Month: September 2013

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Hospitality – A Gay Youth, Remembering Earlier Times by Jon Krey

Back when I was an early youth, somewhere around the age of 8, 9, or 10, I began to recognize a difference between my emotional and sexual needs and those of my peers. I had no concrete idea what it meant since I’d always thought there was nothing odd or strange about mine. I just wasn’t very “into the regular scene.” It was hard to associate with most kids, any kids, male or female. I became emotionally secluded. Sports weren’t of interest and my physical self wasn’t up to snuff anyway being a scrawny kid. My self isolation haunted me, forever being an outsider always looking in at those I longed to play with. As this continued over the years, and it did, the more it became true. There came a short time of inclusion during the late Junior High and Senior High years. I made contact with the neighborhood duck-tail squad, the greasers, those so omnipresent in the ‘50’s. My interest in motorcycles and cars had always been, and that’s why they accepted me.
Cars and motorcycles were the “the thing” with them. It changed my acceptability, obscured any oddities of mine at least for that brief moment in time. A too brief period of hospitality was handed me. Then it all began changing. Girls were becoming an object of interest and then an obsession for the guys but for not me.

Inside I wasn’t at all like the grease covered duck-tailed guys with their leather motorcycle jackets and tight Levi’s. I desperately wanted to own a jacket and Levi’s like theirs but mom wouldn’t permit it because they were “just plain nasty.” Finally the critical age of puberty with it’s attendant emotional change for everyone arrived accompanied by an avalanche of total upheaval. The guys were becoming men; taller than me, frequently muscular, hairy, crew-cuts, ducktails had begun disappearing in town, “T” shirts the rage. How they loved showing impressions of their new manhood, through their tight Levi’s. That made me sweat, a lot! I had interesting, moist, dreams at night.

Guys were obsessed with the possibility of finding and seducing girls, while I dreamt of the same but with one of them. I got to be close to these young studs only in school occasionally but nothing more. They looked good, smelled good and when I had a very limited chance to just touch one, they felt good…heavenly! Needless to say I embarrassed myself with an erection from time to time. Too soon I was classified a social outcast, known as a weirdo, an object of scorn. There were others who like me weren’t accepted, straight and not, but it still hurt. Any hospitality accomplished by me had been rescinded, permanently.

I came to understand what the words some used to call me in my earlier years meant. Their use became much more frequent. I was a homo, a fruit, a faggot, a queer, something to be avoided at all cost. Back then that was all there was. I was a monster, loathed by God and man. The church and bible told me so, again and again! Wanting these beautiful young men romantically and sexually was just wrong, sinful and evil…end of story!

There was no hospitality left for me. I was shoved out of the box.

OK, that was then. Many years of fear, self rejection and self hatred have passed. But over those years, now, a new dawn seems on the horizon. I’m far, far better at being me now.

The word “gay” always puzzled me! The acronym LGBT doesn’t, but that word “gay” still seems odd. It meant and still means “full of energy, happy, of glee, a sense of being carefree. In a world where we’re still tormented by too many it doesn’t make too much sense.

It’s now in the press, heard in the media around the world. The Gay Community. Gay Pride Month with parades and parties. Pride is displayed or at least attempted around the globe. But the word “gay” was and can still be mentioned with contempt. A “gay” is a “self avowed homosexual,” some still interpret it that way. Yes it’s true we are, but that one nasty-assed statement always made me cringe and shrivel as it still can.

It’s a new day now. Countless others are like me. The old scars still exist in me and won’t disappear completely but in this day and age us LGBTQ’ers are becoming ever more in the public venue what with Gay Marriage. There is an opportunity of hospitality for me in my quickly approaching old age! “Just forget the past and reach out “get over it already”. I hear it too often.

Inclusion! Now! Something I never thought possible in my lifetime is happening right under my nose! I accept myself today with much less trepidation. I’m part of a growing community of people who are learning to live without shame, without so much fear although there are monsters out there that can and do haunt our lives. Every single time I hear the hateful rhetoric of yesteryear in this day and age I shake inside.

Damn it to hell, all I ever wanted was a boyfriend, someone to be with, to call my own; to be his in the same way. Though three long term partnerships have come and gone I’ve never achieved that most primitive of goals from early childhood. I’m still very much that smallish eighteen to “twenty something” year old boy, still looking, at the exalted age of 73. Will I be lucky before I finally fall over? I wonder and still hope.

I also wonder if any of us have really found that one special man or woman. If some of us have we should thank the same God our loyal opposition uses to condemn us.

About the Author

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

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Paradise Found by Gillian

One of the most wonderful hours of my life was spent in a church.

Now, to realize the enormity of that statement, you need to remember that I don’t do religion.
I stopped going to church in my early youth and have never felt the need to return except of course for the obligatory weddings and funerals.
I consider myself a spiritual person, but not in the least religious.

When I was told we were going to church this Sunday morning, I simply sighed and silently acquiesced. Betsy and I were in Hawaii, sharing a condo with a woman we had met during an Elderhostel week at the Grand Canyon. Liz was several years older than we were, had never been married, but we don’t think she was a lesbian. She just befriended us at Elderhostel and we kept loosely in touch via E-mail afterwards. Suddenly one day a message appeared inviting us to stay with her in her timeshare condo on Maui. She would also have a car. It took us three seconds to accept.

Liz was an “in charge” kinda gal! We had discovered in our first few hours in Hawaii that she had her agenda and we were expected to fall into line. Not that we had any complaints, once we got the idea in our heads. Free accommodation and transportation and our activities all planned out. What’s to complain about? We had a wonderful couple of weeks.

This final Sunday we were watching the waves while sipping our morning o.j. when we learned of the impending church visit and so reluctantly dragged ourselves off the beach to change clothes, pile into the car, and drive along a beautiful coast road to Keawalai Congregational United Church of Christ.

Oh, what a breathtakingly heartachingly beautiful spot!
Located right on the bright blue ocean and nestled in flowering shrubs and trees and coconut palms, sat this small church built of mellow burnt coral rock and roofed with brown shingles.
Beside it a small, serene, cemetery contained the graves of area families including many paniolo, Hawaiian cowboys. Several of the grave markers contained rare ceramic photo plates, none of which, amazingly, had been vandalized or stolen although the place is wide open to anyone.

This church was founded originally in 1832, the services being held in a church built of pili grass. The present structure was built, in 1855, completely of stone and coral from the beach and wood from the adjacent forest. Everything in the church is Hawaiian, since 1992 when the old floor of Douglas fir was replaced by native ohia wood. The land for the church was purchased for $80. One can only imagine what it must be worth now.

We wandered to the church, on a much worn path of beach sand, midst a motley crew. There were indigenous Hawaiian families in traditional and modern dress; there were residents obviously of more recent Hawaiian heritage, and a few, like us, conspicuous tourists. We were made immediately conspicuous by the fact that we all wore shoes or sandals. The permanent members of the congregation, and the minister, were all barefoot no matter how nicely they were dressed.
In the midst of our enchantment with this, came an unfamiliar sound. It was rather like a foghorn but as we approached the main church door we were further delighted to find two men blowing into conch shells, calling the faithful to worship. Inside the cool church we found palm fronds for fanning oneself during the service if required, more conch shells and palm fronds and local bamboo, and magnificent hand carved offering bowls and a cross, all made from local wood.
The windows contained no glass; were simply open to the soft ocean breezes, and the colorful birds flitting in and out.
It was a uniquely wonderful mix of pagan and Christian and we loved it.

I found myself dreading the beginning of the service. I was so at peace in that amazing place and I just knew that the advent of religious dogma would ruin it.
It did not.
The service was conducted in both Hawaiian and English and was as delightful as the setting.
But then came time for the sermon. Hah! Now it would all be ruined, said my cynical self.
Wrong again. 
The pastor spoke with eloquent passion in a very “what would Jesus do?” way, and of course the fact that I agreed with every word he said had something to do with the comfort zone in which I found myself. This was June of 2003, a month after the U.S. had completed its invasion of Iraq, which I certainly did not see as anything Jesus would do, and the Pastor left his congregation in no doubt as to his opinions. The words from this pulpit did not spatter me like shrapnel, which is sometimes the case, but settled firmly in my heart and I have never forgotten them.

To put icing on the cake of this wonderful experience, we had somehow stumbled into a baptism. At the end of the main service the church empties out for the short walk onto Maluaka Beach where the baby was treated to a short dip in the warm blue Pacific.
What a way to start out on life’s journey!

Much of modern Hawaii does not, for me, fulfill its claims of Paradise. It is, sadly, Paradise lost. But that tiny corner, surrounded as it is by gated communities and multi-million dollar mansions, provides a glimpse of what the real Hawaii once was. It is truly a tiny piece of Paradise found. 

Lakewood, 11/5/2012

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.

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Breaking into Gay Culture by Betsy

Not only was I unaware of how or where to break into the gay culture, I was oblivious of the fact that there was a unique culture belonging to the gay community. Moreover, I was unaware that this is something I needed to do for myself when I came out.

One of my very first experiences breaking into the lesbian community was actually at my place of employment. I was working at a non-profit agency at the time and having seen some of the local lesbian literature around I learned that there existed in Denver a Women’s Outdoor Club. I understood that this was a lesbian club and felt it was a group that would appeal to me and be appropriate for me to belong to. I understood that I belonged in such a group in spite of the fact that I was still married, living with my husband, still one child at home, and was definitely “feeling” my way forward into unfamiliar territory (hoping I was moving forward and not backward, but not sure at this point).
I recognized the name of one of the members of the Women’s Outdoor Club as one of agency’s volunteers. I had seen her many times in the office. She knew I was married at the time. The next time I saw her I said to her, “I think I would like to join the Women’s Outdoor Club.” In a hushed tone she replied, “It IS for lesbians.” I said, “Yes, I know, and I qualify.” “Oh,” she said. Come along on our next trip. We’re hiking up in Rocky Mountain National Park.”

The time came for the hike. My husband delivered me to the car pooling meeting place and after the event picked me up. I often think about that day. He knew what I was doing and with whom. There were no secrets. Everything was out in the open. I think he was hoping I would get a taste of the new culture and find that I didn’t fit or didn’t like it. His hopes did not come to fruition. I do not and at the time did not think of this experience as “breaking into” a culture or a group. The reality was that I was doing an activity (hiking) with a number of female nature-loving hikers. This was really nothing terribly new. The difference was there were no men in the group–husbands or otherwise, nor were we a group of women hiking together while chatting about our respective husbands or male companions.

Another introduction to the culture was a visit to the Three Sisters Bar. The place seemed rather “seedy” to me–dark and almost sinister. I had no idea who the women were who were there or what they looked like. It was far too dark to see anything. Seeing the women together was quite exciting actually. I cannot remember how I got there or with whom either. Just that it was the place to go at night.

During my coming out process I learned about a group for married women or women who had been married who were coming out or considering coming out, were gay, or bisexual or thought they were gay. The group was organized and facilitated by a woman in the community who had travelled the same route more or less; that is, she, too, had been married, raised a family, and came out later in life. Perfect, I thought. That’s for me. And it was just what I needed.

One of the meetings included a tour of the then existing women’s bars. We started with our usual support group discussion and following that left the meeting place to visit the bars. This was extremely helpful to me as I had no prior knowledge of any of these places except the Sisters. It turns out there were three or four bars and they were all quite enjoyable when one was comfortably entrenched in a group and not scared to death. I will always be grateful to my mentor and leader for her support group.

Prior to that experience and meeting many other women of my age group, I seriously thought I was unique in that I was married, had been married for a long time, and now, later in life was coming out, changing my life-style completely. But I found that to be untrue as there were many other women just like me.

In those days The Center sponsored a support group for women coming out. All extremely helpful and made the coming out process much less difficult.

I suspect the gay culture is more discernible, more definable, and takes on more importance for those individuals, gay men or lesbians, who are seeking partners, either consciously or unconsciously.

I have to say that after 30 years or so in the lesbian community and almost 30 years in a stable same-sex relationship, I do not feel that there is an identifiable lesbian culture per se. Maybe among some women there is, but to me it feels more like a women’s culture, free from the constraints, real or imagined, imposed by the presence of straight men. There are plenty of straight women who partake of activities for women alone–free of the influence, direction, or guidance of the straight men to whom they are attached. By the same token by sharing a common sexual identity most lesbians tend to relate to each other more comfortably than with straight women perhaps. In my view this does not reflect a lesbian culture, rather women’s culture. Some of my best friends are straight women. Our bonding is more around our common values and our womanhood. I believe this is true in the lesbian community as well.

About the Author 

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

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Culture Shock by Will Stanton

The day was sunny and fairly warm for November, so I took a stroll through the park, occasionally having a seat on one of the many benches to soak up the sunshine and to watch the hundreds of geese on the lake. The benches came in handy, considering that it has been a very long time since I was able to take twenty-mile, mountain hikes. My hips were speaking to me, so I sought out another bench to rest.

The only bench close by me at that moment already was occupied by one older woman. I correctly guessed that she was babushka, a grandmother from Russia. She appeared to be friendly, so I asked if could join her. She seemed glad to have the company and someone to talk to. With her heavy Russian accent, the conversation was more “talk to” than “talk with,” for she did the majority of the talking. That was OK with me because everything she had to say was quite interesting.

It turns out that she is seventy-six, although she could pass for fifty. She lived most of her life in Yekaterinburg, the fourth largest city in Russia with quite a history. Situated in the Urals on the border of Europe and Asia, it perhaps is best known as the location where, tragically, Czar Nicolas II, his wife, and all his children were murdered and then buried in the forests nearby.

Yekaterinburg also is known to be a highly cultural city with ample opportunities to engage in the arts. In addition to all of its educational facilities, it has more than thirty museums, plus several theaters, concert halls, and opera houses. Several world-famous operas singers got their start in Yekaterinburg.

This loquacious babushka explained that society there just assumes that good culture should be part of everyone’s life. Consequently, children are brought up to appreciate and to participate in music and the arts and to be familiar with great literature. As it turns out, these pursuits are not just simple hobbies; the families take them seriously. Before she acquired a degree in architectural engineering, she first acquired a degree in classical piano performance. Now that is dedication!

She went on to talk about her family: her husband, her daughters, and her grown granddaughters. Yes, her daughters also acquired degrees in music before pursuing degrees in their chosen professions. Now her granddaughters just have completed their music degrees in Boulder.

Babushka says that she very much misses her home and all the cultural opportunities left behind, but she came to America because of her family. Her husband was offered a good job opportunity as an environmental planner here in America. He accepted it and moved here by himself. His wife chose to remain behind at home. Eventually, their daughters joined their father in America, and Babushka was left alone. Family is most important to her, so finally she joined the family here.

There are many things that she likes about America; however, she has noticed a major difference in culture here. There are some of the same cultural advantages here as in her homeland, but at a very reduced scale and with fewer and fewer people who truly are interested. There appears not to be the same society-wide appreciation of the arts among the population or understanding that incorporating arts and music into one’s life not only enriches human life but also, as proved by several psychological / educational research studies, enhances the ability to learn other disciplines, a concept apparently lost upon school districts that eliminate the arts first from their school programs as “non-essential.”

I understood what she was talking about. Since my childhood, the vast majority of classical music radio stations in America have been disbanded because of rapidly dwindling listenership and advertising income. Throughout America over the last generation, the country has lost dozens of symphonies, theaters, opera companies, ballets companies, and school arts and music programs.

A few years ago, the Denver Symphony could not afford to keep going and was disbanded. Apparently, Denverites will pay hundreds or even thousands of dollars to go to football games and rock concerts, but many far-less pricey symphony tickets were left half-unsold. World-famous musicians would arrive on stage to the embarrassing view of oceans of empty seats. The failed symphony finally was replaced with the Colorado Symphony. Then just last year, most of the board left out of frustration, and the symphony again came close to closing. It is keeping barely alive by cutting the number of concerts, minimizing salaries, and traveling to other venues with small groups of musicians to perform for a handful of listeners.

Other societies have a far different view from America. For example, Germany funds their national arts programs at a rate of dozens of times higher per capita in contrast to America. They give government funding to symphonies at a rate of 25 times that of America and opera companies at 28 times. In contrast, Romney said that he would eliminate all government support for the arts in this country, and he’s not the only one to say that. Like many politicians the past thirty years, he believes in so-called “small government” – – except of course in the cases of increasing military spending, intruding into people’s private lives, dictating women’s health choices, pushing religious beliefs into school science programs, gutting the worker’s unions, and suppressing the right to vote. Within the total military expenditures for each year, a tiny fraction of goes to supporting military marching bands; yet that amount of money is so huge in contrast to what is provided currently to the National Endowment for the Arts that this sum could resurrect and support twenty full-time symphony orchestras at $20 million a piece plus give 80,000 musicians, artists, and sculpture an annual salary of $50,000. But, the “cut-the-budget” power-brokers in Congress never would do that.

During World War II, Britain’s finance minister recommended to Winston Churchill that they cut arts funding to better fund the war effort. Churchill’s response was, “Then what are we fighting for?” There are numerous sociological and psychological articles written and available for reading about the essential need for the arts to develop and maintain a civilized nation with civilized people.

Another example of how culture has declined in America can be seen in what recordings the majority of Americans choose to buy. Just ten years ago, the local Barnes and Noble on Colorado Boulevard carried, in a large percentage of the media room, hundreds of classical recordings on CDs and DVDs; and their staff were graduate students from the D.U. School of Music. That large display area continually shrank until only one small area by the back wall contained classical music, and the only clerk was a high-school graduate who admitted that she had no background in music at all. With the recent renovation of the store and the reduction of the media area to a minor space off to the far side, the stock has been minimized to virtually nothing.

Then I recently stopped in Target just to check out their DVDs. They had only about a half-dozen of real quality and interest to me, five of which I already had, and absolutely no classical CD section at all among the rap, heavy-metal, hip-hop, country-western, pop, rock, and TV soundtracks. That is what sells in America with recordings, live concerts, radio and TV, and even the music chosen for background noise even in so-called good restaurants.

Quite obviously, our country has developed different priorities and values from that of many other advanced nations. I recently finished watching the BBC production of John Carré’s “Tinker, Taylor…” One particular quotation caught my attention. In questioning one of the characters in his story as to why he was so unhappy with America, the man replied, “Do you know what the problem is…? Greed, and constipation…morally, politically, aesthetically.” If that statement seems extreme, the sad fact is that many people hold the same feelings. Unfortunately since the book was written around forty years ago, a similar view of America has persisted among many foreign nations in particular. This cultural difference between the grandmother’s home and what America has become has not been lost upon her, either.

So, the grandmother, obviously proud of her family and all their accomplishments, laments the culture shock that she has experienced. She appreciates her chance to come to America and to be reunited with her family. Yet at the same time, she speaks with fondness and nostalgia of her once having lived in an environment of great cultural opportunity.

I was sure that she had much more to talk about, and I would have been glad to have heard more; however, the sun was going down, and the air quickly was becoming chilly. Even my personal, extra insulation was not enough to stave off the growing cold. So, I thanked her for her conversation, bid her farewell, and headed home, all the time weighing the possible social and personal implications of her reported culture shock.

© 20 November 2012

About the Author

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

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Happy Books by Ricky

I’ve read my share of gay sex books over the years and it didn’t take long to realize those types of books held nothing of interest.  After awhile, all the stories resembled each other so I lost interest and they no longer attract me.

On the other hand, returning to the original meaning of gay (a synonym for “happy” or “merry”) there are a few books that come to my mind.  As a child, I liked the Disney book Little Toot; which was about a small tug boat that caused a catastrophe.  He was then banished but he later saved an ocean liner and all was well. 

Another book that had a happy ending was Peter Pan.  I’m sure you all have either read the book or saw: one of several productions of the story from Mary Martin’s performances from the stage or broadcast live on TV last century; the Disney animated feature; school plays; VHS/DVDs; and most recently, a version using live actors.  As a result, I will not go into the story here.

Any of Edgar Rice Burrows’ Tarzan books also were “happy”. Naturally, the plots all involved Tarzan having a few adventures but always ending with a “happy” note.  Since most books follow that pattern, we can include under the definition of “happy” all of the books where a male or female protagonist triumphs over all the enemies or difficulties placed in their path.  There are uncommon books, which have a rather dark ending and I try to stay away from them. I accidentally read one of those a few months ago.  I would not have read it, if I had known that the main character was going to die at the end.  There was a “last minute” twist to the plot which resulted in his death but in so doing, he managed to protect a whole community from a serial killer. This story unnerved me for 3 or 4 days before it finally left my mind and my stress over it vanished.

Another type of happy books, are collections of poetry for children (and the parents who read them to their offspring). Two of our favorites are by Dr. Seuss; they are Tweedle Beadle (from Fox in Socks), and the other is In A People House.  My youngest daughter’s all time favorite poem was written by Ogden Nash; The Tale of Custard the Dragon.  At one time, both she and I had it nearly memorized, but alas, my memory of it is only bits and pieces so, I am reduced to reading it every so often; like right now.
  
The Tale of Custard the Dragon

Belinda lived in a little white house,
With a little black kitten and a little gray mouse,
And a little yellow dog and a little red wagon,
And a realio, trulio, little pet dragon.

Now the name of the little black kitten was Ink,
And the little gray mouse, she called her Blink,
And the little yellow dog was sharp as Mustard,
But the dragon was a coward, and she called him Custard.

Custard the dragon had big sharp teeth,
And spikes on top of him and scales underneath,
Mouth like a fireplace, chimney for a nose,
And realio, trulio daggers on his toes.

Belinda was as brave as a barrel full of bears,
And Ink and Blink chased lions down the stairs,
Mustard was as brave as a tiger in a rage,
But Custard cried for a nice safe cage.

Belinda tickled him, she tickled him unmerciful,
Ink, Blink and Mustard, they rudely called him Percival,
They all sat laughing in the little red wagon,
At the realio, trulio, cowardly dragon.

Belinda giggled till she shook the house,
And Blink said Week! which is giggling for a mouse,
Ink and Mustard rudely asked his age,
When Custard cried for a nice safe cage,

Suddenly, suddenly they heard a nasty sound,
And Mustard growled, and they all looked around.
Meowch! cried Ink, and Ooh! Cried Belinda,
For there was a pirate, climbing in the winda.

Pistol in his left hand, pistol in his right,
And he held in his teeth a cutlass bright,
His beard was black, one leg was wood,
It was clear that the pirate meant no good.

Belinda paled, and she cried Help! Help!
But Mustard fled with a terrified yelp,
Ink trickled down to the bottom of the household,
And little mouse Blink strategically mouseholed.

But up jumped Custard, snorting like an engine,
Clashed his tail like irons in a dungeon,
With a clatter and a clank and a jangling squirm
He went at the pirate like a robin at a worm.

The pirate gaped at Belinda’s dragon,
And gulped some grog from his pocket flagon,
He fired two bullets, but they didn’t hit,
And Custard gobbled him, every bit.

Belinda embraced him, Mustard licked him,
No one mourned for his pirate victim.
Ink and Blink in glee did gyrate
Around the dragon that ate the pyrate.

But presently up spoke little dog Mustard,
I’d have been twice as brave if I hadn’t been flustered.
And up spoke Ink and up spoke Blink,
We’d have been three times as brave, we think,
Custard said, I quite agree
That everybody is braver than me.

Belinda still lives in her little white house,
With her little black kitten and her little gray mouse,
And her little yellow dog and her little red wagon,
And her realio, trulio, little pet dragon.

Belinda is as brave as a barrel full of bears,
And Ink and Blink chase lions down the stairs,
Mustard is as brave as a tiger in a rage,
But Custard keeps crying for a nice safe cage.

      ©  Ogden Nash

© 23 March 2011

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 began living 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
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.
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My Favorite Place by Ray S

At first thought the subject today calls for ancient memories and especially nostalgia. My sand box in the back yard was a very favorite realm over which I was king. A fleet of yellow Tootsietoy sedans, roadsters, and two town cars with front seat open tops for the chauffeur, separating the enclosed passenger compartments. There were miles and miles of miniature roads and highways, bridges over rivers thtat sometimes flooded and washed out the roads due to the torrents of water from the garden hose. No, there was never any loss of lives. Those drivers knew what they were doing.

Along side the venerable sand box kingdom, father had constructed a club house from used wooden refrigerator crates. All sorts of secret and sometimes forbidden activities took place in that hallowed hall. Oaths of life-long friendship, confidences for no one’s ears but your best buddy, and a place of quiet consolation when things just became too hectic in the big people’s world.

Once that was a favorite place, but things change. An unrealized dream house materializes comfortably nestled in the verdant forested hills of some make believe New England landscape–all white clapboard and green shutters, stuffed with American antique funiture. “Autumn Leaves,” Thanksgiving by Currier and Ives, “White Christmas,” “Moonlight in Vermont,” etc, etc. Meanwhile life moved on in a post war ranch house in suburbia. Another unfulfilled “Favorite Place” is the magic city on the bay, or the drive up the coast past an oceanside community romantically named Sea Ranch. There, clinging to the cliffside a cluster of weathered cedar shingled cottages. Dream on…….

All of those material Favorite Places are or were important; however, is there anything that can supplant a warm hearth, the luxury of a cozy nesting place, strong shoulders to lean on, two arms to hold you tight and the security of another’s love. That is the ultimate “Favorite Place” to be for me.

About the Author

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Finding Myself by Phillip Hoyle

A search began when in my twenty-seventh year my friend Ted introduced me to the gay novel. That first book was Patricia Nell Warren’s The Front Runner (NY: William Morrow & Co., 1974), and Ted claimed it had just about everything in it. I took this to mean every gay theme. Reading it I discovered several topics and scenes of interest but was unable to find myself in the story. My own story included a life-long sexual response to men that lived peacefully alongside my commitment to a marriage and a largely conventional heterosexual life. The day I finished Warren’s book, I undertook a literary search for my gay self.
     
I read Robert Ferro, Edmund White, Paul Monnett, Richard Nava, Ethan Morddan, and many other authors of gay fiction over many years. Eventually I read Felice Picano’s book Ambidextrous and found myself. It wasn’t actually me, but the book described bisexual experiences and feelings similar to some I had as a child and teen and, thus, brought me relief that I wasn’t alone in the world. I was at least barely recognizable among gay males and no longer wondered if I was an outsider in this outsider existence. 
     
I was elated to find commonality with a writer who described the book as autobiographical fiction. I read more of his books including Men Who Loved Me and realized my sameness with Picano was limited. While I enjoyed his sense of spirituality and his vigorous personal searches for love, his stories included drugs—lots of them; mine was drug free. I continued to read Picano and other gay novelists who were being published in ever-increasing numbers looking for other glimmers of my life, hoping for a light to lead me into an unknown future.
     
My friend Bill told me he found himself in Paul Monnett’s Becoming a Man. He had been deeply moved by the book and felt it affirmed his experience. I read the book with interest for it allowed me a glimpse into the lives of the author and of my friend. I assumed that most details of Bill’s life differed from those in Monnett’s book, but I wasn’t sure. I didn’t connect with the book very deeply although the beautiful, effective writing seemed very important as a gay statement. It simply wasn’t my story. I kept reading but mostly felt like I was still an outsider in the gay world that so fascinated me.
     
Then my life changed radically. I separated from my wife and then left my profession that I had found growing too gay-unfriendly for my taste. I began to live as a gay man and to write on a regular basis. In both, I set out to explore my life experiences in order to understand more about who I had become. I made interesting and helpful connections of diverse themes that seemed to make sense of my experience. As I wrote, I kept reading but didn’t find myself in these books, that is, until thirty years after reading my first gay novel. 
     
I was stunned and pleased when a few weeks ago I read the chapter “East of Ashshur” in Aryeh Lev Stollman’s The Far Euphrates (NY: Riverhead Books, 1997). Stollman’s character Alexandre tells the story as son and only child of a Rabbi and his wife living in Windsor, Ontario. In this chapter, the protagonist stated for the second time that he was not shamed by his homosexuality. I had heard the statement loud and clear at its first occurrence rather early in the book. Then in this chapter the sixteen-year-old Alexandre entered a period of study structured by his religious tradition. He embraced the practice but not its traditional goals such as becoming holy or knowing God. He moved himself into a world related to the Hebrew calendar and sought self-knowledge in the light of the moon. Daily standing before the mirror, he combined physical self-examination with intense reading of anatomy and physiology. In these twin ways, physiological and philosophical, he sought self-understanding. The statement’s repetition occurred toward the end of his year-long intense self-examination that included much more than Alexandre’s sexual feelings and led him to the affirmation of his sexuality that he could see might pose difficulties. Still he felt unashamed. 
     
My experience also has left me unashamed. Early on I knew I liked boys (eventually men) and understood it as a part of my life that I might outgrow. I did not reject it in my teens, and some fifteen years later I didn’t feel shocked when I fell in love with a man. During those intervening and following years I made an intense inquiry into the nature of human sexuality with a focus on homosexuality. I wanted to understand. My attempt was not carried out in a formal retreat like Alexandre’s. In making my inquiry I realized other folk were not interested or at least not at ease over my quest, for instance, my wife fell asleep when I wanted to read her the most interesting things I thought might be helpful enrichments to our sex life and others seemed afraid of my interest. So I did retreat into the relative privacy of my office, late night reading, library research, and internal thought. My reading spanned social science, sexology, biology, social ethics, philosophy, theology, literary criticism, poetry, fiction, and journalism. Like the teenager Alexandre, I observed myself and read about things I thought, felt, and experienced. Like him, my thirst for knowledge was insatiable, and like him, I was unashamed. 
     
My inquiry had begun way back in childhood when I started reading about American Indian culture, life, and history not aware I was studying myself. Then I added theology, then sexuality (my overt self-examination), then music history, and always exhaustive reading of novels—international works in translation, gay novels, Native American novels, murder mysteries, and more. 
     
I continue my reading quest, but most important, now I write to know myself, somehow to be true to my own self. Through my personal accounts and fiction I am seeking to express what I have learned and know. I write my childhood sex and friendships. I write my teenage fascinations with girls and boys. I write my marriage, one in which I dearly loved my wife while I became more acutely attentive to my homosexual needs. I develop characters who speak of my sexual values, reflect on my thoughts and feelings, and by their own adaptations, lead me into new perspectives about myself. I develop characters who do things I have only dreamed or never dared to dream, and in the writing become more aware of my needs and desires. I write how my life affects my work. I write how my self-knowledge creates tensions in my family and vocation. Still though, I see myself riding bikes with my best childhood friend as in Ambidextrous. Still, I stand before the mirror of self-reflection unashamed as in The Far Euphrates. The searching and finding continue as they surely will for the rest of my life.

Denver, 2011

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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My Favorite Place by Lewis

I have several favorite places, as no one place seems to have everything I need or want to be happy all the time.

If I were to pick just one favorite place to spend a vacation away from home, it would likely be Ouray, CO.

If I were to pick just one favorite place to be when going from one favorite place to another, it would be my car, unless distances were sufficiently short, in which case, it would be in my walking shoes.

If I were to name my favorite place to spend the biggest chunk of my time, it would be my bed.

If I had to pick a favorite place to spend all of my time, it would be my body.

If I were to pick a favorite place to pass the time, it would be in the presence of friends or family.

I find that, at certain times of the day and night, my most favorite place by far is my bathroom. No other place will do at all.

But if I were to pick the place that most nurtures my inner Lewis, it would be my balcony. No, check that. It would be my “terrace”. “Terrace” is defined as “a platform that extends out from a building”. Somehow, “terrace” sounds like a much more romantic place for soul-searching than a “balcony”. I’m sure that Juliet was courted by her Romeo while standing on a terrace. Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward starred in From the Terrace; The Balcony starred Peter Falk and Shelley Winters. See what I mean?

So, when I have breakfast, I take it on the terrace, weather permitting. The same for lunch and dinner. When I do the New York Times crossword–which is always a Monday–I do it on the terrace. When I undertake to decipher Laurin’s journals, I find the fresh air and beautiful landscape help to keep my spirit more buoyant. Even the sound of neighbors’ voices helps to keep me connected to all that is good in the world. When I write in my own journal, same place. When I take in a little sun–for very limited amounts of time–the terrace offers all the privacy I need. My garden, what there is of it–on the terrace. When I want to take in the sky, the scenery, the action on the street, nothing fills the bill like my terrace.

Out there, I am part of the world. I count. I feel connected. If I don’t want to connect, I can leave the cordless and cell phones inside. Smells, tastes, sounds are more vivid. I can even hide when that feels right. Even oblivion is within easy reach–if I had the inclination and weren’t such a coward.

Oh, in case you’re curious, I did not type this while sitting on the terrace. I was late getting to it and had not the time to daydream.

Lewis, July 15, 2013

About the Author

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth. Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way. 

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Feathers on the Wing by Pat Gourley

“It has been my experience that gay and lesbian people who have fought through their self-hatred and their self-recriminations have a capacity for empathy that is glorious and a capacity to find laughter in things that is like praising God. There is a kind of flagrant joy about us that goes very deep and is not available to most people. I also think that something about our capacity to live and let live is uniquely foreign – that we have learned in the crucible of the discrimination against us how broad our definitions must be for us to be fully human.” 

Paul Monette 
(From an interview in Mark Thompson’s Gay Soul, 1995). 

My what a slippery concept “the essence of GLBTQ” is as I begin to think about it. Much of my gay adult life has been spent in pondering this but pretty exclusively from the perspective as a gay man. It was work with the Radical Fairies where cultivating our difference, our otherness, was often the stated goal. My thinking in this area has been most emphatically influenced by Harry Hay but also by John Burnside, Don Kilhefner, Mitch Walker, James Broughton, Mark Thompson and Will Roscoe along with many other Fairies brothers.

John Burnside, Pat Gourley, Harry Hay, 1983
Photo by David Woodyard

We know we are different, most of us from a very early age, but the questions have always been ‘how?’ and ‘does it go beyond the bedroom?’ Are we primarily shaped as little queer beings in response to societal pressures and oppressions or is their something much more intrinsic? Are we really “born this way” and then of course certainly flesh out individual responses to our otherness in part based on how we are received by parents, siblings, peers and the larger society? This debate today is largely mute as far as the masses of LGBTQ are concerned and occurs if at all really only in rarified academic, queer and mostly University connected enclaves. The take over of the LGBTQ liberation movement by the issues of military service and marriage equality have at least superficially provided us with an escape valve in the form of the meme “we are no different from anyone else and we’ll prove it if you just give us our rights”.

We have as a group largely abandoned pursuing the old Mattachine questions of ‘who are we,’ ‘where do we come from,’ and most importantly ‘what are we for?’ And perhaps this is OK; life does present more than enough daily struggles that can legitimately keep us from philosophizing about our intrinsic natures. The economic benefits alone that can come from marriage equality are real and beneficial for many. However, that we would need the hetero establishment to validate our relationships seems to me to have a bit of a pathetic groveling component to it.

Harry Hay would on occasion taunt those listening to him by twisting around the old bromide of “we are just like you except for what we do in bed” to and I am paraphrasing here “we need to realize that the only thing we have in common with straight people is what we do in bed”.

Hay used to talk frequently about our unique “gay windows” on the world. We see the same world as straight people do looking out of their windows but the view can be very different. This different window has the potential to provide us with outlooks and viewpoints that potentially could be very different in a beneficial way to society.

I think the above Monette quote is a great concrete example as to how that might look. I do not mean to imply that we have the market cornered on empathy as a result of the oppression we have experienced. The world seems to have lots of oppression to go around and I am sure that it can at times invoke great empathy in the compassionately oppressed. We GLBTQ are however uniquely exposed to it often in our own biological families and in our own communities. So often our oppression comes from within our “inner circle” if you will rather than from without. Ironically perhaps this is our greatest gift and can provide us with something “uniquely foreign” to bring to the human banquet, a very broad definition of what it is to be human and the great joy that can convey.

Let me venture far out on a limb with a very sharp saw. Hay had preached for many years that we are actually a separate people but in later years he began to refine this into the possibility that we are actually a separate gender. He began speaking in terms of a third gender. Not intending to piss anyone off here I think we could safely take this and run with it i.e. why not 4th and 5th and 6th genders as well. For a much more detailed and nuance discussion of the “other genders’ concept I would refer to Radically Gay and the section entitled “Our Third Gender Responsibilities”.

In being questioned by Mark Thompson in an interview with Hay published in the 1995 anthology Gay Soul the topic of third gender came up and in one partial response to a question from Thompson, Harry used a metaphor for us that is I think very beautiful and on topic for today.

“…I believe that gays are a specific development of humanity who have a specific contribution to make to the culture. We’re about multidimensionality, among other things. You might say we are the feathers on the wing.” Harry Hay, 1995.

I’d like to close by saying that coming here every week and interacting in such an intimate fashion with you all reinforces for me repeatedly just how we are all the feathers on the wing.

Denver, July, 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 have currently returned to Denver after an extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California.

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The Interview by Nicholas

It happened one day when Jamie and I were visiting his grandmother who lived in Palo Alto, California with her daughter, Jamie’s mom. We were living in San Francisco at the time, about an hour north, and frequently drove down the Peninsula to visit Jamie’s parents and grandmother. This day was a little different because Jamie’s folks were away so that made us Grandma’s chief entertainers/care givers for the day.

Grandma G was in her mid-80s and totally together mentally. Because she was getting up in years and finding it difficult getting around, Jamie’s parents moved her from her home in Chicago to their rambling ranch-style house in sunny, mild California. It wasn’t a move that she was totally happy with but she seemed to get along well enough and didn’t complain. At least not to me and Jamie.

She was always happy to see us. One day we brought her a piece of this fabulously delicious peanut butter cake with peanut butter and cream cheese frosting from one of the exquisite bakeries in our neighborhood of San Francisco. She loved it and told us that this was her day to sin. What day was that, we asked. Any day I want, she said. We always brought some cake down with us after that.

I don’t know that I would label Grandma G a “character,” though she certainly had plenty of character. She once told us that sometimes she stayed up all night reading a book she just could not put down. She was sharing a secret like a kid who deliberately went against curfew to do what she wanted.

She’d had an interesting career and for a time had had her own radio show on homemaking, complete with her own show business radio name, on a station in Chicago. She had also been very involved in liberal politics in Chicago—one of the first women to do so—and in the Presbyterian church. Grandma G is probably the reason Jamie’s family turned out so solidly liberal and progressive minded. Jamie likes to show a photograph of him and Grandma at a 1980 Chicago rally for the Equal Rights Amendment, the one that would have put gender equality into the U.S. Constitution.

I always enjoyed our visits to Palo Alto where it was usually sunny and warm unlike San Francisco with its chill and fog. I felt like I was actually in California there.

Jamie was busy doing something outside, cleaning the pool or something. Grandma and I were in the family room chatting about nothing in particular when the questions began.

She was curious, in an innocent grandmotherly way, about me and Jamie, her favorite grandson. How did we meet, she asked. I told her the story of friends inviting us both to dinner, meeting at their house and then going out. Jamie and I hit it off, he offered me a ride home and, after talking a while, we made plans to get together.

Did we love each other? Yes, I said, sort of gulping as I wondered just where this conversation was going and where was Jamie.

Did Jamie treat me well? Oh, yes, he does, I said. Very well.

Does he apologize when he hurts your feelings, asked Grandma. Well, yes, I guess, I said. He hadn’t really ever hurt my feelings in the short time we’d known each other but I imagined he would apologize if he ever did so.

I imagine there were more questions, but then Jamie returned to the room. I joked about being grilled by Grandma and the conversation shifted to another topic. I’ve always had a fond memory of that afternoon and my brief interview by the matriarch.

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.