I should qualify this and state that as June approached, the monthly meetings turned into weekly meetings.

Then there were the reports from the liaisons to the vendors of which there were two categories: regular vendors, food vendors, beer vendors (selling beer required another special permit from the City) and the civic groups, such as HRCF, the NLGTF, the New York Imperial Court and on and on and on. They all had to rent their space. If the civic groups could not afford the fee, if applicable the fee was waived. Then there were the Lesbian and gay ethnic groups, e.g. the gay and Lesbian Bolivians. In other words, these groups set up their tents for the festival and rally following the 15-block march down 35th Avenue.

This whole parade committee had been founded and originally promoted by City Council Member, Danny Dromm. Mr. Dromm was also the founder of the Progressive Caucus in the New York City Council. His biography is quite interesting.

Then there was the Hospitality Committee with a sub-committee liaison to the NYC Dept of Parks. The Hospitality Committee was responsible for setting up what went on at the main tent of the Festival where Danny Dromm presented himself to the public to announce important legal victories or setbacks over the previous years. The Hospitality Committee also had to arrange the catering for the guests of honor at the main stage of the Festival. Yours truly was one of the guests of honor. In general, they did a very good job. The entertainment was really sensational and inclusive. And any VIP, such as a member of Congress or an elected official from New York State General Assembly or the Senate, could depend on getting his or her five minutes or so on the stage, once he or she was approved by the QLGPC steering committee. Special mention should be made of NY State Senator, Tom Duane, a long-time gay lib agitator.

Another issue that required planning was the choosing the Grand Marshall of the Parade, which usually was the Borough President. The BP would usually be expected to hold a Lesbian and gay pride reception in the Boro Hall, to which Danny Dromm was usually invited. The ACQC liaison committee also had an outreach team to local hospitals. The most responsive but certainly not the only local hospital was Elmhurst General Hospital that was interested in promoting its own Health Fairs. One of the officers of Elmhurst General Hospital was a particularly good friend of QLGPC.

After the first 3 or 4 years of holding the Queens Lesbian and Gay Pride parade, certain people wanted to start a Lesbian and gay Pride Committee for the borough of Brooklyn. So it happened, and QLGPC formed another liaison committee. So now Brooklyn has its own Lesbian and gay annual pride march and festival, and, for the sake of variety, holds their festivities at night.

An off-shoot of the Hospitality Committee was a sub-committee charged with the responsibility of setting up the Winterpride Dinner. If you wanted to attend, the ticket cost $60.00, less if you couldn’t afford it. So every year there is an elaborate catered affair at one of the rather lavish catering halls in Queens. The one I remember is Dante’s in Jackson Heights. But there were others, when attendance at the Winterpride Dinner got too large, Dante’s could not handle it. At the dinner, you could expect a Baroque quartet, lots of booze and very gourmet appetizers. Again part of the entertainment of the main stage at Winterpride were the necessarily brief presentations of the local politicians who pointed out what they did and are doing for our community.

After 3 years of being recording secretary, I got burned out. Someone succeeded me, I think it was a Mr. Siciliano. After 3 years of this, I said to myself that what gay liberation means to me is not so much political organizing, as important as this is. Gay liberation means to me the status of Lesbian gay people in the Church community. So I ran around to various churches, etc. I told you that story already. Besides the people I was dealing with all had some real political power, they were middle class. I did not really identify with them. I used to frequent the Lesbian and Gay Center on West 13th Street in NYC. I kept track of the groups that formed there. Two groups that intrigued me were COOL – Committee of Outraged Lesbians and Bronx Lesbians from a Lower Class Background. Whoever the founders of these groups were, I say “bravo.” Middle class gay people are not the only people interested in gay liberation. And there is more than one way of being disenfranchised.

Moral: We should all be thankful to the organizers of our annual Denver Gay and Lesbian Pride March. It involves a crushing amount of legal work to keep everything on track.

April 7, 2014

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.

Little Things that Mean A Lot by Will Stanton

Big things, very important things, I already have addressed regarding my friend James: good character, warm personality, maturity, self-reliance, true friendship, respect, and loyalty. Little things, too, are important, especially cumulatively over the years of our friendship. Each little thing in itself, when spoken of, may not sound like very much; however, if one could hear the loving tone of voice or witness the kindness of the gesture, then one would understand how important little things can be.

On a very basic level, we each made sure that we did our share of housework and chores, although we each tended to gravitate toward our own preferences. He had become a good cook and took pleasure in my appreciation of his varied and delicious meals. I did most of the house renovation and yard work, and he always expressed his appreciation for all my labor, wiring, plumbing, building, digging holes for trees and bushes. At times, he would note my fatigue and remark, “You worked awfully hard today. I think I need to take you out for a steak.” We would go to a favorite restaurant, and within forty-five minutes, my energy seemed to come back. Somehow, he always knew.

Imagine our sitting together reading the Sunday morning paper. He stands up and says, “I’m going to the kitchen. Would you like more coffee?” Now, I am perfectly capable of getting up and going for my own coffee, but that little gesture of James’ reveals a lot about his kindness in thinking about others, even with little things.

James dressed immaculately and also cared about my appearance, too. He enjoyed seeing me dressed neatly and looking attractive. From time to time, he would buy for me some article of clothing, always in very good taste, knowing that I would make a good impression in public. Of course, I was half the age and half the weight at that time, so he had an easier task than he would now. I admit that, since he has been gone so long and my not having a G.Q. figure, I pay far less attention to fashion. I don’t have James to dress for.

Any gifts that we bought for each other over the years never were meant to “buy friendship” but, instead, were genuine tokens of his love and thoughtfulness. He cared about how I felt, being concerned if he sensed that I was frustrated or unhappy, and reached out rather than avoiding me if this was the case. He was genuinely happy to see me happy.

James was a voracious reader and knew a lot. We inspired each other with interesting conversations about a myriad of subjects. We truly were interested in each person’s opinion and always made clear our respect for the other’s knowledge and skills. He was an accomplished, published poet, and I took an interest in his latest project even though poetry was not my forté. He understood my passion for good music and, even though he played little himself, made a point of hearing me play and occasionally acquired sheet music for me. We also enjoyed a good joke. I could tell that he delighted in hearing my laughter because he knew then that I was happy.

We always remembered Christmas, birthdays, Valentine’s Day, and took advantage of those holidays to celebrate our friendship. He liked to plan little weekend trips and occasionally longer vacations for our enjoyment, and we took plenty of photos of the scenery and of ourselves together. He arranged a couple of photo sessions so that we could have portraits made of us together. He always was thinking of us, not just himself.

Even when he was dying of lung cancer, he still did those little things that he still could do to reassure me and to show that he was thinking of me. All those many little things, and big things, that he said and did over the years proved his undying love, a love that he expressed in a poem he wrote for me and presented to me so many years ago:

You,

Whose smile enchants

And laugh delights,

Whose northern eyes

Astonish blue,

Wait here awhile

With me beside

This summer world.

So songbirds hush

And watch the stars:

We’ll taste black grapes

And yellow pears

And speak of youths

Lovely long ago,

Whose love they sang

In ancient phrases

And melodies forgot.

Around your hair

Of morning gold

I’ll weave these bits

Of myrtle leaves

And lavender

And fragrant thyme,

While the faint moon

With empty arms

Goes down the west.

Sleep, sleep, love, sleep,

And when the dew

Falls on your lids

I’ll gather you

Beneath me

And encompass you

Against the chill;

I’ll warm you

with my trembling breath

And hold your lips

Upon my mouth

And drink your love

Until they wake,

Until the songbirds wake.

© 14 December 2011

About the Author

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

Straight Friends Who Love Me by Ricky

Sadly, except for my siblings, my children, and my grandchild, I cannot think of any other straight people who love me. Not even my surviving aunts and uncles fall into that category. There is one straight person who tolerates me now. He once told me years ago that he loved me, but he has never said it again.

He was a school friend of my then 13-year old daughter. At one point my daughter told me he actually told his mother to divorce his dad and marry me. His dad is deaf, refuses to learn sign language, and is a drug addict. All his son wanted, was to have the same kind of relationship that my daughter had with me. The quirky thing about this is that my daughter asked me, if I married his mother, could my daughter marry him. I said no, unless they married before I married his mother. I find the mind of 13-year old’s to be very strange. It must be the raging hormones. I never figured out if it was their hormones or mine.

On the other hand, I have a few happy friends, who are very cheerful when around me, and probably even more joyful when not around me. Nevertheless, not to confuse anyone with these multiple designations, I will just call them my gay friends. To me they are as straight as my non-gay family members are, because to me, they do not appear to be bent or crooked.

It is rather depressing not to have straight friends, so I will end this story session with a happy little anecdote sent to me by a friend.

It was a dark and stormy night. Bob Hill and his new wife, Betty, were vacationing in Europe...as it happens, near Transylvania. They were driving in a rental car along a rather deserted highway. It was late and raining very hard. Bob could barely see the road in front of the car. Suddenly, the car skids out of control! Bob attempts to regain control of the car but to no avail! The car swerves and smashes into a tree.

Moments later, Bob shakes his head to clear the fog. Dazed, he looks over at the passenger seat and sees his wife unconscious, with her head bleeding! Despite the rain and unfamiliar countryside, Bob knows he has to get her medical assistance.

Bob carefully picks his wife up and begins trudging down the road. After a short while, he sees a light. He heads towards the light, which is coming from a large old house. He approaches the door and knocks. A minute passes. A small, hunched man opens the door. Bob immediately blurts, “Hello, my name is Bob Hill, and this is my wife Betty. We've been in a terrible accident, and my wife is seriously hurt. Can I please use your phone?”

“I'm sorry,” replied the hunchback, “but we don't have a phone. My master is a doctor; come in, and I will get him!” Bob brings his wife in.

An older man comes down the stairs. “I'm afraid my assistant may have misled you. I am not a medical doctor; I am a scientist. However, it is many miles to the nearest clinic, and I have had a basic medical training. I will see what I can do. Igor, bring them down to the laboratory.”

With that, Igor picks up Betty and carries her downstairs, with Bob following closely. Igor places Betty on a table in the lab. Bob collapses from exhaustion and his own injuries, so Igor places Bob on an adjoining table.

After a brief examination, Igor's master looks worried. “Things are serious, Igor. Prepare a transfusion.” Igor and his master work feverishly, but to no avail. Bob and Betty Hill are no more.

The Hill's deaths upset Igor's master greatly. Wearily, he climbs the steps to his conservatory, which houses his grand piano. For it is here that he has always found solace. He begins to play, and a stirring, almost haunting melody fills the house.

Meanwhile, Igor is still in the lab tidying up. His eyes catch movement, and he notices the fingers on Betty's hand twitch, keeping time to the haunting piano music. Stunned, he watches as Bob's arm begins to rise, marking the beat! He is further amazed as Betty and Bob both sit up straight!

Unable to contain himself, he dashes up the stairs to the conservatory. He bursts in and shouts to his master.

“Master! Master! The Hills are alive with the sound of music.”

© 28 October 2012

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.

Male Dancing -- Same Sex Dancing by Louis

CNN International presented a news report on developing new trends in ballet.

They asserted that there is a “masculine ballet.” The viewer gets a sample.

Another new genre is androgynous ballet. Viewer gets a sample. The sample ballet skits are performed by members of the Royal Ballet in Covent Gardens in London.

I agree with the wholesome experimental side of the Royal Ballet, but, in my opinion, ballet itself is basically feminine. The beloved spot-lighted ballerina is surrounded by masculine subordinate helpers. Ballet is fine for what it is.

However, I have seen other genres of artistic dancing in which the male anatomy, especially the muscular system, are sort of “analyzed” by a vigorous athletic dance routine accompanied by an intense loud rhythmic music. One of the few examples of “masculine dancing” I have seen in the past is the Russian sabre dance.

Many years ago I saw a dance presentation on a VHS tape put out by a gay male porn film company. The dance routines themselves were not porno-graphic although they were certainly erotic. There were two dance routines, both performed by a solo male dancer. One wore a G-string. He strutted and stretched and stomped and showed off his muscles. For me it suggested a completely new genre of artistic dancing. The accompanying music was pounding and pulsating.

The other dancer wore nothing but cowboy chaps and a Stetson hat. Both dancers were quite erotic but tasteful enough that they could have been presented to the general adult public as artistic dancing.

The CNN report on expanding the boundaries of the ballet also reminded me that until recently almost all kinds of art presented to the public are based on an exclusively heterosexual model. Boy falls in love with girl, girl plays hard to get, boy proves himself worthy perhaps by becoming a military hero. Boy wins girl. There is perhaps an epilogue, boy becomes a man, marries woman, they have children (make babies) and live happily ever after. This is how it is in literature (novels, poetry, short stories), in painting, sculpture, decorative arts, music, cinema. There is nothing else.

Of course, we know this leaves out tens of millions of people. This general presentation of art to the public from the powers that be was a dishonest, skewed presentation of what it means to be human. Fake-art.

The androgynous ballet routine as presented by the CNN report is a giant step forward. It acknowledges there are millions of androgynous people in the world, the intersexes. Effeminate men (and yet to be considered masculine women).

The scenario that would appeal to me is a hairy macho man, falls in love with another hairy macho man, and, after a proper courting ritual, they become a couple and live happily ever after. They are successful personally. If somehow they wind up taking care of a bunch of kids, that would be another big plus. Up to now we have been virtually invisible, non-existent.

There should be an honest artistic expression acknowledging us, who we are, what we are and what we really feel.

© 8 March 2014

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.