Author: phoyle

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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Once in a Lifetime, by Betsy

There are many things I have done once in my lifetime. Which of those things has enough importance that I might want to write about it, I mused. Mistakes, I hope, are not too numerous.

Although, if they were made only once in my lifetime, at least I can say I haven’t repeated them.

I’ve had some once in a lifetime opportunities. Some of those events, adventures I have written about. Missed opportunities? Well, I guess I missed them so I don’t even know what they are.

Some important decisions are made once in a lifetime with consequences that last a lifetime.

In the category of decisions clearly THE most important with lifetime consequences was the decision to come out—that is, to come out to myself. I don’t remember actually making that choice in my head, but I’m sure that’s what took place. But trying to put my finger on exactly when that happened, I am stymied. Coming out, I realize, is not a onetime event. It is an on-going, hopefully progressive process. The once in a lifetime event was when it all came into my consciousness that I would have to make the choice to live as the person I was born to be—or not. That meant I would have to stop playing the role I had previously chosen and drastically change my lifestyle. The implications of doing this were, at the time, and I do remember the moment—the implications were quite profound and rather threatening. However the choice not to do this was no longer possible for me.

Analyzing further as to why I delayed making this choice until I had lived almost half a lifetime, it occurred to me that I never repressed my homosexual feelings. I acknowledged and accepted them from day one. I was totally conscious of my sexual feelings, and that I was attracted to those of my own sex and not those of the opposite sex. I remember every girl/woman to whom I was attracted and exactly how it felt and how it felt to want to look at, sit next to, touch, and, yes, get into bed with, and..do what lesbians do. I was very much aware of my feelings, I realize now, and I accepted them as absolutely natural. I had no guilt or feelings of revulsion. What I didn’t accept, and what I repressed for all those years was acting on those feelings.

I suppose one reason for that is that in almost every case and until I came out, the object of my desire was also unable or unwilling to reciprocate or initiate some sort of action. Had my feelings not gone unrequited, or had I been able to initiate acting on the feelings, my life may have taken a different course. That may be the number one reason I did not come out sooner.

Another reason I did not act on my feelings is that somewhere in my experience I learned that there was something taboo about expressing this oh-so-natural feeling I had. This didn’t make sense to me, but apparently held great importance—enough importance that it became my code of conduct.

Reason number three is that I also believed it might all change one day, and my feelings and attractions would somehow turn on a dime. When I met the right man, my feelings would change, and then my behavior would be in sync with my feelings.

Needless to say that change never took place even though I stayed married to the same man for 25 years. The three children were probably one reason the marriage endured.

Now that I think about it, for me at least, there’s not much that happens just once, never to have any consequences or influence or effect on future circumstances.

© 20 November 2015

About the Author

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

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Military and Law Enforcement, by Ricky

I once served as a Deputy Sheriff in Pima County (Tucson) Arizona for just short of 4 years. At one time Pima County extended all the way south to the Mexican border during the time that Wyatt Earp was a lawman in that part of the county. So he and I were both deputies in Pima County. I resigned returning to college and pursuing a BS degree in Law Enforcement but the school, BYU, changed the focus of the course so I graduated with a BS in Justice Administration. During my time in Tucson, I was stationed 24 miles north in the Marana Substation and also served about 9-months in the vehicle maintenance section coordinating vehicle repairs and routine maintenance.

In those years I went to 3 fatal traffic accidents; apprehended two armed robbers—recovering $10,000 in stolen money from a drug rip-off; convinced a local “runaway” to return home voluntarily; recovered one stolen car driven by 5 escapees from a Texas Sheriff’s youth farm/ranch—the oldest being only 12; detained for ICE numerous undocumented aliens; eliminated one very potential neighborhood “feud” between a 12 yr old boy and an out of patience new neighbor; arrested 4 California men who came to Tucson to buy bricks of marijuana and who had an illegal sawed off shotgun; tracked burglars through the dessert; became a scoutmaster for the church troop; wrote over 200 traffic tickets; arrested 30 drunk drivers—one of which was a priest (I later learned the local “retreat” was one where the church sent its pedophile priests for rehab); did not arrest one drunk driver because he was only 20 feet from his driveway; got propositioned by a waitress; got propositioned by the CIA; recovered a stolen purse at a high school football game—referring one 6th grade repentant boy to his father and one unrepentant boy to the system via a “paper referral” and released him to his father; was the only lawman in 500 square miles during midnight shifts; in an act of revenge, I collected enough “dirt” on one of my supervisors that he was transferred back to Tucson and decided to resign instead—2-years short of retirement; and saving the best for last, I got married. Working in Marana was exactly like being a Wild West deputy except I drove a car instead of riding a horse. I loved the work.

When I resigned to return to college, I was in the process of collecting signatures to run for the local Justice of the Peace. Although I had more than enough signatures, when BYU called and said there was an opening in married student housing, Deborah and I decided to return so I could finish my degree. She had to quit her medical technologist position so we could go. Shortly after arriving and starting classes, I remembered why I really didn’t like school. I also joined Air Force ROTC so ended up on active duty once again when I graduated.

My first assignment as an officer was to the security police squadron at Malmstrom AFB, Montana as a Shift Commander for the on-base law enforcement and base security flights. The base security flight primarily guarded the nuclear weapons storage area. I spent two-years in that position and then was assigned as a Flight Security Officer for the flights providing security response in the off-base missile field. My flight and I would be away from the base for 3 ½ days at a time. I participated in a few incidents but the one experience I really want to tell you all about occurred after I arrived at my next base in Jacksonville, Arkansas circa 1984.

Little Rock AFB was home to a missile wing supporting the liquid fueled Titan II ICBM. In September 1980 prior to my arrival (1983), one nuclear tipped missile exploded in its silo. This is the story of what happened before, during, and after the incident. This information is not classified so I won’t have to kill any of you after you’re done reading it.

Whenever a nuclear warhead is present, Air Force regulations require that at least two people must be present in such proximity to each other that each can monitor the actions of the other—absolutely no exceptions or violations are tolerated. The Titan II is a two-stage rocket. In order to save weight, parts of the very thin outer skin of the rocket are actually part of the fuel tanks. The fuel is of two types—an oxidizer and the fuel. Both are hypergolic, meaning that when the two chemicals touch, they instantly ignite. The fuel and oxidizer tanks are so thin that the rocket will collapse in upon itself if the liquid fuels are removed improperly as the fuel keeps the tanks from being able to collapse. The skin is so thin that hand-held maintenance tools to be used on the missile or its components have lanyards permanently attached to prevent the tool (sockets, wrenches, etc.) from falling between the rocket and the maintenance platforms surrounding it and puncturing the skin.

So one day all the counts, accounts, no accounts, and recounts (oh wait that’s different story). One fateful day, two maintenance technicians were in the silo performing maintenance on a component internal to the missile. One of the men needed a tool that he forgot to bring down with him. He knew that a tool box (with tools to be used elsewhere in the underground launch complex outside of the silo) was located in the tunnel towards the launch control capsule. These tools did not have lanyards attached. Being stupid, careless, or just plain lazy, he left his partner alone with the missile (major violation #1 and also stupid decision #1) and went to get the unauthorized tool rather than having them both go topside and return with the authorized tool (stupid decision #2).

The tool needed was a socket for a socket wrench. While using the socket, it slipped off the wrench and because it did not have a lanyard, the socket fell between the missile and the maintenance platform around the missile (Murphy’s Law in action). Can you guess what happened right after the “Oh shit” expletive? You guessed it. The socket fell three or more levels gaining momentum before hitting the edge of a platform below and bouncing into the side of the missile puncturing a fuel tank. Instantly, red fuming nitric oxide began to leak setting off the chemical vapor sensors which triggered the alarm. The launch crew ordered the silo evacuated and notified the base of the problem (good decision #1).

The deputy wing commander responded with the emergency response teams. Upon arrival, two environmentally suited fuel personnel went down to the silo to inspect the damage. Upon their report the base contacted the Martin-Murrieta company (the builder of the Titan II) to get their input. After a short period of time, Martin-Murrieta replied: 1st you can’t do anything to stop the leak; and 2nd the missile will explode in approximately 8 ½ hours your local time today. Periodically, the two fuel personnel were sent down to check on the progress of the leak (dangerous or even stupid decision #3). (No civilian or even some military members routinely accuse local commanders of using their brains. Yes, I am biased.) At one time, they even ordered the 740-ton silo cover door be opened so that the explosion would not be contained within the silo. Instantly the highly toxic red vapor left the silo and a large red “cloud” began to drift towards highly populated centers, so the cover was closed (good decision #2).

An order was given to send one man back down to check on the missile (the launch capsule had been evacuated by this time) (major violation #2 & stupid decision #3).

As the 8 ½ hour time limit approached, two environmentally suited personnel were ordered down to check on the missile (stupid decision #4 and also fatal). As the expected explosion time arrived, the two suited personnel were on their way back. The first one had cleared the stairwell coming up completely above ground. The second one was still half underground when the missile exploded. The first man was blown across the complex into the chain link fence where the fence fabric cushioned his impact. The second man was “cut in half” at the waist by the force of the blast. The debris from the incident was stored in an above ground maintenance shed at one of the remaining missile complex sites. I had the pass-key and I actually saw the remaining parts of the destroyed missile and the bloody environmental suit of the airman who died.

Here is the sequence of events at the time of the explosion. The fuel finally leaked out enough that the missile began to collapse. As it collapsed the other 1st stage fuel tank ruptured, the two chemicals touched and instantly exploded; the pressure lifted the 740-ton silo cover door off its foundation rails; the blast spread out circular injuring the two airman; that blast caused the 2nd stage fuel tanks to rupture and they also added to the explosion which accomplished five things; 1st the 740-ton door was lifted quite high; 2nd the nuclear warhead was blasted like a bullet into the bottom of the 740-ton door breaking it into two pieces one being 1/3rd the size of the original; 3rd the larger piece flew about 30 yards and then flattened the Air Force pickup truck that the deputy wing or base commander had been sitting in just 30-seconds earlier; 4th the smaller piece landed about 100 yards away; and 5th the warhead was nowhere to be found (major violation #3—a lost and unguarded nuclear bomb—heads will roll).

The rest of the night, military radio traffic was filled with the euphemisms “has it been found” and “where is it”. The bomb was found the following morning during daylight hours. One of the perimeter security guards was actually sitting on it all night. He never reported finding it because he didn’t know what it was.

EPILOG

1. All security police personnel were shown a dummy warhead during their initial orientation upon arrival at the base (it looks like a large milk can of the type used on family dairy farms);

2. The two environmentally suited airmen were given medals (one posthumously);

3. The surviving suited airman was given a Letter of Reprimand because he was the one who went down alone to check on the missile even though he was following orders—he was supposed to refuse to obey as it was an illegal order; and

4. Nuclear bombs are designed to be “three-point safe”. This means that they will not yield a nuclear explosion if burned, receive a high impact, or hit by a stray electrical charge. The design could never be thoroughly tested. Anecdote: When the person who created the three-point safe design was told that the bomb was found with a large dent (from impacting the 740-ton door) having survived the explosion, he was heard to say, “I TOLD them it would work!”

5. In 1984, I became the project officer for the installation, planning the procedures for use, and personnel training for a DES confidential real-time usage encrypted radio system.

I know this is the true story because I read parts of the official investigation report and reviewed the numerous photographs. One photograph sticks in my mind. It is an overhead shot of the silo taken via helicopter. The silo opening is dead center and surrounding it are compression circles. It strongly reminds me of a dart board or even a target.

Do any of you remember hearing or reading about this event? I was in the Air Force as a Missile Security Officer in 1980 stationed in Montana; I never heard of it.

For other versions of the explosion go to:

http://encyclopediaofarkansas.net/encyclopedia/entry-detail.aspx?entryID=2543

http://www.techbastard.com/missile/titan2/littlerockaccident2.php

http://www.techbastard.com/missile/titan2/littlerockaccident.php

The public versions are different than the official investigative report I read. (Nothing new about that is there?)

What did a Titan Launch Complex look like? Go to:

http://www.strategic-air-

© 31 Mar 2012
command.com/missiles/Titan/Titan_II_missile_complex.htm

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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Birthdays, by Ray S

Forgive me because I have used this opening before. Atlanta is burning, panic prevails, and to add to this mix Scarlett O’Hara and her Black slave are driving the wagon hell-bent for election to somewhere that she can deliver her baby girl. And this is the punch line hysterically delivered by Butterfly McQueen: “I don’t know nuthin’ ‘bout birthin’ no baby, Miss Scarlett!” Where was Rhett when he was needed?

The one important thing all of us everywhere have in common is our very first birthday. After that first spanking life’s up for grabs.

Some of us have been blessed with so many birthday parties that we can’t distinguish one from another. Sure, if you really think hard, there were special times in a specific year, but if you have survived eighty or so, you can’t remember. Then there is always dementia waiting to creep into one of your parties. Good luck.

On a joyful note: on the occasion of my 91st birthday I was reminded by the receipt of so many congratulatory greetings that my world still loved me and wished me well in hanging on ‘til number 92 crept up. The week featured a lunch or dinner to the point that I was relieved when I had one free night at home.

Be reminded: “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.” Birthdays—at least mine—give so much love and to give back so very much love.

Sometimes certain birthdays provoke regrets. A love life gone away, a death in your immediate or extended family, or you wonder why you had to wait so very long to discover who you really are and what to do with this newfound knowledge. The latter can become a really happy birthday gift. This is the ever-present specter, ageing, and its complications. Sometimes it seems to be really difficult to reach that ‘happy ending.’

Meantime there is one thing we could do upon meeting another birthday—yours or mine. Reach out and embrace each other. It is the best present we can give each other. Time’s a wasting!

© 14 November 2016

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GLBT Hopes, by Phillip Hoyle

Growing up I had no GLBT hopes. I had no idea what those initials represented; no idea that the concepts and rich human experiences behind them had anything to do with me. I didn’t feel hopeless. I was simply clueless.

In my early twenties I began to hear and understand a little about the beginnings of the gay liberation movement. I had taken great interest in the African American movements, had begun to read about the feminist movement, and realized I needed to know more about all such movements. I had very generalized hopes for all of them, for the securing of civil rights for all Americans under law regardless of race, gender, sex, education, and a number of other differences that left them susceptible to many injustices. I saw how churches as well as the general community were unjust towards minorities. I had hopes for a better America and for better American churches.

For myself I had believed in the idea that you grew up, got educated, got married, reared children, and in my case served churches through your ministry. Since I was on route to become a minister, I accepted I would have to toe the line on some things that others in the congregation might not find necessary. Life was good. Whatever LGBT hopes I had were for others.

At the point when I accepted that homosexuality was right at the center of who I was, I hoped that my wife might find herself to be lesbian. We could then work out a special arrangement to continue living together. It didn’t happen. I assumed I would always be married and hoped I would never to go too far in satisfying my homosexual needs. I didn’t want to change the trajectory of my life.

Midlife took care of that for me. I was changing emotionally. I had no doubt that I loved my wife or that she loved me. I wanted a man to love me; I wanted to love a man. When I realized I was going to become the bad husband and a bad minister, I changed both roles. I was hurting my wife. I didn’t want to do so. We talked but there was so much emotion—so many emotions—we didn’t know what to do. Our settlement settled little. We did separate. I bore the responsibility before our families. We said goodbye with a kiss and tears.

Within a month I had GLBT hopes. Lots of them: to finish my job obligation; to move to one of three western American cities; to live openly as a gay man. For twenty years I had considered myself bisexual. Now I was going to simplify my life.

My gay hope was to learn just what gay would mean for me. First though some other things would take my attention: getting work for income, writing, and dedicating lots of time to the visual arts. I began writing episodes from my life and then writing about my new work: massage. A new gay hope emerged: to write up my gay life experiences. Before long I was pleased to find myself loving a man who loved me. I hoped we’d have lots of time together. He died from AIDS. Then I grieved a true GLBT grief. During this time I was careful with myself. I stayed busy with my work. I was still engaged as a gay man. I wrote about the loss of my gay partner. It was a sequel to one I had written a couple of years earlier when a gay friend had died from AIDS. (The two pieces may be my best writing to date.)

Then I met a gay daydream at a bus stop in my neighborhood. Our love blossomed. Then he died. I sagged. Still I wrote and realized I would write much more about my gay experiences. My arts kept me hopeful.

A straight woman friend of mine told me about the SAGE of the Rockies Telling Your Story. I attended wondering how my writing would be heard by a truly GLBT audience. It was like a gay hope come true.

From this ever-changing group of storytellers that offers every-changing and sometimes emotion-blowing perspectives, I have clarified my new GLBT Hopes:

I now hope that GLBT (etc.) folk will all someday take time to hear one another’s stories. There is no better way to come to know oneself than to hear the stories of others, no better way to be inspired than to hear the experiences of another person you know more than superficially. I hope that those stories will also become of interest to other humans—you know like those who claim to be straight or heterosexual or some other category. I want this latter so they can see how little different are all people.

I hope that GLBTs will always vote mindfully in local, state, and national elections.

I hope that LGBTs will come to appreciate and respect one another as much as we want others to honor and respect us.

© 9 January 2017

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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Queer A Defining Word, by Pat Gourley

It is quite amazing to me really how little of my childhood years I remember beyond vague, though some significant, generalities. I suppose I could view this as suppression of lots of terrible stuff but I really think it is more a matter of not much out of the ordinary or worthy of sublimation ever happening. Lord knows my rather intense at times Catholic upbringing and schooling might have been a source of great consternation and resulting psychopathology, but for whatever reason I think I sailed through those years queer as a three dollar bill and largely unscathed.

As I have written before (my apologies for the repetition) one episode though that has stuck with me was when I asked my mother what the word “queer” meant. I think I was about 12 years old when I first heard it used. She said it was a bad word and I should never use it. I then went straight to the dictionary but the only definition provided that stuck with me was that it meant “odd”. I went back to her with this piece of information but she persisted that it was not a word to incorporate into my vocabulary. I suspect that I or someone near me had been called a “queer” and being totally oblivious to any homosexual connection with the word thought this to be a weird choice especially delivered in less than loving fashion.
Queer to this day remains a loaded and offensive word by some LBGT folks, despised as much as the “F” word. The “F” word being “faggot” of course and not “fuck”. I could have written about “Faggot” as a defining word but thought I had enough to tackle on my plate with “Queer”. And I actually thought for a fleeting minute of writing on the word “fuck” one of my favorites but decided to keep it closer to home. And besides other than this little phrase I ran into on Facebook the other day I don’t have much more to say about “fuck”: “I have been told I am going to hell for my excessive use of the word FUCK. I have rented a bus if any of you fuckers need a ride.” From Fsensitivity Web Site
Back to Queer. Certain words used to describe us are ones that we have simply and innocently appropriated like “gay”. Others are words that have been used to denigrate and belittle us, some of which we have reclaimed and others not so much. The use of language to offensively describe some folks as ‘other’ has often been used as a means of control. Though for a minority struggling for self-definition and empowerment the re-appropriation of often-derogatory words is I think a legitimate exercise that can enhance identity and liberation. And such is the case I believe with the word “Queer”.
In looking for the origins of the word I kind of fell down an Internet rabbit hole. The use of it as a derogatory term aimed at homosexual folks may well date back to 16th century Scotland. The actual roots of the word seem perhaps lost to time. However, my go to person, for meaning of the Queen’s English if you will, remains Judy Grahn and her seminal work from 1984 Another Mother Tongue. Grahn states that the original word was “cwer” (c-w-e-r) without directly attributing any tribal or national origin to that word. After an hour or so of floundering around the ether a possible source for “cwer” I stumbled on is that it was old Welsh in origin. However, don’t take that to the bank.
Let me quote Grahn’s take on the possible meaning of this descriptive moniker:
“ ‘Sinful,’ ‘of the devil’ and ‘evil’ are all expressions that have been used very effectively against gay culture, as has ‘queer’, which derives from cwer, crooked not straight, kinked. Perhaps the difference between queer and straight originated very simply with the difference between the straight-line dance of male/female couples and the Fairy round dance”. From Another Mother Tongue. Page 276.
So perhaps it was a word used originally to acknowledge that we were different from straight folks in a rather kinked or crooked sense and that the evil or sinful associations were added later. Maybe we were the ones who preferred to dance in circles rather than in straight lines and this bit of nonconformity was one thing I hope, among many, that set us apart. And of course anyone set apart from the norm was often then fair game for ostracism that could become nasty.
I suspect there is a rich history to this word “Queer” that is lost to the mists of time. I am choosing to reclaim it as a defining word, one that helps set us apart from the hetero-hordes. A word that hints at our uniqueness and the valuable contributions we bring to the human tapestry by way of our otherness.

© 19 Feb 2016 

About the Author 

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

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True Colors, by Nicholas

Take a Walk in the Grove

I want to tell a story today that involves one of our own, a member of this group. It’s about a group of people who showed their true colors in their loyalty to one friend and created a unique space for our entire community. Along the South Platte River on the edge of downtown Denver, is an area of Commons Park designated as a spot to remember those who have died of HIV/AIDS and their caregivers. It’s called The Grove and it is one of only two AIDS memorial gardens in this country—the other is in San Francisco. Our own Randy Wren was part of that group that labored for seven years to make it happen.

The Grove started with one man’s vision. Doug McNeil knew of the memorial grove in Golden Gate Park in San Francisco and asked, literally as his dying wish, why can’t Denver create such a spot. Doug died of AIDS in 1993, a time when the LGBT community was focused more on the battle to undo the infamous Amendment 2 than on the AIDS epidemic. Amendment 2, passed by Colorado voters in 1992, prohibited any government or government agency in this state from enacting any provisions to ban discrimination against lesbian and gay people. (There’s an excellent exhibition on that history outside this door in The Center’s lobby.) And it was a time of still rampant AIDS phobia.

A small group of Doug’s friends vowed to carry out his dream for The Grove. They weren’t the usual gaggle of community activists and politicos. They included socialites, arts community supporters, an attorney, and an Episcopal priest. Most were not gay. They organized a non-profit group called The Grove Project, got 501c3 IRS status so they could collect funds, and began the long process of taking on the bureaucracy of the city’s Parks Department.

The Parks Department never openly rejected the idea but negotiations dragged on for years. At first, the area in front of the performing arts complex on Speer Blvd was proposed. The city objected that theatre and concert goers wouldn’t want to be reminded of the awfulness of AIDS on their nights out on the town. Another location in a park in southeast Denver was suggested but that would have left the memorial far from the Capitol Hill neighborhood that was most affected by AIDS.

At some point, the riverfront came into the discussion. At that time, the area was just beginning to be developed. There was a quiet, somewhat out of the way spot in a new park—Commons Park—that the city was planning. That fit the criteria of being visible, centrally located and quiet enough to promote the atmosphere desired.

The Grove was envisioned to be a natural area for contemplation. It was landscaped very simply with trees, natural grasses and shrubs, and some rocks. A simple inscription reads: “Dedicated to the remembrance of those who have lost their lives to AIDS and to their loving caregivers who helped them live out those lives with dignity.”

The Grove was dedicated in a simple ceremony in August 2000. Doug McNeil’s loyal and persistent friends accomplished his dream after seven years of work.

Now, The Grove sits largely ignored and sort of neglected in a recessed corner of Commons Park, near 15th Street and Little Raven Street. It is surrounded by high priced condos and apartments but it is still a quiet and attractive area.

Recently, a movement got underway to renew the spot, clean it up, refresh the landscaping and, most importantly, make the community aware that this historical and spiritual resource exists. In recalling all the individuals who battled, and continue to battle AIDS, we remember how our community grew from that experience. We remember those we’ve lost. We remember when being gay changed from just giving the most fabulous parties to a truly mature community of caregivers and advocates. We remember our past and that we have a history. A history that is the root of our present and future.

I encourage everyone to seek out The Grove and spend a few quiet moments there remembering. And maybe you can help in its renewal. You too can show your true colors.

© 2016

About the Author 

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

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Self Acceptance, by Louis Brown

Amazons, Nose-Job, and Varicose Veins

This prompt will most likely inspire certain people to say something like, “I did not know I was gay until I was 50 years old or 60 years old.” To many people, that reaction sounds unbelievable and preposterous. I am from New York City, but I do believe these people. Our society used to keep telling us that gay people do not exist. Women never kiss women, and certainly men never kiss men. So many people assumed that that must be true. That is why large numbers of gay people used to go through life not really knowing who they were, as fantastic as that may seem.

Personally, I did not have that option. When I was in the 8th grade in elementary school and a year later as a freshman in high school, although my parents had no idea, certain street people knew I was gay. If you went to any high school in those days in New York City, you were not safe unless you had protection from a gang. I was approached by the head of the girls’ gang who told me something like, “You’re a faggot so you are going to be constantly assaulted by the toughs. Join our gang, and you will not have to worry. We know how to fight.” They called themselves the Amazons and they prided themselves on their really long fingernails that they painted meticulously with vivid red nail polish. They told me that those were their weapons. They did in fact assault and neutralize a large number of male toughs. I was safe.

I occasionally had to attend Amazon meetings. I am proud to say that, once, when they said they wanted to assault a bookish Jewish boy, I pleaded with them not to, and they didn’t. On another occasion, they wanted to assault a pretty, extremely passive, soft-spoken girl named Monica. I pleaded with them not to. So they didn’t.

So, to survive, I had to accept who I was at an early age.

About 12 years after that, I was applying for a job that required me to get interviewed by a psychologist who happened to be a woman. I spoke with her for a few minutes before she read my application. After a while, I told her yes I was gay, and I wondered if she could tell by talking to me. She said she could not tell, in fact she would not have guessed so. The psychologist assured me that she was not the one doing the actual hiring and that their company did not have an anti-gay hiring policy so that I need not worry. I did not get the job, gee I wonder why.

My point is that, if you contrast what the Amazons knew about me right away, right off the bat, and what the trained psychologist could not even guess at, what is going on? I guess sometimes street people are just more insightful in judging people than the so-called professionals.

Two examples of what I did not accept about my own body. When I was say 12 years old, a high-flying baseball came right at my face and hit me in the nose. I bled, but my parents did not take me to the doctor. That is one reason I am not a baseball enthusiast, never will be. I would prefer a sewing class any day. I had a bruise on my nose for a while, but a few years later I realized my nose was off-center, and I had to breathe through my mouth.

I was being harassed at the office, so I said to myself this is a good time to take a month or two off and get a nose job. I went to the Plastic Surgery Department of New York Hospital, and made an appointment. I had to go two or three times in advance to make sure I was physically a good candidate for surgery. They said I was. When I was talking privately with the nurse, she told me I lucked out. My plastic surgeon was going to be a famous Italian plastic surgeon who has reworked the faces of several Hollywood actresses and actors.

On the day of the surgery, I took the anesthesia, but, when I woke up, I barfed. I only stayed a day or so longer in the hospital. I had large dark purple bruises that covered my nose and the areas around my eyes. I looked like a raccoon. I could not go out in public, so I stayed with my brother Charlie in Flushing New York. After about a week I bought a pair of sunglasses with enormous lenses. When I wore them, I could go out and resumed my daily routines.

After that surgery, I was able to breathe through my nose and was more aware of my septum and sinuses. Where there used to be bone and cartilage, now there was a large, comfortable cavity.

About 15 years ago, I noticed I was getting a lot of varicose veins on my left leg. I thought to myself, don’t pregnant women get varicose veins when they are having some medical problem? Why me? Men do not get varicose veins. After the embarrassment phase was over, I went to the cardiovascular department of New York Hospital, got an appointment for an evaluation, and they said yes to surgery.

This consisted of me lying on my right side with a sort of leaden blanket to cover me up above the waist and my right leg. They anesthetized my left leg so that it was numb, then they zapped me with an electric current in several different locations, i.e. they stuck in needles to conduct the electricity. A couple of weeks after the surgery all the varicose veins were gone. Amazing.

So now with my nose job and my freedom from varicose veins, I accept myself.

P. S.: New York Hospital, unfortunately, no longer has the liberal policy of letting any one walk in to their buildings to set up medical procedures such as surgery. What if an elderly person wanted a varicosectomy operation in Denver? What happens?


© 7 December 2016

About the Author

I was born in 1944, I lived most of my life in New York City, Queens County. I still commute there. I worked for many years as a Caseworker for New York City Human Resources Administration, dealing with mentally impaired clients, then as a social work Supervisor dealing with homeless PWA’s. I have an apartment in Wheat Ridge, CO. I retired in 2002. I have a few interesting stories to tell. My boyfriend Kevin lives in New York City. I graduated Queens College, CUNY, in 1967.

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Ten Good Things about Being Gay, by Lewis Thompson

1. Not being straight (roads are always more fun when curved).

2. Not needing help to put an outfit together.

3. Being able to enjoy “chic flicks” even when not a chic.

4. Having friends of the other gender without all the bullshit that goes with romance.

5. Never having to shop for fishing gear.

6. Being able to mix with both genders at parties.

7. Never being chastised for not putting the toilet seat down.

8. Being able to trade clothes with my lover.

9. Feeling special without doing anything special.

10. Coming to Storytellers every Monday.

© 27 Jun 2016

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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An Awkward Moment, by Gillian

It was in March 2002. The new Schlessman branch of Denver Public Library had just opened a few days earlier and I was excited to pay my first visit. So, obviously, were many other people scuttling eagerly in its direction. The day that library opened, it outgrew its parking lot, so we approached from neighboring streets.We had had several days and nights of that typical Springtime thawing-and-refreezing and there were unsuspected patches of almost invisible ice hiding in the shadows. Suddenly both feet shot out from beneath me and I landed hard on my back, my head making a sickening crack against the sidewalk. Ouch! (Though I suspect I thought words other than that!)

Gathering up what was left of my dignity I scrambled to my feet, making I’m OK gestures to nearby concerned citizens. Though once upright, I wasn’t so sure. I felt a bit woozy. Hoping not to repeat one slightly awkward moment after another, I hastily sat down on the low wall edging the library parking lot. What I am referring to as awkward might be embarrassing moments for some people, but I so exercised my right to be embarrassed in my youth that I grew out of it years ago and now rarely feel that anything goes beyond awkward. But awkward moments I can sometimes excel in. In fact they tend to, with me, very like buses; nothing for a long time and then several, one right after the other.

And sure enough, here came another one. Resting my head in my hands in an attempt to ensure my equilibrium, I noticed a tickling sensation on both hands. Half-opening my eyes, it was impossible NOT to notice the steady drip of blood falling onto the sidewalk. Shit! Gently I felt the back of my head, which did not cause me any great pain but my hand came away covered in blood. Shit! Was I right in thinking I could just walk back to the car and drive home? I felt that I could. I knew Betsy was not at home, she was in Birmingham on a family visit, so there was no point in going into the library to call – not to mention the slight problem of dripping blood all over their nice shiny brand new floor.

It dawned slowly upon me that quite a crowd was gathering; a lot of concerned faces were turned in my direction. This was before the days when absolutely everyone had a cellphone, but one cute young blonde thing was waving one around, vaguely in my direction. I tried to trawl through friends and family phone-numbers I knew by heart, but my slightly fuzzy brain was unable to offer much help. A young man with a little boy by the hand said, to me and the gathering crowd, that he thought I should go the hospital. The cutie with the cell phone nodded agreement.

‘May I call an ambulance?’ she asked, politely.

I was not sure. I wanted just to go home. But maybe, I wondered, watching the blood dripping ever-faster onto the cement, I was not really thinking too clearly.

‘Really,’ another voice offered, ‘You should go the hospital. You’re bleeding badly.’

Murmured agreement rose from the onlookers.

No shit, Sherlock, I thought, ungratefully.

I hesitated. I gave in. Shit! They were the ones thinking clearly, not me.

I had never been strapped onto an ambulance gurney before. Come to that, I had never been in an ambulance before. Another cute young thing patted my arm and talked soothingly of nothings as we sped through Denver, sirens wailing. I supposed it should have been at least a little exciting, but I felt rather a fraud. My head didn’t hurt very much, and felt much clearer than it had for a minute there. Wrapped securely in some delightfully soft something, it might have still been bleeding but at least was no longer dripping on everything. I gave a mental shrug.

What the hell?

Four hours later, a disgruntled young man perched on the edge of my bed in St. Jo’s E.R.

‘It really is nothing,’ he decreed, glaring at me for wasting his valuable time, of which he had spent all of perhaps one minute with me.

‘The nurse will be back, then you can go home.’

He made me feel as if I should apologize profusely for unnecessarily occupying this prize piece of real estate in the form of a bed in Emergency.

Almost another hour later, another cute young thing appeared. There were so many of them around that day, I was starting to wonder if the knock on my head was causing me to have hallucinations – if very pleasurable ones.

‘Better safe than sorry, Honey,’ she said, agreeably, reading my mind, as she unnecessarily helped me up off the bed.

‘Sure was a lot of blood but it’s no more than a bad graze. We can’t even put a dressing on it without shaving a real lot of hair off so best just leave it. It’ll heal in it’s own time,’ she concluded, comfortingly.

Now feeling nothing but a very slight throbbing in my head, and a worse stiffness from lying in a cold room for hours, I decided I would simply walk home and evade all the logistical complications of finding someone to come and pick me up. I could get a cab, but having seen the blood-covered back of my yellow jacket and the front of gray sweatshirt, I rather doubted one would agree to take me anywhere. Anyway, the day had warmed up considerably and a walk home in the late afternoon sun would be good for me. I would go through City Park, always pleasant. At that time we lived in Park Hill, and this of course was the old St. Jo’s, so it was probably, at the most, three miles.

I had gone as far as the path around the south side of City Park Lake, where I stopped for a minute to enjoy the cormorants, sitting about as they do with their wings spread out and held up as if drying their underarms. A young woman, pushing a stroller containing a small child, jogged past me. A few yards on, she stopped. She looked back at me, hesitatingly, then turned to walk back towards me. Yet another cute young thing. I should bang my head more often.

‘Umm …. excuse me …. er ….. I guess ….. you do know that your head is bleeding?’

Oh Lord. I had forgotten all about my blood-spattered clothes. I smiled reassuringly.

‘Sorry, I forgot about the blood on my jacket.’

I apologized, meanwhile pulling said jacket closed in front and hoping she had not noticed more dried blood on my shirt. Perhaps I did look rather like an escapee from somewhere.

She said nothing more but simply looked pointedly back in the direction we had both come.

A trail of blood spattered as far as I could see. Shit! Why hadn’t I grabbed a handful of tissues before leaving the hospital?

I explained the circumstances briefly to her and, still looking skeptical and requesting several assurances that I really would get home OK, she jogged off.

I arrived safely home after only one more encounter. An older man and woman in a shiny Lincoln passed me along Montview Boulevard, pulling over to park near the library which I assumed was their destination. But no, as I walked up beside their car they both got out, faces full of concern. This time I jumped in first: an apology, a brief explanation, an assurance that my house was now only a block away. No matter, they insisted, they would take me home.

‘I … might … um …. mess up your beautiful car …..’ I offered, looking through their eyes at my bloody clothes which by now were further stained with new blood over old.

Not only would they refuse all argument but insisted, upon arrival, in walking me to my door and seeing me safely inside, where I sank exhaustedly into an armchair the moment the door closed.

Shit! Nosy people had turned what should have, would have, been a perfectly pleasant, relaxed, walk, into a series of uninvited encounters. Shit! Why didn’t people just mind their own dam business? I sat grumpily in my chair. Gingerly fingering my head I realized it had stopped bleeding. I supposed it was the walking motion that had started it off, and kept it going. My irritation lifted and I found myself smiling. People were really so very nice, I thought. And even now, when I need to remind myself of that truth, I remember that day. I don’t relive the awkwardness of some moments, but rather the caring kindness of strangers.

© December 2016

About the Author

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

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The Recliner, by Betsy

I do not own a recliner. In fact I never have owned one. I do not recall ever having one in our house when I was growing up. So I cannot say I really miss having a recliner. But I cannot say I never sit in one either because I have utilized certain recliners throughout my life. At this time in my life I find myself in one twice a year on a rather consistent basis.

I have always been conscientious about taking care of my teeth. Early in life my parents made me do that. So I guess I developed a good habit then which I continued into adulthood.

As a child my visits to the dentist were frequent. Like most children I dreaded them. I regarded them as trips to the torture chamber. The day my baby teeth were all gone and my permanent teeth were in place, my dental problems began and so too my frequent visits to the torture chamber began.

I was never offered the option of fluoride to protect my teeth which teeth were above average in their propensity to decay. In the 1940’s when fluoridation of water was first introduced, it was from the start controversial. In the 1950’s and 60’s fluoridation of the public water supply was regarded by some as a communist plot to undermine the health of the people of the United States. This belief had been especially entrenched on the east coast where I lived. Consequently it was not until I was about 60 years old then I had my first fluoride treatment.

By then, however, I had had most of my molars drilled out to nubbins and filled with amalgam which lasts about 40-50 years. When I came to Colorado in1970 and had my first appointment, every new dentist I had said the same thing. “Now open please. Ohhhh, hmmmm, I see you’re from the east coast. Your teeth seem to be in good repair—mostly repair.” Well, my fillings had been there for 40-50 years and they were beginning to crumble.

Fortunately I had a wonderful dentist when I was in my 50’s and 60’s. I had a good job which provided some kind of dental insurance. My dentist said to me, “ We have to replace all your repaired teeth with crowns.” That meant almost all my molars needed crowns. It took about ten years to accomplish that. It got so that every visit to the dentist when I walked in the door the staff would announce , “Betsy’s here for another coronation!” Dr. Jones said to me once, “I only know one other person who has more crowns in her mouth than you, and that’s my wife.” Anyway those crowns are still serving me well today. I would love to have some of the glue they use to glue them on. Wow, what a glue that is—really strong and never dries out.

They say you can’t remember pain. Maybe you can’t recreate it, but I sure can remember it was painful in that early torture chamber. That was before they used novocain. And the drill was so very slow. Dr Bienville, my childhood dentist, was not my favorite person. He would hold the drill in his hand and say, “This won’t hurt.” I knew good and well it would hurt. The instant the torture devise touched my tooth the nerve would send a searing hot pain down my arm to the ends of my fingernails or leg and toenails depending on the tooth being drilled. Yes, it was torture. And it would go on for what seemed like hours.

My teenage dentist was not much better. By then we had novocain and once that was very painfully injected into my gum, I knew there was a God. Mercifully, no pain while drilling.

Getting the injection was painful, the needles were huge, but the pain of the needle didn’t endure for hours like the drilling.

Dr. Young, however, had other means of causing discomfort. He, not so young, loved young women. He was always trying to wipe his hands on my bib, right in the area of……..well you can guess. Yes, he did that. I had been warned about this by my friends, and didn’t think he would try it on me, but sure enough, he did. From then on, I took to sitting with my arms crossed over my chest when his hands were free. He got the message and probably worried that I might tell my mother.

Today I really don’t mind going to the dentist. His cute young always female assistants do all the work and they are gentle and friendly chatting away as I sit there unable to form a word in reply.

I have to say I am a bit intimidated by the exam which entails her probing the edges of my gums and announcing a number from 1-5 depending on how bad the gap between my tooth and the gum is. A quick probe and the number is announced and recorded. I dread hearing “3” as that’s a bad score for any tooth. Several fours and I know I’m in trouble. I always feel like I’m on trial when they do that exam. Will I pass, or will I get scolded for not flossing enough. Flossing, they say, is essential for healthy gums. I must say their strategy is effective. I find myself flossing all the time so I’ll get a good score. They know I like to compete even against my own gums. It works.

Over my lifetime I have not just observed—I have experienced huge strides in the practice of dentistry. A clear journey from the torture chamber to the recliner and pain free application of new techniques and preventive treatments.

I also realize I have been one of the fortunate ones. Even though my teeth were prone to decay easily, I have lived a long life with the same teeth, at least the roots. And the bad parts have been repaired and replaced so that I enjoy a healthy mouthful of efficient chewing machines. This is something for which I am very grateful. Had I not had any dental care I know I would not have any teeth—at least not my own—and along with that I would be having chronic problems with my mouth and who knows, probably problems with my overall health as lack of dental care can cause many general health problems.

So thank you, thank you to all my dentists and their cute young technicians in whose recliners in which I have been fortunate enough to lie.

© 3 February 2017

About the Author

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