Month: June 2015

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Living on the Faultline, by Nicholas

          Late that
pleasant afternoon, after I’d finished classes, I walked across campus to do
some work in the library. On the third floor I found the book I needed and was
about to sit down at a table when things began to rumble. It was Oct. 17, 1989
and San Francisco was about to get a shaking like it hadn’t felt in decades.
Floors and walls trembled in the familiar motion of a California earthquake.
Fixtures rattled a little and swayed. Then the real shaking began. Ceiling
lights knocked around and flickered and then went out. Books were flung off
their shelves. Filing cabinets toppled over. People dove under tables and I
quickly placed my brief case over my head to protect against falling debris. I
had been through many earthquakes in San Francisco—felt the building sway,
heard the rattling, been waken up in a rippling bed, felt the floor jumping
around beneath my feet—but this time, for the first time, I was afraid. “God, I
could die here,” I thought.
          Then, it
stopped. Fifteen seconds that felt like 15 years. The lights were out but being
5 o’clock in the afternoon, there was enough light for us to thread our dazed
way down three flights of stairs and out of the building. There was no panic as
hundreds of students climbed over piles of books and papers and dust to leave.
Outside, people milled about the campus. I was in probably the worst building
in the worst spot for an earthquake. The San Francisco State University campus
sits almost exactly atop the San Andreas fault and the soil is mostly sand
which tends to magnify the waves of an earthquake. The building I was in was
built of concrete slabs, the kind that respond to shock waves by simply
collapsing. It’s called “pancaking” in which the floors just slide down onto
each other, crushing anything in between. I was glad to be outside.
          Since all
power in the city was out, no traffic lights worked, cars just stopped on the
street, dazed drivers wondering what to do next. No streetcars could run
either. The city just stopped.
          The first
reaction to a major earthquake is confusion. Buildings and the ground they’re
built on aren’t supposed to move like that. Disorientation is the first shock.
          The campus is
in the southwest corner of the city and with traffic totally snarled and no
public transit operating, I figured I might as well start walking home which
was close to the city center, probably 4-5 miles away. I started walking, heading
toward clouds of billowing black smoke. I hoped it wasn’t our house burning
down.
          The streets
were crowded with walkers and some people had transistor radios to get some
news. Remember, this was way before Internet, Facebook, cell phones. No such
thing as instant communication.
          One lady stood
in front of her house and announced to passersby that “That quake ran right in
front of my house.” Had the tremor run right in front in your house, I thought,
you wouldn’t be standing here now. The actual shift in tectonic plates was
probably miles deep in the earth.
          Somebody said
the Bay Bridge collapsed—a part of it, in fact, had. A freeway in Oakland had
collapsed, killing 60 people. The Marina District, built on landfill by the
bay, took the worst damage and was burning. All highways, bridges and trains
were unusable. If you couldn’t walk to where you needed to be, people were told
to just stay where they were. I kept walking, stepping around the occasional
pile of bricks and stucco that had fallen off buildings.
          Finally, I got
home. Everything was OK. We lived on a hill overlooking Golden Gate Park, the
most solid geology you could find in San Francisco (the hill, not the park
which is sand). Walls cracked and books had wobbled to the edges of shelves,
but nothing toppled or collapsed.
          Jamie got home
soon after I did. He’d been in a highrise office building downtown and had to
walk down ten flights of stairs but managed to drive home taking a circuitous
route through neighborhoods to avoid traffic jams. Some of the office towers
had actually banged against one another at the height of the shaking—or so we
heard.
          Shortly after
we arrived home, two friends showed up. They both worked in SF but lived in
Oakland and couldn’t get home so they hiked to our place and stayed with us.
There was no power in the house, so we built a fire outside in a little hibachi
grill and heated up some leftovers. The city was dark except for the glow to
the northeast where the Marina District kept burning. We felt oddly safe on our
bedrock hillside.
          We did
actually perform one rescue that dangerous night. The woman who lived in the
flat below ours was stranded in East Bay which meant her cat Darwin needed
feeding. He sat mewling at our back door until we invited him in and gave him
some food. Next day Darwin repaid the favor by leaving us a dead bird on our
doorstep.
          In the days
that followed, the city slowly got back to a new normal. Mail delivery was
cancelled for three days and many shops remained closed. The World Series
between SF and Oakland resumed. Buildings and freeways were inspected and some
condemned. BART resumed running trains the next day but the Bay Bridge was to
stay closed for at least a month until the collapsed section could be repaired.
Ferry boats started running across the bay—actually a nicer way to commute. We walked
through the Marina District over the rippled pavement and past the leaning or
burnt out flats. Everywhere you went you calculated how safe it was or wasn’t
until you realized there was no place safe but you went on anyway. Living on
the faultline. 
©
19 April 2015 
About the Author 

Nicholas grew up in
Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He
retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks,
does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.
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Reputation, by Gillian

Reputation is an idle
and most false imposition; oft got without merit, and lost without deserving. –
William Shakespeare
As most often,
I completely agree with you, Will.  A
reputation is a dangerous thing; good or bad, yours or someone else’s.  I guess the essence of their threat lies in
the fact that we all tend to become sucked in by them, rather than by the
reality of a person’s character. And, again, this is as true of our own as of
others’. Being fooled by another person’s reputation, or image, is dangerous.
Being led astray from your real self by your own, can be disastrous.
Reputations,
and the images they create of us, can stay pretty stable throughout a lifetime,
but for many of us they are fluid, changing as we grow. Who doesn’t know that
wild child with the dreadful reputation in high school, who grew up to be a
boringly conventional pillar of the community? Nevertheless that past
reputation can hang around. Who has completely forgotten Chappaquiddick? It
followed Ted Kennedy to his grave and beyond into the history books. The same
for Monica Lewinsky, who will forever haunt Clinton’s reputation.
I’m not sure
whether reputations have become more insidious in our modern word, or less.
In the days
when most of us lived in small communities where everyone knew everyone else,
it was hard for anyone to escape their established reputation and build a new
one. You aren’t going to employ Bob to put in your new windows. He got caught
shop-lifting at the dime store when he was ten. Probably rips off all his glass
from some place. And as for letting Mary baby-sit. Remember how she knocked her
baby sister off the chair that time? Well, yes, probably was an accident but
still ……   
These days, we
tend not to know that the woman selling us insurance used to beat her children,
or that the man fixing our car is a longtime alcoholic. On the other hand,
anything you do or say can swoop around the world in a nanosecond, and if
whatever it is goes viral, God help you!
I believe a
lot of what Facebook is about is changing reputations, your own and others’,
which is surely much easier to do these days than back in the small town where
you were the town drunk for life no matter that you had been on the wagon for
half of your life.
Winston
Churchill was a perfect example of changing reputations. Come to that, he still
is.  His youthful military escapades were
a mixed bag, but, never lacking in ego, by the age of 26 he had published five
books about them. His reputation was mixed, but he was made Lord of the Admiralty
at the ridiculously young age of 37. Sadly for him, and alas much sadder for
the 250,000 casualties, his poorly-conceived Siege of the Dardanelles during
WW1 was a total disaster and he was forced to resign, with his reputation in
tatters. He immediately redeemed much of it by consigning himself to trench
warfare, where he reportedly fought with vigor and valor.
Between the
wars, his constant warnings of impending and inevitable war with Germany again
diminished his reputation. No-one wanted to hear it. The Boer War was not so
long over, and the British were not up for another. But when Germany broke its
promises and invaded Poland, Churchill was proven right and his reputation
soared. Almost instantaneously he was made Prime Minister and, with his reputation
as that British Bulldog thundering around him, proclaimed by most as Britain’s
savior. His very reputation, along with endless stirring speeches, did much to
keep spirits high under desperate conditions, and to keep most Britons
determined to go on fighting.
But that
reputation, as a supreme fighter who would never give up, lost all appeal the
moment the war ended. Churchill’s hawkish reputation coupled with his endless
warnings over the new threat from the Soviets, were too scary for peace-time. Two
months later Winston Churchill was defeated soundly at the polls.
His ego,
however, remained undaunted. He had no fear for his reputation.  “History,” he pronounced,
“Will be kind to me for I intend to write it.”  Which he did. Over his lifetime he wrote 43
books in 72 volumes.
But still he
was unable completely to preserve a positive reputation.  Although for many years it was considered
akin to blasphemy to criticize such a great hero, that is no longer the case.
There is much discussion these days as to whether Churchill was, to quote Dr.
Andrew Roberts, “Brilliant Statesman or Brutal Demagogue.” Just from
his own quotations, he was clearly misogynistic and racist, but in his day that
was not condemned as it is today. So reputations change not only as a person
changes, and events change, but as attitudes change.
And so we
re-write history.
It’s hard to
be sure what one’s own reputation is. Probably, in many cases, not exactly what
we think it is or would like it to be. I do know that when I was married the
first time, to a man, we were considered a really strong, stable couple. I know
that because our friends were so utterly shocked when we split up. And, in so
many ways, that reputation was valid. Except for one teensy weensy detail which
no-one knew.  In one way our reputation
as a married couple was true. In another, it was as far off as it could be. But
I was the only one who knew that; and I played my part so well.
When I came
out, I became a bit confused. I wasn’t at all sure what the archetypal lesbian
would be; but whatever it was, that’s what I would become. I observed carefully
in this new world, and acted accordingly to create a new reputation, a new
version of myself. Thankfully, this stage did not last long.  
You’re doing
it again! I said to myself. Your entire life you
have created a false reputation for yourself, and now you’re finally free,
you’re doing it again! STOP!
So I did.
And for over
30 years now, I have simply been me. I don’t know what kind of reputation I
have.  I don’t care. A reputation is
simply others’ visions, versions, of me. It may or may not be anywhere near the
truth. It simply doesn’t matter.
Free at last!
© October 2014 
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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Gifts from Afar, a Harmony Story, by Carol White

In 1992, 23
years ago now, the State of Colorado voted to pass something called Amendment 2
to the Constitution of our State, which said that gay and lesbian people could
have no rights whatsoever, and whatever rights they already had in cities such
as Denver and Aspen and Boulder would be canceled or repealed.
The Amendment
2 campaign and battle was vitriolic and pretty nasty.  We worked hard and
thought we were going to defeat it, but when it passed, we were all stunned and
devastated.  It is very difficult to explain the hurt that hung like a
black cloud over our whole community in the wake of that election.
Amendment 2
passed on a Tuesday in November.  That Friday Harmony, a GLBT chorus that
I was conducting at the time, went to the YMCA of the Rockies in Estes Park for
our usual retreat before an upcoming concert, where we normally rehearse and
polish our music for the performance.  But on this occasion we were also
crying and telling election stories and trying to support each other after
having been knocked off our feet, so to speak, by the people of Colorado.
That same
weekend there happened to be another retreat going on at the same YMCA for
Methodist youth leaders from our jurisdiction, which covered four states.
 One of the ministers who was leading that retreat happened to be the
brother of one of the women in Harmony.  The brother and sister got
together, and the brother minister through his sister invited Harmony to sing
for the convocation of Methodist youth at their Sunday morning meeting.
She brought
the idea back to the choir, and we accepted.
As Sunday
morning came, we lined up outside the Chapel, which is still there but has
later been remodeled.  At that time there were no pews.  And since
there were over 100 Methodist youth, they sat on the floor in the middle of the
chapel, and since there were over 100 Harmony members, there was no place for
us to get except to surround them standing up.
So I went to a
little stage at one end of the Chapel, and said that I had been a Methodist
youth just like them, had received a Master’s in Sacred Music from SMU in
Dallas, and had served a large church as minister of music for four years
before being fired because I was gay.  Then I said that Harmony was a GLBT
chorus, and we would just like to sing a couple of songs for them.
I said,
“This first song is dedicated to all of you who might be gay, or all of
you who are struggling with self esteem for any reason.”  I knew that
most high school kids struggle with self esteem for a variety of reasons.  The song was:
“How
could anyone ever tell you you are anything less than beautiful,
How could
anyone ever tell you you are less than whole,
How could
anyone fail to notice that your loving is a miracle,
How deeply
you’re connected to my soul.”
Then we sang a
Holly Near song and taught it to them and they sang along.  It was:
“We are a
gentle loving people, and we are singing, singing for our lives.
We are a gentle
loving people, and we are singing, singing for our lives.”
Other verses
said, “We are gay and straight together,” “We are a land of many colors,” as
well as a few others. 
We were about
to leave, and some of them said, “No, sing another song.”
There was an
old organ at the other end of the chapel, and our accompanist cranked it up and
started playing the introduction to our theme song, and the choir started
singing,
“In this
very room there’s quite enough love for one like me,
And in this
very room there’s quite enough joy for one like me.
And there’s
quite enough hope and quite enough power
To chase away
any gloom,
For Spirit,
our Spirit, is in this very room.”
At the end of
the first verse, one of the girls sitting on the floor got up and stood with
Harmony in the circle.  They continued singing,
“In this
very room there’s quite enough love for all of us,
And in this
very room there’s quite enough joy for all of us.
And there’s
quite enough hope and quite enough power
To chase away
any gloom,
For Spirit,
our Spirit, is in this very room.”
During the
second verse, several youth, in groups of two’s and three’s, stood up and
joined Harmony in the circle.  They kept singing through their tears,
“In this
very room there’s quite enough love for all the world,
And in this
very room there’s quite enough joy for all the world,
And there’s
quite enough hope and quite enough power
To chase away
any gloom,
For Spirit,
our Spirit, is in this very room.”
By the end of
the song, there was no-one left sitting on the floor.  They were all
standing arm-around-shoulder around arm-around-shoulder.
There was
nothing left to say.  We had gone there to sing for them, and they had
turned it around and helped us when we needed it most.  Harmony filed out
of the Chapel knowing that we had been blessed. 
They had given us a Gift from Afar.
A few years
later Amendment 2 was repealed by the Supreme Court of the United States.
© 29 May 2015 
About the Author 
I was born in Louisiana in
1939, went to Southern Methodist University in Dallas from 1957 through 1963,
with majors in sacred music and choral conducting, was a minister of music for
a large Methodist church in Houston for four years, and was fired for being gay
in 1967.  After five years of searching,
I settled in Denver and spent 30 years here as a freelance court reporter.  From 1980 forward I have been involved with
PFLAG Denver, and started and conducted four GLBT choruses:  the PFLAG Festival Chorus, the Denver Women’s
Chorus, the Celebration ’90 Festival Chorus for the Gay Games in Vancouver, and
Harmony.  I am enjoying my 11-year
retirement with my life partner of 32 years, Judith Nelson, riding our bikes, going
to concerts, and writing stories for the great SAGE group.
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Passion, by Betsy

Passion: an intense desire or enthusiasm for something.
Passion is energy, – feel the power that comes from focusing on
what excites you. – Oprah Winfrey
I have a passion for a few things:  First, for certain people; namely, my loved
ones—my partner, my children and grandchildren.
Second, I have a passion for music–not all music.  Mostly for the classical of the baroque, classical,
and romantic styles and a little contemporary. 
I am very limited in my ability to perform music.  I do like being a part of a choral group and
have been doing this for much of my life. 
But listening is stirring and inspiring. 
I use my iPod when exercising. 
Nothing like a Schubert or Brahms quartet to keep me moving and working
hard on the stationary bicycle, elliptical or rowing machine. Some music does
excite me and gives me energy. Often fellow exercisers ask me what I’m
listening to.  When I tell them, they
give me a very strange look as if to say, “Don’t you know about rock!  You poor thing.”
My greatest passion is for sports. That is doing, not
watching. I am a mediocre spectator fan—well, that’s probably an
exaggeration.   I don’t pay a lot of
attention to which teams are winning or losing. 
Occasionally I’ll watch a tennis match on TV or even a Broncos
game.  But given the opportunity I would
a thousand times prefer to play, compete, or do most any activity
involving  physical action, motion,
skill, and/or a desire for adventure.
I must mention one other passion I have.  Now in my later years, I have become aware
that I have a great respect – I think it qualifies as a passionate respect for
the truth.  Perhaps that is because I
spent a good portion of my adult life living a lie.
I have noticed that what may appear to be a person’s passion
turns out to be short lived and it is no time before the individual appears to
be passionate about something else.  This
is particularly manifested in children and young adults.  They jump from one interest to another, I
suppose, exploring different areas of interest until one of those areas becomes
their deepest passion.
As I was giving this subject further consideration, I came to
the conclusion that passion and obsession are very closely related.  I had this thought when I realized that I had
made a glaring grammatical error in last week’s writing and I actually read it
using the wrong part of speech and didn’t even notice.  The realization hit me in the middle of the
night the next night as I lay in bed. I thought, “Surely I didn’t write it that
way.”  So I jumped out of bed at 3:00Am
and checked my paper.  Yes, I had written
it that way and read it that way.  Very
upset with myself, I had to wake Gill up and tell her.  “I can’t believe I did that,” I said.  At that moment I realized I have a passion
for the correct usage of the English language and its rules of grammar.
Understand.  I DO NOT have a passion for
writing, but the use of the language definitely intrigues me. This goes back to
my high school days when my English teacher, who taught me for all 3 years of
high school English, exposed us to very little literature.  Mostly we studied grammar and a little
writing.  Most in the class thought the
grammar was rather boring, but I loved it. 
I guess I have the kind of mind which loves to analyze and that’s what
we did.  We analyzed sentences most of
the time and learned rules of grammar and word usage. So…..When does passion
become obsession?  At 3:00AM.  Ask Gill. Passion becomes obsession when one
becomes dis-eased over what she thinks she has a passion for.  (Oh, oh, there I go, ending a sentence with a
preposition.) 
© 22 April 2015 
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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Bumper Stickers, by Will Stanton

Bumper stickers.  We all have seen hundreds of them, many on
car bumpers, some stuck on car or truck windows.  A search on Google images brings up lots of
them, but I have to say that I’m not impressed with many of them.   The
vast majority of those stickers I would prefer never to have stuck onto my own
bumpers.  Many of them appear to have
been concocted by mindless idiots who think that they have been so clever.  The stickers neither convey any message worth
reading nor spark constructive thinking. 
Too many of them are simply profane, substituting profanity for
wit. 
And, far too many of them
express hate, something that I have grown very tired of.  I actually saw a battered old pickup truck
with a sticker on the cab’s rear window that read, “Save America.  Shoot all Muslims and Democrats.”  What added to the irony was that the
stereotypical looking cretin behind the wheel also had placed a “I love Jesus”
sticker next to the other one.  It
reminded me of a satirical bumper sticker that I once saw that asked, “What gun
would Jesus buy?”  Or, there was one I
saw that said, “Nuc a gay whale for Christ.”
I have become weary of
seeing religious messages on bumper stickers. 
Of course, those people who place them there have the right to do so;
however, I think that there are so many that they become tiresome.  Or worse, the statements shout intolerance,
proudly inferring that their religion is the only true religion, and all others
are false, sure to send the adherents to hell. 
The acerbic-tongued, British actress Maggie Smith sums it up quite
nicely: “My dear, religion is like a penis. 
It’s a perfectly fine thing for one to have and to take pride in; but
when one takes it out and waves it in my face, we have a problem.”
I can think of a lot of
messages that I could share with others, but I feel that most people would
think them too tame, too “goody-two-shoes.”  
Here are a few.  “Have you treated
everyone kindly today?”  “Have you been
honest in all of your business dealings today?” 
“Are all your political statements honest and constructive?”  “Do you strive each day to make society a
better place?”  I feel that such messages
should be seen by everyone; however, most likely, many people, viewing such
positive messages, might choose to become irritated or even angry.  The messages convey modes of behavior too
foreign to their own experience and desires.
Of course, most people
select bumper stickers that concern them personally, often omitting messages of
general interest.  I, too, can think of
various messages based upon my personal preferences, such as good music and its
remarkable influence upon emotional health and even physical well-being.  How about a bumper sticker that says “Build
fresh brain cells.– Listen to classical music.”  Or, “Go for Baroque.” 
Or, people might prefer
something a little more catchy.  At one
time a few years ago, I met a young waiter whose father was an
opera-tenor.  The father and his favorite
historical figure was the superlative singer Carlo Broschi, known on stage as
“Farinelli.”  The waiter asked me to find
a good portrait of Farinelli and to assist in preparing the digital data to
make a series of good-quality T-shirts, some for his dad and himself, and
others for friends.  An acquaintance of
mine who was supposed to print them never bothered to do so, but the slogan
still could work on a bumper sticker. 
Print a picture of Farinelli along with the statement, “It takes balls to
be a castrato.”  That bumper sticker
might raise an eyebrow or two.

© 19 November 2014 
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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Competition, by Ricky

        I
am not a “competitive” person.  When I
was a child, I enjoyed playing games where there was a winner and one or more
not the winners, but I didn’t care which category I was in ultimately.  I just played any game for fun.
        When
I was old enough to play Little League baseball, I was nearly competitive by
doing my best to help the team “win”. 
But when we would not win, I did feel a bit down, if I had made mistakes
that contributed to our failing to win. 
However, I did not castigate myself because I knew that in spite of
making (or not making) mistakes, I had done my best for the team and I knew not
winning did not reduce the amount of fun I experienced playing the game with
other boys.
        Just
playing a team game for fun still taught me sportsmanship, cooperation, working
together for a common goal, and helped to build my character.  I did not need parents or coaches who
believed in “winning is everything” to motivate me.  If they had, I am sure I would now have more
character flaws than positive attributes.
        In high school,
I never played on the school sports teams. 
They were all about winning and I only liked to play for fun.  The fact that I wasn’t all that good at any
of the sports also contributed to me not even trying out for a team.  I did play friendly team games during PE
class.  Besides the seasonal games of
softball, flag football, basketball we would also play other games for a week
or two.  One of my most memorable games
was badminton.
        The
PE teachers decided to set up two badminton courts/nets inside one half of our
gym.  They then organized the girls and
boys into teams of two players and held a tournament.  Eventually, the boys’ champions played the
girls’ champions.
        My
teammate, Ray Hoff, was one of my two friends in high school.  We first met in 6th grade and
continued as friends throughout our school years.  Winning was nice but we played for fun.  We would constantly talk to each other during
the game, giving encouragement, criticizing our play, and telling jokes all
while batting the shuttlecock over the net. 
Sometimes we were laughing so hard that the other team would score.  In the end, we were the boys’ champions and
got to play the girls’ championship team for our class period.  Ray and I continued our antics and had lots
of fun.  The girls would often laugh with
us.  Ultimately, the girls won with 4
sets to 3 but those 7-games took two class periods to play.  I don’t think anyone else ever watched our
games against the girls.  The other boys
were busy playing basketball and I don’t know what the other girls were
doing.  All I know is that Ray and I had
tons of fun playing a non-macho game.
        For
the years following high school, I still would rather play a game rather than
watch one.  To me, just sitting watching
a baseball, football, or basketball game is rather boring and many people take
those games way too seriously and kill all the fun.  Even when I play a board game like Risk or
Monopoly, I play for fun.  When it
becomes evident that another player is getting too emotional and is too
personally involved in the game, it kills the fun of playing and I’m ready to
stop.
        I
have given up watching team sports that are not sports anymore.  They have become big business and I find no
fun in business.
© 3 March 2014 

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 9-11-2001
terrorist attack.
I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.   I find writing these memories to be
therapeutic.
My story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.blogspot.com
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Revelation, by Phillip Hoyle

Some
biblical and artistic revelations combined for me in a most important way, one
that helped me realize the ultimate revelation of God’s love. I begin with the
image of a boy drawing illustrations of several visionary creatures in the
Bible. These word monsters had origins in the apocalyptic literature of the
Hebrew prophets, especially Daniel and several others whose writings were
deemed apocryphal or became part of the extra-biblical collection known as the Pseudepigrapha.
Jesus as a prophet was credited with some such images related to the
destruction of Jerusalem, and due to a fourth century CE decision, the New
Testament ends with one such: the memorable book, The Revelation to John. We
didn’t hear much about these writings in our church until Stan Lecher preached
a meeting one spring. He specialized in prophetic speculation in order to raise
a crowd. The magical world of knowing the future held great appeal and Lecher
knew how to use it. Although in my childhood I was too scared to be interested
in monster movies, I did find these images in the Bible quite intriguing, not
so much for their meanings about the future but simply for their inclusion in
the sacred book. For me, the phenomenon seemed much the same as when I later discovered
the Goodspeed translation of the Bible that used such clear words as ‘rape’ or
the erotic images in the Song of Solomon, or the image of God’s love for Israel
compared with the hopeless commitment of the prophet Hosea to his prostituting
wife. I was fascinated by the unacceptable being found within the content of
the holy. I still am.
So when
sermons got boring I paged through the Revelation and entertained myself by
drawing these wild monsters: for instance, in Revelation 12 a great red dragon
with seven heads and ten horns and ten crowns on his heads and a tail that
swept down a third of the stars of heaven and threw them on the earth and whom
Michael and his angels fought; or in Revelation 13 a creature that rose from
the sea and looked like a leopard with feet like a bear’s and a mouth like a
lion’s and with horns and ten crowns; or in the same chapter another beast that
rose out of the earth and featured two horns like a lamb and the voice of a
dragon. I knew nothing of metaphor and symbol for I was a child as literal as
he could be. I didn’t know what else to do with these visions except to draw
them.
Mom was
interested in my drawings, at least enough to put them in her purse. I don’t
know what became of those scratchings, but I do remember not knowing how to distribute
horns and crowns among the various heads of the angry monsters. Such is the
life of even the most literal of illustrators. Too many decisions, too much
specificity, and the revelations became a problem of literality and meaning.
But my memory of the experience is one of artistic decision making not unlike
what I face now when I am making paintings of centuries-old visions of the Ute
artists of Shavano Valley in western Colorado or of Cherokee interpreters at
Judaculla Rock on the Tennessee River in western North Carolina. I was making such
artistic decisions as a youngster. All those years ago I was an artist and, of
course, a frustrated one just like my son Michael years later when in disgust
he threw away some of this drawings because he couldn’t get them perfect. I
told him then what I wish someone had told the young me, that the art arises from
incorporating your mistakes, trusting that they may be as important to your
work as what you deem ideal. And to imagine that I was thinking somewhat that
way even as a youngster trying to fathom the images and truths of the wildest
symbols in the Bible.
The art is
in the process. For me, the art of living religiously grew to mean being able
to incorporate the common with the holy not to accommodate the sins of my own
life within a vision of a perfect God but rather because the authoritative book
of my religious upbringing declares that the murdering King David was in fact a
man after God’s own heart. My deeply artistic and deeply gay heart knew life
must recognize the good in all, in me. What a revelation!
As I
mentioned before, I still feel that way.
© Denver, 2014
 
About the Author 


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

The phrase “aw shucks” implies to me a bit of ‘good ole boy’
perhaps false naiveté with a layer of self-consciousness around something or
the other. That is a phrase I really do not relate too. I am much more likely to
be heard exclaiming: ‘aw shit’.
The past week has provided me with ample opportunity to be heard
uttering, “aw shit”. Much but not all of this angst has centered on the
kerfuffle around the Indiana Religious
Freedom Restoration Act (RFRA) and all the dust stirred around that. Besides
having a strong queer political interest in this I was also further drawn to
the story by the fact that I grew up a few short miles from Walkerton, Indiana
on the banks of the Kankakee River. Walkerton is of course the home of Memories
Pizza and the owners of said establishment who plopped themselves into the
middle of the storm by saying they would never provide pizza for a gay
wedding. As has been pointed out countless times over the past ten days queers
are capable of great weddings but these events rarely if ever include serving
pizza.
The indignation directed at these pizza merchants though
understandable really did just create martyrs for the cause of intolerance. They
are basking in the glow of many tens of thousands of dollars sent their way
mostly in small donations by like-minded very fearful folks who, for reasons that
are really inexplicable, feel their world is actually threatened by gay
marriage.
Rather than posting and commenting on the sad ignorance of
Indiana pizza proprietors and giving them an undeserved platform, we need to
perhaps re-focus on what got us to this wedding in the first place. That would
be the millions of us all across the country who have come out as queer and the
profound rippling, change creating effect that has had on society. The coming
out process repeated over and over again is the fuel for the really remarkable
change in attitude towards the LGBTQ community in the past few decades.
The changes in social attitudes well underway even in rural
Indiana can only be further fueled by the coming out process by those folks
known as son, daughter, brother, sister, mother or father to these pizza shop
owners. The personal knowledge of queer loved ones almost always trumps the Bible,
or at least gives one pause before withholding the pizza dough. I hope and
actually know for a fact that my personal coming out has had an impact on at
least some of the folks I grew up with near Walkerton, Indiana some of whom
still live near there.
My real “aw shit” for the week though focused on another sad
tragedy that occurred in Indiana last week and that was the sentencing of a
woman named Purvi Patel to 20 years in prison. This is a complex story and I am
providing a link to one of the better stories on it I read on-line from Common Dreams which I would encourage
all to read: 
http://www.commondreams.org/views/2015/04/03/boycott-indiana-imprisoning-woman-who-miscarried
The long and short of it is that this woman was convicted
under an Indiana fetal homicide mandate along with a charge of neglect on her
part around the pregnancy. So this woman is facing twenty years in prison for
what seems most likely to be a late-term miscarriage or stillbirth. The actual
facts in the case remain somewhat murky however the larger issue does not and
that involves reproductive freedom and the control women should have over their
own bodies.
The right-wing assault on a woman’s right to have control
over what goes on in her own womb the past few years in particular is
absolutely stunning and breathtaking in scope. The closing of Planned Parenthood
clinics and abortion facilities in many states is only the tip of this
insidious iceberg. I think it very sad that these issues do not seem to have
received the attention or focused outrage that the denials of cake and pizza
have for us queers.
I realize we are fighting for more than cake but it really is
not the only issue that deserves much more of our attention. Obviously many
lesbians in particular are all over these encroachments into the womb by most
often white, right wing, male zealots and the spineless politicians who pander
to them. I do think though, speaking to my queer brothers here, we need to be a
bit more vocal and involved in what is truly a war on women and their
inalienable right to control their own bodies and reproductive choices. It is
all the same struggle whether it involves cake, pizza or someone’s womb.
© 6 April 2015 
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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Plumage, by Nicholas

          I like
scarves. I like to wear them and I like seeing them worn by other people.
Scarves are both fashionable and practical. They can provide warmth and
protection against the elements on a cold, blustery day. They can also provide
an elegant touch of color, a bit of flair with a swath of fabric flung around
your neck and over a shoulder. And they can make statements about who you are
and even what side you take.
          I’m always
surprised how much warmth a scarf can provide when wrapped around my neck on a
winter’s day. It’s an extra layer of protection against the wind. It feels cozy
and snuggly and shelters some exposed skin. The winter scarves I have are light
wool and are burgundy and purple. They’re long enough to completely wrap them
around me. I have another yellow scarf that my mother knitted for me years ago
but I rarely wear it because I keep it more as a memento of her.
          Scarves can
also make statements—fashion statements and political statements. Scarves can
be gay when a man wears one that is colorful and elegant. It can bring a
feminine touch to your wardrobe. I wear a blue and gold silk scarf sometimes
and I have a fuchsia and black scarf that I wear just for decoration. The
secret to always being fashionable, they say, is to accessorize. Scarves can be
so gay.
          Political
statements are also made through scarves. Certain scarves in certain colors on
certain days often convey symbolic political sentiments. I own a scarf that is
checkered red and black which might be taken for a Middle Eastern keffiyeh, the checkered headdress worn
by many Palestinians and adopted by some non-Palestinians as a gesture of
solidarity. I didn’t buy it for that. In fact, the resemblance didn’t occur to
me until much later when I realized there could be political overtones to my
new fashion accessory. But then I doubt a Palestinian warrior would wear my
pinkish-red scarf anywhere. It’s not their style.
          My favorite
scarves are not actually scarves at all but can be worn as such. They are these
bright pieces of plumage from Renaissance Italy. These are actually flags or
banners representing the different neighborhoods of Siena. Each banner—with different
colors, animals (both mythical and real), wild patterns of stripes and daggers
of color, and patron saints displayed—symbolically represents one of the 17
districts of the old medieval city.
These banners are used by neighborhood
teams competing in the annual horse race, called the Palio, held since the 15th
century (and still held) each summer in the huge piazza in the center of town.
Of course, the three-day event is more than one horse race. Much pageantry and
pomp goes along with it, including parades with these banners carried by people
in equally flamboyant Renaissance costumes of tight leotards, puffy sleeves and
very bright colors.
So, wearing a scarf can be more than
putting on an accessory to highlight a color, more than showing your support
for a sports team, and more than just bundling up against the cold. Scarves
have become yet another way humans have concocted to say something in a world
that might not be paying much attention anyway. A scarf is a flag to wave.
©  March 2015 
About the Author 
Nicholas grew up in
Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He
retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks,
does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.
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Getting Caught, by Lewis

As a boy, I was not afraid of heights. By the age of four, I was jumping off the roof of the garage. I could climb almost anything. My mother—never too watchful—soon learned to find me not by looking “around” but by looking “up”.

Our house was a one-story bungalow. Next door lived an elderly widow whose house towered over ours. One day, I was playing outside, between our houses, and I heard a strange and frightening cry from an upstairs window. I could see her face. She appeared to be talking to me. She hadn’t done that before. What did she want, if anything? How could I help? She appeared OK to me. I walked away. She scared me. I had never known my grandmothers.

Soon, I learned, to my horror, that she had been doing laundry and caught her hand in the rollers of her Maytag dryer. I wasn’t punished; she was the one who “got caught”. But I sure learned something about the hazards of daily living and the need to be more responsive.

Around that time—the years have grown somewhat fungible with their passage—I noticed that a very long ladder had been placed against the side of her house. It reached all the way from the ground to her roof at the exact location of her brick chimney, from which, I was certain, an excellent panorama of our entire neighborhood could be enjoyed.

The opportunity was a prime example of what in the liability law profession is known as an “attractive nuisance”—especially for a boy who loves to climb.

So, I climbed, hand-over-hand, to the rain gutter 25 feet or so above the sidewalk upon which rested the ladder. The roof was fairly steep but negotiable, so I soon found myself perched on top of her chimney thoroughly enjoying the spectacular view.

Before long, my reverie was shattered by my mother’s voice somewhat exasperatedly calling out my name in a context that suggested some kind of a response was in order. She clearly did not see me. I waited until I thought she might have the police out looking for me.

“Up here, Mom,” I said, hoping-against-hope that she would be impressed.

“Lewis, you get down here this instant!”

Mother had made similar demands in the past but I was pretty sure this time she didn’t mean to be taken literally.

Anyone who climbs at all knows that climbing down is far scarier and more risky than climbing up, if for no other reason than you’re looking at hard objects rather than clouds and the sky. Nevertheless, I managed to make it safely down to the ground without so much as a scratch. I imagined my mother rushing over to me, sweeping me up in her grateful arms and showering my cheeks with kisses, as I’m sure I had seen done in Lassie Come Home. Instead, I got a firm thumb and forefinger on either side of my right ear lobe and a brusque shepherding through our side door and into the kitchen, where my mother posed to me the type of question designed to instill shame and guilt in the heart of a 4-year-old, naïve, novitiate Christian.

“What would you do if you had a little boy who pulled a stunt like that?”

Now, I immediately recognized her query as a “trick question”, the answer to which might very well seal my fate. Rejecting rejoinders such as “give him a spanking”, “ground him”, or “send him to bed without his dinner”, I happened upon a response that might just turn a lemon into lemonade.

“I guess I would simply ask God to watch out for him”.

I never knew whether she actually did make such an appeal. I just knew that I had had a very close brush with disaster. I also learned that religion can easily be used to manipulate.

© 4 February 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.