At the Snug, by Ray S

Dear Friends,

I come to you empty headed and weary of heart. Truly I bless the imaginative amongst you that brought today’s meeting to pass. Yea verily I say unto you, I am truly joyous to be “What e’er thou art” or something to be within the embrace of my dear compatriots.

I hasten to explain about my joy regarding the recent Feb. first and Feb eighth Telling Your Story subjects. I found last week’s explanations of the quote attributed to Bobby Burns fascinating, especially the scholarly interpretation of that foreign language. This was enlightening and “Sad but True.”

So, what about today’s Irish Snug venture? Will the change of environment bring forth new muses with beer on their breaths?

I am afraid that I have imposed my empty headed meanderings on all of you, probably to the point of, “Will he stop whining and let us move on to some meaningful stories?”

Sorry, friends, but I wanted to be here with you, even if I haven’t enlightened you with some grand inspiration. “Sad but True” and better luck next week.

© 15 February, 2016 

About the Author 

  

Death and Growing Up, by Phillip Hoyle

I recall clearly when in my mid-twenties I first had a new thought related to death, specifically regarding the death of my good friend James, a man I appreciated, with whom our young families spent time together (he and Sue and their son Charlie, Myrna and I and our son Michael and daughter Desma), and who with my friend Ted planted and tended a garden in my backyard one summer. My new thought was that wherever my good friend James lived, I’d travel there to attend his funeral. I was stunned by my newly-discovered perspective on friendship that seemed a mark of maturing and represented for me an aspect of friendship and love that has become an important signifier.

My work as a minister took me to many funerals, many of which I led. In the process I learned how to tend to the needs of family and friends of the deceased in calls I made on them and comments I shared concerning memories, grief, and hope at the funerals and memorial services I led. In fact, I learned to do this work well since the congregations which I served had many elders. I limited the time of my speeches, Bible readings, and prayers on these occasions (and as a side effect of my brevity, I became popular with the funeral directors).

Some years later, death and funerals took on a new aspect, the one I had anticipated in my twenties, when my longtime friend Ted died in his mid-forties. Our friendship had endured over twenty years. He lived fifteen hundred miles away, but I visited him several times after he became seriously ill. I wanted to help take care of him when his condition became critical but was not asked to do so. I did fly to San Francisco to attend his memorial service and pondered what I would say when folk were invited to deliver verbal tributes. I was unable to say anything and stayed firmly in my pew appreciating the speeches made by others. I wondered at my inability to talk but appreciated my ability to cry.

Last month I attended a memorial service for another longtime friend, Geraldean McMillin. She died unexpectedly at age eighty-two. Geraldean and I had been intellectual buddies and friends for over thirty years. I flew to Missouri and with members of my family attended the service. This time I had agreed to say a benediction at the end of the service. As person after person spoke, I cried; more specifically I had a constant stream of tears, mostly from my right eye, while others talked. I was afraid my weeping might leave me dehydrated, my voice too dry to speak at all, but when the signal came I went to the front of the chapel and said a few words about Geraldean and pronounced a benediction made up of some of her oft-repeated phrases and sentiments.

I miss her.

I miss Ted.

I miss James although I haven’t heard from him in many years and have no idea where he lives or if he is even still alive. I probably won’t need to travel to his service but sometimes I wonder who will travel to mine.

© 22 July 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 

Strange Vibrations, by Pat Gourley

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

Ram Dass

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© May 2016 

About the Author 

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

Two Good Movies, by Nicholas

I remember seeing a cartoon one day in The New Yorker magazine, a publication famous for its topical cartoons. It showed two men, presumably gay, walking out of a movie theatre that was showing some male-female romantic movie. One man says to the other: “I’m tired of extrapolating.”

He meant, of course, he was tired of seeing great loves and the truths of great romances, their trials, tribulations, joys and triumphs, played out on the big screen by hetero couples from whom we could all learn about love by pretend-identifying with one or both of the individuals. Sort of, love in the abstract. Love is universal and I shouldn’t be concerned that the people shown don’t really look or act like me and my lovers. I should “extrapolate,” imagine myself and my dilemmas and joys through them.

That is, of course, a bunch of crap. And fortunately, we don’t have to put up with that so much anymore.

This past weekend Jamie and I saw two movies at the Q Cinema film festival at the Denver Film Society not far from our house. On Friday we saw a dramatic film called Lazy Eye. It might soon show up in commercial release and I highly recommend seeing it. The story is a fairly ordinary one of two men who briefly had a passionate connection years back when both were young. They are in their middle-age 40’s now. There’s been no contact between them for years until one finds the other and we’re off and running. They reconnect and the passion soars. Problem is, one has gone on to another relationship and even married another man. Of course, despite old yearnings, it does not work out. How they get to that point of finally separating is the beauty of the story and the film.

Someone remarked that the story could have been any couple, not necessarily a gay couple. It could have been told that way. But it wasn’t. It was told by, for and about gay relationships. I didn’t have to extrapolate. Straight viewers seeing this move could do the extrapolating now.

Moreover, the story involved two men comfortably and completely out. Being gay was not the issue. No angst about anybody’s sexual identity. At this point in my life, I have to say I am totally over coming out stories. I don’t think the words gay or homosexual are even mentioned in the movie. We are seeing the fully realized story of two men who were in love long ago and maybe could be now if it weren’t for the fact of other choices being made since.

It was a joy to see people who are gay working out their lives without any specter of closets and prejudices hanging over them. The story was our story, my story.

The other movie we saw was a documentary called Political Animals and tells the stories of the first four lesbians elected to the California state legislature in the 1990s and later. It’s notable that the first gays elected to that legislature were women. Gay men in the 1990s were too busy caring for ill friends and lovers. One of the women—Carole Migden who made an appearance at the showing—I know personally and we got to reminisce about lesbian and gay movement days in San Francisco. I was a journalist then and covered politics.

These four brave pioneering women politicians accomplished a lot like protections for queer youth in schools and the first statewide domestic partnership recognition. The vile things they had to hear said about them and all gay people in legislative debates is an astonishing history lesson. They were brilliant political strategists. It’s moving to hear their stories about how their politics was not about abstract ideas and policies but about their own personal lives. It was their story, our story, my story.

I recommend both these movies.

© July 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.

The LGBT Diaspora, by Louis Brown

The prompt “family” reminds me of Hillary Clinton having once proclaimed that “It takes a village to raise a child.” Of course, there is some truth in that. It is a reference to what many sociologists refer to as the “extended family.” If we take this broadening view of the “family”, we may think in terms of an extended, extended family or Diaspora, or world-wide family. Webster’s dictionary defines “diaspora” as “(1) (a) the dispersion of the Jews after the Babylonian exile; (b) the Jews thus dispersed; (c) the places where they settled [and by extension] (2) any scattering of people with a common origin, background, beliefs, etc.”

In this etc. I would definitely include “sexual orientation”. Lesbian and gay people are everywhere in the world. If our community could only harness the power, it would mean a better world for us, a better world for everyone.

In the 1950’s, Senator Joseph McCarthy, if you recall, went on an anti-communist witch-hunt and an anti-gay witch-hunt, claiming there were communists and homosexuals in the U. S. State Department that were trying to subvert and even overthrow the government. For a while Senator McCarthy was taken seriously. He referred to the international communist conspiracy as the “comintern,” that is, the international communist movement and the international gay community as the “homintern,” presumably meaning the homosexual international.

Many liberals would claim there is no such thing as the “homintern”. That was just Senator McCarthy’s overactive imagination. Au contraire, of course there is a “homintern” although I would call it the gay and lesbian diaspora. We do not necessarily want to overthrow governments, but we do want liberation. Our diaspora implies that our struggle for liberation is the most analogous to that of the Jews. All of which we should embrace exuberantly rather than shy off for fear of enraging homophobes.

If we take a bird’s eye view of our diaspora, we note, for instance, that the Muslim world population is one billion one hundred million. That means that there are one hundred and ten million lesbian and gay Muslims. Have there been any attempts to organize these one hundred and ten million people? Yes, but so far the results are miniscule. In New York City there is one out-of-the-closet gay male Imam. In time there will be millions like him. The MCC church of New York City provides a weekly meeting place for lesbian and gay Muslims in that city.

In 1995 a group of lesbian and gay Muslims held a “congress” in London, England. It would be good if our Denver lesbian and gay community had an expert historian who could describe exactly what happened at that congress. More information please?

Recently when I was back in Jackson Heights, Queens County, NYC, I attended a lesbian and gay spiritual meeting, at which the topic was gay spirituality in the history of Islam. The leader asked each of us in attendance what spiritual remark we would like to make. The leader did mention Rumi*, of course. I said I think we should remember how many people we are talking about: 1/10 of one billion one hundred million was 110 million. The leader responded to my comment by first saying that that was not exactly a spiritual observation and made other comments indicating that he could not even begin to understand what I was talking about.

I did not reply to his evasive reaction. I felt like saying “I cannot begin to understand how you do not understand”. We have to raise the consciousness of millions of “lesgay” people everywhere.

Consider also the efforts of lesbian and gay Russians to organize to resist oppression in Russia. Their best chance is to organize in Russian colonies abroad located in more liberal countries, such as Brighton Beach in Brooklyn, NY.

Consider also there was even a study of gay and lesbian people in the indigenous Maori tribes of Australia and New Zealand. Let us celebrate our ubiquity, or omnipresence rather than fear to acknowledge the simple truth.

*Rumi

© 1 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.

Death, by Lewis

It is hard to write on a subject with which one does not have any "lived experience".  Like most, although having witnessed many thousands of deaths in the popular media and on television news, I have even less of an idea as to what death will be like than I have on being the President of the United States.

I suggested this topic because it has been on my mind a lot lately, due in no small measure to the recent death of my husband, Laurin.  Also, over the past year or so, I have experienced a series of maladies and mishaps that I can only attribute to a body that is showing signs of breaking down and rusting away, much like cars used to do.  (Incidentally, have you noticed how few rusted out clunkers you see on the streets these days?) 

Every life story has a finite beginning and a finite end.  It is the incredible mish-mash in-between that makes our life stories so unique.  I hear every day about lives cut short by one tragedy or another and I always think how lucky I am to have lived to the relatively ripe age of 68.  Each day, I check the obituary pages of the Denver Post to see how many have died at a lesser age.  It's a small percentage--perhaps 10-15.  The majority of those are men. 

Though four years younger than Mom, Dad died 3-1/2 years before her.  I think he had the advantage, though, in terms of how he died.  He had undergone an upper GI a day or two before.  The x-ray showed a tumor on his stomach.  He likely had just received that news when he went to lunch with some friends and came home.  He was sitting on the toilet, perhaps trying to rid himself of the viscous prep for the test, when he had a massive stroke and died on the spot.  Mom heard only one long groan and it was over.

It was then that my family first realized the seriousness of Mom's dementia.  Within six months, she had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's Disease and institutionalized.  For the next three years, her condition continued to decline, while she wondered the halls of the place where she resided, pushing her walker, not recognizing family or friends, and cursing at those within earshot.  She did not know that she had survived the second and last of her children by her first husband.  I did not have the heart to tell her.

Some people die in their sleep.  Others starve to death or after spending months in a coma or after days of clinging to life after being horribly injured.  Family members have seen their loved one die despite round-after-round of chemotherapy or surgeries at an enormous cost in terms of not only treasure but also emotional capital.

We do not choose when we are born.  Heck, we're not even old enough to choose when we go to the bathroom or what we eat for dinner.  But death is a different matter for most of us.  By then, we're adults and making all kinds of decisions, some of major consequence and some of very little.  We can pick our doctors, our hospital, our spouse, the person who holds medical power of attorney, whether we will take our meds, and, in some cases, whether we want life-prolonging medical procedures or treatment.  We can even refuse to take food or liquid by mouth until we die, which can take up to ten days or so and causes pain as our organs shut down (for which we would be given pain killers).  What we can't do legally in this country is to ask for a dose of something that will end it all painlessly and quickly.

The term "assisted suicide" frightens people.  They seem more comfortable with "dying with dignity" or "aid-in-dying".  Today, loved ones who give aid-in-dying can be charged with murder.  Where are all the Right Wing voices who scream about government overreach when it comes to aid-in-dying?  It seems they were all in favor of keeping Terri Schiavo alive as long as humanly possible, even through recourse to the Florida state courts.  Talk about government abuse of power--and in service of a specific religious faction at that!

Ask a dozen people--around this table, for example--what happens to us after we die and you will likely get at least a handful of different opinions.  Is there anything that happens to us that is more personal than the circumstances of our death, should we be fortunate enough to have a choice?  If I am unable to walk or stand, if I am unable to feed or go to the bathroom by myself, if I do not recognize that the person standing beside me is my own next-of-kin, if I am not able to talk and the only thing coming out of my mouth is drool, I do not want to go on living. 

I do not believe in life-after-death.  I believe that the release of my last breath will feel very much like that moment before I received that swat on my bottom that brought that first gasp for life-giving air.  It is that belief that makes me want to make the most of every day that I have left--to live, to love, to celebrate, to share, to grow, to smell the roses, to simply be.  Then, when that final breath comes, it will be every bit as sweet as my first.

© 13 Oct 2014 

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.

The Men in My Life, by Gillian

Many men have influenced my life; most positively, some not.

Until I went off to college, the only males I had formed any attachment for were my father and maternal grandfather and a teacher. The boys in school all seemed too immature for words and essentially I ignored them, preferring the company of girls; especially one, with whom I remained secretly in love through all my schooldays, but I won't digress as this is supposed to be about men.

My dad I have written about many times, I will simply say that I loved him, he loved me, and in a strangely silent way we became increasingly close over his lifetime. And, yes, even since his death. My mother's dad died when I was pretty young so I don't remember very much about him, except that I was always happy just to sit with him while the carved beautifully ornate headstones out of the local marble. Only slightly more garrulous than my father, he sometimes sat in silence for what seemed like hours, but I was a little kid so maybe it wasn't really so long. I do know I never got restless or tried to make him chat. I loved just being there, watching his clever hands create such intricate beauty. Occasionally he shocked me with a sudden swift launch into story-telling - spellbinding and supposedly true although looking back, even if I cannot recall the details of any, I doubt their veracity. But despite these rare jaunts off into the world of monologue, words were few. So the first two men in my life, both of whom I loved greatly, folded me into a strong, silent world; a world where deeds spoke much louder than words. A world of true, if silent, love. They actually had a lot in common, Dad and Granddad, although not related by blood. (Not so very surprising, I guess, as girls supposedly tend to marry a man like their father.) They are also connected, in my child's memory, by birds; more specifically, robins. The English robin, quite unlike the American version, is a small brown bird with a scarlet breast, known for it's inquisitive nature. One it seemed was always around, watching my grandfather chisel and hammer just as I did. The little bird's head bobbed from one side to the other as he seemed to evaluate Granddad's every move with his sharp, shiny, little black eyes. My father had his faithful robin, too, who followed him around on his chores; waiting, I'm sure, for tasty morsel to be offered up in the process.

The other strong male influence in my youth was my high school geology teacher. He was one of the natural teachers of this world, and carried with him an aura of boundless energy and enthusiasm which was very contagious. At weekends he and his little band of devoted followers would slog up and down wet Welsh mountains, returning home exhausted with pockets and bags groaning under the weight of rocks and minerals and fossils. He blessed my life with a fascination with geology which has remained with me throughout. And, no, I didn't have that schoolgirl crush on him which tends to accompany teenage admiration, and which I'm sure some of the girls succumbed to. I was immune. My passions were spent, as are all good lesbian youthful crushes, on my female gym teacher!

In college I was never romantically involved with any men, being passionately but secretly, even for the most part hidden from myself, devoted to a female classmate. But I learned a lot from men in my life who were completely unlike any of the boys I knew at school. Inevitably so; they came from different worlds. My professor at The University of Sheffield had been a prisoner of the Japanese in World War Two. They had cut out his tongue. Consequently, his lectures were very difficult to follow until you became tuned in. I was incredibly impressed by his courage and tenacity in returning after the war to a position made difficult and, I would suppose, embarrassing, by his affliction. I also learned forgiveness from this man. I never once heard him say anything negative, either in class or in private gatherings, about the Japanese or their country. The attitude he maintained made it very clear that he held no grudges; no animosity. This was 1959, so he had had fifteen years to get there, and how long it took or what efforts it cost him, I don't know. But ever since, upon finding myself harboring resentment over some petty words or deeds, I have tried to remind myself of a wonderful man who managed to forgive completely a truly terrible wound.

Also at Sheffield University in the late 1950's and early '60's were several young men who had managed to escape Hungary after the invasion by the U.S.S.R in 1956. I had seen, on the tiny old black-and-white T.V., the street fighting in Budapest where these men, or others just like them, faced up to tanks with nothing but a handful of rocks. We found them strange, these dark brooding silent men who emitted such an unmistakable air of rage. They never bragged, or even mentioned, anything they had done in defense of their homeland.  If they talked at all it was of nothing but their hatred of the Soviets and their endless innumerable plans to free Hungary and return home. They hated England, and refused to offer any sliver of gratitude for the free college education they were taking advantage of at that very moment. We didn't like them. They were unfriendly. They were no fun. They were freeloaders. Then I slowly formed a friendship with one of them, and was forced to dig deeper and learn. Domonkos needed a lot of help understanding our mutilated professor's lectures, and I somehow fell into spending time going over every class with him. Usually this was in a coffee shop or pub, and slowly his entire story came out. He himself had not been one of those tossing stones at tanks. He had tried to protect his mother and sisters but instead was made to watch while they were raped and then shot. His father had died in Auschwitz in 1945. His mother and sisters and he, had for some reason been taken to Mauthausen, from which they were liberated at the end of the war; only for the women to die at the hands of the Soviets in 1956. Was all this true? I had no way of knowing, but I had no reason to doubt it. It didn't seem to matter. This young man had clearly suffered from terrible traumas, no matter the details.

He told me similar stories of his fellow Hungarians students, until I was numb to the horror of his tales. Numb in a sense, yes, but he also forced me to wake up. I and my friends found these men boring? They were no fun? How much fun would we be, under such circumstances? In all honesty, I could not warm to them as a group, nor even to Domonkos himself. But through them I learned to look below the surface; to see perhaps why people act as they do. To care for them, to empathize, despite no real affection or liking. To try to be quicker to understand and slower to judge.

Then came adulthood and, at the age of 26, marriage. My husband was not a silent man like my father, nor was he terribly loud and verbose. He did not have my teacher's energy and passion, but he worked and played hard enough. He certainly was not Hungarian-style hating and morose. He was really a pretty average guy doing his best, but with my homosexuality lurking around, rising ever closer to the surface, the marriage was doomed from the beginning. It was the final chapter of my book of learning that if you are not true to yourself you simply cannot bring happiness to others. My poor husband inadvertently taught me that.

Not long after we married, his four children unexpectedly came to live with us. Once over the shock, I coped pretty well, and step-motherhood became a positive experience for me and for the children, three of whom were boys. Over the years, they became new men in my life. I know parents cannot have favorites, but I say that's one of the advantages of the step- relationship.

I truly think I didn't show it, but my oldest step-son was my favorite. I loved all four kids, and they loved me, but I adored Dale. As did many many people. He could charm anyone; girls, boys, men, women, neighbors and friends, teachers and police. What defenses could a helpless step-mother employ? Sadly, this very charm turned on him and did him evil rather than good. He was born to trouble, it seemed, and he almost invariably charmed his way out of its consequences, and so led him deeper down the wrong path. The real trouble, which no-one can talk themselves a way out of, was serious unrepenting un-recovering alcoholism. This became manifest in his early teens and lasted all his life, which predictably was short. He died a few years ago at the age of fifty. I was heartbroken, although he had not been in touch with any of his family for a long time so the hole he had dug in my heart was nothing new. It had been there for many years.

After my divorce, I still worked mainly with men so I did not register an absence of men in my life even after my social life morphed to consist mainly of lesbians and straight female friends. Post-divorce, I tried to keep up some male friendships but straight men all know that a divorcee is looking for only one thing. It was hopeless. After I was out to the world, I foolishly imagined this might change, but straight men all know what it takes to cure a lesbian. It was hopeless.

When Betsy and I moved in together we found both of us equally missed the rumble of men's voices in the house; in our lives. We both like men. We looked around. The answer stared us in the face; gay men. They had no interest in whatever divorcees were after or what it took to cure lesbians. But hold your horses! Not so easily done. Looked at objectively, where is the attraction? Gay men and women are the ones not drawn to each other. So - you need a catalyst; something to attract both, other than each other. Betsy joined a gay tennis group where we did make a few male friends, but as she was the only woman who ever belonged, it slowly fizzled out.

The Center was, of course, our salvation, and especially this group. We now are grateful to have many men in our lives with whom to share laughter and tears, anger and celebration, memorials and hospital visits and parties.

I love the men in my life.

I always have.

© 28 Mar 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.

Doors, by Gail Klock

Buzz, the dull sound of an institutional doorbell summons the matron with the keys. Footsteps can be heard descending the stairs. Click, goes the first lock, up two flights of stairs, then click opens the metal mesh door into the plainest, most unattractive physical setting you can possibly imagine. A space which lacked color and texture, the walls and floors an unpainted concrete; no pictures, wall hangings, or changes of surfaces to detract from the bleakness; no shelves holding objects of interest. It was a grey world. Visiting my grandmother didn’t take place in an over the hills and through the woods fashion. We entered through the locked doors of the mental institution in Pueblo where she was a patient. She seemed quite “normal” to me. She was dressed like all the other female patients in non-descript shifts which left you guessing as to the shape of the wearer. The men were dressed similarly in the same institutionalized green material with pants that had drawstrings and loose fitting tops. All the women had the same hair style, one I could have administered as a kid, hacked off at the neck line.

The room was large and open, a few tables scattered here and there and lots of empty space. Some of the patients were moaning to themselves rocking back and forth sitting on the floor, and others were very intensely playing with their private parts. My mother and other family members never did know what the diagnosis for my grandmother was, my guess is clinical depression which was triggered by the death of her husband at an early age shortly after the diagnosis of his brain cancer. My grandmother’s behavior didn’t bother me, nor did the actions of the more severely impacted patients, but the locked doors did. She had been stripped of her freedom to move about as she liked and to spend time with her loving family. She lacked the necessary keys to escape this captivity, to regain her freedom and become all she was capable of becoming.

Fortunately, I’ve had these keys available to unlock the restrictive doors of life, but I’ve often misplaced or used the wrong ones in trying to open the doors to happiness.  As a child trying to maneuver through life without the emotional support of loving adults I developed childish strategies to protect myself from being hurt and disappointed by loved ones. I played Simon and Garfunkel’s, “I Am a Rock,” over and over as a college student. I so identified with the idea of being a rock which felt no pain, and an island which never cried.  But I didn’t have the wisdom or guidance to realize a rock doesn’t feel love and an island doesn’t laugh. The keys I needed to use were the ones which led me through the door of vulnerability.

Several instances, which have occurred recently in my life, have given me insight into the desirability of being vulnerable.   During about the third round of chemo, simply walking a few steps was exhausting and almost impossible and the myriad other physical feelings when sitting still were equally horrible. It was at this point that I realized, “it is what it is.” I can’t fight the feelings, I can’t change the feelings, I can only live with them. Once I acknowledged the situation and accepted it for what it was a sense of peacefulness descended upon me. I knew I was okay and would continue to feel better and better. There were no longer doors separating me from others, somehow they had sprung open and I felt more one with the universe. I can’t explain this further, but I felt a shift in energy.

After my last surgery in 2012 I slowly embarked on the physical healing process which allowed me to return to playing basketball, an activity I love with my heart and soul. This process has been slow, at first just getting the ball to the basket was all I could manage. I didn’t step foot in a scrimmage on the court with others for at least six months, and when I first did it was with trepidation. The surgery had been very complex and had involved cutting and moving all of the nerves and muscles in the hip joint.  Initially I could not bend either my knee or hip. I asked my doctor if I could try playing again and told her falling is part of playing and asked if this was a problem, she wisely stated I might open the wound back up but I wouldn’t hurt anything. She must have been an athlete herself to understand the significance and relative truth of this statement.  It took a while for me to get enough stability to play and it took longer to overcome my fear of getting hurt. Now I don’t worry about getting hurt… it is what it is, when you fall you get back up. You might have some bumps and bruises, but you also have the joy of playing. It’s that one time when you execute the motion just right, when you get the desired result, when the wholeness of your mind and body are one, that makes it worth the bumps and bruises. I’ve unlocked the door to physical vulnerability and have experienced the joy that was on the other side of the doorway.

I’m well on my way to accomplishing the same with my emotional life. Even in moments of emotional isolation, which used to paralyze me with fear, I now realize I have the key available to open the doors to great love and joy, to actualize the energy available, which is represented by the concept of “it is what it is”, allowing the doors to be unlocked. It is only through allowing myself to be emotionally vulnerable that I will enjoy the greatest love of my life… yes there will be some tears along with it, of that I am sure.  But I’ve been that rock way too long, and it was a rather dull rock at that, now I’m beginning to feel really alive. I feel like the hawk that soars above, enjoying the warmth of the thermals, knowing it will soar with the wind beneath its wings, knowing it’s not alone in life, and that all of life’s forces work together… if only we use the right key.

© 27 Apr 2015 

About the Author 

 I grew up in Pueblo, CO with my two brothers and parents. Upon completion of high school I attended Colorado State University majoring in Physical Education. My first teaching job was at a high school in Madison, Wisconsin. After three years of teaching I moved to North Carolina to attend graduate school at UNC-Greensboro. After obtaining my MSPE I coached basketball, volleyball, and softball at the college level starting with Wake Forest University and moving on to Springfield College, Brown University, and Colorado School of Mines.

While coaching at Mines my long term partner and I had two daughters through artificial insemination. Due to the time away from home required by coaching I resigned from this position and got my elementary education certification. I taught in the gifted/talented program in Jefferson County Schools for ten years. As a retiree I enjoy helping take care of my granddaughter, playing senior basketball, writing/listening to stories in the storytelling group, gardening, reading, and attending OLOC and other GLBT organizations.

As a retiree I enjoy helping take care of my granddaughter, playing senior basketball, writing/listening to stories in the storytelling group, gardening, reading, and attending OLOC and other GLBT organizations.

Brother Townsend, by Cecil Bethea

Twenty-three passengers on the Mayflower were ancestors of Prescott Townsend  ancestors. Another forebear was the only man to sign the Declaration of Independence, the Articles of the Confederation, and the Constitution. On almost any route that Townsend took to grade school on Boston’s Beacon Hill, he would past a monument to an ancestor or to an event in which some kinsman had participated

Townsend was born in 1895 when the blue bloods of Boston still considered themselves Brahmins and felt contented.  Henry James called them, “the sifted few”.  Besides his inherited wealth, his father was also the head of a large coal company.  When Townsend was fifteen his father died.  At sixteen he told his mother that he liked other boys.  She merely answered, “Be careful.”.

During his eighteenth summer, he went out West to work in logging and mining camps of Idaho and Montana where he met people unlike himself.  The International Workers of the World, derisively called the Wobblies were trying to organize a union amongst the unskilled workers and hobos with whom Townsend worked.  He developed a lifelong interest in street boys and drifters, the outcasts of society.

At Harvard, he evidently was more interested in tennis than books, but he survived.  So many attractions drew him into a very active social life.  After all, he was in the SOCIAL REGISTER.  Harvard was very pro-British during the first years of World War I.  To do his part, he joined the Naval Reserve.  After the United States had entered the war, Townsend was called to the colors, where he performed various duties including being commanding officer of the Naval Unit at Texas A & M.  After being demobilized, he returned to Harvard to finish his senior year and later to enter law school.

Law school palled, so at the end of his first year he quit.  So many interesting things lured him on to various adventures. In the tropics of Mexico, he was the co-discoverer of an unknown salamander which was named for him.  In Paris, Andre Gide recommended the deserts of North Africa.  Townsend organized a small caravan with willing. complaisant, or hungry young men.  During his visit the Rift Rebellion, an attempt by the Arabs to oust the French was taking place.  One small battle interrupted the progress of his party.  He insisted that the fight stop because he as an American had precedent over their squabbles.  Strangely enough the combatants ceased their gunfire while the American passed.  How things have changed for American tourist!

Back in Paris, Townsend became involved with the Bohemians; in fact, Bohemia became a part of him for the rest of his life.  In Boston he was the patron of poets and a little theater.  Actually he owned the building where the theater had its quarters.  His house became a home for various nomads of the artistic and Gay worlds.  Although he bragged he had never paid for sex, it was difficult to turn down a man who is supplying you with bed and board.  During his later years, all of his tenants chipped in to pay a handsome young man to supply Townsend’s needs

During the 1950's Townsend was much more than a horny old man.  He was a Gay activist.  Actually one could make that ACTIVIST.  The Boston chapter of the Mattachine Society had him for one of his co-founders.  Just as all the chapters had strife between the radicals and the conservatives.  The organization asked him to make his efforts to repeal the sodomy laws of Massachusetts a personal cause rather an organizational one.  Townsend did not want understanding and sympathy from the public but rights.  Confrontational was his usual means of operation. On April 17^th, 1965, he was in Washington for the first Gay demonstration.  Seven Gay men, three Lesbians, and a straight woman friend marched in front of the White House. No doubt he was the oldest.  In 1970, he drove down from Boston for the first parade to commemorate the Stonewall protest.  Even at seventy-six, he was amongst the first two hundred to start the parade which grew to thousands.

In his later years Townsend was not welcomed by other Gays because he had evidently forgotten the meaning of personal hygiene and looked like derelict.  No matter he was a participant in Gay functions.

Prescott Townsend should be remembered for uncompromising attitude toward Gay rights, his early organizing of Gay, and his early participation in early Gay demonstrations.

He was a Founding Brother.

© 9 Nov 2005 

About the Author 

Although I have done other things, my fame now rests upon the durability of my partnership with Carl Shepherd; we have been together for forty-two years and nine months as of today, August 18the, 2012.

        Although I was born in Macon, Georgia in 1928, I was raised in Birmingham during the Great Depression.  No doubt I still carry invisible scars caused by that era.  No matter we survived.  I am talking about my sister, brother, and I .  There are two things that set me apart from people.  From about the third grade I was a voracious reader of books on almost any subject.  Had I concentrated, I would have been an authority by now; but I didn’t with no regrets.

        After the University of Alabama and the Air Force, I came to Denver.  Here I met Carl, who picked me up in Mary’s Bar.  Through our early life we traveled extensively in the mountain West.  Carl is from Helena, Montana, and is a Blackfoot Indian.  Our being from nearly opposite ends of the country made “going to see the folks” a broadening experience.  We went so many times that we finally had “must see” places on each route like the Quilt Museum in Paducah, Kentucky and the polo games in Sheridan, Wyoming.  Now those happy travels are only memories.

        I was amongst the first members of the memoir writing class.  While it doesn’t offer criticism, it does offer feed back.  Also just trying to improve your writing helps no end.

        Carl is now in a nursing home, I don’t drive any more.  We totter on. 

Life is Indeed a Royal Flush, by Carlos

When my grandmother was 94, the family pushed her to become an American citizen. Although she had lived in this country for 90 years, we feared her social security benefits might be compromised since, unlike my grandfather, she had never forfeited her permanent resident green card. Now, my grandmother had always, to our knowledge, been an upstanding citizen, raising her two sons as a single parent, remaining steadfast even during war and the Depression, and ultimately becoming the core matriarch of the family. She was a survivor to be reckoned with if anyone was foolish enough to provoke her. On the day of her citizenship hearing, we discovered that due to her sultry past, her application had not been considered. Although we only knew the ethical, principled icon of virtue, we learned she had, in fact, been a bigamist as well as a federal felon. When she had approached the immigrations officials, she wasn’t attempting to be duplicitous; she simply assumed that events that had transpired decades earlier carried no weight in legal matters She shared with us that when she was very young, she had married her childhood sweetheart and shortly thereafter had given birth to her two sons, my uncle and my father. Unfortunately, her husband Carlos, soon started smoking and pursuing a wayward life. Having no patience for his nefarious lifestyle, she decided to leave him and raise her sons as a single parent in spite of the scarlet letter she would have to wear in the community for shunning her man. Possessing no job skills, but being responsible for two hungry babies, she bootlegged, brewing and distributing home brew in the neighborhood. Since Prohibition was the law of the land, she was apprehended and charged. Laughingly, she told us that although she spent only two days in jail, in the evenings of both days her jailers released her to care for her children. Apparently, nothing became of the charges although the record of her infraction remained. To add insult to injury, after she fulfilled her duty to her sons, she agreed to marry her beau, a man who for years had been smitten by her charm, attractiveness, and independence. Unfortunately, she neglected to inform the judge who married them that she had never divorced her first husband. She must have convinced herself that marriage vows have expiration dates. After her past caught up with her, she sought the counsel of a kind lawyer and benefactor who, in fact, remained her friend until he died of advanced age. For years she walked to his office on the first of the month and paid him $2.00 religiously until the debt was settled. By the time I was born, my grandparents were starting out their lives free and clear. However, when my mother unexpectedly died and my father, my grandmother’s son, found he could not raise me properly, I became my grandparent’s son. In the truest sense of the word, they became my parents, and better parents I could not have asked for. As for the misunderstanding with the U.S. Immigration Office, after the meeting with the officials, my grandmother just laughed, and we laughed along with her when she informed us that she had never really wanted to become an American citizen anyway. Why upset the applecart by becoming what you are not? She died decades later at peace and with no regrets. Thus, early in life she became my prime candidate for the don’t-sweat-the-small-stuff merit badge. After all, God recognizes that life requires tenacity. No doubt, He rewards those who can sleep through a droning academic lecture delivered by a verbose professor even as they dream of the bowl of steaming menudo awaiting back home.

Although it skipped a generation, namely my father, I not only inherited her intelligence, but I also inherited her roll-with-the-punches instincts. She may not have been educated, being that she dropped out in the third grade, but when I was in college and trying to prove to her how bright this egotistical college boy was, she looked me in the eye like a hawk flushing out its quarry and upbraided me, telling me, “Mijo, eres tan inteligente que caminas en tu propia mierda.” “My son, you are so bright, you walk on your own shit.” She taught me humility and gratitude with her wise words. I never again did allow my swelled head to believe that I was better than anyone else.

To illustrate our binary connection that demonstrates how we were not that much different from each other, some years ago, I was entertaining friends at our home. Suddenly, one of my guests pulled out a rubber cock ring from his salad plate, an appliance that must have been buried beneath the romaine and the croutons. He held it up to everyone with a disgusted look on this face. The cock ring had been a white elephant gift someone had given me a few days earlier, and I can only guess that I must have inadvertently left it in on the kitchen counter where I prepared our meal a few days later. I knew I had to think fast or possibly lose a friend as well as my reputation as a host. Attempting to disarm the situation with my Cheshire cat smile, I informed him that I had purchased and deliberately placed the cock ring on his plate, in hopes that it would inspire him to head out to Charlies that night and find himself a lusty cowboy with whom to spend the rest of his life. He must have accepted my stretching of the truth, for even to this day he has continued to accept dinner invitations to our home. Later, as I reflected on how I had saved the day, I thought I heard my grandmother’s muffled laughter at how I had managed to turn a possible misfortune into a victory through guile and humor, qualities that are greatly underestimated, especially when caught between a rock and a hard place…no pun intended.

A few days ago, I found myself among fellow writers at the Denver Gay and Lesbian Community Center, where we congregate to share our stories, our adventures with life. Notebook and keys, pens and reading material in hand, I went to the lavatory to relieve my demanding bladder. As I flushed, in slow motion I noted my keys tumbling from my hand and into the bowl, and in a split second, my world turned topsy-turvy. In a surreal moment, I saw the keys swirl around the bowl as though navigating on a white water river and disappear into the guts of the plumbing system. I remember thinking, “Wow, this toilet sure has a strong current.” I plunged my hand with some hesitation into the throat of the porcelain throne, hoping to avoid some awkward explanation, in a desperate effort to salvage my keys and my pride. After the water stopped gurgling, I stood there with what I suspect was a classic what-do-I-do-now stupefied look on my face. I debated simply walking out as though nothing had happened to save face.  Nonetheless, I washed my hands, informed the receptionist at the front desk of my misfortune, and headed up to the reading room. I was annoyed at my fate as I pondered my next options, to walk home, to call Ron at work, to kick myself in the tuchus. I decided to muddle through the reading with as much grit as I could muster.  I found it ironic that just before I read, one of the readers mentioned flushing a cigarette down the toilet, and I took that as cosmic synchronicity.  At that moment the tension dissipated like steam released from a boiling kettle. I recognized my situation to be what it was, small stuff. Gratefully, I discovered a new friend when she drove me home after the reading. Furthermore, by the next day, I had managed to replace all my keys. As for the Community Center, it was not, to my knowledge, deluged by a flood of water from a backed-up toilet on steroids. Later, as I told Ron of my misadventure of the day, we both laughed at how calm I was. In the past, I had cringed and gnashed my teeth when buffeted by life’s inevitable headaches as when my cat pied on my pants one night in retribution for some perceived offense to his feline sensibility. I didn’t notice the stench of cat urine until the following morning at a job interview. Ironically, I still got the job. Now, I just smile, and say, “Shit happens.” And at such moments I can feel my grandmother’s energy as she reminds me to wear my don’t-sweat-the-small-stuff merit medal with pride. Then, we both laugh until tears roll down our eyes. In the end, I suspect most of life is small stuff. When life rankles the soul, I recall an iconic epitaph I recently saw on a Key West tombstone. The carving on granite, I told you I was sick, is undeniably a testament to human grit. Therefore, Mámi, kudos to you. You taught me to use what God gave me. I’ve learned that He smiles at my victories even when I flush them down the crapper.

© 22 Aug 2016 

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.