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Bicycle Memories, by Betsy

I now know I had a trike. I have a photo of it.  But I don’t recall it. The first bicycle I
can remember that was mine was a blue probably Schwinn with big old fat
tires.  When I grew to be old enough to
ride out of my neighborhood, I went everywhere on that vehicle: to school, to
the store, on “bike hikes” on the weekends with my friends.  One day I was riding down a small hill on
Morris Avenue.  I got going very fast—too
fast really— the handlebar began to shake back and forth Before I knew it I was
out of control.  At the bottom of the
hill was a roundabout—right in front of my dentist’s office. I hit the curb of
the roundabout and flew into the shrubbery in the middle. Next thing I knew I
was in my mother’s car on the way to the surgeon’s office. My dentist, Dr.
Bienville, had seen the accident from his window and went running to save me.
He carried me into his office and called my mother who took me to the doctor. I
suppose he checked my teeth first. I only suffered a nasty cut on my face which
the surgeon did a great job of stitching up. I still have a scar which is
barely discernible now 70 years later.  I
sure loved that blue bike, but it was never again ridable.
When my children were 2,4, and 6, we went to the Netherlands
to live for 2 1/2 years. As  is the case
for the Dutch people, bicycles were our main mode of transportation in the
crowded streets of that country. In the 1960’s I had never seen child carriers
for bicycles in the United States. But they were as prevalent as tulips in
Holland. All kinds. Between the two of us my husband and I could easily carry
our 3 children about on bikes with no problem. 
Safety was not so much of a consideration back then. No one wore a
helmet, not even did we put them on our children’s heads. I suppose some heads
had to be sacrificed before anyone thought of using helmets. One of our
favorite weekend activities was riding our bicycles on the ever present paved
paths through the Dutch sand dunes, one of the few undeveloped natural places
in the Netherlands.
Back in the U.S. in the 70’s and in Denver, I didn’t own a
bicycle. But we were able to remain a one car family for many years because
Bill, my husband, used his bicycle to commute the two or so miles to work every
day rain or shine. 
It was not until the late 1980’s that I started cycling
again—riding to work and around town on errands.
In 1986, I took my first long distance bicycle trip with my
daughter and her boyfriend both in college at the time. Still no helmets to be
seen. There were bicycle shops but they only housed bicycles and parts—no
paraphernalia of any kind—no spandex cycling shorts with padded crotch, no
handlebar mounted computers to tell you how fast you were going, how far you
had gone, all meteorological info you could possibly need, what day and time it
was, and your location coordinates—none of the accessories we see in the shops
today.
But that cycling trip around western New York state, and the
Allegheny Mountains in Pennsylvania was a wonderful and memorable adventure for
me.  I think that’s when I became hooked
on cycling.
In the 1990’s now an out and proud lesbian, I bought a blue
Fuji and rode the MS 150, a 150-mile ride from Denver to Pueblo and back to
raise funds for the MS Foundation.  This
ride is not a race, but many riders joined teams for the purpose of training,
socializing, and supporting each other on the ride. Early on I found myself
joining the “Motley Spokes team.”  The
competition was about raising money, not riding fast. 
During these years I pedaled several charitable rides in
various parts of the country and met many wonderful people. I have been very
lucky as well as I have many times been able to bring my own personal sag
support with me.  Gill has always been
willing— actually she has mostly wanted to come along (not on a bicycle) to
satisfy her wanderlust.  Unfortunately,
sometimes she becomes engrossed in her own bird watching, wildlife viewing,
picture taking activities and is distracted from her duties as a sag support.
She tends to turn her phone off so as not to disturb the wildlife—not helpful
to a stranded cyclist. Once riding in North Dakota in a vast open area with no
one in sight, the sky turned black and looked ominous.  “I wonder where Gill is, I said to myself.
”This looks like tornado weather.”  Two
hours later I arrived at the town that was our destination for the day, but I
was a bit scared, I must admit. And there she was. No bad weather where she had
been. Just tons of birds.
My best cycling experience and most memorable was across the
southern tier of the United States from Pacific to Atlantic. This was a two
month, 3800 mile fully supported tour with a company called Womantours. That
was in 2005. This trip has provided me with endless material for story
time.  Most of you have heard some of my
ramblings about this particular adventure. And I suppose I will continue to
refer to it as long as I am telling stories.
I have loved my bicycling experiences and the memories they
have provided.  I guess that’s why I love
a bicycle trip. It’s always an adventure. And I love adventure. 
© 30 May 2016 
About the Author 
 Betsy has been active in
the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver Women’s Chorus, OLOC (Old
Lesbians Organizing for Change), and the GLBT Community Center. She has been
retired from the human services field for 20 years. Since her retirement, her major
activities have included tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a
volunteer instructor with the National Sports Center for the Disabled, reading,
writing, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage.
She has a close relationship with her three children and four grandchildren.
Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her
life with her partner of 30 years, Gillian Edwards.
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Leaving, by Ricky

 Last week as I was
leaving my bathroom after leaving a small deposit, I thought it would be a good
idea to begin writing my story for the topic “Leaving”.  So, leaving the upstairs behind me and then
leaving the main floor, I headed to my computer in the basement.

Of course, the first
episode of leaving to which I was a party, was my birth.  I was seen leaving the birth canal by total
strangers.  It wasn’t like I wanted to be
leaving that warm and cozy small space, but my mother kept pressuring me to
leave—as in “Damn it! Get out of there and be quick about it.”  At least, that is what the screaming sounded
like to me.
Then there was the time
when I was about 4 or 5-years old, when my parents and I were to be leaving to
go somewhere.  Mom had finished leaving clean
clothes for me on my bed and told me to get changed.  Leaving the living room for my bedroom, I
arrived and began leaving the clothes I was wearing on the floor until I was
naked.  I then went to my bed to get
dressed and noticed that my dick was hard and demanded attention.  My mom saw me not getting dressed and not
leaving my dick alone so she told my dad. 
Dad spanked me for not leaving my dick alone.  Now
really!  He’s a man who at one time
was a boy.  He should have remembered his
discovery of his dick and known
better than to spank me for not leaving my dick alone.  Once a boy discovers the pleasures of not
leaving his dick alone, he will never be leaving it alone for very long for the
rest of his life.  After all, I doubt that Dad was leaving his
alone—my being alive is proof of that.
I’ll be leaving this
story for now because it is 3:00 AM and I am sleepy.  I may write more someday about all those
other leavings in my life.  (i.e.:
Leaving home for that first day of school. 
Leaving home for my first overnight campout. Leaving home for
college.  Leaving home for the
military.  Leaving the military for
home.  Leaving for the church to get
married.  Leaving the apartment for the
delivery room—4 times.)  Perhaps, I’ll
just be leaving this story unfinished.
© 7 Nov 2016 
About
the Author 
I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale
and then in Redondo Beach.  Just prior to
turning 8 years old in 1956, I was sent to live with my grandparents on their
farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents
divorced.
When united with my mother and stepfather two years later
in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California,
graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.  After three tours of duty with the Air Force,
I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until
her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11-2001
terrorist attack.
I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.   I find writing these memories to be
therapeutic.

My story blog is: TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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Fond Memories, by Ray S

Memories
are the past,
A
path up to a musty attic,
That’s
life stacked up there.
Piles
of shoe boxes filled,
Yellowed
envelops,
A
tower of ancient vinyl,
Weathered
albums, ancient year books.
1964
baby girl arrives joining
A
two-year-old brother;
The
new beginning, four lives into fifty plus years.
Faint
shadows cross a darkening window.
New
lives carry on;
Old
ones and memories slip away.
It’s
time to finish stories and chapters
The
book gets heavier and heavier to hold
Heavier
to open and close
Hard
to discern a fond memory
From
the dross of a long life lived.
It
is time to go down those stairs.
© 10 October 2016 
About the Author 

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All that Jazz, by Phillip Hoyle

Jazz goes
way back in my family. Dad played piano in a dance band in the 1930s and 40s. He
played a lot of jazz and he sang. Sitting at the piano in those pre-microphone
days he’d keep the rhythm going in his left hand and sing to the dancers
through a megaphone he held in his right hand. I’m sure he never lost a beat, missed
a note, or mis-sang a word.
He played
at church where the Sunday morning service was rather formal featuring hymns
like “Holy, Holy, Holy” or “Faith of Our Fathers” or even “Faith of Our
Mothers” (yes, a special version probably for Mothers Day), but the evening
service was much less staid. Preludes then featured improvised versions of simpler
gospel hymns played by Dad and my eldest sister Lynn. They would decide who
would play organ and who piano. Each hymn was played twice, first with one
person being in charge of the melody while the other was free to improvise. On
the repeat they’d change it around. Dad always played the key changes so they
had a seamless delivery. They’d begin at, say, Number 252 and keep going until
the preacher showed up to pray and preach. They’d continue their duet
accompaniments during the congregational singing. Jazz rhythms mixed with
holiness. Mom said that sometimes in those evening gatherings the back of
Brother Lown’s neck would grow red when Dad jazzed up some particularly
vivacious song. When Dad played the church’s Hammond organ, he didn’t use the
vibrato and jazz-sounding combinations, but his improvisations were as much
influenced by Jelly Roll Morton or Fats Waller as by J. S. Bach or Franz
Schubert.
There was a
lot more jazz. There were jazz 78 rpm records ones my father had collected. We
played them over and over. Then there were LPs. As a junior high kid my
favorite album among my oldest sister’s Columbia Record Club selections was
“Ella in Berlin.” My favorite moment in the recording was when scat singing a
rather fast song Ella laughingly sang, “Oh, I almost bit my tongue that time.”
And there was more performance. My sister Lynn played piano in the school jazz
band. Eventually, when churches let in more styles, she would occasionally do
jazz stylizations on hymns and gospel songs—even Christmas hymns—and yes, in
the morning service.
My next
older sister Holly and I both sang some jazz standards. Dad taught some of them
to us. One Saturday evening we got to go with him to a dinner club to hear a
live performance. Afterwards Dad made sure we understood that although he liked
our interest in jazz we should never try to make a living in jazz. “It will
never be enough for your life,” he explained. He knew too many musicians who
had music only (well that and booze and drugs and sex), and said that wasn’t
enough.
Dad and I
would sometimes stop by the Donovan Sundries Store on a Sunday afternoon. Paul
Donovan had an organ there and occasionally played jazz for us. Being
self-taught, Paul played mostly black notes; that would be like in the key of C
Sharp or F Sharp. They fit his hand Dad explained. Sometimes Dad would play a
piece or two while Mr. Donovan filled his order for a box of condoms. (It’s
interesting what a junior high boy knows about his parents. They already had
five kids; didn’t need any more!)
In high school,
I got to sing a medley of Cole Porter songs with the school jazz band and later
with the city band. That’s how I came to know “It’s All Right with Me,” and
“You Do Something to Me.” The director liked that I sang loudly. But it was
many years later when those songs really meant something romantic for me. That
occurred when I fell in love with another man.
My son
Michael from early on had a good jazz ear and played his renditions on the
guitar. His son Evan followed suit by playing his own kind of jazz on the
piano. Then his son Kalo got the jazz fever and today plays the bass in jazz
bands, folk bands, rock bands and symphony orchestras. He is also a composer
of, among other music, jazz songs. I suppose at least one of my great grandkids
will also start jazzing it up someday. Frankly I’m looking forward to it.

I feel
lucky to live in jazzy Denver. The house sits just three blocks from live jazz
performances six nights a week. And Jim and I try never to miss hearing Larry
Wegner and CJ Nicolai when they perform at the club. I bought their CD and sent
it to my sister for her birthday. It features “I Can’t Get Started,” “Stars
Fell on Alabama,” “The Falling Leaves” (CJ sings that in French), “No Moon at
All,” “Smile,” and “The Nearness of You.” Lynn wrote back: “Dear Phillip, Thank
you for the jazz CD. The first time I played it, I was cleaning the hard[wood]
floors. After one or two songs, I was crying to the music. My Style of music! …
Now we play one song at night, to get relaxed. I think I’ll never get tired of
it.” 
© 2 January 2017
About the
Author 
Phillip Hoyle
lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In
general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two
years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now
focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE
program “Telling Your Story.”
He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com
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Birthdays, by Pat Gourley

My birthday is January 12th and I was born in 1949
in LaPorte Indiana. So for my first 67.5 years of life on earth I was (per
popular astrology) a Capricorn. I did have my astronomical chart drawn and
calculated for me once many years ago.  I
always responded when asked my sign that I was a Capricorn. Then those with
whom I had just shared this vital information would respond with a nod and
often saying with authority ‘of course you are’.  Strange how very rarely these days I am ever
asked my sign when it was often the next thing out your mouth after stating
one’s name in the 1970’s, at least in the circles I traveled in.
Needless to say, I was surprised, though not particularly
dismayed, to learn that I was no longer a Capricorn but thanks to the National
Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA) I was now a Sagittarius. NASA went
an added a 13th zodiac sign to possibly be born under: Ophiuchus (I think
phonetically pronounced: ‘oh-fuck-us’)! I have linked below to a couple
articles that I used in researching this new and to many a very disturbing
development. That would be the crowd that has for years planned their day at
least in part after reading their horoscope in the daily paper or blaming all
sorts of bad stuff on Mercury in retrograde.
Maybe that’s why you hear less about people’s zodiac signs
since who reads the print media anymore. I am sure though that an app must
exist for those not willing to venture outside without first checking what’s up
for them that day per 3000 year old Babylonian mythology.
So what’s up with this additional zodiac sign? Well in a
rather snarky quote from Laurie Cantillo of the Planetary Exploration,
Heliophysics Department she explained why they added a 13th zodiac sign called
Ophiuchus: “We didn’t change any zodiac signs, we did the math. NASA reported
that because the Earth’s axis has changed, the constellations are no longer in
the same place they were thousands of years ago”. This shift in axis is due its
theorized to lost ice related to global warming causing the Earth to sort of
tip to one side. Oops! Try telling folks born under the new sign of Ophiuchus
that man-made climate change is a hoax.
Apparently, this update in the zodiac signs by NASA, perhaps the
first such adjustment since the Babylonians first go at it 3000 years ago, has
resulted in 86% of us now having a different sign. This of course radically
alters the daily advice we need to be following if we still use these bromides
to plan our life. Actually, if you are still relying on this advice I find that
more disturbing than whether or not you  are consulting the correct sign.
I am reminded of the apparently true stories of Nancy Reagan
frequently consulting her personal astrologer, the late Joan Quigley, for
advice during their years in the White House on how or when she and Ronnie
should proceed in conducting personal, national and world affairs. That
explains a few things doesn’t it! Reagan was born on February 6th,
which made him a Sagittarius in the old 12-sign model, but now we know he
should have been a Capricorn. We are left to ponder how different the world might
be today if Nancy’s astrologer had been feeding them the correct celestial
information!
One small caveat on how this change has been for me
personally sheds a bit of light on my sexual escapades of the past 50 years.
You can find all sorts of attributes attributable to your sign on-line though
many have not caught up with the addition of Ophiuchus. There is even sexual
stimulation advice available. For Capricorns, you can supposedly drive them to
a frenzy of sexual madness by tickling them behind the kneecaps. Since I am no
longer a Capricorn but was really a Sagittarius oh these many years that
explains why nobody ever got me off tickling me behind my knees! As a Sagittarius,
I can apparently be brought to the brink of orgasm by stroking my inner thighs.
Though I think this is getting closer to pay dirt, a stimulating move farther
north involving a sustained reach-around will still be required for a happy
ending.
Capricorn: Jan 20-Feb 16
Aquarius: Feb 16-March 11
Pisces: March 11-April 18
Aries: April 18-May 13
Taurus: May 13-June 21
Gemini: June 21-July 20
Cancer: July 20-Aug 10
Leo: Aug 10-Sept 16
Virgo: Sept 16-Oct 30
Libra: Oct 30-Nov 23
Scorpio: Nov 23-Nov 29
Ophiuchus: Nov 29-Dec 17
Sagittarius: Dec 17-Jan 20
https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/morning-mix/wp/2016/09/26/chaos-in-the-zodiac-some-virgos-are-leos-now-but-nasa-couldnt-care-less/
http://www.cosmopolitan.co.uk/entertainment/news/a45943/star-sign-horoscope-change-2016/
© 27 Nov
2016 
About the Author 

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

According to my records, with this piece, I am starting my
seventh year of coming to tell and listen to stories on Monday afternoon.
It seems odd to think about hope in this grim start to what
may be a long and grim year of frustration, setbacks and bad news. This is not
a very hopeful time we live in. But maybe this is when we most need to remind
ourselves that hope is possible, hope is what keeps us going, hope is what gets
us out of bed each morning. And hope, no matter how irrational, is good to
have.
So, my hope for the lesbian, gay and trans community is that
we learn to turn to each other more for joy and less out of necessity. I know
that fearsome problems still haunt our world and community. Violence and
bullying is a daily fact for many of our youth. Discrimination still runs
rampant in many areas. Determined gay-haters, like the soon to be
vice-president of the United States, persist in their work to undo the dignity
and security of LGBT lives and generate hostility toward us. There is still
plenty of inequality and prejudice out there.
But in many ways, our world is getting less frightening and
our grasp on basic rights is growing more secure. It is no longer acceptable to
openly degrade gay people—which is why our enemies have to resort to ever
greater subterfuges to try to harass us. They’ve lost the sanctity of marriage
so now they are reduced to fighting for the sanctity of toilets and who shall
be allowed to do their business in which ones.
We still have battles to fight, but my hope is that we will seek
out each other’s company less out of a sense of a need for protection, less out
of desperation, and more because we just want to be around other L, G, B and T
people. We come together not so much because we need to seek shelter in a
hostile world but more because we can best express ourselves with each other.
I have many non-gay friends and love them dearly. It’s not
that I sense any barriers between us. Yet, there is still more I sense in sharing
with queer folk. We share experiences that we’ve all known and don’t have to
explain. We share a humor derived from being outsiders. We share
spiritualities, arts and a sharp sense of just what community is—or is not. We
have been forced to make up our own culture and so we have. We are different
and we should relish opportunities to engage those differences.
Most of us come out of a time when lesbians and gays could
never take anything for granted. And we shouldn’t. Above all, we shouldn’t take
each other for granted. You can find very fulfilling relationships with non-gay
people but I do believe that there is one thing we can find only with our own
kind—happiness. I do hope that organizations such as the community center we
are in continue to thrive—not out of fear and self-defense but from joy. We
still need to find each other. I hope that we continue to come here because we
want to, not because we have to.
Even in a world more tolerant and open, there is still that
special depth of connection that we get to see only in each other. Call it love
or desire or a magical ability to coordinate colors and a flare for decorating,
you won’t find it outside. You may be welcome to watch football games with
legions of Broncos fans, but you won’t get much of a response by commenting
that Eli Manning is so much better looking than his brother Peyton. They just
don’t get it.
© 8 Jan 2017 
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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Celebrate Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas, by Louis Brown

I know it is difficult to
think about Celebrating when there is a storm cloud hanging over the United
States. But remember the candidate who gets fewer votes wins the White House,
that is the new normal. So Washington will continue to be Alice in Wonderland,
where up is down, left is right, backward is forward, ignorance is cherished, love
America means hate America, etc. Still we survived the hostile presidency of
George W. Bush. And we shouldn’t stop celebrating our holidays.
(1)
On Oct. 28, 2016, 7 p.m. at Saint John’s
Episcopal Cathedral, located at 14 Street and Washington Street, there was a
Halloween organ recital, that is, there was a showing of a German silent horror
movie, “Nosferatu,” Angela Papadakos was the organist. She started by playing
Bach’s Toccata and Fugue. (hum a few bars), spooky in itself. Then she
continued playing matching the mood of the scenes and her musical accompaniment.
Some people in attendance were wearing Halloween costumes, so I put on my
diminutive black top hat, and my neighbor, a young woman, in the audience told
me my hat was “awesome.” That made my evening.
(2)
Read flyer for Holiday Luncheon. Also I am
thankful for Prime Timers, and I met Joseph Bump at the luncheon who evaluated
my home situation about 7 or 8 years ago when Prime Timers was meeting in a
restaurant on West Colfax Avenue, which is in my neighborhood. Prime Timers
members keep track of each other (without being busy bodies). So if one ember
is having difficulty, if possible, Prime Timers helps him out. I wonder why I
do not recall any elderly women participating. It wasn’t a male-only club.
(3)
Read copy of E-Mail from Danny Dromm re
Gay History.
(4)
In New York City, gay libbers celebrate
Christmas by attending the Christmas chorale as performed by the NYC Gay Men’s
Chorus at Carnegie Hall. Does Denver Colorado have something analogous? I hope
so.

© 19 Nov 2016  
About
the Author 
I was born in 1944, I lived most of my life in New York City,
Queens County. I still commute there. I worked for many years as a Caseworker
for New York City Human Resources Administration, dealing with mentally
impaired clients, then as a social work Supervisor dealing with homeless PWA’s.
I have an apartment in Wheat Ridge, CO. I retired in 2002. I have a few
interesting stories to tell. My boyfriend Kevin lives in New York City. I
graduated Queens College, CUNY, in 1967.
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Ghosts, by Lewis Thompson

Ghosts are not the spirits of the dead hanging around to haunt us. They are creations of our own feelings of guilt. Regret is the only ghost we have to fear.

© 24 April 2017

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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Hysteria, by Gillian

The old black-and-white movie flickers and jumps. A woman screams. And laughs. And cries.

‘You’re hysterical,’ booms a strong male voice.

A strong male hand slaps the woman’s cheek. Silence; followed by a quiet sobbing.

That is hysteria in the movies.

I actually don’t think I have ever experienced that kind of hysteria; my own or anyone else’s. Perhaps it has never actually existed, outside of old movies. Or perhaps I have simply been extremely fortunate, having lived a life free of horrifying experiences which might create hysteria in myself or others.

No, I have not had to live such nightmares; but certainly I have seen them unfold on the TV. I have watched everything from terrorist attacks to mass shootings, from earthquakes and mudslides to tsunamis, hurricanes, and tornadoes. I have seen people’s response to such things. But, you know, I honestly cannot recall hysteria. People run, sometimes screaming, but that is a simple reaction to danger – the good old fight or flight response. I have seen tears: strangers enfolding each other in comforting arms, injured individuals sitting on the ground, alone and confused. That is shock and grief. It is not hysteria. Desperate people wave to helicopters from rooftops barely protruding from floodwaters. They shout for help from beneath heaps of rubble. These are people trying to save themselves. They are not hysterics. It makes little sense to me that hysteria should be encouraged by Mother Nature, anyway. She has given us an overwhelming survival instinct. We will do whatever it takes to live. Hysteria is counterproductive; it interferes with our ability to save ourselves. I’m sure it’s not listed on Mother Nature’s list of approved survival tactics.

On the other hand, a much more dangerous form of hysteria is alive and well and ever expanding, especially in recent years with the phenomenal growth of social media; mass hysteria. Until recently, this kind of group emotion was of necessity engendered in a group – a physical group of people close together, shoulder to shoulder, acting in ways none of them would have alone. The New Year’s Eve festivities downtown are great fun until a few idiots begin to egg each other on to break some windows. Before anyone realizes what is happening, dozens or even hundreds of people are heaving anything handy through windows, and the looting starts. Mass hysteria tends to lead to mass arrests. The soccer game is over and the crowds wending their way towards the stadium exits. A gang of lager-louts, till now only a little obnoxious as they react to the home team’s win or loss, begin an argument with opposing supporters. Voices get louder. Voices get angry. One man swings a fist. In seconds dozens of fists are swinging. Innocent bystanders rush for the streets. Hundreds are trampled in the panic; dozens killed and injured. And even without physical violence, hysteria is ugly. Just watch our political conventions.

Lately an even more frightening, more pervasive, form of mass hysteria has appeared, fomented by social media. An angry young man no longer needs to fly to Syria and attend a mosque frequented by violent extremists to become what we now chose to call ‘radicalized’. He can work himself into a frenzy of hatred and bigotry simply by reading what is offered in great abundance on his iPhone or laptop. He barely needs to get up off the couch. Perhaps he will never appear on any no-fly- or watch-list, but he is every bit as dangerous as those who do.

Mass hysteria is almost as scary even when involving no actual violence. These days all it takes is sound bites; Obama was not born in this country, Hillary is a crook. Repeat it often enough via all forms of social media, but particularly TV, and some of those listening will repeat it. Some of those hearing it will then repeat it, and in twenty-four hours there is this ground-swell of mass hysteria all based on a lie.

But strangely, I have observed recently, social media can create something which seems to me even stranger; almost the antithesis of hysteria. But if the opposite of hysterical is calm, this is behavior surpassing anything the word suggests to me. It is a level of denial for which I think we have no word. It seems to have appeared along with the universal inclusion of cameras in cellphones.

On the TV screen I see a man almost up to his armpits in swirling water. He holds one arm above his head, gripping his phone in his hand. Debris of all kinds swirls around him in the rising waters of Tropical Storm Sandy. He shouts breathlessly into his phone, capturing the image of himself struggling to remain upright. His commentary, as played on the television, consists mainly of beeps.

‘I’m here in bleeping New Jersey, in my own bleeping house. I’m standing in my bleeping kitchen, man. I don’t see how the bleep I’m gonna bleeping get out of here.’

He turns the camera off himself to show a jerky unfocused view from a window.

‘And over there it bleeping looks like every bleeping thing is on fire, man. How the bleeping bleeping bleep do you get bleeping fire on bleeping floods? Bleep. Bleep.

I gotta bleeping get up to the bleeping roof. Bleep … bleep ……’

After a few seconds of wildly gyrating film of ceiling and walls and water, everything goes blank and silent.

You see more and more of these death-defying shots, movies, and commentaries. People seem increasingly more interested in capturing their own images for posterity than in saving their own lives. Mother Nature must be very confused and frustrated!

Or perhaps she’s happy to see them go, cleansing the gene pool.

My very favorite so far, and I say so far because I reluctantly doubt that this new phenomenon is going away, is a still shot of a young woman in a bikini who obviously waited for the perfect moment to get a selfie as the tsunami waves broke through the windows behind her.

What is wrong with these people? I have no training as a psychologist, but I’m not too sure that your average shrink understands why people act this way, though there is, doubtless, at this very moment, at least one Ph.D student studying the topic.

Apparently the two people I have just described must somehow have survived. We have the content of their presumably intact phones. But how many, I have to wonder, have died in the grip of this strange ‘anti-hysteria’? I am starting to think that a good old-movie style face-slapping bout of hysterics might look downright healthy.

© August 2016

About the Author

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

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Where I Was when Kennedy Was Shot, by Betsy

November 22, 1963—I had to look up the exact date—I don’t remember where I was, but I can go backwards and figure it out. We came to Denver in 1970. Before that we lived in Leiden, The Netherlands. We went to the Netherlands in 1966 from Scottsville, New York. My youngest child was born in 1964. My second child was born in 1962, so the time we are trying to pinpoint was between the births of my 2nd and 3rd child. In fact I would have been pregnant with my 3rd child at the time. I can visualize our home in Scottsville. I must have been at home. Yes! I would have been at home; I had two babies to take care of.

I do remember now watching the news on TV as the tragic event was unfolding. At the time I tuned in Kennedy was in the hospital still alive. I do remember the announcement shortly after, that he had expired, that doctors could do nothing to save him.

Then there was the swearing in of Lyndon Johnson on Air Force One.

What is more memorable to me is watching the heartbreaking funeral procession down Pennsylvania Avenue— the riderless horse, the casket, Jackie Kennedy and John Jr. and the famous salute the young child gave to honor his father. These are all images that have been etched into the memories of most Americans—and there were very few who were not paying attention at the time.

Trying to remember that day I find to be an interesting exercise. I am asking why do I not remember how I felt about our president being assassinated. Thinking back, my emotions seemed flat when viewed from the perspective of 2017. Not only can I not remember feeling what would seem to be the appropriate emotion, but also I cannot come up with the physical place where I was at the time of the incident without calculating where I must have been.

In retrospect that disconnect with my past seems odd to me. I have not often thought about being unable to be in closer touch with the Betsy of November 22, 1963 until considering the topic for today.

In recent years I have come to the realization that in my day- to- day life before I came to terms with my sexuality I was not fully “present.” I was partially “shut down.” Not depressed, not withdrawn, not unhappy—just not fully present. As if some of my nerve endings were absent or deadened. I did not drink too much, I did not do drugs. Yet looking back from today’s vantage point it feels as if at that earlier time I was not an integrated person. I was, in fact, some other person especially in one very important basic aspect.

So it has been very useful for me to write on today’s topic. It has given me some added insight into that part of my life—a time before I understood my true nature. And writing even these few words helps bring a measure of clarity.

Another less personal thought generated by the topic for today comes to mind. That is this: After the Kennedy assassination many assumed that presidents no longer would expose themselves to any possibility that a lone gunman could snuff out his/her life by simply squeezing a trigger from a distant, unsuspected, isolated location .

Anyone who is president has enemies. And enemies who are dedicated to ridding the world of the hated powerful person. It only takes one to pull that trigger. Literally millions of dollars are spent to protect the president and his family. More in the current administration that ever. So I suppose it would be more difficult today than in 1963 to pull off an assassination.

The gun issue at this point rears its ugly head. I haven’t heard it suggested by the NRA that the president himself be armed at all times, as is suggested for the rest of us—the school teachers, shop keepers, mothers, fathers, grandmothers and grandfathers, people living alone, people living with others, single people, married people, sick people, healthy people, virtually everyone should carry a gun, says the NRA.

In spite of his support of the NRA, I doubt our current president carries a gun. And since Kennedy’s assassination, presidents have not been hiding from public exposure. Since then our presidents have chosen to walk or ride out in the open, wave to the crowds, and make themselves visible. And I don’t blame them one bit for doing so. I understand the feeling. They want to be totally visible just as I myself was driven to be.

I have often made the statement to family and friends, “I refuse to live in fear.” Applying common sense is a good thing, but living in an emotional state of fear, unable to live life to the fullest because of what COULD happen or because of what happened to someone else is handing victory over to the enemy and capitulating to an unknown entity which wants to exercise its power at your expense.

Kind of reminds me of the same pep talk I gave myself at different stages of coming out. But then it’s not my life that was at steak, just my quality of life or perhaps a temporary emotional set-back. But the principle is the same. Living in fear is no way to live.

© 3 April 2017

About the Author

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