Tag: LGBTQA

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Road Trip by Pat Gourley

I actually have several memorable road trips in my past that I remember with varying degrees of fondness. My first trip west to Wyoming in my late teens is still a vivid memory. The first time I saw mountains outside of pictures, movies and T.V. was quite breathtaking. I simply had trouble grasping that they were real. The parts of northern Indiana and Illinois where I lived are really quite flat and I guess I grew up assuming the world was flat. That the world might be flat was a view of the world not uncommon among many Europeans in centuries past as I recall.

Then there were the trips to Florida in the late 1960’s with college friends. These were most remarkable for the fact that they provided my first views of the ocean. They were also noteworthy for the fact that we were frequently trailed and mildly harassed by various Florida state troopers. Being longhaired hippies we really stuck out. If it weren’t for our nearly invisible car, an old Dodge Dart slant six, we would have probably been stopped much more often. There was absolutely nothing cool about that car and a vehicle many of the frat boys going down to Ft. Lauderdale on spring break in those days would never be caught dead in but the cops largely ignored.

Probably my most memorable road trip though was one I took in the spring of 1989 with Harry Hay and John Burnside. Harry as many of you know is considered by some to be the founder of the modern American gay movement since he was instrumental in the formation of the Mattachine society in Los Angeles in 1950. Harry and John had been mentors and queer spirit guides for me personally since first meeting them in 1978 and our history together was after more than a decade quite rich really.

Our personal dynamics were actually emerging from a period of stress as a result of internal and very fractious Radical Faire politics. I was at the time becoming quite immersed both personally and professionally in the exploding AIDS epidemic. I often wondered why Harry and John both did not seem to me at least more involved with the AIDS epidemic but perhaps it had something to with the fact that Harry had lived through and survived the great influenza pandemic of 1919. Perhaps this created a different worldview of the inevitability of illness and death.

At any rate they were in Denver that spring of 1989 at the invitation of a group of local Fairies I was heavily involved with called the Moonroot Circle. This was a spin off of the local collective that sponsored the second large national Radical Fairie gathering in the foothills west of town in the summer of 1980. It was group important to me not simply because of the deep friendships involved but also it helped me keep my bearings in the choppy waters of AIDS and HIV politics boiling over at the time.

Among several activities we had them participating in during this visit was a well-attended public talk we sponsored featuring both Harry and John at the local Metropolitan Community Church on Clarkson, which is still there I might add. Harry was always a riveting public speaker and had a wealth of personal experience he was willing to share that always seemed to stir the radical juices in many who would come to hear him.

They were staying with my partner David and myself in our little house on West Center Street in Denver spending their nights sleeping in the back of their ancient Datsun pickup truck with a camper shell. This was their preferred mode of travel shunning airplanes whenever possible. They had driven to Denver in this rickety bucket of bolts from Los Angeles.

They planned to return to L.A. by way of Northern New Mexico visiting old friends there and reconnecting with a part of the country they had lived in for many years in a compound nestled in the San Juan Pueblo. In the early 1980’s Harry and John had shown a group of us around the Northern New Mexico Pueblos they had come to know and love and introduced us to some of the indigenous queer folk and culture.

Photo of a Radical Faerie ceremony provided by author.

In one of the late night discussions during this Denver visit in May of 1989 the topic of Chaco Canyon came up and surprisingly despite years of living in northern New Mexico they had never been there. David and I had actually been there a few years earlier so the opportunity to travel with them and introduce them to a piece of the country they had never been to was too rich to pass up. David had work obligations and could not go with us but I volunteered to follow them in my own little Toyota pick-up and I would be their guide to Chaco Canyon.

John Burnside in addition to being one the most wondrous fey individuals I have ever know was also a master mechanic though he didn’t drive. In fact I don’t think he had a current driver’s license though I could be mistaken about that. This mechanical ability frequently came in handy since their vehicle would break down several times on nearly every road trip they took. As I recall they had had some trouble coming into Denver from L.A. so I volunteered to follow behind on our journey. Harry was the driver and believe me following behind him was always a bit harrowing. Traffic lanes, stop signs and the rules of the road in general were to Harry merely suggestions most often ignored.

And of course about an hour out of Denver on Highway 285 their water pump went out. John very astutely remembered that we had passed a Napa auto parts some miles back so after diagnosing the problem he hopped in my truck and we drove back for the needed items. Harry stayed behind. He often would go into a bit of a sullen funk especially around car problems it seemed.

The remainder of the trip to the San Juan Pueblo was uneventful. We spent the night there with friends and then proceeded the next day to Chaco Canyon. They were of course duly impressed with the ruins. It was during our walk through the ruins that my most memorable moment of the trip occurred. That moment was when we were seated together in a meditative silence in the great Kiva. Harry was tearful as I recall. I had seen him tearful before but meditative silence in the presence of the father of modern gay liberation was a totally new experience for me and one I will always cherish.

After several hours we were on our way back to San Juan though I do not remember very clearly the return trip at all. Nothing apparently broke down. I think H. and J. spent a few more days in New Mexico before retuning to L.A. I drove back to Denver the next day with the great memory of having had the opportunity to introduce Harry Hay to a part of New Mexico he and John had never visited.

A great little gift back to the men who had introduced me to so many, many different and exciting things queer. A big part of who I am today and my worldview I owe to Harry and John. I still frequently find myself invoking one of Harry’s greatest teachings and that was his frequently saying, “Now that is an unexamined assumption, isn’t it” and thereby prompting a totally different way of viewing the world!

February 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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Getting Touchy by Nicholas

This topic seems naturally to lead into intimate areas of body contact which I do like, just in general. I do like being touched. Not only for the human warmth of touch but also because I agree with the sentiment that our skin is really our largest sense—or sex—organ capable of innumerable delights. So, it isn’t so much a matter of don’t touch me here, there or anywhere but who’s doing the touching. With some people, please, don’t touch me anywhere. With others, I have no idea where the boundaries are (assuming we’re not frightening any unintended neighbors).

But if I can broaden the meaning of ‘don’t touch me there’ to include subjects not wanting pursuit or questioning, I do have those. Call them preferences or phobias or private areas, don’t go there. This is where the psychological sun don’t shine. Now we’re into intimate areas of the heart and mind, hopes and fears. And that’s a way bigger deal than body parts.

One is writing. I have long seen myself as a writer and even once made my living by writing. Problem is, I hardly write. I wish I could write. I wish that I could just sit down and write something beyond what someone once dismissed as disposable writing—meaning journalism or journaling. But I don’t want to go into it. PLEASE, don’t touch me there.

The future is another one. I’ve never had any great confidence in the future. If I have one, I have no idea what it is or how to make it happen. The future will sort of unravel on its own, as I see it. I much prefer the past which was loads of fun or the present where I can at least run away. So, please don’t touch me THERE.

A related taboo area is health. I’m in good health as far as I know. But what do I know? Every ache, I’m convinced, may signal that my last breath is near, the start of that downhill slide. And as for hospitals, please, don’t TOUCH me there.

And of course there’s politics. I’m pretty moderate in my politics and believe that political opponents should be tortured and annihilated only in rare circumstances. But those circumstances seem to be getting less rare. So, you better NOT touch me there.

As you can tell I am far touchier about non-physical touch than about physical touch. Physical touch usually stays on the surface and is, when not an assault, a pleasure. But verbal, psychological touch almost always aims deep. When someone says, “I just wanted to touch on that,” you know something’s up and you better pay attention. In general, just don’t touch me there.

April, 2013

About the Author

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

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A Letter to My (Much) Younger Self by Gilllian

For Christ’s sake, Gillian, you’re ten bloody years old and …

No, I mustn’t swear. This is a letter to be read in the early 1950’s. And leave Christ out of it as well. You surely recall that at the age of nine you decided organized religion was a load of — , well, you rejected it.

Gillian, you really need to get your shit together.

Oops, that’s no better. Gillian, yes, YOU, the seventy-year old one, need to get YOUR act together. OK, act together, that’s better.

Gillian, you’re ten now, and it’s time you got your act together.

No, that really doesn’t work either. The ten-year-old Gillian IS acting; playing a part. And at some level she knows it. She needs no encouragement in acting. And it all sounds a bit distant and cool, doesn’t it? It shouldn’t. I feel great affection for, and of course empathy with, this desperately confused younger self. So here we go, AGAIN. Well, I didn’t expect this to be easy.

My dearest Gillian, (yes, MUCH better!)

Now you are ten, I think it’s time we had a little chat.

No, no! Too condescending.

My dearest Gillian,

Yes, you are only ten, but you have some pretty difficult stuff to deal with. I know you know what I mean, although you are trying oh so hard to hide it, even, or especially, from yourself. You think, in those rare times when you face up to thinking about it at all, that you are absolutely the only person in this entire world who is attracted to those of the same, rather than the opposite, sex. You think that somehow, in some way quite unclear to you at this time, these feelings will, magically, go away. They will not. I cannot guarantee you much, but that I can promise. No matter how hard you continue to refuse to accept them, they are going to strengthen until the day comes when you can no longer deny them to yourself, and so no longer wish to deny them to everyone else.

Don’t get me wrong, I am not advising you to ‘come out of the closet,’ (a phrase she is not yet even familiar with, needs explanation) that is, shout out on the school bus that you love girls not boys. Don’t kiss your best friend, though I know how much you have wanted to for quite some time. And don’t tell Mum and Dad. Dad, I suspect, would walk away without a word, and, if you tried to pursue it, might say something like, ‘I don’t ever want to hear that again,’ and walk faster, and further, away. Mum would, more predictably, say, “Oh Gillian! You’re being entirely too silly!” And that would be the unsatisfactory end to it.

The time and place would not be good. Caution is advised, my dear. (Good. Nice and warm, and what her mother often calls her.) In your current year, 1952, the Enigma codebreaker Alan Turing is being forced to take ‘cures’ for his homosexuality. (Don’t think the word ‘gay,’ though friendlier, would mean a thing. Come to think of it, neither would Turing nor Enigma, both being silenced for years to come under the Official Secrets Act. Never mind, she can get the idea.) Sir John Nott-Bower, commissioner of Scotland Yard is beginning to weed out homosexuals from the British Government, at the same time as McCarthy is conducting a homosexual witch hunt in the US. No, not a good time and place. (Though I suspect, in 1952, there was no good place.)

You will find this hard to believe, but my wonderful same-sex partner, of twenty-six years, and I are about to be legally married in the U.S., where same-sex marriage is now, nearing the end of 2013, legal in fourteen states.*

It is also legal in parts of Mexico, and legal throughout another sixteen countries.** The 21st century is an amazing place!

What I implore you to do, is, simply, look at yourself. Accept yourself. You are beautiful just the way you are, and one day you will know it. But if you deny it, hide it, try to make it go away, that will not work. You will hurt others.

Unintentionally, but the hurt is there all the same. And yourself. But there will be losses as well as gains. There will be sadness as well as joy. But make your life-choices consciously, for positive reasons, not negative ones, and never in denial of who you are, and who you must be. You are who you are. You have no choice. I know that now.

I wish, my dear Gillian, that I had known you, myself, a whole lot better in 1952. But here I am, sixty years later, still working at it, and very slowly I believe I’m getting there.

*
California, Connecticut, Iowa, Massachusetts, New Jersey, Delaware, Minnesota, New Hampshire, New York, Rhode Island, Vermont, Maine, Maryland, Washington, and Washington D.C.

**
Argentina (2010) Denmark (2012) The Netherlands (2000) South Africa (2006) Belgium (2003) England / Wales (2013) New Zealand (2013) Spain (2005) Brazil (2013) France (2013) Norway (2009) Sweden (2009) Canada (2005) Iceland (2010) Portugal (2010) Uruguay (2013)

October 2013

About the Author

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25 years.

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Coming Out Spiritually by Betsy

Contemplating today’s topic I realize that before I can write anything about the subject I must be clear about what is meant by “coming out.” In the context of sexual orientation it means first that I acknowledge and accept that I am homosexual and that I am willing and able to openly declare that I am gay. Stated another way: “coming out” means revealing a truth about myself. Of course, if I do indeed accept my homosexuality, it naturally follows that I will not spend my life in the closet and I have no problem with declaring my sexual orientation to the rest of the world.

I am examining the phrase “coming out” because it is usually used in the context of sexual orientation. So when applied to spirituality I find there is a problem. That is that in the case of sexual orientation I am applying the phrase to the way I AM, who I am. In the case of spirituality I am referring to what I believe or do not believe, regardless of who I am. “I AM what I believe?” This statement does not ring true for me. What I believe is something I do, not who I am, and what I do or think can change from one day to the next. Furthermore, if coming out means revealing the truth about myself, then coming out spiritually is impossible because spirituality is based on faith, not known facts.

Enough semantic gymnastics. For the sake of today’s topic coming out spiritually means that I acknowledge that I have certain beliefs about the nature of the universe and the nature of life and death and I am willing and able to make these beliefs known to others.

In this way the two comings out (sexual orientation and spirituality) are similar. Also similar is the fact that coming out in both cases ends with the declaration as mentioned above to others and ends there. That is, I have no need or desire to try to persuade others of my sexual way of life or my spiritual beliefs.

I consider my sexual orientation and lifestyle to be a personal matter as do I regard my spiritual beliefs. Another similarity. What is different about the two comings out is that my sexual orientation has stayed the same throughout my life; of course, that’s who I A M and that’s not going to change. On the other hand my spiritual beliefs are ever-changing. Furthermore I am constantly asking questions, observing, hopefully learning and developing beliefs around my spirituality; ie, changing my ideas about the nature of the universe and where I fit into it. Whatever ideas evolve in my head are beliefs though, not facts. You could argue that my sexual orientation, acknowledgement and acceptance and revelation thereof, has everything to do with my spirit. Used in this broader context then, I believe, revealing anything about myself IS coming out spiritually.

Okay, then, here it is: what I happen to believe today. My spiritual coming out.

There is more to me than a brain and a body and that once that body dies my spirit, essence, Being will go on. In what form I do not know. That spirit, essence, Being is within me now and always as long as I exist in this form. The key word here is WITHIN. The power of the Universe is within all of us not out there somewhere making rules and orchestrating our existence.

Coming out spiritually means that I have abandoned the religious teachings and traditions with which I was raised. I have departed from those beliefs. It means that I accept that I have no answers to the usual questions about the nature of life and death. In other words I have no beliefs about such matters except as described above. I have not taken any leap of faith. The only thing I really know for sure at this moment is that I DON’T Know. And when I really think about it I come to the conclusion that I don’t need to know.

Historically and still today however it appears that most people do need to know or more truthfully stated: it appears to me that most people do need to believe in something. History has shown that many people, especially collectively not only need to believe, but need others to believe as they do, and are often distrustful of those who have a different belief system. Of course, now I am talking about power and politics and that is another subject for many future discussions and story telling writing topics.

July 1, 2013

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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Point of View by Will Stanton

When many people think of the so-called “gay lifestyle,” they very often have a stereotypical picture of gays frequently hanging out for hours in gay bars, drinking, and picking up tricks, one-night stands just for sex and without much regard for getting to know the person any better. At least, that may be the more visible aspect of some gays’ lives, but I know that this is not true with many others. Some have dinners and parties in their homes rather than going to bars. I found this to be especially true in cities that were less tolerant, such as Cincinnati at the times I visited there. That community was in some ways rather southern and conservative, and they did not tolerate gays very well. Many other gays spend more time in activities such as going to movies, plays, or concerts. Some engage in active pursuits such as sports or hiking in the mountains, just like many other people. Still, the bar scene seems to be one image that often comes first to some people’s minds.

The idea of going to bars as a major means of having fun never has been my point of view. My tastes always have been very different. I occasionally can enjoy an alcoholic drink just for the taste, but I don’t need more than one to enjoy that taste. I never have needed to get an alcoholic buzz, either. Plus, I did not care to lose more brain cells than I already was losing from the toxins in our water, food, and air.

And speaking of toxic air, that went for heavy cigarette smoke, too, the usual atmosphere of bars when I was young. The few times that I ventured into bars at the request of friends, my lungs felt as though I had sand in them by next morning.

I never went to bars looking for anonymous sex in basements. I also never cared to dress up either in drag or butch-drag. My point of view is that genuineness is preferable to affectation.

I also have a very different point of view when it comes to choosing music to listen to. I never cared for ear-splitting pounding drums and screaming. I know that many people seem to enjoy loud noise, but I now feel vindicated by all the medical studies that document the physical and mental harm from exposure to atavistic drivel foisted upon us by rock-noisicians. I realize that more civilized music is regarded by many to be boring, and they would complain if that were played in bars.

Still, when I was young and first met some gay people, I was persuaded to go to a few bars just for the camaraderie. A few of the places were relatively civilized. The only gay bar in my hometown had been made out of a small garage some distance from the downtown. It was run by a couple of older, friendly guys who tried to keep the prices of all the drinks, hard or soft, very low. They never made much money, and eventually the bar had to close.

The most comfortable bar that I remember was one that two friends of mine and I found as we traveled through Allentown, Pennsylvania. The bar was unusual because it had been a small branch-library and was situated in a pleasant, residential area rather than, as happens so often, in a less desirable location. It had ample parking in a large lot where cars were safe. The building was in the shape of an “H” with the entrance facing the middle reference desk, which had been turned into the bar. To the right in one end of the “H” was a large dance floor with dancing music. At the opposite end of the building was a large, quiet lounge with comfortable chairs and couches where friends could talk with each other without having to shout.

And finally, the spookiest experience that I had at a bar was when my friend Jim drove me many miles to a bar in a town in central Ohio. It was located in an older, urban area, and originally had been built for some other kind of business. There was a small entrance room, which was not lit very brightly, then a hall that led past restrooms and storage, and then finally a long area in back where the barroom was located.

The time was around twelve-thirty that night when Jim and I decided to leave. As we started to pass through the empty, front room, a lone figure approached out of the shadows. We saw that he appeared to be much too young to have been permitted into the bar, and he had not ventured farther back into the barroom. He appeared to be about fifteen. He spoke to Jim, but in a tone of voice that actually surprised us because it sounded angry and bitter. He said, “I’m chicken!” He seemed to glare at us with that announcement. Jim and I looked at each other somewhat confused by the intensity of his voice. I noted that he was good-looking, but I also was startled by the apparent fury and bitterness in his eyes. He seemed to be a very stressed and unhappy person. The intensity of his look stunned me.

Jim got over his initial surprise and said, “What?” The boy repeated his angry statement, “I’m chicken!” And then he added, looking only at Jim, “I have a hotel room nearby.” Jim, who always was the far more adventuresome person than I, turned and looked at me, seeming to communicate that he was attracted to this good-looking kid, would like to go with him, but at the same time, realized I that I would have no transportation. So, Jim, perhaps regretfully, declined the offer and said that we had a long way to drive and needed to leave now. As we left, I still was amazed and mystified by that very strange encounter.

It was some years later that I saw that face again, those intense eyes. I saw that face in newspaper photographs and on the TV. The image was immediately recognizable. Ever since then, I never could forget what a bizarre encounter Jim and I had had with this person and how close Jim possibly came to learning more about this strange kid than Jim would have wished to learn, even though what the kid became noted for began three years later. I clearly remembered the pained expression on that face, the intense bitterness in those eyes. And when I learned his name, I never have forgotten that either…Jeffrey Dahmer. Now there was someone with a very different point of view.

© 13 October 2013

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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My Most Vulnerable Moments by Ricky

Vulnerability affects every person at several points in their lives. The moment a person is conceived, they are vulnerable to the actions and reactions of the mother’s body and her choices (to abort or not, what food to ingest, drink alcohol or not, take illegal drugs or not, level of activity; the quality of the environment the mother lives in, and etc.). As vulnerable a person is while in utero, the growing fetus is protected by the mother’s body. It is after a successful birth that the extended period of greatest vulnerability begins as a baby is totally helpless and dependent upon others to sustain its life; and so it was for me as well.

All children grow and as they do, vulnerability changes in both degree of risk and impact of the consequences. People learn as they grow and a child must process and internalize a massive amount of information as their senses provide the input. Most children are very successful in this endeavor but some get sidetracked along the way. I got derailed somewhat because I did not learn the consequences of “disobedience” quickly enough and received many corrective applications of father’s hand or belt to my bottom. Therefore, I was constantly afraid of him because I never connected the discipline to my actions. Naturally, I was also mentally vulnerable as I learned that my mother was a “snitch” by telling all of my misdeeds to him so he could apply the corrective can of “whup ass” to my butt. In other words, I could not trust her and I feared my father. I tried to please both of them but never quite understood that I must follow their instruction and not my own desires. [What two through five-year old child ever does?]

While living on my grandparent’s farm, I was not as mentally vulnerable as when living with my parents, but my vulnerability to physical harm skyrocketed but not from my grandparents. There were many ways to become seriously injured or even to die on the farm. Falling off the tractor while riding with my grandfather and being run over, or falling into the maws of the bailer, discus, harrow, or plow are but a few ways. Other ways included being kicked by a cow, falling out of the hayloft, or having hay bales fall on me.

Mental vulnerability on the farm consisted mostly of feeling abandoned by my parents and not receiving the kind of outward signs of love from my grandparents like those my own parents would give (hugs, kisses, and other such signs of affection). Those feelings followed me back to California when I finally was able to rejoin my “new” family (mother had remarried and I now had an older step-brother and twin half-brother and sister). I became the proverbial “middle child” and spent nearly nine years without much of a social life due to babysitting requirements. Thus, I acquired personality “issues” that have followed and negatively influenced me throughout the rest of my life to date.

My sexual activities made me extremely vulnerable. When I finally quit lying to myself and admitted to myself (what others already “new”) that I am gay, I became the most vulnerable. I managed to retain the psychological maturity and mentality of when I was twelve years old even though I grew up physically. Due to my suppressed sexual orientation, when I “came out” to myself and other men, my age, I wanted to experience gay sex in quantity. Thus, I am currently vulnerable to the advances of men I would not normally want to have as sex partners and with whom I have not established some type of personal or social or friendship relationship. I’m also especially vulnerable (as a 12 year old) to “fall in love with” someone who is simply using me to gratify himself and ultimately wounding me emotionally. (All gay men are vulnerable to this, so I am no different than anyone else on this issue.)

I know I am at risk but I try to be careful. That’s one of the minor reasons I come to The Center to deal with my issues. Therefore, my most vulnerable period in my life is currently right now.

© 24 November 2010

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com.

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The Essence of GLBTQ by Phillip Hoyle

For me, the essence of being GLBTQ(Aetc.) is first a recognition of being other, by which I mean being a person whose sexuality leaves him or her on the outside: a sinner, pervert, mentally ill, or more generally put, queer. Second, it means a dedication to some kind of community building within that outsider existence, by which I mean recognizing oneself as gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, questioning, etc., and sometimes connecting as a couple or friend with others that attract you and who feel somehow attracted to you. Third, it means dedication to improving the lot of such outsiders through coalitions of community-building (as in GLBTetc) through communication, valuing, participation in GLBTetc groups, and sometimes activism related to political process. But I don’t here want simply to write an essay on philosophy. Let me tell you some stories.

I was attending a professional meeting in a Denver hotel in 1977 studying Jungian psychology as it relates to religious education. While alone in my room one afternoon, Jung’s Shadow concept about which I had been writing and thinking took the form of a vision hovering over me, and I realized the shadow experience was in fact my homosexuality.

A year later I was in seminary. My encounters with gay persons and my experience of falling in love with a man caused me to realize that my homosexual shadow was more than the flipside of my sexual self. I was walking down a street with the man when I found myself singing love songs to him. This experience helped me realize my homosexual desire was situated at the core of my sexuality. I then “knew” and came to prize my bi-sexual experience in a new and more essential way. I kept singing!

I studied sexuality; I experienced my bisexuality; I loved myself. My homosexual desire and experiences provided me joy and pain—the joy of feeling one night in a hotel that my heart was going to beat itself right out of my rib cage as I was making love to my male companion, the pain of realizing that same lover was never going to express his love for me in the ways I was willing to express mine to him. Still for years I nurtured that relationship—my smallest gay community—all the while knowing that its existence, should it become outwardly known, could spell the end of my marriage and of my career as a minister because my desire and experience occurred outside the cultural norms of religion (I was a sinner, probably the worst kind), failed to be monogamous (against the law), and beyond the psychological, medical, and psychotherapeutic norms (a pervert or mentally ill to many health professionals).

Eventually I did reveal these things—my alternate needs and complementary community. I paid a high price and entered a gay-male world that opened the way for me to enter into an LGBTQAetc. essential experience. I had know, loved, and supported lesbians. I had known and loved gay men. I had known and loved my own bisexual self. I had not known transgender persons, but in my fledgling practice as a massage therapist I was ushered into such a relationship. My transgender client intrigued me with her story. I saw her generosity and worked hard to adjust my own assumptions. I appreciate to this day her tolerance of my bungling attempts to adjust my language. Too often with her I felt like when I was a seminarian dealing with images of God. My miscommunication then was to address God as Father in the opening prayer of a feminist organizing effort—one I supported and promoted. My thirty years of prayer language resisted. Luckily I giggled aloud at my misstep. But with my transgender client, I did not giggle but realized that her good nature helped me understand that in order to be an LGBTQ, I’d have to concentrate and accept others and myself like never before in my whole life because old images and old language always want to interrupt the flow of love and acceptance. For me, the essence of GLBTQ is plain hard work. That’s what I know about such things.
Thanks for listening! What I most appreciate about being in this storytelling group is that weekly I get to practice GLBTQ essential experience. Here we can giggle together as we learn.

Denver, 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

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Mushrooms by Pat Gourley

My experiences with mushrooms have been varied over the years and for the most part quite wonderful with one exception, which I will address further on. I love to cook with them and in the past thirty years my use of these wonderful and diverse fungi has been limited to those legally sold in supermarkets or a couple edible varieties found in the foothills near Denver. The types I have harvested mostly in the hills surrounding South Park have been a variety of Boletes and the sinfully delicious Morels or as we called them when I was growing up in rural Indiana “sponge” mushrooms. Morels in particular are often found in burn areas the year following the blaze and occasionally in the caterpillar tracks left from post-fire cleanup.

My childhood contact with mushrooms outside of Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom soup in a green bean casserole almost exclusively served at Thanksgiving was nonexistent until in my early teens when I started mushroom hunting with one of my uncles. Our trips to the woods looking for these delicacies happened in the spring and the morels we most often found were growing under small shrub-like plants called May Apples. We also harvested in much larger quantities something we called a button mushroom from decaying logs, these may actually have been a forest Bolete of some sort. My uncle would sauté the button mushrooms in butter and serve them in heaping piles on toast. In the interest of full disclosure these mushrooms were fried rather than sautéed, trust me nothing was sautéed in rural Indiana in the 1950’s. The morels were again lightly fried in butter and served alone. Their earthy and very funky taste would later in life come to mind when sampling certain varieties of semen.

Probably my most noticeable and life impacting mushroom experience though involved what most, myself included, would call a bad trip, though in hindsight with a bit of historical revision might be described as a prophetic visionary experience. Needless to say this trip did not occur as the result of eating the buttons and morels of my childhood. Rather it happened in the fall of 1979 with a variety of homegrown psilocybin or as they were known at the time “magic” mushrooms. I was no stranger to hallucinogens by this time in my life and had used mushrooms to very positive effect on numerous occasions though LSD was always my drug of choice. I was perhaps initially drawn to hallucinogenic mushrooms through the music and iconic art of the Allman Brothers Band- sorry, no, not the Grateful Dead.

This adventure also involved the Empire Baths, now known as the Denver Swim Club, and a rather torrid, at least in my own mind, affair with a very sweet, straight-acting Mormon, local emergency room doctor. I had met this man at one of the queer health care provider support groups popular at the time. I am still not sure what my attraction was to this guy but it was consuming. He was my own age and I strongly preferred older men. He was very conservative around things queer, into electronic disco music and in many ways still tied deeply to his large Utah-based Mormon family. There was some reciprocal interest on his part I suppose perhaps an attraction to the exotic, me being a queer rolling in things radical fairie and addicted to the music of the Grateful Dead while living with numerous other eccentric types in a communal situation. It certainly wasn’t the sex, which was mediocre at its infrequent best.

I’ll refer to him here as Hank since he remained tied to those Mormon roots until the time of his AIDS related death in 1991. His death was attributed to cancer on the death certificate I was told by his twink lover at the time and not HIV. I am cognizant after all that the big NSA spy building nearing completion is in Utah and though I expect my hum drum and really boring life is not of much interest to our homegrown extensive International spy apparatus I would not want to risk causing any existential anguish to his large and I am sure still very Mormon family in some indirect and convoluted way.

Hank’s drug of choice was always pure pharmaceutical grade cocaine and snorted in large quantities. A drug I never appreciated, I mean really where was the bang for the buck. Though I must say there was a time or two with another lover who would fuck me with powdered coke under his foreskin that I do have rather fond memories of. This was of course a bit selfish I suppose on my part since the head of his penis would get very numb while I got off a bit high.

Where Hank’s interest in psilocybin came from I am not sure but he became obsessed with growing them in his small Capitol Hill apartment. The spores were actually available for sale legally in head shops at the time. The spores were inoculated onto sterilized rye in quart size mason jars and then coaxed to grow under artificial light in a warm dark closet in his apartment. A much safer and environmentally friendly endeavor than cooking meth would have been. After several unsuccessful attempts, one of which involved an exploding pressure-cooker being used to sterilize the rye, he was able to inoculate the spores into the grain and was able to grow quite a nice large crop. I imagine that apartment may still have remnants of dry rye on the ceiling despite our repeated attempts to get it all off. The harvest was nicely dried in a toaster oven. We never sold any of these but they would make nice stocking stuffers.

Our maiden voyage with these mushrooms was a few weeks before my infamous bathhouse experience and involved a quick trip to the Grand Canyon. There, while hiking to the bottom of the canyon on a full moon night, we nibbled a few each and were as high as kites for the next 24 hours with no sleep that night. We were I think hiking the Bright Angel Trail and our destination was a waterfall that begged for nude moonlight bathing underneath it. Photos were taken but it was only moonlight and we were totally fucked up so little good evidence remains. I relate this merely to establish that the mushrooms were pretty good and not apparently one of the poisonous psilocybin varieties. Our drive back in his little sporty Volkswagen mostly at 100 miles an hour with obnoxious disco music playing was uneventful and for some inexplicable reason I was still very smitten with the guy.

My rather voracious sexual needs at the time were certainly not being met by Hank so a week or so after our return to Denver I decided that a trip to the bathes was in order and it would be nice to do a few shrooms to enhance the whole thing. Now being at the tubs in an altered state was not new to me though I tended most of the time to be a more utilitarian user often going at noon on no substances whatsoever to catch the butch middle age, often married guys, who could be great sex if the stars were right. I was looking for tops so spreading HIV to unsuspecting suburban women never really entered the picture and of course was not on anyone’s radar at all in 1979.

Shortly after arriving, I had dosed before leaving the house on my bicycle, things started to get strange. And to paraphrase the Grateful Dead things only got stranger as the evening progressed. Freaking out while tripping was something totally new to me. The bathes were busy that night and the potential ripe for some great fucking. I was quickly over come though with great anxiety and a sense of dread, my death seemed immanent. I left the cozy, moist and sexy confines and ventured outside to the pool. It was a cool night in late October so no one else in his right mind was out there. I of course was not in my right mind and soon felt the concrete gargoyles on the surrounding walls were threatening me and urging me to get out of there as soon as possible or I would surely die.

I left the bath on my bike in a frenzy to get somewhere to tell anyone I was sure I was dying. Long story short I ended up in an Indian boutique on East Colfax where the family running the business was cooking a curry dish in the back. I was unable to eat any sort of curry for years. Things kind of got lost in translation with the proprietors of the shop. How does one say I took a hallucinogenic mushroom, went to a gay bathhouse to fuck and proceeded to freak out? So when they kindly called me an ambulance they related that I had food poisoning from a bad mushroom.

The ambulance drivers soon discerned this was not food poisoning and that I would be OK soon. In fact they offered, since it was apparently a slow night, to take me home and they would love to buy some of these mushrooms from me. I was incredulous at this and insisted on being taken to the nearest E.D. There I received a lecture from a rather judgmental physician on duty about growing up. I wasn’t sure if the message was to quit taking drugs or quit fucking my brains out in gay bathhouses – probably both.

Dear friends soon rescued me from the E.D. and delivered me safely to my soul mate Don. Don was an expert at helping people calm down in general so he put me in a warm corner with a couple of oranges and told me to peal and eat them and I would soon be OK. About two hours later and only one orange gone I was good enough to leave and head home.

Just to wrap up I did get my bike back the next day from the wonderfully kind folks at the Indian store who kept an eye on it for me. For some inexplicable reason I had been able to securely lock my bike up before entering the store and announcing to all that I was about to die. I also have often thought that the Universe aided by a bit of psilocybin was alerting me that night to the impeding AIDS nightmare and that a gay bathhouse even as early as 1979 was not the best place to be, certainly not with one’s legs in the air. I of course did not heed that advice but doubt I was infected at the bathes but rather in the rectory of a Protestant church in Aspen Colorado about a year later but that’s another story.

December 2013

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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Revelation by Gillian

I do believe that our socially conservative friends, well actually I don’t have any but you get the drift, must be having a bad time lately. There have been a couple of revelations which doubtless crowded right into their worst nightmares.

Jonny Weir

First, we have the Winter Olympics. Much of what was shown on TV was ice skating. Fine and dandy, but,

“Why oh why,” moans my imaginary friend, and I’m sorry, but, yes, he does have a Southern accent, “Did they have to ruin every moment of it by having that dreadful Jonny Weird as a commentator?” 

Yes, I have returned to my childhood ways, or perhaps gone into my second-childhood ways, and created for myself an imaginary friend with whom I can discuss these things, as I lack a real-life socially conservative buddy.

“His name is Weir,” I correct.

Jonny Weir and Friend

“Whatever, he sure as Hell is weird. Dresses like a goddam woman, for Christ’s sake. Lace blouses and all covered in jewels. Jesus! If they must have him do that job they don’t have to show him do they? His hair all primped and curled and piled on top of his head. Shit! It’s indecent. I sure as Hell hope his broadcasts don’t go outside of this country. He’s an embarrassment to this once proud nation of ours. What in Hell would the rest of the world make of us? Is this what we fought for?”

Oh, that’s using we a little loosely, I think. He’s too young to have been in ‘Nam; I know because I created him. By the same token, I know he has never defended his country in any war, much as he encourages everyone else to do so. Were he a Vietnam vet., I would have too much sympathy for him, so I took that crutch away.

“Perhaps not a great shocker to much of the world,” I shrug. “Most of Europe for a start would probably not think a whole lot about it.”

“Yurp. Who cares about Yurp? Bunch of socialist lay-about faggots themselves. This was once a God-fearin’ respectable country. I just don’t get why that goddam NBC allows that guy to dress like that, makin’ a laughing stock of hi’self, preening in front of millions of people. Why ain’t he made to dress right like everybody else? All th’other commentators wear suits and ties and look like men. I mean, for the love of God, if NBC won’t do it then they should be be made to. I never did believe that I would live to see days like this. This was once a law-abiding country. Now anybody can do any goddam thing. We need laws and we gotta to enforce them.”

This, I think, but don’t say, from a guy with a bedroom full of repeating rifles and sub-machine guns or whatever the mass destruction weapons of choice are these days. A guy who thinks the ‘gubmit’ should stay out of his life.

“And then,” he’s on a roll now, and yes, sorry again, but my conservative buddy is definitely a man, “they got all that women’s hockey hoopla. Ice hockey yusta be a man’s game for God’s sake. Now they got women. And we’re supposed to be proud of ‘em with their medals. Be the day when I let my daughter do somethin’ like that.” As I have provided for my imaginary friend with a relatively independent, politically middle-of-the-road, daughter, I smile to myself at his illusion of a power over her which he has long ago lost, if indeed he ever had it. Which, of course, is fuel to his general anger and resentment.

“Shit, they all covered up so you can’t even tell what they are. They ain’t women and that Weird guy ain’t a man. Jeeeesus!”

“Soccer,” I offer, unable to resist the temptation, “Used to be just for men. Now women and girls everywhere play it.”

He snorts in disgust. “Another bunch of lesbians! Don’t fool me if they talk about husbands and babies. They nothin’ but lesbians!”

“Some of them,” I shrug again, “but all those husbands and boyfriends supporting many of these women are, what? Hired actors?”

“Maybe they jus’ fools who think they married real women who fake it for them. Thinka that?”

What I think is we’ve exhausted this topic. Usually I listen rather than talk with my imaginary bud, after all his very purpose is to help me get inside the heads of people who think like him, as best I can; to try to comprehend their thought processes, what drives them.

So sometimes I just cannot resist egging him on, for that very purpose. “There was that college football player last week too ….. Michael Sam …” 

He spits.

“What in all Hell’s wrong with that guy? Apart from being a queer, I mean. Football’s one place left where no sissy-boys allowed. What on God’s green earth he trying to prove? He coulda been drafted pretty high and had a good career ahead and he just shoots hisself in the foot. No NFL team going after him now. Wouldn’t you think being a ni…. bein’ black makes him different enough without he gotta be more different. Not that being black is any problem in the football world. But being gay sure as Hell is. Why didn’ he just keep his mouth shut? Why do they always have to be in my face with that crap? I don’t wanna know. Being gay is nothin’ to do with how he plays football!”

And that, I think to myself, is indeed a revelation. But did he get the irony of what he just said? Sadly, I doubt it.

About the Author

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25 years.

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One Monday Afternoon by Betsy

When I retired I was quite elated that I would no longer have to do any work. That is work other than the menial chores of maintaining a household. The rest of the time I would play–perpetual play for the rest of my life. This attitude only lasted for about the first week of retirement. I soon found myself redefining what for me was work and what was play and just exactly what was rest and recreation anyway? Since I did quite a bit of writing in the last 10 years of my job, it seemed like writing was work.

I soon adjusted to retired life. The only writing I did was in our travel log as we journeyed here and there in our beloved VW camper van to many different parts of the U. S. “Mileage today was 350. Spent the night at Frigid Frosty Forest Service campground. Woke up to snow and froze our butts,” would be a typical entry into the journal.

Then one day about twelve years into retirement my partner Gill and I were presented with the opportunity to join a certain writing group at the LGBT Center. Currently I was told the group is made up of about 10-15 men–zero women, but surely more women would be joining the group. Well, that’s okay I said. I like men. But do I want to do the work of writing?

How often does the group meet, I ask? Every week. Surely, I say to myself, we don’t all write something every week. Probably we take turns so that each individual ends up writing something maybe once a month. I suppose I could try this out. When I learned that there is an assigned topic about which every one writes and shares with the group, it did seem for a moment like this would be burdensome. But Gill was enthused about doing it so why not give it a try. After all, I could pass or just not attend when I had nothing to share.

I must confess. The fact that this group was made up of men did get my attention. I had always had men in my life. I was close to my father and adored him. I was married for 25 years to my best friend, and I have a son and grandson whom I love very much. Life as a lesbian leaves little room for men and I had missed the contacts.

I made some close male friends years ago when I answered an announcement in the LGBT community for anyone interested in forming a tennis group. I showed up on the appointed day at Congress Park tennis courts with 20 men–no women. Our group maintained the same twenty-something to one gender ratio for several years. I became very good friends with some of these men and consider a couple of them still my friends although the group broke up several years ago after about 7-8 years of tennis and friendship.

But a writing group? Creating a piece of writing EVERY week. Telling my story. That sounds like work to me. I’ll have to exercise my brain and delve into memories and emotional stuff of the past and present. Do I really want to do that? Writing. Much harder than talking or thinking or imagining. After all, I thought, writing my story I will have to finish my dangling thoughts as well as correcting my dangling participles. Do I really want to get into that?

That was two years ago. Here I am cranking out the words to share just about every darn week. I feel deprived if I miss a week. I had no idea I would get so much out of being a part of this group when I was considering whether or not to join.

I have learned more than I can measure from the stories I hear from others on Monday afternoons. Sometimes funny and entertaining, sometimes heart-wrenching, sometimes informative, sometimes insightful, sometimes inspiring. I believe these Monday afternoons hone not only my writing skills, but also my listening skills. I don’t want to miss a word most of the time.

Furthermore, there is tremendous value to me in documenting experiences I have had, feelings I now have or have had in the past, beliefs I hold dear; ie, documenting who I am. The process of telling one’s story is not always easy, but with practice it gets easier. How much value the stories have for anyone else I will never know. But I find it oddly comforting knowing that I am leaving them behind when I depart this life.

Finally I believe this Monday afternoon activity of telling our stories gives a broader perspective on our own lives–a perspective perhaps not otherwise attained and certainly a perspective not easily attained.

March 3, 2013

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.