Favorite Literary Character, by Phillip Hoyle

For me to choose my favorite literary character seems as impossible as to choose my favorite activity from a three-week road trip. I’ve never been able to select just one because I usually prize too many memories. So when I consider that in first grade I began reading about Dick and Jane, in the fifth grade was introduced to the novel when Mrs. Schaffer read to us of Jim Hawkins, Billy Bones, and Long John Silver in Treasure Island, in eighth grade read my first novel which I checked out from the school library, James Fennimore Cooper’s The Spy with its Betty Flanagan and Harvey Birch, and after that never quit reading book after book to the point that in my mid-thirties I was reading five books a week—most of them novels—I’m hard pressed to choose any single character as my favorite. There have been so many!

A few years ago when in my writing I realized I was working on a novel and not simply the collection of short stories I had imagined, I came to the awful realization that although I had read hundreds of novels and recalled from them plenty of characters, scenes, and situations, I had never seriously studied the novel as literature, had never read one under the tutelage of a professor, and had never analyzed the plot, character, or even writing style that makes some stories work so well. So with M.H. Abrams Glossary of Literary Terms in hand, I set out to learn about these things. I began analyzing short stories; then turned my attentions to the novel. I would read a novel and if I liked it enough select one

aspect of it to further study. For example, in one novel I compared and contrasted the opening sentences of each chapter. In another book I found and compared the contents of each place the author changed from present tense to past. In yet another novel I searched to find the dramatic turning points in the main character’s transformation. I went on to analyze how secondary or even one-dimensional characters entered and left novels. I was serious in my pursuit of this knowledge.

Then I turned to books I’d read in the past. I analyzed The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer, Tales of the City by Armistead Maupin, Ceremony by Leslie Marmon Silko, House Made of Dawn by M. Scott Momaday. Somewhere along the way realized I had mostly read novels to enjoy exotic and unusual experiences and to find out what happened. This proclivity was bolstered by my habit of reading murder mysteries in which the big tasks is to figure out ‘who dun it’ as if that were the whole point of reading stories. That seemed my dominant approach. Finally I turned to Ethan Mordden and reread and analyzed several of his Buddies cycle that opened with what seemed to me appropriately titled I’ve a Feeling We’re Not in Kansas Anymore. I liked novels that told the stories of many different people. My novel search for understanding was moving me far away from how I had read them before and, like Mordden’s title far away from all my home state represented. And then there was the really big question: why was I trying to write a novel and how could I do it without making a big fool of myself?

I recall a voice teacher who seemed friends with a woman character Natasha Rostova in Leo Tolstoy’s War and Peace while I couldn’t even recall or pronounce the name of any character from my reading of that monstrously long novel. I recall in December my daughter-in-law reading Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre for the umpteenth time. She said “It’s like a new story,” and she just loves Jane Eyre, probably her favorite literary character. Now I read Bronte and enjoyed the characters but never developed such a relationship with any of them. I just don’t get into character friendships, at least not easily.

Still I really have like some characters. First, Natty Bumpo in James Fennimore Cooper’s "Leatherstocking Tales" although I don’t recall if I respected him; second, Johnny in The Light in the Forest by Conrad Richter although I may really have been more interested in his Shawnee Indian cousin; third, the first-person narrator in Ambidextrous: The Secret Lives of Children by Felice Picano although I didn’t really like him so much as I recognized in him a character who as a child was bisexual like I was; fourth, Bud in Ethan Mordden’s stories, again another first person narrator who as a writer seemed as much the author of the story as its protagonist; and finally, Will in City of Shy Hunters by Tom Spanbauer although very much like in the cases of Picano and Mordden I may have liked the author as much as the character. Still Will became my literary friend because he came from an uncertain past, made creative adaptations to his surroundings, felt enamored of Native Americans, accepted into his life persons whose values widely differed from his own, worked hard, and introduced me to more exotic worlds of gay America, meaning in many important ways, more realistic descriptions of gay life.

But since I ended my list with Will from the Spanbauer book, I’ll say a few things about him who certainly has become an important character in my life if not a favorite (and be warned I’m speaking as much or more about Spanbuaer as I am about his great character Will). Will trusts people. Will does not try to fool himself. Will reveals his faults as well as his ideals and dreams. Will eats with sinners. He survives in the city, thrives there, values important aspects of his life, idealizes some individuals and loves them when they are too real to be idealized. He ekes out a living, is taken advantage of, finds friendship, and in general, builds a meaningful life in a hard and rough city.

And I thrill when Will says:

“Only your body can know another body.

“Because you see it, you think you know it. Your eyes think they know. Seeing Fiona’s body for so long, I thought I knew her body.

“I’ll tell you something, so you’ll know: It’s not the truth. Only your body can know another body.

“My hand on her back, my hand in her hand, her toes up against my toes, Fiona’s body wasn’t sections of a body my eyes had pieced together. In my arms was one long uninterrupted muscle, a body breathing life, strong and real.” (In City of Shy Hunters, p. 184) Will is really real; his friends are real. I am his friend.

© Denver, 22 June 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

Capricorn to Sagittarius, by Pat Gourley

My birthday is January 12th and I was born in 1949 in LaPorte Indiana. So for my first 67.5 years of life on earth I was per popular astrology a Capricorn. I did have my astronomical chart drawn and calculated for me once many years ago. I always responded when asked my sign that I was a Capricorn. Then those with whom I had just shared this vital information would respond with a nod and often saying with authority ‘of course you are’. Strange how very rarely these days I am ever asked my sign when it was often the next thing out your mouth after stating one’s name in the 1970’s, at least in the circles I traveled in.

Needless to say I was surprised, though not particularly dismayed, to learn that I was no longer a Capricorn but thanks to the National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA) I was now a Sagittarius. NASA went an added a 13th zodiac sign to possibly be born under: Ophiuchus (I think phonetically pronounced: ‘oh,fuck-us’)! I have linked below to a couple articles that I used in researching this new and to many a very disturbing development. That would be the crowd that has for years planned their day at least in part after reading their horoscope in the daily paper or blaming all sorts of bad stuff on Mercury in retrograde.

Maybe that’s why you hear less about people’s zodiac signs since who reads the print media anymore. I am sure though that an app must exist for those not willing to venture outside without first checking what’s up for them that day per 3000 year old Babylonian mythology.

So what’s up with this additional zodiac sign? Well in a rather snarky quote from Laurie Cantillo of the Planetary Exploration, Heliophysics Department she explained why they added a 13th zodiac sign called Ophiuchus: “We didn’t change any zodiac signs, we did the math. NASA reported that because the Earth’s axis has changed, the constellations are no longer in the same place they were thousands of years ago”. This shift in axis is due its theorized to lost ice related to global warming causing the Earth to sort of tip to one side. Oops! Try telling folks born under the new sign of Ophiuchus that man-made climate change is a hoax.

Apparently this update in the zodiac signs by NASA, perhaps the first such adjustment since the Babylonians first go at it 3000 years ago, has resulted in 86% of us now having a different sign. This of course radically alters the daily advice we need to be following if we still use these bromides to plan our life. Actually, if you are still relying on this advice I find that more disturbing than whether or not you are consulting the correct sign.

I am reminded of the apparently true stories of Nancy Reagan frequently consulting her personal astrologer, the late Joan Quigley, for advice during their years in the White House on how or when she and Ronnie should proceed in conducting personal, national and world affairs. That explains a few things doesn’t it! Reagan was born on February 6th, which made him a Sagittarius in the old 12-sign model, but now we know he should have been a Capricorn. We are left to ponder how different the world might be today if Nancy’s astrologer had been feeding them the correct celestial information!

One small caveat on how this change has been for me personally sheds a bit of light on my sexual escapades of the past 50 years. You can find all sorts of attributes attributable to your sign on-line though many have not caught up with the addition of Ophiuchus. There is even sexual stimulation advice available. For Capricorns you can supposedly drive them to a frenzy of sexual madness by tickling them behind the kneecaps. Since I am no longer a Capricorn but was really a Sagittarius oh these many years that explains why nobody ever got me off tickling me behind my knees! As a Sagittarius I can apparently be brought to the brink of orgasm by stroking my inner thighs. Though I think this is getting closer to pay dirt, a stimulating move farther north involving a sustained reach-around will still be required for a happy ending.

Capricorn: Jan 20-Feb 16

Aquarius: Feb 16-March 11

Pisces: March 11-April 18

Aries: April 18-May 13

Taurus: May 13-June 21

Gemini: June 21-July 20

Cancer: July 20-Aug 10

Leo: Aug 10-Sept 16

Virgo: Sept 16-Oct 30

Libra: Oct 30-Nov 23

Scorpio: Nov 23-Nov 29

Ophiuchus: Nov 29-Dec 17

Sagittarius: Dec 17-Jan 20



https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/morning-mix/wp/2016/09/26/chaos-in-the-zodiac-some-virgos-are-leos-now-but-nasa-couldnt-care-less/ http://www.cosmopolitan.co.uk/entertainment/news/a45943/star-sign-horoscope-change-2016/

November 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.

New Year Hopes for the Community, by Nicholas

According to my records, with this piece, I am starting my seventh year of coming to tell and listen to stories on Monday afternoon.

It seems odd to think about hope in this grim start to what may be a long and grim year of frustration, setbacks and bad news. This is not a very hopeful time we live in. But maybe this is when we most need to remind ourselves that hope is possible, hope is what keeps us going, hope is what gets us out of bed each morning. And hope, no matter how irrational, is good to have.

So, my hope for the lesbian, gay and trans community is that we learn to turn to each other more for joy and less out of necessity. I know that fearsome problems still haunt our world and community. Violence and bullying is a daily fact for many of our youth. Discrimination still runs rampant in many areas. Determined gay-haters, like the soon to be vice-president of the United States, persist in their work to undo the dignity and security of LGBT lives and generate hostility toward us. There is still plenty of inequality and prejudice out there.

But in many ways, our world is getting less frightening and our grasp on basic rights is growing more secure. It is no longer acceptable to openly degrade gay people—which is why our enemies have to resort to ever greater subterfuges to try to harass us. They’ve lost the sanctity of marriage so now they are reduced to fighting for the sanctity of toilets and who shall be allowed to do their business in which ones.

We still have battles to fight, but my hope is that we will seek out each other’s company less out of a sense of a need for protection, less out of desperation, and more because we just want to be around other L, G, B and T people. We come together not so much because we need to seek shelter in a hostile world but more because we can best express ourselves with each other.

I have many non-gay friends and love them dearly. It’s not that I sense any barriers between us. Yet, there is still more I sense in sharing with queer folk. We share experiences that we’ve all known and don’t have to explain. We share a humor derived from being outsiders. We share spiritualities, arts and a sharp sense of just what community is—or is not. We have been forced to make up our own culture and so we have. We are different and we should relish opportunities to engage those differences.

Most of us come out of a time when lesbians and gays could never take anything for granted. And we shouldn’t. Above all, we shouldn’t take each other for granted. You can find very fulfilling relationships with non-gay people but I do believe that there is one thing we can find only with our own kind—happiness. I do hope that organizations such as the community center we are in continue to thrive—not out of fear and self-defense but from joy. We still need to find each other. I hope that we continue to come here because we want to, not because we have to.

Even in a world more tolerant and open, there is still that special depth of connection that we get to see only in each other. Call it love or desire or a magical ability to coordinate colors and a flare for decorating, you won’t find it outside. You may be welcome to watch football games with legions of Broncos fans, but you won’t get much of a response by commenting that Eli Manning is so much better looking than his brother Peyton. They just don’t get it.

© January 2017

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.

Obama and Gay Centurions and Death, by Louis Brown

I have three interpretations of “Leaving”: (a) Evaluation of Barak Obama’s presidency; Barack Obama will soon be leaving office; (b) Louis Brown leaves New York City from which he recalls another fond memory; (c) Leaving as dying: death of brother, Charles Brown.

(a) President Barack Obama: I voted for him twice. He talks like an enlightened liberal person, but, when the chips are down, he reacts like a hostile right-wing Republican. He went to Flint, Michigan, and spoke to a roomful of black students and told them, “I have your backs.” The facts do not really bear this out. His EPA knew all along that the governor of Michigan was poisoning the people of Flint but did nothing to interfere. His administration did nothing to get the governor of Michigan impeached and removed from office. Mr. Obama, like a bellicose right-wing Republican, continues to wage a perpetual war in Afghanistan, despite the widespread opposition of the American public. When Scott Walker was stripping union workers in Wisconsin of their labor rights, Mr. Obama was silent, breaking with the long history of the Democratic Party advocating for the rights of working people. Au contraire, Mr. Obama promotes TPP which is very hostile to the interests of American working people. So, despite some of his good qualities, Mr. Obama is just another failure in a long line of failed presidents.

(b) Louis Brown leaves New York City: one of my fondest memories of New York City was viewing for the past 3 years in June at the Gay Pride March the Alcazar Night Club float. This consisted of a large truck with a large dance floor platform on which around 15 very tall brawny beautiful Hispanic men, dressed up as Roman Centurions; they performed a rather wild and frenetic and yet very well-rehearsed, disco-style dance routine, accompanied by very loud disco music. The spectacular performance was not pornographic but was very suggestive and very erotic. Imagine, a loud boisterous display of male on male eroticism in public on a sundrenched day in June. I later thought that I should have videotaped the event so that, when asked why I recommend putting Classical Studies in gay and Lesbian studies curriculums, I would show these Hispanic gays evoking ancient Rome. They did a good job in expressing gay pride and making a naughty historical reference. Remember, if you want your minority group to promote a sense of community, and to empower itself, you have to learn its history – so taught Alex Haley, author of Roots. Amen.

(c) Leaving meaning dying: My brother Charles Brown died in 1999 at the age of 52. One of my friends told me he observed that my brother would stay a little too long at night at a local Irish bar in the nearby town of Flushing, New York, and would imbibe too many Martini’s, Manhattans and Bloody Mary’s. That is what killed him. Charlie Brown was thin, and soft-spoken and gay. He worked at a good job at the 42nd Street Library. He had several different boyfriends, but one long-term boyfriend, Pat Marra, was unusually good-looking. He was quite tall, had beautifully formed hands and dark wavy brown hair. He looked like a DaVinci painting. He was so beautiful he reminded me of my Italian teacher, il signor Guido, another unusually gorgeous Italian. I remember even the heterosexual male students in that Italian class were flabbergasted when they looked at him. To accentuate his good looks, he wore very expensive Italian silk suits and stylishly elegant Italian shoes. That was Italian 101. Everyone in the class was looking forward to Italian 102, but, at the end of the semester, Mr. Guido returned to Italy. Boohoo.

Two points to make, my brother Charlie died of alcohol abuse, and his boyfriend, Pat Marra, died of an illegal narcotic overdose, either heroin or cocaine, I forget which. Question, how could the gay community have intervened in their lives to prevent substance abuse? What was missing in their lives?

© 2 November 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.

My Fault, by Jude Gassaway

You can see my fault from outer space.

Of the two big islands in the Gulf of California, Tiburon is the one closest to the Mexican mainland. Seen from above, the northeastern lobe shows a sharp line heading northwest, delineating lighter ground to the north. That straight line is my fault.

Air photo, Tiburon Island (Google Maps)

     In the winter of 1972, just as the subject of plate tectonics was getting started, another student and I were assigned to map the northeast end of Tiburon Island for our Graduate Field Geology class at San Diego State University.
     
     The week before, while mapping on the mainland, we met a pair of Wycliffe Bible translators, whose mission was to bring the word of God to native people. The Religious’ approach was to identify, define, and transcribe the local vernacular, and then translate the Bible into the new language. Here, they focused on the Seri Tribe.

     In Punta Chueca, I met a Seri man who wanted to demonstrate his new reading skills. He had a lesson pamphlet with everyday words in English, Spanish, and Seri. I remember two of the words because of their similarity.
     

A few Seri place names on our base map included oddities like Sierra “Kunkaak” and the multi-hyphenated Punta “Ast-Ho-Ben-O-Glap”.

Our professor, in the course of drafting the geologic map and interpreting the history, had to name and describe the geologic observations. The fault in my field area was just a bit off-kilter to the then-known regional picture. It needed a name so that its geologic significance could be discussed in the text. There were no place names in the fault valley.

I was unaware of the professor’s solution until the map was published several years later. The professor told me that he had noticed that I thought differently and that I often veered off to a little bit away from the others, just as this fault wandered. (As the only woman in the class, sometimes I moved away just to relieve myself.) Then, he thought, “yawassag” –that sounded kind of like a Seri word. And thus, Yawassag Fault was named. Jude Gassaway.

Gastil. R.G., and Krummenacher, Daniel, 1975, Reconnaissance geologic map of coastal of coastal Sonora between Puerto Lobos and Bahia Kino, Geological Society of America, map and Chart Series, MC-16.

  © 2017

About the Author

Retired USGS Field Geologist.
Founding member, Denver Womens Chorus. 

Jude Gassaway is the figure on the left.

Blue Skies, by Gillian

Blue skies smiling at me; nothing but blue skies do I see.

Well for God's sake, how boring is that? Sure, we welcome blue skies because they signal a clear sunny day ahead. We use them metaphorically in the same way. But the fact is that clear blue skies are not interesting. They do not fascinate us the way cloudy skies do. We don't have different names for different parts of a blue sky, the way we talk of cirrus and cumulonimbus clouds.

I belong .... wait for it, you're going to love this .... to The Cloud Appreciation Society. Weird cloud photographers from all around the world post cloud photos and videos to the website, and so many of them are breathtakingly beautiful. I myself have, in my computer, something over 500 photos of nothing but clouds, or those taken primarily because of the cloud formations they capture. In only one of the whole collection is there a clear blue sky.

A while ago, I put together a small booklet of my own sky photos, accompanied by appropriate quotations, because the sky, to me, is too beautiful not to be accompanied by poetic appreciation. As the Cloud Appreciation Society says it -

' ... (clouds) are Nature’s poetry, and the most egalitarian of her displays, since everyone can have a fantastic view of them.'

And, I would add, you don't have to risk life and limb to watch them, unlike so many of nature's more dramatic displays.

The same website also reminds us, in its somewhat tongue-in-cheek 'manifesto', that we should fight what it calls 'blue-sky thinking' wherever we find it. Life, they say, would indeed be dull if we had to look up at a cloudless monotony day after day. It is, of course, a whole lot easier to espouse that philosophy living in a place like Colorado than in the many cities in this country which receive over 60" of rain per year, and have little opportunity to grow bored with clear blue skies.

And there are endless quotes exhorting us to appreciate those metaphorical clouds in our lives, in order that we might fully appreciate the blue skies when they return. Quite honestly, I'm not totally convinced. I suspect this may be a tactical encouragement towards positive thinking of, and response to, the inevitable. Did I really need to break my wrist in order to appreciate my fully-functioning joints? Must I suffer from that miserable Xmas cold to value my usual good health? I don't think so. But I couldn't help myself; I had to see what that WWW had to offer.

There are, need I say, many comments on the topic. Two I really liked.

The first said,

'One can appreciate the Good in Life without experiencing the Bad

However, when one experiences the Bad

That which was not quite so Good becomes Good

and the Good we experience radiates a stronger energy than before...'

The other said,

'.... experiencing bad would definitely allow you to appreciate the good more then you previously have. But if you were raised with the right values to already do all that then you wouldn't necessarily need the bad in your life.'

Points to ponder.

But I return to that 'manifesto' of the Cloud Society, which ends with the final, simpler, injunction,

'.... always remember to live life with your head in the clouds!'

© June 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.

Believing, by Betsy

For the first two decades of my life I religiously recited a creed almost once a week affirming a belief.  Later in my 30’s I stopped doing this because I realized I really didn’t believe the things I was saying I believed. I had no hard feelings about the church, I just stopped believing. I’m referring to the liturgy of the Episcopal Church where I was baptized and confirmed.  The creeds recited in the church liturgy—the Nicene and Apostle’s—were so familiar to me that I could recite both from memory at an early age.

Why are children taught to claim beliefs which they are too young to understand, accept, or reject?  Could it be that IF it is etched deeply enough into your psyche, you will hold on to it for life, never questioning it. It becomes “yours.”  It feels good and it keeps us “safe.”

I recited as I’m sure most of us did, the Pledge of Allegiance every day in school hundreds of times before I ever pondered to what it was that I was pledging allegiance. Around third  grade I thought it odd to pledge to a flag, a piece of cloth hanging on a pole or a wall even while understanding that it is a symbol of our country.  But still why the rote recitation? I think we all know the answer to that question.  By recitation it becomes part of us, we own it and hopefully, later in life, we understand and embrace its meaning.  Never once did an adult explain to me what I was reciting and what it meant.  Just that the recitation was not only important, but also part of one’s life—part of one’s day—like brushing your teeth.

 The next question that comes to mind is why do some examine their beliefs and others go through life never doubting?  I cannot answer that for others, only for myself. I don’t remember my parents teaching me to think critically about anything. They were good parents and I loved them, but they did not question the standard cultural beliefs—at least not out loud. They were not ardent about spreading the teachings of the church, but they accepted those tenants more as a matter of being good Christians and good citizens. I pretty much went along with them, I guess. I really don’t remember. Believing was not “big” in our day to day life. At the same time doubting and challenging was not big either.

I think my mind became “ripe” for critical thinking when I was in college. Or maybe I simply was not mature enough before then. A light came on when I realized I could not will myself to have faith that something was true simply because I was told to do so or because I was told the consequences would be painful for me if I chose not to. One teacher, Professor Jaffe, taught me to question everything. I suppose that’s because that’s what one does in Philosophy class.  But I learned from Professor Jaffe that what is important about learning is thinking for oneself, as well as being exposed to the information. What one does with the information is the whole point.

Thinking back, it seems that it was my husband who put me up to applying critical thinking to   my religious beliefs.  They may have been faintly held beliefs; nevertheless, they had been a part of me for a long time. He simply raised the question one day, “maybe Jesus was just a good man and not divine. How do we know for sure?”  That’s when I made a conscious decision not to take that leap.  We started discussing the power of the church historically. How most of the wars fought throughout history were fought over religious beliefs.  From then on, I questioned everything, my feelings as well as my beliefs.  It was years later, however, that I took any action regarding the feelings I had been questioning in regard to my sexuality.

I am not trying to say that critical thinking is good and faith is bad. They each have a place in my life. But what I do say is that when believing gets in the way of accepting facts and blocks applying information to form one’s opinions, there is a problem. Believing versus gathering information and forming a point of view seems to be the conflict going on today in some political situations. When I see Trump supporters interviewed on the evening news, what I see is people full of fear holding a belief because of that fear, and holding it in disregard of the facts. For example, the belief that ISIS is the greatest threat to life in the U.S. today. ISIS is coming and therefore we all must have guns to protect ourselves and our families. One look at the numbers would make anyone question that belief: in 2013 deaths from ISIS-16; deaths from gun violence-33,000. The numbers speak for themselves if one is willing to take a look at them.

For me it is hard to put my faith in something a book says, even a book considered sacred, or something a person or institution tells me to believe. Yet until I grew up this is what I did and what I was taught to do. This is what most people are taught to do. If it works for them, more power to them.  But it does not work for me and I cannot imagine it ever doing so.

© 12 Jan 2016 

About the Author 

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

Leaving / Rejoice, by Will Stanton

[This is the last posting submitted by Will Stanton. — Editor] 

Leaving

He was diagnosed with lung cancer in 1991.  We knew the inevitable end; we just did not know when.  Each passing day, each passing year, was, in its own way, leaving.  We both understood that.  Some acquaintances told me, “Why don't you leave him?”  I would not, not that way.  I stayed.

I did not cry as a child.  My mother told me that, and we both pondered my difference from other children.  Of course, I felt emotion, but nothing seemed to drive me to tears.  That changed later.  A special someone came into my life who truly mattered - - - and then left.  It was the leaving that changed me.  As the famous 19^th-century, authoress George Eliot stated,  “Only in the agony of parting do we look into the depths of love.”

I always have been sensitive to others, perhaps unusually empathetic and caring.  That increased significantly after his leaving, both with people whom I knew, and also even fictional characters in movies.  If, in viewing well presented stories,  I become particularly attached to characters who have deep bonds with each other, I apparently identify with them, at least subconsciously; for, if they part from each other, either in having to leave or, perhaps, in dying, emotion wells up within me.  Such deep emotion comes suddenly and unbidden.  When a good person dies, leaving the loved-ones behind, the emotion catches within my gut.  When loving, deeply bonded people part ways, never to see each other again, that, too, deeply moves me.  Again, quoting George Eliot: “In every parting, there is an image of death.”

I admit it: I never have come fully to terms with reality, with mortality.  And, I'm not like so many who choose to hold deep-seated beliefs that this world is merely a stepping-stone to a so-called “better world,” beliefs based upon common indoctrination and, perhaps, upon fear and hope,  Oh, I don't mind so much the afflictions and death of inhuman humans, those whose cruelty and dire deeds harm others.  But, it is the good people, the loving people, people who have contributed so much to the betterment of humankind, whose leaving distresses me.  I would be so much more content if they (dare I say, “we”?) did not have to leave.

I understand and feel the passionate, poetic lines of Dylan Thomas:

“Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

So, with these thoughts of mine being presented close to All Souls Day (or in German, “Allerseelen”), with the cold days of December soon upon us, I prefer my thoughts to dwell, instead, upon our happier memories of May, our younger days, as expressed in the final lines of Hermann von Gilm poem, “Allerseelen”, “--- Spend on my heart again those lovely hours, like once in May.”

© 23 July 2016  

Rejoice

This presentation of mine today is very personal, and the first important comments are very blunt.  So, hang on, I appreciate your patience in my telling.  It deals with my medical condition over the last several years and my current frame of mind, which has developed, and perhaps even improved over time.

Among other conditions, my three major problems — mega-killer immune system killing off all my clotting blood platelets down to zero, large granular-T-cell leukemia, and the great possibility of developing blood-clots in any organ, brain, or in the circulatory system, — could kill me at any moment.  So little is understood about these conditions, and especially in my extreme case, that the medical staff are writing papers about me.  I consider that a dubious honor.

Yet, here is where I rejoice.  My attitude to all of this has changed markedly over the last few years.  When I first was diagnosed with these major problems, I was, of course, surprised, shocked, and dismayed.  Yet, a whole team of oncology doctors and nurses went to great, extended effort to treat me.  For a short time, it seemed to work.

Then a couple of years ago, I suffered a truly major event when it seemed that no treatment would ever help.  With each episode, the efficacy seems to diminish.  Many people might totally despair and wish to suffer no more.  I did not quite despair, but I was profoundly disappointed and felt resigned to my fate.  So yes, I did think about simply driving up to the mountains some cold night, park on some high point, and gaze at the mountain scenery until I fell asleep.  Of course, I never did.  I still have some pleasures and satisfactions in my life.

Well here again is where I rejoice.  Despite my circumstances, my whole mind-set has changed and improved.  I do what I need to do with St. Joseph’s Hospital the various Kaiser clinics, and all the doctors and nurses.  But, it is what I do and think and feel outside of all of that which is actually making me happy.

For one, just in a week of being out of the hospital and being able to go home on October 28^th (mind you, with some misgivings of the medical staff), I accumulated as much as fifty hours of accomplishing important tasks that, otherwise, would have been neglected and not gotten done.  In addition to being able to take care of bills and other daily obligations, I was here to go through the five days of repeated efforts to repair my broken furnace (thank God, the Denver temperature was unusually warm), the six days to deal frustratingly with Comcast to get my email back working so that I could communicate with family and friends, and to have one other repair done.  Now, if you understand, I felt satisfaction and actually rejoiced that I was able to complete those tasks.

Secondly, I have spent much of my home-time going back through some of my older, more interesting essays and stories for Telling My Story, carefully editing, and (most fun of all) locating and inserting delightful, augmenting images within the text.  I print them for myself, house them in plastic sleeves, and file them in several notebooks, separated by subject.  Yes, I do find great pleasure in this.

Third, at home, I have the pleasures of my fine piano, my TV, my computer, and all the comforts at home.  And on Sundays, I am able to go with my friends, whom I call “the usual suspects,” to a particularly good Perkins restaurant, have a particularly delicious breakfast, and then play the card-game called “Samba,” a form of canasta at my dining-room table.  That simple ritual is a welcome pleasure and provides me with comfort more than people may realize.  I, especially, have the pleasure of sharing that with my friends.

Good friends, kind friends, are the most important of all these factors.  I am truly appreciative and perhaps even ecstatic to have these warm-hearted encounters with my friends, more than they may realize.

And, that brings me to what finally makes me rejoice.  At this advanced age, with this, yet another, bout of terrible affliction, I finally have accepted my situation, doing what I need to do but not fighting the reality of it.  I have developed over time a more relaxed, philosophical feeling and attitude that “what will be will be.”  I am very thankful that, despite my condition, I feel little pain, very much unlike so many other unfortunate people.  I rejoice in my cheerful, positive, interactions with people, medical staff and very good friends.  My positive, uplifting connection to very good friends is, perhaps, my most powerful treatment, my greatest joy.

Thank you, all my kind friends.

© 15 Nov 2016 

[This is the last story (his “Good Bye”) Will Stanton read to the Telling Your Story group on 21 Nov 2016.  Sadly, he passed into history and memories on 1 January 2017.  He is sorely missed. — Editor]

About the Author 

25 Apr 1945 - 1 Jan 2017

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.

My Favorite Gay Role Model, by Ricky

This should be an interesting topic for our story group.  I can imagine that there will be several gay role models written about; perhaps, one for each of the group members.  But, I can also imagine there will be some members who, like me, have no gay role models.  In which case, it will be interesting to see how those group members respond to this topic.

        As far back in time as I can remember, I only met one gay man (Jim Nabors) that might have become a role model but, was not.  The problem was two-fold.  First, I did not know he was gay until decades later and second, I did not know (or admit to myself) I was gay until decades later.

        In my pre-teen years, I did get to watch Liberace, if he was a featured guest on someone’s TV show.  I did notice his flamboyant costume and signature candelabra sitting on top of his grand piano and thought it was strange when compared to other pianists I had seen in movies or on TV.  However, no adult ever mentioned that he was probably a homosexual in my presence.  It would have been strange if they had brought up a sexual topic to me at that age.  If fact, the only people who did speak about sex were my peers when we finally reached puberty and began to share forbidden information, magazines, and photos taken from our fathers’ “hidden stashes”.

        In high school, I did not know any gay males.  In college, while I did mentally lust after a few males in my dorm, I did not act on the feelings because I was afraid of being labeled “queer” and, at that time, I was terribly shy and did not know how to make friends, straight or otherwise.  After I married, there was very little incentive to even mentally lust after males.  So, it was easy to consider myself “normal” and not homosexual.  Besides, I really did want a family.

        Like many gay men of my generation, marriage was expected by society and it became a place to hide one’s orientation and consciously or unconsciously suppress the desires.  Thus, during the marriage period for me there was no opportunity to develop a relationship with a gay person, so no role model appeared.

        At my current age, I am fairly set in my ways and I have yet to find or (in my opinion) to need a gay role model.  I obtained role models when I was young.  Not human role models, but philosophical role models. 

·       If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything.  (I don’t follow this one all the time, in fact never did follow it exclusively.)

·       Do unto others as you want them to do unto you.

And then came the philosophical role models that still dominate my life:

·       The Boy Scout Oath and the Scout Law. These two underpinnings were cemented in place by my joining the LDS Church.

This is why I am the nice-guy I am.

        The Boy Scout program stopped me from becoming a juvenile delinquent.  I was already on the path to become one because I had no parental supervision and lots of time for my idle hands to find the “Devil’s workshop.”  I could say that my scoutmasters were my role models at the time I needed a role model.  It was a pity that they did not know I was sexually confused and they were not gay.  Who knows what or who I may have become if they had un-confused me at that age.

© 23 February 2015 

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 

Hunting, by Ray S

Here is my pathetic hunting story. I have told you all several stories before of my states of extreme self pity. I was so very sure I must have been an unwanted adopted child. This attitude became most evident when members of the family realized that their social or vacation plans became complicated by the need to figure out what to do with the Boy Child.

Everyone’s Saturday night plans were such that the low man on the totem pole turned out to be the Big Brother who had plans to spend the evening with a lady friend, evidently deemed of great romantic potential. Could anything dampen one’s plans better than having to take the Little Brother along on the date of a maybe lifetime? But the parents had plans for that night too, and they took seniority precedence.

After arriving at the home of Brother’s amore, they settled the child in with necessary coloring books (this story predates TV) and the funny papers, and warned him to stay put while they stepped out for a brief journey to a local ice cream parlor, or so they said.

As I previously described to you the glorious degree of ‘poor me’ took command. After obediently wearing out the box of Crayolas and memorizing the Tribune’s comics, a decision was arrived at by His Nibs: “I will show them. I’ll run away and they will find me never, never, never!” In this instance the open road consisted of several neighborhood blocks dimly lit by an occasional street lamp.

Eventually the spirit of revolt lost some of its motivation and maybe it was time to return to the frenzied desperate arms of the would-be guardians. Only then did the forsaken one realize that after searching and hunting for Young Lady’s house, His Nibs was lost.

Sitting on the street curb, two fists rubbing away the tears from two sad and maybe repentant eyes, he looked up to his side at a tall blue-uniformed man. The man reached down for a little arm and softly said, “Come with me, I’ll take you home.”

© 26 September 2016  

About the Author 

Birthdays, by Phillip Hoyle

My fifteenth birthday was a day of celebration but not so much over me as it was over our family’s move from Junction City to Clay Center. Don’t mistake this by thinking we were excited to be leaving an army town to go to some idyllic place in the countryside. Actually we kids were horrified to think we were moving to a town with only one four-way stop light. We were going out to the sticks in our minds. Still, the move was a celebration.

Probably this birthday was the first one I had that didn’t feature a cake with candles, wishes, and the suspense of wondering if I would get all of the candles blown out in one breath. The night before we family members went to several neighboring houses to sleep since all our goods had been packed the day before into a moving van. Tippy, my beagle, stayed in our garage, the cats on the back porch of the house. We came back for them in the morning. When we were ready to leave, we kids went to get the three of them for the trip. I put Tippy on the leash, Lynn got a good hold on Kissy—her Persian ’fraidy cat—and Holly picked up Mascot—a reprobate tomcat that one rainy afternoon had come home with our youngest sister. I said I’d get the car door. Tippy insisted on sniffing something and then we took off in a run around the west side of the house. The girls and their cats came around the east side of the house just as Tippy and I burst by. Kissy clawed Lynn in a desperate and successful attempt to escape. We got Mascot and Tippy into the car and went searching for Kissy who was nowhere to be found and, if she heard us calling “Kitty, Kitty, Kitty,” didn’t care. We had to leave her and go meet the truck some forty miles away.

During the drive to Clay Center, Tippy hung her head out the open window, Mascot got sick in his litter, and Lynn cried over the loss of her pet. Finally we got to the new town and opened the house to receive our furniture, appliances, and personal effects. I don’t recall a cake or any such celebration, but I do know I began to move into my room, one with a large closet, plenty of wall space for my artwork, and a carpeted floor. The junior decorator in me was a bit over-excited for already Mom had ordered drapes and such, and we were setting out to re-do the whole house.

Later that day, after the van had pulled away and things were settling down, I went outdoors to set up Tippy’s new home in the garage and eventually to assess the lawn. The new power mower was due to arrive the next day; I wanted to be ready. Since the big old house sat on three corner lots, I was trying to figure out how to organize my attack on grass and weeds. I heard a ruckus in the north yard and went to investigate. There I found Mascot stealthily marking his new territory and blue jays in great screaming protest attacking him like protective dive bombers. Such drama!

We were all moving in and making our best ways into the future. I would have new responsibilities, a new school, new teachers, new church, and new friends. I hoped nothing would dive bomb my attempts to make my way. And fortunately I found a strong music program, many activities with kids at church, and a new job. Actually it was the same job—carrying out groceries—but in a new store, this one managed by my uncle who paid me twice as much as my dad had in our other store. I felt like I was growing out of boyhood in a rapid approach to adult life, and I felt ready for it all. While the day’s activities were exhausting and probably there was not a birthday cake, the whole package was a celebration of life and of a new future for me as I began the sixteenth year of my life.

© 14 Nov 2016  

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

My Happiest Day/Leaving, by Pat Gourley

From the Pali Canon:

The Buddha was speaking to a group of monks. He said, “Monks, suppose that this great earth were totally covered with water and a man were to toss a yoke with a single hole into the water. A wind from the West would push it East; a wind from the East would push it West; a wind from the North would push it South; a wind from the South would push it North. And suppose a blind sea turtle were there. It would come to the surface only once every 100 years. Now what do you suppose the chances would be that a blind turtle, coming once to the surface every 100 years, would stick his neck into the yoke with a single hole?”

And the monks answered, “It would be very unusual, Sir, that a blind turtle coming to the surface once every hundred years would stick his neck into the yoke.”

And the Buddha replied, “And just so, it is very, very rare that one attains the human state.”

My happiest day was January 12^th, 1949. This was the day of my birth and it took place in La Porte Indiana.  Based on the Buddha’s thoughts above I was one lucky fella. Putting blind turtles aside and relying instead on actual current knowledge of the development from a fertilized egg to viable fetus your chances are probably less than 20% of making the grade. A very significant majority of embryos never make it beyond the first couple days or weeks following conception.

If according to the most extreme “right-to-lifers” human life begins at conception then heaven is overwhelmingly populated with embryos. Or do embryos have fully actualized souls with developed human personalities? Sorry but that is a bit beyond my comprehension. And if you do believe in God having a direct hand in inflicting his will on all sentient life on the planet then that would make him by far the world’s leading abortionist. There really are a lot of holes in this whole “God thing” when you start to critically ponder it, which of course is why the whole business of “faith” was cooked up. To quote Dana Carvey’s SNL character the Church Lady; “how convenient”!

 And the gauntlet doesn’t end with a live birth but the odds of making it to at least the age of reason, which the Catholic Church tells us is age seven, is certainly much better than in ages gone by. If, however, you are born in many of the poorer countries of the world your chances of dying in infancy are still considerable.

So I must say that the happiest day of my life came with the added bonuses of being born a white male in the United States. This could only have been better if I had been born white in a western European democracy, post 1945 of course.

I suppose I could also say the happiest day of my life, the one with the greatest long-term daily benefit, was the day I came out. Only problem there is pinning down the exact date. My coming out was certainly a process with at times fitful starts and stops, a gradual evolution lasting from about age ten until my mid-twenties. I was certainly much happier at the end of this process than at the beginning. There was though no particular day filled with bolts of lightening from on high and a choir of angels singing to usher me to the promised queer land.

I therefore must return to my day of birth as my happiest since this provided the opportunity for all that was to follow. I am very happy that I was not one of the millions of embryos that inadvertently wind up getting flushed down a toilet or expelled into an open sewer. I truly am one lucky son-of-a-bitch.

I am now left to often ponder what it will be like to take my final leave. Let’s face it all the other leaving one engages in life is really small potatoes compared to the final exit. It is often the paralyzing and at times incomprehensible fear of our vaporizing into nothingness after we take our final breath that has spawned the very many human creations of an afterlife and higher power. If only we aren’t really leaving but rather transitioning to something better and eternal, the ultimate bit of delusional thinking. The idea that I am so great that the Universe can’t possibly go on without me is now in my mind simply deluded human hubris.

Though I am convinced that the human dance on this planet is a going to be limited and very short in the grand scheme of things that does not in any way diminish how fucking amazing it will have been. In growing into the label of humanist, or atheist if I am in a particularly ornery mood, I want to be able to say that when I do take my final leave I will have left things a bit more conducive to other sentient beings able to experience and enjoy the wonder of being one of those lucky blind turtles.

© 29 Oct 2017 

About the Author 

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

Another Plug for Metropolitan Community Churches, by Louis Brown

Romans 6:23, King James Version (KJV)

²³ For the wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.

“Consequence” is a term of logic, that reminds me of the inevitability of death for sinners as stated in the above-cited Biblical quotation. This often repeated phrase always bothered me. It was used as an excuse to persecute heretics and gay people. It reminds me further of the so-called “clobber passages” often cited from the Bible. Homophobes use this phrase not only to persecute gay people and other non-conformists, they use it to justify their internalized irrational hatred of all non-conformists and people who are different.

Most gay people accept the basic premise of the homophobic version of Christianity and become atheists or agnostics or adopt earth-oriented spiritualties. Personally, I side with Lesbian and gay male positive interpreters of Christianity. In refuting the homophobic version of this Biblical citation, I would remind the homophobe that God did not ordain that majorities get the moral right to define “sin”. Well, MCCR is doing a good job in refuting homophobic prejudice in Bible studies.

My parents were non-conformists and had a negative view of Christian churchdom. Presbyterians (our ancestral denomination) consisted, according to them, of hypocrites who go to church and worship the almighty dollar and call it God. The Catholic Church has a history of sympathizing with Hitler and Mussolini and then makes the dubious claim of being the ultimate moral authority for their believers and for everyone. What a joke!

Personally, I would not go as far as my parents. But we should be on guard for hypocrisy in the Church and for intolerance for non-conformists, but give gay and Lesbian Christians the opportunity to construct a more tolerant, a more enlightened version of Christianity.

© 11 Oct 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.