Tag: Capitol Hill

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True Colors – Take a Walk in the Grove, by Nicholas

          I want to tell a story today that involves one of our own,
a member of this group. It’s about a group of people who showed their true
colors in their loyalty to one friend and created a unique space for our entire
community. Along the South Platte River on the edge of downtown Denver, is an
area of Commons Park designated as a spot to remember those who have died of
HIV/AIDS and their caregivers. It’s called The Grove and it is one of only two
AIDS memorial gardens in this country—the other is in San Francisco. Our own
Randy Wren was part of that group that labored for seven years to make it
happen.
          The Grove started with one man’s vision. Doug McNeil knew
of the memorial grove in Golden Gate Park in San Francisco and asked, literally
as his dying wish, why can’t Denver create such a spot. Doug died of AIDS in
1993, a time when the LGBT community was focused more on the battle to undo the
infamous Amendment 2 than on the AIDS epidemic. Amendment 2, passed by Colorado
voters in 1992, prohibited any government or government agency in this state
from enacting any provisions to ban discrimination against lesbian and gay
people. (There’s an excellent exhibition on that history outside this door in
The Center’s lobby.) And it was a time of still rampant AIDS phobia.
          A small group of Doug’s friends vowed to carry out his dream
for The Grove. They weren’t the usual gaggle of community activists and
politicos. They included socialites, arts community supporters, an attorney,
and an Episcopal priest. Most were not gay. They organized a non-profit group
called The Grove Project, got 501c3 IRS status so they could collect funds, and
began the long process of taking on the bureaucracy of the city’s Parks
Department.
          The Parks Department never openly rejected the idea but
negotiations dragged on for years. At first, the area in front of the
performing arts complex on Speer Blvd was proposed. The city objected that
theatre and concert goers wouldn’t want to be reminded of the awfulness of AIDS
on their nights out on the town. Another location in a park in southeast Denver
was suggested but that would have left the memorial far from the Capitol Hill
neighborhood that was most affected by AIDS.
          At some point, the riverfront came into the discussion. At
that time, the area was just beginning to be developed. There was a quiet,
somewhat out of the way spot in a new park—Commons Park—that the city was
planning. That fit the criteria of being visible, centrally located and quiet
enough to promote the atmosphere desired.
          The Grove was envisioned to be a natural area for
contemplation. It was landscaped very simply with trees, natural grasses and
shrubs, and some rocks. A simple inscription reads: “Dedicated to the
remembrance of those who have lost their lives to AIDS and to their loving
caregivers who helped them live out those lives with dignity.”
          The Grove was dedicated in a simple ceremony in August
2000. Doug McNeil’s loyal and persistent friends accomplished his dream after
seven years of work.
          Now, The Grove sits largely ignored and sort of neglected
in a recessed corner of Commons Park, near 15th Street and Little
Raven Street. It is surrounded by high priced condos and apartments but it is
still a quiet and attractive area.
          Recently, a movement got underway to renew the spot, clean
it up, refresh the landscaping and, most importantly, make the community aware
that this historical and spiritual resource exists. In recalling all the
individuals who battled, and continue to battle AIDS, we remember how our community
grew from that experience. We remember those we’ve lost. We remember when being
gay changed from just giving the most fabulous parties to a truly mature
community of caregivers and advocates. We remember our past and that we have a
history. A history that is the root of our present and future.
          I encourage everyone to seek out The Grove and spend a few
quiet moments there remembering. And maybe you can help in its renewal. You too
can show your true colors.
© 2016 

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

I
moved into my apartment on Capitol Hill soon after reaching Denver in my fifty-second
year. There I lived in the third block south of Colfax Avenue, that old highway
that has claimed to be the longest main street in America. Not owning a car, I
walked everywhere, but was surprised when a friend asked, “Aren’t you afraid to
walk along East Colfax?”
“No,”
I immediately answered. “It’s just like the main street in the town where I
grew up.” I wasn’t freaked out to walk down an avenue with bars, tattoo
parlors, Army surplus stores, small groceries, gas stations, two-story
buildings with markets below and apartments or offices above, theatres, people
of various races, even drunks on the street. Strolling along Colfax always
reminded me of my hometown Junction City, Kansas that was located adjacent to the
US Army Base, Fort Riley.
I
had spent my childhood and early teen years living in the third block west of
Washington Street, the long main street that offered in addition to groceries,
clothing, theaters, lawyers, and real estate, a variety of beers, tattoos, Army
surplus, pawned goods, drunks, and prostitutes. My family lived on West
Eleventh Street, but the more colorful array of folks and their bad habits
rarely made it that far off the main drag.
Washington
Street ran for eighteen blocks from Grand Avenue on the north, the gateway to
Fort Riley, to I-70 on the south—well eventually when the Interstate made its
way that far west. On the south end of Washington Street our family ate at the
Circle Cafe that offered Cantonese and American food. Dad ordered Chinese food,
Mom her favorite fried chicken, and we kids our regular hamburger, French fries,
and a Coke. Later, when I began working at the store, I had lunch sometimes at
the Downtown Cafe where, much to my junior high delight, I discovered chicken
fried steaks. I already knew the middle part of Washington Street from walks
with Mom when she shopped, but also from visits to the two Hoyle’s IGA stores, both
located along Washington, one at 9th, the other at 13th.
Then there was the Kaw Theater where we watched movies and ate the homemade
cinnamon and horehound candies made by Mr. Hoyle, the owner and the father of my
Aunt Barbara. Duckwall’s and Woolworth’s stores sat on the east side of the
street in the same block as Cole’s Department Store where Mother used to model
clothes on occasion. I had seen photos of her as a young model posing on the
runway.
I
got to know Washington Street. North, between 15th and 16th
streets stood Washington School where I attend grades one through five. On
occasion I got to be the crossing guard on the main street, wearing the white
halter that symbolized enough authority to push the button for the stop light
and walk halfway across the four-lane street with a stop sign. No accidents
occurred on my watch. The school playground for older students was on
Washington Street so I saw its activity from swings, monkey bars, and see saws.
Walking down that street one afternoon when our class went on an outing to
visit the local potato chip factory seems as real today as it was then. Across
the street from the school was Kroger’s, and across the street from our store
that Dad managed, sat Dillon’s. I knew these stores to be the competition. Next
to Dillon’s was the Dairy Queen where we kids liked to go on Sunday nights
after church. I knew Washington Street.
As
older elementary kids we neighborhood boys began to walk the street without
adults. There we discovered the bars, a variety of shops including the Army
Surplus stores where we looked longingly at the gear of soldiers, the
barbershop where my best friend Keith got his flattop haircuts and where I
first saw professional wresting on TV, and tattoo parlors where we’d choose our
future body ornamentation from designs displayed in the windows. From
Washington Street, we’d gaze down East Ninth where we knew several houses of
prostitution stood. We’d continue on to Duckwalls and Woolworth’s where we
loved to look at toys and sometimes swiped them, to the Junction Theater where
we ogled the ads for adult films we never got to watch, or to Clewel’s Drug
Store where we drank sodas at the fountain where they mixed drinks and I often
ordered a grape Coke. Occasionally we’d walk on to Dewey Park where we saw
small children dancing at the city band concerts, where a statue of the 19th
century Admiral George Dewey with his drooping handlebar mustache stood atop a
classical archway, and where large WWII cannons stood sentry. By day people sat
there in the shade of huge elms and more than once on hot summer afternoons we
waded in the fountain that dominated the middle of the park.
I
never entered any of the many bars but was fascinated by their neon lights,
dark spaces with cool air wafting strange odors out the front doors. I wondered
about the men we saw inside sitting at the bar drinking beers, usually quiet
but sometimes with juke box blaring and loud talk and laughter, especially
around payday when the GIs came to town to squander their meager paychecks in
the dives on Washington Street and the whore houses on East Ninth. The
challenging presences rarely made it over to where I lived, but of course, we
boys had planned all our escape routes in case we might have run-ins with drunks.
Our survival tactics were actually just another form of play; after all we were
kids, boys with dreams of self-sufficiency, survival, and strength.
Life
changed for me over the decades between my fifteenth birthday when we left
Junction City and my fifty-first birthday when I showed up along Denver’s
Colfax Ave. My experiences along the unusual Kansas main street prepared me for
living in the city. In my fifties I continued to spend time among people of
various races and backgrounds. I ate Chinese food, chicken fried steaks, and
really nice hamburgers along Colfax. In contrast to my childhood activities, I did
go into bars and did get a tattoo. I still didn’t go into whorehouses. In this
real, really large city I walked down many streets and greeted many people. I
shared a new life with them but still kept my eyes open to possible developing
trouble and chose my routes with the wisdom I had learned in childhood walking
along Washington Street with my friends. Then I walked unafraid but never
unaware. I still do.
© 16 August, 2012 – Denver  
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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The Sweetest Touch by Phillip Hoyle

Given my sweet tooth I certainly would recognize and appreciate anyone who personified sweetness, but for some reason I have no recollection of ever meeting such a person. Although I cannot recall anyone, I have experienced sweet moments with special people. I recall what follows ever so clearly.

All the busses with their crisscross routes in my Capitol Hill neighborhood and the fact that I knew schedules well enough to judge which one to catch fascinated my nine-year-old grandson Kalo. We’d be ready to go downtown and I’d wonder aloud if we should wait for the Number Ten—an every 20 minute bus along East 12th Avenue—or catch the Number 12—an every 30 minute bus along Downing that in those days, some eleven years ago, turned toward downtown on 16th Avenue—or walk three blocks to catch the ever-interesting Number 15—an every 15 minute bus on East Colfax with both local and limited busses that stopped at Downing. Kalo thought his granddad quite intelligent and looked longingly at every bus that sped by.

When Kalo was ten years old he told his parents he wanted to go to Denver to paint with his grandpa Phillip instead of attending summer church camp. Calls were exchanged and a date agreed upon. For years I had programmed summer educational experiences for children, but now I faced a new challenge: to plan a weeklong art experience for one child with one ageing granddad as the solitary staff. I called my one-week plan the “Young Artist’s Urban Survival Camp” and looked forward to the week. I knew the time would require many and varied art projects and for my grandson travel around the city by bus! Finally the day dawned and Kalo arrived. I met him at the airport gate. We rode the Skyride from DIA, took the Shuttle to Civic Center Plaza, and transferred to another bus to go up Capitol Hill. Our week was off to a great start; he loved the transportation!

That week the two of us did a heap of artwork. We visited museums, galleries, an outdoor arts festival, and the annual PrideFest. Probably just as important for Kalo, we rode busses. On one of our outings we transferred to the Light Rail. Also we walked. Since Kalo was from a small city and had lived most of his life in the country, I was a bit cautious when we were crossing streets. I’d give instructions and sometimes take his hand until I was sure he was alert to what could happen. Then one afternoon on an outing to the Denver Art Museum, when we rode the Number 10 down to Lincoln and were getting ready to cross the busy intersection at 12th Avenue, Kalo grabbing my arm cautioned me about the traffic. “Grandpa, be careful.”

I thought how sweet this changing of responsibilities was—one of the sweetest interactions of our ten year relationship. I who had long cared for people in a thirty-year ministerial career, who in my five years in Denver had watched over two partners during their deaths, who had given countless therapeutic massages—many to very ill persons—was in Kalo’s simple, thoughtful act being taken care of by a precocious ten-year-old grandchild. I received his act of kindness and thoughtfulness as a sweet moment. Of course, I also saw the act as a portent of what happens between generations: someday he and others would take care of me.

We had a great week on public transit, a mountain hike, and watching the PrideFest parade; and did artwork that had us painting, constructing collages, and making rubbings. But my favorite experience was receiving Kalo’s sweet and practical gesture for the safety of his grandpa.

Yesterday a young-adult Kalo with his younger sister Ulzii, their dad, and two friends, came to Denver. We have begun lots of talk. Perhaps I’ll remind him of this sweetest moment!

© 30 March 2014 – Denver

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