Month: June 2013

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Some Rambling Explorations by Ray S

It was during the summer of his eighth year. Father had set up camp for the family at the Indiana Sand Dunes State Park. Close enough so he could commute into the city and be with the family all weekend. When you’re that young you take a lot for granted and looking back now it is amazing to realize how well planned and engineered the little camp community was. Besides his family, mother, father, and older brother, there were three other families that met at the campgrounds each summer. All with various canvas domiciles. One was even a real circus tent with the interior sub divided by sheets hung on clothesline to allow for some degree of privacy and decorum. But nothing in his mind could compare with Father’s layout.

There were three of the latest no-center-pole square tents. If memory doesn’t fail, they were interestingly or curiously named Dickey Bird tents. Father set the two tents up facing each other with the front flaps joining to make a dining-sitting area–the sides draped with a zippered doorway and made of something called ”bobbinet.” All of this was set upon a 6-inch high wooden deck to keep the sand out and dry in case of rain. The T-bird tent was for him and his brother.

The little kids would go swimming, or learned to swim assisted by adults in beautiful Lake Michigan–oblivious of the nearby steel mills of Gary.

There were exploring expeditions in the shoreline sand hills collecting little pails full of wild blueberries, which Mother made into wonderful pies for the crew’s communal dinners. And, yes, she baked them in a fireside tin oven. The lady was quite adept at camping culinary cuisine.

Usually on the 2nd of July a pit was dug a little way from the tents. About 5-feet square and 4-feet deep. Then the men would build a big fire and keep it going until morning when there would be a goodly pile of hot coals. Fresh ham roasts, loins and pork ribs were seasoned and wrapped tightly in layers of butcher paper followed by three layers of wet burlap sacks, all tied and bound. The bundles were lowered into the pit of coals and then covered over with the excavated soil.

The next day, the 4th of July was celebrated with everyone enjoying the pit roasted barbecue and all the trimmings.

Brother and his buddies all went down to the lakeside in hopes of finding some teenage romance. The little kids sat around the campfire watching the adults doing what adults do when it is party time and celebrating the demise of prohibition.


Summer at camp, swim and play, and know there would never be an end to those happy days.

But he does recall how everybody became so quiet and spoke in hushed voices one day. He finally asked Mother and Father why this change in the people’s mood. One of the families actually had a car radio and had heard the announcement of the plane crash and subsequent deaths of the pilot–one Wiley Post and his passenger friend, Will Rogers. This was the major national tragedy of the time, the Great Depression notwithstanding.

Exploring the childhood days of the early half of the 20th century has led from blueberries, sand and camp to realities of the Graf Zeppelin at Lakehurst, the soup kitchens and bread lines in all the cities, the underworlds personalities of John Dillinger, Al Capone, Bonnie and Clyde, the rise of totalitarian governments in Europe and the Orient, and the ultimate reality, World War II.

So much for exploring. On to our next topic, “No Good Will Come of It.”

© 1 May 2013

About the Author














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Snapshots [Le Flaneur] by Nicholas

The French, they say, have a word for it. In fact, the French have words for things that nobody else even knows exist. Le flaneur is an example. I don’t know how to translate that term into English because the object—in this case, person—it describes doesn’t really exist among English-speaking people. He is found only in France and, really, only in Paris.

Perhaps, boulevardier comes close but you can’t define one French term with another. A flaneur is a man of the streets but not what we would call a street person. He is not a bum; he is a man of leisure and some elegance. Not ostentatious American elegance but that quiet Parisian elegance. And I’m afraid I must use only the masculine pronoun here because I don’t think there is a feminine equivalent. Lady of the streets means something completely different.

Le flaneur has been translated as stroller since the word comes from the French verb “to stroll.” Edmund White even wrote a whole book about Paris using the perspective of the stroller. Le flaneur, he writes, “is by definition endowed with enormous leisure, someone who can take off a morning or an afternoon for undirected ambling, since a specific goal or a close rationing of time is antithetical to the true spirit of the flaneur. An excess of the work ethic inhibits the browsing, cruising ambition to wed the crowd.”

I like to think of myself as somewhat of a flaneur even though, Americans are particularly unsuited to flanerie, says White, and I am probably guilty. I admit my ramblings are usually not purely aimless. I usually have little stops to make, things to do, like go to the bank or something. But surrounding my points of busyness, I wander. I do “wed the crowd,” as he puts it, which is simply to be part of the multiplicity and anonymity of a group of people on the street going about their business, hurrying to appointments, running to catch a train, doing some errand, or just walking.

Denver isn’t Paris and it can be difficult at times to find a crowd to amble with. San Francisco and New York are the best USA cities that allow such socializing. But I manage.

Setting out, I hop onto an RTD bus—driving would be counter to le flanerie—and head into the city center. Whatever Monsieur Le Flaneur does, he does in public spaces. In fact, it was while riding the #10 bus, a route running often enough that you can use it spontaneously without a schedule, that I realized that that was what I was about. I like to spend my free time rambling about the city just to see my city. Many times I will have some errand to run but I mostly wander to a set of favorite spots, noticing what’s on the street from those awful paving stones on the 16th Street Mall to new destruction or construction. I spend hours reading or writing in a warm café on a cold day. Common Grounds coffee house is one favorite, Tattered Cover bookstore is another, The Market café is a frequent breakfast stop as is Udi’s for lunch.

The other day found me heading over to Platte Street across the river to drop in on the Savory Spice Shop. I needed some herbs and spices and they have the best Vietnamese cinnamon in town. I also like just to breathe in the aromas of all the spices and herbs and blends they have. On that clear, crisp winter day, I strolled over the pedestrian bridge over the river and through the park, this bit of nature slicing through the heart of urban pavement. I ambled into downtown admiring the views, the fresh air, and all the people out jogging, bicycling, or just walking from where they were to where they would soon be. Each moment of observation was like a snapshot of this city. I ended up near Union Station, presently under construction and soon to be a hub for commuter trains. I was watching the city being built as Denver creates more spaces for itself to live in.

So, that is my goofy tale. Rambling through the city, noting all the variety of activity as my urban cohorts—workers, students, shoppers, diners, fellow travelers—go about their day. A tale of goofing off—an Americanized version of a little bit of Paris.

© 11 April 2013

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.

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SPECIAL EDITION: PRIDEFEST

Today’s Special Edition presents stories from three authors.


Breaking into Gay Culture

by Michael King

It was a little over 4 years ago that I got the nerve to go to the Gay Pride activities at Civic Center. I had gone about 15 years ago and ran into someone that I knew and at that time I was so far in the closet that I couldn’t admit even to myself that I was fascinated and curious about the gay culture. Having seen someone that recognized me freaked me out. So after all those intervening years, I finally got up enough nerve to check things out again. My problem wasn’t with being gay, but with other peoples’ reactions. But now I was retired and my only concern would be my kids’ reactions. I figured it didn’t matter much at this point in my life now that they were grown. But I saw no point in saying anything unless I had a lover. I didn’t know much about gay culture and was uncomfortable with going to bars, straight or gay. And for the most part I was unaware of the gay activities and groups where I might meet others and learn about these things.

So I leisurely strolled around Civic Center Park and observed, but without much understanding of the goings on. I was approached by this elderly man who handed me a green card about a luncheon held on Wednesdays with a group of gay men called the Prime Timers. The little gentleman I later got to know. His name was Francis Acres and I credit him with opening the door for me to discover a part of myself that was yearning for expression and acknowledgement. At the time I thanked Francis for the invitation and stuck the green card in my pocket fully intending to trash it when I got home. However just as I was about to throw it in the garbage I looked at it again. Suddenly it seemed like it was the thing I had hoped for. I called the telephone number on the card and left a message for someone to call me with more information. I didn’t get a response. On Wednesday I called the 20th St Cafe where the “Nooners” luncheon was held and found out the time it started. Not knowing how long it would take by bus, I got there quite early. Don Harvey and Jim Michaels were there, greeted me and explained the procedure for buying the lunch and some information about the group. I watched as the members came in and had my first exposure to a gay activity. By the third Wednesday I joined Prime Timers and have been going to events and activities ever since. I started going to the Monday “Coffee Tyme” where last year, I met my lover. Slowly I was feeling more and more comfortable with the group activities and discovered that many older men had also been married, raised children and came out late in life. Others have always been gay while a couple of the guys I met were not only out, but still married. I was no longer the only one with a family and straight friends. I got involved in The Denver Church, later to be known as The Center for Spiritual Living-Denver. And about 2 1/2 years ago, I started going to activities at the GLBT Center. 

         When I met my first lover at “Nooners,” I finally told my kids. A surprise to me, they all said that they had always known. My oldest daughter said, “I knew you were gay before you did! Ha, ha, ha.”

          Now on Mondays we go to the Telling Your Story group, of which this writing is for this week. On Tuesdays is the Men’s Coffee group. Wednesdays is “Nooners,” Thursdays I go to The Open Art Studio and on Fridays I volunteer at the front desk.  “Nooners” on Wednesday and The Center for Spiritual Living on Sundays are the only regular activities not at the GLBT Center. Of course there are other activities now and then, some monthly, others only one time events, others a few times a year. We also belong to the Colorado Front Rangers.

          I’m now experiencing one of the most rewarding and happy periods of my life. I am very comfortable being myself and doing things I would never have done in the past. I went to the celebration of the repeal of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” with my two lovers dressed in drag, fulfilling a fantasy I have had for a long time. I rode sitting on the back of convertibles in two Gay Pride Parades, waving like the queen that I have become. Last month I had 4 outfits, including 4 wigs and 3 pairs of shoes as I participated as Queen Anne Tique in The Gray Stocking Review. I am recognized by people that I don’t remember meeting because I’m almost always wearing large and often unusual gages. Gages is the name the kids use for body jewelry worn in piercings. Many of mine are 0 gage. I only wear 6 gages in my nipples. I also have a few tattoos, even though there is nothing particularly gay about that.

          A comment that I make perhaps too often is, “I was born a king, but it took me 70 years to become the queen I am today!”

          When interviewed by Channel 4 after the vote to repeal “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,” I looked so gay, it even surprised me when I saw it on the news. The anchor introduced the interview with this statement, “Michael King, a gay activist.” When I heard that remark, I realized that I now have a mission. I will let everyone know that I love being myself. So I guess that by now, I’ve truly broken into gay culture almost totally and feel so wonderful for having done so.

Except for Sunday, Thursday and Friday, while I am either at one or the other Centers and while Merlyn is at the Gym, both of us are always together.

About the Author

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

Exaggeration 

by Pat Gourley

In thinking about this word I realized that it is something that I have many times been accused of when acting my most “queenly” and uninhibited. I do though think that exaggeration may be an innate queer quality that has certainly in the past and continues today to serve us well. I am not sure that what is really happening in my more exaggerated moments, and this would be true for the queer world at large, would not more accurately be described as exuberance.

If I might take the liberty to use an example I see often around this [storytellers] table it would be Michael’s earrings. One could easily view these wonderful adornments as certainly exaggerated and quite over the top. I choose to view them as an example of his exuberance for life.

[Editor’s comment: Refer back to the picture of today’s first author above to see Michael’s earrings.]

Early on especially for young gay men and women it is often exaggerated tones of voice, hand gestures, clothing choices and body English that seem almost to be expressed unconsciously that attracts the attention of the straight world. It is viewed as something quite queer by our hetero parents, siblings etc. but for us most often it is something arising from our very souls and seems to us to be quite a natural expression. Something not contemplated or premeditated but simply expressed spontaneously.

What is “reparative therapy” for example in part but the attempt to squash our innate sense of exaggeration or our true sense of exuberance for life? Usually it is men who fall into these programs and are encouraged to be aware of speech and hand movements to tone it down and present themselves in more manly and subdued fashion.

A personal example of my own “exaggeration” I suppose could be the gardens I have planted over the years, often over the top and full of color. If you knew what you were looking for you could simply walk down the block and spot the queer house many feet away. I wasn’t trying to exaggerate but merely was expressing my exuberance for brightly colored plants and lots of them. Oh, and I have an extensive collection of purses that I hope I still carry most often in a very fey manner.

How else but through exaggeration do you breakthrough the soul-crushing curtain of heterosexuality that smothers us all from cradle to grave? Particularly, the exaggeration of difference becomes vital in forming our queer identities. Subtly does not get one very far.

A perfect example of productive exaggeration to refer to this month is our annual celebration of the Stonewall Riots. This momentous event of course occurred at the Stonewall Inn in Greenwich Village NYC in the early morning hours of June 28th, 1969. This action was started and sustained for three days by the most exuberant members of our community, drag queens. Wikipedia defines a drag queen as: “…males who dress and act in a female gender role, often exaggerating certain characteristics (such as make-up and eyelashes) for comic, dramatic or satirical effect.” (Emphasis mine)

One of the most poignant descriptions of that event is in Larry Mitchell’s iconic tome from 1977 The Faggots & Their Friends Between Revolutions.

Action Fierce Against the Men

One warm and rainy night, the faggots and their friends were gathered in one of their favorite cellars dancing and stroking each other gently. Suddenly, the men, armed with categories in their minds and guns in their hands, appeared at the door. The faggots, true to their training for survival, scrammed out the back windows, up into the alley and out into the anonymous night. The queens, unable to scram in their gold lame and tired of just surviving, stayed. They waited until boldness and fear made them resourceful. Then, armed with their handbags and their high heels, let out a collective shriek heard round the world and charged the men. The sound, one never heard before, unnerved the men long enough for the queens to get into the streets. And once on the streets, their turf, mayhem broke out. The word went out and from all over the devastated city, queens moved onto the streets, armed, to shout and fight. The faggots seeing smoke, cautiously came out of hiding and joyously could hardly believe what they saw. Elegant, fiery, exuberant queens were tearing up the street, building barricades, delivering insults, daring the men.

So they joined the queens and for three days and three nights the queens and their friends told the men, in every way they knew how, to fuck off.

(Larry Mitchell, The Faggots and Their Friends Between Revolutions, 1977. The book is long out of print but a few used copies can be found and a PDF version is available on line.)

Let’s not forget this Pride 2013 as Larry Mitchell so eloquently states in his book; “it’s been a long time since the last revolutions and the faggots and their friends are still not free.”

Denver, June 2013

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 am currently back in Denver after an extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California.



Gay Pride 

by Phillip Hoyle

Kalo sat cross legged watching the Gay Pride Parade on East Colfax as GLBT floats, dancers, marchers, banners, balloons, and bands made their way from Cheesman Park to the Civic Center. It was his third Gay Pride Parade, the event his dad claimed to be the best parade he’d ever seen, combining the intimacy of small-town acquaintance with the glitz of big-city resources. This time Kalo was alone with his grandpa and a few of his grandpa’s friends. It was a new adventure, the capstone to a week of art experiences in the big city. While making plans for the week I, his grandfather, told his mother we could include the gay parade. She said that was just fine. Kalo agreed, so he and I joined the crowd to see the spectacle and to visit the festival on the mall below the Colorado State Capitol building.

Ten-year-old-cool-man Kalo experienced a day of surprises that he watched with fascination, yet without alarm. His perfect visual memory recorded events and impressions that he seemed to treasure. When Kalo returned to Missouri, he told his parents a number of the highlights—the diverse crowd, the gathering of punk-rock lesbians, the woman who wasn’t wearing a shirt, the body painting, the drag queens, and more—but when his dad asked about the parade, Kalo said it wasn’t as good as the other ones he had seen.

“Why?” his dad asked.

“There were too many beer ads.”

Beer was there—everywhere—in the parade, along the route, and at the festival; everywhere folk slurping, swigging, sloshing, and spilling beer. Whether or not the kid saw all the full and quickly emptying cups I don’t know. He did notice the floats with fifteen-foot-high pitchers, enthusiastic dancers, beer banners, and loud music.

When my son relayed his son’s evaluation, I laughed and said, “He’s right. One of the main sponsors of the event is CoorsLight! They had several floats.” Of course, Coors looks at Gay Pride as effective advertising. They know how many gay bars, if not individuals, purchase their products across the West and value the important gay market. So they cooperate in order to stimulate corporate profits. They can also claim a liberal and open attitude.

I’m not proud of the alliance although I have no real objection to beer drinking. Archaeology clearly demonstrates that humans were brewing and drinking it thousands of years ago in the Middle East. They probably did so everywhere farmers raised grain. They still do, both where they have little advertising and where the market is hyped with the latest media technology combining pro-suds and pro-sports.

Yuck. I just spilled beer on my leg. The kid was right, at least to my sensibility; the Parade does have too many beer ads and way too much beer. Perhaps I am just not that much into the Dionysian revels, being too much Apollonian to simply laugh it off and lap it up. Of course, I too can down my beer even if I prefer another brand. But I don’t feel any pride over it; nor do I feel shame, guilt, or degradation.

Pride and lack of pride stem from a popularized psychology of minority concerns. I’m not into the slogans, but I do value gay pride. By contrast, I know many gay men and lesbians and others who are pleased as punch to be who and what they are but who want no identification with the rollicking groups of dancers, drag queens, leathermen, Dykes on Bikes, and such. But they do benefit from the hard work at The GLBT Community Service Center of Colorado where the festivities are planned, from the public profile of PFLAG members who proudly march for their kids and friends in this public display, and from the quiet work of lobbies for human rights within American law. We can be proud of that. I am. I’m happy to be at the festival drinking a beer or two, eating a sandwich, looking at the booths, watching performances, hearing music, and laughing with friends and acquaintances at this annual family reunion of sorts. It’s nice. I like it.

I’m proud to be here because I know at base it’s political. This mass of proud folk has a voice. Legislators and administrators admit it although sometimes with great reluctance due to their fears of not being reelected. Businesses recognize it with big buck grins. I’m not proud of the shenanigans of some of the revelers here, but I recognize the power Gay Pride represents and its balancing effects in Denver, in Colorado, and in the good ol’ USA. Show your colors, Denver; wave your rainbow flag, Colorado. Be proud enough, USA, to change a few more policies, even some in the military.

Dance, shout, celebrate. Okay, drink a few; even a few too many if you must. Take the bus home or stay over at the close-by apartment of a friend on Capitol Hill. I like our Gay Pride Festival and just hope all of us proud gays will get home safely, meaning without STDs, DUIs, ODs, or DTs.

Denver, 2010

About the Author

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

Today’s Special Edition presents stories from two authors.


How Queer Is Queer: Just Being Me

by Donny Kaye

“SOME DUDES MARRY DUDES.  GET OVER IT”
“I HAVE A PHD. Pretty huge dick”
“BEST LICK ON A STICK”
“I LIKE GIRLS THAT LIKE GIRLS”

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


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

     Yes!

     I am! Queer that is!

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

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

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

     There seems to be a pattern; partner, daughter, best friend, all seemed to have known. In fact when I consider the many coming out conversations I had with my “then” circle of friends” not too many were surprised. It was the confirmation that sent them scrambling! 
I don’t know if that was about me, or them, but definitely it was too much!

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

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

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

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

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

     Certifiably queer! I am just me! 

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

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

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

[The above story references PrideFest 2012.)



About the Author

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


Queer, Just How Queer
by Phillip Hoyle


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


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

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

* I’m as queer as the little boy who wanted to wear both cowboy and Indian costumes in public.
* I’m as queer as the boy who donned his great aunt’s wig and sister’s skirt and went to the family grocery store to show himself to his dad.
* I’m as queer as the teen who used to lie in bed next to his dad, not only to read alongside him but also to smell him.
* I’m as queer as the teen who bragged to another boy about marking his friend with hickies.
* I’m as queer as any teen boy singing in the school choir and more than most of them.
* I’m as queer as the high schooler who looked forward to each issue of House Beautiful.
* I’m as queer as the boy who ordered prints from a NYC art print company and treasured the company’s catalogue with its variety of homoerotic images.
* I’m as queer as the young man who discovered the striking 
International Male ads and catalogue.
* I’m as queer as the young man whose first male friend in adulthood was homosexual.
* I’m as queer as the young man who read all the homosexual-theme books in the public library.
* I’m as queer as the young man with wife and children who at age thirty fell in love with another man.
* I’m as queer as the young man who reveled in the idea he was bisexual.
* I’m as queer as the young man who discovered that his homosexual proclivities lay at the center of his sexuality.
* I’m as queer as the middle-age man who had sexual affairs with other men.
* I’m as queer as the writer who when he was asked to include cultural diversity in an adult religious education resource anthology quoted gay writers and HIV-related themes alongside many other cultural writings.
* I’m as queer as the middle-age man who left his wife to live as a gay man in a large city.
* I’m as queer as the old man who snapped photos at Pridfest knowing he was as queer as anyone there and loved the notion and the reality of it.

     I am the old man who says all these things proudly and with love, deep love for all my companions:
* Male and female
* Educated and uneducated
* Professional and worker
* Wealthy and dirt-poor
* Crazy and sane
* Chic and tasteless
* Laughing and crying
* Hale and exhausted
* Living it up and overwhelmed
     
     So, how queer am I? Pretty darn queer and happy as a lark about it.
     And now, if you’ll pose, I’ll take even more pictures with my camera, snapshots of the folk who add so richly to the queerness of my existence and the joy of my gay life. 

About the Author

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

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Proud to Be by Phillip Hoyle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Denver, 2009

About the Author



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

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

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What’s My Sign by Michael King


When
people ask me about my sign I tell them that I don’t have one.
I’ve
thought about stop signs, turn right signs or do not enter, but most people
think in terms of astrology which I think is a bunch of superstitious crap
where people don’t take responsibility for their lives and the decisions they
make.
I
do have a sign. It’s in my daughter’s garage so I guess it’s really hers. At
one point in my life I was in business. I leased a space in a mall and opened a
gift and flower shop. At the entrance which was the width of the shop into the
mall I put tree trunks with branches that were from the floor to the ceiling of
the area where the shop was located. From the top of my shop to the ceiling of
the mall interior was about ten feet. I painted a sign that fitted nicely in
that space. “The Enchanted Forest” under which was “Gifts and flowers”. The
tree trunks were elm given to me by my friend’s mother. I painted them blue.
Some months later they started leafing out.
I
was very successful for about a year. Many of my customers drove many miles to
get unusual greeting cards, gifts that weren’t available in other stores or
special floral arrangements that were personalized for the recipient. One of my
best customers was The Denver Dry Department Store, which was the finest
department store in Colorado. It was hard work but also very satisfying.
I
had been open a little less than a year when The May Company,  parent corporation of May D & F, another
department store bought The Denver Dry. They closed all The Denver Dry stores
and forced the malls where they were located to go out of business. They wanted
everyone to shop in the newly expanded Cherry Creek Shopping Center. Of course
there were law suits and in most cases The May Company lost, however in the
mall where I was located  there were over
30 small one owner shops that were forced out of business without the capital
to fight the giant corporation. I was wiped out along with the thirty some
neighbors and friends that had made that mall one of the most interesting and
diverse in the Denver area.
It
took some years to get back on my feet financially, and in a way, I never did
quite recover, but slowly I moved on and had numerous other valuable
experiences. In retrospect I learned a great deal in that year and the one that
followed when I did everything I could or knew to do so as to not leave loose
ends.
I’ve
had many difficult years in my life and realize that much was due to the risks
I have taken to achieve a goal or to try to honorably face difficulties. It is
a result of those successes and failures, challenges and dreams, insights and
growth that I feel so blessed.
I
don’t remember what arrangement I made with my daughter, but the sign ended up
in her garage and when she moved from the townhouse into the big house where
they still live, the sign moved there also. It has become a reminder of the
time when I was like the man from La Mancha and followed my dream.

Perhaps
the success was that I achieved putting together that dream. Would it have
succeeded if The Denver hadn’t been sold? I would like to think so, but maybe
not. I’m glad that I had those experiences and feel a sense of pride when I
visit my daughter, peek into the garage and see my sign. 
©
20 May 2013




About the Author


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


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Multi-racial by Merlyn


Some of the most
attractive people I have known are Multi-racial, but that doesn’t guarantee
they will have good looking kids. 
I used to know a white
girl that married a guy from somewhere in Asia. They had two girls. Even though
they both looked like their parents, one of them was gorgeous and the other one
was very unattractive.
One of the kids I went to
school with had an Indian father who was always drunk and a white mother and a bunch
of brothers and sisters.
I used to deliver the
Detroit Times newspaper to his house in the afternoon when I was a kid and we
were in the same grade.
The thing I remember the
most about him was that his father raised guinea pigs in a spotless new white
garage at the end their driveway. The walls were lined with shiny cages full of
guinea pigs; it was always spotless. I never noticed any odor when I was around
the garage. His father would be sitting in a chair drinking beer bossing his
kids around as they keep everything clean waiting for when I got there with the
paper.
On Saturday I would have
to go to the front door to collect the money for the paper. They lived in a
dirty little house that was falling apart. I would have to breathe though my
month the stench was so bad while waiting for her to count out the sixty cents
in change for the week’s paper. 
He grew up in one of the
worst home environments I can imagine, but he just seemed to have something
inside of him that helped him turn into one of the most popular kids in school.
The last time I saw him he was married had kids and lived in a nice new house. He still had that sparkle in his eyes.
I don’t think it matters
that much what race or races a person is. Some people will rise above any obstacle
and other people will have every break handed to them and will blow every opportunity
and be miserable all of their lives.
I try not pay attention to
what race people are, if I like them I tend to just see them as someone I like
and forget their race or multiracial background. 


© 14 April 2013 

About the Author

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

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Remembering J W by Louis

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

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

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

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

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

©
20 May 2013

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.
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Choiring and Singing; God Help Us All by Jon Krey

Yes,
I remember this subject from childhood.  As
I recall the songs they would sing usually had nothing whatsoever to do with my
need to hurry up and head home to the locked bathroom so I could play with my…uh…”Tinker
Toys.”  I was far better off “practicing”
there anyway rather than with the choir with all their screeching and hollering.  But too often sitting in the congregation
with Mom she would occasionally find me dealing with a very prominent stiff condition over which I had virtually
no control.  She’d grit her teeth, slap
me silly right there in front of other fine Christians and make me sit down.  Her slap never helped anyway though it did
occasionally make the situation more
rigid!  What was she to expect, I was
only 13 ½; a wet-with-sweat, tender and questioning youth. In the choir there
was one magnificent specimen, a muscular
tall blond football player from Junior High who sang a prominent tenor in the
choir and who, once in a while, looked in my direction…at me! Maybe that was the
basic cause of all my turgid grief. 
Otherwise, all the rest of that “music” coupled with the Hammond Organ’s
bass speaker right in front had a really bad effect on my auditory nerves.
Later
as an adult my ears were set to overload by disco music since I usually stood
in front of the bass speakers at dance bars trying my very best to look like
wallpaper.  I also lost some hearing due
to the fat kid next door’s Harley Davidson motorcycle with its “glorious” cacophony
of thunder which he referred to as “music to his ears.”  It wasn’t helped either when I was attempting
to qualify on the firing range without ear protection in ROTC.  The range officer didn’t particularly like me since
he probably knew my target wasn’t in front of me but usually right beside me
with his own large 45.  Ooooh! 
Consequently neither checked to see if I was…well…ready.  I was
but not for that paper target in front.
As
a result of all this, later in life, I probably couldn’t have “heard” the
difference between someone praising my magnificent high belted jeans from
Montgomery Wards and someone about to knock my “faggot block off.”
I
suppose lesser hearing may benefit me today in that I don’t have to hear most
of the harangue going on around me in “necessary” meetings, lectures, sirens in
traffic??, introductions to people I didn’t want to meet and/or  people
singing off key during a choir
practice.  So today, I find it much more
practical to just read lips and look at facial expressions.  It also helps me avoid something others tend
to refer to clandestinely as their “state wide prized choir.”  Besides, I can’t sing anyway and am too busy
listening to the ringing in my ears.

About the Author

“I’m just a guy from
Tulsa (God forbid). So overlook my shortcomings, they’re an illusion.”
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Baths by Gillian

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

©  10/22/2012

About the Author

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