SPECIAL EDITION: PRIDEFEST

Today's Special Edition presents stories from two authors.

How Queer Is Queer: Just Being Me

by Donny Kaye

"SOME DUDES MARRY DUDES.  GET OVER IT"

“I HAVE A PHD. Pretty huge dick”

“BEST LICK ON A STICK”

“I LIKE GIRLS THAT LIKE GIRLS”

     These were some of the t-shirt messages I enjoyed while interacting with participants in this past weekend’s PRIDE celebration.  And the t-shirts?  The t-shirts don’t hold a candle to some of the titillating visual experiences of viewing participants in various costumes throughout the weekend.

     So, just how queer is queer? Can you ever be too queer? Is there an option to be or not to be? How Shakespearian!

     Yes!

     I am! Queer that is!

     It's Friday night of PRIDE weekend and I'm walking down Colfax headed into the action, as it were. My youngest daughter has just text me saying "it's your first dad” referring to it being PRIDE weekend. Actually last year [2011] was, she just didn't know it!  Then, that is. And yet when I came out she was the one of my three children who said "I've always known dad". In that instance I must've been too queer.

     That warm sunny Sunday afternoon in April over a year ago when I had my "I can't stand it any longer" conversation with my life partner, she said "I wondered when I first met you".  There must have been something there, I mean, like over-the-top in too queer.

     When I had breakfast with my dearest friend Grett who I've known since she was two years of age, amidst the tears and in the sense of shame in revealing to her that I kept the secret for far too long, she said "I've always known". 

     There seems to be a pattern; partner, daughter, best friend, all seemed to have known. In fact when I consider the many coming out conversations I had with my "then" circle of friends" not too many were surprised. It was the confirmation that sent them scrambling! 

I don't know if that was about me, or them, but definitely it was too much!

     And so this Friday afternoon as I walk through the cloudy streets in Denver headed into Friday night PRIDE celebrations I wonder about too queer and it being too much! In the question of too queer it seems more about them than it does about me, after all, I'm just being me.

     Yes, I do have an eye for design and color. I've always searched for just the right things to put together, like in clothing-wise and decorating-wise and in every-other-way-wise!

     If not HGTV and the shows on design always (or most of the time) presented by recognizably gay men, I enjoyed the food channel. Could that possibly be a tip-off, in terms of being too gay?

     Yes, I've always been on the sensitive side as my mother used to say. Even when I announced to my mom that I was getting married her response was, “Why do you want to get married? There is so much of life for you to experience!” I have an ability to listen to people and to intervene on others behalf as they need me. I sit and cry with them. I've always been able to put my arms around someone consoling them in their upset, doubt or grief.

     So, there you have it; my attention to design, my interest in food, the emotional sensitivities and then you add the fact that I've never liked sports, and I happened to choose a profession where I worked with women all the time--what else could you expect. Even before I began my career in education when I worked in the factory, I was one of the only stockmen who could keep all of my dyke female machine operators happy!! 

     Certifiably queer! I am just me! 

     The questions and the discomfort around my possibly being too queer really do rest with everyone outside of me and not really with me.  As I exist in that realization, I wonder if the pushback is about their doubt about themselves and the possibility that they are too much, in one way or another. Possibly at some point in their lives they’ve considered a variant sexual experience too! One thing for sure, I've certainly gotten their attention, if gaining attention is what the t-shirt slogans and the unique dress (or undress) are all about.

     When considering the question of "too much," the actual realization is that the quality of being too much exists in the eyes and mind of someone outside of myself and then gets projected back onto me, making me wonder if I am too much!  Those dirty rascals!

     And so I ask you my dearest of friends am I "too queer" or might I just be BEING ME?

[The above story references PrideFest 2012.)

About the Author

Donny Kaye-Is a native born Denverite. He has lived his life posing as a hetero-sexual male, while always knowing that his sexual orientation was that of a gay male. In recent years he has confronted the pressures of society that forced him into deep denial regarding his sexuality and an experience of living somewhat of a disintegrated life. “I never forgot for a minute that I was what my childhood friends mocked, what I thought my parents would reject and what my loving God supposedly condemned to limitless suffering.” StoryTime at The Center has been essential to assisting him with not only telling the stories of his childhood, adolescence and adulthood but also to merely recall the stories of his past that were covered with lies and repressed in to the deepest corners of his memory. Within the past two years he has “come out” not only to himself but to his wife of four decades, his three children, their partners and countless extended family and friends. Donny is divorced and yet remains closely connected with his family. He lives in the Capitol Hill Community of Denver, in integrity with himself and in a way that has resulted in an experience of more fully realizing integration within his life experiences. He participates in many functions of the GLBTQ community. 

Queer, Just How Queer
by Phillip Hoyle

      I love to use the word queer, the term brought into gay prominence in political and academic queering movements of the 1960s through the 90s. I also like it for the memories it raises of my grandma Pink, who in old fashion used the word for anything odd. I like it for its political symbolism and for making positive a word too long used as a pejorative. I like it for its strength. I like it for its inclusive quality covering the bases of LGBTandQ concerns. I like it for its exclusive quality, as in not too many people I run into want to be called by this moniker. I especially like the discomfort its use raises among some of my gay friends! It’s a word of wide potential and great humor. So just how queer am I? It’s a fair question. I’ll try to answer it once and for all.

     This morning I looked through the photographs on my digital camera that included those I took last summer at Pridefest Denver 2012. I was surprised to find there quite a few more images, ones I thought had been erased when I uploaded them into my computer. I flipped through frame after frame and saw so much of my life there, even photos from Pridefest Denver 2011. First I saw a photo of my partner’s 90-year-old mother, sitting at the kitchen table drinking her morning coffee. I often kid her about all her gay sons although only one of her offspring turned out to be gay. Her multiplicity of gay sons is made up of all of Jim’s and my gay friends. I call them her growing family of gay kids. She smiles for me and takes delight in these others who bring her presents of chocolate, humor, and unaffected affection. She represents in this picture a nine-year connection I have with her son and the growing numbers of her other gay sons. The photo reveals layer after layer of queer experience and relationship, but it’s just the beginning. I did mention two sets of photos taken at Pridefest, but I haven’t yet told of the hundreds of photos of the family of plastic pink flamingos that live in our yard shown standing alone and together among a variety of ferns. I took these and many more in the past couple of years, the queer obsession of a queer artist! I also haven’t mentioned many photos of flowers, of my artwork, of self-portraits, of extreme Christmas decorations at a local gay bar, of the bunch of men I run with at parties, in restaurants, and on the street. I haven’t told you of pictures of an art display, of drag queens, of small, large, and supersized lesbians, of gay architects and engineers, of employees of Chipotle restaurants, of young people polling for the Obama campaign, of great arches of rainbow colored balloons, of a guy wearing fairy wings, of a barely-clad muscle man standing by a muscle car, of the model in a platinum blond wig and red bikini sitting in a red convertible advertising At the Beach, of a parade on-looker smoking a huge stogie, of people dancing, of a young drag queen posing sexily for me, of a young man in shorts sitting on the curb with his little dog watching the parade, of political signs urging the election of sane officials, of leather studs, of a drum and bagpipe band in their smart kilts, of religiously motivated anti-gay protesters, of two young guys in interestingly revealing slacks, of Senior Citizens doing a dance routine with their walkers, of youngsters calling attention to Rainbow Alley, of the prominent landmark The Center makes along the route, of the partiers on its roof sometimes watching the parade passing by below, of the poignant reminder of the ongoing presence of AIDS among us, of wild hairdos, of the Imperial Court, or of the leathery Uncle Sam who stopped to ask me, “Where’s the free beer?” I haven’t said a word of many other pictures of musicians, dancers, activists, on and on. These photos are my people whom I celebrate with my little digital camera as passionately as Walt Whitman in the nineteenth century celebrated the democracy of America, the endless variety of life, the human body, his own body, and his sturdy comrades with whom he liked to lie in Leaves of Grass. 

     So just how queer am I? Really, really queer. I’ve been trying to tell you just how queer in my stories! In summary of all I’ve said to you in the past, hear this: 

* I’m as queer as the little boy who wanted to wear both cowboy and Indian costumes in public.

* I’m as queer as the boy who donned his great aunt’s wig and sister’s skirt and went to the family grocery store to show himself to his dad.

* I’m as queer as the teen who used to lie in bed next to his dad, not only to read alongside him but also to smell him.

* I’m as queer as the teen who bragged to another boy about marking his friend with hickies.

* I’m as queer as any teen boy singing in the school choir and more than most of them.

* I’m as queer as the high schooler who looked forward to each issue of House Beautiful.

* I’m as queer as the boy who ordered prints from a NYC art print company and treasured the company’s catalogue with its variety of homoerotic images.

* I’m as queer as the young man who discovered the striking 

International Male ads and catalogue.

* I’m as queer as the young man whose first male friend in adulthood was homosexual.

* I’m as queer as the young man who read all the homosexual-theme books in the public library.

* I’m as queer as the young man with wife and children who at age thirty fell in love with another man.

* I’m as queer as the young man who reveled in the idea he was bisexual.

* I’m as queer as the young man who discovered that his homosexual proclivities lay at the center of his sexuality.

* I’m as queer as the middle-age man who had sexual affairs with other men.

* I’m as queer as the writer who when he was asked to include cultural diversity in an adult religious education resource anthology quoted gay writers and HIV-related themes alongside many other cultural writings.

* I’m as queer as the middle-age man who left his wife to live as a gay man in a large city.

* I’m as queer as the old man who snapped photos at Pridfest knowing he was as queer as anyone there and loved the notion and the reality of it.

     I am the old man who says all these things proudly and with love, deep love for all my companions:

* Male and female

* Educated and uneducated

* Professional and worker

* Wealthy and dirt-poor

* Crazy and sane

* Chic and tasteless

* Laughing and crying

* Hale and exhausted

* Living it up and overwhelmed

     

     So, how queer am I? Pretty darn queer and happy as a lark about it.

     And now, if you’ll pose, I’ll take even more pictures with my camera, snapshots of the folk who add so richly to the queerness of my existence and the joy of my gay life. 

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, giving massages, and socializing. His massage practice funds his other activities that keep him busy with groups of writers and artists, and folk with pains. Following thirty-two years in church work, he now focuses on creating beauty and ministering to the clients in his practice. He volunteers at The Center leading “Telling Your Story.”

Proud to Be by Phillip Hoyle

My Gay PrideFest begins when Jim and I meet two friends at their Congress Park house. The four of us make our way through Capitol Hill, walking down Thirteenth Avenue with a side trip into Cheeseman Park where the parade is lining up. The air is cool, the sun warm, our feelings high. At the park, queer life pulses with enthusiasm as gay men, lesbians, cross-dressers, transsexuals, children of gay couples, elderly, young, Whites, Blacks, Hispanics, Asians, and more make ready to ride motorcycles, scooters and roller blades, to wave at the crowd from floats and convertibles, or simply to walk carrying logos, banners, and signs explaining their commitments.

At a park-side mansion we attend our first party of the day. Our tie-dye-tee-shirt-clad hosts welcome us and encourage us to meet other revelers. We eat sweet rolls, bagels, and more continental fare washing down our choices with coffee or Bloody Marys. I make conversation with folk I haven’t seen for months and, in one instance, years, conversations that feature great intensity and loads of laughter. When we say goodbye about an hour later, our hosts encourage us to return for brunch after the parade.

We hurry to Sixteenth Avenue to find the address where the second party we hope to attend is in progress. Our companion who most wants to attend this bash also most dreads it saying he’s afraid we might walk in on an orgy or a drug fest. I suggest that if it is either, he doesn’t have to have sex with anyone or take drugs, even if they are free. Laughing, we find the restored townhouse, enter, and greet our host who is genuinely happy we have stopped by. Our friend’s fears are unfounded. Still, a couple of people there are seriously drunk. One greets me a second time with open arms, not realizing he has already done so. It’s fine with me; I like his hugs.

We haven’t been there long when someone shouts, “The parade is underway.” Moving down the alley, I am pleased to discover we have missed the Dykes on Bikes, my relief not due to prejudice but, rather, because of the racket! We cross Colfax to get to the shady side of the Avenue just as PFLAG (Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays), this year’s honorary parade marshals, are coming down the street. As always, I appreciate their friendly smiles and good cheer. Chapters from around the Denver area wave signs that read, for example, “I’m the proud mom of a proud gay man” as they graciously receive the crowd’s enthusiastic affirmations of their important work on behalf of the community.

We join a fifth companion near Charlie’s of Denver, a long established gay club that serves as the parade’s official center with bleachers and an announcer introducing each group as it approaches. I turn my attention to the parade watchers, snapping photos of interesting hairdos, outfits, facial expressions, and of course, my companions. But I itch to join some other people I know at another location and eventually excuse myself. My friends agree to catch up with me later.

Taking pictures left and right I move west along the sidewalk dodging people coming east, dogs on leashes, and dense knots of parade onlookers. I click my digital record of a Black angel whose right wing looks like it may have broken when he fell to earth. I see a bear of a man on a motorized cart, my attention drawn by his garb, a profuse white tutu that strikingly contrasts with his worn out black leather shoes. He sits there topless except for a black leather dog collar and leash, black sunglasses, and a black and white Holstein bull motorcycle helmet sporting real cattle horns. I stop to take several shots of this man who is thoroughly enjoying the parade, shouting his delight as floats, cars, and marchers pass down the street. He cheers loudly for some dancers spinning by as if he remembers the days when he, too, could shake his booty at The Broadway, The Triangle, or Denver Wrangler.

When I look up from my snapping mania, I see my destination looming over the street ahead: the high towers, nave, and transepts of the Roman Catholic Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception. I take pictures as I approach the proud building with its high arches, elaborate spires, stained glass windows, triple entry, and prominent location near the Capitol building. Watching the parade from my vantage point just across the street clarifies for me values so important for gays and for all Americans. I watch the interaction of the crowd of onlookers along the street, gay marchers in the parade, protesters against gays, protesters against the Catholic Church, protesters calling gays to repentance, and the police who are alert to the possible need for crowd control in the dynamic environment. I greet the folks I hoped to meet there. They seem to be enjoying the parade. I snap their pictures and watch the drama.

I feel like I’m attending a medieval European Feast of Fools as the parade passes in front of the Gothic façade of the Cathedral. The juxtaposition of worshippers inside and revelers outside sets the scene. Folk inside searching for salvation, showing contrition, and carrying out pious acts seem such a contrast to folk outside enjoying the expression of liberation and impiously displaying pride. But the situation is much more complicated than that. I know that in the Cathedral gay worshippers gather alongside straight worshippers at every mass. I know that not all worshipers are pious or contrite and that not all gays are proud show-offs. I recall that religious leaders of Jesus’ time found him intolerable, given that in their opinions he was drinking too much and eating with the wrong sorts of people. I know that today the most intolerant and puritanical of church leaders often praise the ministries of gays in their choir lofts. The spirits of Church and Pridefest do contrast but not in a simple right and wrong sense. Both reveal great diversity; both reveal tolerance and intolerance. Well, of course, for both spirits are expressed by groups of people. We should expect friction when they rub shoulders on Gay Pride Sunday.

And here at the Cathedral corner come gays parading their diversity: a dozen or so royal families of drag queens and kings; the bars that have been oases for gays and lesbians for many years; the largely Gay churches such as the pentecostal Pillar of Fire and the almost mainline Metropolitan Community Church; several gay-affirming Unitarian, Lutheran, and United Church of Christ congregations; the domestic beer companies; a huge group of young people encouraging the parade watchers to get tested for HIV; the leather men; the dog owners; the bicycle riders; the club bunnies; the leathery skinned, sunburned old man in his thong and sandals; the politicos who affirm gay rights and seek the gay vote; a group of students from Denver Metro area’s Vantage Point alternative high school; the Stonewall Democrats whose presence reminds us that Gay Pride events across the country this year commemorate the fortieth anniversary of the Stonewall riot that gave such willpower to the gay liberation movement; the Transsexual community; the Gay Band; the Gay Choruses; the Gay square dancers; the Gay football league; the Gay swim team; the Gay Indians; and of course, Nuclea Waste, the drag queen on her high stilts, this year complementing her usual ensemble with a multi-color backpack of long balloons in neon colors exploding from her shoulders like a star burst. She is accompanied by several cute gay guys in tennis shoes and Speedos, each one also sporting a similar, but monochromatic, neon backpack—blue, green, yellow, orange, red, and purple—a cavorting rainbow of the brightest colors in the parade. But that colorful claim is challenged soon by a huge rainbow arch of balloons, a monstrously large rainbow flag, a Carnival of colors displayed by the Hispanic court of drag queens with their headdresses of dyed ostrich plumes, their supreme ruler surrounded by hundreds of peacock feathers, and finally, near the end of the parade, a hot pink feather boa measuring at least a quarter of a mile in length carried aloft by a couple hundred young people dressed in matching light blue shirts. The parade’s prismatic array surely stands as the ultimate symbol of Gay Pride and human diversity.

And me: I am here snapping shot after shot of diversity, enjoyment, exuberance, serious intent, history, love, and pride. And I do so proudly while myriad thoughts buzz through my consciousness.

Here, I think, power seeks to assert itself: secular power, religious power, democratic power, hierarchical power; powers moral and visionary. For years I heard the adage that politics and religion make strange bedfellows. Today I think the saying points to religious institutions vying for power within political structures. For example, maneuvering within the Republican Party resulted in a strange mix of secular and religious power brokers. Perhaps the coalition has now run its course, but one must understand as its background the establishment of religion in most of the Colonies and the history of assumptions of political power within the old Congregational churches—both Trinitarian and Unitarian. The eventual compromise necessary to unify colonies into a national government necessitated the separation of church and state but did not end the power of religious assumption. For Congregationalists, American democracy was an instrument of God, one that gave them community responsibility. Their mission was a pious and puritanical assertion of democratic power within their towns, states, and nation. We shouldn’t forget that the nineteenth century vision of Manifest Destiny had its origins in the preaching of biblical images. When religious conservatives in the late twentieth century began to assert political power with their values, religious liberals who had long done the same got worried, some even resentful. But what did they expect with the continuing success of several conservative denominations and the emergence of new evangelical independent churches? The neo-com religious powers’ interest to improve the country shouldn’t surprise anyone. Me? I’m liberal. I value the secular state, but I also realize the country has to guarantee both freedom of religious practice and freedom from religious tyranny.

The open sexuality of some dancers on a float going by reminds me of other strange bedfellows connected to American churches and to American political institutions. Sometimes such folk sleep over, and when the press reports it, American gays as well as American straights respond as if each affair is something original. We cluck-cluck and tsk-tsk shaking our heads at the impurity and hypocrisy while relishing and continuing the gossip. Like children taunting their siblings, American political leaders sometimes say “Shame on You” to American Presidents, Senators, Representatives, Judges, and Governors while the accusers are guilty of the same misdeeds. I hope that American attitudes will someday catch up with changes in American activities.

So here I am watching the parade—another dramatization of American life that for all its color is no more and no less sinful or righteous than any other public demonstration for civil rights based on truths self-evident. Its educational and celebrative purposes are noted, sometimes appreciated, and of course, derive their power by contrasting democratic principle with hierarchical assumption. Thus I love my corner view at Logan and Colfax where edificial security watches a free flow of traffic, of contrasting protests, of subcultural celebration, and of so much more that daily passes by its doorway.

The march goes on. One float invites onlookers to join them at the Civic Center PrideFest where they can get married! I don’t know what the legal outcome of their actions will be, but I do know what it symbolizes—the striving for civil rights. I applaud something I don’t seek for myself but do believe should be available in this American democracy even if the Roman Catholic Church, and many others, will never allow such ceremonies to be held within their hallowed walls.

I applaud. “Yes, America, march.” I want to shout, “March on, you Revelers for freedom.” I feel so Walt Whitman-ish but finally calm down when the parade ends. My four other companions join us here across the Avenue from the church. We enjoy more talk and good times. Then the five of us leave and return to the first party to have our fill of food and drink, and the good feelings of friendship, love, and pride—all in gay style. I tire of my picture taking and when I get home realize why. I have taken nearly 250 photos of my people, of my celebration, of my life.

Denver, 2009

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, giving massages, and socializing. His massage practice funds his other activities that keep him busy with groups of writers and artists, and folk with pains. Following thirty-two years in church work, he now focuses on creating beauty and ministering to the clients in his practice. He volunteers at The Center leading “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

What's My Sign by Michael King

When people ask me about my sign I tell them that I don’t have one.

I’ve thought about stop signs, turn right signs or do not enter, but most people think in terms of astrology which I think is a bunch of superstitious crap where people don’t take responsibility for their lives and the decisions they make.

I do have a sign. It’s in my daughter’s garage so I guess it’s really hers. At one point in my life I was in business. I leased a space in a mall and opened a gift and flower shop. At the entrance which was the width of the shop into the mall I put tree trunks with branches that were from the floor to the ceiling of the area where the shop was located. From the top of my shop to the ceiling of the mall interior was about ten feet. I painted a sign that fitted nicely in that space. “The Enchanted Forest” under which was “Gifts and flowers”. The tree trunks were elm given to me by my friend’s mother. I painted them blue. Some months later they started leafing out.

I was very successful for about a year. Many of my customers drove many miles to get unusual greeting cards, gifts that weren’t available in other stores or special floral arrangements that were personalized for the recipient. One of my best customers was The Denver Dry Department Store, which was the finest department store in Colorado. It was hard work but also very satisfying.

I had been open a little less than a year when The May Company,  parent corporation of May D & F, another department store bought The Denver Dry. They closed all The Denver Dry stores and forced the malls where they were located to go out of business. They wanted everyone to shop in the newly expanded Cherry Creek Shopping Center. Of course there were law suits and in most cases The May Company lost, however in the mall where I was located  there were over 30 small one owner shops that were forced out of business without the capital to fight the giant corporation. I was wiped out along with the thirty some neighbors and friends that had made that mall one of the most interesting and diverse in the Denver area.

It took some years to get back on my feet financially, and in a way, I never did quite recover, but slowly I moved on and had numerous other valuable experiences. In retrospect I learned a great deal in that year and the one that followed when I did everything I could or knew to do so as to not leave loose ends.

I’ve had many difficult years in my life and realize that much was due to the risks I have taken to achieve a goal or to try to honorably face difficulties. It is a result of those successes and failures, challenges and dreams, insights and growth that I feel so blessed.

I don’t remember what arrangement I made with my daughter, but the sign ended up in her garage and when she moved from the townhouse into the big house where they still live, the sign moved there also. It has become a reminder of the time when I was like the man from La Mancha and followed my dream.

Perhaps the success was that I achieved putting together that dream. Would it have succeeded if The Denver hadn’t been sold? I would like to think so, but maybe not. I’m glad that I had those experiences and feel a sense of pride when I visit my daughter, peek into the garage and see my sign. 

© 20 May 2013

About the Author

I go by the drag name, Queen Anne Tique. My real name is Michael King. I am a gay activist who finally came out of the closet at age 70. I live with my lover, Merlyn, in downtown Denver, Colorado. I was married twice, have 3 daughters, 5 grandchildren and a great grandson. Besides volunteering at the GLBT Center and doing the SAGE activities," Telling your Story"," Men's Coffee" and the "Open Art Studio". I am active in Prime Timers and Front Rangers. I now get to do many of the activities that I had hoped to do when I retired; traveling, writing, painting, doing sculpture, cooking and drag.

Multi-racial by Merlyn

Some of the most attractive people I have known are Multi-racial, but that doesn’t guarantee they will have good looking kids. 

I used to know a white girl that married a guy from somewhere in Asia. They had two girls. Even though they both looked like their parents, one of them was gorgeous and the other one was very unattractive.

One of the kids I went to school with had an Indian father who was always drunk and a white mother and a bunch of brothers and sisters.

I used to deliver the Detroit Times newspaper to his house in the afternoon when I was a kid and we were in the same grade.

The thing I remember the most about him was that his father raised guinea pigs in a spotless new white garage at the end their driveway. The walls were lined with shiny cages full of guinea pigs; it was always spotless. I never noticed any odor when I was around the garage. His father would be sitting in a chair drinking beer bossing his kids around as they keep everything clean waiting for when I got there with the paper.

On Saturday I would have to go to the front door to collect the money for the paper. They lived in a dirty little house that was falling apart. I would have to breathe though my month the stench was so bad while waiting for her to count out the sixty cents in change for the week’s paper. 

He grew up in one of the worst home environments I can imagine, but he just seemed to have something inside of him that helped him turn into one of the most popular kids in school. The last time I saw him he was married had kids and lived in a nice new house. He still had that sparkle in his eyes.

I don’t think it matters that much what race or races a person is. Some people will rise above any obstacle and other people will have every break handed to them and will blow every opportunity and be miserable all of their lives.

I try not pay attention to what race people are, if I like them I tend to just see them as someone I like and forget their race or multiracial background. 

© 14 April 2013 

About the Author

I'm a retired gay man now living in Denver Colorado with my partner Michael. I grew up in the Detroit area. Through the various kinds of work I have done I have seen most of the United States. I have been involved in technical and mechanical areas my whole life, all kinds of motors and computer systems. I like travel, searching for the unusual and enjoying life each day.

Remembering J W by Louis

When I was in my early 20’s, I was 25 pounds lighter, and I had hair on the top of my head. I was good-looking in an ordinary sort of way. I met a 22 year old man let us call him JW. JW found me appealing, for a while. JW was a model for a sports magazine. He was beyond beautiful. His feet, his toes, his hands, his ears, the shoulders, even his elbows were exquisite. He used to curl his eyelashes. In other words, though I had hot torrid sex with JW, I did not really enjoy it because, when I visited him, blood would rush to my face and I would be completely overwhelmed. He was a natural phenomenon. He was too hot to handle. He was not my peer.

After two months, he told me he was going to marry a young woman from Connecticut, become a computer technician for IBM. He did disappear.

About 18 years later, I was working as a caseworker for the New York City Human Resources Administration. My job was to interview clients with possible mental problems, especially those who were not paying their rent or other bills, to determine if an (expensive) psychiatrist should visit and evaluate him or her. After having interviewed the client/patient, if the psychiatrist recommended that the client was mentally unable to handle his or her money, HRA would go to court and have the client’s benefit checks transferred to HRA that would then pay the client’s bills, as legally authorized.

By way of coincidence, I was assigned a client, JW. I actually interviewed the red hot lover of my youth, now a plump but still good-looking middle-aged man. Of course, the Greek god was gone. For a few seconds, I said to myself, wow, now he is my peer, maybe we could pick up where we left off.

As caseworker, I had a list of about 20 questions I would pose to the client. When I did so with JW, I realized that he could not remember what he had said 5 minutes previously. His medical history indicated he suffered from severe short-term memory loss due to alcohol abuse (vodka). I gave up the idea of asking about his past life in Connecticut, etc. I do not know for a fact, but I presume that eventually a psychiatrist evaluated him as mentally incompetent and that NYC HRA is paying his bills. 

© 20 May 2013

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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.

Choiring and Singing; God Help Us All by Jon Krey

Yes, I remember this subject from childhood.  As I recall the songs they would sing usually had nothing whatsoever to do with my need to hurry up and head home to the locked bathroom so I could play with my…uh…”Tinker Toys.”  I was far better off “practicing” there anyway rather than with the choir with all their screeching and hollering.  But too often sitting in the congregation with Mom she would occasionally find me dealing with a very prominent stiff condition over which I had virtually no control.  She’d grit her teeth, slap me silly right there in front of other fine Christians and make me sit down.  Her slap never helped anyway though it did occasionally make the situation more rigid!  What was she to expect, I was only 13 ½; a wet-with-sweat, tender and questioning youth. In the choir there was one magnificent specimen, a muscular tall blond football player from Junior High who sang a prominent tenor in the choir and who, once in a while, looked in my direction…at me! Maybe that was the basic cause of all my turgid grief.  Otherwise, all the rest of that “music” coupled with the Hammond Organ’s bass speaker right in front had a really bad effect on my auditory nerves.

Later as an adult my ears were set to overload by disco music since I usually stood in front of the bass speakers at dance bars trying my very best to look like wallpaper.  I also lost some hearing due to the fat kid next door's Harley Davidson motorcycle with its “glorious” cacophony of thunder which he referred to as “music to his ears.”  It wasn’t helped either when I was attempting to qualify on the firing range without ear protection in ROTC.  The range officer didn’t particularly like me since he probably knew my target wasn’t in front of me but usually right beside me with his own large 45.  Ooooh!  Consequently neither checked to see if I was…well…ready.  I was but not for that paper target in front.

As a result of all this, later in life, I probably couldn’t have “heard” the difference between someone praising my magnificent high belted jeans from Montgomery Wards and someone about to knock my “faggot block off.”

I suppose lesser hearing may benefit me today in that I don’t have to hear most of the harangue going on around me in “necessary” meetings, lectures, sirens in traffic??, introductions to people I didn’t want to meet and/or  people singing off key during a choir practice.  So today, I find it much more practical to just read lips and look at facial expressions.  It also helps me avoid something others tend to refer to clandestinely as their “state wide prized choir.”  Besides, I can’t sing anyway and am too busy listening to the ringing in my ears.

About the Author

"I'm just a guy from Tulsa (God forbid). So overlook my shortcomings, they're an illusion."

Baths by Gillian

There’s a city in England called Bath, and it has baths.
Does it ever!
It’s had them since the Romans settled there around the time of Christ, though there was a Celtic shrine there dating from about 800 B.C. 
By the 2nd century A.D. the baths were enclosed in a wooden building and included a caldarium bath, a tepidarium, and a frigidarium – no translations required, I think!

After the Romans left Britain in the 5th century the baths fell into disrepair but were later revived in several stages and the original hot spring is now housed in an 18th century building which contains the baths themselves and the Grand Pump Room where one could, and can, drink the waters.

Anyone who has ever read any Jane Austen has heard of Bath, and those watching the movies of her books have seen it on screen, as Austen’s heroine’s are inevitably off to Bath to “take the waters.”
In the early 1960’s you could still bathe and/or drink the waters flowing through the original Roman lead pipes, though for health reasons the waters have now been rerouted since the 1970’s. Just one more reason my brain is addled, I guess, as I was there lounging in the steaming water in 1963.

I was at a loose end, having recently graduated from the University of Sheffield with a degree in Geography – and what is God’s name was I supposed to do with that? In a shattered still-post-war Britain jobs were hard to come by and anything remotely to do with geography - cartography, geology, exploration in general - was male-dominated. I had a temporary job in Bristol, a city close to Bath, transferring eons of data onto Hollerith punch card – do not bend, fold, staple or mutilate - somewhat ironic as I spent most of my later life working for IBM where in the later 1960’s everything was taken off punch cards and put onto magnetic tape!

I met Lucie at a lecture. I have no memory of that talk, not even of the subject, nor how I got to talk to Lucie, but it was one of those immediate bonding moments. I might rather have thought of it as simply lust, or at best infatuation, on my part that is, but I had not come anywhere close to acknowledging such feelings for women in myself back then. We became friends, hiking at weekends, “doing lunch,” going off for picnics in her rattletrap old Austin 7 – something of an equivalent in Britain to the Model T in this country.
I was deliriously happy.

Lucie was extremely attractive and sexy. I’m sure I was not the only woman whose body parts twitched simply at the thought of her, and an endless line of men constantly offered to lay their lives at her feet. She went from one torrid affair to another, or sometimes indulged in them simultaneously, but every man fell short in one way or another.

So one day Lucie and I rattled off to Bath, not to take the waters - we had packed bottles of cheap chianti - but at least to lounge in them. For this purpose Lucie wore a very sexy very skimpy bikini that drove my heart rate up to what I’m sure was a dangerous level, especially while coming slowly to a boil in the “caldarium!”
She talked of her latest inamoratas, mainly grieving for one who had recently left to do a post-grad year at Rice in Houston. I had noticed with before that Lucie’s men were frequently viewed more favorably in absentia.

After a few minutes’ silence, bobbing about it the hot water, I was practically asleep despite my elevated blood pressure. Suddenly I heard Lucie’s voice, as if in a dream.
“Let’s go to America.”
I started and gulped and did in fact take the waters, if unintentionally.
‘Yeah. OK.”
And that was that.

Just as well for me that she wasn’t hankering after some guy in Baghdad or Darfur. My answer would probably have been the same.
Doesn’t it seem that the pivotal moment that changes the course of your life forever should be marked with something more dramatic, more insightful, than,
“Yeah. OK.”

©  10/22/2012

About the Author

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

Culture Shock by Donny Kaye

For all those years that I existed in the closet I had an impression of what homosexual culture was.  My narrow perspective was formed by the very same institutions and people that had created in me the sense that who I was and the sexual energy that stirred in me was wrong, something to be changed,  Something that even warranted a death sentence.

I was confident that I would be regarded as dark and sinful and lacking in moral integrity. I learned from the culture in which I existed there had to be a sense of moral depravity on the part of those who engaged in homosexual behavior.   

The culture taught that homosexuals were degenerates and even a threat to the sanctity of American family values.  Certain politicians had identified for the American public that homosexuals, especially those who asked for their rights to marry were no different than terrorists.

Homosexual acts and those who committed them had always been described in less than flattering terms. After all, gay men were the equivalent of dog fuckers! Jokes abounded about the likes of homosexuals.  Homosexuals were seen as a threat to all things decent and good.  Sodomites. Psychiatric nut cases.  Child molesters. In the minds of some, homosexuals were regarded as "The Revolution".

As a man of a certain sexual persuasion, I existed in the closet with greater intensity, extremely fearful of the culture that I would enter if I were ever courageous enough to step through the door that I had locked and sealed so many years ago.  Even though I knew who I was, or at least of the sexual energy that stirred in me, I felt the guilt and the shame from the cultural understandings of homosexuality by association. 

The shock of the homosexual culture as described by the predominant culture was so intense, disgusting and terrifying that the thought I could ever cross the threshold of the doorway, kept me from the very essence of who I am. To enter such a culture seemed an impossibility. 

At this time in my life the true shock for me that is experienced is in the disgust I hold for those who perpetuate the lies, judgments and condemnation of this culture, my culture. 

What I found, once I found agreement within me to cross the closet threshold and enter the culture that I had feared for so long; my judgments, my concerns and my fears were immediately disproven.

I read a quote of Dan Savage’s which begins to address the experiences I am having as I coexist in this family I am coming to know as my family of choice.  “…what goes down under my roof is a social conservative’s wet dream.” 

Within the container of my family of choice I am in the experience of profound compassion, the expression of deep caring and consideration, and a refreshing occurrence of people existing with one another in truth. Yes, there are exceptions but isn’t that true generally?  There seems to be an increased level consciousness that I experience as I interact with my newest family members.  I am realizing that for the most part they act with integrity, openness and a deep sense of personal responsibility.  They exist with dreams and a propensity toward creating peace and living consciously. 

My Friday night experiences on the dance floor at Charlie’s attest to the capacity of diverse people to coexist with one another in a spirit of celebration and lightness.  Men dance with men, women with women in some instances.  And at the same time there are hetero couples moving about the floor, alongside men following the lead of their female partners.  Some of the individuals on the floor are dressed in drag, either feminine or masculine.  Manly men, gorgeous women, dykes, butch, fem, it doesn’t seem to matter.  Old coexist with young.  Black with white, all the demographics I was taught to fear move in unison to the music, most significantly with engaging smiles, occasional winks and always  a parting hug as the music stops and couples move from the dance floor back into the whole of human kind. 

This is my culture.  It reflects consciousness and allowance for each to be precisely themselves.  It is sensible, and reflects hope and desire to live peacefully with the rights of individuals, assured and respected. It is a culture that reflects true family values. 

About the Author 

Donny Kaye-Is a native born Denverite. He has lived his life posing as a hetero-sexual male, while always knowing that his sexual orientation was that of a gay male. In recent years he has confronted the pressures of society that forced him into deep denial regarding his sexuality and an experience of living somewhat of a disintegrated life. “I never forgot for a minute that I was what my childhood friends mocked, what I thought my parents would reject and what my loving God supposedly condemned to limitless suffering.” StoryTime at The Center has been essential to assisting him with not only telling the stories of his childhood, adolescence and adulthood but also to merely recall the stories of his past that were covered with lies and repressed in to the deepest corners of his memory. Within the past two years he has “come out” not only to himself but to his wife of four decades, his three children, their partners and countless extended family and friends. Donny is divorced and yet remains closely connected with his family. He lives in the Capitol Hill Community of Denver, in integrity with himself and in a way that has resulted in an experience of more fully realizing integration within his life experiences. He participates in many functions of the GLBTQ community.

    

Weather by Colin Dale

Just before leaving home, for the fun of it, I checked the temperature in Elsinore, Denmark. The castle in Elsinore, you recall, was Hamlet's stamping ground. Well, at 1 PM our time, or 9 PM Denmark time, the temperature in the courtyard of Hamlet's old castle was 9 degrees Celsius, or a comfortable 48 degrees Fahrenheit. That's about right for a Danish evening in June. Which makes me wonder if Hamlet ever had to put up with a string of super hot days like we're having here in Denver.

Yet it was Hamlet who said, " . . . there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so."

I grew up in the Land of Ouch! I grew up in the Land of Ouch! and it has made me the man I am today, for better or worse. My mother and father were perpetual sufferers. They lived afflicted by demons, imagined, or if not imagined, then at least fed and made fat by my parents everyday fears. Now, before I say another deprecating word about my parents, let me say that I'm now old enough to once again respect and love them. I'm old enough to have made it through those long middle years when it's common and, in fact, expected to loathe one's parents. I see them now as the long-suffering strivers they were.

But long-suffering is the operant phrase. Long-suffer they did, and cry Ouch! at the most unexpected of times and at the most inconsequential of bad moments. As a kid growing up around my mother and father, I grew conditioned to vaulting from my room at all hours at the sound of Ouch! Or Damn! Or This is killing me! What I'd find arriving at the ambush site, time after time, was my mother or my father looking helplessly at a dropped slice of toast, or a slightly larger-than-usual phone bill, or a tabloid story of a crime wave happening a hundred miles away. I continued my Pavlovian response to my parents' homicidal demons until my breakaway moment when, at 21, I allowed myself to be drawn, pretend-kicking, into the Army.

What, you have every right to ask, does all this have to do with weather? I'll admit there's some connecting called for here. To do that, I have to introduce what I call the Curmudgeon's Bill of Rights . . .

The Curmudgeon's Bill of Rights is a catalogue of entitlements earned when someone has lived at least three score years. You can tell if someone is invoking his Curmudgeon rights when he (or she) starts by saying, "When I was growing up, people didn't [fill in the blank]," or "You'll find out when you're my age that [fill in the blank]," or "People today have no respect for [fill in the blank]," or some other clue of curmudgeondom.

But so far, you're thinking, you've only told us about the weather in Denmark. True, but I'm getting close.

There's yet another right, available to curmudgeons but rarely invoked--Clause 11.4--and that is to debunk anything said under the Curmudgeon Bill of Rights. Or, for that matter, to debunk anything said by anybody, no matter his or her age--any Ouch! or Damn! or This is killing me! said under the First Amendment.

Confession time: I subscribed to Clause 11.4--the debunking the debunking clause--of the Curmudgeon Bill of Rights long before I was eligible--soon after I left home, in fact, eager to escape the Land of Perpetual Complaining I'd grown up in.

And now, the long-awaited convergence: weather, with everything else . . .

I am tired of hearing people complain about the weather. Now, I'm not talking about people who are genuinely suffering, ill, or living in really stuffy, airless houses. No, their misery is real. I'm talking about 90% of the people I meet every day, my friends and neighbors, who seem to take perverse pleasure in kvetching endlessly about the heat. When I hear from these people--"Oh, this heat is killing me," or "I've never been so miserable," or "When will this hot weather end?"--all I hear, from my childhood, is Ouch! or Damn! After all, none of my friends or neighbors--ages young to curmudgeon--is hammering up plywood sheets against a Katrina or praying Godspeed! for a fishing crew lost in a Perfect Storm. For my reasonably healthy friends and neighbors it is merely hot. Stinking hot, yes, I'll admit, it is stinking hot. But, for these reasonably healthy people, it's not lethally hot. Or toxically hot. Or death-dealingly hot. For my friends and neighbors who, for the most part, go from one air-conditioned bubble to another, only occasionally sampling the real world, these temps in the 90's and low 100's are hardly going to make the black camel kneel down. They'll survive this, my pampered friends and neighbors, to kvetch--a very few months from now--about the winter: "This cold is killing me!" or "I hate the ice!" or "Don't we have enough snow already?"

I began by saying that growing up in the Land of Ouch! made me the man I am today. My impatience with the hale & hearty and their relentless complaining about the hot weather is neither right nor wrong. It's just how it is. And who I am. It's me invoking Clause 11.4: my debunking the debunker's right.

Now, some of you are probably ready to hit me with That's easy for you to say! In my defense, I'll admit I feel this heat as much as any of you. I walk most everywhere. I drive with the air-conditioner off. I live in an un-air-conditioned house which, now that I'm retired, I'm in 24/7.

Okay, I'm done kvetching about spoiled kevetchers. I'll back off my molly-coddled friends and neighbor and let them get back to complaining about the weather and everything else that simply is.

I do, though, apologize to anyone here who might be ticked off by my rant against Ouch! What I would do, if I've ticked off anyone, is encourage you to say To hell! with what I've said--which is your right--if you're old enough--under the Curmudgeon's Bill of Rights: another rarely invoked clause (Clause 17.7): to say To hell! with even my self-righteous complaining, otherwise known as the debunking of the debunking of the debunking clause.

Remember Hamlet, the guy who said, " . . . there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so"?

Well, I'm realistic enough to think even Hamlet, after a few weeks of temps in the 90's and low 100's, in his starched ruff, brocade doublet, and wool pumpkin pants, would have said, "All the thinking in the world won't help, not when it's this freakin' hot!"

© 9 August 2012

About the Author

Colin Dale couldn't be happier to be involved again at the Center. Nearly three decades ago, Colin was both a volunteer and board member with the old Gay and Lesbian Community Center. Then and since he has been an actor and director in Colorado regional theatre. Old enough to report his many stage roles as "countless," Colin lists among his favorite Sir Bonington in The Doctor's Dilemma at Germinal Stage, George in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and Colonel Kincaid in The Oldest Living Graduate, both at RiverTree Theatre, Ralph Nickleby in The Life and Adventures of Nicholas Nickleby with Compass Theatre, and most recently, Grandfather in Ragtime at the Arvada Center. For the past 17 years, Colin worked as an actor and administrator with Boulder's Colorado Shakespeare Festival. Largely retired from acting, Colin has shifted his creative energies to writing--plays, travel, and memoir.

Life After Truth by Carlos

I have been outed!

My partner, Ron, and I solidified our relationship on May 1st, entering into a civil union within hours after Colorado enacted them. In preparation for the historical event, we had our tuxedos dry cleaned, purchased new wristwatches to signal a new dawning, and planned a private celebration. I found myself strangely calm, that is until hours before the ceremony when I couldn’t cinch my cummerbund or tie my shoelaces. Suddenly, I understood why some people metamorphose into terrors just before their big day. It was becoming real. After all, I was committing to one man for a continued lifetime of discoveries...in real time.

Upon been ushered into the Wellington Webb Building, I inexplicably unleashed all fears, all doubts, all anxieties, and I became child-like with anticipation. Dignitaries congratulated the couples; families and supporters whooped it up; even tired agents at the Clerk and Recorder’s Office maintained genuine smiles of inclusiveness, conveying this was our day to declare that we in the LGBT community were taking another step closer toward full-fledged citizenship. I realized this was a victory in spite of it not offering full marriage rights.

Being so dapper, and hopefully so cute, every reporter wanted to photograph and interview us. Though we have never been in the closet, admittedly neither have we worn our relationship on our sleeves. That morning, we kicked the closet door open and agreed to every photograph, every interview. Only one reporter was ingenuous, an interviewer who forgot to mention she represented a conservative religious publication. Initially, her questions were innocent enough, perhaps to lull us into complacency. However, my suspicions were aroused when she queried us about whether the legalization of civil unions could in time lead to marital contracts by blood relatives or parties of three or more, arguments that have been used by homophobic institutions to prevent our forming legal families. I caught a whiff of the dankness from the rock from which she had crawled. Upon learning of the organization she represented, I unleashed a diatribe of impunities, informing her in no uncertain terms that as a former believer, I had long ago rejected its patriarchal, sanctimonious, we-are-the-chosen-of-God attitudes. To her credit she stayed in place as I defined the difference between those of us who embrace our spirituality and those of her belief who cater to their religiosity. I informed her that my unconditionally-loving God, was present and, no doubt, was at that moment dancing an Irish jig to a Mexican marimba band while singing in key of his sons and daughters whom He loved and validated and in whom He was well-pleased. I felt victorious as she slithered away, although I doubt that anything within her doxology had changed. After all, oppressors never see themselves in need of transformation, never realizing that bigotry wrapped in prayer is still bigotry. It is for us, the former oppressed, to raise our voices and our fists and repudiate their canons. Only when they feel the ire and the tension of our convictions, do they relinquish their self-appointed power...and then only grudgingly.

When Ron and I were finally ushered into the magistrate’s arena, my stalwart, stoic bravado betrayed me as tears bubbled up in the corner of my eyes, and we solemnly repeated our vows and exchanged rings. It was finally real; it was now official. Reflecting over the last few days, I feel different. For some reason that I am only now beginning to understand, I feel so much closer to my beloved. Our union bonded us as though we were enveloped in a lotus of love.

The next morning I was awakened by the ringing of the phone. Groggily, I answered. Friends were calling to inform us that our pictures of the night before were posted on the internet. My initial reaction was one of nothing-good-can-come-from-this, much like Howard Brackett’s reaction when outed in the romantic comedy In and Out. Apparently, people we have influenced throughout the years were heralding our exodus from behind the closet door. We had been fully outed, no ifs, ands or buts. Therefore, we accepted the inevitable, recognizing that in spite of ourselves a new chapter was opening up in our lives. There was little to do except be grateful for an act of synchronicity. Anonymity was no longer an option. Thus, we accepted our outing with courage, knowing honesty and love can never be wrong.

A new sun has truly arisen, and something good has emerged from it. Therefore, let us live our lives as though we have been outed. Let us finally be free, free, free. Let the echoes resonate in every nook and cranny as we slam the closet door behind us and build a new foundation for a brave new world.

© 20 May 2013

About the Author

Cervantes wrote, “I know who I am and who I may choose to be.” In spite of my constant quest to live up to this proposition, I often falter. I am a man who has been defined as sensitive, intuitive, and altruistic, but I have also been defined as being too shy, too retrospective, too pragmatic. Something I know to be true. I am a survivor, a contradictory balance of a realist and a dreamer, and on occasions, quite charming. Nevertheless, I often ask Spirit to keep His arms around my shoulder and His hand over my mouth. My heroes range from Henry David Thoreau to Sheldon Cooper, and I always have time to watch Big Bang Theory or Under the Tuscan Sun. I am a pragmatic romantic and a consummate lover of ideas and words, nature and time. My beloved husband and our three rambunctious cocker spaniels are the souls that populate my heart. I could spend the rest of my life restoring our Victorian home, planting tomatoes, and lying under coconut palms on tropical sands. I believe in Spirit, and have zero tolerance for irresponsibility, victim’s mentalities, political and religious orthodoxy, and intentional cruelty. I am always on the look-out for friends, people who find that life just doesn’t get any better than breaking bread together and finding humor in the world around us.

The Interview by Betsy

“So, Betsy, what makes you think that your soul should be allowed to move forward and take residence in a higher creature, a creature better than yourself?”

“The application for elevation of my soul that you sent me says I must demonstrate that I have made a supreme effort to be honest, trustworthy, loving to my partner and family and friends, and sensitive to the feelings of others.   It may have taken me a lifetime, but I am quite confident I have done this and that I qualify for elevation.   And the effort has continued throughout my life.  I try to be loving to people I am close to.  Sometimes I do get wrapped up in my own activities and I forget to be considerate to my partner, but mostly I am loving and I do try. 

“I have been conscientious about following the rules.  Actually, I did follow the rules early in life.  I suppose they were my parent’s rules; but when I became an adult I realized the rules were different depending on who made them.  I mean, I was married to a man because I heard that marriage is only between a man and a woman.  But then, I learned that that rule wasn’t the truth.  And I tried to follow the guidance of my soul.  Yes, I did have to hurt the man I married, but he got over it and is better off for it now.  The important thing is it was not my intention to hurt him. 

“I’ve always tried to be as honest as I possibly can.  Yes, I know. I Iied to my parents about eating the candy before dinner and well, yes, I know, about having to be sent to the cloakroom that time in the third grade, and about not doing my homework, but that was just once; and that was before I understood that I have a soul and that I have an ego that can lead me astray when I am not paying attention.  And punishment is so hard on my ego.

“The application also says I must show that I have made a positive contribution to society during my lifetime.  I bore and raised three children. I am rather counting on them to make significant contributions to the world. They are smarter than I, and they work hard.” 

“Well, Betsy, I do believe we can put you on the short list, but the committee will have to make the final consideration as to the direction your soul will take.  In the meantime, we recommend you do your best to follow the straight and narrow. Actually, in your case forget the straight, but keep that ego in check.  After all, it’s only an ego.  It has nothing really to do with your soul.  You wouldn’t want to sabotage your soul for all time just for the sake of your silly ego which is a temporary thing.  Remember, you still have a bit of road to travel before the final judgement is made.  We’ll get back to you then.”

© 16 July 2012

About the Author

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