Author: jnelson

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Dance, Dance, Dance by Phillip Hoyle

I have a kind of dance thing. It started early. In second grade I had my first date with a neighbor girl attending a square dance at the Elks Club. I did other folk dancing with the Girl Scouts. I’ve done interpretative dances in therapeutic and religious settings including one in a sermon I gave in a seminary preaching class. I taught African tribal dancing to children. I danced Universal Peace with adults. I danced in traditional Native American style at intertribal powwows and two stepped with an Indian guy at a cowboy bar. I’ve danced to rock music: first the bop, then the jerk, then disco, then new wave, and finally on-your-own improvised dancing to a variety of music, which brings me to this story.

I went down to The Denver Compound/Basix to dance one Saturday night several years ago; went with my friend Tony. I had been a number of times before and especially liked dancing there by myself. The music at the club had provided me some firsts: hearing a club mix with Gregorian chant in it, and then another mix with American Indian singing. The music there seemed to pull together several themes of my life, so my dance responses to the nearly deafening techno music combined barely-disguised choral directing, Indian dance steps, interactions with various friends, sexual movements, and my ever-changing dance steps to the ever-changing music. Dancing had become for me an exultation of life, of my still relatively new life as a gay man. Evenings there combined sweat, music, men, reveries, and always movement enhanced by a light show; an evening dancing on the Basix floor for me an unparalleled celebration. This evening like others seemed a mix of need, allure, and creative movement.

I had noticed a man who danced there regularly on Saturday nights. He stood off to the side of the dance floor, out of the way of other more exuberant dancers. Always dressed the same in cap, tee shirt, Levis, and work boots, he swayed from side to side shifting his weight from left to right, barely lifting his heels, and for several hours never missing a beat. He was there simply to dance. I imagined him as dancing alone with his daemon— perhaps St. Speed or the great god Oxycodon. He never moved toward a partner. He seemed a symbol for my too-solitary self. Would he ever alter his repetitions? Perhaps it was he that one of my friends watched the night he judged the techno music boring! Tonight he was there in his place.

I knew I was different than the solitary dancer, knew I’d move toward someone eventually, would need a human partner to copy, contrast, or complement my dance. Would this night be the one? I didn’t know. I just melded into the crowd as if joining a primal dance of love. A male-to-male mating ritual. A free-form yet stylized communication bolstered by drugs and alcohol (I was in a bar) just like in so many primal cultures. One alcoholic drink sufficed for me to enter the ceremony, released me into the musical exploration of what I could communicate there. I emulated the booted swayer as I moved into the magic of the rhythm. When I felt the backbeats my arms joined in the dance. My feet began to move me out from the wall-flower pose and into the seething mass of the group. Finally my whole body took up the demands of the beat, the possibilities of the night. I danced.

Then I saw him, not the solitary dancer who barely moved, but another guy across the room. He didn’t seem to be dancing with anyone, so I started dancing with him. I’d never noticed him before, didn’t know him, didn’t even know if he was aware of me. I just wanted some kind of relationship with another man, another dancer whose movements I could complement. It seemed a game and a pleasant game at that. For nearly an hour I danced with him at a great distance. I stepped this way and that, always in touch with him in my sidelong glances, my peripheral awareness as I slowly edged across the room to be near him. Eventually he did acknowledge my moves. Then we danced back to back, then side by side, then face to face. Dancing, smiling, moving away, then together. We touched. Shy smiles. Sparkling eyes.

He was not particularly handsome. Dark brown hair neatly trimmed, black stretchy shirt revealing a nice-enough body with square build, black slacks obscuring the shape of legs and more. His dance moves more conservative than mine. As I matched his pace I wondered what was going on in his mind. Was he amused? He didn’t turn his back except to bump. Drunk? On drugs? Didn’t seem to be, but I was not sure. What I had drunk? Probably the Cape Cod I liked to start my dancing nights with, that and water. We were warmed by our dance that winter night, warmed by our responses, our constant motion, the crowded dance floor.

“Gotta go,” I finally said when my friend Tony signaled his need to leave. “Thanks. Oh, I’m Phil. Hey, this was fun. Hope to see you again.” He didn’t object. Said “Bye.”

I rode the bus down to the Baker neighborhood the next Saturday night. He showed up too there across the room. I was pleased. We danced. The move across the floor didn’t take nearly as long. The body to body movements were more direct, not requiring much interpretation. Then it was closing time. “Gotta catch the bus,” I said. I stalled while he got his coat out of a locker. That’s when I saw the pin, knew it was a Trekkie symbol. I politely said “Thanks for dancing” and “Goodnight” and moved away. Somehow his identification with science fiction stood in the way for me. Made him less attractive? Boy. I danced out of there, across the Walgreens parking lot to catch the Number Zero bus back home. I wondered what I had learned about myself, what I had learned in a bar. What was the truth? The reality? Really. What dance was I willing to execute? I admit I was looking for more than a dance partner, but I certainly wasn’t interested in a relationship characterized by going to sci-fi movies and that kind of fantasy. I wanted a dancer that could dance a domestic and somehow romanticized relationship. Me? Romantic? Must have been the effect of living with my wife for twenty-nine years. Or was it the combination of booze and dancing? Thought about these things all the way home. Boy. What we can learn dancing and ponder riding busses.

© Denver, 2012 

About the Author  

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

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

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Patriotism by Pat Gourley

“The
owners of this country know the truth…its called the American dream because you
have to be asleep to believe it” George Carlin

When I was in grade school in the 1950’s I attended a predominately Irish Catholic institution called St. Peter in LaPorte, Indiana. We would start each day with Mass and then once we had left the church and reached the classroom we would begin the rest of the day with the pledge of allegiance. In hindsight I now recognize both of these activities for the not so subtle forms of child abuse and indoctrination that they were.

I escaped the clutches of this myopic worldview I feel in no small part through the transformation that occurred with my getting in touch with my queerness. The idea of a person who calls themselves a patriot to me is someone who often unthinkingly is a member of a tribe and this results all too often in a blind and selfish xenophobia. A working title for this piece could have been “Patriotism- Tribalism Run Amok”.

You could view ‘patriotism” as a particularly perverse manipulation of our innate hard wiring to belong to a tribe. Quoting Edward O. Wilson from his great new book The Social Conquest of Earth: “People must have a tribe. It gives them a name in addition to their own and social meaning in a chaotic world. It makes the environment less disorienting and dangerous.” It is a bit ironic I suppose that I escaped the white, insular, Irish Catholic, lower middle class and very “patriotic” tribe I was born into by discovering and joining another tribe. For many of us our initial realizations of being ‘different or other’ were very disorienting and dangerous. The early coming out process is a struggle to give ourselves a name that will create meaning for us in what we correctly perceive to be a very chaotic and often hostile world.

Was Mother Nature though handing us little queers a truly change creating gift in the form of our ‘otherness’? Was this a possible genetic gift to the human race with the potential to allow us to actualize a more constructive way of relating to one another as human beings? Quoting again from The Social Conquest of Earth:

“…homosexuality may give advantages to the group by special talents, unusual qualities of personality, and the specialized roles and professions it generates. There is abundant evidence that such is the case in both preliterate and modern societies. Either way, societies are mistaken to disapprove of homosexuality because gays have different sexual preferences and reproduce less. Their presence should be valued instead for what they contribute constructively to human diversity. A society that condemns homosexuality harms itself.”


I would follow this by saying ‘take that’ all you queer theorists who think we are nothing more that social constructs resulting from societal oppression. A question I have often asked myself since the late 1970’s is have we abdicated our birthright or legitimate power to contribute constructively to human diversity in our often craven desire to be accepted and to emulate the straight world by insisting that we are no different than they are except for what we do in bed. Rather is our true purpose to be the valuable expression of some of humankind’s most altruistic impulses?

I was first introduced to the writings of Edward O. Wilson through none other than Harry Hay who turned me on to Wilson’s 1978 book “On Human Nature”. For those unfamiliar with Wilson he is a professor Emeritus of Biology at Harvard University. Wilson wrote in 1978: “Homosexuality is normal in a biological sense, that it is a distinctive beneficial behavior that evolved as an important element in human social organization. Homosexuals may be the genetic carriers of some of mankind’s rare altruistic impulses.”

Well you can just imagine what sort of manna from heaven this prominent biologist’s theories were for an activist like Hay who had been running around for years saying we were a ‘separate people whose time had come’. It was actually through an email I recently received from Don Kilhefner that I was alerted to Wilson’s most recent work. Kilhefner along with Hay, John Burnside and Mitch Walker birthed the Radical Fairies in 1979.

It is certainly my contention that we are a separate people who time is here and that many of our great queer thinkers long ago saw through the manipulative jingoistic, sense of exceptionalism that passes for patriotism as something beneath us as a people. We are the guardians and hopefully proponents of some of mankind’s rare altruistic impulses and certainly we must know in our hearts that as Oscar Wilde so succinctly stated ‘patriotism is the virtue of the vicious”. Patriotism simply does not suit us if we bother to own our revolutionary potential.

Having said this I certainly own the fact that we often as a people do not live up to our potential as change creators for the better. I do think we veer off course most frequently though when we try to emulate straight society and particularly certain qualities most often seen in the heterosexual male of the species.

American patriotism seems to have a very dangerous component of exceptionalism – we are God’s chosen people. What could possibly go wrong with a worldview in which might makes right especially when driven by a sense of manifest destiny? I think much of the social unrest and sharp disconnects between segments of our U.S. population today are caused by the fact that many folks are realizing that America is not particularly exceptional as a country creating a cognitive dissonance that is truly unsettling. In fact we are responsible for much of the grief inflicting the planet from climate change to drones and kill lists to tapping everyone’s phone on the entire planet to name just a few examples. The war against terror and certainly our last two wars in Iraq and Afghanistan have been made possible in part by the unscrupulous manipulation of our misguided sense of what true patriotism might be.

I am aware that we are reading our pieces on patriotism on Veterans Day. It seems particularly crass of me I suppose to be trashing patriotism on such a day but I have no problem separating the men and women in the armed forces from the puppeteers manipulating the strings of false patriotism. Chelsea Manning as a young, frail, tormented teenage queer from some God-forsaken part of rural Oklahoma saw military service as the only honorable way out of hell. I am sure she felt she was also doing her patriotic duty. But you see the playing field is not level. The interests of corporate America are really not the interests of the 99%. The corporate oligarchs have no compunction when it comes to playing the patriotism card in order to sustain their empire. A recent example was sited in a piece in Salon today called “Stop Thanking the Troops for Me: No They Do Not Protect our Freedoms” by Justin Doolittle.

(http://www.salon.com/2013/11/11/stop_thanking_the_troops_for_me_no_they_dont_protect_our_freedoms/).

Doolittle pointed out the patriotic stunt from the opening game of the World Series where Bank of America pledged to donate a dollar for every posting of a troop supporting video to an agency or group helping veterans. No mention was made of the many, many homes of active duty personnel and veterans foreclosed on since 2008 by the Bank of America.

It was either in one of his more provocative moments, or perhaps something I just dreamed up, that Harry Hay once said something to the effect that there are really only two races on earth – gay and straight. I certainly can view queer folk as change creating seeds sprinkled throughout the globe in every country and among every people. This it seems to me lends a compelling element of universality to the human condition that gives lie to the false concept of patriotism. If you buy, albeit, this rather fanciful picture of the human family which I guess I do then our responsibility as queer folk is too pursue in every country on Earth that wonderful and subversive change creating Homosexual Agenda. We truly are all one people on one planet, One Taste.

© November 2013 

About
the Author 

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

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Don’t Touch Me There by Michael King

There is a place where I would warn anyone thinking about touching me there; that would not be wise. My history of experiencing touch has changed throughout the years. I don’t remember even getting hugs as a child. I had little to no body contact until the girlfriend and occasional boy get together days. Even then my experience was rather measly.

When the kids came along I made sure they got hugs and affection. All the affection and body contact I remembered getting when I was young was from the dog. I didn’t even have much experience with handshakes. They were even rare.

In about 1977 I attended a study group and as I was leaving the host gave me a hug. I think I must have been in a state of shock as it was for me totally unexpected and I didn’t know what to think. I attended other study groups and realized that hugging was the way some of the people said hello or goodbye. I was probably 36 or 37 and this was new to me.

Now, I am known for giving hugs. I am often asked for a hug. I, however, am seldom in situations where there is touching otherwise except in the bedroom or at home in every room and then, often. I doubt anyone thinks about touching me there and it doesn’t matter because it’s nice being touched everywhere else.

As I said usually I could be touched there, but on that rare occasion when my body reacts automatically and I can’t endure being touched there the potential isn’t pretty. So, I’m warning everyone who might now know my secret that they could be putting their life in danger. Don’t ever tickle my feet. If you do when I’m unaware, beware.

This could be genetic. My uncle got his nose broken when he tickled my mother’s feet when she was a little girl. I think I have the same instinct. “Don’t touch me there!”

© 21 April 2013 

About
the Author  

I go by the drag name, Queen Anne Tique. My real name is Michael King. I am a gay activist who finally came out of the closet at age 70. I live with my lover, Merlyn, in downtown Denver, Colorado. I was married twice, have 3 daughters, 5 grandchildren and a great grandson. Besides volunteering at the GLBT Center and doing the SAGE activities,” Telling your Story”,” Men’s Coffee” and the “Open Art Studio”. I am active in Prime Timers and Front Rangers. I now get to do many of the activities that I had hoped to do when I retired; traveling, writing, painting, doing sculpture, cooking and drag.

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All My Exes Live in Texas by Lewis

[Disclaimer:
I sincerely hope that I do not offend anyone by what I am about
to say.  If Texas is the state of your
birth, please forgive me.  I understand
that you had no choice in the matter and would naturally feel somewhat defensive.  I apologize in advance for my unbridled
antagonism toward your home state.  If
Texas is your adopted state, however, then we must simply agree to disagree.  Since you are gay and because Texan’s in
general are about as homophobic as you can get, I have no desire to add to your
mental anguish. I hope you can get some help.]
 It’s safe to assume, I
suppose, that by the term “ex” is meant “erstwhile”.  It would also likely be safe to assume that
the “erstwhile” refers to lovers. 
Since I have had only two lovers in my lifetime and one of them is dead
and the other lives in Michigan, there is very little I can say about this
subject directly.  However, I do have a
few things to say about the state of Texas in general.
If I ever have a lover who
says to me, “Let’s move to Texas”, the next words out of my mouth
will be, “So long, pardner. 
Remember to roll your pant legs up so they don’t get in the horse
shit”.  I hate Texas so much that,
whenever I think of the Alamo, I’m overcome not with pride but with
regret.  My most hated actor, John Wayne,
not only directed the movie, The Alamo,
but cast himself in the role of Col. Davy Crockett.  As fate would have it, I had been planning to
watch the movie the very evening the call came that my father had died of a
massive stroke.  That was not the cause
of my regret, however.  No, that was
because the wrong side lost.
My daddy had a brother–the
youngest of four–who moved his family to Austin.  He was a high muckety-muck with the state
school Board.  When I say
“high”, I mean tall–he was about 6 foot 4.  He was also the first of the four brothers to
die.  I’m not going to say that Texas
politics killed him but the Texan he married might have been implicated had
there been an investigation.  Not only
did she have a drawl that would have shamed the two Andy’s–Devine and
Griffith–into going back to acting school, she had a temper that had me hiding
beneath the dining room buffet in abject fear.
Oh, they sure do take their
football serious down there.  I once attended
a game between the Texas Longhorns and the Aggies.  It was the only time I saw a referee get
knocked out.  I think the crowd made more
noise over that than any of the scoring plays.
During the OPEC-induced
recession of 1984, I and several of my co-workers at Ford Motor in Dearborn,
MI, were laid off.  One of them moved to
Texas looking for work.  He stayed less
than a year due to culture shock.
And what’s the deal with
“The Lone Star State” as their motto? 
According to Wikipedia, “Texas
is nicknamed the Lone Star State to signify Texas as a former
independent republic and as a reminder of the state’s struggle for independence
from Mexico”.  Sounds like a lot of
“Texas hooey” to me.  I think
the motto is a way to remind the other 49 states how special Texas is and that
they just might secede at any time.
Secession is no idle threat,
coming as it did from Texas’ governor himself. 
I would humbly suggest that the U.S. cede Texas to Mexico in exchange
for Tijuana.  Not only would this overnight
raise the cultural and political intelligence of the United States as a whole
but also cure a good bit of our problems with border security.
As a boy, I was enamored of
the Lone Ranger.  As a man, I’ve learned
that the real Texas Rangers used to take Mexicans out into the desert and shoot
them, leaving their corpses to rot, just as I’ve seen John Wayne do in the
movie, Red River.
Well, I don’t want this to
turn into a rant.  If you’ve ever been to
Amarillo, you’ll understand why I think that the people of Texas have suffered
enough already.  I’m just biding my time
for the day when the brown-skinned immigrant voters outnumber the knuckle-heads
that control the politics down there today. 
Better the state turn purple than my face.
© 13 January 2014 

About
the Author  

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

Long ago and far away, I lived in paradise. It was quiet and peaceful, a land of green farm-studded hills comprised of green sheep-studded fields. No-one locked their doors. There were few cars. A tiny tinny church bell rang one monotonous note every Sunday morning. No peels from bell ringers here, just one old farmer pulling on an old frayed rope, and we all answered it’s call; not from religious zeal but because we wanted to chat with our neighbors, who lived many stones’ throw away.

What a wonderful life!

What claptrap!

Nostalgia, it has been said, is the longing for a place and time you couldn’t wait to get away from. I do have wonderful memories, real or imagined, of that past life, but I do not want to return to it. It did not encompass the GLBT world I am now able to inhabit. I was condemned to act a part on reality’s stage rather than live my real life. I couldn’t be who I really was. I couldn’t even know who I really was.

In High School English class, two of the works we studied were Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of Being Ernest, and Alfred Lord Tennyson’s In Memoriam. These days we all know about old Oscar and the troubles he got himself into, but all that study of his wonderful writing never once led us to any discussion of his personal life. My elderly Welsh teacher would not have had a clue how to deal with any of that; nor would she have wanted to. Oscar himself had been well out of the closet, but we had booted him back in and slammed the door.

Tennyson is not as well known today as Wilde. His writing has never been interpreted on stage or screen, though In Memoriam has given us that familiar sentiment that it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.

As with Wilde, we spent endless school hours analyzing and dissecting the writing; the four line ABBA stanzas of iambic tetrameter. But never the man. Nothing was up for discussion on the fact that Tennyson spent seventeen years of his life writing this poem of love for, and in grief over the death of, another man. In doing that, he certainly came well out of his closet, but again society had shoved him back in.

I sometimes fear that all these English Lit. studies gave me was the ability to trot out endless quotations to fit just about any given situation, and wonder why memorizing everything was such a large part of our education. But in fact these lessons gave me much more; the very special gift of a love of literature.

Tennyson still brings tears to my eyes, and when I return to In Memoriam I find he speaks to me so clearly after all these years, and perhaps even more clearly to the lost soul I was then, in that closeted world where I studied his words.

So runs my dream, but what am I?

An infant crying in the night

An infant crying for the light

And with no language but a cry.

How better to describe me, in that cold dark closet, long ago and far away?

The past is another country, and, in the way of other countries, a great place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there.

© September 2013 

About the Author  

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25 years.

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Mirror Image by Betsy

My partner Gill and I often inadvertently have interesting discussions at tea time. Someone makes a statement and before we know it we find ourselves delving deeply into one subject or another.

Just a couple of days ago we got into a discussion about growing up female in the United States in the 1940‘s-50’s vs. growing up female in the U. K. in the 1940’s-50’s.

The thought that triggered this conversation had to do with confidence, rather the lack of it, in women of our generation. I am suggesting that certainly not all women but many American women raised in the 30‘s and 40‘s are more likely to lack confidence whereas British women do not. How and why did this come to pass?

I speculate that as I was growing up in middle class America I was expected to become some man’s wife and my role would be to facilitate his career, be his support staff, and to raise a family. This may not be the same for all women, but this is the message I received in some form every day of my life as a youngster. Certainly my development was not focused on learning a particular skill, pursuing a talent, or being exposed to a profession, or even learning professional behavior, or how to be assertive. Nor did I have the role models for such behavior or for such an attitude. The ultimate outcome for me was to be a wife and a mother. Mind you, there is nothing wrong or demeaning about this particular outcome, if a woman is given the choice and chooses it.

The college I attended for four years, Wells College, was founded by a man in 1868 for the purpose of providing suitable wives for the men of Cornell. This is the stated purpose of the institution, the assumption being at the time that men wanted educated wives–not so their wives could develop their own careers, of course, but so they could have intelligent conversation and have their children cared for by an educated mother.

That was the 19th century. After World War II women realized that there might be more for them than kitchens and nurseries. After all, they had had to go to work during the war to produce guns and tanks while the men were off fighting. Many women realized life might offer some choices for them. Maybe there was a life outside of the home–an interesting life. After all, raising children does not last forever–actually only a few years when taking an entire lifetime into account.

By the time I attended Wells College attitudes had become much more progressive and women were encouraged to develop a profession or a career if they so chose. So I was exposed to this attitude as a young adult in the college I attended and sometimes from other sources. I remember clearly my grandmother, whom I called “Abita,” encouraging me to think about a career in math or science. She had clipped from the paper an article pointing out the surge of interest among women in careers in science and the opportunities that were coming available, suggesting that I might be encouraged to fly in that direction. This was a brand new idea to me–something I had never considered.

By the time I graduated from college, I no longer saw myself as a wife alone, but perhaps as a wife and a member of one of three professions which by that time had been assigned to women: nursing, teaching, and social work. In 1957 it was quite acceptable, even promoted, that a woman could have a career and a husband. However, despite the changes in the attitudes and the social norms of the time, the message I received from the adults in the early years of my life were a part of my psyche.

Listening to partner Gill’s description of growing up female in Britain, I realize there is a contrast, but at the same time, the image is the same–much like a mirror image.

In Britain, at least in Gill’s experience and the experience of most of the females she knew, girls grew up with the expectation that they would be independent, able to take care of themselves, if needed, and it turns out that it was needed thanks to two world wars. Girls would marry and raise families, and they would be making choices for themselves all along. British women, according to her story, were raised to be strong and independent–in contrast to American women who were supposed to be happily dependent and at least appear to be the demure little wife sitting at home taking care of the house.

Interesting mirror image! The same, but turned around. But why not, I say. Look at the role models the British women have: Elizabeth, Victoria, the current Elizabeth. The kings, with a few exceptions, messed up. But the queens–just look at them. And what did our ancestors who were British do with that heritage? They chose to leave the country and sail across the ocean and start a new country where there would be no monarchy–no role models.

Besides that, two world wars in Europe had taken out a huge chunk of the British male population. World War I in particular. It was not a given for a woman in 1930’s Britain that she would become someone’s wife, she knew that she would very likely soon become someone’s widow. Men were in short supply during both wars. The women had been left at home to run the household and to continue doing so when their men did not return from war. It was the women who raised the next generation of adults in post war Britain. These adults certainly did not grow up with a vision of females as being anything but strong and self sufficient.

This topic can certainly stand on its own as an opportunity for further consideration, writing, and listening, or another discussion at tea time. But in this case I will leave it here with the two similar and opposing images to contemplate.

©18 March 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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Discovery by Ricky

I am not famous or even infamous, nonetheless, I made many discoveries in my life. As an infant, I discovered that I did not like being tossed into the air and then caught by my father. Of course getting caught was much preferred to hitting the floor unhindered. My father always caught me, but I never liked or enjoyed the falling feeling.

As a 1st grader, I discovered, but did not understand, that I could not trust my mother and I feared my father and yet I still loved both of them dearly. Perhaps children are ‟hard-wired” to be that way or maybe it was the unconscious realization that they provided everything I needed to survive—a juvenile Stockholm Syndrome as it were.

As a pubescent 5th grader, I discovered the initial pleasures of male genitalia and the physical differences between boys and girls. Boys were more ‟interesting”. I also discovered ‟responsibility” while caring for my younger siblings. It wasn’t something for which I wanted to be responsible.

As a 6th grader, I finally discovered all the pleasures that male genitalia can provide and that there were other boys who liked rediscovering those pleasures with me. During the school Christmas presentation, I discovered stage fright when I saw my parents sitting in the second row. I also discovered that it is much more fun to play sports than to watch from the bleachers.

In the Boy Scouts, I discovered the pleasures of belonging to an organized group of boys having fun camping, learning new games and skills, and performing campfire skits. Because I was the oldest boy in the troop and held the position of Senior Patrol Leader, I was always ‟responsible” for everything boy related and sometimes other things. As a result, I was always on my best behavior trying to be the good example. While my time in the troop was very enjoyable and fun, the boys had more fun than I.

As an 8th grader, I discovered the first pangs of being different as all my friends began to favor girls while I still wanted to be with boys. From this point forward my interests began to diverge from the mainstream interests of other boys until in my freshman year of high school, I began to wonder if I was a ‟slow developer” or something else altogether.

Increasingly throughout high school, college, and into mainstream adulthood, I discovered I was growing more comfortable around groups of females and more estranged from and apprehensive around groups of men, lest they detect that I had no interest in their primary topics of discussion. Groups of women did not make me uncomfortable in the least. Nonetheless, I crave male companionship.

In the first semester of college, I discovered that I would never be a high school chemistry teacher.

In the military, I discovered self-discipline. Unfortunately, when I left the military, I also left behind nearly all traces of self-discipline. Fortunately, I also discovered the pleasures of heterosexual relationships and in separate events met my future spouse.

After being married, I discovered that I liked it and also discovered the joy of being present at the birth of our four children.

Upon returning to military life, I discovered I am still a child psychologically. I found this out while in training when I read in a manual on how to set up an “L-shaped” ambush. Specifically, where to aim the machine gun to inflict the greatest damage if the bullets fall short or go past the aiming point. I actually realized that the military was no “game” like I played as a little kid.

I discovered that I rather enjoyed being a military officer and also a deputy sheriff both of which were childhood desires.

I discovered that I am a child of God and that most people are good, although many are misguided.

I discovered just how devastating it is when one’s soul-mate passes on leaving one behind.

I discovered the importance of being around family and friends and to keep lines of communication open.

In 2010, I finally admitted to myself that I am sexually oriented towards males and discovered just how liberating the admission was to my psyche.

Lastly, I discovered The Center and SAGE’s Telling Your Story group and the wonderful people who attend. I am looking forward to next Monday’s get-together for conversation and, of course, food with ice cream.

© 22 December 2013 

About the Author  


I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I 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 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com.

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Elder Words by Phillip Hoyle

I read this somewhere:

When I turned forty I knew a lot about life.

When I turned fifty every new experience reminded me of a story from the past.

When I turned sixty I thought I was supposed to tell the stories.

Now at sixty-four with croaky voice I say:
Bah humbug.
The next generation is going to the dogs. (Quoting Ovid)
I’m feeling passé.
Moan, groan.
Youth is wasted on the young.
The food here used to be better.
Today I feel like Grandpa Grunt.
Their prices sure have gone up.
I really miss the good old days when things made sense.

Elder words are not new to me. Any number of times I heard them proffering advice, insight, and hope. My folks wanted me to have a good life and somehow to learn from their experience, so I ask you to listen while I tell you their good words.

Words my elders said to me:

Earl Hoyle, my dad: A kind man who wanted his children to have meaningful lives helping other people, Dad was spare in his advice giving. He didn’t select any of his children’s life-work or push them towards a specific career. Yet he did give me two words of advice concerning what I might seek for myself. “For a career,” he advised, “do something you really like to do,” and “Don’t be a musician.” My settlement was to work as a minister in churches leading their choirs and music programs.

Professor Joe Secrest: My main music teacher in undergraduate school, Mr. Secrest encouraged me in many ways providing varied musical resources and experiences. He liked my musicality and dedication to music, and he may have seen that my path into pastoral ministry would be wrong for me. He also may have understood more about my personality and potentials than I ever imagined; after all, he was a musician. At the end of my junior year he proposed: “I’ll stay here another year if you’ll change your major to music.” That was all I needed to hear. I changed my major. It cost me an additional year of schooling but was worth every hour, every book, every measure of music, and every dollar spent.

John Conroe: This handsome and kind man worked in the oil business encouraging folk to sign mineral rights leases. He and his wife lived simply although they had loads of resources. At the church where I had my first full-time job, she greeted at the door and he ushered the center aisle for the eleven o’clock service. They accepted Myrna and me and eventually our children into their lives like they were our parents. One fine day John said this to me: “They should never say of either of us: he worked himself to death.” I agreed with the sentiment and have lived into its easing wisdom.

Rev. Ed, mentor: When I began graduate study at Wichita State University and took on a part-time youth ministry at Broadway Christian Church, I shared an office with a retired American Baptist minister. On occasion Ed and I talked. He seemed interested in my ways of thinking. We read and discussed books on theological and psychological themes. I was amazed at his elder mind, for although the conversations sometimes lagged due to his slower come-backs, he several times recalled the outline of books he had studied thirty years before. I learned from him and was acutely aware of the irony of heeding the advice of a Baptist minister who said: “Go to seminary.”

Dr. Beckelheimer, professor of homiletics: In seminary, at the first meeting of a social ethics graduate seminar, “Strategies for Change” (a kind of Saul Alinsky community organizing course), I realized my real motivation for taking the course was my anger—at the church, at the need for credentials, at the whole world, and at the upset I had caused my family by moving to Texas. I was just plain angry and realized I needed to study something harmless, so immediately after that first session, after I had lied about why I was there, I went to the seminary office to drop that course and sign up for “Principles of Preaching.” The class would be my third three-semester-hour course in homiletics. I’d had two as an undergraduate student and already had discovered I’d be happy to live the rest of my life without preaching another sermon. I took Dr. Beckelheimer’s course and was the first student he ever he gave an “A” to on every sermon submitted. I didn’t like his course, but later in my effort to get out of seminary one semester early, I signed up for another one that sounded better to me, “Experimental Preaching,” a two-hour course in summer school. Again I did superior work that deeply impressed my unimpressive instructor. When I was almost done with my seminary education, Dr. Beckelheimer stopped me in the hallway. In his over-serious although sincere manner, he said: “Be sure you preach.” I did preach some for the next twenty years. As an associate minister I covered vacations and other times away for the senior ministers in several churches. I must have preached about one hundred fifty sermons—addresses I made sure my senior ministers understood I didn’t want to deliver. They liked me for that since I seemed no threat to their position.

Dr. James Duke and Dr. Cy Rowell: In seminary two other professors gave me identical advice. Both seemed impressed by my scholarship. Dr. Duke said: “I’d encourage you to do post-graduate work in church history except there won’t be any jobs.” Dr. Rowell said the same about religious education except that he explained, “There won’t be any jobs; too many people are already lined up getting their degrees.” I appreciated their advice that correlated well with the decision that had landed me in seminary anyway. I had chosen seminary when I realized I didn’t want to pursue postgraduate work in music history.

Rev. Kathryn Williams, a regional associate minister, friend, and mentor: I appreciated many things about Kathryn besides her enthusiasm. She had served as a missionary in the then Belgium Congo and from that experience had unusual views on culture and educational process. She helped me gain a particular approach to childhood education in a church setting, one I employed often in planning events and writing curriculum resources. Besides all that, I just liked her, her accessibility, humor, sharp insights, and constant encouragement. Sometime during the last year of my seminary education, Kathryn said to me: “I know a hundred ministers in their fifties and almost every one of them is bitter at the church. I don’t want that for you.” I thanked her for the wise advice and pledged to quit before I grew to hate my work. Eventually her observation led me to leave ministry.

Geraldean McMillin, school teacher, now retired: Geraldean and I started talking years ago. She taught economics to high school students and so her insights often related to her theories about economics. Growing up in the Missouri Ozarks, she also reflected an earthy common sense. We talked and talked and still do. She asserts it’s the job of elders to be wise. Among many wise sayings she has taught me, I most appreciate this one: “You can’t get a job without experience; can’t get experience without making mistakes.” Her practical approach has helped me deal with my own faux pas and snafu’s.

Ronnie Montoya, friend: I learned sage words from the mouth of a younger person, words that reflected his greater experience, talk that always combined humor and wisdom. He served me as a singular friend, a gateway into Hispanic experience, and a sexual playmate. This short, chubby, cute guy entertained me in Albuquerque. I had met him through my wife who worked with him. The three of us started going out to dance. Ronnie and I started doing more together—playing pool, kicking around, driving here and there, and eventually having sex. A few weeks into our affair, Ronnie warned, “If you get enough man-to-man sex, you’ll want a lot more.” Such truth! I became one of his best-ever students and continued my studies after moving to two other cities. I’m still studying.

Winston Weathers, writer, literary agent, and professor of writing: This elder statesman of creative writing invited me to his apartment several afternoons when I lived in Tulsa. With his partner of forty years we shared wine, snacks, and talk of art, literature, and writing. I didn’t know much about Winston except that he was a retired university professor and that his published poetry and short fiction had gained critical attention. He knew writing and one day told me: “Gay fiction needs more than drugs, dancing, and wild sex.” I am seeking to follow his advice.

Words describing an elder ideal:

Wisdom is knowing what to do with knowledge
Adages distill wisdom
Stories tell the truth
Poetry reaches deeper

© 23 November 2012 

About the Author  

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

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

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For a Good Time by Pat Gourley

If I were to take the high road with this topic I suppose I would explore my options for a “good time” by discussing my friends and time spent with them sharing a movie or a meal I have prepared especially to accommodate their particular dietary idiosyncrasies. Or perhaps relate my anticipation for seeing a couple of Furthur shows next month at Red Rocks with 10,000 of my closet associates. Prowling a Farmer’s Market, taking in the latest vegetative creations at the Denver Botanic Gardens or curling up with my kitties, a good book and a pint of Ben and Jerry’s are also things that work for me when it comes to a good time.

I will dispense however with the “high road” for the remainder of this piece and look at the tried and true completion of the phrase which would be “for a good time and hopefully a happy ending” call 555-5555. In decades gone by this exhortation was often seen scrawled on public toilet stalls along with the requisite phone number. For the extremely bold the phrase might appear in a personal print ad, though the “good time” was often just implied as was the “happy ending”.

Throughout the 1970’s a “good time” for me involved heading out to the bathhouse. I do believe that as gay bathhouses evolved in that decade they were a truly unique space created by gay men. There certainly had for millennia been public bathes that often had a homosexual cruising element but the gay bathes as manifested in large American and European cities largely after Stonewall had no pretext or subterfuge about them. They were gay male space created for the express purpose of getting laid in a relatively safe place often catering to and facilitating a variety of gay male sexual fantasies.

The amenities were simple but plentiful including safe lockers, clean towels, private rooms, slings, suitable lengths of plastic douching hose with hookups right next to the toilets, orgy rooms, steam rooms, lots of hot water, reasonably priced poppers and buckets of free cheap lube, usually whipped up like cake batter in big batches by the employees. This lube was often a mix of baby oil and Crisco or some other vegetable shortening on sale that week at Safeway I expect. Johnson & Johnson was almost always the source of the baby oil. Condoms were certainly not readily available and if so their use was at best frowned on.

Though in hindsight the baths may have initially fueled the AIDS epidemic after that horse was out of the barn I always felt they were more a form of quarantine for the already infected than really significant vectors. Certainly before AIDS the tubs were I think overall very conducive elements to the building of the potent queer liberation movement of the post Stonewall era. I mean what could go wrong in these ultimate palaces of testosterone fueled gay male bonding where fucking with as many or as few men in a single visit as you could accommodate was easily facilitated, the ultimate male fantasy.

Some unfortunate drawbacks did exist and in some forms persist today. Many bathes were mob owned and often enforced very racist and ageist door policies though in their heyday there was a variety of establishments that accommodated nearly everyone.

The tubs still exist today but after a severe curtailing in the 1980’s due to the AIDS epidemic they have never fully recovered to their 1970’s glory. Perhaps though even more significant than fear of disease in their decline has been the Internet. In case one forgets for a moment the importance of this when you type “Internet” and neglect to capitalize the “I’ it spells checks to remind you to do so.

For myself personally as having been a child of the tubs decades ago and fortunate enough to have had a couple of relatively good long term relationships, I now am occasionally at a loss really as to where to go for a sexual good time. I do though rely on my left hand (I am right handed but go figure), a tube of Vaseline and my computer. And FYI the word Vaseline also insists on being capitalized on my Apple product.

Gay men though being the masters of the “hook-up” that we are have evolved quite well with the times. An example of this would be Grindr – spelled G-r-i-n-d-r – which is a geosocial networking application available for download from the Apple App Store and Google Play. This can best be described as making use of GPS and your computer, tablet or iPhone to find other men near by specifically for sexual hook ups. This can happen in an instant of course and eliminates the tediously time consuming efforts involved in the past for meeting up with partners at bars, parks, parties etc. and very little social chit-chat is required. Simply to initiate a “good time” text to xxxxxx.

The Grindr app provides an interface that displays photos of men arranged in order of proximity to your current location. Tapping on a photo of interest will provide you with a brief profile hopefully not a total pack of lies. Needless to say this award winning social networking tool has been a wild success all over the world. And thanks to Edward Snowden we now know that all of the personal information provided on this platform is and will be carefully stored for possible future retrieval at the large and ominous NSA facility nearing completion in neighboring Utah. The old vice squad of yesteryear must just be wetting their pants with jealously.

Again for me personally I must confess that Grindr is not an option I am willing to explore and not for any fear of the NSA though it is none of their fucking business and a violation of my 1st, 4th and 6th amendment rights but I digress. Rather it is difficult to teach an old queen new tricks or how to find new tricks. I am for the most part quite content with my computer and a couple dear old comfortable and reliable (and I use the phrase with the greatest of love and affection) fuck buddies. In a concession to the times though they are contacts on my iPhone and I call them with a simple touch most likely unable to actually dial their number form memory.

© August 2013

About
the Author  

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

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Still Learning – Just One Nugget by Nicholas

When I feel I need a little break and need to see a little craziness, I hop onto an express bus to Boulder to spend a day in a place just different enough to be interesting. Boulder reminds me of a mini-San Francisco. Good restaurants, intriguing food shops—like the well-scented spice shop—a really good bookstore, and street people who don’t seem so desperate as they do in Denver.

What really draws me to Boulder is the labyrinth in a downtown church. I love walking labyrinths. This one is a copy of the Chartres cathedral labyrinth in France dating from the middle ages when labyrinth walking was used as a substitute for making a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. This is an 11 circuit labyrinth, meaning you walk 11 circles in fragments, winding up eventually at a center.

A labyrinth is not a maze. You don’t have to find your way or figure out anything or make any decisions. You just follow the path as it winds its way around and through the quadrants to the center. It’s a walking meditation. In the Christian sense, the path, which is laid out for you, leads to God at the center. You only have to follow. I’ve never met God at the center and I don’t know what I would do if I did. Probably ask him to move so I could get on with my walk. Labyrinths pre-date Christianity, having been used in many forms by pagan religions for eons. The Christians just glommed onto a good thing when they saw it.

And as I’m slowly walking, I’m wondering why am I doing this, what can I get from it. Just one crumb of understanding, I say, give me just a little nugget of wisdom in this calm place where all I have to do is follow the path to the center and back out again. The slower the better. I’m not looking to understand everything, the whole enchilada, just a bit here and now. And the answer came: I’m doing this because walking the labyrinth is comforting. Its stillness, its calm, its reassurance give me a stillness, a calm, and a reassurance. Just follow the path, you don’t have to find it, it’s there at your feet. Keep your eyes open and follow. One step at a time.

So, I’m still learning. Still trying to figure it out though that’s something I don’t really expect ever to do. I suppose, maybe I even hope, my last words will be “What’s going on here?” It’s not the answer but the question that truly counts. Not the accomplishment but the wondering.

Yes, still learning. I just learned a whole lot about the writer William Faulkner, enough to realize that I knew nothing about an author I thought I did know something about. And I learn more yoga every week and sometimes everyday. And I’m always learning about loving and being loved. And I just got a new I-phone which offers me more to learn than I ever knew I needed to know. It’s not a phone or a device; it’s an extension of my brain. I don’t know if that’s good or bad. My brain could use an extension but I’m not sure I want it to be in an Apple computer.

I heard a saying recently that I think everybody in this room will like and feel free to adopt as your own. It goes: It’s not how old you’re getting; it’s how you’re getting old.

I hope I am getting old with wonder and openness and a desire to learn more because there is so much more out there to learn and experience. Like walking the labyrinth to discover that I need to walk the labyrinth. And maybe I’ll learn a little something, just a crumb, just a nugget. Not God.

Keep your eyes open and follow your path.

© 25 November 2013 

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.