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Pig Latin by Phillip Hoyle

I feel like the kid on the playground who feels left out, the one chosen last for a team, the one who has to read to the class but knows she won’t do well, the only one that doesn’t know Pig Latin. I feel like my father did when he picked up one of his grandsons at middle school. My nephew and a friend sat together in the back seat and talked with one another about their computers. Dad said he didn’t understand a thing they said for the duration of the twenty-minute drive home. I feel like I’ve fallen behind the whole world, sure I’d find questions on the current GED test incomprehensible. I feel like I’m falling off the grid. “Stop the world, I want to get off” captures some of my sentiment, but why this despair? I get around life just fine, enjoy reasonable work, nice enough friends, and occasionally even leadership. I’m not sure what I feel is despair, but I do feel pressures of a new job, one that I am interested to do but realize that it pushes me into a world of assumed knowledge that I don’t possess.

Computers are not new to me. In the late 1980s I met several PCs with their word processors. For ten years I successfully wrote book-length manuscripts using my PC WPs. To my family’s consternation, I’d tie up the home phone line in order to visit a friend’s bulletin board that gave me access to Shareware and some games. I heard the talk, appreciated the crude graphics, and came to appreciate the advantages my computer and word processor gave me. I enjoyed my experiments with Paint Brush and even tried my hand with some simple data bases.

I had bought the PC in order to write. I bought it at the suggestion of a writer and an editor, purchasing it at the outset of a project I had agreed to do and finished paying it off when I received my writer’s fee. I learned on the job by making mistake after mistake and solving the problems sometimes on my own, sometimes following the advice of others more experienced than I. So I learned to adopt my software and computer function with DOS smart commands, a few new programs, and several creative uses. I paid attention to what the computer needed and became at least moderately efficient in my applications. In the 1990s I entered a conversation—one of those on-line things now usually called a blog—one concerned with topics of professional interest; but I didn’t find the discussions all that interesting or pertinent. I think my life was changing too quickly, my interests moving towards the visual arts.

Still, I wrote. Still I maintained some records in a database. Still I experimented with Paint Brush. But most of my attention was focused on my art table with paper and ink, canvass and paint, design and technique. When my editors at the publishing house no longer could tolerate my antique technology, I got an Apple, then another more modern PC, and finally my PC laptop that went so fast I could never keep up. By then I had lost the curiosity factor. The WP was okay although not as convenient as the writers software I’d liked for years. Word for Windows didn’t thrill me. In fact, I never really got used to Windows. It seemed as if the attempt to make the computer more user-friendly just irritated me. I couldn’t see what was happening.

I believe my quick forays into Cyberspace were really the most intimidating factor, the ones that left me feeling like I wasn’t cutting it. I recall scares when my computer would start doing frightening things. I wondered would it die a cruel death? Explode into flames? I didn’t know but timidly accommodated myself to this unfriendly playground world.

Oh it’s gotten better for me in the 2000s. I am more at home, but suddenly I am working with “The SAGE Blog”—it always reminds me of the old movie “The Blob”—and threatens to engulf me, taking over my time and attention, and threatening to alter me in ways I don’t invite. I guess the problem is that the Blog is so social in its nature: its contributions, comments, and maintenance. I’ve always worked with people successfully, but now it seems too many of them are speaking Pig Latin or some other language I don’t easily understand. One very friendly and helpful techie said, “Well, Phillip, welcome to the cyber world.” But I’m not a techie or even a Treckie. I’m on a journey of learning but feel like I’m floating through this new, endless space with no thrusters. Still I am learning.

This in Pig Latin:

Omesay aysday Iway eelfay atthay Iway annotcay understandway atwhay isway expectedway ofway emay. Easeplay ebay atientpay. Iway aymay otnay understandway ethay echnicaltay eedsnay ofway ybercay ommunicationscay ellway, utbay Iway amway oingday ethay objay. Eoplepay owhay oday understandway areway akingmay itway appenhay inway itespay ofway ymay eeblefay attemptsway. Ifway ingsthay ogay ellway, ouyay ancay eginbay eadingray oriesstay onway ourway ownway ogblay extnay Ondaymay. Atwhay unfay itway illway ebay.

Quick; back to English.

Some days I feel that I cannot understand what is expected of me. Please be patient. I may not understand the technical needs of cyber communications well, but I am doing the job. People who do understand are making it happen in spite of my feeble attempts. If things go well, you can begin reading stories on our own blog next Monday. What fun it will be.

Again, thanks for your patience. I’m learning. Say a prayer or something for me that I will do the work well.

Note: This piece was read to the SAGE Telling Our Stories group at the end of September last year, just before this blog appeared. We’re celebrating the completion of our first year this month!


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

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Hospitality Immigration and Asylum by Pat Gourley

I would encourage you all to make sure that you are firmly in your seats since I am going to begin this piece with a very short biblical quote. Never let it be said that I am an atheist that won’t stoop to manipulating Christians and Jews with their own theology.

“Do not forget to show hospitality to
strangers, for by doing so people have shown hospitality to angels without
knowing it”. Hebrews 13:2
I found this quote while surfing a Christian social justice sight called Isaiah One. I was at this site specifically researching this topic; it is not a site in my bookmark’s list. I do though think I have some common ground with this particular group of Christian activists who combine the necessity of good works with their faith. The current Pope does have a lot going for him and if he could just really get over the queer thing and let women have control over their own bodies we could really roll.

Just to make sure the message gets across let me quote again from this article entitled Biblical Hospitality and Asylum Seekers: “Biblical hospitality is a broadly inclusive obligation. Denying hospitality would only be conceivable in extraordinarily exceptional circumstances. Dubious character, alien culture or strange belief, or indeed other unpalatable social or spiritual qualities are not grounds for denying hospitality.”

Using this biblical interpretation of hospitality please explain to me how that would not apply to virtually anyone showing up on our borders seeking minimally an economic asylum, an escape from grinding poverty in their native land. And further more how the fuck can someone call themselves a Christian and deny legitimacy and citizenship to the people who for decades have been cleaning your toilets, cutting your lawns, building your homes, picking your food, cooking and serving your food, tending to your children and in countless other ways positively contributing to the fabric of American life? It is simply a mindboggling disconnect that quite frankly cannot be explained as anything but overt racism.

For any sensible person it seems to be a pretty easy and logical leap to extend hospitality in the form of citizenship to those already here and many for most of their lives. It gets a bit tricky for many though when we extend hospitality to include asylum. The United Nations in Article 14 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights states “Everyone has the right to seek and enjoy in other countries asylum from persecution.”

Which brings me to Edward Snowden who I not only view as a whistleblower but as a hero. In making his case for asylum he referenced the recent treatment of Bradley Manning the young gay man currently on trial for leaking classified documents to Wikileaks. Remember Manning was held for nine months in solitary confinement while being subjected to forced nudity, sleep and sensory deprivation and stress positions in the form of shackling. The United Nations rapporteur on torture issued a statement calling Manning’s treatment “cruel, inhuman and degrading” and then was denied a private interview with him to further explore the reality of his mistreatment. The kangaroo court currently hearing his case may reach a verdict this week and that it will be grossly unjust is a given. I have included a link to a recent piece in Salon suggesting that Manning was tortured for his gender identity: http://www.salon.com/2013/07/24/bradley_manning_was_wronged_by_a_world_where_he_was_weird_partner/

Another example of the toleration for torture in our country, though not stated by Snowden that I am aware of, are the thousands of prisoners on U.S. soil in solitary confinement. It would be another whole paper to discuss the institutional abuses around solitary confinement in the U.S. prison industrial complex but I would refer you to this recent video panel discussion from Al Jazeera where the issue is explored in depth:

My point being that I do not think Snowden is being paranoid or in any way histrionic to be concerned about torture at the hands of U.S. officials and therefore his legitimate request for asylum.

The endless propaganda trying to justify the treatment of Manning and the denial of whistleblower status for Snowden is that their actions have endangered American interests and are putting American lives in danger and therefore the “Espionage Act” is being invoked in both situations which contains the essential caveat of ‘aiding the enemy’. I’ll grant their actions may not be in the best interests of global corporate capitalism, but that may be a good thing. That the persecution of whistleblowers is motivated by concerns to keep us safe is quite frankly more incredulous than Congressman Steve King and his fears of marijuana mules with calves the size of cantaloupes streaming across our southern border by the thousands.
If our government officials, including the President and members of Congress and their corporate overlords, were really concerned about the safety and well being of Americans we might address the 40 murders per day and the over 70 deaths a day due to inadequate healthcare in this country. And if you want to discuss putting the men and women in our armed services at risk let’s discuss why no one in the Bush administration has been held accountable for the unjustifiable Iraq war that resulted in the deaths of thousands of our military to say nothing of the many hundreds of thousands of Iraqi’ deaths resulting from the invasion of a country that had nothing to do with 9/11. The risk of harm to me from a terrorist is much less than the likelihood I’ll die from a fall in my bathtub or be struck by lightening.
Perhaps I’ll address my opinions as to why the government is in such a tizzy about their extensive spying on us has been partially exposed at another time but please allow me to be very skeptical that it has little to do with their concerns for my safety, well being and protecting me from terrorists.
It seems only appropriate to include in this piece a quote from the great Noam Chomsky in a recent interview where he was asked directly about Snowden who he said should be honored for “telling”:
“The plea of the US government in this case for the surveillance and so on, is that it’s security against terror. But at the very same moment the US policy is designed in a way to increase terror. The US itself is carrying out the most awesome international terrorist campaign, ever, I suppose– the drones and special forces campaign. That’s a major terrorist campaign, all over the world, and it’s also generating terrorists. You can read that and hear that from the highest sources, General McChrystal and scholars and all, so on.” Noam Chomsky from a
recent interview in Geneva. http://antonyloewenstein.com/2013/07/29/chomsky-praises-snowden-and-condemns-us-hypocrisy/

I am hopeful though that perhaps a new era of national and international hospitality on the part of the U.S. may be on the horizon. Perhaps we are slowing becoming aware of the fact that it is not hospitable to spy on everyone’s everything all the time and then if we don’t like it bomb them into oblivion.

© July 2013

About the Author


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

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Three Little Words by Nicholas

Do you wanna?
Not now, dear.
Let’s do it.
Well, I guess.
Take your Viagra?
Who needs Viagra?
That feel good?
That feels good.
Not there, dear.
Oh yeah, baby!
Where’s the cat?
Put him out.
No, he’s in.
Ow, that hurt.
Cat’s right here.
More wine, dear?
Open another bottle.
Are you hungry?
Yeah, I’m starving.
That’s real tasty.
Ketchup on that?
Spice it up.
How about that?
Looks real good.
What’s for dessert?
More ice cream.
I want chocolate.
Do it again?
Let’s do it.
You did it. Stole my heart.
Please keep it.
I love you.
I love you.

© 2
July 2013

About the Author

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


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The Wisdom of LGBT Identity by Michael King

Wisdom seems so often be something we notice when we look back on where we’ve been and compare it with where we are now. For me it now seems that had I made different choices earlier in my life I would have taken different paths and would have lived a very different life. Where I find myself now is probably in the best place I could be. And short of winning the lottery and having lots of money I could ask for nothing more than the life that I now live.

I have it all, a loving and totally accepting family, the most kind and loving companion and lover, opportunities to write, paint, travel, cook and explore the antique and junk shops. My health is good. I have many wonderful friends and am constantly involved in activities. I have peace of mind and feel blessed. I am thankful.

As my life unfolded I guess that I was always moving closer to having a gay identity, however I felt there was no need to identify myself as gay until I actually had a gay lover. If someone had come into my life earlier that I loved, I’m sure that I would have told the whole world. I had experiences with both men and women and decided that it was the person, not the plumbing that mattered. I just didn’t meet anyone with whom we had a mutual loving relationship until I was seventy.

When I finally had my first boyfriend, he was introduced to my family and I let everyone I saw know that I was in love. Our relationship lasted all of two months. I was still glad that I was identifying as a gay man and even though my relationship with Sheldon didn’t work out, I gained so much from the experience.

My youngest daughter describes the way I live my life as authentic. I am now in the best place that I’ve ever been and I see the wisdom of being the best me that I can be which finally includes being a flaming queen, free to be me in any way that feels right knowing how much I am blessed.

In reflection, the path that I rather blindly followed was probably the wisest. Everything came together as I matured step by step. I was following my path not knowing where it would lead. I tried to sincerely live each day as honestly and as well as I knew how. I felt I was getting direction and guidance although it often seemed to take a long, long time.

Perhaps the key to wisdom is to look inside, follow that gut feeling and trust that eventually everything will work out and come together while growing and watching the almost magic of life unfold.

I feel closer to the truth, the goodness and the love that comes from the inner awareness of my connectedness with being on an adventure into eternity. And now as a gay guy who is so happy to be me.

© 3 December 2012




About the Author



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

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Remembering by Merlyn

I read a story on line a few years ago that made a lot of sense to me. It was about why time starts going faster as people get older. The point of the story is the fact that you only remember things that are new. When you are young everything is new, interesting and you remember everything. Days, weeks and years last forever.

As we get older we get set in our ways. Can you remember the last time you went to the store? Most of the time the memory of the trip just blends into all of the other times we made the same trip to the same store; the time is lost. We fill our lives doing the same things over and over there is hardly anything new to remember. Our lives are boring, we are boring, and life is boring.

The one point I want to make is this:

All God ever does is watch us.

He will kill us when we get boring!

Remember:

We must never ever be BORING!!!

© 30
March 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.


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The Accident by Lewis


[Prologue: My story today concerns not a single life-altering event, such as a car wreck or fall, but a series of accidents of a related nature spread out over a period of many years. A month ago, I told a story of Laurin’s and my experience with various medical doctors and his radioactive seed implants that led to his fecal incontinence. I will not go over that ground again. What I want to tell you today is what the two of us went through during that period of about 8-1/2 years of gradual descent into constant misery and worry. It is mainly about shame and its effect on two human beings. My writing this and sharing it with you is not in any way a cry for pity. I seek only to assuage some of my own shame and trauma that have lay dormant, apparently without possibility of relief, and to impress upon you, when faced with a life-or-death decision about medical treatment for yourself or a loved one, to weigh carefully the importance of quality of life versus quantity.


In an effort not to oppress you good folk with negativity, I will occasionally indulge in attempts at humor. In that vein, in an effort to avoid the constant use of scatological words to refer to the natural end product of the digestive process, I have created an acronym for “End Product of Digestion”, EPOD. This term should not be confused with docking stations for recharging hand-held devices.


Because he was the faithful keeper of a daily journal–a practice which I have now adopted–I am able to reconstruct an exact timeline of his early history with fecal incontinence and deduce, with a high degree of certainty, it’s causation.



Laurin had the procedure known as “prostate seed implant” in December of 2003. Less than three weeks later, he reported the first instance of lack of bowel control with such an element of consternation that I am certain it was the first in his recent experience. Over the next four months, three other episodes followed. Slowly, they increased in urgency and, thus, frequency. What follows is a catalogue of some of the lowlights of our lives during the ensuing eight years.]

* We were walking to church one Sunday morning when Laurin suddenly needed to evacuate. The closest site offering some privacy was behind the large bushes in front of an apartment building. Terrified of being seen, I walked some distance away and stood at the corner trying to appear as if I were waiting for someone to pick me up.

* We drove to Mazatlan, Mexico, for a week’s stay at a timeshare resort. On our last day there, we were having breakfast in the dining room when Laurin suddenly needed to go. When ten minutes dragged out to fifteen, I knew that it hadn’t turned out well. I finished breakfast and went to the men’s room to check him out. There, on the floor was a trail of EPOD leading from the door to a stall, where Laurin was busy cleaning up. Terrified, that someone would come in and see it, I quickly cleaned it up with paper towels.

* We were at a concert of the Colorado Symphony Orchestra. During the intermission, Laurin went to the bathroom. He was gone a long time. I was already seated when he returned. I could detect an odor. I hoped that it was only because I was sitting right beside him. Even before the next musical selection ended, a couple of people stood up and moved to more distant seats. During the interlude, even more did the same. Soon, we were sitting alone in the row.

* We were browsing at the Tattered Cover Bookstore in LoDo. Laurin went to the men’s room. I waited…and waited…and waited. I knew what the problem was. I noticed a line was forming outside the men’s room. I decided to check and see if I could do anything. I stepped inside the restroom where several men were waiting to use the single stall. I was ashamed to even say anything but I asked how it was going. He said, as always, “OK”. I left the bathroom. When he came out we took the 16th Street shuttle. He had EPOD on his socks and shoes. I hoped nobody could see or smell. No one indicated that anything unusual was going on.

* Saving the worst for last, we were driving around Glendale when Laurin said he needed to go to the bathroom NOW. The new King Soopers hadn’t been open long. I dropped him off in front and found a place to park and wait. Fifteen minutes rolled over into twenty. I decided to go and check on Laurin. I asked the security guard where the restrooms were. I turned down an aisle in the frozen food section. From a distance of 30 feet, I could see a pile of EPOD on the floor, perfectly formed like a soft-serve ice cream cone, complete with swirl at the top. I would have laughed out loud if I hadn’t been stricken with utter terror. Apparently, no one had reported it so far. But I had no way to clean it up. I thought, “I should find someone responsible and tell them so it could be cleaned up”. I walked the length of the store but could find not a single employee to tell. Perhaps my fear of how such a bit of news might go down blinded me. I left the store and returned to the car, watching the door to see if security guards were going to haul Laurin away. No, several minutes later–it seemed like hours–he comes sauntering out as if nothing untoward had happened.

It was then, after many visits to doctors about his condition and the utter embarrassment and terror of the “Incident in the Frozen Food Aisle” that we welcomed the additions of Pampers for Men and a shoulder bag with cleaning supplies to his wardrobe. Laurin even resorted to cutting off the tail of his dress shirts with scissors so they wouldn’t get soiled. Once, when I picked up one of his thus-modified shirts at the cleaners, the nice woman politely said, “I’m sorry, we couldn’t repair this.”

On one of our last visits to his internist, we were told, “I have just the cure for you.” I said, “What?” He answered, “Physical Therapy”. We would be happy to try anything so we said, “Sure”. Turns out that this particular therapy, as with many other forms, involves muscle-strengthening–namely, the sphincter muscle. Measuring the strength of that muscle requires the insertion of a probe which is connected to a machine that shows on a computer screen the intensity and duration of the muscle’s constrictions. This is something that would normally be of interest to many gay men but, unfortunately, the equipment is very expensive.

After eight sessions with the therapist, she recommended and the doctor concurred that further sessions would be fruitless. Laurin’s muscle or the nerve leading to it was unable to respond to treatment. I conclude that the seed implants had, over time, fried not only his prostate but this area, as well. Apparently, he was one of the ill-fated 5% that suffer such after-effects.

Laurin’s sole recourse at this point was a colostomy, whereby the colon is severed from the rectum and rerouted to exit the abdomen slightly to the left of the navel. The end of the colon is rolled over like the end of a balloon, sewn into place in the muscle wall, thus creating a new way for the EPOD to escape confinement. Thus, began a entirely new chapter in Laurin’s life story. Unfortunately, it was not to provide a happy ending, but that’s another story.

© 6 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.

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Building Worldwide Community by Louis

We gay people have a choice. We can continue to be the eternal victims of religious fanatics or we can organize and become a world power. Let’s choose the empowerment option.

I recently sent an e-mail to Shari Wilkins, Program Director of the Center. I suggested the Denver Gay and Lesbian Center set up a foreign language club. I set up such a club at the Center on West 13 Street in Greenwich Village in New York City about 30 years ago. The announcement for the group was put into their monthly newsletter. 65 people showed up for the first meeting. There were so many people that the Center had to put us in the garden. I mainly listened to the suggestions of people who were interested. It was a very informative exchange. The main message was that an international style of education would give everyone a better understanding of gay liberation as a worldwide movement.

I kept the group going for about a year. A Lesbian couple from Switzerland showed up and shared their experiences. They said that in Switzerland, the laws were liberal because the Swiss culture believes in science, including more modern views on human sexuality.

One evening a good looking young man from the Catalan region of Spain showed up and explained the differences between Spanish, Portuguese and Catalan. Everyone was fascinated. At another meeting a small group of people from the Czech Republic showed up and tried to explain the basics of their language.

I kept the group going for about nine months until I got burn-out. It was kind of exhausting scheduling all the time. If groups like this could be set up on a permanent basis, it would be better.

Another group I set up was la petite Ecole française. I wanted to do grammar and such, but it just turned into a general French club where gay and Lesbian French people could gather in a safe environment. The first session of the group drew 35 people. I sort of let the group go where it wanted to go naturally. One evening a group of three gay ice hockey athletes from Quebec, Canada, showed up and told about their experiences as athletes at the Olympic Games that were taking place back then in Quebec or Montreal. Another participant, Gaston, kept us up to date on how gay liberation was going in Paris. He was in New York because he worked for IBM.

We also tried to keep up with ILGA, the International Lesbian and Gay Association. I believe they attempted to set up a permanent mission to the U. N.

I wonder how that is going. If ILGA could accomplish what they envision as their mission, our worldwide community could start registering human rights violations complaints with the U. N. about hostile legislation such as what is now happening in Africa and the Soviet Union. Then I saw a new group, International Gay & Lesbian Human Rights Commission. Is it for real? How does one obtain further information?

I think another important educational tool we need in the various Gay and Lesbian Centers is perhaps a retired lawyer who knows how to keep up with changing case law regarding our civil rights issues. He could make a monthly report to the community in the Community Center. Events like this were held at the Center in New York. Invariably, large numbers of people showed up to hear what is going on once the events were held.

Denver, 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.

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Truth and Lies by Gillian

My mother had a saying.
Well, my mother was a constant fountain of sayings, but she had a favorite one about lies.
A truth that’s told with bad intent beats all the lies you can invent.
When I was little I thought these, and those of all her endless other aphorisms, were words of her own wisdom but later of course I discovered otherwise; these particular words were originated by the poet, William Blake.

Anyway, I grew up with something of an ambivalent attitude to truth and lies.
I learned, rather, that truth is something to be approached with some caution and used judiciously; the same can be said of lies.
Nothing in my life has ever caused me to change that attitude.
I was delighted when I found, recently, that J.K. Rowling of Harry Potter fame agrees. She says,
‘The truth. It is a beautiful and terrible thing, and should be treated with caution.’

The poet John Keats told us that truth is beauty and beauty truth.
Sadly, there is frequently nothing uglier than the truth.
Mahatma Gandhi said,
‘Even if you are a minority of one, the truth is the truth.’
Really?
It is what is true for me. It is what I believe or perceive to be the truth.
Another’s truth may be very different, just as our realities differ.

But I am talking of subjective truth, I hear you say: truth that is based on individual sentiment.
Gay parents are every bit as good as straight parents might be my truth whereas others may sincerely believe the opposite to be true.
What about solid factual truth?
The world is round. Yes, most of us accept that, but there are still those 3000 members of the Flat Earth Society who do not. The web page for this group proclaims proudly to have been deprogramming the masses since 1547. And before Columbus tossed confusion into the ring, many of us would have believed the earth to be flat.
Factual truths change.
Both sides of the current Global Climate Change debate avidly produce facts to defend their ‘truth.’
Before our very eyes endlessly we have politicians showering us and each other with facts which handily disprove those offered by another.
The British Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli referenced three types of lies: lies, damned lies, and statistics.
How right he was!
There is, as Maya Angelou puts it, ‘a world of difference between truth and facts. Facts can obscure the truth.’
How right she is!

Thomas Jefferson, another great espouser of truth, said that truth can stand by itself, which I would have to question, and, ‘There is not a truth existing which I fear.’
I find many truths, or that which I believe to be true, quite terrifying.
A million in Rwanda, brutally murdered by their fellow beings? Maybe the number is not a complete truth, perhaps it was a mere 900,000 and someone rounded up, but I believe in the basic truth of the report.
How fearful is that? Climate change, speeding ahead and leaving us watching with our mouths agape?

Both truth and lies are murky, unstable things.

I rarely proclaim to have absolute knowledge of truth, and occasionally I lie, but I flatter myself that in all I have the very best of intentions

That’s about as good as I can get.

About the Author

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

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Little Things Mean A Lot by Betsy

Now, let me see. Little things mean a lot. What ever in the world does that mean? It seems to me that if something means a lot, then it follows, does it not, that it is not a little thing, but rather a big thing. I guess it depends on how you evaluate a thing–a happening, an incident. But, to my way of thinking and/or feeling, meaning is what gives a thing its value and importance in life, and if it means a lot, that is, has a lot of meaning it’s big. So far, I can’t make any sense out of this statement “Little Things Mean a Lot.”

So allow me to try to apply the statement to some of the happenings in my life and see then if it rings true.

I like to enjoy a cup of tea every morning soon after rising. Being partnered with and living with a Brit, I am told by said Brit that I cahhn’t make a proper cup of tea. Being American (a Colonial) I simply am innately unable to brew a proper cup of tea and therefore must have my morning tea made for me and served to me. (By the way, I never realized until I met this woman that we Americans had this particular defect.) Well, needless to say, I do not mind one bit being waited upon by the love of my life, so I go along with her on my inherent incapacity and let her do it.

“Your tea is ready, My Darling.” Now some might consider this daily ritual a “little” thing. I suppose it would be if it only happened once or even occasionally. But it becomes a large part of my life when you consider it happens 365 days a year and then for approximately well, say, 20 years of living together. That’s over 7,300 cups of tea! That’s not a little thing. That’s big, monumental, a significant part of my life. And then double it because the scenario is repeated in the late afternoon. That brings it to almost 15,000 cups of tea — no little thing indeed.

Well, I’m still trying to find a kernel of truth in the adage “little things mean a lot.” Maybe I could make the statement apply to an incident that happened only once and a long, long time ago. I can think of two or three incidents actually from my childhood. Insignificant really in terms of their outcomes affecting anyone’s life. But the very fact that I can remember them 60-70 years later makes them significant, I believe. So, the truth is the really little things are no longer in my memory and therefore mean nothing.

Who said “little things mean a lot, anyway,” I ask myself. Well, Kitty Kallen made the song a hit in 1956 or so. But reading the lyrics brings me back to my original conundrum: How can something that means a lot be regarded as little.

“Give me your heart forever and ever. Little things mean a lot.” Oh come on! Turning your heart over to someone for keeps. That doesn’t sound like a little thing to me. Even “Blow me a kiss from across the room” can be the most exciting, main event of the year if you’re attracted to the person. Not a little thing at all. Remember that feeling?
Maybe the author of these lyrics was thinking in terms of the entire universe when she wrote the words. Now I am getting somewhere. I think I can make this work. I get it now. WE humans living in this universe on this speck of dust called Earth are little things and we THINK we mean a lot. Some believe that Earth hosts the only life in the universe and that we humans are the only intelligent life. I don’t happen to believe that, but, surely, those who do believe that consider themselves to be more than little things. I’ve been searching my soul for the answer to that one for a long time and I expect the search will continue until my soul finds its final home.

Searching Google for the lyrics to the song I find myself glancing at an article written about the current presidential campaign. It’s the little things that will effect the final outcome of the 2012 election, says Prof. Steffen Schmit. Now that does mean a lot–I mean the final outcome of the election. It seems that the state of Ohio a swing state which historically always picks the president at election time–Ohio is trying desperately to figure out how to get Mr. Romney elected–that is the Republican legislature is trying to figure this out. It seems Republicans have worked out a system whereby counties which traditionally vote Republican have been given 3 extra early voting days–the weekend before the actual election. Counties that traditionally vote Democrat are not given those extra days to vote early. The Obama campaign feels that the 3 extra days should be given to everyone, not just those who favor his opponent. The little thing of 3 extra days is suddenly becoming a very large issue indeed when you consider that it could make the difference between winning or losing the state; and, as in the 2008 election, the difference between winning or losing the entire election.

I guess I will simply have to conclude that 1. things that mean a lot are not little, rather they are, in my view, BIG. And 2. There are plenty of little things in my life, but they are just that–little, of relative insignificance, and not full of meaning.

About the Author

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

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Mistaken Identity by Will Stanton

“Look!  It’s George Clooney!”  I was startled and quickly checked to see where the speaker was looking.  There was no third person present.  He was looking at me!  A case of mistaken identity.  The very next week, a trio of ecstatic teenage girls screeched, “Justin Bieber!”  Again, I immediately looked right and then left, astonished that Justin Bieber would actually be in my presence without my having noticed.  He wasn’t there; the girls were looking at me.  Again, mistaken Identity!

No, of course that did not really happen.  No one ever has mistaken me for someone famous.  I don’t resemble any of them.  Instead, I probably look more like the fictional person Dave Letterman jokes about, the old curmudgeon who shouts at the kids, “Get off my lawn, and take that mangy dog with you…and that dump that it just left on my grass!”

Instead, let me tell you about a remarkable story of truly mistaken identity, one that has been made into an excellent quality film and subsequently released on DVD.  I have shown it to friends.  I’ll tell you just enough of the story’s background, but I’ll leave the best bits for you to see for yourselves.  It’s title is “AKA,” that is, an assumed name, an assumed identity.   This actually did happen in 1978, and it is an autobiographical tale by writer and director Duncan Roy.

The main character is named “Dean” rather than Duncan.  His advantages are that he is a very handsome seventeen-year-old with high intelligence, capable of being a fast study, and he possesses a quiet, pleasing personality.  His disadvantages, however, are several and profoundly debilitating.  He comes from a very poor and poorly educated home with an unseeing, ineffectual, dysfunctional mother and a father from hell who intimidates and abuses both mother and son but, also, who has had a history of frequently raping the boy even to the extent of occasionally allowing a buddy to engage in the abuse.  The sad and painful consequence is that Dean’s feelings and thinking become severely distorted to the extent that he cannot relate emotionally or sexually to either females or males.  If people express sexual interest in Dean, he equates that interest with rape, whether he allows them to proceed or not.  

Two other points influenced Dean’s personality and his future.  He had hoped to be somebody, to go to college and to make something of himself, although this was disdained and unsupported by the working-class father.  The other influence was that his mother’s employment was as a waitress at a trendy London restaurant frequented by Britain’s aristocratic élite.  His mother provided Dean with a daily run-down of which celebrities had appeared at the restaurant, and she would sit at the kitchen table with him, pouring over the gossip magazines, pointing out pictures of various aristocrats including a Lady Gryffoyn, who ran an art gallery as a hobby.  

To prevent the mother’s belated discovery of his sexual abuse, the father throws Dean out of the house without money or any place to go.  Dean wanders about Lady Gryffoyn’s up-scale neighborhood, hoping to find her and ask for a job. Instead, he is picked up by an aging ingénue who sees Dean as obviously quite young and very innocent.  Dean stays for dinner, meets other guests who turn out to be outrageous queens who adore him for his youth and good looks.  They make quite a fuss over him.  He consequently feels appreciated and accepted for the first time in his life.  This is the beginning of Dean’s transformation.

Dean tries for a menial job at the art gallery.  On one hand, Lady Gryffoyn is an arrogant bitch, not used to doing anyone favors; however on the other hand, she had a reputation for enjoying the company of very young men.  He lands a job, gradually is accepted more and more by Lady Gryffoyn to the point of being allowed to hang about the house and to meet her aristocratic friends, and even at times to wear her son’s clothes while there.  Dean acquires bank credit and a credit card, privileges that he has no experience or desire to handle responsibly.  In this pre-computer age, he is able quickly to run up a large debt, acquiring the clothes and accoutrements of a gentleman.

Eventually, Dean meets Alexander, Lady Gryffoyn’s son, who is the same age as Dean.  Alexander is even more arrogant and disdainful than Lady Gryffoyn and verbally abuses Dean.  Dean quickly learns that this gentrified class habitually identifies their own kind by expensive, tailor-cut apparel, posh accent, sophisticated demeanor, how much money they are willing to throw about without the least concern, what private schools the young have attended, and whether the lads will be attending Oxford or Cambridge, at least to receive an easy “gentleman’s degree.”  They cruelly disdain everyone else.  Dean is painfully ill-at-ease and unsure of himself, but he quietly watches and listens.  His ability as a quick study begins to pay off.  Briefly left alone in the house, he explores Alexander’s suits, photos, along with anything he encounters that deals with Alexander’s life.   He loses his identifying working-class accent and gradually learns to imitate the sophisticated accent of British élite. 

Not permitted to remain at the London house and having attracted the attention of the fraud squad, Dean takes the advice of a young American gigolo to go to Paris.  The major turning point of Dean’s story is when he attempts to gain a job at a Paris art gallery but has had little experience and does not speak French.  He is dismissed with the polite but not encouraging statement, “I’ll take your name.”  After some hesitation, Dean finally says, “Alexander Gryffoyn.”  The gallery owner immediately springs to his feet and, with a great smile, welcomes Dean with open arms.  The aristocratic name works magic and opens all doors.  

Step by step, with the right clothes, the appropriate accent, and occasional little white lies, Dean is introduced to the crème de la crème of Continental élite.  This cream of society, however, is repulsively curdled.  These people are the sort often referred to as “Euro-trash.”  Some of them are British tax expatriates, avoiding paying taxes on their fortunes.  Others are remnants of European nobility, people with money but with no purpose in life other than to feel important and to party endlessly.  Alcohol flows, and cocaine is consumed as a matter of course.  

What continues to happen in Dean’s life for more than a year becomes even more remarkable and fascinating.  Popular, adored, catered to, Dean loves being, as his embossed invitations read, “Lord Alexander Gryffoyn.”   To his sorrow, however, he never has been accepted and loved as Dean, his real self.  

He eventually goes back to Britain to face the music.  His identity theft makes the news, replete with many photos of himself posing as Alexander.  Despite his having lived for a while under an identity that was false and not his true self, Dean ironically concludes that, in contrast to that snobbish SOB Alexander, he, Dean, had been a far better “Lord Alexander Gryffoyn” than the real one ever could hope to be.

This is all the teaser that I am going to give to you.  For you to enjoy all the most remarkable bits of the story, as well as see the more intimate scenes, if that is your “cup of English tea,” watch the DVD.  It is an amazing story of mistaken identity, well worth seeing.  And frankly, Dean himself is worth seeing.  I wouldn’t mind being mistaken for him.

© 9 January 2013   

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.