Coping with Loved Ones, by Ricky

          Children do not “cope” with loved ones – they “survive” loved ones.  Babies survive being accidentally dropped when they are covered in soapy bath water or are squirming at the wrong time when a parent’s attention is distracted or any number of similar circumstances.  Most parents love (and would never deliberately hurt) their children, but legitimate mishaps do occur.
          Young children cope by using survival instincts, like staying out of sight of a raging parent, if they can.  Some hide under the bed; some escape to a friend’s house or apartment.  Some assume an adult role and make coffee for their hung-over parent.  Others care for younger siblings to the exclusion of their own social needs.  Some turn to illegal drugs and alcohol, while others just run away from home.  Unfortunately, some must do all of the above to one degree or another.
          Once a child’s brain develops increased capacity for reason, logic, and problem-solving, survival skills can grow into rudimentary coping skills.  Skills like thinking ahead to possible consequences for one’s actions (for example, do not do anything that might make mom or dad angry).  Trying to become the perfect child is another example.  Another skill is to keep secrets by not telling your parents anything that would upset them even if you only think some information might upset them and make them angry.  Closely associated with keeping secrets are the twin skills of avoiding telling the whole truth or outright lying.  These two skills can lead to major consequences when discovered by parents.
          One type of survival-mechanism children use is totally involuntary and effective but can leave permanent damage to a child’s physical or emotional development.  I am referring to the case where the situation a child is in, is so terrible that the child’s subconscious intervenes, and mentally the child “goes” somewhere else in their head.  Other situations may not be so terrible, but still cause a child mental, emotional, and physical pain.
          At the age of 9 ½, when I was told about my parent’s divorce, my mother’s remarriage, pregnancy, and my new stepfather and stepbrother, I developed the classic symptoms of shock along with depression.  Then my father, who was the one who told me about the divorce, left the next morning.  After spending the weekend moping, crying, scared, and confused, my subconscious “turned off” my emotions dealing with loss.  I became emotionally incomplete, which has a major impact on my life even to this day.  Perhaps not feeling negative emotions actually helped me survive the confusion over my orientation, having to babysit my siblings instead of attending after-school activities, and so forth during my high school years.
          Survival and coping skills learned in childhood and adolescence, can serve an adult well, if developed properly.  Are there any straight or GLBT parents who have not experienced challenges when raising children through their various stages of development?  Things like: potty training; the terrible two’s; the 2AM “Daddy. I want a glass of water.”; the midnight through 6AM feedings every two-hours; “All the girls wear makeup.  Why can’t I?”; diaper changing ad nauseum; underachieving at school; overachieving at mischievousness; various childhood illnesses; dental and doctor appointments; conflicting school and family activities; “I hate that food item!”; “Can I have a $20 advance on my allowance?”; “Sir, this is officer Bob.  Could you please come to the police station and pick up your son?  He’s had a bit too much to drink for a 13-year old.”; “Mom, now that I am 12, can I have a 16-year old boyfriend?”; “Mom.  I’m bleeding between my legs.”; “Son, do that in private or at least lock the bathroom door.”; “No you can’t watch a PG-13 movie until you are 13 and no R-rated movies until you are 30.”; “Mom, Dad – I’m gay/lesbian.”; and a host of other such issues too numerous to list.
          How does an adult cope with those challenges?  You do the best that you can with the knowledge and skills you learned as a child in how your parents manipulated you.
          But there are some of life’s challenges that no one can really prepare for.  Divorce is hard enough on the adult but especially devastating for a child or even adolescents.  Some adults and children have friends to be a social support during the stressful times.  Others turn to their religious faith for comfort.  Some just get depressed and withdraw and many children take their own life.
          My most stressful time was when I was temporarily caring for my wife’s mother, an Alzheimer patient.  Her regular caregiver (and partner) needed to take a month-long vacation.  My children and I split up the time with me taking two-weeks and the others taking one-week each.  The first night I stayed with my mother-in-law, she decided that she was in my apartment and spent much of the time between 1AM and 6AM (while I was asleep), packing her things and loading her car so she could drive to her house (the one she sold several years previous).  For the rest of the two-weeks I was there, I was in survival mode and not much good for anything. 
          I left my car there for my children to use while there, and I took the train back to Denver.  The train took 3-days to go from Jacksonville to Denver by way of Washington DC and Chicago.  I needed every one of those days to decompress and relax.
          Even knowing what to expect from an Alzheimer patient, who can really prepare for the reality.  I truly understand how loving children can place their Alzheimer parents into a nursing type facility, as the stress is tremendous.  What I do not understand is how the staff of those facilities can provide the care they do without shutting off their emotions.
          People do not really cope with situations.  They maneuver about mentally and physically until the “crisis” passes and they become survivors.
         
© 14 October 2012 
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 

Pushing the Buttons, by Lewis Thompson

When I took Drivers’ Ed
back in 1960, we did our on-the-road learning in a 1957 Mercury Monterey with
push-button automatic transmission controls mounted to the left of the steering
column on the lower instrument panel.  (Most
people over 60, like me, associate push-button shifting with Chrysler
Corporation vehicles.)  Mercury went back
to column-mounted shifting a year or two later. 
I assume that a few too many of their customers were downshifting or
upshifting when they meant to change the radio station from WLS in Chicago to
KOMA in Oklahoma City.
On some very recent car
models, pushing a button is how you start the motor, either gasoline or
electric.  Many of us will remember when
you would push a button to lock the car doors. 
Later models often lock the doors for you when the vehicle reaches a
certain speed.  One operation that hasn’t
changed much is the need to push a button to release the lap/shoulder
belt.  Many telephones still require the
manual dexterity to push a button to dial or take a call but they are rapidly
being phased out by phones that require only a soft, tactile touch to a screen.
I can remember push-button
operated door bells, light switches, tape recorders, adding machines,
typewriters, office phones, air conditioners, electric mixers, car radios,
switch blade knives, and pagers.  Some
household items still use pushbuttons today. 
For example, pop machines, cell phones, elevators, pedestrian crossing
signals, car key fobs, and apartment lobby call boxes.  Almost everything else has converted to a
modus operandi that does not involve buttons. 
Soon people will be
letting their fingernails grow so long that they can no longer push a button
without breaking a nail.  Broken nails
used to be a problem for women who wore nylon stockings.  However, since woman don’t wear nylon
stockings anymore–they went out of style concurrently with buttons–broken
nails are no longer an issue unless they make it hard to make the desired
selection on a touch screen or micro-switch. 
I don’t know if this is a problem since I still have many possessions
with a button.  Therefore, pushing buttons
is a push-over for me.
© 23 Jun 2014  
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 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.

Hunting, by Pat Gourley

I lived on a farm in Northern Indiana until the age of
sixteen. Though we were as far as you could be from the toxic reality of
today’s factory farms there certainly were plenty of animals raised that met
their demise at the hands of various family and extended family members
directly or indirectly. By indirectly I mean we sold and loaded plenty of
animals into trucks that were headed for the local slaughterhouse.
I learned to kill chickens with an axe from my mother who
emphasized not letting the headless bird flop all around and spray all the
younger siblings and cousins lined up watching the slaughter with chicken blood.
I was quite good at it. This is something I cannot for the life of me imagine
myself doing today. Any backyard chickens that I might have in the future would
live to ripe old ages dying from chicken heart attacks or falling prey to a
local fox or coyote.
For whatever reason, there were no hunters in my immediate
family. There was one Uncle nearby who did some hunting but that was mostly for
rabbits and pheasants.  I can to this day
hear my aunt complaining about trying to get all the buckshot out of the poor
rabbit before cooking it. She also made a delicious rabbit gravy as I recall
and that was worth biting down on the occasional piece of buckshot missed in
the cleaning.
The closest I can remember my dad ever came to hunting was
one winter when he had hurt his back and was told, incorrectly in those days,
that bed-rest was required to heal the sprain. The bedroom had a window that
looked out over the backyard and onto a corncrib. This crib was made of fencing
that allowed the grain to thoroughly dry out and not get moldy but still exposed
the ears of corn. From that vantage point he could see rats scurrying about and
munching away on all his hard work. So, he took to shooting the varmints out
the bedroom window with a 12-gauge shotgun missing more often that not.
I myself had a very short period of attempting to hunt
rabbits around the age of 12 or 13 with a small caliber long gun I think that
was called a 410-shotgun. Despite hours of traipsing through the snow no
rabbits lost their lives at my hand.
Once we moved from Indiana to north of Chicago there was even
less hunting by folks on our neighboring farms than there had been in Indiana.
We were really only a mile or two from being Chicago suburbanites and random
gunshots not something the neighbors would have appreciated.
There was a woman name Margaret though in the farm next to
ours who I became fast friends with due in large part to our similar political
views. We loved talking politics for long hours denigrating everything
Republican. She did though have a very efficient way of killing chickens every
spring. She would tie them up and suspend them by their feet, about a dozen at a
time, from her clothesline. She would then quickly march down the line with a
sharp butcher knife severing heads cleanly and efficiently. I know this may
sound gross to you but do remember that the burger or chicken breast you enjoy
today did not get to your plate as a result of the animal committing suicide.
As I began to get in touch with my queer nature, especially
from age 16 on, anything to do with hunting or people who engaged in it really faded
from my life. I know absolutely no other queer person I am aware of today who
hunts. There is one straight man occasionally in my life who does hunt and that
is for sport not a need for food. 99.9% of the animal killing for food these
days is done in very inhumane slaughterhouses mostly by exploited immigrant
labor far from our eyes. It then appears magically in the meat sections of
grocery stores neat, tidy and wrapped in cellophane.
Harry Hay was a very adherent vegetarian for the entire 20
plus years I knew him and long before that. He was fond of saying, when asked
about whether he ever ate meat or not, that it would only be if he personally knew
the cow. This always seemed to imply also that one really should know intimately
whom they are eating and that they had done the killing and butchering
themselves.
I think this would be a splendid plan for all meat-eaters to
do their own slaughtering. I imagine this would end much of the cruel factory
farming and vastly increase the number of vegetarians and vegans. This would
then go a long way toward saving the planet by helping to reverse global
warming. Remember there is virtually nothing we as individuals can do to impact
climate change more than to refrain from eating any animal product. Hunting
these days should really only involve looking for a good sale on kale.
© 25 Sep
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. 

The First Person I Came Out To, by Pat Gourley

Strangely I find myself vacillating a bit on this topic. I
assume I would ordinarily not consider the first person I had sex with since
that would be a situation that would seem obvious to both of us. However in my
case it was with a man I sought out initially seeking an answer to the question
was “I gay or not”. More accurately what I was asking at the time was am I a
homosexual or not?
The person I sought out to help clarify whether I was really
a big homo or not was most certainly not an openly gay man.  This was after all 1965 in suburban Chicago
and he was on the faculty of a Catholic High school. It was a diocesan school
staffed by Holy Cross nuns and though several of those nuns were progressive in
the extreme there was no Gay-Straight alliance as an option for extracurricular
activity.
Initial contact with this man would have been in late 1965 or
more likely sometime in early 1966. Though I am not totally clear about this I
do think I was genuinely seeking him out, as one of my high school counselors
and a person 20 plus years my senior, to help me answer this perplexing
question with no pre-existing assumptions about his sexual preference. Even at
age 16 I was not seeking a cure but would have probably been very reassured to
be told it was just a phase and that I was actually quite a masculine straight
arrow.
There had certainly been lots of enjoyable nude swimming with
male siblings and cousins to say nothing of the nearly obsessive urge to see my
dad and the occasional uncle nude. These preoccupations proceeded by several
years my seeking out my guidance counselor for help and advice.  So I may have been drawn to him
subconsciously hoping he really was like me. And of course his Old Spice
shaving lotion and hairy physique I assumed, an assumption later validated, and
his being bald may have all helped to create a situation I would often in
future years find irresistible.
Minus the Old Spice aftershave, which thankfully faded from
the scene sometime in the 1970’s, I think the hairy and bald aspects are quite
accurate physical descriptions of both of my long-term lovers, both named David,
and they combined to occupy 30 years of my adult life. Why I remain today still
hard-wired to pursue the mature and preferably quite hairy older male is
interesting and a bit of mystery to me. So many of my queer male peers prefer at
least in their dream worlds something younger, thinner and less hirsute.
Some months into that year of counseling sessions before
fruition so to speak I decided this guy was really on my side and very sexually
attractive. Long story short we did it eventually and it was as I recall the
Friday before Palm Sunday after school in the biology lab. I absolutely did not
fall into spasms of guilt post orgasm but rather was on cloud-nine for days and
spent most waking hours relishing the thought of our next get together. I guess
when one has ejaculated all over another man you have then come out to them
certainly as someone with homosexual tendencies if not as full blown GAY.
The coming out process for many of us though is a recurrent
theme that we are required to play out repeatedly since the attitude of society
in general is that heterosexuality is always the unexamined assumption. I have
for years though preferred to always give everyone I meet the benefit of the
doubt and assume they are queer until proven otherwise.
© May
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.