Month: October 2016

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Choir and Singing, by Ricky

        In November 2011, in response to the
topic “music,” I wrote an account of my acquisition of various tastes in music
from youth to adulthood.  My tastes are not
limited to just one or two types of music and one sentence therein deals with,
not only listening to my favorite march, but also conducting it whenever I hear
the song played.  One aspect of music as
it relates to me I did not write about – singing.
        From Kindergarten through 6th
grade, first at the Hawthorne Christian School then the Cambridge Elementary
School and finally at South Tahoe Elementary School, music is included as part
of the required curriculum.  As a result,
I learned to sing religious children’s songs and fun or near nonsense
songs.  Among the former I recall Onward
Christian Soldiers and Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam.  In the latter category, I remember, “Skip to
My Lou”, “Row, Row, Row Your Boat,” and “Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer on the
Wall.”
        Sixth grade was the final time I sang in
a school Christmas program.  It was not
because I did not want to sing but because the 7th grade and higher
did not participate.  Therefore, as I
aged into the teen years, the only singing I did was either in the shower
(figuratively speaking) or around the campfire on scout campouts.
        As I attained the age of majority at 21,
I sang in the choir of my church; not regularly but often enough.  My voice was stuck somewhere between bass and
tenor like halfway in between, neither one nor the other dominating. 
        While stationed in Florida as part of
the Air Force, I fell in love for the first time; or perhaps had my first major
crush on a girl my age would be more accurate.  (I’m not counting the pubescent crush on my 5th
grade teacher).  As a result, I became
acquainted with her family for several years. 
After I married Deborah who was the best friend of my crush, Charla, we
ended up at Brigham Young University where I was a student of law enforcement.
        One day, Deborah told me that Charla’s brother
(Vern) was also attending the school and that he is a member of a 50’s band.  She also said the band was playing that night
at the student union building and we should go, which is her way of saying,
“We’re going!”  We ended up attending the
event with another couple from our student-housing complex and shared a table
at the side of the room.  There were
about 200 students present.
        Before the show began, Deborah found
Vern and he joined us at our table for a few minutes.  The musical performance was excellent.  The band played all sorts of 50’s rock music
but seemed to feature music by the Beach Boys, which I happen to like.  The band needed to play one more song before
intermission.  However, as part of their
performance, this song was not to be sung by the band alone.  All four members of the band rushed out into
the audience and literally grabbed a person and pulled him to the stage to sing
with the band.  Vern came out and grabbed
me.
        Of course, I protested just like the
other victims were doing but in the end “Deborah made me do it,” (at least
that’s my excuse).  At that time in my
life, I was introverted, shy, and always maintained a “low profile” so I was
very anxious about what was about to happen. 
I did not expect a good result from singing an unfamiliar song with no
advance rehearsal.  I became even more
worried when it was clear that the four victims (all males) will be singing
four-part harmony without the band members. 
The worst part was having the band members sing their parts, one at a
time and each victim had to sing it back. 
The others did fairly well as I recall but my anxiety increased when it
became clear that my part was last; too much time to think about it.  Then panic set in when Vern sang his
part.  It was in the falsetto range and I
never sang anything that high since before puberty attacked me.
        As I wrote above, Vern sang his part and
I sang it back.  The band selects victims
to sing with as a regular part of their performance to be a bit of comic relief
I suspect, especially the falsetto part. 
When I finished singing the phrases back at Vern, he just stood there
with his mouth stuck open for a full second. 
By the next second, he and the audience were applauding.  Apparently, I sang the part back
perfectly.  The only other time I sang
solo and received applause occurred in a weekly scout meeting when I taught the
troop the summer camp’s song by singing it to them.  Both back then and on this night my face
flushed.
        The four of us victims went on to sing
the first verse acapella and band members joined in for the rest; more applause
when we were done.  I was relieved it was
over.  In spite of a few extra hugs and
kisses from Deborah, I cannot remember anytime that I have sung solo to any
audience after that night.
        The name of the song?  Barbara Ann
by the Beach Boys.
© 8 April 2013 
About the Author 
 I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale
and then in Redondo Beach.  Just prior to
turning 8 years old in 1956, I was sent to live 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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At the Snug, by Ray S

Dear Friends,
I come to you empty headed and
weary of heart. Truly I bless the imaginative amongst you that brought today’s
meeting to pass. Yea verily I say unto you, I am truly joyous to be “What e’er
thou art” or something to be within the embrace of my dear compatriots.
I hasten to explain about my joy
regarding the recent Feb. first and Feb eighth Telling Your Story subjects. I
found last week’s explanations of the quote attributed to Bobby Burns fascinating,
especially the scholarly interpretation of that foreign language. This was
enlightening and “Sad but True.”
So, what about today’s Irish Snug
venture? Will the change of environment bring forth new muses with beer on
their breaths?
I am afraid that I have imposed my
empty headed meanderings on all of you, probably to the point of, “Will he stop
whining and let us move on to some meaningful stories?”
Sorry, friends, but I wanted to be
here with you, even if I haven’t enlightened you with some grand inspiration.
“Sad but True” and better luck next week.
© 15 February, 2016 

About the Author 
  
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Death and Growing Up, by Phillip Hoyle

I
recall clearly when in my mid-twenties I first had a new thought related to
death, specifically regarding the death of my good friend James, a man I
appreciated, with whom our young families spent time together (he and Sue and
their son Charlie, Myrna and I and our son Michael and daughter Desma), and who
with my friend Ted planted and tended a garden in my backyard one summer. My
new thought was that wherever my good friend James lived, I’d travel there to
attend his funeral. I was stunned by my newly-discovered perspective on
friendship that seemed a mark of maturing and represented for me an aspect of
friendship and love that has become an important signifier.
My
work as a minister took me to many funerals, many of which I led. In the
process I learned how to tend to the needs of family and friends of the
deceased in calls I made on them and comments I shared concerning memories,
grief, and hope at the funerals and memorial services I led. In fact, I learned
to do this work well since the congregations which I served had many elders. I
limited the time of my speeches, Bible readings, and prayers on these occasions
(and as a side effect of my brevity, I became popular with the funeral
directors).
Some
years later, death and funerals took on a new aspect, the one I had anticipated
in my twenties, when my longtime friend Ted died in his mid-forties. Our
friendship had endured over twenty years. He lived fifteen hundred miles away,
but I visited him several times after he became seriously ill. I wanted to help
take care of him when his condition became critical but was not asked to do so.
I did fly to San Francisco to attend his memorial service and pondered what I
would say when folk were invited to deliver verbal tributes. I was unable to
say anything and stayed firmly in my pew appreciating the speeches made by
others. I wondered at my inability to talk but appreciated my ability to cry.
Last
month I attended a memorial service for another longtime friend, Geraldean
McMillin. She died unexpectedly at age eighty-two. Geraldean and I had been
intellectual buddies and friends for over thirty years. I flew to Missouri and
with members of my family attended the service. This time I had agreed to say a
benediction at the end of the service. As person after person spoke, I cried;
more specifically I had a constant stream of tears, mostly from my right eye,
while others talked. I was afraid my weeping might leave me dehydrated, my
voice too dry to speak at all, but when the signal came I went to the front of
the chapel and said a few words about Geraldean and pronounced a benediction
made up of some of her oft-repeated phrases and sentiments.
I
miss her.
I
miss Ted.
I
miss James although I haven’t heard from him in many years and have no idea
where he lives or if he is even still alive. I probably won’t need to travel to
his service but sometimes I wonder who will travel to mine.
© 22 July 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.”
He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com 
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Strange Vibrations, by Pat Gourley

“Just because you are
seeing divine light, experiencing waves of bliss, or conversing with gods and
goddesses is no reason to forget your zip code”
Ram Dass
For me strange vibrations
have usually involved bouts of anxiety, which fortunately have been short-lived
and really quite rare in my 67 years. My first experience with being anxious in
an uncomfortable fashion was in my early teens and can be directly related to
buying into the bullshit being foisted on me by the Catholic Church and its
minions.
In hindsight I do think
that my budding awareness that I was a gay little kid was just beginning to
come into conflict in so many ways with the Church’s teachings. The cognitive
dissonance created by what I felt in my core butting up against the relentless
brainwashing could be quite anxiety provoking.
It was the most insidious
form of child abuse legitimately sanctioned by society and the Church and it created
lots of strange vibrations. By my Junior Year in high school these religiously
induced anxiety attacks were quickly abating in large part thanks to my first gay
relationship with a loving queer spirit guide in the form of an elder loving
mentor.
I wonder sometimes if
what I view as the relentless child abuse from all organized religions, often
in an extreme form of psychological coercion and intimidation, doesn’t in some
ways provide the cover or rather the rationale then for actual physical abuse
both sexual and non-sexual to take place. 
If you are willing to foist on young impressionable minds all sorts of
bullshit succinctly laid out in the Baltimore Catechism for example does that
make it easier to then extend this form of mind control to involve the
physical? All of us are born atheists and really should be left alone with that
universal view to eventually sort things out on our own.
I must say that my
current spiritual view, which can best be described as Buddhist-atheism, is no
longer a source of any sort of anxiety. I have finally learned the amazing
calming effect of sitting quietly and focusing on my breath especially when the
current fucked-up state of humanity begins to impinge, usually due to too much
Internet surfing. Amazing how this can also be remediated by a walk to the Denver
Botanic Gardens and a few hours of soaking up that energy.
After extricating myself
from the Catholic Church in 1967 my next real bout with anxiety did not occur
until the fall of 1979 and involved a bit too much psilocybin and a trip to the
Empire Bathes. The resulting moderate freak-out was anxiety provoking enough
for me to essentially swear off all drugs for the past 35+years with one
accidental episode this past winter – details to follow.
My next strange
vibrations did not occur until the fall of 1995 following my partner David’s
death from AIDS related stuff. For many months after his death I would have
nightmares often ending with waking up in panic mode with the sheets often
drenched with sweat.  This did stop
eventually after about six months of talk-therapy with a great shrink. No, I do
not think I was experiencing untreated sleep apnea.
My most recent bout of
strange vibrations occurred this past January when I was out in San Francisco.
I was being Innkeeper and mentoring a new 14-week-old puppy.  It was a rainy evening with only a few guests
and as is my want I started craving something sweet about 7 PM.  The pup and I were ensconced in the library
catching up on Downton Abbey episodes.
Wandering into the
kitchen I spied a Christmas tin on the counter. Upon inspection I found cookies
that I remember being very similar to ones made in large quantities around the
holidays. I quickly made short work of 6 or 7 of these cookies. I thought they
had a bit of an odd molasses taste but still hit the spot. About 30 minutes
later I began to experience very strange vibrations. This was odd I thought
since I was in one of the safest places I can imagine on earth and to have waves
of anxiety sweep over me rather relentlessly soon had me wondering if these
weren’t perhaps the infamous house pot cookies. Several folks in the house have
medical marijuana cards and made use of the herb on occasion often in the form
of baked goods but usually only ¼ to ½ of one cookie imbibed at a time. 
Long story short I was
able to determine that the cookies were “loaded”.  After several calls to Denver friends with
questions about HIV Meds and large quantities of THC I was assured there were
no physical interactions. I clearly recognized the anxiety as familiar ground
and was able to weather the storm with the help of a good friend who came home
from work early and some conscious breathwork. After about six hours I was
pretty much back on earth with the strange vibrations fading away. I was left
to ponder a line from an old Grateful Dead song: “Maybe you had too much too
fast”. 
I was able throughout
though to remember not only how to operate my cell phone and walk the dog but
also I could easily recall my zip code.
©
May 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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Two Good Movies, by Nicholas

I remember seeing a cartoon one day
in The New Yorker magazine, a
publication famous for its topical cartoons. It showed two men, presumably gay,
walking out of a movie theatre that was showing some male-female romantic
movie. One man says to the other: “I’m tired of extrapolating.”
He meant, of course, he was tired of
seeing great loves and the truths of great romances, their trials,
tribulations, joys and triumphs, played out on the big screen by hetero couples
from whom we could all learn about love by pretend-identifying with one or both
of the individuals. Sort of, love in the abstract. Love is universal and I
shouldn’t be concerned that the people shown don’t really look or act like me
and my lovers. I should “extrapolate,” imagine myself and my dilemmas and joys
through them.
That is, of course, a bunch of crap.
And fortunately, we don’t have to put up with that so much anymore.
This past weekend Jamie and I saw two
movies at the Q Cinema film festival at the Denver Film Society not far from
our house. On Friday we saw a dramatic film called Lazy Eye. It might soon show up in commercial release and I highly
recommend seeing it. The story is a fairly ordinary one of two men who briefly
had a passionate connection years back when both were young. They are in their
middle-age 40’s now. There’s been no contact between them for years until one
finds the other and we’re off and running. They reconnect and the passion
soars. Problem is, one has gone on to another relationship and even married
another man. Of course, despite old yearnings, it does not work out. How they
get to that point of finally separating is the beauty of the story and the
film.
Someone remarked that the story could
have been any couple, not necessarily a gay couple. It could have been told
that way. But it wasn’t. It was told by, for and about gay relationships. I
didn’t have to extrapolate. Straight viewers seeing this move could do the
extrapolating now.
Moreover, the story involved two men
comfortably and completely out. Being gay was not the issue. No angst about
anybody’s sexual identity. At this point in my life, I have to say I am totally
over coming out stories. I don’t think the words gay or homosexual are even
mentioned in the movie. We are seeing the fully realized story of two men who
were in love long ago and maybe could be now if it weren’t for the fact of
other choices being made since.
It was a joy to see people who are
gay working out their lives without any specter of closets and prejudices
hanging over them. The story was our story, my story.
The other movie we saw was a documentary
called Political Animals and tells
the stories of the first four lesbians elected to the California state
legislature in the 1990s and later. It’s notable that the first gays elected to
that legislature were women. Gay men in the 1990s were too busy caring for ill
friends and lovers. One of the women—Carole Migden who made an appearance at
the showing—I know personally and we got to reminisce about lesbian and gay
movement days in San Francisco. I was a journalist then and covered politics.
These four brave pioneering women
politicians accomplished a lot like protections for queer youth in schools and
the first statewide domestic partnership recognition. The vile things they had
to hear said about them and all gay people in legislative debates is an
astonishing history lesson. They were brilliant political strategists. It’s
moving to hear their stories about how their politics was not about abstract
ideas and policies but about their own personal lives. It was their story, our
story, my story.
I recommend both these movies.
© July
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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The LGBT Diaspora, by Louis Brown

The prompt “family”
reminds me of Hillary Clinton having once proclaimed that “It takes a village
to raise a child.” Of course, there is some truth in that. It is a reference to
what many sociologists refer to as the “extended family.” If we take this
broadening view of the “family”, we may think in terms of an extended, extended
family or Diaspora, or world-wide family. Webster’s dictionary defines
“diaspora” as “(1) (a) the dispersion of the Jews after the Babylonian exile;
(b) the Jews thus dispersed; (c) the places where they settled [and by extension] (2) any scattering of
people with a common origin, background, beliefs, etc.”
In this etc. I would definitely
include “sexual orientation”. Lesbian and gay people are everywhere in the
world. If our community could only harness the power, it would mean a better
world for us, a better world for everyone.
In the 1950’s, Senator
Joseph McCarthy, if you recall, went on an anti-communist witch-hunt and an
anti-gay witch-hunt, claiming there were communists and homosexuals in the U.
S. State Department that were trying to subvert and even overthrow the
government. For a while Senator McCarthy was taken seriously. He referred to
the international communist conspiracy as the “comintern,” that is, the
international communist movement and the international gay community as the
“homintern,” presumably meaning the homosexual international.
Many liberals would claim
there is no such thing as the “homintern”. That was just Senator McCarthy’s
overactive imagination. Au contraire,
of course there is a “homintern” although I would call it the gay and lesbian
diaspora. We do not necessarily want to overthrow governments, but we do want
liberation. Our diaspora implies that our struggle for liberation is the most
analogous to that of the Jews. All of which we should embrace exuberantly rather
than shy off for fear of enraging homophobes.
If we take a bird’s eye
view of our diaspora, we note, for instance, that the Muslim world population
is one billion one hundred million. That means that there are one hundred and
ten million lesbian and gay Muslims. Have there been any attempts to organize
these one hundred and ten million people? Yes, but so far the results are
miniscule. In New York City there is one out-of-the-closet gay male Imam. In
time there will be millions like him. The MCC church of New York City provides
a weekly meeting place for lesbian and gay Muslims in that city.
In 1995 a group of lesbian
and gay Muslims held a “congress” in London, England. It would be good if our
Denver lesbian and gay community had an expert historian who could describe
exactly what happened at that congress. More information please?
Recently when I was back
in Jackson Heights, Queens County, NYC, I attended a lesbian and gay spiritual
meeting, at which the topic was gay spirituality in the history of Islam. The
leader asked each of us in attendance what spiritual remark we would like to
make. The leader did mention Rumi*, of course. I
said I think we should remember how many people we are talking about: 1/10 of
one billion one hundred million was 110 million. The leader responded to my
comment by first saying that that was not exactly a spiritual observation and
made other comments indicating that he could not even begin to understand what
I was talking about.
I did not reply to his
evasive reaction. I felt like saying “I cannot begin to understand how you do
not understand”. We have to raise the consciousness of millions of “lesgay”
people everywhere.
Consider also the efforts
of lesbian and gay Russians to organize to resist oppression in Russia. Their
best chance is to organize in Russian colonies abroad located in more liberal
countries, such as Brighton Beach in Brooklyn, NY.
Consider also there was
even a study of gay and lesbian people in the indigenous Maori tribes of
Australia and New Zealand. Let us celebrate our ubiquity, or omnipresence
rather than fear to acknowledge the simple truth.
*Rumi
© 1 Sep 2016 
About
the Author 
I was born in 1944, I lived most of
my life in New York City, Queens County. I still commute there. I worked for
many years as a Caseworker for New York City Human Resources Administration,
dealing with mentally impaired clients, then as a social work Supervisor
dealing with homeless PWA’s. I have an apartment in Wheat Ridge, CO. I retired
in 2002. I have a few interesting stories to tell. My boyfriend Kevin lives in
New York City. I graduated Queens College, CUNY, in 1967.
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Death, by Lewis

It is hard to write on a
subject with which one does not have any “lived experience”.  Like most, although having witnessed many
thousands of deaths in the popular media and on television news, I have even
less of an idea as to what death will be like than I have on being the
President of the United States.
I suggested this topic
because it has been on my mind a lot lately, due in no small measure to the
recent death of my husband, Laurin.  Also,
over the past year or so, I have experienced a series of maladies and mishaps
that I can only attribute to a body that is showing signs of breaking down and
rusting away, much like cars used to do. 
(Incidentally, have you noticed how few rusted out clunkers you see on
the streets these days?) 
Every life story has a
finite beginning and a finite end.  It is
the incredible mish-mash in-between that makes our life stories so unique.  I hear every day about lives cut short by one
tragedy or another and I always think how lucky I am to have lived to the
relatively ripe age of 68.  Each day, I
check the obituary pages of the Denver
Post to see how many have died at a lesser age.  It’s a small percentage–perhaps 10-15.  The majority of those are men. 
Though four years younger
than Mom, Dad died 3-1/2 years before her. 
I think he had the advantage, though, in terms of how he died.  He had undergone an upper GI a day or two
before.  The x-ray showed a tumor on his
stomach.  He likely had just received
that news when he went to lunch with some friends and came home.  He was sitting on the toilet, perhaps trying
to rid himself of the viscous prep for the test, when he had a massive stroke
and died on the spot.  Mom heard only one
long groan and it was over.
It was then that my
family first realized the seriousness of Mom’s dementia.  Within six months, she had been diagnosed
with Alzheimer’s Disease and institutionalized. 
For the next three years, her condition continued to decline, while she
wondered the halls of the place where she resided, pushing her walker, not
recognizing family or friends, and cursing at those within earshot.  She did not know that she had survived the
second and last of her children by her first husband.  I did not have the heart to tell her.
Some people die in their
sleep.  Others starve to death or after
spending months in a coma or after days of clinging to life after being
horribly injured.  Family members have
seen their loved one die despite round-after-round of chemotherapy or surgeries
at an enormous cost in terms of not only treasure but also emotional capital.
We do not choose when we
are born.  Heck, we’re not even old
enough to choose when we go to the bathroom or what we eat for dinner.  But death is a different matter for most of
us.  By then, we’re adults and making all
kinds of decisions, some of major consequence and some of very little.  We can pick our doctors, our hospital, our
spouse, the person who holds medical power of attorney, whether we will take
our meds, and, in some cases, whether we want life-prolonging medical
procedures or treatment.  We can even
refuse to take food or liquid by mouth until we die, which can take up to ten
days or so and causes pain as our organs shut down (for which we would be given
pain killers).  What we can’t do legally
in this country is to ask for a dose of something that will end it all
painlessly and quickly.
The term “assisted
suicide” frightens people.  They
seem more comfortable with “dying with dignity” or
“aid-in-dying”.  Today, loved
ones who give aid-in-dying can be charged with murder.  Where are all the Right Wing voices who
scream about government overreach when it comes to aid-in-dying?  It seems they were all in favor of keeping Terri
Schiavo alive as long as humanly possible, even through recourse to the Florida
state courts.  Talk about government
abuse of power–and in service of a specific religious faction at that!
Ask a dozen
people–around this table, for example–what happens to us after we die and you
will likely get at least a handful of different opinions.  Is there anything that happens to us that is
more personal than the circumstances of our death, should we be fortunate
enough to have a choice?  If I am unable
to walk or stand, if I am unable to feed or go to the bathroom by myself, if I
do not recognize that the person standing beside me is my own next-of-kin, if I
am not able to talk and the only thing coming out of my mouth is drool, I do
not want to go on living. 
I do not believe in
life-after-death.  I believe that the
release of my last breath will feel very much like that moment before I
received that swat on my bottom that brought that first gasp for life-giving
air.  It is that belief that makes me
want to make the most of every day that I have left–to live, to love, to
celebrate, to share, to grow, to smell the roses, to simply be.  Then, when that final breath comes, it will
be every bit as sweet as my first.
© 13 Oct 2014 
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.
Posted on

The Men in My Life, by Gillian

Many
men have influenced my life; most positively, some not.
Until
I went off to college, the only males I had formed any attachment for were my
father and maternal grandfather and a teacher. The boys in school all seemed
too immature for words and essentially I ignored them, preferring the company
of girls; especially one, with whom I remained secretly in love through all my
schooldays, but I won’t digress as this is supposed to be about men.
My
dad I have written about many times, I will simply say that I loved him, he
loved me, and in a strangely silent way we became increasingly close over his
lifetime. And, yes, even since his death. My mother’s dad died when I was
pretty young so I don’t remember very much about him, except that I was always
happy just to sit with him while the carved beautifully ornate headstones out
of the local marble. Only slightly more garrulous than my father, he sometimes
sat in silence for what seemed like hours, but I was a little kid so maybe it
wasn’t really so long. I do know I never got restless or tried to make him
chat. I loved just being there, watching his clever hands create such intricate
beauty. Occasionally he shocked me with a sudden swift launch into
story-telling – spellbinding and supposedly true although looking back, even if
I cannot recall the details of any, I doubt their veracity. But despite these
rare jaunts off into the world of monologue, words were few. So the first two
men in my life, both of whom I loved greatly, folded me into a strong, silent
world; a world where deeds spoke much louder than words. A world of true, if
silent, love. They actually had a lot in common, Dad and Granddad, although not
related by blood. (Not so very surprising, I guess, as girls supposedly tend to
marry a man like their father.) They are also connected, in my child’s memory,
by birds; more specifically, robins. The English robin, quite unlike the
American version, is a small brown bird with a scarlet breast, known for it’s
inquisitive nature. One it seemed was always around, watching my grandfather
chisel and hammer just as I did. The little bird’s head bobbed from one side to
the other as he seemed to evaluate Granddad’s every move with his sharp, shiny,
little black eyes. My father had his faithful robin, too, who followed him
around on his chores; waiting, I’m sure, for tasty morsel to be offered up in
the process.
The
other strong male influence in my youth was my high school geology teacher. He
was one of the natural teachers of this world, and carried with him an aura of
boundless energy and enthusiasm which was very contagious. At weekends he and
his little band of devoted followers would slog up and down wet Welsh
mountains, returning home exhausted with pockets and bags groaning under the
weight of rocks and minerals and fossils. He blessed my life with a fascination
with geology which has remained with me throughout. And, no, I didn’t have that
schoolgirl crush on him which tends to accompany teenage admiration, and which
I’m sure some of the girls succumbed to. I was immune. My passions were spent,
as are all good lesbian youthful crushes, on my female gym teacher!
In
college I was never romantically involved with any men, being passionately but
secretly, even for the most part hidden from myself, devoted to a female
classmate. But I learned a lot from men in my life who were completely unlike
any of the boys I knew at school. Inevitably so; they came from different
worlds. My professor at The University of Sheffield had been a prisoner of the
Japanese in World War Two. They had cut out his tongue. Consequently, his
lectures were very difficult to follow until you became tuned in. I was
incredibly impressed by his courage and tenacity in returning after the war to
a position made difficult and, I would suppose, embarrassing, by his
affliction. I also learned forgiveness from this man. I never once heard him
say anything negative, either in class or in private gatherings, about the
Japanese or their country. The attitude he maintained made it very clear that
he held no grudges; no animosity. This was 1959, so he had had fifteen years to
get there, and how long it took or what efforts it cost him, I don’t know. But
ever since, upon finding myself harboring resentment over some petty words or
deeds, I have tried to remind myself of a wonderful man who managed to forgive
completely a truly terrible wound.
Also
at Sheffield University in the late 1950’s and early ’60’s were several young
men who had managed to escape Hungary after the invasion by the U.S.S.R in
1956. I had seen, on the tiny old black-and-white T.V., the street fighting in
Budapest where these men, or others just like them, faced up to tanks with
nothing but a handful of rocks. We found them strange, these dark brooding
silent men who emitted such an unmistakable air of rage. They never bragged, or
even mentioned, anything they had done in defense of their homeland.  If they talked at all it was of nothing but
their hatred of the Soviets and their endless innumerable plans to free Hungary
and return home. They hated England, and refused to offer any sliver of
gratitude for the free college education they were taking advantage of at that
very moment. We didn’t like them. They were unfriendly. They were no fun. They
were freeloaders. Then I slowly formed a friendship with one of them, and was
forced to dig deeper and learn. Domonkos needed a lot of help
understanding our mutilated professor’s lectures, and I somehow fell into
spending time going over every class with him. Usually this was in a coffee
shop or pub, and slowly his entire story came out. He himself had not been one
of those tossing stones at tanks. He had tried to protect his mother and
sisters but instead was made to watch while they were raped and then shot. His
father had died in Auschwitz in 1945. His mother and sisters and he, had for
some reason been taken to Mauthausen, from which they were liberated at the end
of the war; only for the women to die at the hands of the Soviets in 1956. Was
all this true? I had no way of knowing, but I had no reason to doubt it. It
didn’t seem to matter. This young man had clearly suffered from terrible
traumas, no matter the details.
He
told me similar stories of his fellow Hungarians students, until I was numb to
the horror of his tales. Numb in a sense, yes, but he also forced me to wake
up. I and my friends found these men boring? They were no fun?
How much fun would we be, under such circumstances? In all honesty, I could not
warm to them as a group, nor even to Domonkos himself. But through them I
learned to look below the surface; to see perhaps why people act as they do. To
care for them, to empathize, despite no real affection or liking. To try to be
quicker to understand and slower to judge.
Then
came adulthood and, at the age of 26, marriage. My husband was not a silent man
like my father, nor was he terribly loud and verbose. He did not have my
teacher’s energy and passion, but he worked and played hard enough. He
certainly was not Hungarian-style hating and morose. He was really a pretty
average guy doing his best, but with my homosexuality lurking around, rising ever
closer to the surface, the marriage was doomed from the beginning. It was the
final chapter of my book of learning that if you are not true to yourself you
simply cannot bring happiness to others. My poor husband inadvertently taught
me that.
Not
long after we married, his four children unexpectedly came to live with us.
Once over the shock, I coped pretty well, and step-motherhood became a positive
experience for me and for the children, three of whom were boys. Over the
years, they became new men in my life. I know parents cannot have favorites,
but I say that’s one of the advantages of the step- relationship.
I
truly think I didn’t show it, but my oldest step-son was my favorite. I loved
all four kids, and they loved me, but I adored Dale. As did many many people.
He could charm anyone; girls, boys, men, women, neighbors and friends, teachers
and police. What defenses could a helpless step-mother employ? Sadly, this very
charm turned on him and did him evil rather than good. He was born to trouble,
it seemed, and he almost invariably charmed his way out of its consequences,
and so led him deeper down the wrong path. The real trouble, which no-one can
talk themselves a way out of, was serious unrepenting un-recovering alcoholism.
This became manifest in his early teens and lasted all his life, which
predictably was short. He died a few years ago at the age of fifty. I was
heartbroken, although he had not been in touch with any of his family for a
long time so the hole he had dug in my heart was nothing new. It had been there
for many years.
After
my divorce, I still worked mainly with men so I did not register an absence of
men in my life even after my social life morphed to consist mainly of lesbians
and straight female friends. Post-divorce, I tried to keep up some male
friendships but straight men all know that a divorcee is looking for only one
thing. It was hopeless. After I was out to the world, I foolishly imagined this
might change, but straight men all know what it takes to cure a lesbian. It was
hopeless.
When
Betsy and I moved in together we found both of us equally missed the rumble of
men’s voices in the house; in our lives. We both like men. We looked around.
The answer stared us in the face; gay men. They had no interest in
whatever divorcees were after or what it took to cure lesbians. But hold your
horses! Not so easily done. Looked at objectively, where is the attraction? Gay
men and women are the ones not drawn to each other. So – you need a
catalyst; something to attract both, other than each other. Betsy joined a gay
tennis group where we did make a few male friends, but as she was the only
woman who ever belonged, it slowly fizzled out.
The
Center was, of course, our salvation, and especially this group. We now are
grateful to have many men in our lives with whom to share laughter and tears,
anger and celebration, memorials and hospital visits and parties.
I
love the men in my life.
I
always have.
© 28 Mar 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.
Posted on

Doors, by Gail Klock

Buzz, the dull sound of
an institutional doorbell summons the matron with the keys. Footsteps can be
heard descending the stairs. Click, goes the first lock, up two flights of
stairs, then click opens the metal mesh door into the plainest, most
unattractive physical setting you can possibly imagine. A space which lacked
color and texture, the walls and floors an unpainted concrete; no pictures,
wall hangings, or changes of surfaces to detract from the bleakness; no shelves
holding objects of interest. It was a grey world. Visiting my grandmother didn’t
take place in an over the hills and through the woods fashion. We entered
through the locked doors of the mental institution in Pueblo where she was a
patient. She seemed quite “normal” to me. She was dressed like all the other
female patients in non-descript shifts which left you guessing as to the shape
of the wearer. The men were dressed similarly in the same institutionalized
green material with pants that had drawstrings and loose fitting tops. All the
women had the same hair style, one I could have administered as a kid, hacked
off at the neck line.
The room was large and
open, a few tables scattered here and there and lots of empty space. Some of
the patients were moaning to themselves rocking back and forth sitting on the
floor, and others were very intensely playing with their private parts. My
mother and other family members never did know what the diagnosis for my
grandmother was, my guess is clinical depression which was triggered by the
death of her husband at an early age shortly after the diagnosis of his brain
cancer. My grandmother’s behavior didn’t bother me, nor did the actions of the
more severely impacted patients, but the locked doors did. She had been
stripped of her freedom to move about as she liked and to spend time with her
loving family. She lacked the necessary keys to escape this captivity, to
regain her freedom and become all she was capable of becoming.
Fortunately, I’ve had
these keys available to unlock the restrictive doors of life, but I’ve often misplaced
or used the wrong ones in trying to open the doors to happiness.  As a child trying to maneuver through life
without the emotional support of loving adults I developed childish strategies
to protect myself from being hurt and disappointed by loved ones. I played
Simon and Garfunkel’s, “I Am a Rock,” over and over as a college student. I so
identified with the idea of being a rock which felt no pain, and an island
which never cried.  But I didn’t have the
wisdom or guidance to realize a rock doesn’t feel love and an island doesn’t
laugh. The keys I needed to use were the ones which led me through the door of
vulnerability.
Several instances, which
have occurred recently in my life, have given me insight into the desirability
of being vulnerable.   During about the third round of chemo, simply
walking a few steps was exhausting and almost impossible and the myriad other
physical feelings when sitting still were equally horrible. It was at this
point that I realized, “it is what it is.” I can’t fight the feelings, I can’t
change the feelings, I can only live with them. Once I acknowledged the
situation and accepted it for what it was a sense of peacefulness descended
upon me. I knew I was okay and would continue to feel better and better. There
were no longer doors separating me from others, somehow they had sprung open
and I felt more one with the universe. I can’t explain this further, but I felt
a shift in energy.
After my last surgery in
2012 I slowly embarked on the physical healing process which allowed me to return
to playing basketball, an activity I love with my heart and soul. This process
has been slow, at first just getting the ball to the basket was all I could
manage. I didn’t step foot in a scrimmage on the court with others for at least
six months, and when I first did it was with trepidation. The surgery had been
very complex and had involved cutting and moving all of the nerves and muscles
in the hip joint.  Initially I could not
bend either my knee or hip. I asked my doctor if I could try playing again and
told her falling is part of playing and asked if this was a problem, she wisely
stated I might open the wound back up but I wouldn’t hurt anything. She must
have been an athlete herself to understand the significance and relative truth
of this statement.  It took a while for
me to get enough stability to play and it took longer to overcome my fear of
getting hurt. Now I don’t worry about getting hurt… it is what it is, when you
fall you get back up. You might have some bumps and bruises, but you also have
the joy of playing. It’s that one time when you execute the motion just right,
when you get the desired result, when the wholeness of your mind and body are
one, that makes it worth the bumps and bruises. I’ve unlocked the door to
physical vulnerability and have experienced the joy that was on the other side
of the doorway.
I’m well on my way to
accomplishing the same with my emotional life. Even in moments of emotional
isolation, which used to paralyze me with fear, I now realize I have the key
available to open the doors to great love and joy, to actualize the energy
available, which is represented by the concept of “it is what it is”, allowing
the doors to be unlocked. It is only through allowing myself to be emotionally
vulnerable that I will enjoy the greatest love of my life… yes there will be
some tears along with it, of that I am sure. 
But I’ve been that rock way too long, and it was a rather dull rock at
that, now I’m beginning to feel really alive. I feel like the hawk that soars
above, enjoying the warmth of the thermals, knowing it will soar with the wind
beneath its wings, knowing it’s not alone in life, and that all of life’s
forces work together… if only we use the right key.
© 27 Apr 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.
Posted on

Brother Townsend, by Cecil Bethea

Twenty-three passengers on the
Mayflower were ancestors of Prescott Townsend 
ancestors. Another forebear was the only man to sign the Declaration of
Independence, the Articles of the Confederation, and the Constitution. On
almost any route that Townsend took to grade school on Boston’s Beacon Hill, he
would past a monument to an ancestor or to an event in which some kinsman had
participated
Townsend was born in 1895 when the
blue bloods of Boston still considered themselves Brahmins and felt contented.  Henry James called them, “the sifted
few”.  Besides his inherited wealth, his
father was also the head of a large coal company.  When Townsend was fifteen his father
died.  At sixteen he told his mother that
he liked other boys.  She merely
answered, “Be careful.”.
During his eighteenth summer, he went
out West to work in logging and mining camps of Idaho and Montana where he met
people unlike himself.  The International
Workers of the World, derisively called the Wobblies were trying to organize a
union amongst the unskilled workers and hobos with whom Townsend worked.  He developed a lifelong interest in street
boys and drifters, the outcasts of society.

At Harvard, he evidently was more
interested in tennis than books, but he survived.  So many attractions drew him into a very
active social life.  After all, he was in
the SOCIAL REGISTER.  Harvard was very
pro-British during the first years of World War I.  To do his part, he joined the Naval
Reserve.  After the United States had
entered the war, Townsend was called to the colors, where he performed various
duties including being commanding officer of the Naval Unit at Texas A &
M.  After being demobilized, he returned
to Harvard to finish his senior year and later to enter law school.
Law school palled, so at the end of
his first year he quit.  So many
interesting things lured him on to various adventures. In the tropics of
Mexico, he was the co-discoverer of an unknown salamander which was named for
him.  In Paris, Andre Gide recommended
the deserts of North Africa.  Townsend
organized a small caravan with willing. complaisant, or hungry young men.  During his visit the Rift Rebellion, an
attempt by the Arabs to oust the French was taking place.  One small battle interrupted the progress of
his party.  He insisted that the fight
stop because he as an American had precedent over their squabbles.  Strangely enough the combatants ceased their
gunfire while the American passed.  How
things have changed for American tourist!
Back in Paris, Townsend became
involved with the Bohemians; in fact, Bohemia became a part of him for the rest
of his life.  In Boston he was the patron
of poets and a little theater.  Actually
he owned the building where the theater had its quarters.  His house became a home for various nomads of
the artistic and Gay worlds.  Although he
bragged he had never paid for sex, it was difficult to turn down a man who is
supplying you with bed and board.  During
his later years, all of his tenants chipped in to pay a handsome young man to
supply Townsend’s needs
During the 1950’s Townsend was much
more than a horny old man.  He was a Gay
activist.  Actually one could make that
ACTIVIST.  The Boston chapter of the
Mattachine Society had him for one of his co-founders.  Just as all the chapters had strife between
the radicals and the conservatives.  The
organization asked him to make his efforts to repeal the sodomy laws of
Massachusetts a personal cause rather an organizational one.  Townsend did not want understanding and
sympathy from the public but rights. 
Confrontational was his usual means of operation. On April 17th,
1965, he was in Washington for the first Gay demonstration.  Seven Gay men, three Lesbians, and a straight
woman friend marched in front of the White House. No doubt he was the oldest.  In 1970, he drove down from Boston for the
first parade to commemorate the Stonewall protest.  Even at seventy-six, he was amongst the first
two hundred to start the parade which grew to thousands.
In his later years Townsend was not
welcomed by other Gays because he had evidently forgotten the meaning of
personal hygiene and looked like derelict. 
No matter he was a participant in Gay functions.
Prescott Townsend should be
remembered for uncompromising attitude toward Gay rights, his early organizing
of Gay, and his early participation in early Gay demonstrations.
He was a Founding Brother.
© 9 Nov
2005 
About the Author 

Although I have done other things, my fame now rests
upon the durability of my partnership with Carl Shepherd; we have been together
for forty-two years and nine months as of today, August 18the, 2012.
        Although
I was born in Macon, Georgia in 1928, I was raised in Birmingham during the
Great Depression.  No doubt I still carry
invisible scars caused by that era.  No
matter we survived.  I am talking about
my sister, brother, and I .  There are
two things that set me apart from people. 
From about the third grade I was a voracious reader of books on almost
any subject.  Had I concentrated, I would
have been an authority by now; but I didn’t with no regrets.
        After
the University of Alabama and the Air Force, I came to Denver.  Here I met Carl, who picked me up in Mary’s
Bar.  Through our early life we traveled
extensively in the mountain West.  Carl
is from Helena, Montana, and is a Blackfoot Indian.  Our being from nearly opposite ends of the
country made “going to see the folks” a broadening experience.  We went so many times that we finally had
“must see” places on each route like the Quilt Museum in Paducah, Kentucky and
the polo games in Sheridan, Wyoming.  Now
those happy travels are only memories.
        I was
amongst the first members of the memoir writing class.  While it doesn’t offer criticism, it does
offer feed back.  Also just trying to
improve your writing helps no end.
        Carl is
now in a nursing home, I don’t drive any more. 
We totter on.