Month: March 2014

Posted on

HomoFaggot by Phillip Hoyle

I knew my life was changing when my wife advised, “You’d better tell the kids.” I thought about it and realized that to give words to my activity would necessarily change me. The assumption stemmed from a theological concept about the power of words, for in Genesis God spoke into existence the creation and then pronounced it good. Early Christian tradition called Jesus not only the Christ but also the word. I assumed words create, words value, and words move even mountains. I knew that the words I used to communicate with my grown children would have all these powers. I would be creating myself to both them and me. I would be moving myself and them into new worlds of experience and, hopefully, love. I would be testing all the values my wife and I had sought to foster in them.

I decided to describe my actions rather than call myself names. Still, to tell my daughter Desma about my activities would be to out myself not only to her but, because I assumed she would be more entertained than chagrined and not at all ashamed over what I had done, I would be known as homosexual to anyone who knew her very well. She wasn’t a gossip; she was just very open. I didn’t fault her, but I did know I’d be out in the city where she lived and where I had ministered in a congregation for nine years.

I asked my wife if she was sure about my telling them and was surprised at her answer. She didn’t want them to receive the word about my life at the same time they might have to hear that we were changing our relationship. I perceived her wisdom but wondered at her assumption that differed from mine. Still I bit the bullet and called the kids.

From years of reading queer theory, I realized that in telling them this information about myself, I would change in ways I could not yet imagine. I chose not to use categorizing words such as homosexual or bisexual, because I didn’t want to direct their ways of thinking. The main impact would be that my life and the marriage were changing. I also realized that whatever I said to them, I’d be homosexual. I knew that neither straights nor gays were comfortable with the designation bisexual. It didn’t matter that I had for many years understood and valued my bisexuality. It didn’t matter that the latest coalition of queers called itself GLBT. Yes, that B stands for bisexual, a term common in the literature of psychology, sociology, and sexology; that B represents a growing body of knowledge about humans; that B describes well the experience of thousands or even millions of human beings including me. When the story would be re-told, as I assumed it would, the B word would not be used. I would become a homosexual; I would be gay. Although that didn’t bother me at a personal level, the H word did not begin to describe my life. It was just too simple a designation. It was also one that would limit my access to work in the church.

Ironically, homosexual was more acceptable than bisexual in church work due to the possibility of being monogamous as a homosexual and the impossibility of such as a bisexual. A war of concepts and ideals seemed underway, one that would end my career. I didn’t know what I would do, what outcomes I’d find, but I did call my kids and tell them that in New Mexico I’d had two sexual affairs with men. I said their mom and I wanted them to know because we didn’t know what the future would hold. I reminded them that we loved them. My wife and I did separate. Within a year I’d left my ministerial profession and moved to Denver to live as a gay man. These choices seemed the best for everyone.

About four years later Desma heard her two boys call one another faggot. She asked them what the expression meant. Because they either didn’t know for sure or didn’t want to get into heavy trouble with their mom, they told her it meant you were strange. They’d heard it at school. She called together all four of her older children saying they needed to talk. She told them the word faggot and what it stood for: people who love and want to live with others of the same sex. They talked until she knew they understood the meaning of homosexual, gay, lesbian, and other related words. They discussed descriptive and pejorative uses of the terms. Then she said she wanted them to think for three hours, not to discuss but simply think, about people they knew that are homosexual. When she dismissed the children to go back to their play, she called her sister-in-law. “Heather,” she informed, “we’re talking about homosexuality over here. I thought you’d want to know before the kids got together again.” The families lived several blocks apart. The kids were in and out of each other’s homes. And Grandpa Phillip was coming to town in a few weeks.

When she got the kids together again, she asked them and made a list. They talked about what they knew including several homosexual people who were related to their family as friends and acquaintances. None of them suggested Grandpa Phillip. But some of the grandchildren had met Phil’s friend Tony and his male partner. They had walked his dog Shinti and had attended two gay parades with their grandpa. They had seen him greet gays and lesbians near his home. Two of them had met a transgender friend of his who bought them a cookie at a coffee shop. And since then the children and grandchildren have met Grandpa Phillip’s current partner Jim. They’ve met his mother Ruth. Most of them have stayed overnight in our home and have eaten Ruth’s homemade cookies. They have read my stories about Miss Shinti and her gay owner. They know something about their grandpa, information that will change for them as they mature. They also know they are deeply loved, even by their HomoFaggot grandpa.

Denver, 2011

About the Author

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

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot

Posted on

Endless Joy by Nicholas

At a time in my life when I realize that nothing is endless, least of all joy, though perhaps torment is endless, but really not even that, I do not know what to say about endless joy. Is it possible? Would I even want it? Wouldn’t it become boring? Would it be bearable?

To conceive of something endless is not really possible, is beyond the capacity of our finite human minds which, if not finite themselves, can deal only in the finite world. This is what we mean by “getting my mind around” something—containing it, roping it in. Endless is not possible and is not even appealing. Endless is kind of an absurdity and joy can be even more problematic. Joy can be hard to find and quick to lose.

I have had from time to time a sense of what seems like eternity, a sense of timelessness. I can get so wrapped up in the now of whatever I’m doing that awareness of time passing simply escapes me. That’s how I imagine eternity, a perpetual, timeless now. We’re entering the boggle-sphere here. Concepts that just boggle the mind.

Now, if the topic were constant joy, I could list many things that fill my life with happiness. Being with Jamie for one. Celebrating holidays or anytime with good friends and family. A walk in the snow. Seeing the snow go away and flowers bloom. Cooking, eating, drinking wine. Riding a train. Sipping a cup of hot chocolate on a cold afternoon. Bicycling on a summer morning. Reading a good book. Dreaming of writing projects—actually doing them, that is.

But. Nothing is endless except endlessness itself. The universe has many endings but goes on and on. Time has many endings but goes on. Winter follows autumn and then spring follows winter and then summer and then autumn again in that endless cycle of beginnings and endings. The now-bare forsythia bush by my back door will one day sprout buds and then brilliant yellow flowers as it follows the perpetual, plodding and exhilarating cycle of life and seasons endlessly. And that is the source of joy.

January, 2014

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.

Posted on

Do I Have Your Number…. ?? by Gillian

Do I have your number? No, I do not mean your phone number! I use the phrase in the way we say, or just think to ourselves, ‘Oh yes, I’ve got your number!’ meaning ‘Oh yes, I know what you are after, I know what is going on here, I know what you think and what you want; I know what you are about. I know who you are.

So, in that sense, do I have your number? Do all or any of you have mine? We have shared many of our most heartfelt emotions, thoughts, and ideas, over the last two or three years. We have held nothing back. We have laughed and cried together. We have hidden nothing from each other.

Still, I don’t know you, and you don’t know me. It makes me wonder if really deeply knowing someone, completely understanding them, is actually possible. Surely very few, if any, family members truly know each other, even those who consider themselves to be very close. After twenty-six years together, and with considerable help and spiritual guidance from such people as Eckhart Tolle, do Betsy and I really really know each other? Of course not. We still struggle to understand each other every single day, with mixed results.

But how can I even dream of a deep and flawless understanding of any other person when I still don’t know my own self? I try. I look deeply inside myself and try to interpret correctly what I find there, but I don’t always get it right. After all these years, I can still surprise, perhaps even shock, myself.

Some time ago our group’s topic for the week was Marriage. Some of you remember that my piece had the recurring theme: “marriage doesn’t freakin’ work!” I questioned why we, the GLBT community, are so determined to jump onto this faltering band-wagon.

Last week came the staggering announcement that the IRS now recognizes same-sex marriages. Perhaps Betsy and I should consider marriage, after all. But only, I firmly lectured my inner self, for purely fiscal reasons. After all, I insisted, we had no emotional need for any such thing. We are as committed to each other and our relationship as any two people could ever be, and we don’t need any official sanction to help us along.

So why on earth did I find myself, close to tears, asking Betsy if she would consider marrying me? In fact, I became so obsessed with the idea that I kept on asking. I guess I couldn’t quite believe the answer. Finally the poor beleaguered woman laughed,

“You’ve asked me three times and I’ve told you ‘yes’ three times. OK?”

Not the most romantic response, but I’ve finally got it; the answer is YES!

I am completely taken by surprise to find myself so thrilled at this that I feel almost sick with excitement, something we do not experience too frequently once we leave the uninhibited emotions of childhood behind us. Suddenly this is all about love and nothing about money; much more peering inside myself to be done!

No, I don’t have your number. I don’t even have my own!

September 2013

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.

Posted on

Sorry, I’m Allergic by Will Stanton

In my hometown, the head of the draft board, Mr. D—-, owned an auto-parts store. He knew auto-parts. Other than that, he was profoundly ignorant, prejudiced, delusional, and full of hate. I guess that there is a plague of such people in every generation; we have witnessed far too many of them over the last several years. Unfortunately as I said, he was in charge of the draft board, and he had every intention of using it to perpetuate his political agenda.

To begin with, he had fallen “hook, line, and sinker” for the now-documented lies about Vietnam. He was convinced that those godless, Vietcong Commies were close to invading our hometown, and we had to bomb them back to the stone-age to prevent it. Secondly, he thoroughly believed that anyone who was educated, highly informed, and had good critical thinking skills was obviously un-American and a Commie-sympathizer. That meant every college student and every son of a faculty member was un-American. That included me.

So, Mr. D. concocted a whole series of tricks trying to circumnavigate the draft regulations and the laws of the land to pull every student out of college, believing that education is of no real value, and sending them as soldiers to Vietnam, where they could do God’s work. If executing his plan required blatant lying, violating the law, or making false statements to the FBI and setting them out to arrest students, as one done to my brother, that was OK with him.

My brother had to enlist the aid of a U.S. Senator to counteract such nefarious abuse.

Like so many others, I was called in to face Mr. D. for a series of delightful sessions where, for example, he would state that my student deferment had been canceled because (quote) “I had failed to fill-out and mail-back a required statement,” all the time waving the delivered statement right in front of my face. Oh yes, he was a good Christian man; lying and illegal actions were OK when doing God’s work.

Our friend and neighbor Dr. K——, who was the head of a university department, had two sons who continuously had been harassed and finally declared “1-A.” The same happened to Professor W—‘s family, whom we knew. They were well informed about the true situation in Vietnam and were steadfastly against the war policies of the administration. Seeing no alternative, they finally advised their sons to go to Canada. After all, we already had lost several sons who were acquaintances of mine, and that was a small community.

So, I finally was deprived of my student deferment and ordered to be taken to the state capital for my induction physical. There was a whole bus-load of us from my hometown.

Traveling eighty-five miles by bus took a while, so I had plenty of opportunity to chat with some of the other guys. The fellow next to me sported a well trimmed beard, which suited his geology major very well. He enjoyed explaining the geology of the area as we moved along, a tutorial which I thoroughly enjoyed. Others expressed their anxieties about the draft.

Once we arrived at the center, we quickly were required to fill out forms. I recall that one question demanded to know if the individual was homosexual. I wondered how many had the courage to mark it “Yes,” whether actually straight or gay, simply to become ineligible for the draft. We then had to strip down and start through a long line of examiners.

I do not know if all potential inductees experienced the same treatment as we did, but I was rather surprised how uncivil and belligerent each and every examiner was there. I wondered if the reason was that each examiner considered himself to be a true American patriot, but the inductees were “reluctant laggards, not worthy of being seen as true Americans.”

I brought along my medical file with me, for I knew from having read draft regulations that my life-long allergy condition was so severe that I would not qualify for service. As far back as age five, our family had to cut short a Canadian camping trip because I could not breath from reacting to all the tree-pollen. By age ten, my year-around allergies were so severe that I was taken to see a specialist. The doctor was surprised to find out that I am allergic to just about everything in nature that I find attractive, trees, flowers, grass, but also weeds such as ragweed and goldenrod. I try to do the best I can, short of living in a bubble.

My allergic reactions were not just sneezing and having itchy eyes. My throat could close up, and I could break out in hives if I just touched dandelions. I was given a series of immunization shots, but they failed to diminish the symptoms. In college, the doctor tried even cortisone shots, ignoring the cumulative, toxic side-effects. That was not much help either.

Before the physical, I reviewed my file. Then I decided to take an eye-catching piece of colored paper and type a synopsis of my allergy history. I included that in the file.

So, going through the examination line from person to person and hearing the examiners’ snarling orders, I was not surprised that each and every one of us passed with flying colors despite whatever afflictions each of us had. It looked as though no one would be exempted from the privilege of going to Vietnam.

Then I came to the last examiner who reviewed my file. He casually glanced at each page in an obviously dismissive manner. But then, the colored paper caught his eye. He read through the medical synopsis, then glared at me and said, “You know the regulations too well.” I responded, “I’m familiar with the regulations.” He repeated, “Too well!” Then with one angry motion, he grabbed a rubber stamp, slammed it down on my form, and shoved it back into my hands I looked at it. It said “1-Y, that is, to be called-up only in the case of national emergency.” I was the only one from that bus-load not drafted.

I had much to think about on the long bus-ride home. Once I arrived home, I was eager to contact my friends Ned and Derrith to tell them the news. We had talked quite a bit about this situation before I went to Columbus. When I finally met up with them, they were very pleased to hear that I still would be around, that I would not be going into the army and being shipped off to Vietnam.

Then Derrith informed me, “We knew that you would have a hard time with all of the examiners. That’s why we decided to concentrate on just the last man.” I asked what she meant.

She answered, “Ned and I did a little ceremony and concentrated on the last man, telling him that he had to let you go.” 

I was puzzled. I thought that it was my colored page that saved me. Was Ned and Derrith’s little ceremony just a coincidence?” 

I still wonder.

November 7, 2013

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.

Posted on

Exaggeration by Ricky

In civilian life, fairy tales usually begin with “Once upon a time… .” The military equivalent phrase is “This ain’t no shit … .” When used properly, these expressions are essentially the same but not always. Sometimes the fairy tales sound more real than the story told by a military member as the actions of the military are often unbelievable; activities which we never heard of due to security classifications, cover-ups, or possibly just the passage of time. I would relate some of those unknown activities, but then I would have to kill you to protect the secret, and I don’t want to do that.

All advertisements for commercial products contain major exaggerations or out-right lies. I do not believe that statement to be an exaggeration in any way. Ever since I was 5-years old, I hear about the “New and Improved Tide” for washing clothes. The only thing I know that changed is the box it comes in. During all that time, I have not seen any of my clothes get cleaner than in any previous version.

Some exaggerations are in common usage. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times;” “I’ll bet you a million dollars you can’t do it;” and “If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all,” are just three of the hundreds of possible examples.

Myths are similar to fairy tales. Another type of exaggeration is the myth type of story that is so outrageous, no one would believe it. This type is of the category Tall Tales, which is just a nice way of saying it’s a big lie. This type is not so much harmful as entertaining, in effect; a big white lie as it were. For example, most people believe the Grand Canyon is the result of river and wind erosion. The reality is a fact well known; the Grand Canyon is the result of Paul Bunyan dragging his axe along the ground while walking from Minnesota to the redwood forests of California. (I actually believe this is probably true, because the story was in my reading textbook in 3rd grade elementary school in Minnesota. Schools never teach bad information.)

I cannot count high enough to list all the dining establishments that proclaim their cuisine is the “best” in town, state, nation, world, etc. If I tried to add them up, I would fry my brain or burn out my calculator’s batteries.

Did you notice that even the Weather Channel is not above reproach on this issue? It seems that each-and-every common and routine weather event is portrayed as being a major disaster in the making. So, I’ll end my story today with a warning to all of us, “global warming” will kill us all, because we did not do something about it a hundred years ago, and now it’s too late.

I’m so thirsty from reading this paper, I’m going drink ten gallons of water before I go home.

© 3 June 2013

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

Posted on

My Revelation/Theatre by Ray S

You may believe that a revelation is some sort of epiphany, miracle, a Bible book with all of its fortunes and predictions. It is just a word until you attach yours or someone else’s content to it; and that includes the scripture.

Well for me, my revelations are the ones that manifest themselves in my weary subconscious at the most inopportune moments. Those times when my body is overcome with fatigue or some physical disorder—that is always the curtain call for all the detritus that’s been hidden away like the curtain that’s drawn back to reveal the Wizard—or in this case all of the thoughts or memories that you have ignored because of varying degrees of guilt, regret, a smattering of self-loathing for good measure, and general lack of good will for anyone concerned.

Each thought negative or it may be just pops up in your mind’s “letter box” under “unfinished business” or just WHY?

None of this procedure does little to set one’s mind at ease; it just seems to amplify the matters.

In the morning waking hours there is an overpowering desire to fight waking up to another dreary routine. This is followed by a reaction to the above that restates how fortunate you are that you have woken. A lot of good that does when you’d just as soon pull the covers up and over your head.

You lie down on your back with your hands crossed over your chest and wonder if you could will yourself out of the present anguish du jour. That would be such an easy solution, leave all of your worries and stuff for them to deal with—but what if this solution wasn’t as easy “you know” die with a smile on your face? The best detriment to suicide thoughts then takes center stage asking how are you going to do it and knowing your record of bad successes that it won’t work and you’ll really be “expletive” (F word).

Somewhere the wee small voice is heard reminding you of what the hell are you so down about? Think of the starving, fighting, dying, and terminally ill out there, and you have the gall to sit on your pity pot. Well, get over it; you’re still breathing, well cared for, etc., etc.

Okay. Okay. I guess you’re right, but why do I still feel this way?

The voice behind the curtain reminds you that you’re a pretty ungrateful SOB, but after all rebuttals it possibly seems that all my subconscious revelations have taken their bows, returned to the green room, waiting for their next “on stage” time; and I can finally get out of bed, put my feet on the cold floor, stand in front of the toilet, and get on with the day.

February 24, 2014

About the Author

Posted on

Visits to the Doctors by Phillip Hoyle

I started going again to the doctors in my late twenties when my life seemed to complicate and I had started feeling stresses of work that caused pain and left me seeking relief.

Oh, I’d been to doctors before. Surely it was a doctor who delivered me from my mother’s womb, a doctor who filled my teeth, a doctor who gave me a physical in preparation for going to scout camp, a doctor who removed my plantar warts, a doctor who checked my dislocated knee, and a doctor who examined my throat and found I had both strep infection and the kissing disease, mononucleosis. These were specialists and my visits all related to crises or organizational demands. I’d go to their sterile offices, talk to them in their white lab coats, open my mouth, drop my pants, and otherwise skirt their world of science and be properly impressed. I needed their expertise I suppose but wasn’t really all that interested in what they had to say or prescribe.

I have a close friend now and who has a different relationship with doctors, whom he visits on numerous occasions for any variety of illnesses—real and imagined. My friend sees at least one or more doctors weekly and often tells me what his cardiologist or his dermatologist or his back doctor or his general practitioner or his internalist or his surgeon or some other specialist has said about his illnesses. It seems to me that beyond his own education in business and bookkeeping he has pursued a medical education in the hallowed halls of hospitals and clinics, a constant search for remedies, medicines, and knowledge to improve his day-to-day well being and treat his several conditions.

I don’t report this kind of phenomenon in my friends and acquaintances without revealing my own preoccupation with specialists for I, too, have sought knowledge from the doctors. I too have been enamored of their offerings, specialties, and diagnoses, but rather than radiologists I have visited musicologists, rather than endocrinologists I have sat at the feet of philologists, rather than chiropractologists I have preferred historiologists.

My manic phase of learning from doctors began in my late teens, reached a huge crescendo in my early thirties, and then quickly diminished (frankly a great relief to my wife at the time). My obsession slackened when I realized I had been in school for twenty-two of my thirty-three years. For more than a decade I had visited the offices, lecture halls, theaters, labs, and libraries of learning about theology, musicology, and biblioraphgy. I read dictionaries, scholarly studies, philosophies, essays, novels, short stories, periodicals, codices, and manuscripts in my pursuit of a wide variety of intellectual topics. My doctor’s names included Van Buren, Lee, Childs, Duke, and Beckelheimer, scholars who led me into the literatures of their specialties. I couldn’t read enough, hear enough, or absorb enough for years.

Finally I had had enough and nearly quite seeing them—doctors of all kinds. My decision to curtail my extravagance wasn’t because I was cured of my need to learn and know. I simply was tired of the institutions that offered the doctors’ advice—the schools with their curriculum plans, requirements, and tests. So I decided to self-medicate my need, to read on my own, to attend only seminars and workshops of interest, and eventually I gave up most of those things in order to begin writing my own essays and my own stories, a change that seems to have become my ultimate self-treatment. Forgive me if I have sinned, but for my penance just promise me not to take away my tablets, pens, or word processor.

Mea culpa.

Denver, 2013

About the Author

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

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot

Posted on

Road Trip by Pat Gourley

I actually have several memorable road trips in my past that I remember with varying degrees of fondness. My first trip west to Wyoming in my late teens is still a vivid memory. The first time I saw mountains outside of pictures, movies and T.V. was quite breathtaking. I simply had trouble grasping that they were real. The parts of northern Indiana and Illinois where I lived are really quite flat and I guess I grew up assuming the world was flat. That the world might be flat was a view of the world not uncommon among many Europeans in centuries past as I recall.

Then there were the trips to Florida in the late 1960’s with college friends. These were most remarkable for the fact that they provided my first views of the ocean. They were also noteworthy for the fact that we were frequently trailed and mildly harassed by various Florida state troopers. Being longhaired hippies we really stuck out. If it weren’t for our nearly invisible car, an old Dodge Dart slant six, we would have probably been stopped much more often. There was absolutely nothing cool about that car and a vehicle many of the frat boys going down to Ft. Lauderdale on spring break in those days would never be caught dead in but the cops largely ignored.

Probably my most memorable road trip though was one I took in the spring of 1989 with Harry Hay and John Burnside. Harry as many of you know is considered by some to be the founder of the modern American gay movement since he was instrumental in the formation of the Mattachine society in Los Angeles in 1950. Harry and John had been mentors and queer spirit guides for me personally since first meeting them in 1978 and our history together was after more than a decade quite rich really.

Our personal dynamics were actually emerging from a period of stress as a result of internal and very fractious Radical Faire politics. I was at the time becoming quite immersed both personally and professionally in the exploding AIDS epidemic. I often wondered why Harry and John both did not seem to me at least more involved with the AIDS epidemic but perhaps it had something to with the fact that Harry had lived through and survived the great influenza pandemic of 1919. Perhaps this created a different worldview of the inevitability of illness and death.

At any rate they were in Denver that spring of 1989 at the invitation of a group of local Fairies I was heavily involved with called the Moonroot Circle. This was a spin off of the local collective that sponsored the second large national Radical Fairie gathering in the foothills west of town in the summer of 1980. It was group important to me not simply because of the deep friendships involved but also it helped me keep my bearings in the choppy waters of AIDS and HIV politics boiling over at the time.

Among several activities we had them participating in during this visit was a well-attended public talk we sponsored featuring both Harry and John at the local Metropolitan Community Church on Clarkson, which is still there I might add. Harry was always a riveting public speaker and had a wealth of personal experience he was willing to share that always seemed to stir the radical juices in many who would come to hear him.

They were staying with my partner David and myself in our little house on West Center Street in Denver spending their nights sleeping in the back of their ancient Datsun pickup truck with a camper shell. This was their preferred mode of travel shunning airplanes whenever possible. They had driven to Denver in this rickety bucket of bolts from Los Angeles.

They planned to return to L.A. by way of Northern New Mexico visiting old friends there and reconnecting with a part of the country they had lived in for many years in a compound nestled in the San Juan Pueblo. In the early 1980’s Harry and John had shown a group of us around the Northern New Mexico Pueblos they had come to know and love and introduced us to some of the indigenous queer folk and culture.

Photo of a Radical Faerie ceremony provided by author.

In one of the late night discussions during this Denver visit in May of 1989 the topic of Chaco Canyon came up and surprisingly despite years of living in northern New Mexico they had never been there. David and I had actually been there a few years earlier so the opportunity to travel with them and introduce them to a piece of the country they had never been to was too rich to pass up. David had work obligations and could not go with us but I volunteered to follow them in my own little Toyota pick-up and I would be their guide to Chaco Canyon.

John Burnside in addition to being one the most wondrous fey individuals I have ever know was also a master mechanic though he didn’t drive. In fact I don’t think he had a current driver’s license though I could be mistaken about that. This mechanical ability frequently came in handy since their vehicle would break down several times on nearly every road trip they took. As I recall they had had some trouble coming into Denver from L.A. so I volunteered to follow behind on our journey. Harry was the driver and believe me following behind him was always a bit harrowing. Traffic lanes, stop signs and the rules of the road in general were to Harry merely suggestions most often ignored.

And of course about an hour out of Denver on Highway 285 their water pump went out. John very astutely remembered that we had passed a Napa auto parts some miles back so after diagnosing the problem he hopped in my truck and we drove back for the needed items. Harry stayed behind. He often would go into a bit of a sullen funk especially around car problems it seemed.

The remainder of the trip to the San Juan Pueblo was uneventful. We spent the night there with friends and then proceeded the next day to Chaco Canyon. They were of course duly impressed with the ruins. It was during our walk through the ruins that my most memorable moment of the trip occurred. That moment was when we were seated together in a meditative silence in the great Kiva. Harry was tearful as I recall. I had seen him tearful before but meditative silence in the presence of the father of modern gay liberation was a totally new experience for me and one I will always cherish.

After several hours we were on our way back to San Juan though I do not remember very clearly the return trip at all. Nothing apparently broke down. I think H. and J. spent a few more days in New Mexico before retuning to L.A. I drove back to Denver the next day with the great memory of having had the opportunity to introduce Harry Hay to a part of New Mexico he and John had never visited.

A great little gift back to the men who had introduced me to so many, many different and exciting things queer. A big part of who I am today and my worldview I owe to Harry and John. I still frequently find myself invoking one of Harry’s greatest teachings and that was his frequently saying, “Now that is an unexamined assumption, isn’t it” and thereby prompting a totally different way of viewing the world!

February 2014

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.

Posted on

Getting Touchy by Nicholas

This topic seems naturally to lead into intimate areas of body contact which I do like, just in general. I do like being touched. Not only for the human warmth of touch but also because I agree with the sentiment that our skin is really our largest sense—or sex—organ capable of innumerable delights. So, it isn’t so much a matter of don’t touch me here, there or anywhere but who’s doing the touching. With some people, please, don’t touch me anywhere. With others, I have no idea where the boundaries are (assuming we’re not frightening any unintended neighbors).

But if I can broaden the meaning of ‘don’t touch me there’ to include subjects not wanting pursuit or questioning, I do have those. Call them preferences or phobias or private areas, don’t go there. This is where the psychological sun don’t shine. Now we’re into intimate areas of the heart and mind, hopes and fears. And that’s a way bigger deal than body parts.

One is writing. I have long seen myself as a writer and even once made my living by writing. Problem is, I hardly write. I wish I could write. I wish that I could just sit down and write something beyond what someone once dismissed as disposable writing—meaning journalism or journaling. But I don’t want to go into it. PLEASE, don’t touch me there.

The future is another one. I’ve never had any great confidence in the future. If I have one, I have no idea what it is or how to make it happen. The future will sort of unravel on its own, as I see it. I much prefer the past which was loads of fun or the present where I can at least run away. So, please don’t touch me THERE.

A related taboo area is health. I’m in good health as far as I know. But what do I know? Every ache, I’m convinced, may signal that my last breath is near, the start of that downhill slide. And as for hospitals, please, don’t TOUCH me there.

And of course there’s politics. I’m pretty moderate in my politics and believe that political opponents should be tortured and annihilated only in rare circumstances. But those circumstances seem to be getting less rare. So, you better NOT touch me there.

As you can tell I am far touchier about non-physical touch than about physical touch. Physical touch usually stays on the surface and is, when not an assault, a pleasure. But verbal, psychological touch almost always aims deep. When someone says, “I just wanted to touch on that,” you know something’s up and you better pay attention. In general, just don’t touch me there.

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.

Posted on

A Letter to My (Much) Younger Self by Gilllian

For Christ’s sake, Gillian, you’re ten bloody years old and …

No, I mustn’t swear. This is a letter to be read in the early 1950’s. And leave Christ out of it as well. You surely recall that at the age of nine you decided organized religion was a load of — , well, you rejected it.

Gillian, you really need to get your shit together.

Oops, that’s no better. Gillian, yes, YOU, the seventy-year old one, need to get YOUR act together. OK, act together, that’s better.

Gillian, you’re ten now, and it’s time you got your act together.

No, that really doesn’t work either. The ten-year-old Gillian IS acting; playing a part. And at some level she knows it. She needs no encouragement in acting. And it all sounds a bit distant and cool, doesn’t it? It shouldn’t. I feel great affection for, and of course empathy with, this desperately confused younger self. So here we go, AGAIN. Well, I didn’t expect this to be easy.

My dearest Gillian, (yes, MUCH better!)

Now you are ten, I think it’s time we had a little chat.

No, no! Too condescending.

My dearest Gillian,

Yes, you are only ten, but you have some pretty difficult stuff to deal with. I know you know what I mean, although you are trying oh so hard to hide it, even, or especially, from yourself. You think, in those rare times when you face up to thinking about it at all, that you are absolutely the only person in this entire world who is attracted to those of the same, rather than the opposite, sex. You think that somehow, in some way quite unclear to you at this time, these feelings will, magically, go away. They will not. I cannot guarantee you much, but that I can promise. No matter how hard you continue to refuse to accept them, they are going to strengthen until the day comes when you can no longer deny them to yourself, and so no longer wish to deny them to everyone else.

Don’t get me wrong, I am not advising you to ‘come out of the closet,’ (a phrase she is not yet even familiar with, needs explanation) that is, shout out on the school bus that you love girls not boys. Don’t kiss your best friend, though I know how much you have wanted to for quite some time. And don’t tell Mum and Dad. Dad, I suspect, would walk away without a word, and, if you tried to pursue it, might say something like, ‘I don’t ever want to hear that again,’ and walk faster, and further, away. Mum would, more predictably, say, “Oh Gillian! You’re being entirely too silly!” And that would be the unsatisfactory end to it.

The time and place would not be good. Caution is advised, my dear. (Good. Nice and warm, and what her mother often calls her.) In your current year, 1952, the Enigma codebreaker Alan Turing is being forced to take ‘cures’ for his homosexuality. (Don’t think the word ‘gay,’ though friendlier, would mean a thing. Come to think of it, neither would Turing nor Enigma, both being silenced for years to come under the Official Secrets Act. Never mind, she can get the idea.) Sir John Nott-Bower, commissioner of Scotland Yard is beginning to weed out homosexuals from the British Government, at the same time as McCarthy is conducting a homosexual witch hunt in the US. No, not a good time and place. (Though I suspect, in 1952, there was no good place.)

You will find this hard to believe, but my wonderful same-sex partner, of twenty-six years, and I are about to be legally married in the U.S., where same-sex marriage is now, nearing the end of 2013, legal in fourteen states.*

It is also legal in parts of Mexico, and legal throughout another sixteen countries.** The 21st century is an amazing place!

What I implore you to do, is, simply, look at yourself. Accept yourself. You are beautiful just the way you are, and one day you will know it. But if you deny it, hide it, try to make it go away, that will not work. You will hurt others.

Unintentionally, but the hurt is there all the same. And yourself. But there will be losses as well as gains. There will be sadness as well as joy. But make your life-choices consciously, for positive reasons, not negative ones, and never in denial of who you are, and who you must be. You are who you are. You have no choice. I know that now.

I wish, my dear Gillian, that I had known you, myself, a whole lot better in 1952. But here I am, sixty years later, still working at it, and very slowly I believe I’m getting there.

*
California, Connecticut, Iowa, Massachusetts, New Jersey, Delaware, Minnesota, New Hampshire, New York, Rhode Island, Vermont, Maine, Maryland, Washington, and Washington D.C.

**
Argentina (2010) Denmark (2012) The Netherlands (2000) South Africa (2006) Belgium (2003) England / Wales (2013) New Zealand (2013) Spain (2005) Brazil (2013) France (2013) Norway (2009) Sweden (2009) Canada (2005) Iceland (2010) Portugal (2010) Uruguay (2013)

October 2013

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.