Author: jnelson

Posted on

Terror, by Gillian

I don’t understand terrorism
or terrorists. I mean, intellectually of course I do. I understand what
psychiatrists say about the factors causing people to become terrorists; but I
can’t get inside their heads. I simply cannot feel what it is they are feeling.
With an estimated minimum of a thousand young people a month from different
parts of the globe currently rushing off to join forces with ISIS, however,
it’s clear that creating terror holds an attraction for a significant number of
people.
Not only am I completely
mystified by that desire, or compulsion, to bring terror to others, but I am
fortunate enough to be able to say that I have never felt true terror myself.
That is not because I am remarkably brave and tough. Neither am I in denial of
some unacknowledged terror. It is simply that I have lived my life in a place
and time that has been terror-free. For me, that is. Not, alas, for everyone.
I can only imagine the utter
terror I would feel, hiding in the bushes in Rwanda, waiting to be discovered
and hacked to pieces by my erstwhile friends and neighbors. Or hiding in a room
in Nazi Germany, waiting to be turned in to the Gestapo by my erstwhile friends
and neighbors. Sadly, the list is endless. I would know what real terror was in
Stalin’s U.S.S.R and Mao’s China: the Cambodia of the Khmer Rouge and on and on
to today’s North Korea and most places in the Middle East.
I say I can only imagine, but
in truth I’m sure I cannot. I have lived so far from the horror of so many
people’s lives that I cannot begin to imagine what it would be like. I
have lived in my own little warm and cosy cocoon, safe and secure. Oh sure,
I’ve been a bit afraid occasionally. For instance, long before the advent of
cellphones, on business in Florida, I got lost in Miami in the dark and pouring
rain and my rental car broke down in a part of town which looked seriously
uninviting. Walking home in Denver one night after dark someone followed me
step for step. When I slowed, the footsteps behind me slowed; they kept pace if
I walked faster. Nothing bad resulted from these minor incidents, and the most
they made me feel was a bit nervous: just a frisson of fear. I’ve had health
issues that made me feel much the same, but that’s nothing approaching terror.
They call it a cancer scare, after all, not a cancer terror, though I’m
equally sure that being diagnosed with some horrific Stage Four cancer would
certainly invoke terror.
The most frightened I have
ever been, I think, were two instances involving airplanes.
One was on a flight from New
York’s La Guardia to London Heathrow. It was at the height of the Falklands
“war,” so it must have been 1982. I was working God knows how many
hours a week at the time and as soon as I settled to watch the movie, which was
Tora Tora Tora, I fell into a deep sleep. Over the mid-Atlantic we hit
some really rough air, and even that didn’t wake me, but a combination of
things suddenly did. We were bouncing around so badly that one of the overhead
bins bust open – it must not have been securely latched – and a hard-sided case
fell out onto the woman directly in front of me. It must have been heavy as
blood started pouring from her head and she began to scream. At precisely the
same moment, a voice from the cockpit announced with regret that the H.M.S.
Sheffield had been sunk with heavy loss of life. Well, you know what it’s like
when you are rudely awakened from a very deep sleep. You lust can’t get your
bearings. I was awash in confusion. My last memories, from the movie, were of
air battles; planes crashing into the ocean. The name Sheffield bothered me
because that’s where I went to College. Were we at war? What was happening? Why
was that woman screaming and bleeding?
Why was the plane pitching and
reeling? Were we going down in the ocean? I’m sure this complete lack of any
grasp on reality was very short-lived, but it seemed like forever and I was
truly scared. But I think I was too confused to be really terrified, and I
realized well enough that I was confused. Had we really been going down, yes,
then I’m sure I would have felt undeniable terror, for real. I think, now, of
those doomed passengers on that flight that went down in Pennsylvania on 9/11,
and more recently the one that wandered off course around the skies for several
hours before, they think, ending up at the bottom of the Indian Ocean; some
terror involved there, I would guess.
The other time was when my
husband of the time was flying us back from California in our little
four-seater plane. There were the two of us and my two youngest step-children.
We had just cleared the Sierra Nevada summit, heading East back to Colorado at
about 8,000 feet in a clear blue sky. Suddenly an invisible hole in the sky
opened up and we fell through it like a rock. My stomach hit the roof. The
clipboard securing the navigation charts, which I always held on my lap, shot
up and the metal clip gouged a big gash under my chin. My step-daughter started
screaming. The hillside was coming up to meet us at a really frightening speed.
The plane stopped falling as suddenly as it had started, and we landed at the
first available spot to make sure there was no damage. There was a crack in one
wing and in the tail, but not enough to stop us flying on home. We later
calculated that we had dropped about 6,000 feet in very few seconds.
And it was scary, but it was
all over before I had time to work up to real terror. Maybe it’s just that my
reactions are too slow!
I had planned to end there,
but you know how these stories go. Sometimes they seem to take on a life of their
own and go off on a tangent you had not planned to take. So we’ll just follow.
Some of you may remember that
several months ago I wrote about my dad, who, lost in a daze of dementia,
created havoc by trying to liven up their electric heater, which was made to
look somewhat like a real fire, by jabbing at it with the old metal poker. 
I was writing this current
story, last week, on a very cold day, around zero outside. Somehow when it’s
that cold, it seems to seep into the house regardless of how you have set the
thermostat.
I was cold. I huddled closer
to the cozily-glowing gas insert fireplace and noticed that there was a
considerable gap between two of the “logs.” No wonder it’s cold in
here, I thought, and unbidden the next thoughts leapt into my head. I
need to get the poker and rearrange those logs a bit, that’ll warm things up.
Now that truly terrifies me.
© 24 Nov 2014 
About the Author 
I
was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to
the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the
Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised
four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting
myself as a lesbian. I have now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25
years.
Posted on

Cowgirls Come on Out, by EyM

Roy Rogers exuded cool.
He wore his neck scarf knot to the side. Roy Rogers always impressed Dale
Evans. So naturally when my little 8 year old wanna-be cowboy body and soul
craved to impress a girl, I copied him. Sure enough that scarf sat over my
jugular as I stood there wide-eyed looking into my Mother’s dresser mirror. My
exuberant rendition of a TV ad “Going out on a date in my Rocket V-8!” flew out
of my mouth full blast and full volume. Shame followed long after with
startling fear that I could have been heard. This magical mirrored moment
undeniably marks my early lesbian feelings.

Before that, my Father completely perplexed me when he shamed me at age 6 for asking if my neighbor, a boy, could stay all night and sleep outside with me in the tent. It took years to know just what his problem was. It took even longer to know that it was all his problem.

In first grade, oh how I wanted to impress Susan. I lovingly wired rag strips from the rag drawer to a piece of broomstick I cut just for her. I strutted on my Schwinn to her house to present the wonderful homemade mop. I grasped the bag at the top of the mop head and thrust the stick handle out with great flair. But ugh, only the stick came out.
It’s icky that I still feel embarrassed by the failed mop mistake, and even worse to hold the fear that my Rocket V-8 date song had been heard. How messed up is that? How messed up was the mid 50’s world that dumped so much shame. Obviously, our work is just beginning if even one little cowgirl or cowboy heart feels shame for who they are.
My Dad never really got it. “Don’t hang out in the back of the church with the boys! It just doesn’t look right!” Boys got to be ushers. He didn’t know how much I was one of the boys.
This year, about 60 years later, you cowgirls Barrel Racers took my breath away. Watching you young women fervently running your horses around those barrels was delicious to watch!
That was me as a teen. What a great full circle awakening. Thank you cowgirls. I don’t care how you tie your scarves. You rock! You RIDE! Oh how you ride, right here in my heart.
© 30 Sep 2015 
About the Author 
A native of Colorado, she followed her Dad to the work bench to develop a love of using tools, building things and solving problems. Her Mother supported her talents in the arts. She sang her first solo at age 8. Childhood memories include playing cowboy with a real horse in the great outdoors. Professional involvements have included music, teaching, human services, and being a helper and handy woman. Her writing reflects her sixties identity and a noted fascination with nature, people and human causes. For Eydie, life is deep and joyous, ever challenging and so much fun.
Posted on

Finding Redemption, by Don Johnson

Growing up Mormon is like growing up Jewish; it’s a way of life
as well as a theology.  The way of life includes certain non-negotiable events, including (if you’re male) a mission for the church and marriage and family. 
I served my mission in French-speaking countries from age 19 to 22, married,
and had a family with three children.  In hindsight always at some level
knew I was gay but never came to terms with it until 1979 at the age of 38.
 
After struggling with owning my identity for many years, I
eventually came out to my family, ended my marriage, and left my church.  
I began attending coming out meetings with a group of gay men in
Denver, leading me to participate with a group of them in the first March on
Washington for Gay and Lesbian Rights in 1979.
I had requested excommunication from the Mormon Church, which
procedurally includes a trial.  My trial was scheduled for the morning of
that march.  With the time difference between Washington and Colorado, my
trial ended as the march began, 7 a.m. Boulder time and 9
a.m.Washington time.  
As my friends and I parked and headed toward the assembly point
for the march, I was vividly aware of the time, and as we stepped onto the
mall, I looked at my watch and realized that the trial was over and I was out
of the church.  This was highly emotional for me, and I began to quietly
cry.  
At that very moment I looked up and two men were unfurling a
banner that said “Gay Mormons United.”  The synchronicity felt like an
affirming message from God.  I ran over to the men and blubbered out my
story.  One of the men took me in his arms and held me, and stepping back,
he shook my hand and said, “Congratulations, Welcome home.”  And all the
pieces fell into place.  
The march ended at the Washington Monument, which was open to
the tourists, and for a moment in history, the odds were changed and I was part
of the majority and the straight tourists were the minority.  I realized
that they were intimidated by our presence and were quietly looking at the
ground.  I thought to myself, “I have spent my whole life looking at the
ground.  Never again.”  
Upon returning from the march to the University in Boulder, I
came out to my colleagues at the University and then to my students in my very
large (500 students) Human Sexuality class.  
I had been advised against being public by many people,
particularly regarding the impact it might have on my career and future. 
But from the point of view of personal integrity, it felt as though if I had
not come out to my class, it would have been the equivalent of running a
marathon and not crossing the finish line.  
The public coming out led to both television and newspaper
coverage, which in turn produced a large number of contacts from gay Mormons,
gay married men, and closeted people in general, who for the first time had a
name of someone they could contact.  This process has become one of the
most gratifying experiences of my life.  
As trite as it might sound, I’m still thoroughly convinced that
the single most important political act each of us who is gay or lesbian can do
is to come out in every possible setting.  
In coming out, I lost my traditional church and biological
family and gained an immense new family of choice of gays, lesbians, and
allies.  “I once was lost but now I’m found.”  My redemption came on
the Washington, D.C. mall in 1979.  
© 1 Sep 2015 
About the
Author  
  

Don was born in Twin Falls, Idaho in 1941.  He grew up in western Idaho outside of Boise.
 He was raised in a Mormon family and
followed that cultural script, including undergraduate and MA degrees at BYU
(Brigham Young University), and a Ph.D. from the University of Minnesota.  He did a mission for the Mormon Church in
French-speaking countries and married and had three children.  He became a psychotherapist at the Counseling
Center at the University of Colorado in the 1970s and came out as a gay man in
1979.  Since his divorce, he has been
involved in national marches on Washington, PFLAG, national speaker on
developmental issues for gay and lesbian youth, Founder and President of
Boulder County AIDS Project, taught human sexuality at the University of
Colorado, and is currently retired and living in Denver.
Posted on

Details, by Betsy

It takes all kinds to make the
world go ’round. Some come up with the grand schemes and ideas.  Others must find a way to work out the
details and put the schemes and ideas into practice. The devil is in the
details.
Consider the recent election campaign
and what is going on in Washington today. 
The ideas were put out there, affirmed by the people, but now, no one
seems to be able to work out the details to put those ideas into practice.
Clearly differing political ideologies is the reason the details cannot be
worked out, but there is a middle ground to which some are unwilling to travel
unfortunately.
The details end up being more
important than the grand idea.  The
Republicans are proposing to avoid the fiscal cliff and raising government revenues
by closing current tax loopholes. However, they are unwilling to reveal exactly
which loopholes should be closed.  So
they expect the Democratic administration and Democratic Congress members to
accept such a plan which either has no details written in it or those details
are being kept secret?  That, of course,
will never be acceptable.  The details
make all the difference between an economic policy which is good for the country
versus a policy which would be devastating.
Take climate change also, for
example. There are very few people who do not realize or will not admit that
human activity is influencing the warming of our planet.  Many people including some world leaders
propose that just cutting back on the burning of fossil fuels would and should
be a priority, but that idea is not being implemented.  Why? 
The details.  Just how do we cut
back on burning fossil fuels. Where do we start?  It can be done, but no one can work out the
details to the satisfaction and acceptance of all.
The problem is that when the
details are spelled out, it becomes clear that everyone will have to give a
little, bend a bit, be flexible–some more than others.  So it is with tax reform as well.  Is it not better to sacrifice one or two of
the details for the good of the whole? 
After all, if the whole, that is, the planet or one’s source of livelihood whether it be Social
Security, pension, the stock market, bank and corporate profits–if the planet
becomes uninhabitable by humans or the global economy collapses, details become
meaningless.
© 10 Dec 2012 
About
the Author 

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

ABCs of Life, by Will Stanton

Some people appear to sail
through life with fair weather all the way…at least that may appear to be so to
us.  Others of us struggle with the
adversities, challenges, slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.  All in all, life can be terribly
complicated. 
The factors leading to
relative ease or discomfort are many. 
Human nature is significant.  Some
people seem from the get-go to be imbued with great courage and fearlessness.  They blithely charge on without much
consideration and seem the happier for it. 
Others of us are more circumspect, a trait that can be useful but also
can inhibit risk-taking skills, skills that are necessary to begin and to
continue action.
Learning is a second,
significant factor; and much that is learned is from the home and parents.  That’s why it is so important that, when you
are born, pick really great parents, parents who themselves are
self-actualized, mature, stabile, educated, cultured, and (not least of all)
very rich.  Any lessening of these
factors already puts one at a disadvantage. 
Thirdly, one must learn for
oneself, learn from experience, good and bad. 
If one does not learn from his experiences, he is condemned to repeated,
unproductive behaviors and stagnation. 
In learning from life, one
develops coping skills.  That term can
apply to rational, practical skills, but it also can apply to irrational,
impractical behaviors.  The trick is to
differentiate between the two.  Sometimes
it takes a good therapist to figure that out if one has difficulty doing
so. 
Repeating realistic coping
skills can lead to practical, productive behaviors.  If one stops to think about his successful
skills and to verbalize them, they can be described as “The ABCs of Life.”  In my many years of observing human behavior,
I often wonder how many people truly know their ABCs.  The answer to that can be disconcerting if,
for example, one is watching the TV show “Cops” and sees a case of a man and
woman drunk and on drugs beating each other up, the cops being called, the man
shooting at the cops, and then engaging in a high-speed chase with police cars
and helicopters in hot pursuit.
Even the best-educated and
brightest are prone to unproductive behaviors. 
My friend Kathy has an IQ of 160. 
Her mind and her lap-top fingers move ten times as fast as most
people’s.  Some of her time on the web is
in useful pursuit of research information; however, much of her time is wasted
by fruitlessly attempting to engage in intelligent dialogues with people who
have oatmeal for brains and opinions that outrageously defy fact, reality, and
simple, decent empathy for humanity.  The
great cartoonist and wit Ashleigh Brilliant once wrote, “One cannot argue with
ignorance: ignorance won’t listen; and if it did, it would not understand.”  Yet for years, Kathy has driven herself to
distraction attempting, but often failing, to help people see the light.  Fortunately after several thousand attempts,
she is beginning to understand the too-often futility of her efforts. 
As for myself, I always have
regarded myself as a slow learner.  My
nature is always to have felt that the world can be an overwhelming place and
its challenges potentially greater than they actually might be.  Having the ability to stop, observe, and
think can be a two-edged sword.  On one
hand, careful analysis of the world and oneself can be informative and
useful.  By now, I gradually have learned
some of my ABCs, and they have been useful to me.  I wish that I had known them starting a long
time ago. 
On the other hand, too much
time spent just thinking about things can preclude action and
accomplishment.  Centuries ago, a great
Taoist, who was much wiser than I, said the following (in English translation):
“A centipede was happy quite
until a toad, in fun, said, ‘Prey, which foot goes before the other one?’  This threw the centipede into such a pitch
that he lay distracted in a ditch, wondering how to run.”
© 27 Dec 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.
Posted on

The Dance, by Ricky

          In
the fifth grade of elementary school (1958/59), one winter week on a Monday,
instead of going outside in the cold and snow our teacher, Miss Herbert, had us
stay inside for morning recess.  On that
day and the remainder of the week, we learned to square dance and polka.  It was really fun, except for holding hands
with the girls, which was tolerated as it was necessary for “the dance”.  Nonetheless, we boys would rather have been
outside playing touch football in the snow and slush.  Since we were all bundled up for the
conditions, the “two-hand touch below the waste” rule was usually forgotten in
favor of full-tackle football.
          In
1958/59 South Tahoe only received Channel 8 television out of Reno,
Nevada.  One day in the spring of 1959 I
turned on the TV after coming home from school and to my surprise there were
many of my classmates dancing on Reno’s version of Dick Clark’s music and dance
show.  Now, I could not have attended
because I had to be home to babysit but, I wished they would have at least
asked me to attend.  It wasn’t rational
of me, but I did let it hurt my feelings.
          Once
during my high school years, my mother set me up with a date to the junior prom
with the daughter of family friends.  I
actually didn’t want to go and wasn’t planning on going but mom insisted, so I
did take the girl.  Her parents threw us
a pre-prom dinner featuring a small glass of champagne and some unremembered
food.  At the dance I danced every slow
dance with her (there were precious few of those) and the last dance was also a
slow one.  Other than those times, she
and I did the wall-flower imitation. 
Occasionally, another boy would ask her to dance the fast ones and I did
not object.  All in all, I don’t think
either of us really had any fun.  I can’t
speak for her, but I was just too self-conscious to go out and fast dance in
front of people as I really did lack coordination.
          Even
after I married in December of 1973, I was not fond of dancing, nor did my wife
ever get me to feel comfortable dancing although she did try quite often.  The only dance in which I am competent, is
the one I do while waiting for the bathroom to become vacant.
© October
2012
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.
Posted on

Left and Right, by Ray S

He is
fourteen going on fifteen. Fresh from eighth grade graduation and thinking with
wonder what will freshman year at RBHS be like? Everything is really going
right in this springtime of adolescence.
Soon,
a couple of days, he and his best buddies will be bussed north to Muskegon and
eventually to YMCA Camp Douglas.
Swimming,
canoe lessons, a trip to the sand dunes, and terrorizing bouts of “King of the
Hill.” He soon learned it was no fun always being pushed down when it seemed
like he could make it halfway up. Another learning experience. Probably the
most memorable learning experience besides lanyard weaving was right in
our cabin. Double deck bunks, two on the left and two on the right with a
single cot in rear for the councilor. Always a wholesome, eager sixteen or
seventeen year old who kept pretty much to himself—the boys didn’t bother him
and the same could be said of him. Later it was learned that nightly a number
of these wholesome young Christians would take off across the lake to tryst
with the young virgins councilors at the nearby girls camp.
At his
age our graduate knew little about birds and bees and sex, but our need for
enlightenment was handsomely accommodated by one of the cabin’s more fortunately
advanced and endowed occupants. Two of the boys had returned to get some craft
supplies when they encountered sitting on a top bunk, legs hanging over the
edge and no shorts or skivvies on, just plain bare assed. “Hey look at this,”
he said, not the least bit shy. And they did. If they had been old or savvy
enough, they might have uttered an appropriate expletive, probably the OMG or
just “I’ll be an SOB” in wonderment.
That nerdy
little guy had been busy taking inventory of his genitalia—and there it was
swinging from left to right.
That
summer at Y Camp was memorable not only for the repeat of the usual expected
agenda of activities but also the added Nature Study curriculum foretelling
what happens to boys when they find that certain anatomical equipment is good
for more than standing with your buddies in a Pee Circle.
It
sure seemed that a lot of the right knowledge became very evident and
important even if some of the roommates wondered why they might have been left
out when the necessary parts were distributed. Remember, it isn’t always size
that counts, it is what the left side and the right side of your brain
processes that bodes success.
© 31 August 2015 
About
the Author 

Posted on

Queens Community for Lesbian and Gay Seniors, formerly SAGE Queen, by Louis Brown

I
have been in New York City for the past 2 months because I had to stay there to
wait for my scheduled cataractectomy of my right eye. When in New York City, I
reside in College Point in Queens County. I have noticed over the years that
the Lesbian gay community of Queens County is not really as well organized as
the gay community in Manhattan. For example, Manhattan has a healthy chapter of
MCC, and most churches have a Lesbian-gay caucus.
About
30 years ago, I organized a group called The Good Shepherd Christian Fellowship
which lasted about 2 ½ years in the basement of the Unitarian Universalist
Church of Flushing. My purpose was to have local gay and Lesbian people talk to
the local Protestant clergy. It worked up to a point, but in the long run it
did not catch on. About 2 years before I started my religious project, a
chapter of Dignity Queens was open for business that also met in the basement
of the UU Church of Flushing. I remember the UU Church only charged $75.00 for
the use of the basement, and it had a very nice kitchen the tenant could use.
This was perfect for the Good Shepherd Christian Fellowship’s special gay
Christian Seder Service.
Then
of course around Easter time the UU Church held its own ecumenical style Seder
service. Once, a rabbi said that a Seder service should only be held in a
Jewish Synagogue. I think the message of the Seder service is universal and
should be celebrated by various religious traditions of course in a reverent
respectful manner.
Personally,
I am only semi-religious, but I am uncomfortable with the general lack of
options for gay people to have safe churches to go to.
One exploring
soul I told you about last year was openly Lesbian Rabbi Laura who
coincidentally also lives in College Point, my home town in Queens County. Last
year Rabbi Laura gave a course in comparative religion at New York SAGE. The
course was well attended. Last summer, also by way of coincidence, Laura met
John Nagel, the director of Queens Community House for Lesbian and Gay Seniors,
which operates out of the Jewish Center in Jackson Heights Queens. They met at
Cherry Grove on Long Island which, as you know, is an important gay and Lesbian
mecca. I recently asked John Nagel if he met Rabbi Laura. John said he had and
even tried to start her comparative religion course at Queens Community House,
but there was an insufficient response so the course did not happen.
About
two years ago Queens Community House was SAGE Queens. For some reason I do not
know about, they split away from SAGE although they remain on good terms with
SAGE New York. Queens Community House’s program for gay and Lesbian Seniors is
set up like a Senior Center, which means lunch is served
daily, Monday through Friday. I go Tuesdays and
Thursdays, Tuesday because that is the day of the general meeting and
Thursday because there is the spiritual hour.
The
past 2 Thursdays John Nagel made a presentation of the Christian religious
thought of Emma (Curtis) Hopkins, 1845-1925. Quoting briefly from her
biography, as seen on Wikipedia:
Differing from Eddy’s (i.e. Mary Baker Eddy, founder of
Christian Science), lead in speaking of God as both Mother and Father, Hopkins
conceptualized the Trinity as three aspects of divinity, each playing a role in
different historical epochs: God the Father, God the Son, and God the
Mother-Spirit or Holy Comforter. Hopkins believed (as did Eddy, though not as parochially)
that spiritual healing was the second coming of Christ into the world, and this
was the hallmark of her early work. Hopkins also believed more specifically
that the changing roles of women indicated their prominence in the Godhead,
signaling a new epoch identified by the INCLUSION [my caps] of the Mother
aspect God.
I
particularly liked that idea of INCLUSION. John Nagel’s obvious purpose in
discussing Emma Hopkins’ theological writing is to tell Lesbian and gay people
that obviously homophobes do not have a monopoly on faith, on Christianity. It
is all up for interpretation, and our community needs religious scholars to
develop a gay and Lesbian positive theology to fit our needs. Previously John
read passages about an ancient Islamic scholar Rumi and his soul mate Seth.
Their affectionate correspondence with one another points to a gay and Lesbian
history and an as yet unnamed Lesbian and gay history in Islam.
Also
on Tuesdays and Thursdays at the Queens Community House meetings, Tony the Personal
Trainer, has a bunch of us do our exercises. Previously that would not have
interested me much, but, I had to have a lot of physical therapy since last
September 2014 when I had my bicycle accident, and Tony’s exercises make a very
appropriate extension of my physical therapy. I have already run out of what
Medicare would pay for this. Tony’s exercises are practically the same thing. I
go to Queens Community House with my College Point boyfriend Kevin who is
slightly spastic from aphasia so also derives benefit from these exercises.
My
“moral” for SAGE of the Rockies is perhaps an attempt to see if you can obtain
further services from Denver’s version of Office for the Aging. For example,
last summer Queens Community House’s annual trip to Cherry Grove was free. On
paper, New York City paid the bill although in reality some wealthy game, I am
pretty sure, ponied up the cash.
Joining
up with the New York City Department for the Aging also means lunch which costs
$2.00. It is always on Tuesdays and Thursdays chicken with barley or rice with
vegetables. It’s not that lunch is all that great, although it is well cooked,
it enables the participants to stay longer perhaps to participate in the
afternoon programs.
© September 2015 
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.
Posted on

Practical but Cruel Jokes, by Ricky

I joined the
Mormon Church in December of 1968.  Soon
thereafter, I became friendly with the missionaries whom had taught me the
pre-baptism lessons I needed for the introduction to Mormonism.  As a result, I was privy to some of their
stories of missionary experiences.  I
will relate two of them below.
Practical
Joke #1
Mormon missionaries always come in pairs and are referred
to as “companions”.  Such pairs share a
modest apartment and are placed together for varying amounts of time before
being split up and paired with a different companion.  Under these circumstances companions get to
experience each other’s idiosyncrasies.
One such pair had the following habits.  One insisted on being the first one in the
shower each morning.  The other had a pet
gold fish and would always be the first to drink from the cold water jug upon
returning to the apartment each day after being outside in the hot Southern
sun.
One day, as a practical joke, the first companion
secretly placed the other’s gold fish in the cold water jug before leaving the
apartment.  As expected, the other
missionary arrived home and grabbed the water jug and began to drink from it
before he noticed the now dead gold fish inside.  Internally, he was seething with anger but
did not show any outward signs other to acknowledge the “joke”.  But he was already plotting his revenge.
The night before an important gathering of all the
missionaries in the district, when he finished his shower, he set up his
practical joke.  During the week, he had
purchased a pack of blue Rit Dye gelatin capsules.  That night he removed the shower head and put
several capsules in the pipe.  Replacing
the head, he then went to bed.  Getting
up a little early the next morning, he informed his companion the he was going
to walk to the chapel where the meeting was to be held and was leaving
early.  Thus, he left his companion alone
and departed.
During his walk, the gelatin capsules eventually
dissolved.  When the companions met at
the meeting about one hour later, the one companion said to the other after
looking at him for a moment, “Are you feeling a little blue today, Elder?”  As you may expect, his companion’s exposed
skin (head, neck, hands) was bright blue.
Practical
Joke #2

This next story takes place in the panhandle of
northwestern Florida.  A newly assigned
missionary, called “Greenie”, was assigned to a companionship for a short time
until he could be paired with his own companion.  The greenie arrived about two days prior to
another missionary meeting which was to take place in the morning in Panama
City.  It was necessary for the
missionaries to leave early in the morning in order to arrive in time for the
7:30 AM meeting.
There were two companionships and the greenie sharing a
car for the trip, 5 missionaries in all. 
After about an hour of travel, the driver pulls the car over next to a
field of watermelons and suggests that they go pick up a few for all the
missionaries to eat after the meeting. 
Everyone gets out of the car and the greenie says something like, “Isn’t
this stealing?”  He is told it is okay,
that it has been done before, and not to worry. 
The greenie agrees to help.
Just as the greenie picks up his water melon and removes
it from the vine, a young black man appears and demands to know what they are
doing in his water melon field.  One of
the missionaries pulls out a pistol and shoots the black man who falls down
mortally wounded to all appearances.  The
missionaries tell the greenie to get back to the car and start walking away
down the road towards their destination while they stay behind to hide the
body.
After hiding the body, the missionaries get back in the
car and drive up to the walking greenie and pick him up.  They explain that this type of thing does
happen occasionally, but no one cares because it was a black man, so don’t
worry.  Of course the greenie is in total
mental turmoil.
After arriving at the meeting and unloading the melons
the missionaries attend their appointed sessions.  The greenie is then informed that they will
be staying for regular church services. 
Just before the services are to begin, a black family arrives and the
greenie is startled to see the young black man who was shot and buried walk
into the chapel.  The four missionaries with
whom he rode then introduced the family and privately explained that they had
set him up as an initiation prank.
Practical jokes may be fairly common, but most are cruel
and not very funny.  I do not condone
them because they usually result in escalating rounds of revenge jokes and can
easily result in violence.
© 28 July 2014 
About
the Author   

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale
and then in Redondo Beach.  Just prior to
turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm
in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.
When united with my mother and stepfather two years later
in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California,
graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.  After three tours of duty with the Air Force,
I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until
her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11-2001
terrorist attack.
I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.   I find writing these memories to be
therapeutic.

My story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

Posted on

Feeling Loved, by Phillip Hoyle

As a college freshman I heard a lecture in which the
professor pointed out how Americans love many things, everything from cars to
mashed potatoes. We celebrate the love of clothes, looks, hairdos, decorations,
and cities. We love our ball teams. But we don’t expect most of the things we
say we love to love us. Mostly we limit the hope of being loved to our relationships
with other humans except, of course, our pets, especially our dogs who we are
sure love us in return. In this story I’ve made an incomplete list of my
experiences of being loved by that one someone who figures centrally into our
American mythos of being loved, but obviously I’ve expanded my list to more
than that one and only—woman or man.
I was deeply loved by Myrna my wife. I felt loved. And
I loved her in so many ways in this most complicated relationship of my
life—one with a professional career, children, parents and siblings and in-laws
and many, many friends over a period of many years. I was happy about it
basking in such warm and complete love.
About two years into that marriage I was loved by a
gay friend. I loved him, but I had no experience and didn’t understand the
order of things. He loved my wife and didn’t want to hurt my marriage. I loved
him but not in the way I finally realized he wanted me to love him. I was very
young. I think I hurt him deeply. Still our friendship flourished for many years.
In the meantime I fell in love with a man who probably
loved me but whose life was too encumbered, whose imagination couldn’t deal
with what that might mean about himself and his life. As a result his love for
me became stunted. I loved what feeling I received from him although I hoped
he’d never want me to give up my married life for him. I also knew I’d never
ask him to give up his married life for me.
Then I loved a man who may have loved me but had built
a barrier around his feelings. Oh he wanted sex with me but he didn’t want to
give or receive the feelings of it all. So when we started the sex, I agreed to
his demand there be no emotions since I realized the advantage of his program
to my marriage. Still I wondered at his request but like a good soldier turned
off my emotions—at least some of them—but not so much as to miss experiencing
the thrills our play created.
Then I loved a man who really loved me. I warned him
that my love, while real and deep, was quite different than his. Now I was the
one defending the two of us from one another for quite complicated reasons. I
loved being loved by him although I could not imagine living with him.
I was loved by a man who had nothing to offer me
except his adoration. We lived in two greatly different worlds, his with Okie
twang, mine with educated artifice. I was nice and kind but never in love with
him. Still I appreciated his devotion even with its great impediments. I was
relieved when he no longer pursued me.
I liked a man who seemed to like me. Eventually I fell
in love with him and he with me. The experience was new to me since I was
recently separated from my wife and could actually go live with him. He loved
me. We lived together. I watched him die. I grieved.
I loved a man who really loved me. Our love had all
the markings of classic falling in love: the ancient lover and beloved, the
medieval romance, and the extremely baroque and renaissance drama of an opera
plot. Sadly this love affair was also a tragedy although a gentle one. I
grieved unlike ever before in my life when he died.
Again I love a man with whom I live. He loves me. We
don’t match very well but do live together successfully. Neither of us is
especially romantic, but I seem to have a much greater proclivity for romance
than he. We have a nice social life with mutual friends. His mother lives with
us. I know I am loved, but again it is a new experience with dynamics unlike
any of my other loves.
Perhaps the nice thing about my loves is that my wife
and the man I first fell in love with and the man I first allowed my love to
grow with all continue to be my good friends. My current love is also a good
friend. I have come to realize that I love any number of men for any number of
reasons. I will refrain from counting the ways in this story. Perhaps another
day there will be a poem describing that matter! Of course, these listed affairs
of the heart are only one category of being loved. But I have always realized
that I am loved by many different people for many different reasons and in many
different ways. I really feel loved. I guess it proper to say the one-and-only
aspect of my being loved is to be found in the individuality of each loving relationship.
© 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