Month: March 2016

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The Choir, by Phillip hoyle

For most of my life, choirs were my life. They were the musical thrills of my childhood and much of my adulthood. They were the place I felt most at home. They were the groups I most enjoyed being with. They were the main medium of my musical life. They were the focus of my extra time. They were the preoccupation of my auditory mind. They were the organizations I most effectively led. They were my access to a sense of worship. They were the most fulfilling aspect of thirty years of my ministry in the church. Choirs made everything else tolerable. They were the artistic center of my life.

I got my first choir when I was eighteen years old, a small group of volunteer singers who rehearsed one hour on Sunday evenings in preparation for the very simple needs of the First Baptist Church, Wamego, Kansas. But my relationship with choirs reached back to my first weeks of life, for I am sure I was present at church the first Sunday after my birth. Surely mom sat with me cradled in her arms in the second pew on the west side of the sanctuary while Dad played the organ for the service and my two older sisters sang the hymns. I’m sure I heard the choir sing and wonder if the harmonies were fixed in my ear from that first weekend’s experience. I wouldn’t be surprised for I could hardly contain my excitement when I joined the junior choir at that same church some years later. Although I was a good all-around student, my favorite times in school related to music class. There I learned songs. There I sang. There I played rhythm instruments. There I learned my first solo and when I had finished singing it for the PTA members, turned around and conducted the rhythm band in a Saint Patrick’s Day repeat of “McNamara’s Band.” My first solo, my first effort at conducting; I was so pleased.

Choirs took me to more than PTA and church. They took me to music festivals, to competitions, on tours, and they introduced me to many people. Choirs gave me opportunities to sing a wide variety of music: age-old classics, modern jazz arrangements, long works with orchestra, anthems with organs, motets unaccompanied, folk song arrangements, and unusual hymns. They introduced me to the musicianship and leadership of many choral directors from around the United States.

Leading choirs balanced my work needs. In my ministerial career I always had many more responsibilities in addition to the music. I looked after hospitalized folk, planned educational activities for groups of all ages, organized Sunday schools, trained teachers and leaders, encouraged youth workers, met with the staff of several congregations, supported the work of Senior ministers, directed residential summer camps, developed curriculum plans and wrote the resources, listened to people’s problems, handed out food to the needy, on and on. As an associate minister, I often administrated programs that were more related to other people’s ideas and visions rather than my own. The choir gave me a mid-week balance, for during rehearsals I could tell people to sit up, stand up, sit down, turn to page two, start singing at measure 36, modify their vowels, make lots of noise, sing softly, or completely shut up. Whatever needs I had to do things my way got satisfied during those mid-week rehearsals. I worked with the singers’ pitch, rhythm, sense of meter, phrasing, and general understanding of the music we performed. I elicited musicianship and artistic satisfaction from people who often didn’t have that much to offer. I sought always to make my singers better musicians. I helped them understand the needs of liturgy in a non-liturgical church. And I had fun. We had fun as artists together. Working with musical ensembles—whether made up of children, youth, adult, or seniors, whether signers or bell ringers, or the musical cast of a drama, or duets, trios, or quartets—brought me deep joy.

They also became my personal monitor. I had enjoyed a long, joyous, creative ministry in churches but knew it was time to quit when I started not wanting to go to my choir rehearsals, when I was no longer satisfied with those two or three in-tune measures or phrases, when I was no longer thrilled at the stumbling attempts of my earnest singers, when I was worn out rather than wafted on the wings of a dove. I continued working hard for a few months more, making music up to the last minute, then left.

I didn’t know what my life would be when I quit just before my fifty-first birthday, but I moved away from church music. I still like the sounds. I still can feel some kind of inspiration when hearing choral music, organ voluntaries, and massed choruses with orchestras. I still float along well turned phrases and salivate over delicious mellismas. I have the feelings; I just don’t need the work. Choirs still move me though now I rarely hear them perform. It’s the result of a change in life, but one I don’t regret. The choral spirit still abides in me, so much so that if this reading were the end of yet another choir rehearsal, we’d stand, sing an Amen, and go home.

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.com

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Where Do We Go from Here? by Pat Gourley

“Nothing new will be said here, nor have I any skill at composition. Therefore I do not imagine that I can benefit others. I have done this to perfume my own mind.”


Santideva; Bodhicaryavatara 1.2

I should really begin all my writings with this quote from Santideva, the 8th century Indian Buddhist monk, as a small way of reigning in my ego before putting pen to paper. I do though enjoy perfuming my own mind.

My first task in tackling this topic was to decide whom “we” is referring to. I suspect there was some group in mind by the person who suggested this phrase. I am going to take a bit of a leap here and define “we” as the LBGTQI etc. community.

I know it makes some folks skin crawl to here the word ‘Queer’ and I want to acknowledge that sensitivity but when it comes to ‘perfuming’ my mind I am quite lazy. The reclaiming of the word Queer, I think in the late 1980’s, in part by a group of often-younger AIDS activists was never perceived by me to be particularly offensive. It was an easy way to inclusively describe the many-headed beast that the community had evolved into particularly over the latter part of the 20th century.

And in this age of assimilation with major energy expended on marriage and military service, I find a bit of solace in the use of such a loaded reclaimed word. You really need to be member of the club to use it and get away with it even if it stirs a bit of dust especially if there are straight folks within earshot.

A significant part of queer-awakening at least since the mid-1800’s has been to define who “we” are and to come up with a suitable name for ourselves. This has been challenging and at times painful. Remember when The Center was started in the mid-1970’s the name was The Gay Community Center with ‘lesbian’ added a few years later and the B’s and T’s followed. Rather than add any more letters officially I vote for changing the name to The Queer Community Center of Colorado. I am not holding my breath for this change however.

Despite what seems like the mad rush toward respectability in the form of marriage equality and unfettered access to military service I am holding out hope that our intrinsic “otherness” will win out in the long run. Even for those who have opted for the marriage route after a couple of tours of duty in one of America’s many war fronts I think their queerness will bring unique and perhaps even evolutionary aspects to these petrified institutions. Our innate differences as queer people will win out. I doubt that many constructionist-leaning Queer Theorists are reading this but if they are I am sure their heads are exploding or perhaps more likely they are just dismissing my essentialist views with a snarky sarcastic sneer.

Since I am all about “perfuming” my own mind here I am inclined to approach this topic as more “where do I go from here”, since at the end of the day it seems to be all about me anyway. I have and am spending significant cushion time to overcome this ego driven view but there is still much work to do.

I will now make a pathetic attempt to cut myself some slack around my egocentric approach to life. I am a week away from turning sixty-seven years old and I have most likely been HIV positive since 1981, over half my life. I am here writing this in no small part due to the four different HIV meds I am on and that I take three of these antivirals twice a day. And then there are four other meds addressing the effects of the HIV meds and the fact that I have indulged in the standard toxic American diet for much of my 67 years.

Even though I feel quite well and for most of my waking hours having HIV is never on my mind I am forced to look it in the face twice every day when I take my meds. I am struck often by the fact that I am absolutely tethered to these pills and if I quit them I will succumb to my HIV. But then many folks in our society today are on meds that are required to keep them going. Certainly in part the answer to ‘where am I going’ absolutely involves getting older. And that has inevitable consequences.

So in an attempt to stay off my own pity-pot I really try to focus on the following bit of advice that was recently posted on that endless source of pop-cultural wisdom , Facebook: “Don’t regret growing older. It is a privilege denied to many”. Author Unknown.

© January 2016

About the Author

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

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Save Me from the Believers, by Nicholas

I do not believe in believing. I don’t know what I believe in and I don’t care what you believe in. I do believe, however, that believing leads to an addling of the brain. We are not supposed to believe. We are supposed to learn, as in, look at evidence and make conclusions. I prefer to be reality based. Belief can be and is usually manufactured from thin air. And like thin air, belief is prone to flimsy shifts in the wind.

Belief is, to me, but one step away from superstition and prejudice, two of its most common components. Belief motivates people—usually to do something awful. People of Salem, Massachusetts believed in witches and a dozen women died for it. The newest attack on LGBT rights is that our freedom violates somebody’s religious beliefs which they believe should be forced on everybody else.

We’ve all heard it on the nightly news. You get a one-minute story on some horrific event like a man is suspected of abusing his children and right away, the TV anchors want to know what you believe. Let us know what you think, they say. Is he guilty?

My belief however flimsily arrived at or sincerely held is irrelevant and not really even worth considering. If I am ever to judge this man, I will be on a jury that has been presented with the full facts of the case for our consideration. Otherwise, I am not really entitled to an opinion and any opinion I give is worthless. I can believe all I want, but, so what?

Believing is manipulated and it is so very manipulable. Belief easily descends into hysteria. Muslims in New York want to open a religious center near the World Trade Center site and suddenly we are talking about the global radical Islamist conspiracy to desecrate sacred sites in the homeland. I didn’t know we had sacred sites and if we do, isn’t it WalMart.

© 11 January 2016

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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Hospitality, by Lewis

Hospitality is one of the great lessons of the life of Jesus. But human beings have been exhibiting its essential nature for as long, I suspect, as they have walked this planet. It is told in the lesson of the Good Samaritan who stopped to minister to a man, likely a Jew, who had been beaten and robbed on the road to Jericho. It was the impetus for the Hippocratic and Boy Scout Oaths. It is the inevitable consequence of the Golden Rule–to treat others as you would like them to treat you–and, according to Wikipedia, is found in some form in almost every religion and ethical tradition.

In today’s troubled world, hospitality seems to be in short supply, for example, among the Israelis and Palestinians, Shia and Sunni Muslims, the Muslim Brotherhood and secular Egyptians, Tea Partiers and moderate Republicans, Tea Partiers and Democrats, Cheese Heads and Vikings, those who cling to guns and those who cling to their loved-ones to protect them from guns, those who like sushi and those who like cheeseburgers, those who believe a landlord should be able to evict a destitute tenant into hostile streets but a woman should be forced to carry an unwanted child to term and those who believe that a rapist’s semen or a failed condom is not a down payment on a nine-month lease on a woman’s body.

Yes, the world needs all the hospitality it can get right now. That’ s one thing I like about the Sharing Our Stories group–we treat each other like we would rather be here than anywhere else at this time and we show it in ways that are kind and liberally-minded. This is the kind of safe atmosphere that encourages creativity in us all. And what is hospitality if not the nurturing of the human spirit in all its variety?

[Footnote: Initially, I could think of very little to write about the subject of “hospitality”. I was about to write just a brief sentence or two about that subject and then launch into an essay on “Hospital Fatalities”, about which I am much more passionate. But I thought that might be type-casting me a bit so I deferred.]

© 29 July 2013

About the Author

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

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Hair, by Gillian

Looking back on it, I had rather nice hair when I was young, in a typically English way; golden-brown with a few coppery highlights. But I didn’t appreciate it one whit at the time. My mother created two braids for me every morning until she began school teaching again, at which time she announced it had become my responsibility. I was somewhere in the early grades at Elementary School so I guess I was six, maybe seven. Braids were the only thing I knew, so I continued them. Unfortunately, my pudgy little arms were not sufficiently flexible, not were my young fingers skilled enough, to create the braids at the back of my head. Instead, I pulled half of the loose hair forward over each shoulder and braided it from the front, resulting in braids which refused to hang down my back. No matter how often I shoved them back, they persistently sprang forward to flop down my chest. They were almost waist-length and seemed constantly to inhibit the important things in life such as lessons or games. The morning one of them dunked itself in my toast and honey was the last straw.

So I cut them off.
Inexpertly.
Unevenly.
With old, blunt, rusty, scissors.
The second I had done it, I panicked.
What had I done?
Why oh why had I done it?

I looked about me as I scooped my severed braids up from where they languished on the kitchen floor. Even as I gazed hopefully about for somewhere to hide them, as young as I was, an inescapable logic told me that there was absolutely no possibility that no-one would notice my lack of them.

My mother came into the kitchen. She stared at me, then at the lifeless braids hanging from my little fists. She remained silent, uttering not even a grunt or a sigh. She propelled me into the living room, gently took the braids from me and tossed them casually onto the open fire. I stared, in equal silence, as the hair, my hair, curled and crackled and sparked, turned rapidly black, and gave off a sickening odor. And it was gone.

I risked a sideways peak at my mother, who resumed her place in the old armchair: picked up her book, sipped her tea. I squinted at Dad, in the other armchair, reading a car magazine and sipping his tea. He was on an afternoon tea-break from chopping wood. The only sound in the room was the ticking of the grandfather clock standing on duty in its corner and the contented purr of the cat re-settling herself on Mum’s knee. I stood on the hearth, shuffling my feet, waiting for whatever was going to happen, to happen.

Dad put his magazine and tea cup down on the little table beside his chair, looked up at me and gave a solemn wink.

‘Get your coat on,’ was all he said.

We walked, my hand in his, across the fields through a cold drizzle, to the neighboring farm where we immediately saw and heard the farmer, in his barn, attempting some work on the tractor engine. He was addressing it with a string of very bad words, which he swallowed back down his throat the moment he saw me.

‘ ‘Ow do’ he greeted us genially, adding to my dad, as he jerked his head towards the engine, ‘Bloody lucky you’re ‘ere.’

I never heard either of my parents even say bloody, but it was inoffensive enough to Mr. Llewellyn that he let it slip right through his filtering system.

‘Ay,’ my dad replied, ‘Lucky you’re ‘ere an’ all.’

By way of explanation he pirouetted me around.

‘Bloody ‘ell!’ was the response as Mr. Llewellyn grinned at me, a very rare event, displaying many gaps in his jagged brown teeth. He shoved his greasy flat cap to the back of his head.

‘Dog been chewing at yer ‘air?’

He waved me to a filthy old bench outside the barn and reached for an equally filthy leather bag up on a shelf.

For the first time since I’d picked up those scissors, I relaxed. This was familiar territory. I knew what to expect. More or less on a monthly basis my dad came to the farm to have what little hair he had left cut by Mr. Llewellyn with his sheep shears. Money never changed hands. Dad was terrific with engines, so he worked on the tractor engine in return. I sometimes went along and communed with various animals while the shears took a swift swipe just above my father’s scalp. So I felt no trepidation as the shears approached. I knew they were kept viciously sharp, but I had never seen my dad’s head receive as much as a tiny nick. In no time we were done. No mirror to be held up so that I could offer my approval, simply a nod and a grin from Dad. I sat and waited for a few minutes while the two men grunted at each other and pointed to things like wires and spark plugs, and soon we were greeted by the welcome, if not too promising for the longterm, cough and splutter of the ancient tractor.

My mother reasserted control over my hair, cutting it herself with my dad’s cut-throat razor, still his preferred shaving implement but he apparently had no objection to sharing. The erstwhile braids were not mentioned again. Many years later, I asked Mom why she had reacted so strangely; so silently.

‘I think I was in shock,’ she replied. “It wasn’t that it was such a terrible thing. Just such a surprise. I had no idea. Why had you never told me you hated your braids?’

Because, I wanted to say, because …. because, Mum, we weren’t that kind of family. We never talked about anything deeper than the weather or the next meal.

But I said nothing. What was the point? A relationship is not too likely to change much after decades of entrenchment.

If I had been asked, while my parents were still alive, who I was closer to, I would unhesitatingly have said my mother. As an only child with few other kids nearby to play with, I spent a lot of time with Mom. I have written often enough before about our strangely flawed relationship, but nevertheless we got on well. She was a fun person to be with. She loved to play games and she loved to laugh.

My dad was quiet, never using more than the minimum amount of words necessary, and it took looking back from a considerable distance for me to see how his actions spoke for him, loud and clear.

Now they are both gone, I feel myself growing ever closer to my father. If asked, now, to whom I feel closest, I would definitely say my dad. It surprises me, this change of heart, but perhaps it’s simply a clearer understanding I’ve gained over the years of both Mum and Dad, and my relationship with them.

Ah well! Death, just like life, is full of surprises.

© January 2016

About the Author

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty years. We have been married since 2013.

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Bumper Stickers, by Gail Klock

“Nobody knows I’m a Lesbian.”

“Don’t judge me based on your ignorance.”
“Focus on your own damn family.”
I’ve never placed a bumper sticker on my car, probably because I’ve been afraid to. I am not a person that engages well in confrontation and the type of bumper stickers I would place on my car would be confrontational. I guess it’s about paranoia, but when I get involved in an accident while driving, I want to know it’s an accident. If I had a bumper sticker on my car I would have thought the idiot that rear ended me, pushing my car 100 feet across traffic, and then fled the scene might have done it intentionally due to my bumper sticker. I’m not sure I would have turned my car around and followed the guy until he pulled over if I had placed my “confrontational” bumper sticker on my car. I probably would have continued on my way and paid for the damage myself to avoid the possible road rage or hate crime that might take place.

I like bumper stickers that make me think, even if they enrage me at the time. For example when I read bumper stickers like, “Women for Mitt Romney,” I have engaging conversations with myself trying to figure out how this can even be possible.

Maybe members from SAGE should partner up with the youth in Rainbow Alley; we could use bumper stickers as philosophical guides. I would like to share with GLBT youth the wisdom I have gained from years of experience, more or less the advice I would like to have received when I was a budding Lesbian and felt so alone and out of sync with the world. The first guide I would share would be, “If you hold onto your dreams too tight you’ll crush their tiny little ribs.” In keeping with aspirations I would add, “If your dreams don’t scare you a little they’re not big enough.”

I think of these dreams in terms of personal relationships, not career goals. I would have loved receiving input on what a gay relationship could look like- what were the possible dreams. The ultimate relationship dream, in my opinion, is marriage, or the ideals that marriage implies; commitment, caring, loving, etc. Now that marriage is a legal possibility will it lend structure to gay relationships? I would suggest to young lesbians that the 2nd date rent a U-Haul strategy does not fit within the big dream concept. Perhaps the big dreams should lead to more dating and possibly engagements? Maybe it will lead to fewer mismatched relationships that are based more on fear and/or passion.

“Be yourself, imitation is suicide.” This speaks to me of coming out of the closet. It speaks of Gay Pride Parades and activities when GLBT individuals can begin to feel a sense of pride in who they are, yes to face our heterosexual friends and enemies and proudly think to ourselves, “I’m sorry you don’t get to be me, because it is a real privilege.” To imitate someone else, either through sexuality or other unique parts of your own being is suicide, it is a killing off of that which makes each person unique and special.

I recently saw the movie, “The Imitation Game.” I can’t begin to put into words how much this movie affected me, how much I related to it. It was so true to what I’ve witnessed in the world, the belittling of people who are different, tearing them down and making them feel worthless. I saw it in my teaching daily and in my home life with my oldest brother who was very intelligent, and not so socially savvy. I have contemplated several times since seeing this movie what Alan Turing endured as a youth, and what he contributed to the world. At the conclusion of the movie it speaks of how many lives he probably saved, which moved me to tears. Perhaps he did more than save the lives of millions; perhaps he changed the course of the world. What if Germany had won and Nazism had prevailed? I’m thankful Turing remained true to himself in spite of the torture he experienced and I’m sad beyond belief that it cost him his life.

“Speak your mind, even if your voice shakes.” I’ve always believed in this piece of wisdom, and often my voice shook as I spoke. I also carried it out in my teaching. I emphasized that all voices were of value, that the class would be more meaningful if we heard the ideas of all. I had a very shy young woman in a class I taught at Springfield College. She didn’t raise her hand to contribute until midway through the course. Upon conclusion of her shaky comment the entire class spontaneously applauded her efforts. It was one of the moments of my teaching career which made me happiest.

“Don’t die wondering.” As a coach I often preached against the “could haves”, “should haves”, and would haves”. The idea was to leave nothing on the court, to prepare and play each moment at your best. If this was accomplished you had succeeded. The score of the game didn’t matter as much as overcoming the fear of failure and playing your heart out. I don’t want to die wondering if I could have accomplished all I wanted to in life. I had a reoccurring dream many years ago which has stayed with me. These dreams always involved strategies of reuniting with my brother in heaven. I was in line at the pearly gates talking with strangers, begging, cajoling, and carrying out a number of acts unnatural and uncomfortable to me in order to get ahead in line, because I wanted to be with Karl again as soon as possible. A few years back I had another dream. I was in a rugged terrain with my brother and I had the opportunity to stay with him. But to accomplish this feat I had to jump over a deep and wide ravine. Karl took off with ease and bounded over the ravine. I was too afraid to try. The trauma of the dream woke me from a dead sleep. I knew when thinking about it, it represented my desire to let go of my past, to have faith in the future in order to accomplish what I want today in life. It is extremely hard to let go of the past with traumatic events, to move on from the strategies that provided stability to you as a child but no longer work as an adult, to those which are untried- to leap across the ravine. I’d rather die leaping than wondering!

© 12 November 2015

About the Author

I grew up in Pueblo, CO with my two brothers and parents. Upon completion of high school I attended Colorado State University majoring in Physical Education. My first teaching job was at a high school in Madison, Wisconsin. After three years of teaching I moved to North Carolina to attend graduate school at UNC-Greensboro. After obtaining my MSPE I coached basketball, volleyball, and softball at the college level starting with Wake Forest University and moving on to Springfield College, Brown University, and Colorado School of Mines.

While coaching at Mines my long term partner and I had two daughters through artificial insemination. Due to the time away from home required by coaching I resigned from this position and got my elementary education certification. I taught in the gifted/talented program in Jefferson County Schools for ten years. As a retiree I enjoy helping take care of my granddaughter, playing senior basketball, writing/listening to stories in the storytelling group, gardening, reading, and attending OLOC and other GLBT organizations.
As a retiree I enjoy helping take care of my granddaughter, playing senior basketball, writing/listening to stories in the storytelling group, gardening, reading, and attending OLOC and other GLBT organizations.

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Acceptance, by Carol White

Here is the profound question for me: “How do we get to Acceptance?” And by that I mean acceptance of everything, just as it is.

Having read many spiritual books and pursued spiritual quests through various churches and practices and groups, I can say that Acceptance is touted as a goal in most of those endeavors, whether it be Buddhist, New Age, Christian, Integral, or Unitarian studies.

How in the world, in the face of all the news headlines and analysis, in the face of war and terrorism and mass murders, and in the face of everyday problems relating to health or relationships or finances or big weather events, can I ever accept all of that within myself? How, in the face of poverty and loneliness and depression and global climate change and mental illness and diseases and rape and murder and death and man’s inhumanity to man, can I ever get to Acceptance?

What is our goal here? Peace of mind and inner peace.

One of the first things that comes to mind in pondering this big question is a song that I ran across about 33 years ago on a cassette tape put out by Ken Keyes that went like this: “That’s the way it is, by golly, that’s the way it is.”

Perhaps this is the first step to Acceptance, realizing that things are the way they are, and it won’t help anything or anyone for me to be upset or angry or depressed or physically ill over thinking about all of the bad things in the world. It only hurts me.

Does that mean that I don’t care or that I shouldn’t care? Absolutely not. In a huge way it’s a paradox. It requires that I allow my heart to be broken by all of the injustices in the world, and at the same time I accept the fact that injustices are happening. It means that while I strive to find inner peace by acceptance, I still, at the same time, want to make the world a better place.

I believe that this is a good time to consider the serenity prayer that Randy mentioned last time:

“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

What a profound prayer that is.

I’m not trying to be a Pollyanna here. I am definitely not saying that if you think only good and positive thoughts that you will have good health and riches and wonderful relationships, and that all of the world’s problems will go away. Although positive thinking has its benefits, that is not the answer in our quest for serenity.

We must deal with the light and the shadow, with the good and the bad, with all of the wonderful people and things in the world and the evil that does exist. And the first step in dealing with it is acceptance of things the way they are.

When I was dealing with a particularly difficult health issue, I remember playing a song by Paul McCartney over and over again in my head: “Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be. Whisper words of wisdom, let it be.”

I think that for me, maybe it can begin with just a moment. For only one minute I’m going to allow everything to be exactly as it is and everyone to be just exactly as they are. I’m going to relax and release my judgment of everything and everyone and let it be. For just a few seconds I will try to relax my body and my mind so that the knot in my stomach can melt and I no longer feel the weight of the world on my shoulders or the anger and fear and concern take over my stomach and turn it into knots.

If I can do it for a moment, perhaps I can do it for two minutes, and maybe even more. Can you even imagine allowing all of your friends to be exactly who they are without wanting to change anything about them? It would be an internal relief, I think, not to want anyone to change anything.

I am remembering three words, each starting with an “A”, that I picked up from my spiritual studies: Acceptance, Allowing, and Awareness. Maybe even Awakening, if we should be so lucky as to reach that point someday.

But first, Acceptance and Allowing, which for a brief time can take me to a sense of peace and calm. And from this place of quiet mind is the place where I can start to reach out and think, “What can I do in my own little corner of the world to make things better?”

© 21 December 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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I’ll Pretend, by Carlos

I’ll Pretend. Pretending is Safer Than Believing

A Response to “The Coddling of the American Mind” by Greg Lukianoff and Jonathan Haidt

September 2015 issue of The Atlantic

Words have always been a weapon that have cleaved into my soul. And although they embedded themselves securely within me like talons seeking out their prey, they have also resulted in cauterizing and defining.

Throughout my formative years, words sneered at me as they dropped like hot saliva from the lips of those who recognized in me what I did not yet recognize in myself. As a child, my uncle, lashing out at his own covert homosexuality or perhaps in a subconscious need to rescue me from the demons that fed upon him like maggots on carrion would refer me to as a maricón out of earshot of my parents. And, yes, I guess I was a maricón since I preferred practicing my violin, reading, and working the soil with my mother, to playing war games with neighborhood boys who smoked surreptitiously and smelled of stale urine. I guess I was a maricón since I enjoyed bathing with my mother’s heady, exotic soap and was more interested in learning words from the pages of my books than ripping them out to use as spit wads. In a burst of unrestrained anger one day, finding myself alone in the front garden, my uncle approached me, grabbed my testicles and with a pen knife he brandished, threatened to emasculated me, to castrate me, to shame me into manhood. Feeling violated, I lashed out angrily, and even though I was blinded by my tears, I managed to reach for rocks with which I drove him off, pelting him and yelling childish obscenities at him as he fled. We never spoke of it again, and he never touched me again, though the memory of his words and actions defined my childhood.

In high school, I was a natural target, studious, sensitive, and vulnerable. I was lonely, having no friends except for an occasion outsider like me. I preferred the company of men who visited weekly on our black-and-white Zenith, men such as the principled and compassionate Richard Chamberlain from Dr. Kildare, the brooding romantic-lead Joel Crothers from Dark Shadows, the masculine cigar-smoking John Astin from The Addams Family. Often, I would find safe niches at school simply to be alone or would slip away from the building during lunch and walk the streets free from judgmental eyes. At such times, I would soar away, always aware that soon enough the back-to-class bell would demand my return back to the realities that mocked at me with derision. I discovered that I did not like to company of other boys, for cruelties erupted more virulently at such gatherings. In my physical education classes, I was constantly subjected to words like joto and maricón and was always the last one chosen to participate in team activities but the first assaulted on the the field or taken down on the wresting mat by would-be assassins. Although I never missed a single day of high school, at 3:30 when classes were over, I ran toward home like a runner pursued by contempt. Needless to say, graduation became my reprieve, and I never looked back, never sought to reconnect with those years of imprisonment that further defined my childhood.

In college and in the U.S. Army during the Vietnam years, out of fear of discovery, I carefully hid my occulted secret, like a Hershey’s milk chocolate kiss hidden under a veneer of silvery foil. My grades suffered during my sophomore year at the University of Texas when I started to recognize that I might have homosexual longings. Although I spent many hours beseeching God to release me from the nightmares into which I was awakening, ironically I would walk home from the university, hoping that one day my knight-on-a white-charger would pull up and vanquish my fears, offering me the chalice containing a spirited distillation of self-love and acceptance. Unfortunately, my first tangible connection with a homosexual man was at a greasy spoon where I worked as a dishwasher when I was fifteen. Alone one night, the cook approached me with lust in his hand. Even though I longed to unravel the skein of curiosity, my fears compelled me instead to bolt out the door and never return. Nonetheless, I concluded erroneously, that the words directed against people like me by the cultural, political and religious pundits truly reflected a valid identity. I concluded homosexuals did, in fact, succumb to deviance, mental illness, and antisocial criminal tendencies. The words directed toward me became ingrained within me. They served to exclude me from mainstream society while simultaneously include me in the pathologies of negative stereotypes. Even in the army, I remained closeted in my self-hated. Being that I was company clerk, I once had to sit in an initial court martial investigation of two fellow soldiers who had been caught in a homosexual interlude. I sat at my desk dutifully taking in their testimony on my shorthand pad, which I was then expected to transcribe and submit as evidence of their crime. Although I maintained my military composure, I wanted to reach out to them and assure them they had a friend in the room, but words I heard thrust at them, homosexual, deviant, abnormal, aberration, sodomy ultimately made a coward out of me. No doubt, the transgressors, like me, feared the degradation of being classified as degenerates destined to trudge through life as neurotic, pitiable, psychologically damaged deviants of society. We recognized one word directed at us from the medical, psychiatric, and psychological field would result an an immediate and humiliating dishonorable discharge that would only serve to catapult us into further socially unacceptable isolation and self-recrimination. A few days later, I saw them dispiritedly walk away after their court martials, having been pilloried publicly by the stigmatizing actions of society. Once again, words defined my life.

I recognize that in spite of the power of words to burn like iodine on a raw wound, those words can also disinfect. Of course, the targeted victim can practice cognitive behavior therapy, thus minimizing distorted thinking and seeing the world more accurately. Of course, he can tell himself that The Buddha taught that our life is a creation of our mind. Of course, she can remind herself of Marcus Aurelius’ powerful words, “Life itself is but what you deem it.” However, it’s not that simple since even when a victim learns to practice mindfulness, the continued sting of envenomed words linger like burns inflicted by chemical terrorists. In my case, I was somewhat fortunate, but I suspect I was an anomaly. Throughout my life, words of derision have been directed at me whether because of my being gay or Latino or simply because I’m a ready target. When a large percent of ethnically diverse candidates, myself included, were hired to teach in Jefferson County Schools in 1980, only after the courts had recognized discriminatory hiring practices in the District and mandated changes, I frequently heard vitriolic words from my new teaching colleagues, as well as from students and their parents. Words like greaser, wetback, non-English qualified, spic, beaner, and the list goes on ad nauseam, vomited out and were quietly broomed into the closet. In 1986, I was recognized as one of the outstanding District teachers of the year. Of course, whispers swooped down like birds of prey that I had been nominated only because Jeffco sought to demonstrate political correctness. Although I agreed that I was meant to be a symbol of inclusiveness, I accepted the award, not only on my behalf, but on the behalf of the untold numbers of the past who had sacrificed for me. In addition, I recognized that in my own way, I offered a hand-hold to future generations. One facet that has consistently defined my struggles is that words have been the challenge that have nonetheless prompted me to action. Nevertheless, I allowed myself to believe, to pretend, that I could thrive within my carapace in spite of the tenderness of my lacerations. Unfortunately, words are harpoons that remain forever lodged in a fragile psyche. Although my wounds allowed me to become strong and resilient, I believe that if only my detractors had not directed misguided words at my still healing scars, I would not have been weighed down by fears of self-revelation. I might not have squandered so much energy attempting to prove myself, so much energy doubting my own abilities. As César Chávez said, “We draw our strength from the very despair in which we have been forced to live. We shall endure.” To that I add, but why should we have to endure such despair?

© January 2016 Denver

About the Author

Cervantes wrote, “I know who I am and who I may choose to be.” In spite of my constant quest to live up to this proposition, I often falter. I am a man who has been defined as sensitive, intuitive, and altruistic, but I have also been defined as being too shy, too retrospective, too pragmatic. Something I know to be true. I am a survivor, a contradictory balance of a realist and a dreamer, and on occasions, quite charming. Nevertheless, I often ask Spirit to keep His arms around my shoulder and His hand over my mouth. My heroes range from Henry David Thoreau to Sheldon Cooper, and I always have time to watch Big Bang Theory or Under the Tuscan Sun. I am a pragmatic romantic and a consummate lover of ideas and words, nature and time. My beloved husband and our three rambunctious cocker spaniels are the souls that populate my heart. I could spend the rest of my life restoring our Victorian home, planting tomatoes, and lying under coconut palms on tropical sands. I believe in Spirit, and have zero tolerance for irresponsibility, victim’s mentalities, political and religious orthodoxy, and intentional cruelty. I am always on the look-out for friends, people who find that life just doesn’t get any better than breaking bread together and finding humor in the world around us.

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Fault, by Betsy

I first encountered the word fault meaning a gap or rift in the earth’s crust–not in school or even at home under the tutelage of my parents–but when I was around the age of 50 years partnered with my current spouse and traveling in a geologist’s paradise, the state of Utah. I always thought I had had at least an average education and I did graduate from college. Yet I knew next to nothing about geology. Now whose fault is that?

I have no memory of geology being offered as a subject in high school and not even in college. Granted I attended a liberal arts college for women, and I guess geology was not considered to be of any interest to a 1950’s female student. It’s not that science courses were not offered. Biology101 was a required subject for freshmen. Plenty of courses were offered in chemistry, physics, and other sciences. But no geology or Earth science.

Part of the fault lies in the fact that it was not until the 1940‘s and 50‘s that geologists began to develop a new way of looking at the planet and how it works. Much that we now know about the history of our Earth has been very recently discovered. One of the few positive outcomes of the Second World War was that new technology used for searching for submarines could be developed and further used to study the ocean floor.

As a result scientists could now better understand the dynamics of the earth’s crust. Although the theory of continental drift had been around for decades, now there was an explanation for the movement of the Earth’s land masses which millions of years ago had been one large land mass called Pangea.

This theory of plate tectonics was in the development stage when I was in school. Makes me feel really old. The theory was still in its infancy and not completely developed and certainly not well established among geologists. No wonder it was not well known or understood among educators in 1950.

It seems that today the study of geology has become quite common. Most of my knowledge of the subject that I have now I have learned from my spouse in the last 20 years. Unlike myself, she studied geology in high school and college–and 10 years after I did. I have also gleaned a lot of knowledge from educational television programs about such topics as How the Earth was born, the early history of our planet, volcanoes, and global climate changes, and mass extinctions brought about by catastrophic geologic events. I find geology a fascinating subject, and I love learning new things. Geology does seem to be an excellent topic for educational TV, as the events which have made our earth what it is today are truly dramatic and lend themselves very well to television drama. No wonder. It is the fault of the earth’s faults that causes dramatic events such as tsunamis, earth quakes, volcanic eruptions–big, dramatic happenings.

Enough about the geologic fault. Another kind of fault with which I am quite familiar is the one that happens in tennis when the serve does not clear the net and drop inside the service box. In my ability and age level of tennis, the fault should be a rare happening. What a double fault amounts to is a gift for your opponents. It is a rare happening except when I am playing mixed doubles. In ladies’ senior doubles tennis, in my opinion, the serve is simply the first shot of the game and a way to put the ball in play. The point is rarely won on the serve.
I used to play some mixed doubles. I gave it up when I stopped playing on weekends and when I decided I did not want to routinely lose the game because of my partner serving double faults every time. Why is it that men serve faults so often and women hardly ever? I think it’s because men try to serve aces and women don’t. It’s very hard to serve an ace and it does not happen very often in my age group and ability level. An ace requires a great deal of spin and pace on the ball and perfect placement.

Neither I nor my team mates or our opponents are usually able to pull off such a serve. Better (and more fun) to place it well and play out the point. If I serve a fault, it’s no one’s fault but my own. And everyone knows it.

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

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Breaking into the Gay Culture, by Will Stanton

Breaking into the gay culture. I have no idea what that means. I suppose one first would have to define “gay culture.” I’m not sure what that is, either.

Does that mean living in San Francisco and being 99% nude in a parade? Does it mean hanging out in gay bars and trying to pick up tricks, perhaps even resignedly going home with a nameless body at 2:00 A.M.? Does it mean late-night roaming of Cheesman Park, or hanging out around men’s restrooms? Does it mean wearing rainbow colors, or lots of gay bling announcing to the world that my orientation may be different from yours? Is this that “gay culture,” especially as defined by uninformed or homophobic people?

On the other hand, could it mean that wealthy, cultured, and well educated gentleman who is bored by the bar scene and, instead, sits in the balcony of the Met Opera with a group of black-tie friends and then throws exclusive after-opera parties at his magnificent home? Or, does it refer to someone like billionaire, arms-industrialist Alfred Krupp enjoying the view of a dozen naked, young boys splashing in his swimming pool, flaunting the draconian anti-gay laws of early-20th-century Germany?

Or finally, can it mean a bizarrely inverted and destructive so-called “un-gay culture” populated by outwardly-straight army generals, fundamentalist preachers, homophobic Republican senators, or “pray-to-cure therapists,” anyone who fears or denies his own orientation that he does not understand or is willing to accept?

One obviously visible part of gay culture that I certainly respect is those persons who work for gay civil rights and to educate the otherwise ignorant public. Such work may expose them to ridicule or worse. Or at least, that dedication may dominate their lives and take up most of their time, possibly denying them the opportunity to pursue other, more personally rewarding directions.

For those gays, however, who may have realized their orientation but who have not found much of a of a life beyond it, I would hope that “gay culture” is not defined by unproductive pursuits for frequent sex partners, short-term relationships, beer-busts, and constant gay social events. Human lives should mean much more than that.

It seems to me that the natural, healthful approach for viewing one’s orientation is that it is simply one element of a person’s personality and thinking, that it does not have to dominate one’s mind. Consequently, choosing friends, joining clubs, selecting careers, interests, and hobbies does not have to be determined primarily upon whether they are considered to be gay or straight activities. After all, any psychologist or biologist worth his salt now knows that sexual orientation is not binary, not black or white; it is fluid, running the spectrum of thinking, feelings, and behavior. I could be mistaken, but perhaps some individuals think of Story Time more as a gay writers’ group. I chose to join because I prefer to view it simply as a means of telling our worthwhile, human stories. The human experience often contains universal elements not limited by gay or straight.

Denver, © 21 July 2012

About the Author

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