Tag: LGBTQA

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Believe It – Death Started at the Big Bang by Pat Gourley

So since I have missed the past two sessions and I have had thoughts on the three most recent topics I am going to write a single piece addressing all three: “Believe it or not this really happened to me…”, “Death” and “The Big Bang”.

My human birth is by far and away the most remarkable thing that has ever happened to me. The chance of that occurring was so infinitesimally unlikely and remote as to be more than mind boggling.

I have always liked the way the Buddha addressed this amazing reality. Speaking to a group of monks he said: “…suppose that the great earth were totally covered with water and a man were to toss a yoke with a single hole into the water…and suppose a blind turtle was in that great expanse. It would come up to the surface only once every 100 years. Now what do you suppose the chances would be that a blind turtle coming to the surface every 100 years would stick its nose into the yoke with a single hole?” The monks thought his very unlikely to which the Buddha replied: “ And just so, it is very, very rare that one attains the human state.”

Another little factoid, that is well worth pondering if you are wondering about being here at all or perhaps looking to expose the absolute ridiculousness of the “personhood amendment’ on the ballot again in Colorado this year. The reality is that a significant majority of all conceived embryos are simply flushed out totally unnoticed in normal menstrual flow without anyone being aware. Embryologists estimate that 60% – 80% of all conceived embryos by day seven have already gotten the bums rush out the vagina if you count back to the moment of conception. This occurs naturally and is unrelated to any form of birth control. Remember this “personhood amendment” states that ‘life’ begins at conception, however not very often as it turns out.

It is very amazing and truly hard to believe that the cellular beginnings of my embryonic conception did not wind up in the septic tank buried outside our rural Indiana farmhouse. The fact that I was born alive and healthy on January 12th of 1949 is quite spectacular really and its all been down hill from there. The successful conception nine months prior was the beginning of my death dance called life on earth for Patrick J. Gourley, though if you take a big picture look it more likely began at the moment of the Big Bang, estimated to have occurred about 13.8 billion years ago.

My profession as a nurse, work for several decades in an AIDS clinic, my own HIV infection and the loss of many friends and lovers have all significantly informed my own personal relationship with the inevitability of my own death. Being in the presence of someone dying can be a very potent moment of clarity. For me personally over the years these many moments of clarity have in part pushed me to a firm atheist perspective on it all. This is it baby and since you were extremely lucky to get the chance to live a human life at all do try to make the most of it everyday. Though I now describe myself as an atheist I am open to spirituality and more on this further in this piece.

Trying to ponder what it means to die and not be “me” any more has always been a challenging meditation for me personally. A striking and certainly very plausible explanation for what it may be like to be dead, i.e. not ‘me’ anymore, came my way by some of the work of the great philosopher Ken Wilbur. Wilbur pointed out three states of consciousness waking, dreaming and deep dreamless sleep. He also acknowledges the possibility of other more advanced states where one is able to be “aware” if you will of what’s happening even while engaged in deep dreamless sleep. That would be a level of consciousness I certainly don’t possess and don’t ever expect to. For the vast majority of us deep dreamless sleep is really quite similar to death. No recollection of this state at all and we go there most every night, most of us ‘die’ then at least once every twenty-four hours.

This can also occur for example when under anesthesia for various medical procedures. Most recently this happened for me during a colonoscopy I had last week. Once my IV was in, oxygen on, pulse oximetry on my finger and lying on my side butt to the doctor he introduced himself and we shook hands, a truly odd formality it seemed given the situation. I would think a playful pat on the butt would have been a more appropriate physical greeting than the handshake.

The doc then said I am going to give you some medicine to relax you and his next statement was now I am going to do a rectal exam. My next conscious memory was the nurse saying you did great and everything looked good. This was at least 20 minutes later. So not only did I miss a good rectal exam while high no less I also sort of died. I mean my heart kept beating and I continued to breathe but these were not actions I was aware of on any level I could comprehend. I didn’t “exist” for those twenty minutes and if my heart had stopped that would have been the end. Oh maybe there would have been a tunnel with a bright light at the end but that would just be few synapses sparking and freaking out from a lack of oxygen I suspect and the doorway to heaven. Not a bad way to dance out I might add but not usually how it occurs.

Since I have been lucky enough to “be” it raises the question where did I come from. Looks like it may very well have all started with the Big Band some many billions of years ago. My physical makeup is literally stardust that coalesced into this majestic planet and one thing led to about a billion trillion other things and here I am babbling on.

I was recently gifted Sam Harris’ new book Waking Up: A Guide to Spirituality Without Religion by a dear friend. Harris has been in the news of late around his recent appearance on Bill Maher’s Real Time and for his controversial views on religion and Islam in particular. This book doesn’t really step specifically into those waters but it is a great exploration of the reality of self as illusion and how one can cultivate a genuine spiritual perspective with no need of any organized religion. Reading Harris’ book has pushed me back to the cushion. He sums up the reason to do this quite eloquently in the last two lines of the book: “However numerous your faults, something in you at this moment is pristine – and only you can recognize it. Open your eyes and see.” (Sam Harris/2014.)

I do not however spend every waking moment pondering the illusion of self, my pending death or how the hell I got here but often of an evening I engage in much more mundane activities. After a day of work in a local Urgent Care Clinic having the infinite suffering of humanity thrust in my face repeatedly or absorbing the mind-numbing onslaught of the current mid-term elections, or the latest ISIS beheadings or the current Ebola hysteria and realizing I am still not enlightened I often seek solace and escape by watching, often several times over, reruns of the great hit sit-com The Big Bang Theory!

© October 2014

About the Author

I was born in La Porte, Indiana in 1949, raised on a farm and schooled by Holy Cross nuns. The bulk of my adult life, some 40 plus years, was spent in Denver, Colorado as a nurse, gardener and gay/AIDS activist. I have currently returned to Denver after an extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California.

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A Salute to PFLAG by Betsy

“I knew my son was gay. He didn’t want to tell me. I told him I loved him and nothing else mattered. He didn’t believe I was accepting, but I was.” These are the words of Jeanne Manford, cofounder of Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays, the internationally known organization of allies of lesbians, gays, bisexuals, and transgendered.

The concept for the organization was born in 1972 when Jeanne Manford marched with her gay son Morty in New York’s Christopher Street Liberation Day March, the precursor to today’s Pride parade. She carried a sign which read “Parents of Gays Unite in Support for Our Children.” This brought on cheers yelling, crying and clapping and to Jeanne’s surprise many people came up to her during the march, shook hands, hugged her, begged her to talk to their parents. The requests continued after the parade with hundreds of telephone calls from gay and lesbian people wanting Jeanne to speak to their parents. It became clear to her that a support group was needed. Thus the first meeting was held in March 1973 in Greenwich Village. Twenty people attended.

Jeanne continued answering the calls and began traveling the country making appearances on radio and tv promoting the cause.

By 1979 many similar groups had sprung up around the country. By 1980 the first PFLAG National office was established in Los Angeles followed by the incorporation and granting of tax exempt status to the organization which now included some 20 groups. The headquarters was relocated to Denver in 1987 under President Elinor Lewallen, whom many of us knew well. PFLAG took off in the 1990’s and the national office employed an executive director and some staff and moved to Washington DC.

The administration of George H.W. Bush became the first to be directly supportive of gay rights when the then PFLAG president Paulette Goodman sent Barbara Bush a letter asking for her support. Her reply was “I firmly believe that we cannot tolerate discrimination against any individuals or groups in our country. Such treatment always brings with it pain and perpetuates intolerance.” Unbeknownst to some powers that be, the first lady’s comments were given to the press and caused a political maelstrom.

Today 40 years after it’s inception PFLAG has grown to a network of 350 chapters worldwide with more than 200,000 members. Perhaps one of the greatest services provided by PFLAG over the years has been the dissemination of information to educational institutions and communities of faith and the general public nationwide. This along with personal and group support for parents who sometimes are in tears and in shock and are trying to understand.

I became involved in PFLAG around 2003 when I learned that the Denver Chapter was meeting in my neighborhood. I decided to attend a meeting.

At the meeting I found many acquaintances, gays, lesbians, and straight.

The chair of the board was an old acquaintance from my married days–she had worked with my husband at CU medical school. I think she was surprised to see me there. Before I knew it I found myself on the board of directors of the Denver Chapter. There I remained for 7 years having held the office of president for 2 years until my tenure ended due to term limits.

I was glad to be active and committed to this organization. I believe that PFLAG, being an organization of allies, has been in the right place at the right time to help open people’s minds and bring about attitude and policy changes.

The credibility of parents who love their children just as they are and want to support them can be very powerful. I thought at first that I knew a good bit of what being both the parent of a lesbian and being a lesbian myself was about. But I quickly discovered at PFLAG that being a straight parent of a lesbian is very much a different thing. My eyes were opened when in a “coming out” support group meeting parents were talking about how difficult it is to come out to their friends and family. Some were having difficulty with this, fearing rejection by those closest to them, and had been closeted themselves for a long time. It had never occurred to me that these straight people had the same fear issues that their gay children did, and that they, like their gay and lesbian children had to summon up some courage to “come out” and reveal the secret of their son or daughter.

Our chapter’s major activities during my active years included

1. Speaking with school groups, students, staff, and parents to promote better understanding and acceptance of GLBT. Working with schools who have bullying issues to address. Providing support and education to parents and school personnel around transgender issues.

2. Speaking similarly with other community groups including churches.

3. Providing educational materials put out by the national office.

4. Providing an emergency “helpline” for parents or others in distress.

5. Providing a monthly support meeting with a trained facilitator for parents whose sons or daughters have just come out to them. The support meeting is followed by a program featuring a speaker or panel of speakers always bringing enlightenment to their audiences.

6. Advocating for marriage equality.

Will the support and advocacy of PFLAG be a continuing need in the future? I believe there will always be a need. The specific activities of the organization may change with the times. With more awareness, more children are coming out and often at a younger age than in past decades.

Although there has been increased acceptance and policy changes, there is still much misinformation and misunderstanding and hatred of homosexual people. The more recent emergence of awareness of transgender issues by itself presents huge challenges to families involved and to advocacy groups. In my opinion PFLAG will be in business for a long time.

Denver, 2014

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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Signposts by Phillip Hoyle

Ted grew up on a large farm in southwestern Kansas, near Liberal. Ted seemed to have inherited his musical ear and talent from his mother, a fine pianist who accompanied her son’s solos throughout his childhood and teens. Ted’s clear, resonant, and lovely voice and his ability to interpret songs came from somewhere. His mom? His dad? I didn’t know them well enough to judge. Ted did seem to have inherited from his dad his tall frame, his good looks, his organizational ability, and his alcoholism. Ted sang in church and school choirs and pranced down Main Street and around the football field as drum major of the high school band. He was also a straight-A student.

When Ted was fifteen he attended the Fred Waring Choral Summer Workshop where he learned a lot about music and had sex with a man. When he got home, he asked his mom if he could see a psychiatrist. “You need a psychiatrist like I need a hole in my head,” she responded. That ended the conversation but not Ted’s worry over his life and its direction.

Ted attended college at Wichita State University as a music education major with vocal and choral options. One of his college teachers told me Ted was brilliant, not just smart, perhaps the most brilliant student she had ever taught. I figured she might know something about that since she had taught grade school, high school, college, and graduate courses. While an undergraduate student, Ted ably led the choir in his Wichita church. Upon graduation he began his music career as a vocal and choral instructor in a small church-related college in north-central Kansas. That’s where I met him during my last semester.

Ted and I seemed very much alike yet at the same time quite different. I had been married about a year and a half; the summer before we met, Ted had terminated his engagement to be married. We did share our love of vocal and choral music. We both had been directing choirs. Somehow I also knew that like me he would be open to sex with another man. He too may have known that about me, but we didn’t move toward that kind of relationship. Rather we became good friends.

Ted’s musical brilliance was supported by his tremendous organizing skills and natural gift as a teacher. He made musicians of his students. A couple of years into his work at the college, he tried again to court and to marry but in so doing pushed himself into an emotional and mental breakdown. His high-school self analysis had been too accurate.

By then, my wife and I lived in Wichita. Ted entered the graduate music program in voice at WSU. On weekends he’d stay with us and our new baby boy. One weekend he came out to me and seemed a little angry with me when I told him I’d realized he was gay the very first time I met him. When he lived with us a couple of months the following summer, Ted’s homosexuality revealed itself to be as intense as his brilliance, musicality, musicianship, and ability to organize. He and I stayed with our chosen friendship, yet he told me many, many things about his life, including some of his sexual experiences. He seemed a little disappointed as well as relived when his psychiatrist and counselors at the mental hospital where over a number of years he received care told him they were not treating his homosexuality; they did not consider it an illness. We continued to become even greater friends. Ted was a friend with my wife as well and an uncle to our son.

Ted left college teaching and followed his voice teacher to Texas where he studied music at Trinity University. I visited him in San Antonio, saw the university, met teachers, observed his great choral programming at a church where he was music director, sang with him, and more. On that trip Ted became my gay educator interpreting such phenomena as gay bars, drag queens, gay language (verbal and non-), gay people, and the emerging gay literature; and he told me many more stories from his own experience.

Eventually Ted moved to San Francisco where he plunged into a gay scene not imaginable in Wichita, San Antonio, Houston, or Dallas. There he sang in the San Francisco Gay Men’s Chorus, organized and led the SFGM Chorale. He taught voice at a community music school, led other ensembles, and sang professionally in a Catholic Church choir. On one visit I went to mass with him. The organist and all the singers seemed to be gay. But even more than all these things, and in a very personal way equally important, Ted became an A-List masochist. He contracted HIV, doctored at San Francisco General Hospital, and became an AIDS activist. Ted showed me the photo of himself at a party wearing his mother’s mink stole and explained he was exploring his feminine side. He told me stories of unrequited love. When we walked around together he made comments about beautiful men we encountered. I must add this: Ted lived at 944 Castro. Do I really need to say more? I’m sure Ted was the gayest person I ever met.

Ted died from AIDS-related conditions. I attended his balloon-crowded memorial service at First Congregational Church, heard spoken tributes by a number of his gay friends, listen to his beloved chorale sing, and enjoyed a gay party after the service. When I came to Denver to live as a gay man, I dedicated myself to giving massages to people living with HIV/AIDS in his memory. Ted was and continues to be my gay icon.

 Denver, 2014

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

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Pushing the Buttons by Pat Gourley

A response to Denver Pride 2014 


“Went to “Pride Fest” today.

SORRY but found it fairly bland, insipid, Un special – a major sin, and overly ordinary. Could have been People’s Fair or Taste with rainbow county fair junk-goods. Listening to some of the vendor’s conversations, they knew nothing of the LGBTQQI struggle and history and didn’t care.

Such a let down. With success comes failure quickly!
– Quote from an anonymous friend.

The above quote is one lifted yesterday from the Facebook page of an old friend of mine. Someone I would describe as a commie, pinko faggot with strong pacifist, socialist and Wiccan leanings, definitely my kind of queer. A description I do not think he would in any way try to disown. His bit of a rant is in response to this year’s Denver Pride 2014. In fairness it should be noted that this was a post done yesterday after visiting the event on Saturday, the vendors are all the same but the crowd significantly smaller and dare I say less gay.

This friend has been an activist around many progressive causes all of his adult life and an out gay man since I have known him dating back to the 1970’s and for whom I have significant respect. For those reasons alone I can not easily dismiss him as being some old crank yelling at the kids to get off his lawn. And actually his criticisms are nothing new and quite frankly ones I have shared in the past and to some extent still do.

My experiences with Denver Pride date back to its inception in the mid-1970s as an event involving several hundreds tentatively inching our way up Colfax to one that now extends to the hundreds of thousands sashaying from Cheesman Park to Civic Center in a sea of rainbow colors. The main attraction at the end of those early marches, not parades back then, were often political speeches from activists primarily and the rare politician. There were no vendors to speak of and if representatives of Coors Beer had shown up they would no doubt have been driven from the temple as the homophobic moneychangers and purveyors of alcoholism they were and perhaps still are.

Times have changed and overall for the better I think at least regarding Pride, which I’ll get to in a bit. All of the large community events from Taste of Colorado, to People’s Fair to Cinco de Mayo etc. have grown dramatically and at the same time probably lost a lot of their uniqueness and certainly some of their grassroots cache. Whether this is an inevitable evolution or a tragic devolution I’ll leave to another piece.

I remember attending what I think was the third People’s Fair in the early-to-mid 1970’s the exact year escapes me. It was held in its entirety in the playground of the old elementary school at 8th and Downing just south of Queen Soopers. I remember it because I was working at the time as a psychiatric attendant at the old Denver General and we had taken several of our patients, not yet referred to as clients, to the fair for an afternoon outing. The most notable part of that adventure was having to explain to my charge nurse on our return why we came back with fewer patients than we had left with.

I would certainly agree with my cranky friend quoted above that there has been a tremendous amount of corporate cooptation of the Pride event and frequently a nauseating acquiescence’s to local politicians trying to curry favor all the while looking for votes. One positive change around the politicians though is we no longer grovel and jump for joy at their approval but rather have come to expect it. The same can be said for media coverage, which is shallow and often banal in the extreme, but everything they cover is. We do though now expect them to acknowledge our existence, which is something pretty hard not to do when several hundred thousand of us cavort in public occupying many city blocks.

It is this mass cavorting, sweaty shoulder to sweaty shoulder, often cheek to jowl that makes the whole thing still worthwhile for me. Though I do at times wish that the Stone Wall riots had occurred in May or September when the weather is much more civilized.

There is something that remains for me, the quintessential jaded old queen, a gut reaction that is very exhilarating and empowering to be in public literally pressing the flesh with this vast queer mass of humanity. I really don’t give a rat’s ass about any of the vendors, politicians or dignitaries and that includes the gay ones but I do still get a wonderful warm rush by slowing circumambulating with the crowd around Civic Center often encountering old friends who I don’t seem to see but once a year at this carnival.

I can’t help but wonder what the reaction must be of someone just coming out, no matter what their age, who is perhaps watching from the sidelines or has maybe even dived in to swish with the fishes. For many I would think and hope that this experience would do more to water their queer roots than decade’s of trying to come to grips with a queer reality was for many of us in the 40’s, 50’s or 60’s just to pick a few random decades from the past couple millennia.

I don’t really think that folks necessarily have it so much easier coming out these days than I did forty years ago. But I must say it would have been really cool and reassuring and saved me years of angst to happen on several hundred thousand like minded individuals dancing in public on a warm sunny day in 1965.

These Pride days, once I have completed my swim around the park in a sea of queer flesh, it’s often nice to sit under a tree and watch the many really very interesting very diverse trips pass by. I still think there is plenty that is unique and potentially truly change creating about how so many of us move in the world. Vendors be damned, I still plan to attend next year.

© June 2014

About the Author

I was born in La Porte, Indiana in 1949, raised on a farm and schooled by Holy Cross nuns. The bulk of my adult life, some 40 plus years, was spent in Denver, Colorado as a nurse, gardener and gay/AIDS activist. I have currently returned to Denver after an extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California.

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Stories of GLBT Organizations by Lewis

My thirty-year career at Ford Motor Company reached its culmination at the end of the last century, coincident with the last of my 26 years of being in a straight marriage and the birth of the GLBT organization that has played the largest part in my personal journey toward wholeness. That organization is Ford GLOBE.

GLOBE is an acronym for Gay, Lesbian, Or Bisexual Employees. It was hatched in the minds of two Ford employees, a woman and a man, in Dearborn, MI, in July of 1994. By September, they had composed a letter to the Vice President of Employee Relations–with a copy to Ford CEO, Alex Trotman–expressing a desire to begin a dialogue with top management on workplace issues of concern to Ford’s gay, lesbian and bisexual employees. They were invited to meet with the VP of Employee Relations in November.

In 1995, the group, now flying in full view of corporate radar and growing, elected a five-member board, adopted its formal name of Ford GLOBE; designed their logo; adopted mission, vision, and objective statements; and adopted bylaws. The fresh-faced Board was invited to meet with the staff of the newly-created corporate Diversity Office. Soon after, “sexual orientation” was incorporated into Ford’s Global Diversity Initiative. Members of Ford GLOBE participated in the filming of two company videos on workplace diversity. Also that year, Ford was a sponsor of the world-premier on NBC of Serving in Silence, starring Glenn Close as Army Reserve Colonel Margarethe Cammermeyer. By September of 1996, Ford GLOBE chapters were forming in Great Britain and Germany.

In March of 1996, Ford GLOBE submitted to upper management the coming-out stories of 23 members in hope of putting a human face on what had been an invisible minority. Along with the stories came a formal request for Ford’s non-discrimination policy to be rewritten to include sexual orientation. At the time, only Ford of Britain had such a policy.

Ford GLOBE was beginning to network with similar interest groups at General Motors and Chrysler, including sharing a table at the 1996 Pridefest and walking together in the Michigan Pride Parade in Lansing. After two years of discussion between Ford GLOBE and top management, on November 14, 1996, Ford CEO, Alex Trotman, issued Revised Corporate Policy Letter # 2, adding “sexual orientation” to the company’s official non-discrimination policy. To this day, some of our largest and most profitable corporations, including Exxon Mobile, have refused to do the same.

My involvement with Ford GLOBE began sometime in 1997. For that reason and the fact that I have scrapped many of my records of this period, I have relied heavily on Ford GLOBE’s website for the dates and particulars of these events.

In February of 1998, I attended a “Gay Issues in the Workplace” Workshop, led by Brian McNaught, at Ford World Headquarters, jointed sponsored by GLOBE and the Ford Diversity Office. I remember a Ford Vice President taking the podium at that event. He was a white man of considerable social cachet and I assumed that the privilege that normally goes with that status would have shielded him from any brushes with discrimination. In fact, he told a story of riding a public transit bus with his mother at the height of World War II. His family was German. His mother had warned him sternly not to speak German while riding the bus. Thus, he, too, had known the fear of being outed because of who he was. The experience had made him into an unlikely ally of GLOBE members over 50 years later.

In 1999, Ford GLOBE amended its by-laws to make it their mission to include transgendered employees in Ford’s non-discrimination policy and gender identity in Ford’s diversity training. Ford Motor Company was the first and only U.S. automotive company listed on the 1999 Gay and Lesbian Values Index of top 100 companies working on gay issues, an achievement noted by Ford CEO Jac Nasser. It was about this time that retired Ford Vice Chairman and Chief Financial Officer Alan Gilmore came out as gay. The Advocate named Ford Motor Company to its list of 25 companies that provide good environments for gay employees in its Oct. 26 edition.

Having earlier written the contract bargaining teams for Ford Motor Company, United Auto Workers, and Canadian Auto Workers requesting specific changes in the upcoming union contracts, Ford GLOBE was pleased to see that the resulting Ford/CAW union contract included provision for same-sex domestic partners to be treated as common law spouses in Canada, for sexual orientation to be added to the nondiscrimination statement of the Ford/UAW contract, and that Ford and the UAW agreed to investigate implementation of same-sex domestic partner benefits during the current four-year union contract.

The year 2000 was not only the year that I became Board Chair of Ford GLOBE but also the year that marked a momentous event in automotive history as Ford, General Motors, and the Chrysler Division of DaimlerChrysler issued a joint press release with the United Auto Workers announcing same-sex health care benefits for the Big Three auto companies’ salaried and hourly employees in the U.S. As the first-ever industry-wide joint announcement of domestic partner benefits and largest ever workforce of 465,000 U.S. employees eligible in one stroke, the historic announcement made headlines across the nation. It was truly a proud moment for all of us in the Ford GLOBE organization.

On January 1 of 2001, my last year with the company, Ford expanded its benefits program for the spouses of gay employees to include financial planning, legal services, the personal protection plan, vehicle programs, and the vision plan.

Since my departure from the company, Ford and GLOBE have continued to advance the cause of GLBT equality and fairness both within the corporation and without. I am fortunate to have been supported in my own coming out process by my associates within the company, both gay and straight, and to Ford GLOBE in particular for the bonds of friendship honed in the common struggle toward a better and freer world.

About the Author

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth. Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.

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Thanksgiving Dinner at the Brown House by Louie

(published in this blog previously on June 20, 2014)

When I was around 11 or 12 years old, I remember having Thanksgiving dinner with my parents and brothers in College Point. It was the mid-1950’s. Dwight Eisenhower was the President. I was a child happy with life, but my parents were very poor. I was too young to understand the inconveniences of poverty. We lived in a two-family house, and the upstairs tenant was a mother and daughter, Edna. They were poorer than we were. Edna got herself invited to our Thanksgiving and enjoyed setting up for the feast.

My parents and especially my mother and grandmother wanted us to remember that once upon a time the Brown family and my maternal grandmother’s family, the Wilcoxes, in the 19th century were enormous affluent, influential families. On the wall were a picture of Abraham Lincoln in an oak oval frame and another of my great grandfather Captain Francis Leicester Brown of the Union Army in an oak oval frame. There was a petty point sampler that read “God bless the family in this household,” completed by me on my 15th birthday, May 10, 1819, Hannah Hopkins Hodge.

In the 17th and 18th centuries my ancestors were prominent Puritan ministers. Even back then there were seemingly endless irreconcilable theological battles going on. On the other hand, my mother warned us that, though we should remember our ancestors, we should not be like her great aunt and become ancestor worshipers. It wasn’t wholesome either.

The meal consisted of turkey, creamed onions, turnips, yams, rather traditional. What made it memorable was the chinaware: Limoges and Haviland plates and platters, a Wedgewood chocolate pitcher, Limoges demitasse espresso coffee cups that were works of art. Crystal goblets for the cider, a magnificent Damask table cloth and napkins. Ornate sterling silverware, Victorian style. Our attic was full of these remnants and memorabilia of an affluent comfortable 19th century past. Corny but beautiful oil paintings, more petit point samplers, lavish gowns with the finest French laces. More Victorian extravagance. Edna from a Catholic family really enjoyed our Thanksgiving dinners. For a day we Browns were again important people though the reference point was to another earlier century. For a day we were ancestor worshipers.

Moral: How do poor people become whole happy well-adjusted people in a hostile social environment? I think poor people learning survival skills is probably more important than measuring one’s personal worth by the balance in our checking accounts and the influence we have in our communities.

Catholic Edna for example is happy. She started out poor. She is still poor, but she has a good understanding of why certain politicians say what they say. She has a spiritual dimension to her belief system. She survives, she is well-adjusted. She also proves that Puritans and Catholics can get along just fine, thank you.

Personally, I am still a “mal-content”. I am dissatisfied with church-sponsored homophobia, and the establishment’s irrational hostility to poor people, but I am on the mend.

Our best teachers in the current environment are Occupy Wall Street and the Radical Faeries. I heard clearly what they have to say. They are convincing. We Americans should object to Wall Street giving orders to our elected leaders about how they should victimize the public for the sake of increasing profits for billionaires. The Radical Faeries in their presentations at the Lesbian and Gay Center in New York City pointed out the need for Lesgay people to develop a spiritual side to their personalities, to revere their sexual orientation rather than skulking around hating ourselves for the convenience of homophobes. We are an international “tribe”. Guess what, there are gay people in Morocco and Australia.

In her personal search to find meaning in life outside of material success, Edna feels that she should boast about her family, her two children. In general, since Lesgay people are banished from traditional families, we have to devise another system that suits our communal interests.

What do we tell Lesbian and gay homeless teenagers who have been tossed out of their fundamentalist parents’ homes because of their sexual orientation? In other words, empower the out-groups. Amen.

© 31 March 2014  




About the Author



I was born in 1944, I lived most of my life in New York City, Queens County. I still commute there. I worked for many years as a Caseworker for New York City Human Resources Administration, dealing with mentally impaired clients, then as a social work Supervisor dealing with homeless PWA’s. I have an apartment in Wheat Ridge, CO. I retired in 2002. I have a few interesting stories to tell. My boyfriend Kevin lives in New York City. I graduated Queens College, CUNY, in 1967.

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A Meal to Remember by Phillip Hoyle

One crisp March morning twelve years ago I caught the faint aroma of a meal I will never forget. I was standing over on East 12th Avenue talking with another man who, like me, was waiting for a bus. That first sniff came accompanied with a rather high-pitched, scratchy voice that I thought was cute. With it came a beautiful face with big smiles and startlingly warm eyes. I could feel my hunger mounting with these first glances and a few simple words. Twelve years ago I began seeing Rafael, his presence then like an appetizer promising the delight of an entrée, a dessert, even a feast! Twelve years ago I began living in a relationship that, when most clearly expressed, seemed a protracted meal. And I was one hungry guy.

I had no idea there’d be an outcome to this initial meeting at a bus stop, but I certainly realized more and more about my hungering desire. At the thought of him the aromas of a bakery, of a steak house, of a backyard BBQ, and of a candy shop enticed me. All the flavors seemed delicately balanced. The whole experience that persisted for seven months seemed to me like a Chinese meal in which each bite offered a slightly different combination of vegetables, meats, sauces, and memories. And as I said before, there was beauty in the face of my lover, in the delight I saw in his eyes, in a body language of loving excitement.

When on our third unplanned meeting I touched him, I was afraid. Would I ever again have contact? Would he actually be more than a memory? But the touch intensified my desire as it communicated itself to him. Oh, I was there thinking, laughing, teasing, delighting, feeling. I presented myself openly to him in a way I never before had communicated to anyone. During those few moments, I felt as if my salivary glands were taking over my body, yet I realized there were several more glands at work in my responses to the man I had just touched.

When I finally heard from him again, it was a message on my answering machine. I returned it with an invitation to dinner where he met some of my family and asked if there was wine. I said no, but the two of us would go to a nearby restaurant for wine and dessert.

Eventually we got together—actually starting from that dessert and subsequent evening. And we actually cooked for one another, although he was the major cook. Rafael had heard my stories about Dianne. He said, “Invite her for dinner.” He prepared an Italian meal which we ate with relish. This woman who had spent years living in Europe told him she’d never tasted better cannelloni even in Italy. Rafael always insisted his food tasted good because of the love he put into it.

I fixed breakfast one morning when Rafael was running late: pork chops, an omelet filled with chives and cheese, toast, fresh fruit, juice, and coffee. It tasted good to me, and Rafael said he liked it. The cooking seemed easy enough, so inspired by this small success, I fixed him a French meal and from then on I filled all my cooking attempts with love.

We went to Gumbo’s Restaurant for a birthday party for my friend Frank. Rafael ordered an appetizer of escargot, and we both had entrees and drinks. I didn’t really like the snails all that much—too salty—but I loved the new experiences, especially all the new things I was doing with Rafael. I took Rafael to the Rock Bottom Brewery to celebrate our being together. He ordered lots of food without paying any attention to cost. We ate an appetizer, salads, entrées, beer, dessert, and coffee. Although I was nervous over the expense, we had a good time and appreciated our talkative Okie gay waiter. We enjoyed nice conversation together, Rafael and I, and I knew then I wanted us to have a full and long relationship.

When I got home one September evening, Rafael was sitting on the sofa all nicely dressed up. The dishes were not done. Food was cooking, but it seemed over-cooked. He wanted me to taste his beef molé. After he explained a little bit about how he made the molé, he said we needed some pink wine to go with the dish: White Zinfandel or Rosé. He would show me. While I put the lid on the molé and turned off the heat, Rafael walked around the room talking to himself, a behavior I had never before observed in him. He was speaking in French, not Spanish or English. I got his attention and finally got us out the door. We walked to the liquor store. He seemed fine on the walk although the conversation was disconnected and several times I had to steady him. At the store I kept trying to get him to pick out a wine, but he’d wander off down an aisle looking but not seeming to know what he was doing. Finally he held up a bottle of Pinot Noir that cost $30. I made the decision for another bottle. Finally, back at the house, I set the table and asked him to be seated. I couldn’t believe how good the food tasted. He was the only cook I’ve ever known whose food thrilled me even when it had burned. Still, I was worried when he just kept losing track of what he was doing. His illness seemed to be getting worse.

I met his family when he entered the hospital. Near the end of October I wrote this: “I just saw Rafael. He’s with his mom, who is feeding him. She takes delight in that! I loved the picture of the two of them together. This morning as [his mother] was speaking to her mother on the phone, I heard in her voice many of Rafael’s intimate intonations and expressions. He learned them from his mother.” Perhaps he’d learned cooking from her and perhaps that’s why he was so conscious of adding love to his dishes.

Our whole time living together—from PrideFest weekend into the second week of November when he died—seemed a great feast, a meal to remember, and it featured spicy appetizers, rich entrees, and luscious desserts. Early on in our relationship Rafael said that no one had ever made love to him like I was doing it. He had a great need to be loved with a sense of wild abandon and lots of words. I was pleased to love him wildly and verbally. I had never before experienced such sexual emotions. I felt them because he so obviously enjoyed making love with me. His desire stoked my own. When I looked at him, I wanted to hold and kiss him. I wanted to lie next to him. I wanted to touch him and embrace him. I wanted to have sex in many different ways. I felt like a man I knew who in his childhood had often been hungry and as an adult couldn’t turn down food. I had missed out on male to male love and sex for so many years I just couldn’t get enough of it. Our love feast continued to the end of his too-short life. We washed it all down with great doses of love making and spiced each hour with love. We wallowed like two very excited pigs in a mud puddle snorting, oinking, giggling, rolling around, chasing, laughing, and in general celebrating our love. What a meal to remember.

© Denver, 2014

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

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Revelations by Betsy

I have not had very many secrets in my life. Sure, I’ve had my share of the petty little “nothing” secrets that don’t amount to much. And sure, the secret thoughts about the people around me that I don’t like, ugly thoughts that I would be ashamed to admit to having.

As a lesbian I share the one big secret that most glbt people have grown up with. The really big secret that has taken up residence inside my soul and has no intention of leaving. The really big secret that has permeated every cell of my body. The really big secret that I can no longer live with … or without. After all, this secret is about who I am. So its disclosure was a major revelation by me, about me, and for me.

Interestingly, once I disclosed the secret to myself (that is, my conscious mind) and then those closest to me, it became easier to tell others and I became more comfortable in my new skin.

When my secret first started creeping into my consciousness, I didn’t think I would ever reveal it to anyone. After all, I myself had been resisting the revelation for most of my life. But once I obtained some information about the subject and learned a few things about it, I realized there was no reason to keep it a secret.

After myself, the first recipient of the revelation that I am homosexual was my husband. I know he was braced for some kind of revelation because our lives had been in a total upheaval anyway and I think he was simply waiting for some kind of explanation. The fact that my secret was working its way to my consciousness like a bubble floating from the depths to the surface–this fact had caused some disruption in our lives and in the lives of our children who sensed, as children often do, that there was a secret not being revealed.

The next recipient of the revelation was my oldest child, who at the time was home on a break from college. I remember the two of us walking home on a cold winter’s night in a snowstorm. It seemed relatively easy to make the revelation to her as I think back on it. I wonder if I sensed that years later she would be making the same revelation about herself to me.

I wrote about coming out to my sister in a piece called “Coping with Loved Ones.”

I timed my coming out to my sister, so that she would not be able to say a word after I made the shocking disclosure. Yes, this was how I coped with this difficult situation, ie, coming out to this loved one. We had been together for a few days and the time came for her to go home. We are at the airport at her gate. Her plane is boarding (this was before the high security days). “Last call for flight 6348 to Birmingham,” blared the public address speaker. “Oh, I do have something important to tell you, Marcy. I’m gay.” I said, as she is about to enter the jetway. “Let’s talk soon,” as I wave goodbye. I’m thinking,”Maybe she didn’t even hear me above all the noise.”

I never had to reveal my deeply-buried secret to my parents. My mother died in 1957 right after I graduated from college. At that time my secret had not yet taken the form in my conscious mind. Although I knew good and well what my feelings were I was not yet willing or able to admit to myself what those feelings meant or what they represented. Sounds pretty dumb, doesn’t? But that’s the truth. I had neither enough experience nor knowledge to understand what my feelings meant. So I never came out to my mother.

My father died in the late 1970‘s before I came out to myself. Just before the upheaval in the family took place–the upheaval that led to my revelation.

I have been out for just over 30 years now. I have become quite well practiced in making my revelation to others whether they be friends, family, or complete strangers.

It seems quite natural really. Like revealing to someone that I am, say, left – handed. (which I am not). But no different than something like that. Being gay is not necessarily mentioned unless it is relevant to the conversation. I have found, however, that when we are having a conversation with someone, we are revealing who we are, disclosing more and more about ourselves–what we think, feel, believe–ie, who we are–and who we are includes our sexual orientation. And so the revelation is often made. Happily revealing myself no longer makes me nervous, anxious, trepidatious, or break out in hives. On the contrary my journey has taken me to a place where I feel quite proud to reveal who I am. It is the hundreds of thousands of such revelations that are made every day that help to change attitudes, correct misinformation, and promote understanding and good will.

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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Being Gay Is … by Will Stanton

I awoke feeling exuberant, in an especially gay mood for early morning. It was the weekend, and I had no classes to attend. I was free to go where I wanted and to do what I chose, and I already had planned to take a woodland hike. The sun was shining bright and gay, and the temperature just perfect, warm enough to hike without a jacket yet brisk enough not to become overheated.

In cheerful, gay spirits, I quickly finished my breakfast and prepared to meet my hiking companion for the day. Eric W. was a Norwegian exchange student and looked the part, blond and Nordic. The doorbell rang, and I found Eric standing at the door right on-time. He, too, appeared to be in a merry, gay mood.

Taking with us only canteens of water, we started with a lively, gay step up the lane that connected with a steep path that led to the ridge-top. Like most Americans, I spoke no Norwegian whatsoever. Like most Norwegians, Eric spoke good English. Even so, we spoke very little, preferring instead to listen to the sparkling, gay ripple of the nearby stream and the gay, spring songs of the woodland birds. Being early morning, the wooded hills seemed especially keenly alive and gay with a myriad of songs from chickadees, cardinals, wrens, robins, and dozens of other chipper, gay birds. A summer tanager in his flamboyant, gay red feathers landed on a branch close by and viewed us two interlopers with curiosity.

Eric and I reached the crest of the ridge and continued to follow the narrow path among the tall oaks, maples, and buckeyes. Eventually, the path opened up upon a gay, sunny meadow lit by the brilliantly gay blue of the sky. Patches of gayly colored wildflowers lent a joyous, gay feel to the meadow.

We paused for some time on the far tip of the meadow, viewing the green valley below. The warm sun accentuated the glittering, gay ripple of the distant, wandering river dividing the valley.

Eric took his shirt off, perhaps feeling quite warm in contrast to what he was used to in Norway. I stood behind and watched, he unaware of my licentious, gay attention.

Remembering that moment, I am reminded of a passage from Tennessee William’s story “The Resemblance Between a Violin Case and a Coffin,” when the lad observed his seventeen-year-old neighbor standing in the sunshine. “About people you knew in your childhood, it is rarely possible to remember their appearance except as ugly or beautiful, light or dark. I do not remember if Richard was light in the sense of being blond or if the lightness came from a quality in him deeper than hair or skin. Yes, probably both, for he was one of those people who move in the light, provided by practically everything around them. This detail I do remember. He was wearing a white shirt, and through its cloth could be seen the fair skin of his shoulders. And for the first time prematurely, I was aware of skin as an attraction. A thing that might be desirable to touch. This awareness entered my mind, my senses, like the sudden streak of flame that follows a comet.” There are about two dozen synonyms to the word “gay,” but perhaps that quotation is what “being gay” means most of all to many people.

© 29 Sept 2014 

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.

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The Accident by Phillip Hoyle

There isn’t just one accident in my story—the story of my life. I’ve already told about tearing a ligament in my foot from my rushing down too many stairs and then falling one evening when going to retrieve a choir folder from my car. I’ve already told about my accidentally plunging over a waterfall in the Black River of New Mexico and the dislocation of my knee in that unfortunate adventure. I’ve already told of other accidents that occurred when I was pushing myself beyond my body’s strength or was involved in some kind of sport for which I was ill prepared. I’ve told about my father’s and mother’s terrifying automobile accident that killed him and left her bedfast for years. Perhaps I failed to write about falling on my head from the hideout in the top of the garage and landing on the concrete. That accident could probably account for any number of oddities in my mental functioning. No wonder I’ve overlooked it.

I wonder what risk assessment experts would make of my accidental life? What would they write up due to my lack of physical coordination, my number of nicks, cuts and bruises? What would they say of my tendency to stub my toes and even fall headlong to the ground when walking through the neighborhood? What scores would they assess over my dislocated knees, my extreme nearsightedness, my advanced astigmatism, my increasing hearing loss. Now a number of the conditions I’ve listed are due to my advanced age, but surely they would note that most of them have been with me throughout my life: my stumbling bumbling awkwardness, my tendency to fall. They may accuse me in this story of exaggerating my disabilities as if I want the government to give me coverage I could never qualify for on the open insurance market, but that is not so. I simply am prone to walk a teetering edge even where there’s no edge and seem to be losing my balance on the flattest of walkways.

I have other risky stories. I’m sure I’ve told you in so many ways about that accident of birth that could be described as being born with a homosexual proclivity. I’ve never regretted that accident or whatever it was. Certainly it would be judged better than being a natural born criminal. So if in this proclivity I am an accident waiting to happen, could it be that risk assessment researchers would say the same thing of my proclivity to feel too deeply in my friendships with other boys in my childhood? And more about similar feelings with men in my adulthood? In these stories their objections are not that I’d so much hurt my body with scrapes and broken bones, but that I’d become unacceptable, unable to get or keep a job, unable to fit in with the majority of the nation’s population. “It’s too risky,” they’d declare. “We won’t cover you.”

My, oh my. God forbid that I might stumble and fall into the open arms of a man who would love me. What an accident to hope for.

© December 2013

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