Tag: Family

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Coping with Loved Ones by Michael King

          After all we are apes and in spite of our self-concepts of advanced culture and civilization we still have the quarrelsome and emotional nature similar to what we see in our wild cousins. Any group, family or pair of humans in association will encounter frustrations and anger either individually or collectively. Our natures can be modified and we can learn to control the way we interact and we can suppress the urge to strike out when upset, but even with those closest to us and that we love the most, we will occasionally have to cope with both their words and actions that bother us as well as our own thoughts and feelings.

          My daughter, yesterday, when I asked her how things were going with their new dog which the whole family loves, said “She has her moments.” I interpreted this to mean that there was a little coping going on.

          My grandparents were always bickering. I decided not to do that. My mother was always bitching and gossiping while my father seldom spoke. I decided to not be like them. I never liked confrontation, arguments or violence so I guess I developed coping techniques that modifies my tendency to strike out, accuse, argue, etc.

          My 25 years of marriages fortunately went by with few disagreements. Merlyn and I don’t argue. However under it all there is that conscious awareness of maintaining mutual respect, courteous and kind interaction and above it all a show of affection, love and understanding while we cope with the amazingly different ways each of us thinks and acts.

          Both of us have been single parents and I’m sure that having experienced the myriad of coping tests one has under those circumstances has helped us develop the abilities to somewhat satisfactorily deal with coping with loved ones.

          I am so grateful to have the privilege of coping with Merlyn. There is nothing I would rather do. It seems that he doesn’t mind coping with me.

About the Author

I go by the drag name, Queen Anne Tique. My real name is
Michael King. I am a gay activist who finally came out of the closet at age 70.
I live with my lover, Merlyn, in downtown Denver, Colorado. I was married
twice, have 3 daughters, 4 grandchildren and a great grandson. Besides
volunteering at the GLBT Center and doing the SAGE activities,” Telling
your Story”,” Men’s Coffee” and the “Open Art Studio”.
I am active in Prime Timers and Front Rangers. I now get to do many of the
activities that I had hoped to do when I retired; traveling, writing, painting,
doing sculpture, cooking and drag.
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Cooking by Bobbi

          “Hey, hey, good looking. Whatcha got cookin’? How’s about cookin’ somethin’ up for me.”

          As a child, the only person in our home who did all the cookin’ somethin’ up for us was my Bubi Kate. (Bubi means grandma.) She and my great uncle, Yenny, lived with us. Katie wanted that small kitchen all to herself, and the only time I was allowed in was when she needed help with washing and drying dishes.

          She never made knishes which were Jewish fare, and we never had any pork. We didn’t dare.

          Katie and Yenny were from Hungary so we never went hungry. My mother never learned to cook until Grandma Kate died.

          A short history of my family is needed here in order for my story to be clear. Kate and Bela were from Hungary and met in Philadelphia. Love, marriage, and two daughters later, but they had to leave for Colorado or Bela’s lungs would crater. Tuberculosis had taken hold so Go West Young Man, they were told.

          So they settled in Denver where my mama Sallie was born in 1897 and Bela started a picture frame factory out of their home and it was like heaven. But Bela’s health continued to go down and he needed help in the business so he asked one of his brothers in Hungary to come to this town. Uncle Yenny came, learned the business, and when Bela died, he took care of Kate and raised the three little girls.

          When Sallie married Harry, my sister was born. Sallie was five months pregnant with me, and things got harried with Harry. Harry was an attorney, got into legal trouble, left town, ended up in Canyon City Penitentiary. This all caused Sallie’s bubble to burst.

          That’s why Bubi Kate and Uncle Yenny came to live with us.

          While cleaning out my Mama’s home, I found a wonderful cookbook. It’s called Famous Cook Book and was written in 1916 by the Ladies Auxiliary and given to Temple de Hirsch in Seattle. Pages 147 and 148 have Ham recipes. Baked Ham No. 1, Baked Ham No. 2, and Baked Ham and Eggs. Wonder if they got into the Dr. Seuss craze.

          My first husband, Nonny, from Brooklyn, was a pretty good cook but I struggled along with a cook book. My second husband, Max, did not cook so I learned from a Jewish cookbook. It’s called Love and Knishes and I made many good dishes.

          Alas, the Sprue has hit my gut, so I am gluten free, BUT I’ve learned to cook gluten free and my partner, Linda, has mastered gluten-free zucchini bread and other sweets so my life now is just full of treats.

About the Author

Bobbi, 82, a native Denverite, came out at age 45. “I’m glad to be alive.”

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Grandfather by Phillip Hoyle

    Grandpa Hoyle saved me when I was fifty years old even though he’d been dead for thirty-five years. I was really surprised that this elder ancestor with snowy-white hair and prominent hooked nose, who smoked a pipe while watching the television, would have such an effect in my life for I had always thought of him as being rather proper, emotionally distant, and not so interested in young folk. I’ll tell you how he saved me, but first these things I recall.

     Grandpa and Grandma Hoyle—Elmer and Mable—lived in Junction City, Kansas, just a block from us, so I often visited in their home. When at their house as a very young kid, I mostly liked the mangle, a big machine for pressing laundry in large quantities. I was fascinated when Grandma or Mom used it to press the laundry for the grocery stores owned by the family. The other thing I found engaging in their house was a totem pole I discovered on a shelf in the basement. They must have bought it while on a trip to the American North West, a tourist curio, carved and painted. Some of the bark still adhered to the carving that sat on an orange-painted base. The pole itself was transected by wooden wings near the top. I loved that totem pole. Oh, and I loved the glider on the screened-in porch even though it was metal and uncomfortable; I could really swing on it!

     When I got older, the television became more important. We didn’t watch it much, but I distinctly recall on summer Sunday afternoons watching the Kansas City A’s, my dad’s and grandpa’s favorite team. I was not contented simply to watch the game, so I sat on the floor near the TV, just in front of the shelves of the World Book Encyclopedia. As I watched the game, I perused my favorite volumes of the encyclopedia, especially the one that included the entries and pictures of Indians. I guess I never was much of a sports fan although I liked the idea that lacrosse was a game invented by Indian tribes.

     Grandpa told me about the two umbrella catalpa trees in his front yard, how it requires two trees to make one. The roots of one are grafted onto the trunk of the other. The grafted roots become newly-formed branches making the umbrella shape. I was fascinated by the unusual trees that to me looked like giant mushrooms and seemed somehow magical with their monstrously large leaves and long beans.

     Most stories of my grandfather I heard from my dad. For instance, during the Great Depression Grandpa always laid out a loaf of bread, ends of lunch meat, and sandwich spread in the back room of the store for anyone who was hungry. He fed lots of unemployed folk during those terrible times. Dad told me about Grandpa’s blue spruce trees that grew on either side of the front steps to the screened porch, how Grandpa had brought them home to Kansas from the Rocky Mountains in coffee cans and babied them for years. I loved their blue-cast sharp needles. Dad told me the saying Grandpa used if a guy had to take a leak on the side of the road: ‘If they’ve never seen one they won’t know what it is; if they have, it won’t make any difference.’ Dad told me with wonder of Grandpa’s practice that if he gave $100 to one of his sons to help him buy something, he’d give $100 to each of his others sons. Perhaps this was a balancing act of an old Quaker man in relationship with his three sons, a balancing act my dad didn’t think was necessary. 

     My sisters and I learned not to ask Grandpa how he was doing. If we forgot, he’d bore us with descriptions of pains, aches, and illness, yet Dad claimed he’d never been sick one day of his life until his eightieth and final year. We learned to say something like, “You’re sure looking good, Grandpa.” When adults asked Elmer how he was, he’d declare: “I think one more clean shirt will do me.” 

     My Hoyle grandparents went to the same church we attended, First Christian Church, on Eighth at Madison. I didn’t see them there often since I went to the early service to attend the children’s programs and they attended the second service in which the adult choir sang. They didn’t often attend Sunday nights (I was always there), and for many years they had been reluctant to become members of the congregation. 

     In general, Grandpa was a good man who somehow didn’t connect with me on an emotional level. He always seemed rather formal, likely a result of his Quaker upbringing. He didn’t kid or delight me like Grandpa Schmedemann, but he did come to my rescue when many years after his death I was facing some life-changing decisions. I was approximately fifty years old and saw my life falling apart. 

     I had heard a story about Grandpa when taking a college class taught by W.F. Lown, who years before had been the minister of our congregation. After church one Sunday morning during which Lown in his sermon had told a story that hung on the use of old Quaker language with thee’s and thou’s, Grandpa said, “I really liked your story, Brother Lown. Wouldn’t it be grand if we could use Bible language all the time?” Lown thought a moment and replied, “I guess we’d all be speaking Greek and Hebrew.” Grandpa apparently thought about Mr. Lown’s perspective and within a few weeks joined the church and immediately began tithing. Lown said he’d never before or since met a fifty-five year old man who made a change anywhere nearly as significant as that. I treasured the story about this ancestor I had never got to know very well. 

     The story served me as an anchor for handling my own changes. Grandpa Hoyle’s decisions set the stage. At age fifty-five, he made a major religious realignment and with it a redirection of his resources. I was mulling over my own situation when I realized Grandpa’s three sons had all made important mid- and mature-life changes. At age fifty-five Earl, my dad, left the grocery business that he really had loved to take on the responsibility of pastoring a church, a work he carried out creatively and faithfully until his retirement at age sixty-five. Ellis, my uncle two years older than Dad, sold the grocery business and set up an insurance agency he ran until he retired several years later. Eldon, Dad’s younger brother by ten years, left the grocery business in his early forties to pursue a real estate career. These solid, model-citizen men made major changes in their adulthood. I likewise could do the same even though my changes were a contrast. The religious dimension of my decisions was to leave a thirty-two-year career in ministry; the personal dimension was to leave a twenty-nine-year marriage. I did the former with elation and relief, the latter with reluctance and great care. I also knew I would be able to make both changes following the leadership of these man-ancestors.

     Grandpa’s practical approach helped. His thoughtful changes were a challenge for me to be likewise responsible towards the people I was leaving behind. So in my mature years I found my most reserved grandpa advising me and loving me in ways I’d never before experienced. If I ever seem reserved, even cool, it’s probably just that old Quaker in me showing through. 

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, giving massages, and socializing. His massage practice funds his other activities that keep him busy with groups of writers and artists, and folk with pains. Following thirty-two years in church work, he now focuses on creating beauty and ministering to the clients in his practice. He volunteers at The Center leading “Telling Your Story.”
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The Interview by Michael King

For
several years I’ve been going to the GLBT Center for a program called
“Telling Your Story”. Each week we have a topic which runs the gamut
from “Weather” to “Queer, Just How Queer?” to “Mud”
to “Drama Queen” and so on. When I first started going to “Story
time,” the other name we call it, I would choke up and remember
experiences that I had so suppressed that I hadn’t thought about them for 60 or
so years. It seemed that once acknowledging the pain and denials of these old
happenings, I was relieved and another piece of my baggage seemed to have been
dealt with. The experience I’m writing about this time is a little different as
I am consciously telling about something for the purpose of sharing and also for
reflecting on or getting in touch with not only my feelings but also to share
these experiences with others that might want to know about the events of the
last few days.
The topic for July 16, 2012
is “The Interview.”
I
looked up the word “interview” in my little pocket dictionary and was
surprised that my concept of the word differed some from Merriam Webster’s: 1:
a formal consultation; 2: a meeting at which a writer or reporter obtains information
from a person; also the written account of such a meeting.
My
thoughts on the topic were more along the lines of a job interview or a TV
program technique, and I guess that does also apply within the dictionary’s
definition. If that’s the case then the
meeting Merlyn and I had on Thursday would or could be called an interview,
though at the time I didn’t know I would be writing an account of the
experience.
On
Wednesday I stopped by the office to pick up the rent receipts. Mable asked if
I had been to my apartment yet. I said “no” and she said that someone
from the victim assistance unit had been there and had left a note under my
door. I thought that someone had reported the injuries to my face and knee from
having had a bad fall after tripping on the raised sidewalk some 9 days
earlier. Perhaps they thought it was a gay bashing or mugging.
Entering
my apartment, I picked up the form that had been shoved under my door.
“City
and County of Denver, Department of Safety. July 11, 2012. 1:30PM I am very
sorry to have to bring you this news. There has been an emergency and I was
unable to contact you in person. Therefore, you have been requested to contact (then
written on a blank line) Lindsay–Boulder coroner’s office–at (the number) who
has more information concerning this situation.” It went on to state that
they would give me assistance and who to contact in their office.
I
immediately knew what had happened. I was sure that a homeless man I had known
years before had died. His name was Michael and has been one of the people I
most love. It was near impossible to relate to Michael, but the place in my
heart though full of love also has had a very big hole.
I
called Lindsey, got a recording to call another number and finally got her on
the phone. I gave her my name and she confirmed that it was Michael who had
died and that I was the only name on his emergency contact from some paperwork
the police had access to. Lindsay is Kayla Wallace’s assistant. Kayla is the
lead investigating officer.
Michael
had died in his sleep at The Boulder Shelter for the Homeless. I called there
and left a message (standard operating 
procedure) I also found out that the case manager for Michael at the
shelter was Karyn. I called her and she said that the body had been found that
morning in his bunk when he didn’t wake up.
Merlyn,
my companion and I talked a lot about Michael and my experiences with him years
earlier. A few weeks ago Merlyn had helped me do a search for Michael thru an
agency we found on the internet. It gave his previous addresses. I recognized
some of them from years and years ago. One was in Boulder and we planned to
check it out sometime even though I thought that it too was an old address.
I
have thought much about Michael over the years and wondered what he was doing
and how he was. I have gone over and over in my mind what I could do or could
have done. Long ago I realized that he preferred the homeless lifestyle, but I
could never grasp why that would be his choice. He knew how to work the system, and he had been very good at it when I knew him. But the last time either
anyone in his family or I had seen him was 15 or so years ago. He liked Boulder
and I assumed that that was where he probably was. His brother-in-law had seen
him a couple of times, but there was never a further contact.
Merlyn
suggested we go to see the shelter and maybe find out if anyone knew him and
could fill us in on his life since I last saw him. Thursday morning I called
Karyn and made arrangements to meet her and see the bunk where Michael died.
By
this time I was already fatigued.  I had
spent most of Wednesday afternoon and evening talking to Michael’s sisters and brother-in-law, and finally his brother called me from Albuquerque while Merlyn
and I were at Taco Bell. Merlyn had wanted to take me out to dinner and even
though I wasn’t very hungry I needed to take a walk. My knee was stiff and
sore. I was spacey from the pain pills and exhausted from all the phone calls
as well as the emotions of the day. I don’t hear well, so when I got a call on
Merlyn’s cell phone I didn’t have any idea who I was talking to. I had only
known that Michael’s brother had been named Jonathan so I didn’t connect when
the caller said it was Jon. Finally he explained that he was Michael’s brother.
I had now talked to two of Michael’s sisters and his brother-in-law several
times and now his brother.  Michael’s
mother is in the hospital with a brain tumor which causes her to be erratic and
hallucinative.
Jon
certainly has his hands full. He seems to be a really nice person. He asked if
I would send him some of Michael’s ashes. He will wait until his mother can
accept the news. Surgery is scheduled for the 25th and one of the sisters is
planning to be there also.
So
Merlyn drove me to Boulder and we met with Karyn. This is what I will call the
interview; finding out what the life and last days of a homeless man was like.
What has happened in the last 15 years?
I
think it was a UPS guy at the door with Karyn when we arrived. He left and she
warmly greeted us and took us to her office. Even though she had only been
Michael’s case manager for a few months she had know him for some time. She had
been fond of him. Her description was of a quiet, but friendly and quite
independent, pleasant loaner. His history was a pattern of using the shelter,
getting into a housing program, breaking the rules by letting others crash at
his place, then losing his housing and repeating the cycle. He maintained close
contact with mental health and between all the agencies he successfully had
food, clothing, shelter and money for cigarettes. He knew and was known by his
community of choice. Karyn said he was very dark. I think probably from the sun
as he was fair and had been a blond when he was younger. She was surprised to
find out that he was only 47; apparently he looked much older. I would have
thought his hair would have been gray, but she said there was very little gray.
She figured he was part Native American from his looks and mentioned that it
was as if he was a hippy from the 60s. Michael had told people that he was in
fact a Native American, a veteran who had suffered injuries in the war and
numerous other scenarios that weren’t true.
Tim,
another case worker, knocked on the door. After introductions, explained that
he had known Mike, as they all called him, for 12 years.  The interview confirmed that Michael was for
the last 15 or so years duplicating the patterns that had been my experience
years before when I helped him find housing, get food and checked regularly to
see how he was doing.
Karyn
showed us the bunk Michael was sleeping in when he died.
There
were so many things for me to process. I think that was true for Merlyn as
well. My worst fears over the years had been dispelled. He wasn’t found in some
dark alley. He hadn’t been mugged or beaten. He apparently wasn’t on drugs,
other than prescription drugs. He wasn’t in a filthy, rundown shelter. Quite
the opposite. He had spent a total of 1100 nights over the last 10 years at the
shelter, almost a third of the time. It is a newish, modern and spacious
building, very clean and well appointed. The group areas are warm and
comfortable and the outdoor recreation and sitting space is very nice; quite
comfortable. The shelter opens in the evening and is empty during the day. The
men and women have a bus that takes them downtown, but it is only one way. Many
can be seen on the streets. They are checked for alcohol when returning. The
rules are strict, but humane and they are treated with dignity and respect.
Karyn
shared that Michael had a sense of humor, that several days ago she had
observed Michael sitting outside in the recreation area as another homeless man
was shooting baskets all by himself. When finished, the basketball guy was
heading back to the building and as he passed Michael, Michael asked him ”
Who won?”
Now
for my observations and reflections. Michael was in a very nice shelter,
perhaps nicer than the best youth hostel that I ever stayed in. It reminded me
of the one in Amsterdam. He was in the Transition Unit, which means that by the
end of August he would have been in permanent housing. He was on an up cycle.
Both
his older sister and Merlyn have encouraged me to write about why Michael may
have chosen being homeless as a lifestyle. He didn’t have to be alone. There
were other people around and he could relate to them as he chose or he could be
by himself. He didn’t have to clean up his living space, a kitchen, bathroom,
bedroom, do the laundry or maintain and protect possessions. When he needed
clean clothing, there were places to pick up what he needed. There are places
to get food and places to shower and sleep. No one expected him to “make
something of himself”. He didn’t have to work or compete for position,
take orders, follow a schedule, maintain equipment or appliances, be indebted
to banks, credit card companies, or make payments on a car, a mortgage, a
student loan or be responsible for hospital and doctor bills. He could observe
the world go by and feel free, detached and could participate in conversation
and some activities with others as he wanted to. He was not responsible for
children, a wife, girlfriend, lover or anyone except himself, and then only to
be in some program or another that provided his needs when and as he wanted. I
think that once he was in permanent housing he would soon get lonesome, miss
the street companions and before long be living in filth and squalor, let
others crash there and loose that privilege again as has happened in the past.
The shelters for the homeless and living on the streets gave him the
fulfillment of his physical and emotional needs, companionship and a security
without responsibility.
Since
his snoring was very loud and erratic he may have had sleep asthenia, quit
breathing. The autopsy will take 6 to 8 weeks.
The
body was transferred to Crist Mortuary and sometime, probably this week, will
be cremated.
My
interview concerned a 47 year old man that I had known in the past and that
lived most of his life in and out of homeless shelters. It seems he had a good
soul. Though his family wasn’t capable of sharing their lives with him and vise
versa. He was loved. Though interactions had been difficult, he was always
loving.
I
feel that I can report to his brother and 3 sisters that he lived a life that
he chose and did it on his own terms. He had the respect of those who live that
lifestyle and those who provide services. He was apparently well liked. He
achieved his goals. He had mastered the skills necessary for life on the
streets.
I
have a sense of closure and feel privileged to have known and loved Michael. My
deep love comes in part from the fact that I was his father.

About the Author

I go by the drag name, Queen
Anne Tique. My real name is Michael King. I am a gay activist who finally came
out of the closet at age 70. I live with my lover, Merlyn, in downtown Denver,
Colorado. I was married twice, have 3 daughters, 4 grandchildren and a great
grandson. Besides volunteering at the GLBT Center and doing the SAGE
activities,” Telling your Story,” “Men’s Coffee,” and the
“Open Art Studio.” I am active in Prime Timers and Front Rangers. I
now get to do many of the activities that I had hoped to do when I retired;
traveling, writing, painting, doing sculpture, cooking and drag.
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Elder Words by Betsy

The
following is an imaginary letter.  My
mother died when I was barely an adult. 
My father died in 1979.  I came
out in 1982.  I imagine my parents would
have been disappointed that their oldest daughter was homosexual, but I am
quite sure that eventually they would have been accepting.   Although I see my mother as being very
closeted.  They were very loving
parents.  Here is an imagined reply to my
news from my father.

1982
0r so

Dear
Bets,

I
have to say I was stunned by your recent pronouncement.  I don’t know much about this subject.  I have been thinking about it night and
day.  I am struggling.  Maybe you can help me to understand.  You and your family–your life was so
perfect.  Perhaps Bill  has not been the good husband that he
appeared to be.  When you told me you
were getting a divorce, I didn’t understand that either.  Now at least that piece of the puzzle fits.

I
say I have been struggling.  I have to
tell you I do not like this choice that you have made.  However, deep down inside I realize this must
be your true nature and you choose to live honestly and freely.  And I know that is how you need to live and
that is who you are.  I know for sure
that your life will not be easy.   Surely
you are aware of that.  I can only
conclude that you were compelled to make this change in your life style.

In
my struggle to understand and accept your situation one thing keeps coming back
to me.  And that is that I love you.  I wish you strength and happiness in your new
life.  If nothing else, remember that I
love you very much no matter what.

Love,  Dad

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.

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Buddies by Phillip Hoyle

     Last week I visited my family, the one related to my long-standing marriage with my ex-wife, the one that produced two interesting children, the one that has graced me with ten grandchildren. That family has extensions: my family of origin with four sisters and their husbands and, for three of them, children; my ex-wife’s family of origin with three siblings and their families; an informally adopted child and his wife and children. My week seemed both long and short, long in that I was away from my Denver family of Jim and his mother, a group of close friends, and other important relationships with storytellers, writers, artists, and neighbors. But my stay was also short in that the whirlwind of Mid-Missouri card playing, discussions of writing and art, politics and theology, observations of life at my son’s new farm, graduations, parties, trips to coffee shops, supporting my daughter when she heard her partner had been arrested at the Mexico-USA border, grandkids going to new jobs, two little girls who still drive me crazy, and themes related to my nine years of residence there when I served on the staff of a local church made the time fly by like a Kansas storm. At the end of the week I was tired. Upon returning to Denver I was united with my urban family of gay friends that sometimes reminds me of one of my favorite books, Ethan Mordden’s Buddies.

     Philosophy and science work hard at defining concepts and terms. The words of sexuality get such treatment and with them an assignment into moral categories, behavioral norms, psychological perspectives, and the like. The author of Buddies (New York: St. Martin’s Griffin, 1982) seems also to have been on a search for definitions, particularly of gay and straight. In telling his stories, Mordden played with the feelings and sensibilities of readers. Bud, the writer-protagonist of the book plays similarly with the feelings and sensibilities of quite a few of the other characters, some of whom argue with him about the meanings. Mordden’s meanings arose from the emerging gay life of Stonewall and post-Stonewall Manhattan and proposed a new kind of relationship characterized by sexual freedom but not without norms.

     When back in the 1980s I stood in a mid-Missouri bookstore reading the novel during several consecutive noon-hour stops there, I was most taken by the chapter “Hardhats” in which Mordden tells a story of ironworkers, a tale that provides a glance at their social profile, extremely macho lives, blended in with an instance of homosexuality or bisexuality. (Mordden didn’t like bi-sexual, didn’t believe in it.) But his language of friendship paired with the need for a sexual component made great sense to me. The picture Mordden provided of homosexuality among the most macho of all macho construction workers surprised me with a world that contrasted with that of artists found in most of the gay narratives I’d read up to that time. The privacy of the ironworkers’ gay experience—or the closeted character rarely uttered—engaged me. I liked other Mordden characters as well; the ironworker who was friend to the homosexual worker but didn’t have sex with him or even realize he was homosexual, the school-teacher gay, and the hooker gay young man who had little interest in work, and a 20s something kept man with great and odd creativity. Mostly, though, I liked this plain ironworker who drank too much but who, on occasion, could express his love through sex and sexual words. He seemed a homosexual who didn’t make a career of his sexuality. I may have liked his story so much because I experienced a similar yet contrasting closeted experience. I sought a discrete homosexual relationship that wouldn’t destroy the rest of my life. Standing there reading the new book, I saw that novel-writing gay critic Mordden understood and valued that kind of life. He also showed how it wasn’t gay in the Stonewall sense of gay—an existence with the social demand for recognition, tolerance, acceptance, and civil rights for homosexual persons. 

     Still, Mordden urged closeted folk out of the closet even while he accepted that homosexual ironworkers could never be openly gay. Their understanding of faggot was different. They separated men from fagots by their build, muscles, costume, etc., but they couldn’t fit in with the 80s macho gay crowd. Mordden concluded that their distinction was ultimately cultural, not sexual.

     Buddies examines family of origin with siblings and parents, theatre (especially the American musical), social class, language, defining ethos of work, writer/storyteller, friendship, romance, families of choice (although I don’t think he uses that jargon), personal perspective, and more. This work reminds me a lot of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales although Buddies does have a bit more discernable plot. If Bud is the protagonist, he really has no evil antagonist. His quest is observation and storytelling for the purpose of definition. His friends and subjects are his only antagonists in that they resist his categories and argue with him over his whole project. This gay family gathers around Bud and his long-time friend Denis Savage who live in the same building. Stories occur in their apartments, in others around the city, on streets, in bars, and often on Fire Island. 

     I have my gay family, too. I don’t care so much about definition since I’m not trying to define Gay life in Denver, but like Bud, I too make some of my friends nervous. Will they end up as characters in one of my stories? They sometimes wonder. And yes, they will be in stories even if effectively camouflaged. But this family is more for me, also including folk I know from an annual retreat, massage friends, and clients. 

     So yesterday I attended a birthday party held at the Denver Wrangler Sunday beer bust. There I was surrounded by that solidarity (at least many guys had solid physiques), and I was there with my family of the five guys I’m most often with and saw others I knew who are related to the annual retreat I attend. I laughed, hugged, and felt comfortable with this nutty, sometimes nelly, crowd of like-minded, like-inclined gays. I felt at home and knew my feelings connected with Mordden’s as I stood there with my Buddies.

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, giving massages, and socializing. His massage practice funds his other activities that keep him busy with groups of writers and artists, and folk with pains. Following thirty-two years in church work, he now focuses on creating beauty and ministering to the clients in his practice. He volunteers at The Center leading “Telling Your Story.”