Tag: Culture and Current Events

Posted on

You’ll Never Know, by Gillian

No, I probably won’t, but I suspect that expression might soon need to be protected under the Endangered Species Act. It surely must be close to extinction. Extremely popular as recently as our younger days, attitudes have changed so much that people rarely say, or even think, these days, you’ll never know … whatever.

Not only people, but computer systems, know more about us than we do ourselves. King Soopers knows what I eat, Argonaut knows what I drink, Amazon knows what I read. A part of us seems to resent and fear this, yet we relentlessly feed the world endless information.

We shout everything from the rooftops. We tell everyone everything, from inane trivia to what would once have been deep dark secrets.

Take Facebook for instance. (Please, take it! I don’t want it.) So many people telling me so much more than I could ever need, or want, to know. Am I supposed to be enthralled by the final success of some friend of a friend’s grandchild’s potty training? Or someone whose name means nothing to me proclaiming that he, without fail, flosses his teeth six times every day? Or the myriad of lunatic responses to this claim from people I don’t know and don’t want to know?

I’d like to say that I hate Facebook, but in all honesty I simply stay away from it so I’m not involved enough to hate it. I do, however, regret the way in which it has created impersonal communication from the personal.

Once upon a time – and not so very long ago – cousin Fred would send a postcard when he visited New York. It would have the same tired photo of the Empire State Building on the front, and some version of wish you were here on the back. Nevertheless, how nice of him, you would say, to think of me. It was personal. It made you feel good.

Now, you look at Fred’s photo-journal on Facebook, detailing his trip to Bangkok. He recounts every event of every day, down to what he ate for dinner. You can imagine his trip much more vividly then you did from the old postcards, but what happened to that warm fuzzy you used to get from them? What happened to the personal touch? What happened to that oh how nice of you to think of me feeling? I haven’t a clue whether he ever gave me a thought or not. He sent this report out into the ether to be read by anyone who cared to do so. I would really get more out of a boring photo and a banal message; at least it was for ME.

A while back I heard via a mutual friend that a good friend of mine had just returned from New Zealand.

‘I didn’t even know she’d gone to New Zealand!’ I wailed.

‘It’s all been on Facebook,’ she replied, looking pitying and puzzled as if I’d just told her I couldn’t read.

A couple of weeks ago, a group of old lesbians Betsy and I belong to were joined for lunch by a few teenagers who shared with us their experiences with being …. um …. and here I shall begin to flounder because I am not too sure what they would consider the politically correct terminology. My apologies to any of you wonderful young people who happen ever to read this, which I think highly unlikely. I think their version of the alphabet soup was LGBTQIA+, the QIA being questioning, intersex, and asexual. What an education these kids are. They talk with assurance about identifying as gender-queer, gender-fluid, non-binary, and half the time I’m not sure even what they’re saying. It’s another language. And here we were, many of us in this room, when we were that age, ignorant of even one word to describe what we knew, at some level, ourselves to be. I recall that huge hurdle, as it appeared at the time, we had to leap in order simply to inform others that we were attracted to those of the same sex, or that we were trapped in the wrong body. Can you even begin to imagine trying to explain to your parents that you are never sure, at any given moment, whether you will feel that you are female or male, or to which sex you may feel attracted. Or that you chose not to identify as any gender. You just are.

For some of them, their preferred pronoun is ‘they’ rather than he or she, which is vaguely possible in the English language but when I try it I find it very confusing.

It was all starting to make my head hurt.

Don’t get me wrong though, I have every admiration for these young people: out to the world, apologizing for nothing, completely proactive on their own behalf. I’m not foolish enough to think it’s easy for them, but none of them is ever going to think, in some secret, inner, self, you’ll never know ….

Everyone knows, and I bet they’re all out, loud and proud, on Facebook.

Perhaps, if I used Facebook, I would be more familiar with the the language of today’s LGBTQIA etc. youth, though I am not ashamed to admit my deplorable ignorance face to face.

Maybe I just have to accept that if I am to keep up with what is happening in the world in general, and with those nearest and dearest, I shall have to resort to Facebook. But I’d still rather receive a postcard.

© November 2015

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.

Posted on

Jealousy, by Will Stanton

I’m not sure that I ever have
experienced real jealousy in my whole life. 
Based upon the correct definition of the concept, jealousy requires a
degree of bitterness and covetousness to the point that the jealous person
would be content to take away from someone else whatever he desires to
take.  Apparently, I wasn’t born nasty
enough to harbor such feelings.
 
Envy is a different matter, a
feeling that is not healthful, yet, at the same time, is not so potentially
harmful as jealousy.  One can envy the
positive attributes that someone is born with or acquires, but without wishing
to deprive the fortunate person from his attributes.
I, like most people, have
fallen prey to envy.  This is especially
true when I encounter someone who is quite healthy, young, attractive,
athletic, and who has accomplished feats not granted to me.  I certainly have envied the superlative
concert pianists their hands and skills, lamenting that I was given “feet for
hands.”  Yet, I would rather address a much
lighter topic, one that is rather more unusual; and that is being able to
travel the world and learn from it.
I benefited greatly from my
two trips to Europe, one when I was a child, and one when I was a young
adult.  Unfortunately, I have not been back,
yet those two experiences broadened my mind and provided me with the insight to
view people and events more realistically than many people do who stay mired in
their limited experiences.  Mark Twain is
famous for saying (and I agree with him), “Travel is fatal to prejudice,
bigotry, and narrow-mindedness; and many of our people need it sorely on these
accounts.  Broad, wholesome, charitable
views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner
of the earth all one’s lifetime.”
So, how advantageous it would
be for a person to not only have the opportunity to travel extensively
throughout the world, but, also, to begin doing so very young.  Well, I know of two such little boys, Nathan
and Seamus. 
Nathan
Seamus
Some time ago watching Public
Television, I stumbled upon an informative and charming program called “Travel
with Kids.”  It features a young couple,
Jeremy and Carrie, who have traveled the world together for twenty years, not
staying in fancy hotels, but, instead, sometimes backpacking and exploring
areas off the beaten path and away from most touristy locales.  Having their first baby, Nathan, did not
prevent their continuing their travels, nor did the birth of their second son
Seamus.  Instead, they have turned their
love of travel into a profitable travel program and an opportunity to provide
their little boys with wondrous sights of diverse peoples and cultures.
Those bright little kids have,
for eight years, been adsorbing experiences and knowledge like sponges.  Their parents take them to fascinating
museums, many of them interactive, where they can explore for themselves local
flora and fauna.  They interact with
local guides and townspeople, learning about history, arts and crafts, language,
and traditions.  They taste regional
cuisine, learn to try and enjoy dishes new and different to them.  Continually excited by their adventures, they
often reveal a surprising degree of acquired knowledge by speaking to the
camera, explaining quite well what they have learned.
And, the extent of their
travels and experiences is amazing. 
Apparently, they have traveled through South Korea, Venice, the
Caribbean, Victoria Falls, Naples, Thailand, South Africa, Latin America, South
Pacific, Ireland, France, Vietnam, England, Scotland, Bahamas, Belize, Greece,
Kenya, China, Jamaica, Egypt, Yucatan, Spain, Mexico, Fiji, French Polynesia,
Curacao, Tahiti, and Bora Bora.  I might
have missed some. 
I never have quite figured out
how this family crams so much travel into annual schedules that must, somehow,
include schooling for the two boys.  Yet,
I must say that what they have learned in their travels is an astonishing
supplement to their formal schooling. 
Yes, I also must say that I rather envy their wonderful opportunities
provided by their parents.
You recall the Mark Twain’s
quotation I mentioned before.  These two
kids must be the most broadminded kids in the world.  And, what a dramatic contrast to the
school-teacher I met who said something like, “I’m not interested in
traveling.  Everything in America is
bigger and better than anywhere else.”  I
just can imagine how this woman thinks about anything outside her own tiny
experience.  I also can imagine how she
votes, which is typical of the terrible social and political problems plaguing
our poor nation.
So, Nathan and Seamus, I hope
your rare and wonderful opportunity to travel so extensively contributes to
your becoming wise and empathetic adults. 
May your insight and wisdom help you both to make positive contributions
to our world.
© 16 Dec 2015 
About
the Author 

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

Vibrations of Time, by Carlos

A
ghost abides in my house, although the word ghost is hardly the appropriate
word to use, for I think both he and I prefer to use the word spirit. He is an inconspicuous
energy that lingers around me like the aroma of mint tea on a frosty day or the
taste of orange blossom honey on a warm croissant. I have only seen him once, a
snippet of a shadow that appeared in my periphery vision and was gone like a
summer beam of light. I was working in the garden and happened to look up at
small window above the staircase, catching him as he spied down on me. He is a
fine-featured, tall gentleman dressed in what looks like an Edwardian morning
coat and silk ascot. And although I dismissed him as an overactive imagination
borne perhaps from too many hours under the summer sun or from the expectation
that a spirit should after all reside in a Victorian home, I have never, until
now, spoken of him. I’ve given him the name John, and he seems most content
that I should name him so.
This
is not to say that John has always been a quiet energy, satisfied to waft
through the air like the first sublime notes of Karl Jenkins’ Benedictus. When I first moved into our 1888
Queen Anne, she looked like a dollhouse that had been touched inappropriately
by too many who had taken from her, but never loved her unconditionally. The
windows were broken, and the rooms frigid. Her fine details were gone, ripped
out and sold or simply discarded and replaced by the more modern contrivances
of evolving tastes. As for her garden, only two century-old maples and two
weathered apple trees remained, no doubt, an attempt by early homesteaders to
tame the wild grasslands of a former time. Nevertheless, our attraction to each
other was instantaneous, like two would-be lovers who meet on a quiet dance
floor and see each other’s souls through the haze and shadowy darkness. Putting
an offer, and finalizing the closing, within weeks our destinies were linked.
On my first day in my proud, but sad, house, I sat on the floor and envisioned
hopes and promises yet to be birthed. I sat in terror, pondering whether I
would be worthy enough to respect her and restore her faded self-esteem. Upon
moving in, I immediately hanged my treasured cuckoo clock upon a wall, taking
great joy in calibrating the weights every week to enjoy the automaton’s hourly
call. It became a symbol of my own nesting.
Often
the vibrations between house and me were at odds and tenuous, much like a newly
wedded couple in an arranged marriage. She was suspicious of my intentions; I remained
dubious as to whether I could do right by her, whether I could be faithful to
just one. The energy within the house was impudent, challenging me as though to
undermine me and determine my reaction. 
After the water pipes froze and water fountained throughout the first
floor one frigid winter night, I repaired the damage and remained, proving to
both us that I was not about to retreat in spite of our apprehensions. As I cleaned
from the deluge and pulled up nasty, old carpeting, I connected with the past,
discovering sheaves of 1920’s vintage newspapers, now soaked, that had been
laid down by a former tenant to insulate the floors. Later, she tested my vows
as when during a small dinner party, I shame-faced discovered I had served gritty
sand in our soup bowls. Thinking I had been guilty of not washing the
vegetables, I, to my dismay, ladled out a chunk of horsehair plaster from the
ceiling that had unexpectedly fallen into the kettle. It was not long after
that that John’s presences made itself known. One night something touched my
toe as I lay in bed. I spent a few sleepless hours in a frigid room, not sure
whether I was more frustrated with the blustery winds that tumbled and shrieked
through the dark hallways or the unwarranted caress from the unknown. When I
demolished the upstairs walls, since they were but cheap cardboard sheathing
unceremoniously nailed down between rows of wood furring strips, giving the rooms
a prison-like aura, John was angry, perhaps because he thought that like others
before me, my intentions were to dismantle his world even further. I heard him
stomping angrily upstairs with fury, convincing me I was about to be pummeled
by a would-be intruder. However, when I ran upstairs to investigate, the sound
ceased; he had retreated. Over the ensuing years, the energy in the house gradually
changed to a live-and-let-live ambiance as I jacked up foundations, replaced
floors and windows, brought the plumbing and electricity up to code, and
strengthened the bones of the house. Eventually, chandeliers and fretwork,
stained glass and tile, roses and violets and sweet woodruff gardens graced my
home, mirroring her former self and solidifying my intentions to honor a
promise made when I was young and naive. Years earlier, I had concluded that
John did not care for the raucous sounds of my cuckoo clock since as long as
the clock chimed, his presence lingered nearby; thus, I decided to put the
clock in storage.  I suspect that in
doing so, I finally banished him, for the energy in the house became peaceful and
sedate, a true nest of repose. Yet, in truth, I missed his child-like antics,
his protective aura that pushed away suitors who were not good enough for me,
but welcomed those bathed in an evanescent light. Today, although he never
reveals his presence and rarely leaves a calling card of his ethereal essence, I
know he is still as close as my heart. Ever vigilant and circumspect, I know he
watches protectively over the house, over my now husband and me. We felt his
presence reaching out the night our Jonathan died as though reminding us that
death is a return back home, with a promise of reuniting. I feel his presence
as he keeps guard over me in the garden, trying to coax another poppy or
hollyhock to reveal the scarlet garment encased within her burgeoning bud. I
feel his presence when I am afraid of death and tired of living. Sometimes in
the middle of the night, I walk downstairs and meditate, and although always unobtrusive,
he waits nearby, shielding me from evil. Because I’ve come to understand his
intentions as being altruistic and benign, I’ve decided to unpack the cuckoo
clock and restore its warbling mechanic bird.  It is time to let him know he is not banished;
it is time to restore him to his rightful place in our home.
Our
home remains a work- in-progress, as well as a financial behemoth. More
important, however, it is a haven, a reminder that past sunbeams continue to blaze
and undulating rhythms continue to resonate, reminding me that I am but a
traveler temporarily away from home. I rejoice that time’s vibrations echo in
my life; I acknowledge energy’s immortality. I suspect that when I finally
awaken from my slumber, John, whether he is real or simply an abstract,
metaphysical self-deception, will serve as a reminder of the bewildering
ripples of time. Thus, I conclude that oscillations of time and space ultimately
act like concentric circles radiating from their source, the effect expanding
outward until equilibrium is again restored.
© 23 May 2016 (Denver) 
About
the Author 

Cervantes
wrote, “I know who I am and who I may choose to be.”  In spite of my constant quest to live up to
this proposition, I often falter.  I am a
man who has been defined as sensitive, intuitive, and altruistic, but I have
also been defined as being too shy, too retrospective, too pragmatic.  Something I know to be true. I am a survivor,
a contradictory balance of a realist and a dreamer, and on occasions, quite
charming.  Nevertheless, I often ask
Spirit to keep His arms around my shoulder and His hand over my mouth.  My heroes range from Henry David Thoreau to
Sheldon Cooper, and I always have time to watch Big Bang Theory or Under the
Tuscan Sun.  I am a pragmatic romantic
and a consummate lover of ideas and words, nature and time.  My beloved husband and our three rambunctious
cocker spaniels are the souls that populate my heart. I could spend the rest of
my life restoring our Victorian home, planting tomatoes, and lying under
coconut palms on tropical sands.  I
believe in Spirit, and have zero tolerance for irresponsibility, victim’s
mentalities, political and religious orthodoxy, and intentional cruelty.  I am always on the look-out for friends,
people who find that life just doesn’t get any better than breaking bread
together and finding humor in the world around us.
Posted on

A Defining Word, by Will Stanton

OK, so I know that two words are a term, not a word; but that is what I have chosen to write about, a term: “sexual preference.” I have chosen those two words because, over the years, they have been used so much, yet they certainly are not defining words.

Yes, I know what people usually mean when they employ that term when asking, “What is your sexual preference?” Most likely, they mean “straight or gay.” I usually answer, “I’m not sure. It’s hard for me to choose between blond or brunette. One day, I lean toward blond; yet, on other days, I’m drawn to dark-brown hair, maybe even black.”
A person’s preference may have little to do with sexual identity. For one example, I can conceive of a person born homosexual whose preference would be to be heterosexual. And of course, someone’s preference might be to a person of the opposite gender.
In addition, a person’s preference may be a partner who is young, or old, same race or different race, very good-looking or, instead, a very good person, looks being of less importance. Many gay guys seem to be preoccupied with the size of male genitalia. Other people could not care less, placing far more importance on someone’s other attributes.
In order to avoid confusion or misinterpretation, I prefer communication to be as precise as possible. Therefore, because genetics and brain structure are major determinants of each person’s drives and attractions, I suggest that the more logical term should be “sexual orientation;” and this is what I use if the subject comes up in conversation. Even then, that term is not completely defining, for people are complex and of varied natures.
And, as long as we are talking about commonly used terms, a little bell goes off each time I hear the frequently used term “bisexual.” My having involved myself for several decades in human behavioral treatment, the term “bisexual” always connotes for me a possible biological influence in someone’s nature or physical structure. After all, human sexuality is not binary, that is, either heterosexual or homosexual. Someone’s nature or orientation lies somewhere on a linear graph. For those individuals who may engage in sexual relations with people of both heterosexual and homosexual orientation, perhaps a more accurate term would be “ambisexual,” rather like in baseball, a “switch-hitter.” Or, if you would enjoy something more humorous, you might use the term “heteroflexible.”
Finally, generally I avoid popular, overused labels when describing people. People are far too varied and complex. Labeling people hinders the process of getting to know and truly understand someone. Besides, for those persons fortunate enough to have become self-actualized and broad in their interests, sexual orientation is only one part of a human, complex personality.
© 02 February 2016

About the Author

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

Posted on

Belief, by Will Stanton

So many people, far too many people, are convinced that belief is truth; belief is the same thing as fact. Nothing could be further from the truth. For centuries, most people believed that the earth was flat; the sun circled the earth. I am saddened by the fact that many people’s hard-held beliefs defy fact and reality, and too often with dire consequences.

To the horrific discredit of humankind, many Nazis believed that all Jews should be eliminated. Pastor Anderson in Tempe, Arizona, believes that all homosexuals should be executed, supposedly because the Bible says so. Some beliefs can be shocking and deadly.

Very often, people thoughtlessly quote the hackneyed expression, “Everyone is entitled to their own beliefs.” In addition to that quotation being bad grammar, I logically disagree with the statement. If a belief is false and can cause harm to others, I feel then that one is not entitled to harbor that belief.

Yet, we daily hear evidence that so many people hold false beliefs; and, in doing so, they cause among the populace suspicion, fear, distrust, disdain, hate. For example, “President Obama is not American; his birth certificate is forged; he hates America; all the generals and admirals are quitting because they are refusing Obama’s orders to bomb our own cities.” I view such beliefs as nothing less than insanity. For the life of me, I can not understand the depth and pervasiveness of such insanity. Yet, exist is does, and in abundance.

The idea of belief in religion also raises questions in my own mind, albeit anyone questioning religion at all is an anathema to many people. I have heard Christians say that the world is a better place with religion and point to, what they refer to as, “good works” as an immediate benefit of religion, let alone supposedly having an “afterlife.” A rational person, of course, will point out that good works can be performed without the adjunct of religion, regardless of the fact that many people, such a Bill O’Reilly, claim that such humanitarian works “do not count” unless the good Samaritan is a “person of faith.” Far worse, we all are aware that, throughout history, some religious beliefs have resulted in millions of deaths from war, Inquisitions, and terror.

My whole life, I have pondered the human mind. On one hand, I am amazed by the great, creative works some notable people have contributed to the world. Yet at the same time, I remain puzzled and saddened by the pervasiveness of distorted thinking and beliefs that are so common among the populace. Without being too technical, I am aware that researches have found that some people’s brains are more prone to clutching onto beliefs for a sense of certainty and safety, rather than rationally exploring all the facts available to them. Then of course, much depends upon what one has learned and how it was learned. I frequently have witnessed religiosity-minded people becoming defensive and hostile when confronted with facts that call into question their hard-held beliefs.

All of us, to one degree or another, have beliefs that we wish to maintain. I, for one, believe that the world would be a far better place if every person cherished life, always treated each other with empathy and respect, learned to love each other. Yet, I actually have been confronted with people who have stated to me that they do not share such beliefs.

I also believe in the benefit of moral behavior. For example, I believe that American politics would be far more constructive and tolerable if all concerned acted in a moral fashion without misrepresentation, lying, denigration, character-assassination, and even theft of elections or actual assassination. Yet, I have had conversations with several religiosity-minded people who literally do not comprehend the concept that I am proposing. They believe that only winning is important and that whatever machinations are required to do so are perfectly OK. My belief in morality is not shared by them.

On a lighter note, I can think of a belief that I have held that turned out to be true even without my initially having all the facts. For some time, I held a belief, based upon experience and some research, that not all music is of equal quality, that some music is healthful and, what I call, “pro-human,” whereas some aural experiences, called “music,” are toxic to humans and animals. Some people, aware of my belief, dismissed it with disdain, claiming that my belief had no factual basis. They claimed that all music is of equal quality and that what one listens to simply is a matter of taste and preference. Then to my surprise and, I admit, my satisfaction, recent scientific research with both humans and animals has supported my early belief, and definitively so.

So, sometimes beliefs can be accurate, even without all the supporting evidence that we would prefer to have. I should hasten to say, however, this may be true, but within reason. I still feel that I reasonably can dismiss the belief that President Obama ordered our generals to bomb our cities. So, when we talk about believing something, we really should be rational and accurately know what we are talking about. Do I believe that all humans eventually will think and behave in this manner? Not really. But as for myself, I make an effort.

© 7 January 2016

About the Author

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

Posted on

Compulsion, by Will Stanton

I suppose that it is human nature for many of us to succumb to compulsive behavior. If we attempted to list every possible form of compulsion, we would be here all day.

Eating certainly is one of the most prevalent compulsions, especially in America. I once was invited by a 400-pound man to join him and a few others for dim-sung dinner. I tried to avert my eyes while he ravenously ate multiple courses, along with everything left over from other diners at the table. I will never subject myself to that kind of disturbing experience again. America is so notorious for overeating that someone posted on-line a photo-shopped image of Michelangelo’s “David” supposedly after visiting here and eating too much American food.

Chunky David

I fell pray to overeating for a few years, all because of chronic stress. My partner died. He also was my business partner, and I tried to do both jobs. Further, in our profession, we were required to deal with many people’s ongoing problems, which was hard enough. I also had to be concerned with professional clinical and legal liability. Worse, most competing clinics were thoroughly corrupt, making tons of money, and stealing away most of my clients. Big stress.

For a while, a little place close by, B.J.’s Carousel, became the antidote to my own stress. I must have driven by B.J.’s 10,000 times before someone told me that there was a little restaurant in the back that served solid American-style food at reasonable prices. In addition, the regular patrons and staff were exceptionally friendly and accommodating. Frequently, patrons chatted with each other from table to table, fostering a warm, supportive atmosphere. The restaurant played soft, classical music, rather than the pounding drums and screaming that most restaurants play now-days. Also in the winter, they had a pot-bellied stove in the middle of the room that made the area very cozy. That’s where I would go to unwind.

Once my evening therapy groups were gone, and I had discussed each person’s case with my contract psychologist, and I had prepared the individual sessions notes for the clinical files, I felt drained. I would jump into my car and race down to B.J.’s, which stayed open late, and order an excess of comfort-food – – meat, potatoes, salad, veggies, and (of course) desert. This went on for a few years, and I must have been oblivious to the consequence until it became more obvious. Fortunately, I rarely eat that way now. The fact that B.J.’s since has shut down probably removed a pit-fall from my path.

Over those many evening dinners and Sunday brunches that I had at B.J.’s, I got to know one of the other regular patrons. It turns out that this person had a life-long obsession with trains – – – real trains, model trains, train videos and DVDs, train paintings, train artifacts and clothes. He even chose what cities in which to work so that he could be around trains. His compulsion to continually buy train stuff resulted in his living in a house crammed so full that one would need a front-loader to clear it out. His having a lot of discretionary income in retirement, he could afford to buy a state-of-the-art Lionel “Big Boy” steam locomotive that lists for $3,000.

Big Boy Locomotive

I later found out that the front of B.J.’s was a bar that was known as the place where drag-queens could go and to be in occasional drag-shows. Although popular with some people, I never have had the slightest interest in that phenomenon and don’t quite understand the compulsion to dress-up like that. But, I could not escape noticing them on show-nights when some of them would wander through the back restaurant. I truly admire natural beauty, but I can’t say that any of those individuals fit into that category. I sense that most of them realize that they never will look like ravishing, natural beauties, and some probably dress up with some sense of satire. There may be those occasional individuals who do try to look like Hollywood models. B.J.’s, however, was not Hollywood nor Los Vegas, and I never did see anything appealingly eye-catching. Instead, homely faces, chunky bodies, big feet, ungraceful movements, and lip-syncing tended to betray any efforts to look truly attractive.
Drag-Queens
I recall one individual who, from time to time, would come stomping through the restaurant section in a most ungraceful manner, carrying high-heels, on his way to the dressing area. That poor person’s face looked as though he once had suffered a bad case of acne. Between those pockmarks and his usual grumpy scowl, I might have surmised that this sad person once had worked at McDonald’s and possibly had a compulsion to bob for fries.

I suppose that it is inevitable that, wherever there are drag-queens, there is a certain percentage of them who become titillated with the idea of toying with female hormones. For some time now, I have understood the theory of clinical transgender orientation, and I intellectually can handle that concept. These are the people who seriously think of themselves as the opposite gender, and their transition is carried out, over time, carefully and seriously, with the assistance and advice of professional doctors and therapists.

However, as naïve as I usually am and until recent years, I was totally unaware of the fact that, throughout the world, there is an amazingly large number of young guys whose compulsion is to take massive doses of female hormone, permanently changing their bodies but with no intention of surgically fully transitioning to female. They rashly do this with black-market hormones and without the supervision of professional therapists. Instead, they turn themselves into, what is crudely called, “shemales,” neither male nor female, but individuals with male genitalia and, in addition, breasts, wide hips, and large buttocks. These are the hybrid individuals who Robin Williams jokingly referred to as “The Swiss Army Knife of Sex.”

Finally made aware of this phenomenon, I have tried to intellectually handle well this phenomenon of hybrid gender, but I have a hard time handling it emotionally. What disturbs me most is that many of these individuals start out as very good looking young males; yet their masculinity is destroyed forever. To my personal way of thinking, that is a waste.

She Male


I also understand that such unpredictable use of hormones may not always turn out well. There was one tall, good-looking guy who decided to secretly take hormones. He told me that he always was afraid that his family might find out. Oddly enough, his day-job was as a tow-truck driver. He hid from his coworkers what he was doing by wearing heavy, loose clothes. Then he would change into women’s clothing and go to B.J.’s. Later, after he had developed breasts, I overheard him lament that he was sorry that he had taken those hormones because now he no longer could take his clothes off and go swimming.

More bizarrely, I saw one evening a short, previously normally built teenager, who had been named “Miss Teen Queen,” who, from taking hormones, quickly put on a vast amount of weight and ended up with huge, bulging belly, drooping breasts, and bizarrely wide hips. I found that sight very disturbing. I was very puzzled as to why that boy had such a irresistible compulsion to so dramatically change his body. Did he imagine the results being different?

Then, a skinny, drag-queen waiter told me that he once had considered taking hormones until he saw what happened to one of his friends who had succumbed to that compulsion. His friend took lots of black-market hormones and then (in the waiter’s own words) “really freaked out and totally lost it” when he saw how dramatically his body had changed and also realized that those changes were permanent, especially the expanded bone-structure of his hips. Just the idea of his doing that to himself freaks me out, especially since the friend obviously never thoroughly thought through what he was doing or sought advice from any therapists.

I guess that the “trains-on-the-brains” guy’s compulsion to continually buy model trains, train artifacts and clothes, especially since he has the money to do so, is pretty mild in contrast to the kid who totally freaked out. At least, compulsive train-guy can trade or sell-off his trains if he wants to. And as for me, I can fairly safely continue my obsession with classical music by spending an inordinate amount of time playing and listening to good music. The freaked-out kid, however, will have to live a long time with the all-too obvious consequences of his compulsion.

© 06 October 2015

About the Author

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

Posted on

A Defining Word, by Gillian

We need some new words; new defining words.

But we’re creating them daily, probably hourly, I can hear you thinking. And that’s fair enough. Just how recently did I adopt, or adapt to, words like server and processor, not to mention bits and bytes and firewalls and apps. But those are all techie terms. I’m talking about sociological terminology which seems to be mired in the mud of decades.

I find it very strange, for instance, that in the English language there is no word for a parent who has lost a child. We dignify the situation of one who has lost both parents with the noun orphan. You lose your spouse, you’re a widow or widower.

But surely the loss of a child is one of the worst things that can happen to a person, and yet our language offers no linguistic easy way out. A wife who has lost her husband can simply say, I’m a widow, and leave it at that if she wants. But a parent must stumble through some agonizing sentence, even if one as clipped as, I lost my only son.

The author Karla Holloway, in an essay on NPR back in 2006, addressed this topic.* She expressed it as needing to ‘name the pain’ in order to assist in healing. I saw what the loss of two children, before I was born, did to my parents in the long-term. I wonder, had there been a single word to express what had happened to them, if they might have found a way to tell me, instead of leaving it to my aunt eventually to clarify for me the presence of that huge elephant never absent from our home.

There is considerable on-line chat (surprise, surprise!) on this topic, and from it I discovered that few languages have such a word. The exceptions are, apparently, the semitic languages. German has an expression I find very touching, it translates literally as ‘orphaned parent’ but still it is not incorporated into a single word. Why is a single word that sums up this horrific situation so rare?

A few ideas are offered on line. Some suggest that it is only recently that infant mortality has dropped sufficiently to make it an unusual situation for a child to pre-decease his/her parents. That does offer a certain uncomfortable logic I suppose, but I don’t see how it translates into the absence of a word. Someone else offered the explanation that, with it having been such a common situation until recent times, and still being sadly frequent in much of the world, having a word for it would be redundant, like, this person, obviously a MAN, says ‘having a word for a man with a penis.’ The insensitivity of this analogy angers me, but then if I am going to be so precious I need to stay away from posts on the internet.

Another, herself a bereaved mother, suggests that it is something too terrible to be put into words. I sympathize with the idea, but we have words for so many still worse things, just take infanticide and genocide for instance, that I can’t go along with that explanation either.

Others believe the absence of the word is due to the broader social insignificance of the event. Becoming an orphan, widow, or widower, changes a person’s status in society, whereas losing a child does not. I find that incredibly hard and cold, and don’t want to believe it. Are we, the majority of the world’s population, so calculating that we only see sorrowful events which change people’s lives in the light of how they might affect us? Now we might have to support that child, give that widow a pension, or marry that widower. But we are not affected by the death of a friend’s child so consider it unimportant? Even at my most cynical, I truly don’t believe that most of us are so uncaring; so unaffected by the sorrows of our friends and neighbors, or even complete strangers.

So I remain simply baffled by the lack of this, what I consider very important, word. Someone on line suggests adopting the word ‘shadow’ because anyone who has lost a child becomes a shadow of his or her former self. Personally, I like it. It certainly describes my own parents. I have so often wished there were some way that I could know what they were like before they lost two children. But I can only extrapolate from the parents I knew, and from old photographs in which they looked so much happier than I ever saw them in my lifetime.

But I don’t expect this or any other word to appear in general use any time soon. Only technology will continue to toss new words at us faster than we can grasp them, and I shall go on struggling with Dvi/Hdmi adapters and why my Thunderbolt port doesn’t work and does it matter? Or maybe I have a vga port and does that matter?

And are these all defining words? Only my computer knows for sure.

* http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=5511147

A postscript from Gillian –

After I read this to our group, Ray S. suggested using a new adjective rather than a noun.

Just as we say ‘childless’ of a person or couple without children, we could say ‘childloss’ of those who have suffered that terrible bereavment.

Thank you, Ray, I find that moving and beautiful in it’s simplicity.

© February 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.

Posted on

Purple, by Will Stanton

How much can one say about purple? The person who chose this topic told me that he had something quite special in mind. I don’t. So, I guess I will have to settle with simply commenting upon a few situations involving the color purple which I have observed over the years.

To start off with, I’ll be blunt and succinct about this first example just to get it out of the way.
Unfortunately (and I will not dwell on these points, either), purple often can be an indication of some serious medical crisis. I recall seeing a very elderly, fragile man whose lips were a scary dark purple, almost black. Of course, we all are familiar with the ominous purple lesions too often seen on people of our generation, Kaposi’s sarcoma, the infection with human herpesvirus that often has been associated with AIDS. And, if you permit me to quickly mention it, I never will erase from my memory seeing the faint streaks of purple as I watched my partner die from lung-cancer. Enough of that, however.
Moving on, some people claim that certain ethnic cultures prefer various colors. I recall early in my education, I worked one summer for an architect, my entertaining the idea that I might choose architecture as a profession. The firm, at that time, was drawing up plans for some low-income housing, most of the residents predicted to be blacks. One architect stated that a major color theme for the interior would be the color purple “because blacks like the color purple.” His comment struck me as an over-generalization, although I do recall seeing groups of blacks elegantly dressed in their Sunday finest at Black Eyed Pea. Often, their suit-coats and fancy dresses were in various shades of purple.
The school color for South High School is purple, a color most prominently displayed on football outfits. Unlike the 1950s or 60s, I never see, these days, students wearing school jackets or shirts sporting the color purple. I have seen some girls, however, with purple hair. 
I also know someone who claims the color of his vehicle, known as a “Cube,” is burgundy, although it looks more like a dark purple to me. I have to look carefully in the sunlight to conclude that, however.
Here, I have another opportunity to use one of my favorite phrases, “bloviating ignoramus.” I had no desire ever to watch Rush Limbaugh on TV, although I occasionally have stumbled upon some clips on the news. I recall seeing Rush so fired up and blustering with some false accusation he wished to spread about someone whom he hates that, I swear, his face seemed to be turning purple. Somehow, he appears to have avoided a heart attack or stroke.
I have witnessed that purple-faced phenomenon first-hand, too, with a local intellectual-Neanderthal whom I refer to as “Neanderthal-Joe.” Back in the early days of the Bush junta and the U.S. invasion of Iraq, I casually mentioned to Joe that I was disappointed with Bush. Joe stood up, starting screaming at me, stomping around the room, slathering at the lips. He retorted that “Bush is doing God’s work!” His face literally was turning purple.
That happened also with a mutual acquaintance and good friend of Joe, a man who quickly had become a millionaire working for the sleaziest mortgage-banking company in America. When the Colorado Supreme Court declared Amendment 2, which in effect denied civil rights to gays, was unconstitutional, this man was infuriated, stating to me that, “Nine unelected men in black robes denied the will of the people.” I “pushed his button” by replying, “When I was in grade school, we were taught that America is a constitutional democracy.” At that, he exploded, sputtering and shouting. His face was a slightly different shade of purple from Joe’s.
Last of all, and on a more positive side, there also are some purple things that give me great pleasure. I have enjoyed seeing nature’s paintbrush at work with purple flowers, sunsets, Purple Martin birds, and bushes of wild berries, so dark that they look almost black. And, who can resist a heaping helping of homemade berry cobbler? Now, there’s something purple that is enjoyable to think about.

© 8 January 2016

About the Author

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

Posted on

Where Do We Go from Here? by Will Stanton

Where do we go from here? It beats the hell out of me. I will, however, give you a few personal thoughts that come to mind. These reflect my own nature and values.

It’s hard for me to surmise the fate of our future. There are some good people and positive events in our country and the world that, theoretically, could lead us to a better future; however, there also is so much negativity and violence that I am not particularly encouraged. Yes, I realize that such concerns are not unique to our times. I am very aware that history is replete with hate, violence, and stupidity. I would think, or at least hope, however, that humankind would steadily improve over the centuries. A selective minority of people may have advanced, yet it appears to me that the vast majority of people still are prone to the same insanity that has plagued mankind forever. This fact mystifies and discourages me; for, by nature, I cherish honesty and empathy, along with my wish for all people to engage in helpful, constructive behavior.

Too often, those few people who are more knowledgeable, who are positive and empathetic, are vilified and overwhelmed by the masses of reptilian-minded hordes whose inclinations lead to greed, mindless policies, and harm to people and nations. Had President Gore been permitted to serve his two terms in office, I can only imagine how different our country and the world would be today. Instead, the Neocons in the Bush junta lied us into an unwarranted war that so severely disrupted the Middle East that we now are suffering the horrendous consequences of their hubris and stupidity. Such people continue to promote harmful domestic policies and political machinations that are equally counterproductive.

And now, we are plagued with a slate of Republican Presidential candidates who display many of the same religiosity traits that got us into so much trouble in the first place. Their continual character assassinations and bellicose rhetoric offend my deeply ingrained sense of honesty, morality, and empathy. Listening to all those (and here’s a phrase I frequently am prone to use because I have ample opportunity now) bloviating ignoramuses on the debate stage nauseates me. I find watching them disturbing and toxic, so much so that I feel that I do not possess the endurance and resilience to listen to them for extended lengths of time.

The only rational solution that I have heard recently has been from candidate Bernie Sanders. He repeatedly has explained, and quite rightly, too, that he sees the only way of improving our situation is for our young to become very knowledgeable, active, and to organize and vote in great numbers. To some extent, this was done for the first election of President Obama. Since then, however, young people seem to have drifted off into their own little worlds.

I know of no other recourse. If nothing is done to reverse this descent into an abyss of banality and chaos, I guess that I will have to find some way of moving to Shangri-La, perhaps Lyonesse, or the Elysian Fields.

© 18 December 2015

About the Author

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

Posted on

We’re Not Done Yet, by Nicholas

I’m terrible at giving directions. I love maps but I don’t carry one in my head, so I have to pause and really think through how to get somewhere when asked. I also have set routine routes which, if departed from, leave me momentarily confused. I sometimes have to remind myself where I’m headed so I don’t automatically go somewhere else more familiar. And, of course, it’s hard to figure out where you should be going when, really, you’re not going anywhere at all.

New Year’s Day is always a time to reflect on where we’ve been and where we might want to go. A new year always provides the illusion of hope for a new start, a change from old bad habits before we sink back to those comfortable old bad habits.

This topic also seems to be buzzing around the blogosphere with online commentators—of whom there are about ten million—pondering where the LGBT movement is headed now that so much of the agenda that we always denied having has been accomplished. Some advocacy organizations, like Freedom to Marry, are actually closing up shop since they have accomplished their mission. Of course, we will still get funding solicitations from them. Other groups have begun to scale back their operations now that LGB, but maybe not T, issues have gone mainstream.

There needs to be a new agenda, say the blog masters. We’re at a point of having seen many—though not all—statutory barriers to living life gay or lesbian, and sometimes even trans, removed. Now what do we do?

Well, as the line goes, it ain’t over till it’s over. And, guess what, it ain’t over. I get suspicious or maybe even just paranoid when someone declares a movement over. Here it seems to mean that straight-acting, white men have gotten what they want, so everybody else should just quiet down and get on with things, like making money now that Big Money has found that the gay community is very easy to get along with.

So, we still have kids living on the street with practically no chance of a decent future without an education and a home. Bullying is still rampant in schools and school administrators are still reluctant to do anything about it.

If you’re in any way an effeminate male, a drag queen, a fairy, don’t expect the corporate law firms to welcome you. If you’re too strong a woman, your chances for success are probably reduced as well. And trans still makes most people squirm in their executive suites. Remember, in the TV show Will and Grace, Will operated in the corporate office while his flamboyant friend Jack was always scheming for ways to make it.

And, then, there’s us. The aging lesbian and gay and trans segment of the population that the still youth-obsessed society still doesn’t want to face. Many of us live in fearful isolation. Many, if not most, of us still fear being trapped and vulnerable in hostile situations such as nursing homes that are clueless if not simply hateful to LGBT elders. I don’t see myself as shy about who I am and who I live with, but I dread being consigned to some miserable and hostile facility. If school principals are reluctant to deal with bullying, nursing home administrators are about two centuries behind them.

Plenty of LGBT people are still marginalized and there is something we can do about it. Gay marriage was never the whole agenda and now that we have that we can get back to the original idea. We still need to build communities. We still need to figure out in a positive light who we are, how we are different, what we have to offer. In a way, the assimilation phase is over with marriage. Now we can go back to being ourselves. Not just dealing with needs and demands and issues, but with supporting one another and valuing one another in all our crazy diversity. We still need to find each other and join together.

Till death do us part, you might say.

© 4 January 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.