You'll Never Know, by Betsy

I’m always fascinated by new information, new knowledge, new happenings. There have been a lot of new things to think about particularly in recent weeks— dramatic events taking place across the globe—much of this has gotten everyone’s attention.  In recent years, new knowledge about our universe, our solar system, galaxy, and outer space has gotten my attention.

Take the universe, for example.  Science has recently learned that our universe is expanding at an ever-increasing rate of speed.  It is because of this expansion, that our universe will eventually die, they say—latest estimates are about 300 trillion years from now. That will happen, of course, long after the death of our solar system.  And that death will come long after the death of our planet. Scientists believe the energy for this expansion comes from dark matter. We used to think that space—the darkness between the stars and other bodies we see in outer space—we used to think it was just that—space, emptiness.  But now it seems it is some sort of energy now called dark matter. The nature of this energy, unfortunately and most likely, we will never know. Or maybe we will learn some things about it in our lifetimes, but not much.  What I do know is that in this current life I will never know, you will never know, we will never know all there is to know about dark matter. Come to think of it we’ll never know what it is that we don’t know, will we, or even how much we don’t know.

Just as engaging are some of the recent events that have taken place in the U.S. and around the world.  The events are not so fascinating to me—horrific as they may be.  It’s people's reactions to the events that intrigue me—especially some of our leaders.

I am more than mystified that over 30 governors have stated that no Syrian refugees will be allowed into their states. The rest of the country says they are welcome. The 30 say it is to keep their people safe. I understand wanting to keep your people safe, but I don’t understand why it is Syrians who are the ones to be kept out. The Syrians are not the terrorists. They are the refugees, most of them widows and orphans trying to escape the horrors. The terrorists are from other countries. Yes, the ISIS headquarters are in Syria at the moment, but don’t our governors understand that the perpetrators are not necessarily Syrians?

If refugees are to be allowed entrance into the U.S. they must be screened, re screened and screened again. This, I understand, is the current process. But it does not make sense to me that while a Syrian family sits waiting for 2 years for numbers of background checks to prove they are harmless to Americans, anyone in the U.S—anyone and everyone—regardless of who they are—almost anyone can buy an assault weapon—a weapon designed for killing people. No questions asked.  Why do we have a system like this?  I will never know, you will never know, and we will never know.

Also on the list of mysteries is the responses of most of the Republican presidential candidates to the acts of terror happening around the world and how they would keep their people safe were they, God forbid, to become president.  Rounding up all the Muslims and kicking them out is probably the most outrageous. Again, that only feeds the conflict, which  is what ISIS and all the terrorist organizations are hoping for. 

How ‘bout we only allow Christians into the country. I don’t need to describe the problems with that plan. What I will never know is how to answer questions like: do they really think all Americans are Christians. I’m mind boggled. 

What are people thinking? Or are they just not thinking? Or are they just playing politics.  I wonder if I will ever know, if you will ever know, or if we will ever know.

© 23 Nov 2015 

About the Author 

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

Hysteria, by Will Stanton

I delayed writing about this subject longer than I normally do about selected topics because I was torn between writing about a painful truth regarding my mother or resisting it and writing something fictional and entertaining, simply as an antidote.  I finally decided to stick to facts but to keep it as short as possible.

First, you have to understand my mother's background.  Several terrible events combined to damage her emotionally.

First, apparently, her own mother was very fond of her first-born daughter but did not express much love or support for my mother.  This only enhanced my mother's deep attachment to her father, evidently a very caring, loving man, who also was highly admired for his many skills and successes.  He was a professor of physics and chemistry, kept bees, took the family on long camping trips (which included Colorado back when it had mostly dirt roads), collected Indian arrowheads, and played classical violin.  Unfortunately, he was exposed to radiation from his early lab experiments and died painfully of cancer at age forty-eight.  My mother, at the time, was at that critical age of fifteen and deeply suffered the loss of her father.

Next, her mother developed the strange notion that she needed to remarry but retain the same surname.  Consequently, she blindly married her late husband's uncle, until then unmarried and a whole generation older.  It turned out that this man became the “stepfather from Hell.”

To start with, he decided that the family must abandoned their beloved home (once owned by Mary Todd Lincoln's family) and move to his home-town.  My mother packed her few prized possessions into a trunk in anticipation of the move.  The stepfather, however, left the trunk behind, later stating that “there wasn't enough room to take it.”  My mother was very hurt and never forgot the callous loss of her possessions.

Everything went from bad to worse.  Very quickly, my mother and grandmother discovered that this man had a violent temper and frequently exploded into tirades of verbal and even physical abuse, hitting them.  When the stepfather discovered that my mother was saving a little money during summers working as a waitress so she could go to college, he stole all her money to pay for ill-chosen stocks that he had bought.  He lost all the stocks and money in the Great Depression.  This man chose not even to keep his disdain for the family private.  He frequently spoke ill of them to friends and neighbors, telling terrible falsehoods about them.

It wasn't until many years later when I was in my forties did I hear hints from my mother that this “stepfather from hell” had gone every morning into her bedroom.  Apparently, my grandmother never knew or was too afraid to do anything about it.  My comprehension of this trauma became clarified by my father, who spoke to me shortly before his passing.  He stated that, for a while after he and my mother were married, she would wake up every morning, screaming.  I was absolutely shocked.  In retrospect, I realized that this hysteria had been expressed in many ways during my childhood.

Throughout my childhood and adult life, I witnessed my mother's deep-seated fear and anxiety.  I realize that, no matter how hard she struggled to do the right things with her life and her family, to take on and excel in numerous activities, she continually was plagued by those fears and anxieties.  She feared the world; she feared people.  Many times, I heard her bitterly declare, “I hate men; I just hate men.”  She feared anyone whom she did not understand.  She feared blacks and foreigners.  She feared and disliked homosexuals.  Once, when I was watching a documentary on Africa, she rushed over to the TV and turned it off, stating, “I don't want you to watch that.  All white-hunters are homosexuals.”

As another consequence, she tried to control all people and the world around her.  Anyone or anything that she could not control upset her.  Everything had to be just the way she thought it should be, otherwise she would worry, sometimes even panic, and become hysterical.

An unfortunate, known psychological phenomenon is that one way traumatized people attempt to cope is to adopt many of the same hurtful behaviors that had caused them harm in the first place.  This was true with her.  When I was young, she once said that she hoped that she never would become like her stepfather - - - but she did.  Very often, when she feared that she was not in control, she shouted in rage.  I recall seeing her screaming at my oldest brother and beating him.  She hit my father so hard that she burst his eardrum.

When I went to university in Europe, my parents drove me to the university campus.  It was late evening and becoming dark.  My father took one wrong turn where there was very little street-light and no outlet.  He had to turn around.  Simple enough; however, my mother panicked and began screaming hysterically.  At the time, I did not understand.  Now I do.

My brothers and I have realized for some time that, even though we were, what psychologists call, a “looking good family,” word got around about my mother.  New neighbors were warned to avoid getting to know my mother.  We brothers and my father suffered long-term damage from that environment.  My father, early on, withdrew as much as he could into his own world, finding every reason to go to his office, take the car for a wash, or do some other chore that would take him away from the house.  My oldest brother adopted the same dictatorial and controlling behaviors with his family.  He also eventually disassociated himself from our parents and never went back to see them, even at their funerals.  My middle brother became the rebel and stayed away from the family as much as possible, even disappearing for some years after his marriage.  My late friend Dr. Bob observed in me, what he said was, a rare trait of reacting to my past experiences by instinctively developing an unusual degree of sensitivity and empathy for other people, something that apparently helped me to be affective in my profession.  Apparently, I was good at taking care of other people, but not myself.

Yet, despite the damage done to our family, I cannot but help but feel great sympathy for my poor mother.  She suffered greatly in her childhood, and I am not sure how much true joy or love that she felt in her life.  As for me, I know that, as they say, “I've carried a lot of baggage throughout my life.”  It took me some years to understand why. 

And, now that I have told you this story, I will put it on our blog for others to read and to think about.  But, for myself, now that I have read this unhappy tale to you, I will dispose of it and remove it from my computer.  It is too painful for me to keep or to read again.

© 14 June 2016 

About the Author 

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

Communication, by Ricky

          "What we've got here is …. failure to communicate" is a movie line from Cool Hand Luke spoken by Paul Newman that is perfectly delivered, humorously and sarcastically, in keeping with the character's personality.  Unfortunately for Luke, the senior guard was not amused, receptive, or tolerant of the mocking of the Captain's phrase.  Herein lies the difficulty with communicating with anyone; words.

          The Captain and the Boss were communicating a message to Luke but their words were not precise enough for Luke to clearly understand.  Thus, the Captain and the Boss were the ones who failed to communicate.  They should have made it perfectly clear that if Luke tried to escape again, he would be shot dead; they didn't and Luke died.

         

          Words arrive containing varying numbers of syllables, shades of meaning, and ease of pronunciation.  The definition of words can be modified from the original by common usage, which tends to happen because members of society do not learn enough vocabulary so they can pick the perfectly accurate but seldom used word.  Some people use many long words and complex sentences to communicate simple ideas; a practice which often leads to misunderstandings.  There are yet others who can communicate powerful ideas using simple and everyday words.  An example is Abraham Lincoln's statement, “You can fool some of the people all of the time, and all of the people some of the time, but you cannot fool all of the people all of the time.”  Do you suppose Lincoln was warning other politicians, warning the public, or giving politicians a tip on how to get elected?

          Some communications take on a life of their own and are so common in usage as to become clichés.  “Houston, we have a problem.” is one of those. The phrase originated following the Apollo 13 disaster.  Unfortunately, no one ever said those words.  Here is the actual conversation between the Houston command center and Apollo 13.

John Swigert: 'Okay, Houston, we've had a problem here.'
Houston: 'This is Houston. Say again please.'
James Lovell: 'Houston, we've had a problem. We've had a main B bus undervolt.' 

          For dramatic effect, the movie of the events surrounding Apollo 13, altered the exact words.  The incorrect phrase was picked up by the movie going public and now is commonly used to indicate any problem not just very serious ones.

          Likewise, “Beam me up, Scotty" is a catchphrase that made its way into popular culture from the science fiction television series Star Trek. Though it has become irrevocably associated with the series and movies, the exact phrase was never actually spoken in any Star Trek television episode or film.

          "Beam me up, Scotty" is similar to the phrase, “Just the facts ma'am”, attributed to Jack Webb's character of Joe Friday on Dragnet; "It's elementary, my dear Watson", attributed to Sherlock Holmes; "Luke, I am your father", attributed to Darth Vader; or "Play it again, Sam", attributed to Humphrey Bogart's character in Casablanca; and "We don't need no stinkin' badges!" attributed to Gold Hat in The Treasure of the Sierra Madre.  All five lines are the best-known quotations from these works for many viewers, but not one is an actual, direct quotation.  Yet each of them conveys an idea, concept, and image that communicates very well because a large number of people have seen the source of the misquoted dialog and the erroneous version has become ubiquitous in our culture. 

          Communication also suffers when the sender and the receiver are not talking about the same concept or idea. Remember the dialogue between Tom Hanks and Elizabeth Perkins in the movie "Big"?

          Susan: I'm not so sure we should do this.
          Josh: Do what?
          Susan: Well, I like you ... and I want to spend the night with you.
          Josh: Do you mean sleep over?
          Susan: Well, yeah.
          Josh: OK ... but I get to be on top.

          One conversation between two different people, but on two incompatible topics.  This particular conversation also illustrates the effect differences in age and experience (or lack thereof) can have upon the inferred meaning of the words heard.

          Yet another problem with communication arises when one party doesn't understand the clear and plain message he was given or does not take it seriously.  While in the Air Force, one of my commanding officers was a colonel and a pilot.  He related to me the following.

          Before becoming a pilot he was a navigator on a military transport aircraft approaching his U.S. destination after crossing the Atlantic Ocean.  The plane was understandably low on fuel.  Their primary destination had bad weather to the point that they could not land and there was just enough fuel to make it to the alternate airport.  The navigator called the traffic controller for permission to depart for the alternate destination.  He was told to standby to which he replied that they needed to leave now or not have enough fuel to make it.  Again, he was told to standby.  He repeated the situation yet again and was told to standby.  At this point the pilot called on the intercom asking if they had permission to depart for the alternate airport.  The navigator told him “yes” even though no permission was given.  The person on the ground did not appreciate the gravity of the situation and let himself be bogged down with control issues.

          Sometimes the person initiating the communication sends an accurate message composed of factual data but in reality doesn't state the actual issue.  For example, when I was young I once told my mother that my urine was runny (a fact), which did not impart any information to her.  The real issue was I had diarrhea.  Another example would be the numerous politicians who when asked a question answer with information not directly related to the question.  I think they have a condition known as “Diarrhea of the Mouth”.

          The moral of this essay:  Be gay when the concept or idea or message goes through without resulting in chaos.  The word “gay” is used correctly, but did it, the other words, and the sentence structure combine to confuse or clarify the message?  This is yet another example of the potential for a message to get “lost in translation” when there is a poor choice of words and grammar by the sender.

          The real moral of this essay:  In your next life, pay attention in language class.

© 22 April 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 was sent to live with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.  After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11-2001 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.   I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is: TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com 

Choices, by Ray S

  

Never had to make a choice or decision because my mother always did that for me. That’s what mothers do.

The US government decided I was draftable like all the other boys my age in 1943. Faced with making a choice as to what branch of the service would want me, it resulted in a trip to the US Army Air Corps office and enlisting in their air cadet program. It seemed the best choice of all evils and besides I didn’t think I’d fit nicely into a tight white sailor suit.

Footnote here: Can you imagine me flying an airplane? I couldn’t even drive a car then.

The Air Corps was making all of our choices now having replaced Mama. As good fortune would have it, the cadet program was oversubscribed, so the powers that be (or were) scattered all of this wet behind the ears pubescent material to the winds. The talented ones went to aircraft mechanics school.  The rest of the class members, having finished basic training in the wilds of Gulfport, were shipped off to a military police contingent where they were assigned to 11 pm to 7 am guard duty. Here we could reflect on our recently basic training that had taught all of the little boys how to be good little soldiers, drink beer, smoke cigarettes, strip down and reassemble a carbine, report on parade grounds at 6 am dressed only in your issue raincoat for “short arm” VD inspection (and he wouldn’t show us his), learn the intricacies of KP duty, and checking the scenery in the barracks shower.

Eventually through discovery, familiarity, or unknowing choices, the appearance of latent libidos or the right time and the right place, this boy found out what people meant by the pejoratives “queer” and “fairy.” However there was a conscious effort called ‘in denial’ to not own those words openly for some thirty to forty years hence.

Dating and girls:

It was a blind date that never ended until she delivered an ultimatum. The morning of the wedding the butterflies kept saying, “Do you really want this?” But, the die was cast, no choice, just make the best of it — for fifty-five years. And there were many good times and some not so good.

Is chance a choice or is choice a chance? A sunny day in June, crowds gathered at Civic Center Plaza, and I chose to hang out on the perimeter of all the action observing what PRIDE was all about.

Another CHOICE, after all of this time it was becoming easier—attending a SAGE of the Rockies conference. Meeting and learning to know there was a place for me in this beautiful tribe; and I belonged. Knowing I could reach out and love freely and openly. Finding I finally could come out of a closet I had lived in all of these years. I realize now that I might be the only person that didn’t know or suspect I was and am queer—in the most positive sense. My closet like many others suffered from structural transparency.

Now I am faced with another CHOICE. Trying to determine is this ‘indiscriminate love’ or ‘unconditional love’ that I feel for all of you; and is there really that much of a difference?

© 11 July 2016 

About the Author 

A Stroll at the Denver Art Museum, by Phillip Hoyle

Artists sometimes open our eyes to realities and injustices the society tolerates. Friday at the art museum my granddaughters Rose and Ulzii took off on their own. I walked with my daughter-in-law Heather, one of the most intelligent and creative persons I have ever known, also one of the most open personalities I have ever spent time with. She and I have been good friends ever since the day my son Michael brought her and her three-year-old son to our house. She’s highly educated, teaches writing at college and secondary levels, and with my son has reared a quartet of unusually bright and talented youngsters: two boys, two girls.

Heather and I sat in chairs in the ‘Matisse and Friends’ gallery on the first floor of the Hamilton Building of the museum while the girls went their own way. They had become tired of Mom and Grandpa talking so intensely over the previous two days! Sitting there Heather and I discussed the art and our two days of visits and interviews at culinary schools, of bus and light rail trips around metro Denver, of meals and walks, and of her children, the boys as well as the girls whom we had accompanied the past two days.

Then I suggested we take my favorite stroll through the museum accessed by riding the elevator to the fourth floor. There we saw mostly empty walls since most of the area was being re-hung. We walked down the huge staircase beneath the impressive Calder mobile. At the foot of the stairs we turned to the installation with grey foxes cavorting in a red café. Heather was especially thrilled with this work. We walked on through the narrow north hallway and entered a gallery that usually offers some kind of audio-video experience. Although I had seen the current installation several times, Heather had not. She caught the title “Lot’s Wife” and with her deep curiosity took in the tall mannequin with white skin, white clothing, and long white hair, a figure that from her meadow-like setting gazed at a projected lakeshore. Heather read it as a depiction of Lot’s wife after she had glanced back toward Sodom, the hometown she and Lot were leaving, a glance against Yahweh’s command. In the ancient story from Genesis due to her disobedience, the wife turned into a pillar of salt, thus the white the artist selected. Then Heather noted the thick, muscular neck of the figure, then the very male profile of the face. The artist wants to push us! Oh my God! Was Lot’s wife a man? Was Lot homosexual? Was his wife transgendered or a cross-dresser? The questions piled up. The rationalizations multiplied. The objections flourished. And finally the truth of it settled on both of us. Gay folk cannot turn away from who they are even in the face of nearly universal opposition!

I know from a careful study of the ancient text and its ensuing interpretation that the story’s meaning is not anti-homosexual. It’s a story about lacking hospitality, but of course these days that sounds too wimpy. The Hebrew God demanded hospitality to strangers not rejection. That demand is at the heart of biblical story after biblical story in the Hebrew and Greek bibles. But our artist, Canadian Kent Monkman, wasn’t worried about historical interpretations. He, a Cree Indian, is concerned about the deeply embedded prejudice inherent in our culture and society that fears anything Native and homosexual, anything queer, or as Wikipedia defines it in its article on homophobia, anything LGBT! Whoa! LGB and T. Yes.

Heather ‘got it’ as my artist friend Sue would say.

Gods can often seem unfair, especially ancient Gods evaluated by post modern humans. It just doesn’t seem right that when Apollo couldn’t resist looking back at Eurydice that she then disappeared and couldn’t make the trip from Hades to be reunited with her husband. It doesn’t seem right that when Lot’s wife (of course they left out her name—which in this interpretative context seems like double trouble!) glanced backward at her hometown she was leaving to avoid its destruction that she was destroyed anyway.

The artist now seems to be telling LGBs and Ts to watch out. Don’t look back at your fears; don’t doubt the truth of your own reality; don’t get scared at what you are becoming—or you may become a pillar of salt or melt into nothing. DON’T BE AFRAID.

So my little stroll through the museum challenged me to leave my own homo fears and embrace this new life, one of possibility, challenge, and hope.

Watching Heather process the installation gave me hope for our family of young adults establishing themselves in creative work, of the ability of the supporting generations to help them, of myself to keep getting over the deeply hidden fears generated by being so truly queer.

* * * * *

Here’s my testimony!

In addition to being deeply loved by a number of men I have never been so assisted in this fearless task so much as I have by coming week after week to this SAGE storytelling group—telling my stories and hearing yours.

The process of community, sharing, paying attention, working to express exactly what I have experienced and mean conspire to keep away the fearsome temptations and to clarify just what I need to pay attention to as I continue to grow as a truly Queer, truly LGBT person.

Thanks to you.

Thanks to artists like Kent Monkman.

Thanks to a changing social scene that supports even more changes in the lives of LGBTs as Qs, and more.

© Denver, Dec 2014 

About the Author 

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

Movies, by Pat Gourley

Unlike many of my gay male brethren in particular, I am not a great fan of the big screen.  A consistent theme in my life has been to almost exclusively read non-fiction books and that spills over these days to rarely seeing any movie that is not a documentary. I am fond of anything dealing with political themes but in rather cowardly fashion I suppose I do avoid films on the climate crisis. I find them very valuable but so disturbingly truthful and realistic I can’t watch. I suppose I do watch documentaries because I am lazy and it’s easier to just sit back and have it all laid out for me. Reaching for the popcorn is easier than reading and having to continually turn the page.

Perhaps this avoidance to film dates back to the first movie I ever saw in a theatre and that was Disney’s Old Yeller. A quick refresher: the movie takes place in Texas in 1869 and the star is a loveable yellow lab, who would put Lassie to shame any day. Yeller of course had the advantage of being teamed up with a much more relatable friend in 15 year old Travis. Lassie was burdened with Timmy who seemed destined in every episode to make really stupid choices that only his dog could save him from. What of course so seared Old Yeller into my psyche was that he gets rabies fighting off a predatory wolf and has to be shot by Travis. I never really got past this despite the Disney attempts to soften the ending with a new puppy for the family. Sorry, the damage was done. I actually don’t think I saw any movies after that until the James Bond movies came out and the obvious draw for me to these films was James and not any of the Fox-News-personality-type female sexual partners central to every Bond film.

I do though appreciate how important film is to the LGBT community and the tremendous impact this can have in both very positive ways and damagingly negative reinforcement of out internalized homophobia. So much of our early coming out is the struggle to find the “other”, a soul we can relate to. The search to find someone else like us is often relentless. The game-changing realization that I am not alone is certainly a recurring theme bringing us back again and again to celluloid escapism as a way to soothe our pain. Gay men in particular may want to be fucked by the leading man but it is the strong female leads that have been our succor for decades and we grasp at any hit of a queer character or theme.

Perhaps the singular patron saint of the tortured history of Queers and their portrayal in film was Vito Russo. He is best known for his landmark book the Celluloid Closet, still easily available and I suspect or hope a copy or two is in The Center’s library. Russo was one of the founders of GLAAD in 1985; previously know as the Gay and Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation. In recognition of bisexual and trans-persons the organization is now just GLAAD and no long an acronym.  GLAAD was initially formed in response to the hateful and vile portrayal of persons with AIDS by the New York media particularly the New York Post. Vito Russo himself died from AIDS in 1990.

GLAAD remains quite active today keeping a watchful eye on all forms of media for inaccurate portrayals of Queer folk. They have developed their own criteria for analyzing how LGBT characters are portrayed called the Vito Russo Test. This link is to their web site: http://www.glaad.org

This Vito Russo Test is patterned after the “Bechdel Test” which is used to look at how women are portrayed in film. I have included the criteria for the Russo test and they are as follows:

1.The film contains a character that is identifiably lesbian, gay, bisexual, and/or transgender.

2. That character must not be solely or predominantly defined by their sexual orientation or gender identity. I.E. they are made up of the same sort of unique character traits commonly used to differentiate straight characters from one another.

3. The LGBT character must be tied into the plot in such a way that their removal would have a significant effect. Meaning they are not there to simply provide colorful commentary, paint urban authenticity, or (perhaps most commonly) set up a punchline. The character must matter.

These criteria are taken from GLAAD’s 2016 Studio Responsibility Index. Unfortunately, this year out of 22 films with significant LGBT characters only 8 or 36% have met these criteria and that is apparently a significant decrease from recent years. http://www.glaad.org/sri/2016/vitorusso

Our struggle continues; so to the barricades brother and sisters or at least to the theatres with a discriminating eye.

© 25 July 2016

About the Author  

I was born in La Porte Indiana in 1949, raised on a farm and schooled by Holy Cross nuns. The bulk of my adult life, some 40 plus years, was spent in Denver, Colorado as a nurse, gardener and gay/AIDS activist. I have currently returned to Denver after an extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California. 

Good Hunting, Nicholas

For the last few years I have been compiling memories in the form of memoir essays. It’s fun and interesting to recollect what I have done with my life over the years. I do not see myself writing an autobiography, however, but rather being selective on episodes to delve into. I do not begin at my true beginning with my childhood which, to me, seems as uninteresting now as it was then. A pretty ordinary stretch of life filled with good memories but little drama, a time that I don’t see as worth writing about.

So, it’s not really my life story that I am filling pages with but reflections on where life has taken me. It has taken me many fascinating places. And I enjoy remembering where I have gone. Memory is, to paraphrase a common saying, like drinking sea water—the more you drink, the thirstier you get. Writing a memoir is like a quest. You might say, I am hunting my past.

I was remembering an episode in my past last week and the more I thought about it and wrote out the story, the more that came to me. The story was about the day a kind, older man tempted me out of my closet. He didn’t succeed. I was foolish enough to pass up the opportunity he offered. I thought I had written out the story. But then, wait, something else happened back then. He said something to me. What was it? I plied my memory until it started coming back to me. He said something like, “You don’t have to be alone, you know.” I’d forgotten that last part.

The tools I use in this hunt include not only my memory of events—fond or not so fond—but also documents, old journals, and, lots of published clips from my days as a journalist in San Francisco. I sometimes even do some research and fact checking.

I have all the documents, for example, of the struggle with my draft board from 1968 to 1972 that culminated in my refusing induction into the U.S. Army. Having long had a fondness for writing, I wrote for some underground papers in California back then and actually found copies in the San Francisco Public Library. Some of those pieces I’m proud of and some I dismiss as just getting carried away with the rhetoric of that era. Did I really call the President of the United States a pig? Well, he probably deserved it.

The only time in my life that I kept a personal journal was when I began coming out. I wrote in it faithfully almost every day for a few years and found it a great way to see who I was and how I was changing. Some memories are flattering and some are not. At times, I am roaring with happiness from new found friends and experiences. Other times, I am wishing it would all go away and I could just be normal, whatever that might mean. It helps to see the bad with the good.

My hunt has produced results, maybe I should call them trophies. I am seeing patterns that I like. It seems to me that my life has been blessed with two Spring times and maybe even a third. Twice I have felt desperate and besieged by forces beyond my control and twice I have responded to those challenges by entering a time of creativity and change. The first time was when I decided to drop out of college and take on the military draft. That led to a multitude of incredible experiences. The second spring came of course when I embraced being gay and found friendship and love, challenge and strength, community and history.

And the third spring? Well, it seems to be right now. As I’m growing older, I find myself again in a period of challenge and change and great creativity at the same time. I like remembering my past, chasing it down, writing it down. This hunt has its satisfactions in knowing the ground on which I now stand. Where I’m headed is growing out of where I’ve been. I like being a hunter and the hunt goes on.

© 19 Sep 2016 

About the Author 

 Nicholas grew up in Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.

Help, by Louis Brown

Basically the Beatles lyrics speak for themselves. I was thinking "Help" could also mean "the Help", the servants as in a turn of the century upper class household. Think "Upstairs, Downstairs." A study of social class structure in England, back then. I wonder if the other authors of our group have thought of the Beatles. Some have, I bet.

I Get by with a Little Help from My Friends

Help!

When I'm Sixty-Four

[Here is a link to see the lyrics to the above songs. Ed.] 

http://beatlesnumber9.com/lyrics.html#top

© 16 Sep 2016 

About the Author 

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

Long Ago, Far Away, by Lewis

[The following is a confidential memorandum, dated May 25, 1998, which I delivered to The Rev. Jamie Rasmussen, then-pastor at Grace Community Church in Detroit, Michigan, after listening to a tape of a sermon he delivered titled, "What Would Jesus Say to Ellen DeGeneres".  This was shortly after Ellen came out on her TV show.] 

Although we did not exchange names, we met this past Friday when I came into Grace Community Church to buy a tape of your sermon titled "What Would Jesus Say to Ellen DeGeneres?".  You were surprisingly young and full of sunny energy as we passed in the office doorway.  You asked me what tape I wanted.  I told you and you said that you had given that sermon and told me to let you know what I thought of it.  I thanked you and went on my way, tape in hand.

I have listened to the tape three times now and would be happy to share my thoughts with you.  Let me begin by saying that I am a gay man of 52 who has been in a monogamous marriage for 25 years.  I have two adult children and a very comfortable life, at least on the surface.  The fact is that my wife and I have decided to begin a gradual separation process because I have come, finally and almost inevitably, to the conclusion that I can no longer feel happy and fulfilled living without the love of another man.  For most of my adult life, I bought the popular myth--as I believe you have--that homosexuality was a "lifestyle" which involved choosing whether I would engage in sex with a woman (my wife) in the context of a loving, caring relationship, or with a series of men, always without real human connection and love.  Placed in this context, the choice seemed rather simple.  After all, weren't these urges I felt merely lust, a desire for a quick fix of heated passion followed by days and weeks--even months--of desolation, guilt, and shame?

Though you may not believe it, let me tell you that no heterosexual can possibly understand the torment that came from trying to live my life ever faithful to what society expected of me and in complete sublimation of my truest inner nature.  I felt like the Ugly Duckling who never, ever sees a swan but always thinks of himself as different, degenerate, inherently unlovable.  Over the course of the past half-dozen years, I have been gradually emerging from my cocoon of self-hatred into the light.  I have discussed my orientation with counselors, friends, clergy, family, and co-workers.  I have become active in the politics of gender identity and sexual orientation.  I learned that my own internalized homophobia can be overcome and that I, too, sometimes misjudge people by stereotyping them as "homophobic".  My wife and kids know that I am gay and love me just the same.  (I told my wife even before we were married that I was attracted to men.)

You need to hear that I WAS NEVER CONFUSED ABOUT MY SEXUAL ORIENTATION--at least since the age of 13--but only terrified of being discovered.  In your sermon, you keep referring to gays and lesbians as "confused".  They aren't the ones who are confused.  It's you and people like you who are confused--confused about what it means to be a homosexual.  You seem to feel, if I interpret your words correctly, that gays and lesbians are "OK"--that is, worthy of "unconditional love"--as long as they don't act on their feelings of attraction.  Can you imagine someone saying to a heterosexual, "I love you as a person but I hate it when you act on your feelings of attraction to a person of the opposite sex"?  What you are asking of gay men and lesbians is to do one of two things:  1) get married to a person who may or may not know what they are getting into and live a false existence for as long as the marriage lasts; or 2) remain celibate (and, therefore, essentially loveless) for life.  What a choice!  Both essentially deprive a person of the greatest joys of human existence while condemning them to countless hours of pain and self-recrimination!

Your kind of "unconditional love"--loving the "sinner" but hating the "sin"--is pretty cheap!  We know that Jesus loved the thieves who died with him on the cross, as well as the men who caused his death.  He forgave them and welcomed them into the Kingdom of Heaven.  Are we to believe that a lesbian or gay man who commits an act of love with another human being, regardless of gender, is less worthy of acceptance than these are?  The Jesus I know is SILENT about homosexuality.  How do you presume to speak for Jesus when he himself was silent?  He did say that the greatest commandments are these:  to love God with all my heart, mind, and soul and to love my neighbor as myself.  Is it possible that he thought of all people--straight or gay--as "neighbors"?

On the subject of homosexuality as "sin", I rely on John Boswell's Christianity, Social Tolerance, and Homosexuality (still in print and available at the Grosse Pointe Public Library and at Barnes & Noble).  On pages 100 thru 114, he addresses all three scriptures you cite in your talk, going back to the original language for contextual meaning.  He concludes, with regard to the citation from Leviticus, that the Hebrew word "toevah", there translated as "abomination", as in "Thou shall not lie with mankind, as with womankind:  it is an abomination", does not usually signify something intrinsically evil but something ritually unclean for Jews, like eating pork or engaging in intercourse during menstruation.  Boswell points out that the word "toevah" is used throughout the Old Testament to designate those Jewish sins that involve ethnic contamination, as in the stock phrase "toevah ha-goyim", meaning "the uncleanness of the Gentiles".  Such an interpretation would have no significance for Christians.

With regard to the Romans I citation, Boswell argues that the persons Paul condemns are manifestly not homosexual.  He is speaking of homosexual acts committed by apparently heterosexual persons.  "The whole point of Romans I, in fact, is to stigmatize persons who have rejected their calling, gotten off the true path they were once on.  What caused the Romans to sin was not that they lacked what Paul considered proper inclinations but that they had them:  they held the truth, but 'in unrighteousness' (v. 18) because 'they did not see fit to retain Him in their knowledge' (v. 28).  [I]t is quite apparent that...Paul did not discuss gay persons but only homosexual acts committed by heterosexual persons [emphasis in the original].

Finally, as to the citation from 1st Corinthians 6:9, Boswell's argument is purely semantic.  Of the two Greek words used in the original and now taken to indicate that "homosexuals" will be excluded from the Kingdom of Heaven, one applied, up until the 20th Century, to masturbation--a "sin" no longer widely considered worthy of condemnation to Hell--and the other, best evidence suggests, meant to Paul's generation a "male prostitute".  Thus, we see that upon close examination of the cited passages, nowhere does the Bible actually condemn homosexual acts between committed, loving, lesbians or gay men--at least, if they are Gentiles.  I encourage you, Jamie, to study the Roswell text yourself in its entirety.

You almost had me fooled, Jamie.  I was ready to concede that you really cared about gays and lesbians.  Your voice has such a compassionate ring to it.  But near the end, you betray your real feelings when you announce your opposition to the efforts of gays and lesbians to secure the same rights to be free from discrimination that you and other heterosexuals take for granted.  You even raise the tired, old red flag of protecting the children!  What of those gay or lesbian children who may have been in your audience?  Evidence shows that many gay boys realize their orientation by the age of 11.  How would they feel about themselves after hearing your speech?  What kind of a future can they look forward to--either devoid of intimacy or condemned by God?  Why wouldn't suicide seem attractive?  You're right to be concerned for the children but the threat comes from the vibes of your own sound system, not from some faceless gay pedophile.

[In researching what Rev. Rasmussen has been up to in the interim, it appears that my excoriating memo did nothing to damage his career in the ministry.  The very next year, he left Detroit to lead an old, historic church in London, Ontario, in transitioning to a "small-group-based, outreach-focused" one, whose membership grew by 29 per cent in the two years he was there.  In 2001, he left London for Chagrin Falls, Ohio, where he pastured at the Fellowship Bible Church for six years, growing its membership from 650 to 1400.  "Chagrin" is an apt word for my reaction upon learning that since 2007, "Jamie", as he prefers to be called, has been the Senior Pastor of Scottsdale Bible Church with its 6000 adult members and 10- to 12,000 subscribers to the church's newsletter.  He has a staff of two dozen pastors and ministers and 100 employees.  Incidentally, he never responded to my memo.]

© 16 Sep 2013 

About the Author 

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn't getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth.

Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband's home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.

Slippery Sexuality, by Gillian

Sex itself is of course physically slippery, as designed by nature. Metaphysically, metaphorically, sexuality can be every bit as slippery.

It took me about forty years to get a good grip on mine.

In my early years, I would catch tantalizing glimpses of it, slithering sneakily about, just under the surface, but before I could even reach for it, it plunged back down into the murky deep; out of sight but never quite out of mind. Certainly, never completely absent from other body parts. I felt its presence but could not, or would not, identify it.

In my thirties, it began making itself more visible; more identifiable. Like a dolphin beside a boat it now skimmed alongside me, only occasionally disappearing beneath the surface waves, and more often leaping into the air in full view. It taunted me, it beckoned me, this beautiful slippery temptation. It called to me, come on, come on, come out and play! Sometimes it led, sometimes it followed, but it never fell behind. Occasionally it forged ahead, leading the way with its blissful athletic leaps. This way, this way! For the most part it stayed by my side. Sometimes the joyous frolicking threatened to capsize my boat. Only with great effort did I keep it afloat.

It was a mirage, I knew. This was no reality. Not my reality. No reality I wanted any part of. I blinked and shook my head, and sure enough it was gone. The glorious creature disappeared, no longer leaping before my hesitant self to show me the way. I was left adrift on a sunless sea, once more becalmed and rudderless. It would return to beckon me again and again, each time looming a little larger, but although I occasionally reached a tentative hand in its direction, more rarely even touched it, still it slithered away. I could never quite grasp it. The leviathan returned to the deep.

Approaching forty - a little early for a mid-life crisis, surely? - that seductive dolphin somehow grew, matured, became huge, became that whale, that very leviathan which I had somehow always sensed it to be. And I became that legendary mermaid. Despite my slithery tail, I was suddenly on its back, hanging on to the slippery creature with all my strength as we crashed together into the waves. Then we were no longer two entities but one. I had embraced it fearlessly, wholeheartedly, and become one with it. I was a part of it and it was a part of me. I swam against the tide: against the waves, against the currents. They were powerless to stop me, powerless to redirect my journey. I knew exactly where I was going and I had the strength to get there.

Now I lie in the sun on a beautiful beach. I snuggle into the caress of the warm white sand, just as I cuddle into the warm caress of the wonderful woman I love; my partner of almost thirty years, my spouse, my wife, the love of my life.

I am home.

© 16 Apr 2016 

About the Author 

 I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30-years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty-years. We have been married since 2013.