Author: jnelson

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Intoxicating Water by Carlos

The streets and alleyways behind the
public market in Juarez resembled a labyrinth of third-world sensibilities.
Shopkeepers sat on rickety crate boxes announcing their wares to pedestrians
and bicyclists on the narrow streets, some of them hoarse due to the sing-song
bellowing; others nonchalantly people-watching as though in quiet judgment.
Many of the storefronts intrigued me, not necessarily because of the
merchandise erratically displayed behind the small enclosures, but because of
the world of magical realism that percolated around me. Whereas one shopkeeper
offered sweet sugar-cured yams or pineapples on which honeybees danced, another
displayed little pyramids of toasted sesame seeds, pistachio green pumpkin
seeds, or maroon hibiscus flowers, all necessary ingredients to enrich the
Mexican palate. Across the street, the heady aroma of cured leather wafted
through the shoemaker’s shop while next to him hand-turned ochre cooking
vessels, plates, and pitchers waited like soldiers at military parade rest
awaiting customers. I felt comfortable walking the streets around the marketplace
next to the Cathedral of Our Lady of Guadalupe with its twin towers puncturing
the fabric of heaven. After all, my grandmother lived only blocks from the
market and the streets were idealized vignettes of typical life south of the
border. I felt I was journeying out into arenas revolving with a maddening pace
with life, akin to a twirling cup-and-saucer ride at a here-today-gone-tomorrow
carnival attraction. My own life in Texas, across the border from Juarez, was
idyllic enough. The Texas downtown area was conventional, broad streets,
stately stuccoed homes, broad stretches of mulberry-shaded parks in which to
play, and the convenience of well-stocked but staid, gray businesses. However, my
world was transformed upon crossing the border of sleepy, lazy life of El Paso
and journeying into a frenetic roller coaster ride of Juarez. There the
mariachi bands played shoe-stomping jarabes
and tapatios. There the enticing
aromas of chile-infused roast pork and
Mennonite cheese stuffed enchiladas simmering in pans and griddles from little
out-of the-way stalls on the streets perfumed the air. There the house colors,
bougainvillea pink and turquoise, Buddhist robe saffron and apricot, made life
in El Paso seem staid in comparison. It was on one of my jaunts into my
ancestral homeland that I learned the most important lesson of my life.
Being a natural explorer, I turned
into a small winding side street that I had never scouted. The shadows
lengthened before me. Pools of stagnant water collected and eddied down the
street. I noted mounds of uncollected garbage strewn throughout, garbage on
which flies twirled as though to a rhythm only they heard. The air was rancid
with decay. In spite of the spectral scene punctuated by the shafts of light
broken by the intermittent dance of dust devils, I plodded on. After all, the
sky above was still blue and the earth beneath was still firm to my footing. I
carried a large plastic cup of icy horchata,
a cinnamon-infused rice beverage that I had purchased from an itinerant water merchant
only moments before. The only sound I heard was the music of the marketplace dissipating
in the distance, the discordant drone of the flies, and the sloshing of ice
against my cup. The thought of turning back crossed my mind, as the brick-paved
streets gave way to hard-packed clay and the crowds of only moments earlier flew
off into the shadows. However, I was young and immune, an explorer out on a
hero’s journey, canvassing the world etched before me. Unexpectedly, to my
left, I noticed a mound of garbage move as though it had taken a life of its
own. I heard the rattling of newspapers and cardboard boxes, sounds made by the
displacement of something within the pile. Intrigued, I stood transfixed, that
is, until I saw a leathery skeletal hand emerge from the pitiful pile.
Momentarily, I saw her face, an old woman enveloped in a black tattered rebozo, and as she lowered the folds of
the rebozo, I saw her face,
desiccated and worn by a lifetime of depravation. Her toothless mouth opened as
she hoarsely whispered to me, her hands beseeching me in supplication, “Mijo, tengo sed. Dame que tomar….” “My
son, I am thirsty. Give me drink.” Out of revulsion, out of fear, and out of
the funereal disquiet that permeated the scene, I ran away from the woman, only
looking back to make sure the cadaverous specter in her rotting shrouds had not
pursued me. And though I soon reached the safe side streets of the nearby
marketplace, the woman did, in fact, pursue me, haunting me and forever altering
the direction that my life would take.
I have been blessed with many people
who have loved me unconditionally, with many mentors and insights that taught
me to be a faithful believer. I have been enriched with untold life experiences,
ranging from the ecstasy of being held in the arms of men who breathed in
syncopation with my soul, to the agony of a heart fractured by the skillful
cleaving of a diamond-cutting saw, yet none has ever managed to reveal as much
of life as one shadow creature in a shadow city, a thirsty soul who asked but
for a drink, a drink that I denied her. Maimonides has written “The risk of a
wrong decision is preferable to the terror of indecision.” The words sting me
to the core although I’ve managed to assuage my sin. Even before I saw a good
shepherd reach out with compassion toward one disfigured by Neurofibromatosis,
even before he reminded me to wash the feet of the prisoner, I recognized I had
erred when I allowed my fear to circumvent my actions. I erred when I dared not
look into her eyes; I erred when I dared not touch her head. Nevertheless, I’ve
forgiven myself for my lack of judgment. After all, I recognize that standing
before the portal of the underworld has the power to lead to my
transfiguration.
An incident when I was eight-years-old
compelled me to recognize that reality is outside of the realm of my experience;
life consists of fleeting moments of potential reawakening. It took an old
woman, thrown away by a world ill equipped to satiate her thirst for me to acknowledge
the hallow victory of living without awareness. Although I never returned to
the winding streets that led me to this woman, not a day goes by when I don’t
see and recognize her, specifically in the LGBT community. I see her in the
eyes of those members of our community who have been envenomed by the toxins
spewed out by bigots and homophobes, all in the name of holier-than-thou
morality. I see her, in the desperate looks of gay men throughout central
Africa and the Middle East contemplating suicide rather than face societal
reprisal. I see her in the discarded LGBT youth banished by their conditionally
accepting families. I myself have known that thirst and humiliation; I recognize
in myself the quiet desperation of rejection and ostracism that I have spent a
lifetime releasing as I learned to heal myself. At those moments, I acknowledge
a wake-up call from a woman living at the edge of a garden. At such times I honor
she who once offered me redemption and promise myself that she will never again
thirst.
© 30 Apr
2014

About the Author 


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

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Do I Have Your Trust? by Betsy

The
internet is such a great source of instant information.  Put in a search word and in a nano-second you
have more information than you ever needed. 
Often more information than you know what to do with. Sifting through it
can be daunting.  Can you trust that the
information is true?  To separate the
reliable from the suspicious, I apply this criterion:  what or who is the source and are they trying
to sell me something or promote a product or service.  If the answer is “yes” I toss it out as
untrustworthy.   The motive for putting
the information out there is to get me to buy something, not to disseminate
information that could be helpful or to help get to the truth, or to advance
someone’s knowledge.  To report and
promote the truth simply for the sake of truth itself is a noble cause.  Most people, organizations, and corporations
have ulterior motives for promoting their “truth.”   If this is the case when I am searching the
internet I cannot trust the information I am reading.
We
are all familiar with some of the books promoting certain diets–often promoted
as cure-alls for whatever ails you.  For
example the vegan diet will keep your heart healthy well into old-age.  It can actually reverse heart disease claim
its authors.  The Paleo diet of meat and
vegetables, no grains, no starch will keep you from ever getting any disease at
all.  I truly believe the authors of
these books are sincere and I know they are scientific in their research and
presentations of the facts they have determined to be true.  But I also know they cannot all be touting
the truth. The research they have done and they will continue to do is going to
be exclusively designed to support their truth, not destroy it.
I
cannot say enough on the subject of the media and its lack of
trustworthiness.  Many mainstream TV
programs claim to be reporting the news. 
But some are actually making political comments at the expense of the
truth.  The truth all too often never
gets out until it is too late.  Even if
the true story is reported, we still must be very suspicious as to whether or
not it is accurate.
Consider
the now known fact that the Iraq war was based on a lie.  The people and the news media were told that
Saddam Hussein had wmd’s.  We had proof.  Our government reported this information
unequivocally knowing that it was not true and the media passed it on.  Yes, the media did report the lie
accurately.  And then later reported
accurately that it all was a lie, but some effective investigative reporting
might have been very useful in the beginning.   
So
how do we know what to believe or not believe? 
People often select one belief over another because they want to believe
it.  This turns out to be simply a case
of self-deception.  Try changing the mind
of a person who has deceived himself into believing what he wants to
believe.  I personally know very few
people who behave this way.  I suppose
that’s because I prefer to hang with people who value the truth and the ability
to think things through.
Do
you have my trust?  Yes, you do.  I think there is a very high degree of trust
in this room.  When we share our weekly
stories, I believe we are all being as truthful as possible.  In some cases we have to dig deep inside to
put some of our truths on paper or into words.  
The level of trust among us is truly a Monday afternoon gift and at
least for me makes it a whole lot easier to do the digging.
© 16 Sep 2013

About the Author 


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

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Time by Will Stanton

“This thing all things devours:
Birds, beasts, trees, flowers;
Gnaws iron, bites steel;
Grinds hard stones to meal;
Slays king, ruins town,
And beats high mountain down.”
So went Gollum’s riddle to
Bilbo.  Of course, the answer is “Time.”  Everything falls prey to time; nothing
lasts.  And, this includes humankind.  Our lives are but a mere speck in contrast
to, for example, geological time, although our lives usually are longer than
the fleeting moment allotted to a butterfly.
We usually have no inkling as to
how long our lives will be.  I always
have felt uncomfortable with the possibility that I may not have used my time
so productively as I might have, that I may have accomplished more to make me
truly worthy of this gift of time. 
Ironically, I currently spend a lot of time on these Story-Time
presentations.
In Thomas Mann’s acclaimed novella
“Death in Venice,” the protagonist Gustav von Aschenbach is shocked by a sudden
realization of mortality when he suffers a heart attack.  Afterwards as he watches the sands running
through a large hourglass, he muses, “The aperture through which the sand runs
is so tiny that, at first sight, it seems as if the level in the upper glass
never changes.  To our eyes, it appears
that the sand runs out …only at the end. 
And ‘til it does, its’ not worth thinking about ‘til the last moment
when there’s no more time…when there’s no more time to think about it.”     
Oh, I know that, in comparison, I
may have used my time more productively than many other people.  A lot of  people waste their lives in pursuit of hedonistic
pleasure or self-aggrandizement.   Or
worse, they throw away their lives through self-destructive behaviors or
destroy other people’s lives through mistreatment or violence.  Yet for even those of us who have had good
intentions, have we made the best use of our time?
I never have come to terms with
reality, always fantasizing that life and the world could be more ideal.  It may not be so, but it often appears that
the good die young, and the bad live on into old age. Why can’t those persons
throughout history who devoted their lives to helping others, to making the
world a better place, who had the talent to create great beauty in life, live
very long lives? 
Can you imagine a 20th-century
world without World War I, the Russian revolution and communism, World War II,
the Cold War?  What if Archduke Ferdinand
of the Austro-Hungarian Empire had not been assassinated at age of fifty and
had had time to continue his reformist influence that well may have defused the
tension between Serbia and the monarchy? 
There may have been no Great War, no millions of dead, no World War II,
not so much horror and sorrow.
Anyone who cares to learn the true
facts of history now knows through revelations from U.S. and former Soviet
Union officials that J.F.K. and Bobby, through back-channels, literally
prevented World War III and nuclear holocaust. 
What if John F. Kennedy had not been shot at age 47 and, instead, had
time to carry out his plans to withdraw our troops from Vietnam and to continue
to counter, as best he could, the military-industrial complex that President
Eisenhower had warned against?  Could he
have prevented thousands of U.S. soldiers and tens of thousands of foreign civilians
from dying?  Could he have prevented the
waste of trillions of dollars?  We only
can speculate, for he did not have enough time with us.  Neither did Bobby.
What if Martin Luther King, who
died at 39, had had time to continue his message of non-violence, equal rights
for all, economic balance among all citizens? 
We might not have had the riots and blazing neighborhoods that followed
his assassination.  He might have helped
to avert the rapid back-slide into political discrimination and the
disproportionate domination of wealth by so few.  His concern was for more than just the Blacks
of the nation but rather for all.  But,
his time was cut short.
Then in early history, there was
Giordano Bruno in the 16th century who, through his scientific observations,
saw for himself that our sun is a star, just like many other stars in the
heavens; and he expressed the opinion that we are not alone in the universe,
that there are many worlds far beyond. 
What other scientific revelations would he have found had the Church not
burned him at the stake in 1600 at age fifty-two?  He should have lived a long life.
There also have been many creative
individuals such as the young physicist Henry Moseley whose scientific theories
were so brilliant that he was assumed to be destined to win the Nobel Prize had
he not been killed in action at Gallipoli in World War I.  Why couldn’t someone like that have more time?
Music historians claim that Mozart
was the greatest musical genius of all times. 
The beauty of his creations continues to enhance the lives of those of
us who choose to listen.  What great
works could he have written had ne not died of rheumatic fever at age thirty-five?  Wasn’t he entitled to a life at least as long
as some evil person such as Mafia don Joseph Bonano?
And, what about the young and
innocent such as Ryan White who received a tainted blood transfusion and died
of AIDS at eighteen, or Martin Richard, the little eight-year-old boy who
recently was blown to bits in a terrorist bombing in Boston?  Ironically, one of the last photos of him
showed him holding a sign that he had made that said, “No more hurting
people.”  If they had lived full lives,
what contributions might they have made to the world?
If people must meet untimely
deaths, why not the evil and destructive people of the world instead, those terrible
individuals who harm others, destroy the planet, those who lie, cheat, and
steal?  There are far too many of those.  Had their time been extremely short, what
horrors could have been avoided?   
What if Adolf Hitler had died
young of syphilis in Munich, or Josef Stalin had died early so that his
paranoid evil had no chance of infecting Russia and the world?  How much more wonderful the world might have
been without the Hitler’s Holocaust, Stalin’s genocides, “Bomber” Harris’ order
to fire-bomb peaceful Dresden.
And frankly said, what about the
possibility of an apparently sociopathic vice-president succumbing to his first
heart attack instead of mechanically being kept alive like Darth Vader?  What if he, along with all of his nefarious
political manipulators and financial supporters, had perished from the earth
early on?  Might the President whom the
people actually chose have had a chance to serve his two terms rather than a cadre
of misguided ideologues who wreaked endless political and financial havoc upon
the nation and the world?  How different
would the world be today?  If that time
had been allotted to other people who were motivated to do good, what a
different world we would live in today.
Ironically in recent years, that
realization has come to a couple of Supreme Court Justices.  They quietly have lamented to friends that,
in retrospect, they now realize that the Supreme Court broke with all legal
precedence, terminating a presidential vote-count, an action that subsequently
was found to have put the wrong men into office and consequently unleashed
unforeseen events that have caused great hardship and sorrow to the nation and
the world.
None of us in this room is either
J.F.K. nor Stalin, neither Mozart nor Darth Vader.  So, what do we make of our lives?  All that each of us can do is to take the
time remaining for us and do the best we can. 
Be positive and creative, be honest and loyal, treat each other well,
love each other.  And, enjoy the company
of those who feel as we do.  Live well,
for time is short.  Eventually, this
thing, time, all things devours.

© 2 April
20013

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 Gayest Person I Ever Met by Ray S

Of all the personalities in the history of mankind and
womankind such as the arts, science, politics, athletics, and some
miscellaneous criminal miscreants that qualify for membership in our GLBTQ
community – the one I find “most gayest” is my intimate acquaintance with a
very classic “closet case”.
It is a story of a gay man and actually nothing out of the
ordinary. As he relates the story it all started at the age of three or four
when a little girl from next door got them naked and compared minute genitalia,
5 & 6 years old found the usual little boys discovering each others
equipment. It wasn’t until he and a close boyhood family friend discovered the
fun of mutual sexual gratification – the manual method.
As he remembers about the advent of puberty did he learn that
these little pleasures were socially unacceptable in the yes of the straight
and narrow. And so sin arrives on the scene to raise its ugly head – no pun
intended.
The reality of learning how to reconcile little pleasures and
fitting in with mainstream conventional middle class America, i.e. what boys do
with girls, getting married – boys and girls style, making the future
generation, educating the little buggers, paying for the weddings and maybe a
divorce or two. Countless birthday cards to all of the family and extended
families. Making a living which includes figuring out what he thought would
possibly be lucrative, socially acceptable – never mind not doing something he
really wanted to do – if he ever figured that one out.
Does all of this sound familiar and routine – “been there
done that”. I began to really get weary as this story droned on and on.
He discovered at some point in this drama that sometimes the closet
door slammed back and hit him square in the ass. Such were the perils of
tripping on the tight rope of life in the gay light way.
Eventually, various resolutions over which he tells me he had
no control blew the closet door off its hinges (again no pun intended).
I am happy to report to all of you who are still listening –
those who excused themselves I sympathize and understand – if I hadn’t had to
feel compelled to tell this story I’d be gone too.
Suffice it to say like so many other late bloomers, he’s
wrapped himself in a rainbow flag and is attempting to live a most gay life –
but of course in good taste, quietly, and only as wild as his advanced years
will tolerate.
Moral: like the salmon swimming upstream on its way to spawn
– life goes on and then you die with a smile on your face.

© 14 July 2014  

About the Author






Posted on

How Did I Get Here by Phillip Hoyle

I never wanted to be a truck driver, but that’s how I got
to Denver. I rented the moving van in Tulsa, Oklahoma, where I was ending my
conventional life characterized by many years with work and family. I packed up
what was left of my belongings and set out on an adventure, one that continues
to this day.
Denver, the destination and site of my adventure, was the
large city of my childhood. Yearly trips usually brought our family to Loveland
and Estes Park, and sometimes Dad would take us through Denver where he almost
always got lost. The diagonal streets made navigating too tricky. (I sometimes
have the same problem when I’m downtown.) 
Here in Denver I saw my first dinosaur bones, my first skyscrapers, my
first art museum, and the then-new Cinerama movies. I was impressed. The town
seemed pretty clean, full of possibilities, and a place where unusual people
could gather and thrive. I had made quick visits to Kansas City, Missouri, and
Wichita, Kansas, but neither place made a lasting good impression or affected me
where it mattered: issues of art, archaeology, education, and scenery. I liked
Denver.
I had other visits to my favorite big city: an overnight
stay on my honeymoon, annual commutes from Kansas and Missouri to western
Colorado, and, in my forties, short sorties from Montrose into the city where I
stayed with a friend I had met in seminary. Then I often went to the Denver Art
Museum and the Denver Public Library. Both impressed me greatly. I even chose
my two favorite neighborhoods in which I might live should I ever move here.
I spent a short time in Tulsa. There my life really changed.
Things kind of caught up with me resulting in the ends of my marriage and of my
long career. I quit. I thought about where to go, what to do. I decided to move
to a western city and considered Denver, San Diego, and Seattle. My Denver
friend suggested I get out of Tulsa before I got in trouble; I could crash at
his place. His offer solved a few things for me, but mainly promised a place to
live while I found a job. Besides, I knew Denver had adequate public
transportation. So I packed up what things I had after my separation from my
wife and hit the road.
Now driving a truck was a new experience for me,
especially across four states. I knew I’d need a rather large van but didn’t
want one so large I’d be scared on the road. So I started giving away my
belongings—most of my library, music, records, cassette tapes, and even some
CDs. I culled my files and finally threw away almost all of them. I filled
several boxes with books for my kids and grandkids. I rented a big yellow truck,
packed it with what was left, and drove it to Missouri where I unpacked most of
the furniture at my daughter’s apartment.
Matthew, my six-year-old grandson, accompanied me on the
trip. We stopped near Booneville, Missouri, for gas and snacks. Before we
reached Kansas City my young companion was fast asleep. I gassed up at a 7-11
in Topeka, the city where my long-time friend-lover lived. Being so late, I
didn’t call him as I had promised I would always do in the letter I sent at the
end of our affair. I hated breaking this promise, but I had to keep going on
down the roads I’d begun traveling. We stopped at a rest area west of
Salina—the end of the Flint Hills where I was born and the beginning of the
high plains. It seemed a point of demarcation for me. There I realized I was
driving a little truck, so it then
seemed, parked alongside several huge rigs. The contrast helped me realize the
challenges I faced were not as large as I had been thinking. My grandson
awakened briefly. Then we slept several hours before cleaning up as well as one
can in such a place. The day dawned bright and beautiful. We drove west
stopping at high noon in Goodland where we picnicked at a city park. My
grandson ran through sprinklers of icy cold water on that hot summer afternoon
while I sat and then lay on a picnic table under a shelter. I watched his
cavorting, yelled out my encouragement, and enjoyed his display of enthusiasm. I
thought I’d need to be like that kid in Denver, in my new life, playful and in
the moment. At Burlington, Colorado, we stopped at the outdoors museum, a
reconstruction of old buildings. We went to the saloon and ordered root beers.
A young dancehall girl thought my grandson was so cute; he was embarrassed and
wouldn’t answer her questions or even look at her. I wondered what I could
learn from that, perhaps to be true to myself but not without confidence. We
drove a few miles beyond to another roadside park. I had to sleep so got a pad
out of the back of the van and rested on another picnic table. Finally we pulled
into Denver—worn out (I’d slept little in three days) but elated.
Someone questioned whether making so many changes so
radically and in so little time constituted a mental breakdown. I realize my
decisions happened a little late to be a classic mid-life crisis but as an
analytical tidbit, midlife works for me. The themes had been present my whole
life long: my homosexual proclivity, my being a rather parent-pleasing middle
child, my personal understanding of religious realities, my commitment to music
and other arts, my abilities and inabilities to communicate my feelings, and my
sense of individuality (some would call selfishness). Anyway, I had to change,
so I morphed into a person now true to some themes I had kept out of the center
of my life. How I actually got to Denver from Tulsa seemed a symbol of a much
greater change: my yearning for simplicity that resulted in throwing away many
things, those accoutrements of modern life—steady job, salary, husband/wife relationship,
and much more. These thoughts had swirled around my head while I drove west to
my new home.

I unloaded some things into my friend’s apartment. I
loaded the rest into and on top of my son’s van. I was left with clothes, art
supplies, six boxes of books (I’d ridded myself of fifty-four boxes), and one
piece of furniture. I had seriously lightened my load. Finally I returned the
truck to the rental company. And now I’m telling my story like a truck driver,
at times excitedly, milking its entertainment value, but still including its
essential truths. That’s how I got to Denver to begin a new chapter of my life.

© 25 November 2011  


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

Wisdom by Pat Gourley

When looking at the definition of the word “wisdom”  -‘having or showing experience, knowledge and
good judgment’ – I have to honestly say it seems not much of that applies to me
at age 65. Perhaps real wisdom will come in the decades after 65 if I am lucky
enough to experience them. I am though relatively content with where I am with
how I move in the world and my overall view of it despite the fact that I don’t
appear to be offering up much to the eventual survival of the species.
I do think though I have a bit of wisdom incorporated into my
nursing work and I do believe that a level of true compassion, as opposed to
the often politically correct ‘idiot compassion’, has over four decades been
slowly ripened and gets expressed in perhaps actually helping the folks seeking
health care I run into these days. This involves an approach I really started
to only hone in the early 1990’s in the AIDS Clinic at Denver Health and
supported by the philosophical writings of my favorite nursing theorist
Margaret Newman. I have I think shared this quote from Newman’s work in the
past but here it is again: “The responsibility of the nurse is not to make
people well, or to prevent their getting sick, but to assist people to
recognize the power that is within them to move to higher levels of
consciousness”.
A recent example of this in practice is offering to take
certain select friends to see the documentary Fed Up currently playing at the Mayan Theatre. Rather than
continued harping at them about how their diet is fueling their metabolic
syndromes and in certain case frank diabetes, I am simply facilitating their
exposure to this wonderful film and maybe some of it will hit home and get
incorporated into changes in their diets. Though an after movie stop at Gigi’s
Cupcakes at 6th and Grant makes me wonder if I didn’t just piss away
a ten dollar movie ticket and in the interest of full disclosure that would be
my ten dollar ticket I am talking about. Hey, when it comes to taking direction
from almost any nurse it is best not to do what we do but rather do what we
say. Or perhaps more in the spirit of Margaret Newman look at where we are
pointing to and see what might be over there for you.
I’d like to change gears a bit here and turn my focus from
cupcakes to acronyms and an application to today’s topic of wisdom. Our Story
telling Group is part of the S-A-G-E activities offered by the Center. SAGE is
an acronym that stands for “Service and Advocacy for GLBT Elders”. That is
pretty much a big snooze as far as I am concerned. I would much rather have us
referred to as “sages” all small letters and no acronym even alluded to. The
acronym, SAGE, also seems to heavily imply that we are a group in need of
advocacy and services. There is certainly no denying that some of us queer elders
are in need of both service and advocacy at least at certain times during our
golden years. However, it is much more appealing to me to be recognized as a
sage with much to offer the larger queer world than a member of a group called
SAGE focused on providing advocacy and service.
One definition I ‘Googled’ on for a sage is someone “having,
showing or indicating great wisdom”. Well I think its time we all accepted that
definition and put on the mantle of sage. Again to cop a bit to Margaret Newman
I think many of us around this table are very capable of helping our LGBT
brothers and sisters to recognize the power that is within them to move to
higher levels of consciousness.
One form this might take is embedded in idea that Phil and I
have been lightly kicking around for sometime and that might be an e-book
perhaps, an anthology of stories from this group from those of you who have
come to openly queer consciousness in your SAGE years.
There has been so much wisdom expressed in many stories I
have heard here but I am often most moved and impressed with those coming out
stories being shared by folks who have come out in the last 10-15 years and
much more recently for a few. These stories would I think be a great benefit
and succor to those other elders contemplating this same leap. There is an old
Zen saying: ‘leap and a net shall appear”. What a great gift of a net these
stories could be for someone deciding at 50 or 60 or 70 to come out as queer.
I have shared many of my own coming out experiences primarily
from the late sixties but really how much would a 60 year old today relate to
my crazy ass stories of fucking with my high school mentor in the biology lab
of a Catholic prep school on a Good Friday afternoon no less. Rather people
relating stories of coming to queerness out of long and often very happy
heterosexual unions often resulting in offspring during the swirling years of
gay liberation, AIDS, Don’t Ask Don’t Tell and marriage equality would most
likely resonate much more than tales of hallucinogenic trips at the bathhouses
of the 1970’s.
So in closing I would like to anoint us all as the true sages
we are and push us a bit to start sharing our deep wisdom about the many areas
of life we have occupied, particularly the queer corners.
© 22 June
2014  
About the Author  

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

Where Was I by Nicholas

          In the early 1960s,
I was in high school studying French, struggling with chemistry, hating algebra
and the jerk who taught it, but loving English Lit and the teacher who taught
that. High school was nothing until my senior year and then I learned to party
and enjoy myself. The promise of just getting out of high school was enough to
liberate my spirit. It was the great age of liberation with the civil rights
movement and its innumerable clashes on the nightly news every day.

          Liberation for me came in
drive down Interstate 71 from Cleveland to Columbus where I joined 45,000 other
students at Ohio State University. New people, new studies, new challenges and
suddenly I got to make my own decisions. OSU is where I took part in my first
political demonstrations, volunteered to work in a community development
project in Columbus, first doubted my Catholic faith, and first voiced
opposition to the Viet Nam War. It was also where I had my first disastrous
love affair that I didn’t even realize was a love affair until many years
later.  

          And then I
came out—to California, that is. Experiences in San Francisco and elsewhere in
California are what I associate with “what did you do in the 60s?” When the
‘60s began and ended is a matter of interpretation or maybe just mood. Like
many of the drug-induced experiences back then, the decade tends to wiggle and
undulate on and off the calendar. It is not contained in a simple ten year span
of time.
My political activism, however, was
short lived. I stayed on the fringe looking in. I was on the edge of the crowd
trying to escape the tear gas and bullets that summer day on Telegraph Avenue
in Berkeley, not in the thick of it getting beaten up by police. I was in the
back of the throng at the Altamont concert, kind of wishing I wasn’t there at
all, but thankfully not crushed in front of the stage and amidst some lethal
violence. I was stunned one day to see a friend appear in the bright California
sunshine when he ventured out of his heavily curtained, smoky sanctuary/den,
looking like a cadaver. But I wasn’t that drugged out cadaver and wasn’t headed
in that direction.
I would work for a few months and
then take off for a while, go hitchhiking, spend days climbing Mt. Tamalpais
and watching the ocean from a sunny meadow. I came to think that this is how
life ought to be. I would grow up, that is, settle down, commit to something,
have a career, later, I kept thinking. There was plenty of time for that.
My project then was to stay out of
the war and out of the army, a commitment based both on principle and downright
fear. The fear was as realistic as the principle was laudable. I was against
that war and couldn’t see myself joining in any war and when drafted to do so,
said, no.
The motivation for my and others’
actions did not stem entirely from a sense that we were acting out grand laws
of history as earlier revolutionaries might have but we came from a very
personal sense of what was at stake for us. Beyond mere egoism and
self-indulgence, it was an ethical standard based on me.
And there was music, always there was
the music. Rock music took on an artistry ranging from the Beatles’ tunes and
the poetry of Jim Morrison and the Doors to the blues of the Grateful Dead with
the exquisite guitar of Jerry Garcia and the hard rocking of the Rolling Stones.
From them I learned about Chicago blues, electric blues, hard and fast urban
blues.
So, where was I in the 60s. I was in
the city hearing black people tell their stories. I was on the all-night bus to
New York City for the first huge anti-war march. I was hiking through Point
Reyes on the Pacific Coast. I was filing appeal after appeal with my draft
board. I was discovering yoga and quiet and meditation. I was discovering brown
rice. I learned to bake bread. I was dodging cops to avoid getting arrested. I
was bouncing around Speedway Meadow in Golden Gate Park probably hearing the
Grateful Dead or Janis Joplin or Quicksilver Messenger Service. I was growing
up and life was good.

© 2 June
2014  

About the Author  

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


Posted on

Emily Dickinson Lesbian Puritan Poetess by Louis Brown

I originally intended to do a report on the work of Constantine
P. Cavafy.
However, after I took a good look at who wrote what previously
on the Tell Your Story blog, I noticed that Colin Dale gave an even better
report on Constantine P. Cavafy than myself. His article is entitled “Details,”
dated 2-27-2013.  So I decided on my
second choice for favorite of the past and that was Emily Dickinson, before
which, however, on Cavafy:
When I was at SAGE New York,
I looked at the Community Bulletin Board, and I noticed that there was going to
be a public reading of the poetry of Constantine P. Cavafy. I guess over the
years we have heard some mention of gay poets, Alan Ginsberg, and in 19th
Century France, Arthur Rimbaud and Paul Verlaine.  I wonder if Sylvester Stallone knows that his
character Rambo has the same last name a gay French poet?
When I saw the ad for the
reading of Cavafy’s poetry, I said to myself that an insightful gay libber did
a good deed in trying to popularize Constantine Cavafy’s poetry. Right now for
our community, he is the most interesting gay poet, the hottest potato, so to
speak, for several reasons. Like the work of 19th century homophile
writers John Addington Symonds in America, Magnus Hirschfield in Germany,
Edward Carpenter and Havelock Ellis in England, Cavafy’s poetry has a specific
reference to ancient gay history, that is to our golden age, ancient Greece.
Wikipedia: Constantine P. Cavafy (/kəˈvɑːfɪ/;[1] also known as Konstantin or Konstantinos
Petrou Kavafis, or Kavaphes;
Greek:
Κωνσταντίνος Π. Καβάφης; April 29 (April 17,
OS),
1863 – April 29, 1933) was a Greek poet who lived in Alexandria
and worked as a journalist and civil
servant. He published 154 poems; dozens more remained incomplete or in
sketch form. His most important poetry was written after his fortieth birthday.
He wrote in Greek.
+++
Emily Dickinson was a 19th
Century Lesbian Puritan Poet, called the Dame of Amherst. She was one of a
number of writers of the New England “Renaissance,” which include among others
two gay men Herman Melville and Nathaniel Hawthorne. Her years were 1830- 1886.
When I think about it, I could have done a report on Walt Whitman, n’est-ce pas? Considering the historical
period, we are talking about the Yankee defeat of the Confederate Army.
If Puritanism had not been
so repressive, I am sure Emily Dickinson would love to have said something
like, “When people ask why I never married, I would answer that I get a warm
feeling when certain women enter the same room I am sitting in.”  But of course she couldn’t because it was “Verboten”.
  
I’m nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there’s a pair of us -don’t tell!
They’d banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!

[This teaches us how to be skeptical of politicians].

+++
Because I could not
stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labour, and my leisure too,
For his civility.

We passed the school where children played,
Their lessons scarcely done;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.

We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.

Since then ’tis centuries; but each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses’ heads
Were toward eternity.

+++
Snake
A narrow fellow in the grass
Occasionally rides;
You may have met him, -did you not?
His notice sudden is.

The grass divides as with a comb,
A spotted shaft is seen;
And then it closes at your feet
And opens further on.

He likes a boggy acre,
A floor too cool for corn.
Yet when a child, and barefoot,
I more than once, at morn,

Have passed, I thought, a whip-lash
Unbraiding in the sun, –
When, stooping to secure it,
It wrinkled, and was gone.

Several of nature’s people
I know, and they know me;
I feel for them a transport
Of cordiality;

But never met this fellow,
Attended or alone,
Without a tighter breathing,
And zero at the bone.

[Subtle resemblance to Edgar Allen Poe].
Moral of story: we need a Gay and
Lesbian school to popularize our literary past.

© 27 June 2014  

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

Mom by Lewis

I hardly know where to begin to
write about my one-and-only mother. 
“Mother” is the last descriptor she would ever want to define
her function in life.  If she could, she
would surely prefer to be remembered for her contributions to education,
journalism, or faith than maternalism. 
If I had to choose, I would say she bore more resemblance to the Mary
Tyler Moore character in Ordinary People
than Barbara Billingsley in Leave It to
Beaver.  That is to say, she had few of
the maternal instincts that we normally associate with Midwestern families of
the post-World War II era.
Like Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz, my
parents slept in twin beds.  My dad
dressed in a separate bedroom, which also served as his office.  Although my bedroom was just across a narrow
hallway, I don’t remember ever hearing any sounds coming from their bedroom
that would suggest anything physical took place in that sterile space.  I never saw them hug or kiss, not even a peck
on the cheek.  My parents didn’t even
argue, at least, in my presence.  My dad
was a solid breadwinner, meek and mild-mannered as Clark Kent.  Together, they were the very model of the
modern, Middle American, Methodist couple–except for their fondness for a
highball before dinner.
Mother grew up in the small, rural,
southwest-Kansas town of Pratt.  She was
proud of the fact that Alfred Hitchcock’s one-time-favored actress, Vera Miles,
attended school there.  Her father, the
only grandparent I ever knew, was an engineer on the Rock Island railroad.  They raised chickens and a few cows on their
small property on the edge of town. 
There were six children, three girls and three boys.  Mother was the oldest.  As such, she had many responsibilities for
home-making and child-rearing.  I suspect
that that had much to do with her distaste for such menial labor in her
adulthood.  She had more dignified
aspirations.
Mother was quite intelligent.  She graduated from high school at the age of
sixteen with her sights set on going to college.  It was 1923, however, and her parents saw no
value in a daughter of theirs staying in school.  She was on her own.  She held a lifelong deep resentment over the
fact that her brothers, none of whom were in the least interested in further
matriculation, were given a car as their graduation present.
Denied any way of supporting herself
on her own, she soon married.  By the
time she was 23, she had given birth to a son and a daughter.  More and more, she was feeling trapped in a
hopeless and loveless situation.  She
wanted a career.  She was bright and
ambitious.  Living with a man who she
felt was never going anywhere in life and being saddled with two small kids was
like being entombed alive.  So, in 1936,
she filed for divorce.  Almost
shockingly, she did not ask for custody of the children.  In those times, it was almost automatic that
the children would be placed in the care of the mother.  Not so this time.  BJ and Joyce were placed with their paternal
aunt, also living in Pratt.
Before long, mom and another woman
had opened a beauty parlor above the Sears department store in Pratt.  She took the two kids to the movies every
Wednesday evening.  Sixty years later, as
Mom was brushing my daughter’s hair at our house in Michigan, she started
talking about the time she and the other woman ran a beauty parlor.  My daughter, who is bisexual, later related
that she was getting the impression that there might have been more than
business on the two women’s minds. 
Mother had told me some years before that her partner had, quite
abruptly, sold her interest in the shop to her and taken off for California,
never to be heard from again.  A lover’s
quarrel or a simple commercial transaction? 
I’ll never be certain.
The beauty shop was down the hall
from the office of the man who would become my father.  They dated and were married in 1940.  It would be 4-1/2 years before mom got
pregnant with me.  Perhaps it was the
turmoil of WWII.  My dad didn’t serve in
the war because of his limp from polio contracted when he was 20.  Mixed blessing, I would say.
On the other hand, my suspicion is
that Mom was just not interested in having another child.  By 1945, she was 38 years old.  She was still hoping for a career as a writer
or secretary or something.  My fantasy is
that on VE Day–May 7, 1945–my father swept my mom up in his arms and carried
her to the bedroom where they had their own private celebration of the
sweepingly historic occasion.  I was born
on February 3rd of the following year.  A
new era of American domination was dawning and I would be in on the ground
floor.
There were a few small hitches,
however.  Mom made plain many years later
that I was the child my father wanted–his one and only.  In addition, in her view, I was a
“deficit baby”, that is, a parasite that siphoned off the calcium
from her bones and teeth.  At the baby
shower in my honor, they played a game where the guests attempt to estimate the
birth weight of the baby.  All of the guesses,
duly preserved in my baby book, were on the low side, suggesting to me that Mom
may not have been taking enough nourishment.  
My actual birth weight was over seven pounds, close to normal.
One of my earliest memories is Mom
singing a lullaby to me.  The lyrics,
written by Paul Robeson, are, in part and adapted, as follows:
Evenin’
breezes sighin’, moon is in the sky.
Little man, it’s time for bed.
Mommy’s little hero is tired and wants to cry;
Now, come along and rest your weary head.
Little man, you’re cryin’, I know why you’re blue.
Someone took your kiddy-car away.
You better go to sleep now
Little man, you’ve had a busy day.
Johnny won your marbles, tell you what we’ll do,
Mom’ll get you new ones right away.
Sadly, that was a rare moment of
tranquility between Mom and me.  Most of
my recollections of close contact with Mom involved physical pain on my
part.  Not to paint myself as a complete
innocent, however.  Some of you may
remember my story of many months ago about climbing the neighbor’s
chimney.  Years later, there was the time
I walked home from school in a light rain without a jacket.  Mom was standing in the front doorway.  As I opened the door, she slapped my face,
hard. 
“How dare you not wear a coat
in the rain.  Do you want to get
sick?”
“I’m sorry.  I wasn’t thinking”, I said in complete
contrition, hoping to appease her anger. 
(After all, it had worked before when I suggested that mom stop worrying
and ask God to take care of me.)  Still,
I was blind-sided by her action.  Looking
back on it now, I believe that Mom resented being stuck at home as a lowly housewife
and my getting a cold would only aggravate her sense of obligation and
despondency.
When I had a spanking coming, it’s
delivery came at the hand of my mother. 
Her hands were good for other things, as well.  When I had ringworm of the scalp, it was she
who was stuck with the most unpleasant job of removing the hairs from a
circular patch of my scalp about two inches in diameter with a pair of
tweezers, one-by-one.  About five minutes
at a time was all either she or I could stand. 
When I got stabbed in the hand with a pencil at school, it fell upon Mom
to dig out the remnants of graphite with a needle.
I believe that Mom simply did not
have the disposition for being a caregiver. 
I remember her telling me about having to care for my paternal grandmother,
who was dying of colon cancer in the early 1940’s.  It was clear it was not something she found
rewarding. 
But Mom’s hardness was shown in
other, perhaps even less endearing ways. 
When I graduated from law school, my parents drove to Detroit from Hutchinson,
Kansas, for the ceremony in Ford Auditorium downtown.  With about an hour to go before the
procession began, Mom announced that she wasn’t feeling well and wanted to stay
at our house.  I was terribly
disappointed but not surprised.  She had
been deprived of the opportunity to be a part of such an occasion in her own
right; how tough it must of been for her to look back on her life of nearly
three-quarters of a century as principally a home-maker and not feel big-time
self-pity.
Her predicament came most into focus
for me on her 50th birthday.  I was
practicing my Hawaiian steel guitar–hats off to The Lawrence Welk Show–in the utility room across the tiny dining
room from the kitchen, where Mom was ironing. 
All of a sudden, she burst into tears. 
I had never witnessed such a scene in our emotionally sterile
household.  Being gay–though closeted
even to myself–I wanted to rush over to her side to comfort her.  But I had not the slightest idea what to say
to her.  I had no clue what was going through
her head.  Had Dad said something before
leaving for work?  So, I just kept on
playing my syrupy music, which seemed to be of no help whatsoever.  Fifty years old, ambitious, and still ironing
in the kitchen.  That’s enough to depress
anybody.  I myself don’t iron to this
day.
On my parents last visit to Michigan
in 1989, Mom was sitting in the new family room addition.  At one point, she said, “I think I must
have left my cane upstairs”.  We had
no upstairs.
After my Dad died in 1990, my entire
family–wife, two kids and I–went to Kansas to take care of Mom.  It soon became apparent that Dad had been
covering for Mom for months.  She was not
able to live by herself.  We moved her to
a “progressive living” type of senior housing–independent living, assisted
living, and nursing care. 
Initially, we thought independent
living would be the best choice, as she was still able to do quite a few things
for herself.  Ten weeks later, we got a
call from the staff.  Mom was having
hallucinations about someone being under her bed and was not regular about
showing up for meals.  They suggested
moving her to the nursing section.
Within a week or two, we got another
call, one which caused my mind to harken back to my daughter’s story about my
Mom’s possible sexual orientation.  My
mother had gotten out of bed and dragged her roommate from her bed onto the
floor.  Then, Mom had sat astride the
other woman demanding sex, saying, “You are my husband and you owe
me!”  The institution informed me
that they had to tie my mother into her bed with straps and that she would have
to be moved to a different facility as they were not equipped to handle such
behavior.
Not only was Mom suffering from the
side effects of medications that lower one’s inhibitions, but she also was apparently
afflicted with Alzheimer’s disease.  It
was Christmas Season.  I had to quickly
find her a place with an Alzheimer’s patient wing.  The nearest decent one was in Wichita.  We moved Mom there as soon as the
arrangements could be made. 
At this point, I would have given
almost anything to have my old Mom back. 
Her disease may have dulled the loneliness and frustration of losing all
track of time and familiarity of face and habitat but I can only imagine that those
last three years were nearly unbearable, both for her and the staff and other
inhabitants, for whom Mom had nary a kind word to say.  It was during that period that my
half-brother–her son–died of lung disease at the age of 63.  I never told her.  How could I, when she kept saying that BJ was
coming to pick her up for a drive?  At
the end, she no longer recognized me. 
She died surrounded by strangers, pushing a walker down the hallway,
saying antagonistic things to those she passed. 
Was she ever truly happy?  Did I
ever make her smile?  Either I don’t know
or I can’t remember or both.  I do know
that I made my Dad smile and I guess that will have to do.

©
2 December 2013 

About the Author  

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

Poetry Tree by Beth Kahmann

Some need Poetry like another
whole in their head,
Well, I certainly don’t need
another whole in my head, Beth said.
Others need it to fulfill a
proverbial scratch that needs itching
Or a needlepoint project that
needs more stitching
Others still ache and crave
And must partake and
create, 
In order to be saved.
Others, still, need it to
quench a gnawing thirst, just like a water balloon, ready to burst.
One common denominator or thread
seems to be that some cradle their Poetry, as if it is Communal bread. 
All I know is I get bursts
and phrases of conjunctions and dangling participles that randomly float around
in my head, even when I’m in bed
And when I am able
I sit at my table
striking pen to paper
creating, cultivating my own
little song, rhyme, Haiku or fable
Sometimes I awaken from sleep
or slumber or meditation, my mind firing with anticipation.
Then the words and phrases
spill forth before I say my morning affirmations.
I feel so blessed to see Poetry
as my passion and my friend.
I feel like a kid again
who gets a free snow day and
gets to play and play and play all day.
All I know is my soul is
saturated with utter joy.
Not unlike a Toddler Turning
Two who receives a brand new sparkling toy.
Not sure why the title of
this poem is Poetry Tree, well that’s because to me………Poetry is Rule Free!!!!


14 July 2014 

About the Author 

Beth is an artist, educator, and is very passionate about
poetry.
She owns Kahmann Sense Communications (bethkahmann@yahoo.com).