Posts

Posted on

Closet Case by Phillip Hoyle

Business was slow, so rather than just sit around wondering where my clients had gone, I got to work at home doing fall cleaning, that work where obsession facilitates doing a complete inventory of one’s possessions and an effective chasing of dirt from one place to another. It served to produce a lightening of the load and a freshening of my domestic environment. I ran the vacuum sweeper, dusted walls and woodwork, sorted randomly created stacks of papers, recycled all those things I had not got to or that no longer pertained, and carried out a ton of trash. I shook area rugs filling the autumn air with countless dust particles, knocked down cobwebs (after all, we didn’t need them for effect since Halloween was over), and even dusted the leaves of the fake fichus tree that so effectively fills one corner of the room. I washed the king-size linens, even the quilted spread, and added an insulated blanket to prepare the bed for the turning weather. With all that work completed, I had used up most of a day and so carried the electric sweeper to the basement.

The next morning I attacked that space making ready for the arrival of company for Thanksgiving. I loaded the CD player with some high energy music I rarely listen to and went to work all in a frenzy. Again there was laundry, sorting, carrying away recyclable materials, getting rid of cobwebs, washing windows, and the extra job of finding more out-of-the-way spaces for stowing my too-many framed pieces of art. The day passed quickly, too quickly, since as shadows lengthened I realized there was still too much work to do. I sat in a chair and stared at the closet door wondering what I’d find in there were I to open it.

Finally, as the room darkened with evening and my mood darkened, I wondered if I’d ever open that door. I felt sure I wouldn’t like everything I’d find there. “Oh, just do it,” I said to myself, rose from the chair, and threw open the accordion door to face the closet with its mementos, out-of-date equipment, and discarded values. I wasn’t surprised to find such things; after all aren’t closets meant to stow things out of sight? But I faced along with them a truckload of feelings, some of them that I had almost forgotten.

Immediately I saw the old LPs; the SONY reel-to-reel and a box of tapes; a stack of boxes of jigsaw puzzles solved last winter; fold up tables and chairs; table games for when company arrives; an old violin that had been in the family for generations and hasn’t been played for eons. I dusted these off, as I’d done annually for almost a decade. Then I turned my attention to unmarked boxes of uncertain content.
In one cardboard box I discovered my Diplomas; for years I’d gone to school, studied, was graduated from high school, college, and seminary. Years and careers ago.

In another box I discovered photos of my marriage, our growing family, and friends left behind in the several places I’d lived. One photograph shows me standing with my new wife by our black and white 56 Chevy one August afternoon at Lands End, a spot on Grand Mesa overlooking the desert that stretches off to the west. I wonder now what marriage even felt like.

Ooh, there are spider webs as well as dust. Do I really want to go any further?

On one shelf sat books, ones I had completely forgotten about since I hadn’t used any of their information for years. First were three large-print children’s dictionaries of the English Language, each one a specialized lexicon of appropriate usage: the first, language appropriate for school and church; the second, language appropriate for home; the third, language appropriate to use with my best buddies. I smiled, realizing that the habit of closeting one’s usage was a strategy of manners and survival practiced even by young children, especially ones of unusual proclivity.

Other books were there, volumes on sexuality, ethics, theology, and philosophy. They, too, hadn’t been opened in years, for when I had emerged from my closet I was no longer interested in their content. Well, not exactly, but my interest took a different turn, served a different purpose. I had considered their arguments, their insights, their potential. I had appropriated what I could and when I finally pushed myself out the door, left the books behind. Still their ideas inform my sense of self as I go about my weekly schedule and bolster my resolve to be ‘out’ when I meet new people and situations. But I quit buying updates of arguments on the same topics, content with my newer identity. Why I’ve kept these few I’m not sure. They represent the intensity of my inquiry into society and my life. I decided I was able to let them go and put them in the pile of things to give to Goodwill. Maybe they’ll help someone else.

Then there are the novels. I realize they, too, helped open me to my then future life as a gay man. I’d read them for decades trying to find myself among their characters. I’d especially searched for myself in gay novels and despaired that I must be so queer as not to appear. But I have kept a couple of them: Ambidextrous by Felice Picano and I Don’t Think Were In Kansas Anymore by Ethan Mordden, the two gay novels in which I did appear. I’ll keep hold of them for their encouragement and sentimental value. I realize that my experience of the closet, while costly, also helped make me what I am. I honor even the hidden part of my past. I also decided to keep the Masters and Johnson volume for its information on STDs—a wise reminder—and one book of feminist arguments about prenatal existence, a good thing to remember when one facilitates a group of LGBT storytellers.

And there was another book: The Craft of Acting. I’d studied this one over and over for while I felt at home with my profession in the church and comfortable with my duplicity/triplicity in matters sexual, I still knew I had to act. One tells a story but has to do so in a way that an audience can hear and perceive what is intended.

With this thought I look suspiciously at two old suit cases of costumes: Indian costumes for dancing at powwows, an African robe and mask for a children’s program I once organized, and a clerical robe with stoles. Even though I rarely dressed up for Halloween, I did have my costumes, my own drag costumes exotic and clerical. By wearing these costumes I defined my difference in socially acceptable ways. I guess I should just give them to my grandkids. Who knows what they may be experiencing, what costumes they may need!

So on that evening of the second day of fall housecleaning, I decided to discard and to keep varying items from my old closeted days. I discarded those things I had learned all too well and kept symbols of the victories of walking from that cramped space in a search for freedom. That seems to be the case with all closets. They bare cleaning and reorganizing from time to time, but may I never forget my past closeted life so I will never think to hide there again.

Denver, 2012

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, giving massages, and socializing. His massage practice funds his other activities that keep him busy with groups of writers and artists, and folk with pains. Following thirty-two years in church work, he now focuses on creating beauty and ministering to the clients in his practice. He volunteers at The Center leading “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

Posted on

Coming Out Spiritually by Pat Gourley

“If you are too busy to sit in meditation
 for twenty minutes a day
 then you need to sit in meditation
 for an hour every day.”

Paraphrased Buddhist Wisdom

I am not sure that my spiritual coming out over the years has not really been more of a shedding of things rather than the cultivation of any particular tradition or significant growth and development on my part. If I try to put it on a life trajectory I guess maybe as my queer and political identities blossomed my religious/spiritual side seems to have waned significantly over the decades, with the exception perhaps of a resurgence in the last 20 years of my often helterskelter Buddhist practice and an ever evolving atheist ethos.

I am aware that it is trendy these days in certain circles to say, “No I am not religious but I am spiritual.” The spiritual part of that is often for many defined in very vague terms involving some sort of unity with the whole Universe. One person though who has thought through this “one with the Universe” thing is my current favorite atheist Lawrence M. Krauss:

“Every atom in your body came from a star that exploded. And, the atoms in your left hand probably came from a different star than your right hand. It really is the most poetic thing I know about physics: You are all stardust. You couldn’t be here if stars hadn’t exploded, because the elements – the carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, iron, all the things that matter for evolution and for life – weren’t created at the beginning of time. They were created in the nuclear furnaces of stars, and the only way to get them into your body is if those stars were kind enough to explode. So, forget Jesus. The stars died so that you could be here today.” Lawrence Krauss, A Universe from Nothing.

The root motivation for all religious or spiritual seeking seems to me to be very succinctly summed up in the following phrase, which I am quoting from Stephen Batchelor’s great work Buddhism Without Beliefs; “Since death alone is certain and the time of death uncertain, what should I do?”

The Catholic Church teaches that one reaches the age of reason at seven and then real sinning becomes possible, a rather rigid view of child development. My spiritual journey from this age of seven until about age seventeen was certainly laid out for me, no thought required, just a lot of something called Faith. The indoctrination in the Catholic religion though started in my Irish family much earlier than age seven of course. My adolescent discovery that sex with another man could be simply divine and that much of what the establishment had taught me about how the world worked in general needed to be seriously called into question. This was in large part thanks to a wonderful rogue Holy Cross nun and resulted in a rather rapid jettisoning of my early Catholic upbringing and beliefs.

Much of the 1970’s where spent in the proverbial lifestyle of sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll and then lots more sex with no particular spiritual bent. I did hook up with the local chapter of Dignity, a group of mostly Catholic gay men, who I think in hindsight were desperately trying to square being queer with being a good Catholic. Not sure that all worked out so well for most of them. I attended more to cruise than anything else really.

In the late 1970’s I entered my “pagan/earth mother” phase and this was fueled by contact with many feminists and the Radical Fairies many of whom also shared this spiritual worldview. I was influenced by the writings of a wonderful witch named Starhawk. One of my dearest possessions from those years is the first stained glass piece my loving companion David made for me, a beautiful and very colorful pentagram.

The eighties were probably my least ‘spiritual’ in any fashion with delusion setting in that Goddess worship may not have been all it was cracked up to be. The struggles with mortality were also coming home in a big way as many started dying from AIDS. Nothing like a lot of death around you to force the question “What should I do”? Chanting, however fervently, to the Goddess didn’t seem to help much.

In the early nineties and up to the present I guess my “spiritual trip” can best be defined as Buddhist. A ten-year stint with the Kwan Um School of Zen and work with great teachers cemented my practice or at least I learned how to better sit still and be quiet.

In pondering coming out spiritually I think it must be an ongoing process, as most coming out is, and I am drawn back to the Stephen Bachelor’s injunction I quoted earlier and that is “What should I do?” This question presented itself in rather stark fashion this past Friday on my walk back from the gym.

Around 11:00 in the morning walking down Logan Street heading south toward 13th I was approaching a favorite panhandling corner. I noticed a body lying on the sidewalk, unusual placement for those with signs and in pursuit of the very hard work that is surviving as homeless in our big cities today. I could already see a couple folks stepping over the prone figure or walking around and no detectable movement. On approaching I saw it was a man and he could have been any street fellow, way over dressed for the weather but layers are important when you are on the street 24/7, and desperately in need of a shower. He was strategically sprawled in the shade of the only tree on that corner. I quickly started trying to process what was going on and whether or not I needed to try and intervene here. I did not have my phone with me.

I stepped around him as several others had already done and I kept walking. I continued walking across the street and down the block looking back and thinking, “What should I have done”. That is a really totally bogus and useless question, and not what Batchelor asked, his question was “What should I do?” On my next look back I saw two guys with leaf blowers work their loud obnoxious machines right around him and this disturbingly seemed to elicit nothing from the prone body.

What I should do then became obvious and I walked back to where he was. I saw more clearly then that he had his arm curled under his head, a good sign, not a pose for someone in extremis. I then tapped the bottom of his foot with my shoe and said in a loud voice: “Hey man, are you alright?” To my great relief he immediately responded partially sitting up and trying to focus on who was disturbing what was obviously a nap in the shade, a break from being on a very hot, exposed corner asking passing motorists for change. His crumpled and very poorly lettered sign stating ‘anything helps’ and invoking God to bless whomever was serving as a makeshift pillow on the concrete. Our society has substituted the time honored Buddhist begging bowl with a begging sign.

I then said that he should think about moving before someone stepped on him. This seemed to register a bit and then he responded that he would as soon as he finished his hamburger. I then noticed, what quite frankly looked like garbage, on a small cardboard container with some sort of scraps, salvaged from the garbage perhaps and showing the wear and tear of being in the 90 degree heat. This had been strategically placed on the sidewalk right under where his chin had been on the pavement. Right wing conservative ranting’s aside I was sure he was not finishing up a serving of crab legs purchase with food stamps. And a lecture on food poisoning would have been way too middle class and certainly of little benefit.

Satisfied we were not in any sorts of 911-territory I said again “Don’t get stepped on,” and headed home, once more convinced the question should always be “What should I do?”

June 2013
Photo by author

About the Author

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

Posted on

Visiting the Doctor by Nicholas

I like my doctor. I believe that if you do not like your doctor, you should get a new doctor. It’s a very personal relationship but I do not want my doctor to be my friend. He or she has to know a lot or maybe even everything about me, but my doctor also has to be a scientist who might someday give me some bad news, bad news that I am better off knowing. So you see there’s intimacy involved but not a buddy kind of intimacy.

I used to prefer women doctors but then I had one for a while at Kaiser whom I didn’t like and then I found a male doctor whom I did like so I don’t care anymore about the gender of my doctor. The last woman doctor I had possessed all the traits that I used to identify with not liking in men doctors. She was abrupt, arrogant, and not very communicative. One visit we were dealing with high blood pressure and she just handed me a pill and a glass of water. I had to ask what it was and what I was supposed to do with it. Then she prescribed a medication that was totally wrong for me. It took months but I finally got her to come around to prescribing a better medication that does work for me. I pushed the issue because I got some good advice from friends who were doctors themselves.

After that doctor, I found a really good doc at Kaiser who was very friendly and communicative. He was a gay doctor, of course, and though I insist on being out to any doctor I meet, his being gay made things easier. He also could practice medicine by phone and email without office visits because Kaiser had a system set up to do that. One time I came home from travelling in Europe with a nasty intestinal bug. I described the symptoms to him and he said it sounded like a pretty common problem and I could either do lab tests to determine the precise bug or he could give me a prescription to treat it. I said, in my misery, just treat it. The treatment worked.

But then I changed health insurance plans and had to find a new doctor. I got some referrals from the GLBT Center’s list of gay-friendly providers and set up an appointment. I had some questions and wanted to talk to my doctor candidates to get to know them before I signed on for any treatment. I found a doctor who was easy going and friendly. I told him I was gay and I told him I had a partner whom I expected would be included in any medical issues. He had no problem with that.

I’ve since grown to like and trust my doctor. He doesn’t over treat problems and I am learning from him when to panic and when to just take some aspirin or a nap. He has a casual style I like. When I see him about some problem, he always asks me how big a deal it is, how much something is interfering with my life. There are always treatments doctors can order up, but do you really need or want them? For example, my doctor sent me to a physical therapist to help me through a knee problem instead of to a surgeon for replacement.

Given my own medical history—which is pretty minor—and having lived through the AIDS epidemic with friends and having a husband with a very complicated and ongoing medical condition, I have learned a lot about dealing with doctors and nurses. Here are some tips:

* Nurses are your friends. Do not abuse them, don’t ever get rude or annoyed even when they do things you don’t like. They might know more about you than you do and can really help.

* Do ask, do tell. Tell your doctor everything, ask about everything. Doctors really are people too though they might think they are gods.

* For god’s sake, come out if you haven’t already. Being lesbian or gay is just not the big deal it used to be. You don’t want the closet to interfere with your care and who gets to be with you in difficult times. Jamie and I were even in a hospital in Colorado Springs recently and he introduced me as his husband and I was not denied any access to him in the ER. Boy, did that surprise me. I was still relieved to get out of there.

* Give people a chance to do the right thing. One time we were talking with a nurse in a hospital, telling her our story and she told us about her lesbian sister. She also told us about the discrimination she’s experienced as a Japanese-American.

Going to the doctor can be frightening and worrisome but it doesn’t have to be. But you have to take charge.

About the Author

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

Posted on

Halloween Humor by Will Stanton

Thirty-six Halloweens have come and gone since I first came to Denver, yet in those many years, I have attended only a few parties and hosted even fewer. Those parties, however, are, for various reasons, rather memorable.

The first large party that I attended was filled with truly creative people who thought of, and made, their own costumes… no rented or purchased costumes there with people saying, “How to you like my costume?” If you remember the old TV ads for Fruit of the Loom underwear, several people showed up as those advertisement characters, a bunch of grapes, etc. One man made an authentic replica of a Roman legionnaire’s armor.

Ever since I was a young child and attended local children’s parades and costume contests, I thoroughly subscribed to that tenant that my mother taught me, “create your own costume!” Yet at times, coming up with a fresh ideas may not be the simplest task.

About 4:00 in the afternoon of the day of that party, I still did not have an idea for myself. Then, I read an article in Time Magazine that provided my idea. The magazine article spoke of the scandal in the Olympics with the Eastern-Block countries apparently posing men as women in several events. I went to a T-shirt shop and had them make a red shirt with a big CCCP (for USSR) on the front and back. Then I picked up a wig and bra from ARC. The rest of the costume was easy, simply using gym sox and shoes and small gym shorts. In those days, I did sixteen hours per week of heavy-duty sports, so I was very buff and had big shoulders and chest. You can imagine what I looked like. To my surprise and pleasure, my costume as a “Soviet woman-athlete” was a big hit. A friend who took a photo promised to give me a copy, but he never did. I wish I had it to show people.

Another party with especially creative attendees occurred a few years ago. I have known for many years a remarkably talented man who has been a successful artist, craftsman, writer, and editor. In his line of business over the years, he has made a point of connecting with many other talented people. For his party, he announced a theme: leather. For a moment, I wondered if he was alluding to the gay interpretation; however, then I concluded that his suggestion was more broad, considering that his friends are of mixed persuasion.

I decided that, in keeping with the dark atmosphere of Halloween, I would go as a Russian KGB general. I had a cheap Russian military hat that I easily spruced up to resemble the required Soviet officer’s hat. I borrowed a huge black-leather coat. The rest was easy: black boots, black trousers and belt, black shirt and tie. The effect on the other guests was dramatic, and I shall not exaggerate in my telling of it.

The home was packed with interesting people, and it was not easy to move about. Throughout the evening, however, whenever I walked throughout the house, people instinctively stepped aside to make room for me. This phenomenon never changed; it continued until I left at 2:00 in the morning.

Even more curious was the fact that three people tried to pick me up all throughout the evening. The second woman was even more persistent than the first, and her husband was right there at the party. Someone had stood up to permit me to sit down on the coach, and this determined lady knelt next me for 45 minutes, chatting me up, and making quite clear that she “would really like to get to know me!” The third interested party was a young man half my age.

My being a very self-effacing person with little belief that I possess irresistible charisma, I was quite surprised and puzzled by all this attention. Then the words of Mark Twain came to mind and possibly explained it: “Clothes make the man!”

Regarding Halloween humor, I always have enjoyed a truly good joke. I recall how fun the popular Irish humorist David Allan was. When I could, I would try to catch him on TV and hear his wry humor. One of my favorites has remained with me to this day. The joke is set in an Irish pub on Halloween night:

Shawn O’Leary, having consumed
several pints of Guinness and a few shots of Cutty Sark, comes stumbling out
the door into the stormy night.

“Cor!  What a terrible night, with the wind and rain
a’blowin’!  It’s a night for witches and
banshees

and things that go Bump in the night! 
I better take the shortcut home…through the graveyard.” 

So, Shawn stumbles off through the
grave yard from tree to tree and grave to grave until he comes to a fresh-dug
grave; and Plop!, he falls in.  Shawn
looks up, shakes his head and starts to try to climb out.  The earth, however, is loose from the rain
and crumbles.  He keeps sliding back down
into the grave.

So finally, Shawn hunkers down in
the corner and says,”Oh well, I might as well make a night of it.”
About this time, Bryan O’Casey
stumbles out of the pub and says, “Cor! 
What a terrible night.  It’s a
night for witches and banshees and things that go Bump in the night.  I better take the shortcut home…through the
grave yard.”
So Bryan heads off into the graveyard
and stumbles into the very same grave.  Looking
up, Bryan starts to climb out, but he keeps sliding back down into the grave.
All this while, Shawn O’Leary is
watching him.  Finally Shawn speaks up
and says, “You might as well give up trying to get out of this grave
tonight.  You’ll never make it.” 

He did! 

© 18 June 2012





About the Author




I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life
stories.  I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me
particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at
times, unusual ones.  Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived
pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some
thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.
Posted on

Facts by Michael King


I am more aware of my memory than when I was younger. I have become increasingly conscious of how the things remembered are isolated pieces of time, interaction, momentous events, strong emotions and other seemingly significant events in my past. Sometimes I will recall something of no particular importance with any particular feeling attached. It is from this awareness that I approach the topic for Monday, “Facts.”


It is my understanding that in a trial there may be numerous witnesses that observed a crime. Without coordination they may tell very different stories about the event. There is no reason to question their honesty, but what are the facts? Facts seem to be an elusive kind of reasonable makes-sense explanation regarding any given situation. It seems the mind will interpret experience in a way that seems plausible. If that is the case then facts are something that seems to be the most probable rather than the actual reality.


In “Telling my Story” I am usually aware that my memories are the perceptions that I now have of people and events in contrast to how I might have perceived those memories 25 years ago, 50 years ago, 70 years ago or even yesterday. What are the facts? Usually the date, the people, the place and the event are factual. Then are the particulars as to the surroundings. And becoming more vague would be the probable small details if recalled at all and then in the interpretation of the facts are the more distortive emotions and feelings. All these factors contribute to the probable facts related to any situation.


It amazes me that there are people that will respond to a question with the word “absolutely.” Either they are conning someone, trying to sell something or are unaware of how ludicrous their comment is. I’m convinced that being factual is not very important to some people and not particularly expected. There are many examples where people aren’t even aware of their distortions or perhaps don’t care if there is accuracy in either their thoughts or comments.


My conclusion is that to be factual is variable to the persons, events, memories, observations and philosophies. Perhaps more factual would be scientific evidence. Even then there is much room for interpretation. That is a fact.


Now, after that disclaimer, I’ll share a few facts about me. I am a 73 year old male humanoid mortal living on my planet of nativity. I was twice wed and divorced, fathered four children and am the grandfather of two men and a woman and two very young granddaughters. I live in Denver, Colorado with my partner Merlyn. I am an active openly gay eccentric who wears ear bobs, sports tattoos and piercings and has fairly colorful wardrobe. I paint and do sculpture, write stories for “Story Time,” help set up for the Prime Timers’ “Nooners,” volunteer at the GLBT Center, go antiquing and visit thrift stores, cook, eat, drink vodka, go to plays, stage performances, ballet and opera, exercise at the Y, walk, ride the bus and Merlyn’s Suburban, watch movies, porn and TV, talk to my family and sometimes get together with them, And then there are those other facts that shall go unsaid.

© 23 March 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.

Posted on

Coming Out Spiritually by Merlyn

I have never come out spiritually, I look inside of myself, It’s the only place I have ever found the spiritual answers that are so important.

I was born into a family that faithfully attended The United Brotherhood Church in Beach Park, Michigan. Everything we did was a sin so we had to be saved over and over again with tent revival meetings, church camps and temperance meetings.

On Sunday mornings we would all show up at the church, stand up with a Jesus loves me look on our faces and sing the songs, drink the blood and eat the body of Christ, leave the church and start sinning again.

I realized there wasn’t any point in living in fear of going to hell and feeling guilty all the time.

When I was around 10 years old I stopped believing in organized religion, the Bible, God and Jesus. I refused to go to church after I turned eleven. I don’t think I have been in a church more than 20 times on a Sunday morning in the last 58 years.

One of the best things about being a nonbeliever is I don’t have to try to fit any new beliefs in with my old beliefs. I have had a completely open mind whenever I have studied any of the great spiritual teachings that millions of people believe in. I have never found any of them that I can believe in.

I know a lot of people that will never be able to find peace and understanding because they have so many hang-ups brought on because of their religious convictions.

The only time I ever think about religion is when I’m around other people that bring the subject up.

© 1
July 2013

About the Author

I’m a retired gay man now living in Denver Colorado with my partner Michael. I grew up in the Detroit area. Through the various kinds of work I have done I have seen most of the United States. I have been involved in technical and mechanical areas my whole life, all kinds of motors and computer systems. I like travel, searching for the unusual and enjoying life each day.

Posted on

Thoughts on SAGE Queens and SAGE New York by Louis

This past Tuesday, I left from my apartment in College Point, Queens, New York and got on the nearest bus, the Q-65 and went to the next town over, Flushing, to the intersection of Roosevelt Avenue and Main Street, where I boarded the elevated number 7 train, the Flushing local which I rode west for eight stops to the intersection of 74 Street and Roosevelt Avenue in Jackson Heights, Queens. Jackson Heights is the main gay neighborhood in Queens – the “ghetto”, so to speak.

I was accompanied by my New York “boyfriend” of sorts, Kevin. I signed in and listened to the discussion of the meeting, led by John the Director. They have a restaurant club, a walking club, a new camera club, an art club, etc. They had already had their annual trip to Fire Island where this year they had a memorial service for lovers who had recently passed away.

One member of this club, a black man, and a veteran I think, named Claude follows the same itinerary as Kevin and I. After this meeting at Sage Queens in Jackson Heights, Queens, the three of us walk back to the 74 Street stop on the number 7 train and continue further west out of Queens and into Manhattan. We take the number 7 train to the last stop, Times Square at 42nd Street, where we transfer to the downtown (that is south) IRT local two stops to 28 Street and 7th Avenue. When we get off, we come up right by the famous gay landmark, the Fashion Institute of Technology (which, by the way, is bad English, it should be the Institute of Fashion Technology, that’s really what they mean). We cross the street and enter the building at 305 7th Avenue and take the elevator to the 15th floor.

Recently, I was chosen to be interviewed by a representative from Fordham University where the Social Work Department is trying to improve services for SAGE New York. I told the interviewer, among other things, that, like many seniors, I need affordable dental work, a hearing aid and a new pair of glasses. Medicare does not pay for any of these items. More importantly, I said there should be a gay and Lesbian French club. I noticed that some woman was holding a 6-week Italian course at Sage New York, a step in the right direction. And lo and behold, a few weeks later, I noticed that, on Friday evenings, from 6 p.m. to 7 p.m., there is a French Conversation meeting at SAGE New York, another step in the right direction, in my opinion. When I get back to New York City in a few weeks, if it is still meeting, I want to attend the French Conversation hour, held Friday evenings. Why not a Spanish language club?

This past Tuesday, when we arrived, in preparation for senior dinner, which is served at 5 p.m., we said hello to a group of Japanese students who were “teaching” Origami. I remembered Betsy and Gillian who went to the gay Games in Vancouver, Canada a few years ago. My point is “Think international!”, especially nowadays, when we here about the persecution of Lesbian and gay people in Russia. The Japanese students helped serve dinner. It was all quite interesting.

After dinner, Kevin and I went to the nearby Long Island Railroad station, located in Penn Station and bought 2 discount senior tickets to return to Flushing, Queens. Well, actually, Kevin is not a senior, is too young, but he is disabled so qualifies for a discount ticket. We returned to Main Street and Roosevelt Avenue in Flushing, NY where we boarded the Q-65 and returned home.

© 10 September 2013

About
the Author

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

Posted on

Magic by Lewis


Do you
believe in magic? Yeah.

Believe in the magic in a young girl’s soul

Believe in the magic of rock ‘n’ roll
Believe in the magic that can set you free
Ohhhh, talkin’ bout magic….

So goes the lyric by the smooth and silky Lovin’ Spoonful. According to Webster’s, “magic” is “the use of means (such as charms and spells) believed to have supernatural power over natural forces” or “an extraordinary power or influence seemingly from a supernatural source” or “the art of producing illusions by sleight of hand.”

To answer Lovin’ Spoonfuls’ question, yes, I do believe there is power in music to set one’s soul free, so to speak, and it isn’t limited to rock ‘n’ roll or the soul of a young girl, for that matter. What Lovin’ Spoonful is singing about is the magic that is part of ordinary, everyday lives, not the magic of Webster’s dictionary. And, when push comes to shove, isn’t that the only kind that really matters?

I would like to tell you a story of how magic has affected my life. It begins shortly after my ex-wife, Jan, and I were married in 1972–six weeks after, to be precise. It was the Sunday after Thanksgiving. I was working in the front yard of our home in Detroit. It was a warm day for late November. Jan came out of the house, obviously upset. She was bleeding rather heavily from her vagina. She had talked to her gynecologist, who recommended taking her to Brent, a private hospital, immediately.

What happened thereafter must be weighed in consideration of the fact that it was two months before the U.S. Supreme Court’s decision in Roe v. Wade. It was less than a mile to Brent but for Jan it was as if she had stepped through a portal to hell. I did not witness any of the events I am about to describe. I only learned of them from Jan.

Within an hour of my leaving her off at the hospital, the orderlies were transferring her from the gurney to the examination table and dropped her on the floor. To add insult to injury, their main concern was for the well-being of the fetus; Jan was first-runner-up.

By this time, she had passed tissue as well as blood and was convinced that the fetus was not healthy. Nevertheless, she was instructed to lie perfectly still in the hospital bed. The doctor prescribed a sedative to calm her down but she only pretended to swallow the pill. When the nursing staff had left her room, she got out of bed and did push ups on the floor, hoping to abort, which, eventually, she did. The staff was none the wiser.

About a year later, Jan was pregnant again. As before, at about six weeks gestation, she began to bleed. That pregnancy also resulted in a miscarriage. Tests disclosed that Jan had a bifurcated uterus–a membrane separated it into two parts. That didn’t leave enough space for the fetus to develop normally. The doctor’s recommendation was surgery to remove the membrane. The odds of success were 50/50. We decided to go ahead with the procedure. Two weeks before the surgery was to happen, we learned that Jan was pregnant again, despite her being on the pill. We decided to take a wait-and-see approach to the fetus’ development.

This is where the magic began. Not only did the fetus go to term but developed into a 9-pound, 5-ounce baby girl, Laura. The delivery was not exactly “normal”, however. Yes, we had taken the “natural childbirth” and Lamaze classes but there is no way to plan or prepare for an umbilical cord that is wrapped around the baby’s neck. The obstetrician decided to induce birth early and use forceps. We had chosen a hospital, Hutzel Women’s Hospital in Detroit, that allowed the father to be present for the birth. I had planned for it but had not a clue as to the role I was about to play.

The birthing table, upon which Jan lay, was massive. I think it was made of marble or something equally heavy. The doctor was at one end, his forceps clamped on the baby’s head, a nurse was lying across Jan’s abdomen and I was holding onto the other end of the table. Nevertheless, the doctor was dragging the table with its cargo of three human adults across the delivery room floor by our daughter’s neck while Jan pushed as hard as she could. (Incidentally, my wife was about 5’8″ and 160 pounds.) I was afraid that our baby was going to be born in installments. But, no, she came out in one piece, her head a little flattened on the sides, slightly jaundiced, hoppin’ mad, and gorgeous to both her parents.

On my first visit to mother and daughter in the hospital, I donned the required gown. You know the type–they cover the front of you completely and tie in the back. Laura had been in an incubator for her jaundice. The nurse brought her in and handed her to Jan in the bed for feeding. After Laura had nursed for a while, Jan asked if I would like to hold her. I said “yes”, even though I had little-to-no experience with holding a live baby, especially one so small. After holding Laura to my shoulder for a few minutes, I handed her back to Jan.

As I was leaving, I removed the gown. There, near the shoulder of the dress shirt I wore to work, was a pea-sized spot of meconium, a baby’s first bowel movement. True, it’s sterile and has no particular smell, but I knew that I had been branded. My daughter had found an “outlet” for her anger at having to undergo such a rigorous birth and I knew she would have the upper hand for as long as we both lived.

On the night of Laura’s birth, as I drove home at about 5:00 AM, I turned on the car’s radio to WDET-FM, the public and classical radio station at the time. The streets were empty and as I merged onto I-75 for the 10-minute ride home, the interior of the car was filled with the sounds of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, Fourth Movement. In the last section of that movement, the massive choir of over a hundred mixed voices rises to sing “Ode to Joy” in concert with the musicians. You have only to hear it once to know that MAGIC is happening. Only a genius who could not hear the sound of his own voice could have composed such glorious sounds. My heart, already swollen with pride, nearly burst.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. But even better than Santa Claus, there is magic all around us all the time. It speaks to us only if we open our hearts to it and believe–believe that there is always light at the end of the tunnel, that we are given love in proportion to that which we give to others and that, above all, we must never lose faith either in ourselves or the blessed and precious world we have been given.

[P.S. Just a brief afterthought about the “magic” of childbirth.

I see nothing particularly remarkable about the male role in this process. The job of the sperm is two-fold: a) engage in the singularly manly pursuit of trying to outrace the other 100-200 million sperm to the egg and b) equally as manly, be the first to penetrate the hard outer layer of the egg, thus reaching its nucleus where the sperm’s genetic content merges with that of the egg. The life of the sperm thus reminds me of nothing more than of the leeches who attached themselves to the main character’s nether regions in the movie, Stand by Me–neither ennobling nor romantic.

What transpires within the uterus of the woman, however, is simply one magic trick after another. Nine months is longer than most men remain faithful. It’s uncomfortable enough that most men wouldn’t endure it unless they were being paid tens of thousands of dollars per month and on network television. Many of them are nowhere to be found when the nine months are up. Yet, they think they are entitled to make the rules as to whether the fetus must be allowed to go full-term. It’s as if the leech had a nine-month, no-breech lease on your groin. All of a sudden, the “magic” is gone.]


© 26 August 2013



About
the Author


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

Posted on

Three Little Words by Gillian

The first three little words that I remember having any effect on my life were “Digging For Victory” although, born as I was in Britain smack in the middle of World War Two, I can’t really have been old enough to comprehend the significance of that slogan except in retrospect.

“Digging for Victory” encouraged turning all private lawns and flower gardens, and all public parks and sports fields, into vegetable plots or small animal farms, in order to make Britain self-sufficient in food rather than importing food via merchant sea vessels subject to German attack.

The program in fact probably saved the British population from starvation as the war lengthened and the attacks on shipping became increasingly successful.

It also continued for years after the war ended and I guess that is when I remember it from; the songs, the posters, the pamphlets lying around the house and everybody digging, digging, weeding, hoeing, bartering a basket of potatoes for a pitcher of goats’ milk.

Of course, to me, there was nothing different; life had always been like that. We had goats and chickens and pigs in our back yard, and no flowers grew except for a tiny plot behind the house where it was essentially hidden from view and over which I know my mother struggled with considerable guilt, but she could not bring herself to abandon her beloved roses.

In those days I think every back must have ached, and just occasionally I still recall, mainly when my back hurts, a ridiculous line from a Digging for Victory ditty.

“And when your back aches, laugh with glee, and keep on digging.”

A “V” for Victory campaign, another three-worder, was launched in 1941, though this was more one of signs than words. People were asked to demonstrate their support for the Allies by flashing the Churchillian “V” hand signal and chalking up the letter “V” wherever and whenever they could. People all over occupied Europe were urged to display the letter “V” and beat out the “V” sound in Morse Code (three dots and a dash.)

It was soon realized that the three short notes and one long at the start of Beethoven’s Fifth echoed the Morse code for “victory”. Those notes probably became the most played music in Europe during the war years.

“Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament”, formed in the U.K. in 1957, is definitely not three small words and its slogan became Ban the Bomb.

Every Easter weekend while I was in college I traveled to London on a chartered bus overstuffed with students and righteous zeal, to take part in the annual peace rally. There was a wonderful camaraderie at these gatherings, but whether they actually changed anything, who knows. And whether it would have been better if they had, who knows.

Maybe we had it all wrong.

Perhaps it was simply the balance of nuclear weapons on both sides that kept the Cold War cold, and all of us from descending into some nuclear winter.

By the time I became settled in the U.S., the Vietnam protests were getting underway.

It was all “Stop the War and End the Draft”. Again I joined in marches, and eventually our wishes were met, though not until we had ruined a whole generation of young men. The term Vietnam Vet rarely conjures up a positive picture.

Ending the draft meant people no longer having to live in fear of themselves or their loved ones being sent off unwillingly to yet another Hell on Earth – three more little words that are not, in fact, like all these other examples of three little words, small at all.

But perhaps we got that wrong, too.

Now we still manage to create new slices of Hell, but those who go there are overwhelmingly the poor and uneducated whose best, perhaps only, chance of employment is the Military. Those with more to lose, are protected by those with little or nothing.

Hard to celebrate.

“Stop the War “ protests will probably, sadly, never disappear because the wars never do. Just the names are different.

Along came Iraq. More protest marches.

Two sets of three little words that I much appreciated when used together were “Support Our Troops – Bring Them Home”. And finally, as we hear the sabers rattling over Iran, they are home, at least from Iraq.

And maybe even that was nothing to wish for.

In Vietnam 2.6 soldiers survived their wounds for every one battlefield death. The ratio is now 16 to one.

Wounded veterans have completely swamped the VA system with a backlog of almost 900,000 disability claims. Almost one in three returning vets suffers from physical and/or mental injuries, many of them catastrophic. And one in three recently returned vets between the ages of 18 and 24, is unemployed.

Colonel Michael Gaal, who served in Iraq, said it’s always easier to leave than to come home, one of the saddest statements I have ever heard.

So in truth, by bringing them home, we have done them no great favor.

It seems that all my three little word slogans that I got behind, those peacenik causes I espoused, have questionable results.

As long as we have wars, there will never be a “right” outcome.

So my current three little words express what I wish for myself and those I love.

Go With God, whatever your own vision of ‘God” might be, and Live With Love.

With those I don’t see how we can go far wrong.

© 13 February 2012

About the Author

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

Posted on

Culture Shock by Betsy

It does not take an extraordinary imagination to paint a picture of a rather battered human race populating the planet earth in the year 2100. Scientists are coming up with computer models almost daily depicting a much warmer, weather-beaten, very watery, world.

Consider what some of the models are telling us. This past summer was the warmest on record. June being the 378 consecutive months in which the temperature exceeded the average of the twentieth century. The odds of this happening are astronomically small, yet it happened.*

The temperature of the planet is expected to rise 8 degrees by the turn of the century according to one recent study. This may not seem like an eventuality that could end life as we know it, however, some speculate the planet will become uninhabitable by humans if this much of a rise in temperature becomes a reality.

Ice sheets are melting. Already sea levels are showing a rise as a result. It is estimated that by 2100 some island nations will have disappeared entirely. Coastal cities all over the globe will be under water or threatened by the encroaching sea and millions of people will be seeking higher ground.

Because of increasing amounts of carbon pollution in the atmosphere we are experiencing record, heat, floods, drought, wildfires, and violent weather. Surely everyone is aware of this. We have only to pay attention to the daily news or observe with our own eyes. Still, many of our political leaders choose to deny what science tells us is true. The fossil fuel industry has such a strangle hold on our policy makers that they have been rendered mute.

The last global conference on climate change for world leaders was not even attended by the U.S. president or a representative. It is true. There are some very pressing issues of major importance which need to be dealt with immediately; such as, the economy, unemployment, federal revenues and the fiscal cliff, regulation of Wall Street, etc, etc.

However, it seems that climate change has to be the only issue that really matters.

Would this not be a culture shock from which humankind will not recover?

If the planet becomes uninhabitable by humans or barely habitable by humans in the next century or two, does anything else really matter?

*Bill
McKibben, Rolling Stone, July 19, 2012
© 26 November 2012

About the Author

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