Tag: LGBT

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Going Pink by Merlyn

One
evening last fall Michael and I were on a mission. Michael needed a pink purse
to go with his pink dress that he wanted to wear to a drag show.
We
had already been in about 10 stores and he thought everything we looked at
would clash with his pink dress.
We
walked into a women’s store on the 16th Street Mall, and Michael asked this
young girl if she had a small pink purse. She looked everywhere and could not
find one that Michael liked.
Michael
and she talked about the outfit he was going to wear and her eyes lit up. “I
have a pink purse that I love, but it is covered with fuchsia panty lace! Would
you like to see it?” Michael nodded yes. She had it high on a shelf in back of
the counter over the register. I think she had hidden it so she could buy it
for herself when it was time to mark the price down. Michael took one glace at
it, and I knew he wanted it until he saw the price of $40.00.
I
never thought I would be standing next to a man in a women’s clothing store
while he was talking to a young girl about how, if he wore long fuchsia gloves,
the fuchsia panty lace purse would look great with any pink dress.
All
the time they are talking Michael was fondling the lace and playing with the
purse. I was sure he would break down and buy it until he handed it back to her
and said he could not spend $40.00 for something he would only use one time.
I
told her I would buy it for him and gave her my card.
When
we got home Michael said he could not let me pay $40 and tried to give me the
money. We settled on splitting the $40.00.
That’s
the story of how I got to be part owner of a pink panty lace purse. 

About the Author

I’m a retired gay man now
living in Denver Colorado with my partner Michael. I grew up in the Detroit
area. Through the various kinds of work I have done I have seen most of the
United States. I have been involved in technical and mechanical areas my whole
life, all kinds of motors and computer systems. I like travel, searching for
the unusual and enjoying life each day. 

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Three Loves: Three Losses by Phillip Hoyle

I tell of Ted, Michael, and Rafael.
I tell of Kaposi’s sarcoma, Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, and Hepatitis
C.
I tell of the loving effects of all on me.
Ted’s illness eventually became the focus of my
relationship to him, a kind of maturing friendship that clarified my need to
take care of another person who was dying. I wanted to attend to him at the end
of his life and realized I’d willingly take a leave of absence from work to do
so. This seemed a great change for me. It also clarified my anger at the church
and society for their often callus response to gay folk in general and
specifically to those living with and dying from HIV-related diseases. It seemed
that in our society to debate long-held fears was more important than to
support people—the real places of life and death.
I found meaning as well as satisfaction in letting Ted
teach me more about the issues and about myself before his death. The last time
we were together—a several-day stay at his home in San Francisco—we visited San
Francisco General Hospital, and I walked around Pacific Heights while he met
with his psychiatrist. We heard Beethoven’s “Missa Solemnis” together, and he
taught me how to smoke marijuana.  He
told me that when his KS lesions so distressed him, he complained to his HIV
physician. “I just can’t stand to look at them.”
“Then don’t,” she responded. “Wear long pants.”
Ted wore long pants but was not doing well on that last
visit. I wanted to return to be with him. Although I volunteered, I wasn’t
called in at the end, which frustrated me. Still, I was able to attend his
memorial service, an experience of balloons, tributes, music, and love.
After I moved to Denver I gave massages at Colorado AIDS
Project as a kind of memorial to my long-time friend Ted. There I met Michael,
a man who came to me for massage. I noticed that he was noticing me. He wanted
more massage. When later he came to my home studio to receive one, I was
pleased and served tea at the end of the session. Then he wanted more than
massage. We began seeing each other socially. Of course, I knew he was HIV
positive. What I didn’t know was that he was losing weight rapidly and that his
numbers were going in the wrong directions. When I realized these distressing
trends, I suggested that at his next medical appointment he show the swollen
lymph nodes in his neck and groin and insist that someone touch them. He did so
and the tests that ensued pinpointed non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. I started spending
most nights at his place when he started chemotherapy and discovered just how
much I had come to love him in our short time together. As he sickened I did
more and more of his yard and housework. I wanted him to be comfortable and I wanted
to enjoy his company.
Michael taught me some rather genteel approaches to
breakfast, to eating out, and to living with another man. I was an avid
learner. He also was the occasion for me to see the down side of some gay relationships
particularly as relates to family complications. When his brother and elderly
mother were coming to see him after his chemotherapy had to be discontinued, he
asked me to move back to my apartment during their stay. I was confused but also
realized we are what we are: he was who he was, I was who I was, both imperfect
when coping with the extremities of life. I made sure I dropped by to meet his
family, to be for them one of Michael’s friends. I never knew what they understood
of our relationship.
I did for Michael in his last weeks what I couldn’t do
for Ted: made him comfortable, showered him with my love, sat by him while he
took his final breaths. My sadness mixed with love at his death. I was so
pleased that I had cleaned up after him, prepared his food, and loved him in
the most practical ways possible—the work of family and of gay lovers in the
face of AIDS. In it all, I came to appreciate the effective work of Denver
Health’s clinics and staff. I appreciated the attentions of other friends of
this lover of mine. His memorial service brought together a wide variety of
folk who celebrated his life, friendships, and love.
Some months later I met Rafael at a bus stop. We talked;
we liked each other. Eventually we got together after a frustrating courtship
characterized by my wondering where this cute man was. We came together with an
emotional intensity that surely would have entertained both Ted and Michael and
that surprised me. It also thrilled me to my innermost gay self that I was
still discovering.
Rafael told me he was HIV positive some weeks into this
intense relationship. I said that was fine and told him about Ted and Michael.
We set up housekeeping, but in a few weeks he was growing ill. He too was a
client at the Infectious Diseases Clinic at Denver Health. I warned him I might
cry when we went there because of my memories of going to the same kind of
appointments with Michael.
I felt somewhat like a veteran and told him I wanted to
meet his family before he ended up in the hospital. That didn’t happen. I met
his brother in his room at Denver Health. Later I met his parents and sister at
the same place. I stood by him and helped his family as his illness worsened. We
waited during a surgery on his aorta, made visits to the Intensive Care Unit, the
Intensive Care Step-down Unit, and other floors where he was treated. Finally,
a diagnosis of full-term hepatitis C emerged. Two weeks later, after a one-day
home hospice attempt, the Hospice of St. John took him in. There he died.
I liked that at the end he was surrounded by family. I
was pleased to be included. He had told his parents they’d not be welcome in
our home if they in any way excluded me. This frail man of indomitable spirit
took care of me with his family as I took care of his daily needs. Our love’s
intensity sustained and wrecked us both at the end. I let go gently, deeply
saddened, and with startlingly grateful respect for this man’s life and death.
But I was also afraid of the effect the loss of such an intense relationship
would bring. The resulting low I experienced was as intense as the heights of
the love we shared. I survived. I felt as if Saints Ted and Michael attended me
in my adoration of the beautiful and strong Rafael.
This awful disease with all its science, social ramifications,
and family trauma and drama continues to affect my life daily. Friends and
clients still live and die with its effects. Memories seared deeply into my
brain and body accompany my every move. I continue to hate the disease while I
love those with it, both past and present. 

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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Till Death Us Do Part by Nicholas

Jamie and I never thought we would get
married. Through all the debate over gay marriage, we never felt really drawn
to it. We never thought about going to Massachusetts or to Canada as friends of
ours had to get hitched. We didn’t jump onto an airplane in February 2004 and
head to San Francisco when Mayor Gavin Newsum started issuing marriage licenses
and Jamie’s mom inquired as to whether or not we would—as I’m sure she deeply
wished. Long active in the struggle for gay marriage, she had flung herself
into that fray by driving up to the city from Menlo Park to volunteer as a
witness for couples who showed up at San Francisco City Hall. Her fondest hope
was to see her gay son married someday.
Jamie and I always said that, yes, we would
like to marry but only when it became immediately and practically real where we
live—in Colorado—and that did not look too likely in our lifetimes. We knew who
we were and we were confident about our love for and commitment to one another
so until legal realities caught up with our reality, we stayed home.
We did take care to put in place any legal
arrangements available to protect our relationship. We had our last wills and
testaments, legal powers of attorney, medical directives, medical powers of
attorney, house ownership agreement, and even, our official certificate of
domestic partnership from the City and County of Denver. We even carry these
documents with us in our cars should we ever need them in an emergency without
time to go home and retrieve them. We were set.
Of course, it all depended on the whim of whomever
might challenge us as to whether any of our documents and legal constructions
would work. Because, of course, we weren’t married.
Married couples don’t ever have to produce legal documents to justify
themselves.
Then May 15, 2008 happened. The California
Supreme Court ruled that the State of California had no justification to
prohibit the marriage of two people of the same gender. It amounted to
discrimination. California was liberated.
When I heard the news flash on the radio, my
instant response was: Let’s go home to California, where we used to live and
still had family and friends, and get married.
That day, Jamie was with his mom in Minnesota
visiting friends and relatives and my big worry was that she, with her activism
for marriage equality, would start lobbying for her son and prospective
son-in-law to do the wedding march ASAP. That, I feared, would only spark
Jamie’s resistance—we had so often said that marriage was not for us until some
unspecifiable time in the future, i.e., probably never. And there’s nothing
like a nagging mother to produce a quick “No.”

I hastily phoned him on his cell hoping to
short circuit what I imagined to be my mother-in-law’s certain campaign. Yes,
he and mom had heard the news and talked about it, he said. But, no, she hadn’t
been urging him/us to wed. She must really want this to happen, I thought;
she’s laying low. The motherly artillery was for now quiet.
I had my opening. I asked Jamie if he wanted
to go to California and get married, the closest to a proposal I’d ever make.
And he replied, to my surprise, that, yea, he would, the closest to a yes, I’d
ever hear.
I can’t explain this sudden turn about in
feelings toward getting married. We still would gain nothing in the state where
we lived. In fact, marriage was still as legally empty for us as it ever was.
Nothing would change. Maybe because we met and lived together in San Francisco
before moving to Denver and still had family and friends there and are always
going there that California is still was kind of home. It just felt like the
right thing for us to do. And that’s how we entered the dazzling world of
wedding planning. We were going all the way—a church wedding and catered
reception. Mom was paying.
From indifferent to ardent believers in 30
seconds. I’ve heard all the jokes—and told them—about marriage being a
wonderful institution but who wants to live in an institution. I guess we just
gave into the romance of the idea. Isn’t that why people get married
everywhere? It’s the romance, never mind the legal goodies, which, after all,
we now qualified for in at least 6 states and the District of Columbia. Of
course, we were also entering a legal Alice in Wonderland as to which rights we
had depending on which geographical location we were in. We could get bigger
and then we could get smaller.
We’ve never regretted our marriage. In fact,
we were both kind of surprised that it did seem to make a difference. We began
to think of ourselves in different terms as more than a couple, but a
recognized and sanctioned couple. It isn’t just straight people who have to
adjust their idea of marriage to include gay and lesbian couples. Now that we
have something we never in our wildest imaginations thought we would ever have,
we too wonder what this means. Are we changing the definition of marriage, like
the gay-haters say? Well, I hope so.
What, for example, do we call ourselves?
Spouses? Husbands? I don’t like the term “husband”—it implies there’s a “wife”
somewhere—but it does spell it all out in just one word and we’ve come to use
it. We love each other, we’re committed to each other, we share property, we
can make decisions for each other, and we have sex. No explanations are needed
as to who my “friend” is.



There’s a catch, though, Here’s the catch. We can’t get divorced. Anyone can go to California and get married. Only legal residents of California can use divorce court. We’re not residents. So, we are stuck. Stuck with each other for life. But that’s just where we want to be.

About the Author

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

“This has got to be the worst weather yet,
don’t you think,” asked Carole.  “And I’m
getting really cold.”
No wonder. 
We had been pedaling our bikes since day break in the pouring rain.  We were completely saturated and it was
barely mid-morning. 
“Let’s stop for coffee if we ever come to a
shop.”  We had seen nothing but flooded
farmers’ fields for the last 10 miles.  
“We’re going toward the river road. 
The next town should be coming up soon,” said Cathy hopefully.
Another five miles and we did reach the river
road.  No sign of the town or our support
vehicle known as Bo Peep–so named because she was always losing us–her
sheep.  Nor had there been a sign of tour
company’s van and the trailer hauling our luggage and traveling kitchen. 
“It’s getting so dark, “yelled Cathy. 
“The weather just keeps getting worse.  Let’s just hope we don’t get serious thunder
and lightning.  We’ll have to hole-up for
awhile if that happens.  Meantime, I
would like to get to a coffee shop as soon as possible,” I said. Privately I
was thinking, “I MUST get to a coffee shop soon.”
This was Mississippi in late April.  We had completed 2/3 of our cycling trip from
the Pacific Ocean to the Atlantic.  Up to
now–from California to Louisiana– the weather had been pretty good.  Not perfect, but mostly dry and benign.   It had obviously been raining here for quite
some time.  The fields in this rural area
of southern Mississippi were badly flooded and the rivers were very high.
Just when the rain did let up a bit we came upon
a low-lying section of road about 1/4 mile long.  The water was completely covering the road;
so deep, we could not actually be sure we were on the pavement.  We had no choice but to carry our bicycles
through the two feet of water to the place beyond where the road became visible
again.  Not only was the road covered,
but also there was a rather formidable current running across it coming out of
a nearby swamp.
          As
we were emerging from this quagmire almost home free, we heard a vehicle
droning along behind us.  It was our tour
van and trailer.  The van was doing well
to get through the flooded road.  The
attached trailer on the other hand, was literally floating atop the water, its
wheels having most definitely left the ground, moving at an angle in the
current while at the same time holding on for dear life to it’s life support,
the van, which we all prayed would not stall in the flood.  We stood gaping in horror at this sight each
of us going over in our heads the condition our belongings would be in by the
time they reached dry ground. 
“My computer is in there, cried Carole.  Mine, too,” screamed Cathy.
Talking about the events of the day at our
group gathering that evening Cathy, Carole and I learned that we were fortunate
to be one of the first groups to finish that ride that day.  We were indeed glad of this when one woman
said “ Walking our bikes through the water wouldn’t have been so bad if someone
hadn’t told us beforehand to watch out for the snakes and alligators!”  The three of us agreed we were much better
off not knowing about those hazards. And we were relieved
to learn that the van trailer kept our belongings dry and secure.
“Of course,” I thought.  “It was floating.  It must be water-tight.”  A good thing! 
We had stew for dinner that night.  Claudia, our cook and heroic van driver, had
purchased everything for tonight’s dinner early that morning before the watery
event.  It was all safe and sound in the
trailer kitchen she assured us.  But I’m
not so sure.  I could have sworn that
stew meat had a gamey, reptilian taste to it.

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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Drama Queen by Ricky

“The time has come,” the Walrus said,
“To talk of many things:
Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax—
Of cabbages—and kings—
And why the sea is boiling hot—
And whether pigs have wings.”

— Lewis Carroll, The Walrus and the Carpenter

Last week I had to ask
our group leader what exactly is a “drama queen”.  His answer was okay but due to the passage of
time I forgot the answer.  Thus, I was on
my own pondering this topic and how it relates to my life experiences.  I thought so hard that I gave myself a
dramatic headache to substitute for smoke pouring out my ears.

My ponderous labors were not in vain however,
as I did give birth to a personal point of reference; and it did not even take
nine months.
I
witnessed my first episode of “dramatical” behavior in 1953.  My mother made me wear sandals to
Kindergarten where other boys began to call me a “sissy” for wearing them.  When I got home that afternoon, I begged my
mother to get me “real” shoes like the other boys, but she said, “No.”  When my father came home, I turned on the
tears, panic, and near tantrum behavior and he took me out to get new footwear;
he truly understood the situation.  To
some that may qualify for juvenile (or infantile) drama queen behavior, but to
me it was self-preservation-behavior.
The
next time I noticed dramatical behavior in others and I, was in the Fall of 1965
and Spring of 1966.  This time it was
group behavior as many of us performed in the two high school plays, Pioneer Go Home and Tom Jones. 
Combined with a few skits in Boy Scouts, these were my only youthful
experiences with drama.  As it turns out
though, I really enjoyed it.

Cast of Tom Jones–I’m Tom

I enjoyed drama.

In
1969, three young adult males and I performed, at a church social, a skit in barbershop
quartet style; not the harmony parts just the dramatical part.  We sang a “moving” rendition of When It’s Hog Calling Time in Nebraska.  It was well received.  At least no one threw tomatoes at us.

Many
years later, while in the Air Force, I was the supervisor of a flight of
30-missile security personnel one of whom, the flight sergeant, was always
getting lost or stuck on unauthorized roads. 
I was joking with one of my staff sergeants about giving the flight
sergeant an award for all his efforts in finding new places to get stuck and
areas in which to play lost and found. 
The next week, the staff sergeant brought me a homemade medal of French
design to award the flight sergeant.
The
award was a little compass (the type with a small suction cup so it could be
attached to a windshield) which was suspended from a red, white, and blue
striped ribbon to fit around the recipient’s neck.  I invited the squadron commander and
operations officer to attend my flight’s guard mount that day to witness the
award ceremony.
After
attending to the normal activities of guard mount, I called the flight sergeant
to come Front and Center.  When he was in
place, I gave an “over the top” flowery spiel about his ability and skill in blazing new trails and
documenting response time to hazardous locations ending with, “Sergeant R., I
present you with the coveted Pathfinder of the Year Award.”  The highlight of the presentation was after I
placed the ribbon around his neck I grasped his shoulders and kissed him French
style on both cheeks.  Everyone “cracked
up laughing,” the sergeant turned bright red, and even the commander enjoyed
the “performance.”  This is not drama
queen behavior; it is morale boosting behavior to lighten the load of being in a
boring and thankless job.
After
all that pondering on the topic, I do recognize stereotypical drama queen
behavior, when I see others engage in it repeatedly.  However, I am not a stereotypical
person.  Like each of you, I am unique in
my personality, traits, speech patterns, sense of humor, and so on.  I believe that we all do things sometimes
that could make others refer to us as drama queens.  For myself, I may actually do these things
quite often but rather subtlety.  No one
has ever said I was effeminate or had effeminate traits or habits and I am not
flamboyant or flaming.  No, my drama
queeniness is very low key.
For
example, I like to tell jokes, mostly puns, at odd intervals to lighten the
mood; or perhaps to turn the attention to me. 
I like to wear bright solid color shirts and t-shirts with logos or
sayings or other messages on them; perhaps again to make people notice me.  While I do not deliberately arrive late to
our Telling Your Story group, it does draw attention to me.  So maybe I really do qualify as a drama
queen; except for one thing.  I am not
female so “queen” does not fit.
“The time has come,” this author said,
“To talk of many things: 
Of shoes–and ships–and sealing-wax– 
Of cabbages–and drama kings– 
And why the sea is boiling hot– 
And whether pigs have wings.”
If
you must, just call me a Drama King.

©
16 April 2012

About the Author

Emerald Bay – Lake Tahoe
Ricky
was born in June of 1948 in downtown Los
Angeles, California.
He lived first in Lawndale
and then in Redondo Beach both suburbs of LA. Just prior to turning 8 years
old, he went to live with his grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota
for two years while (unknown to him) his parents obtained a divorce.

When united with his mother and new stepfather, he lived at Emerald Bay
and then at South Lake Tahoe, CA,
graduating from South
Tahoe High
School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the
Air Force, he moved to Denver,
Colorado where he lived with his
wife of 27 years and their four children. His wife passed away from
complications of breast cancer four days after 9-11.

He came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.  “I find that writing these memories is very therapeutic.”

Ricky’s blog is “TheTahoeBoy.blogspot.com”.