Tag: Denver

Posted on

How Did I Get Here by Phillip Hoyle

I never wanted to be a truck driver, but that’s how I got
to Denver. I rented the moving van in Tulsa, Oklahoma, where I was ending my
conventional life characterized by many years with work and family. I packed up
what was left of my belongings and set out on an adventure, one that continues
to this day.
Denver, the destination and site of my adventure, was the
large city of my childhood. Yearly trips usually brought our family to Loveland
and Estes Park, and sometimes Dad would take us through Denver where he almost
always got lost. The diagonal streets made navigating too tricky. (I sometimes
have the same problem when I’m downtown.) 
Here in Denver I saw my first dinosaur bones, my first skyscrapers, my
first art museum, and the then-new Cinerama movies. I was impressed. The town
seemed pretty clean, full of possibilities, and a place where unusual people
could gather and thrive. I had made quick visits to Kansas City, Missouri, and
Wichita, Kansas, but neither place made a lasting good impression or affected me
where it mattered: issues of art, archaeology, education, and scenery. I liked
Denver.
I had other visits to my favorite big city: an overnight
stay on my honeymoon, annual commutes from Kansas and Missouri to western
Colorado, and, in my forties, short sorties from Montrose into the city where I
stayed with a friend I had met in seminary. Then I often went to the Denver Art
Museum and the Denver Public Library. Both impressed me greatly. I even chose
my two favorite neighborhoods in which I might live should I ever move here.
I spent a short time in Tulsa. There my life really changed.
Things kind of caught up with me resulting in the ends of my marriage and of my
long career. I quit. I thought about where to go, what to do. I decided to move
to a western city and considered Denver, San Diego, and Seattle. My Denver
friend suggested I get out of Tulsa before I got in trouble; I could crash at
his place. His offer solved a few things for me, but mainly promised a place to
live while I found a job. Besides, I knew Denver had adequate public
transportation. So I packed up what things I had after my separation from my
wife and hit the road.
Now driving a truck was a new experience for me,
especially across four states. I knew I’d need a rather large van but didn’t
want one so large I’d be scared on the road. So I started giving away my
belongings—most of my library, music, records, cassette tapes, and even some
CDs. I culled my files and finally threw away almost all of them. I filled
several boxes with books for my kids and grandkids. I rented a big yellow truck,
packed it with what was left, and drove it to Missouri where I unpacked most of
the furniture at my daughter’s apartment.
Matthew, my six-year-old grandson, accompanied me on the
trip. We stopped near Booneville, Missouri, for gas and snacks. Before we
reached Kansas City my young companion was fast asleep. I gassed up at a 7-11
in Topeka, the city where my long-time friend-lover lived. Being so late, I
didn’t call him as I had promised I would always do in the letter I sent at the
end of our affair. I hated breaking this promise, but I had to keep going on
down the roads I’d begun traveling. We stopped at a rest area west of
Salina—the end of the Flint Hills where I was born and the beginning of the
high plains. It seemed a point of demarcation for me. There I realized I was
driving a little truck, so it then
seemed, parked alongside several huge rigs. The contrast helped me realize the
challenges I faced were not as large as I had been thinking. My grandson
awakened briefly. Then we slept several hours before cleaning up as well as one
can in such a place. The day dawned bright and beautiful. We drove west
stopping at high noon in Goodland where we picnicked at a city park. My
grandson ran through sprinklers of icy cold water on that hot summer afternoon
while I sat and then lay on a picnic table under a shelter. I watched his
cavorting, yelled out my encouragement, and enjoyed his display of enthusiasm. I
thought I’d need to be like that kid in Denver, in my new life, playful and in
the moment. At Burlington, Colorado, we stopped at the outdoors museum, a
reconstruction of old buildings. We went to the saloon and ordered root beers.
A young dancehall girl thought my grandson was so cute; he was embarrassed and
wouldn’t answer her questions or even look at her. I wondered what I could
learn from that, perhaps to be true to myself but not without confidence. We
drove a few miles beyond to another roadside park. I had to sleep so got a pad
out of the back of the van and rested on another picnic table. Finally we pulled
into Denver—worn out (I’d slept little in three days) but elated.
Someone questioned whether making so many changes so
radically and in so little time constituted a mental breakdown. I realize my
decisions happened a little late to be a classic mid-life crisis but as an
analytical tidbit, midlife works for me. The themes had been present my whole
life long: my homosexual proclivity, my being a rather parent-pleasing middle
child, my personal understanding of religious realities, my commitment to music
and other arts, my abilities and inabilities to communicate my feelings, and my
sense of individuality (some would call selfishness). Anyway, I had to change,
so I morphed into a person now true to some themes I had kept out of the center
of my life. How I actually got to Denver from Tulsa seemed a symbol of a much
greater change: my yearning for simplicity that resulted in throwing away many
things, those accoutrements of modern life—steady job, salary, husband/wife relationship,
and much more. These thoughts had swirled around my head while I drove west to
my new home.

I unloaded some things into my friend’s apartment. I
loaded the rest into and on top of my son’s van. I was left with clothes, art
supplies, six boxes of books (I’d ridded myself of fifty-four boxes), and one
piece of furniture. I had seriously lightened my load. Finally I returned the
truck to the rental company. And now I’m telling my story like a truck driver,
at times excitedly, milking its entertainment value, but still including its
essential truths. That’s how I got to Denver to begin a new chapter of my life.

© 25 November 2011  


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
Posted on

Dance, Dance, Dance by Phillip Hoyle

I have a kind of dance thing. It started early. In second grade I had my first date with a neighbor girl attending a square dance at the Elks Club. I did other folk dancing with the Girl Scouts. I’ve done interpretative dances in therapeutic and religious settings including one in a sermon I gave in a seminary preaching class. I taught African tribal dancing to children. I danced Universal Peace with adults. I danced in traditional Native American style at intertribal powwows and two stepped with an Indian guy at a cowboy bar. I’ve danced to rock music: first the bop, then the jerk, then disco, then new wave, and finally on-your-own improvised dancing to a variety of music, which brings me to this story.

I went down to The Denver Compound/Basix to dance one Saturday night several years ago; went with my friend Tony. I had been a number of times before and especially liked dancing there by myself. The music at the club had provided me some firsts: hearing a club mix with Gregorian chant in it, and then another mix with American Indian singing. The music there seemed to pull together several themes of my life, so my dance responses to the nearly deafening techno music combined barely-disguised choral directing, Indian dance steps, interactions with various friends, sexual movements, and my ever-changing dance steps to the ever-changing music. Dancing had become for me an exultation of life, of my still relatively new life as a gay man. Evenings there combined sweat, music, men, reveries, and always movement enhanced by a light show; an evening dancing on the Basix floor for me an unparalleled celebration. This evening like others seemed a mix of need, allure, and creative movement.

I had noticed a man who danced there regularly on Saturday nights. He stood off to the side of the dance floor, out of the way of other more exuberant dancers. Always dressed the same in cap, tee shirt, Levis, and work boots, he swayed from side to side shifting his weight from left to right, barely lifting his heels, and for several hours never missing a beat. He was there simply to dance. I imagined him as dancing alone with his daemon— perhaps St. Speed or the great god Oxycodon. He never moved toward a partner. He seemed a symbol for my too-solitary self. Would he ever alter his repetitions? Perhaps it was he that one of my friends watched the night he judged the techno music boring! Tonight he was there in his place.

I knew I was different than the solitary dancer, knew I’d move toward someone eventually, would need a human partner to copy, contrast, or complement my dance. Would this night be the one? I didn’t know. I just melded into the crowd as if joining a primal dance of love. A male-to-male mating ritual. A free-form yet stylized communication bolstered by drugs and alcohol (I was in a bar) just like in so many primal cultures. One alcoholic drink sufficed for me to enter the ceremony, released me into the musical exploration of what I could communicate there. I emulated the booted swayer as I moved into the magic of the rhythm. When I felt the backbeats my arms joined in the dance. My feet began to move me out from the wall-flower pose and into the seething mass of the group. Finally my whole body took up the demands of the beat, the possibilities of the night. I danced.

Then I saw him, not the solitary dancer who barely moved, but another guy across the room. He didn’t seem to be dancing with anyone, so I started dancing with him. I’d never noticed him before, didn’t know him, didn’t even know if he was aware of me. I just wanted some kind of relationship with another man, another dancer whose movements I could complement. It seemed a game and a pleasant game at that. For nearly an hour I danced with him at a great distance. I stepped this way and that, always in touch with him in my sidelong glances, my peripheral awareness as I slowly edged across the room to be near him. Eventually he did acknowledge my moves. Then we danced back to back, then side by side, then face to face. Dancing, smiling, moving away, then together. We touched. Shy smiles. Sparkling eyes.

He was not particularly handsome. Dark brown hair neatly trimmed, black stretchy shirt revealing a nice-enough body with square build, black slacks obscuring the shape of legs and more. His dance moves more conservative than mine. As I matched his pace I wondered what was going on in his mind. Was he amused? He didn’t turn his back except to bump. Drunk? On drugs? Didn’t seem to be, but I was not sure. What I had drunk? Probably the Cape Cod I liked to start my dancing nights with, that and water. We were warmed by our dance that winter night, warmed by our responses, our constant motion, the crowded dance floor.

“Gotta go,” I finally said when my friend Tony signaled his need to leave. “Thanks. Oh, I’m Phil. Hey, this was fun. Hope to see you again.” He didn’t object. Said “Bye.”

I rode the bus down to the Baker neighborhood the next Saturday night. He showed up too there across the room. I was pleased. We danced. The move across the floor didn’t take nearly as long. The body to body movements were more direct, not requiring much interpretation. Then it was closing time. “Gotta catch the bus,” I said. I stalled while he got his coat out of a locker. That’s when I saw the pin, knew it was a Trekkie symbol. I politely said “Thanks for dancing” and “Goodnight” and moved away. Somehow his identification with science fiction stood in the way for me. Made him less attractive? Boy. I danced out of there, across the Walgreens parking lot to catch the Number Zero bus back home. I wondered what I had learned about myself, what I had learned in a bar. What was the truth? The reality? Really. What dance was I willing to execute? I admit I was looking for more than a dance partner, but I certainly wasn’t interested in a relationship characterized by going to sci-fi movies and that kind of fantasy. I wanted a dancer that could dance a domestic and somehow romanticized relationship. Me? Romantic? Must have been the effect of living with my wife for twenty-nine years. Or was it the combination of booze and dancing? Thought about these things all the way home. Boy. What we can learn dancing and ponder riding busses.

© Denver, 2012 

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

Posted on

Cities of My Heart by Betsy

Denver is where my heart is. That’s because the love of my life lives here–with me. I love Denver and Colorado. I have been living quite happily here since 1970. This is where I came out. This is where I met the love of my life. I have many friends here both straight and LGBT. My three children grew up here and call Denver their heart home. There is much to be said about Denver but not here and not today. So…….

Since my three children have a place in my heart also, I suppose I can say at least part of my heart is in those cities where they reside.

Decatur, Georgia is a small city completely surrounded by the city of Atlanta. From my several visits there it appears that Decatur is young, relatively progressive, and gay friendly. This is where my oldest child, a daughter, lives. This daughter is a professor on the faculty at Emory University where she teaches in the Women and Gender Studies Department. Lynne has been in academics for about 20 years. In that time I have learned that her community of friends and associates is not usually representative of the area in which she resides. I learned from her partner Tamara that The Women Studies Department of Emory University is the oldest (and best) in the United States. Who would have guessed that this, one of the most conservative states and cities of the country is the original home of such a progressive subject as Women Studies. Suffice it to say that academic communities bear no resemblance to the states or regions where they are located.

Before moving to the Atlanta area around 2005 Lynne and Tamara lived in Houston, Texas–another conservative hot spot. I imagined a very difficult time for the couple when I heard in 1998 they were moving from New Haven to Houston. Never mind a lesbian couple living together in Texas, but an interracial lesbian couple. However, I was surprised to learn from my visits there that Houston is in fact a fairly cosmopolitan city–at least for Texas. Even though Lynne was teaching at Rice University, my view of Houston was not distorted by association only with the academic community. Tamara started out working as campaign manager for a city council candidate bent on ousting an incumbent. Lynne was of course somewhat involved in the campaign as well. The incumbent opponent was well entrenched, so the campaign would be hard fought. In the end the campaign was successful, Tamara’s candidate was elected to the city council, and Tamara became her Chief of Staff. Needless to say, the scenes and experiences we heard about during this time gave a very realistic, true vision of the city of Houston as opposed to the college professor’s perspective. We saw a liberal candidate oust a well entrenched conservative. But that was not the only surprise. During their stay in Houston, we saw many other unexpected changes. At the present time the mayor of Houston is a lesbian woman–a former acquaintance of Lynne and Tamara’s. I was pleasantly surprised that Houston was so good to my daughter and her partner.

My second oldest child, a daughter, lives in Baltimore. The nation’s economic problems have badly effected Baltimore–by appearances, much more so than Denver. However, Baltimore has always had a large population of struggling workers.

On one recent visit we found ourselves in the very worst neighborhood of the city. Gill and I were traveling in our camper van from Denver to the east coast with a planned stop in Baltimore to spend a few days there with my daughter Beth.

Beth works in the area of artificial intelligence. Currently she is working for NASA’s Atmospheric Science Data Center. She is a logician and applies her knowledge and expertise as such in her job developing ways to access past meteorological data.

In giving us directions to her home in Baltimore she did NOT apply her knowledge and expertise as a logician. Approaching her area of Baltimore, and carefully following the directions she had sent via e-mail, at a crucial point we made the turn to the left as instructed. Within two minutes we found ourselves in a very seedy neighborhood. Realizing surely something was wrong we pulled over to get out the cell phone. We needed to turn on lights as it was dark. Some unsavory looking characters gave us the once over and approached the van whereupon we locked all the doors and windows. No, we were not in the right neighborhood. We were supposed to turn right back there, not left, Beth admitted. In another five minutes we were in the correct neighborhood of Patterson Park. Not a swanky place, mind you. A very middle class, working person’s neighborhood in transition where we felt ever so much more comfortable and safe.

Beth now works from home and could live anywhere she wants, but chooses to stay in her neighborhood in Baltimore close to her D.C. contacts.

By the way, have you ever driven on the D.C. beltway? One of the most terrifying experiences of my life.

My youngest, a son, lives in Fairbanks, Alaska. Often I hear friends and acquaintances say, “Oh, yes, I’ve been to Alaska.” Almost inevitably it turns out they have been to Anchorage or the coastal area or perhaps Denali National Park. Fairbanks is not typically a tourist destination. I have only been to Fairbanks twice and those visits were in the summertime. It is not an easy place to get to even by plane.

My son John started his practice as a urologist in Fairbanks. Instant success as there are but four urologists in the entire state. Three of them practice in Anchorage.

The city of Fairbanks sits in the interior region of the state. Googling the list of rivers in Alaska did not help when trying to recall the name of the river that flows through the city. There are 9728 rivers in Alaska. Other methods of investigation including my failing memory yielded the name: The Chena River.

A drive from Fairbanks to the nearest city Anchorage is a day’s drive on a highway running mostly beside the rail route of The Alaska Railway. This rail system boasts punctuality and comfort. The dome-topped train offers incredible scenery on its route from Fairbanks to Anchorage with a stop at Denali National Park, home of Mt. McKinley, and fist-clenching run along the edge of the spectacular gorge carved by the Talkeetna River to mention only two of the numerous, magnificent, unforgettable, and interesting sights.

Further on about an hour out of Anchorage the train stops at Wassilla–Sara Palin’s home.

On my first visit to Fairbanks John rented an RV and off to Denali the five of us went–three adults and my two very young grandchildren. Our three day visit was memorable to say the least. Denali is a place of indescribable pristine beauty and awesome vastness.

Anyone wishing to travel east out of Fairbanks will be disappointed. If one travels in any direction other than south to Juneau, southwest to Anchorage, or north to Prudhoe Bay, one is liable to run out of highway. The roads simply stop. Beyond is wilderness. Of course the lumbering and mining operations abound in that state, but the place is so vast it appears to be endless and untouched. It is not hard to understand why half of the population are licensed pilots. Many people live in areas accessible only by plane. Many of these people live on islands off the coast.

Fairbanks is a growing city, currently at around 35,000 residents. Seemingly unaffected by the economic disasters taking place in the rest of the country, jobs are available. Students with a taste for adventure and perhaps the promise of a summer job are drawn to the University of Alaska’s Fairbanks campus.

I have not been to Alaska in the winter. When I checked the January 14 weather report, the expected high for the week was -32 with fog and mist resulting in a “feels like” temperature of -47. Does it really matter which it feels like: -47 or -32?

I do know that in the winter months many Alaskans–the more fortunate ones–fly to Hawaii where they spend a couple of weeks. A veritable exodus takes place in the dead of winter when those Alaskans who can afford it decide it is time for a good dose of sunlight and it’s mood-enhancing effects.

Here is a place where much attention is still given to the magic of the winter solstice. After December 21 it can only get better.

Atlanta, Baltimore, Fairbanks–wonderful places to visit. But I’m glad I live in Denver.


© 14 January 2012 




About the Author 


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

Posted on

Snapshots [Le Flaneur] by Nicholas

The French, they say, have a word for it. In fact, the French have words for things that nobody else even knows exist. Le flaneur is an example. I don’t know how to translate that term into English because the object—in this case, person—it describes doesn’t really exist among English-speaking people. He is found only in France and, really, only in Paris.

Perhaps, boulevardier comes close but you can’t define one French term with another. A flaneur is a man of the streets but not what we would call a street person. He is not a bum; he is a man of leisure and some elegance. Not ostentatious American elegance but that quiet Parisian elegance. And I’m afraid I must use only the masculine pronoun here because I don’t think there is a feminine equivalent. Lady of the streets means something completely different.

Le flaneur has been translated as stroller since the word comes from the French verb “to stroll.” Edmund White even wrote a whole book about Paris using the perspective of the stroller. Le flaneur, he writes, “is by definition endowed with enormous leisure, someone who can take off a morning or an afternoon for undirected ambling, since a specific goal or a close rationing of time is antithetical to the true spirit of the flaneur. An excess of the work ethic inhibits the browsing, cruising ambition to wed the crowd.”

I like to think of myself as somewhat of a flaneur even though, Americans are particularly unsuited to flanerie, says White, and I am probably guilty. I admit my ramblings are usually not purely aimless. I usually have little stops to make, things to do, like go to the bank or something. But surrounding my points of busyness, I wander. I do “wed the crowd,” as he puts it, which is simply to be part of the multiplicity and anonymity of a group of people on the street going about their business, hurrying to appointments, running to catch a train, doing some errand, or just walking.

Denver isn’t Paris and it can be difficult at times to find a crowd to amble with. San Francisco and New York are the best USA cities that allow such socializing. But I manage.

Setting out, I hop onto an RTD bus—driving would be counter to le flanerie—and head into the city center. Whatever Monsieur Le Flaneur does, he does in public spaces. In fact, it was while riding the #10 bus, a route running often enough that you can use it spontaneously without a schedule, that I realized that that was what I was about. I like to spend my free time rambling about the city just to see my city. Many times I will have some errand to run but I mostly wander to a set of favorite spots, noticing what’s on the street from those awful paving stones on the 16th Street Mall to new destruction or construction. I spend hours reading or writing in a warm café on a cold day. Common Grounds coffee house is one favorite, Tattered Cover bookstore is another, The Market café is a frequent breakfast stop as is Udi’s for lunch.

The other day found me heading over to Platte Street across the river to drop in on the Savory Spice Shop. I needed some herbs and spices and they have the best Vietnamese cinnamon in town. I also like just to breathe in the aromas of all the spices and herbs and blends they have. On that clear, crisp winter day, I strolled over the pedestrian bridge over the river and through the park, this bit of nature slicing through the heart of urban pavement. I ambled into downtown admiring the views, the fresh air, and all the people out jogging, bicycling, or just walking from where they were to where they would soon be. Each moment of observation was like a snapshot of this city. I ended up near Union Station, presently under construction and soon to be a hub for commuter trains. I was watching the city being built as Denver creates more spaces for itself to live in.

So, that is my goofy tale. Rambling through the city, noting all the variety of activity as my urban cohorts—workers, students, shoppers, diners, fellow travelers—go about their day. A tale of goofing off—an Americanized version of a little bit of Paris.

© 11 April 2013

About the Author

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