Tag: LGBTQA

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A Letter to My Younger Self by Phillip Hoyle

Note: I write this letter to a 19-year-old me not because I am upset over any decisions I made or over the life I lived subsequent to making them. My life has been fine; still there were a few crises I could have navigated differently. I write this letter from a point of view I could never have imagined, to a person who did not enough maturity of thought, feeling, or experience to have made other choices. In writing this letter, I am only thinking about a what-if that did not occur. I know that at 19 I may not have been able to imagine any of the things I now can at age 66! But, here goes anyway.

Spring, 1967

Dear Phillip,

I heard through your sisters about your recent breakup with your girlfriend. They seem upset about the severing of a growing tie, but I’m not quite sure what all informs their feelings. I do know they really like Myrna for her lively spirit and generosity. Yes, I like her too and am sorry for your loss and whatever feelings you are having right now. I wish I knew for sure what they are! I imagine they are quite mixed.

Breakups are difficult for all the feelings, but they are also opportunities of evaluation of one’s needs and interests. I remember your complaint about other ministerial students in your dorm who list all their requirements for their prospective wives: their looks, personality, musicianship, ability to teach, organize, cook well, get along, and so forth. I applaud your perspective that these lists are both hopeless and actually quite demeaning. I believe growing up with your sisters trained you well to look at women for who they are, not for what they will provide you. I was happy for you when you attached yourself to a young woman who was so independent and lively. I applaud.

One of your sisters told me that Myrna initiated the breakup out of her frustration that the two of you have difficulty talking with one another. I’m sure this reasoning frustrates you for in general you have no difficulty talking. Surely you are meeting with a frustration men commonly have in learning to relate to the women in their lives. We guys like to talk about our ideas, our work, and our activities; we tend to find it difficult to talk about our feelings in the ways many women desire to talk. That’s a plain old problem for most relationships between men and women.

I want to recommend something to you. Write down your own thoughts. Try to make sense of them from all your friendships and flirtations since junior high. List all the people you think might make a good partner for you or you might imagine yourself living with in adulthood—married or not. Erase any assumptions you may have that are similar to your dorm mates’. (You may be surprised to find that you are not all that different from them.) Write down your initial thoughts, those you had when Myrna left you alone in the chapel sitting there on the piano bench. Read and edit your thoughts. Evaluate them. This breakup can help you have freedom in your choices henceforth; it can help you understand yourself and your needs.

I love you, Phillip. I love your music, your artwork, your kindness towards others, your religious motivations, and your imagination. I love how you have learned to work, study, and reason. Please don’t shortchange yourself emotionally, academically, or vocationally. There are many, many ways to be a minister. There are many, many honorable kinds of work. There are many, many opportunities awaiting a person just like you. They are there for you. I hope for you more experience of the world before you make such an important decision about any kind of life partnership.

You will be tempted to run away from or to run back into whatever security Myrna represents for you. Please think deeply and honestly about these matters. Give yourself more time to mature. (I know that sounds awful.) Think about exactly what you want to do with your talents. Your life is right now wide open and your abilities can serve as doorways to many opportunities. Don’t shut too many doors too quickly. Good luck. God bless.

Love,

(signed) Your Self Yet to Be

About the Author

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

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

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Falling into Unrequited Love by Cecil Bethea

Away back about sixty years ago I was in love with Hugh Stanley. He certainly wasn’t handsome; no way could he have been a porn star even had there been any porn available. But he was what I wanted in my vague, amorphous hankerings. Such were complicated by the firm knowledge that homosexual activity was condemned by my peers, my family, and my state. Remember back in those days, there were no Gays just homosexuals, queers, and cock-suckers. The result was no overture was ever made, so I at least was never rejected.
Hugh was a brain. He made practically all “A’s” at least enough to be selected to become a member of the School of Chemistry equivalent of Arts and Sciences’ Phi Beta Kappa but without the age or memorability. Unlike most scientific types, he liked to read literary novels before going to sleep. I remember in particular WAR AND PEACE, VANITY FAIR, and I, CLAUDIUS. It must [have] taken months to read the first two in thirty minute bouts. In I, CLAUDIUS, there is mention of the Spintrians, a group of Gay Romans. He referred to a similar group on the campus by that name in disparaging tones, but such remarks did not end my hunger.

He received a handsome fellowship from the Department of Defense. To this day, I remember the title of his thesis: The Synthesis and Thermal Decomposition of Symmetrical Bi-Methyl Hydrazine. The sponsorship came about because hydrazine was an early rocket propellant. I worked in the library of the School of Chemistry; actually my pay was in the form of a scholarship from the school. This method of payment didn’t bother me as long as the money came. True, you will have trouble finding someone with a scholarship in chemistry who knows less about the subject.

Meanwhile in all my turbulence, I was taking a course in Shakespeare. The test on MACBETH had a question like, “Discuss the motivation of MacBeth.” In the storm and stress of my soul, I decided that his love for Lady MacBeth drove him to all of his deeds most foul. I cited lines from the play to buttress my view. Written upon my test by the professor, Hudson Strode, were words something like this: “While some scholars accept this view, most believe that it was ambition. Also, Mr. Bethea, the character’s name is Lady MacBeth and not Mrs. MacBeth.” Every reference to the woman was at least consistently Mrs. MacBeth. It does loose something in transition.

This tale ends decades later. A letter from Hugo arrived. He had found my name on the internet. Wanting to be sure that I was the right Cecil Bethea, he recounted our friendship in school so that I could identify him, a totally unnecessary exercise. I replied with a lengthy letter. I said that I was Gay and a bit about my thirty-five years with Carl. After all I couldn’t hide him in a closet like a bastard child.

Hugo’s letter arrived sometime in August. We’d already decided to go to Alabama that October. Not only is the heat less, but Carl had never seen the fall leaves down South. Carl readily agreed to a change of route to go by Gulf Shores, down south of Mobile. So I proposed to Hugo and Laura, his wife, that we would like to take them to dinner at a place recommended by AAA. Also I stated that we’d be sleeping at a certain motel suggested by the same. 

The next week Carl and I, for some disremember reason, went to the Home Depot away out on North Washington with a Wal-Mart across the street. As I parked the truck, the battery died. We did our shopping and called AAA. The man said the battery was dead, dead, dead. Carl then took out the battery; he carried enough tools to make most any repair short of removing the engine. With the battery in a shopping cart, I went over to purchase one at Wal-Mart. Why this unexpected purchase at $67 should irk me more than any other I don’t remember, but it did irritate intensely. Walking in August across two parking lots on a hill, I remembered “Into every life a little rain must fall,” and other equally puerile philosophic mottoes. By the time I had reached the truck, I had reconciled myself to the notion that unexpected purchases or setbacks are part of human life.

When we reached home, there was a letter from Hugo. I fixed myself some coffee and then sat under the tree in the front yard to read it. The first sentence was disheartening. Something like: “Your visit won’t work for me,” “his being too much of a Victorian,” “I’d never displayed any such symptoms at school,” and other such statements. After reading the letter, Carl said, “Well, we can go home by Memphis.”

My problems with the battery and the resulting homilies set me up for the worse that was to come. Two, decades earlier I had learned that not everybody would love me.

Hugo’s letter was our last communication. After Katrina, I wanted to know how he had survived but refrained. There is a limit to how many lost causes one can pursue.

© 1 August 2011

About the Author

Although I have done other things, my fame now rests upon the durability of my partnership with Carl Shepherd; we have been together for forty-two years and nine months as of today, August 18the, 2012. 

Although I was born in Macon, Georgia in 1928, I was raised in Birmingham during the Great Depression. No doubt I still carry invisible scars caused by that era. No matter we survived. I am talking about my sister, brother, and I. There are two things that set me apart from people. From about the third grade I was a voracious reader of books on almost any subject. Had I concentrated, I would have been an authority by now; but I didn’t with no regrets.

After the University of Alabama and the Air Force, I came to Denver. Here I met Carl, who picked me up in Mary’s Bar. Through our early life we traveled extensively in the mountain West. Carl is from Helena, Montana, and is a Blackfoot Indian. Our being from nearly opposite ends of the country made “going to see the folks” a broadening experience. We went so many times that we finally had “must see” places on each route like the Quilt Museum in Paducah, Kentucky and the polo games in Sheridan, Wyoming. Now those happy travels are only memories.

I was amongst the first members of the memoir writing class. While it doesn’t offer criticism, it does offer feedback. Also just trying to improve your writing helps no end.

Carl is now in a nursing home, I don’t drive any more. We totter on.

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History by Ricky

Writers and commentators often quote Edmund Burke’s famous line, “Those who don’t know history are destined to repeat it.”  I was a teenager when I heard that phrase for the first time. Since then I have occasionally had flashes of insight (or maybe they were epiphanies) linking some aspects of world history to more recent events in a nearly unbroken chain of repeating history because the lessons were not learned. Unfortunately, my insights are linking the past to present trends, which I find distressing.

This past week was exceptionally depressing for me. Historically, it was this week exactly 11 years ago in 2001 that my wife entered the hospital the day after 9-11 and passed away on the following Saturday, 15 September.

Yesterday it was Saturday the 15th. So I finally recognized why I was feeling “down” and that helped a bit. I learned that lesson from history – death happens; nonetheless, I was living through it again.

Yesterday, I read an article in the October 2012 issue of Vanity Fair by Michael Lewis titled “Obama’s Way.” It was a very interesting article and gave some historical background on world changing events from the perspective of how President Obama lives and makes decisions and how he keeps from becoming mentally ill from the stress of making decisions. It would be worth everyone’s time to read it.

Yesterday, I also watched a history channel special presentation. It was a two part series about the Rise of the Third Reich and the second part was the Fall of the Third Reich. It was shown using “home movies” taken by several German citizens, which showed German society following WWI and the conditions, which led to the rise of the Nazi Party from the perspective of the average German. Letters from and movies taken by German soldiers told another view of the war.

I understand many of the causes of WWI and those factors that lead up to WWII, but it still appears that those in power and those who agitate for or initiate violence, still have not learned from history that the death and destruction that follow greatly exceed the instigator’s estimates. Even William Shakespeare seemed to understand the concept that “war is hell.” Of course his version was more poetic, “Cry havoc and let loose the dogs of war.”  (Or was that the Klingons who said that?  It makes no difference to reality.)

I suppose it should not be so strange to understand why humans keep failing to learn from history. My humble (but probably accurate) opinion is that over the course of human existence, from the earliest days of recorded history unto now, every generation believes that it knows more and knows better than their progenitors. Therefore, forgets that people are still people and human nature is still the same throughout all time and places. “We are superior to the ancients in wisdom, knowledge, and technology.” “We are superior to our previous generations.” “Our society is superior to other societies.” “Where others have failed we will succeed.” Therefore, every rising generation ends up making the same mistakes all over again with weapons increasingly more destructive and the death toll keeps rising.

I am reminded of Bobby Rydell’s A World Without Love, one verse of which is, “Birds sing out of tune, and rain clouds hide the moon, I’m Ok, here I stay with my loneliness, I don’t care what they say I won’t stay in a world without love.”

The sad thing is, I do not know how to change it and make it better; no one does and so it just keeps going on and on in one eternal round; like a nightmare play where every act has different actors, sets, backdrops, and costumes, but the action and dialogue remain consistently the same, scene to scene and from one act to another; yet the audience does not wake up so the nightmare can end.

Wake up you people! I am tired of crying myself to sleep over all this hatred and violence!

© 16 September 2012

About the Author

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

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

He came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. He says, “I find writing these memories to be very therapeutic.”

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

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An Exaggerated (Fairy) Tale by Ray S

Once upon a time there lived a very big bear. He was a grand specimen right down to all necessary details. He was at least ten feet tall on his hind legs. All the lady bears desired his attention and services, but he could not seem to be attracted to any special beautiful shiny black bear. He spent many occasions visiting and playing with the ladies but could not decide which one he could please the most like he was supposed to do.

When hibernation time ended and spring time came Bear’s special pastime was hunting for berries, fruits, and nuts and sometimes a red blooded animal or two. But Bear’s diet was almost vegan inasmuch as he drew the line at eating humans.

Humans could be dangerous and killers, but so many had good feelings for the animal world, and he evidenced that many humans had great love for one another.

Bear especially enjoyed and appreciated observing the youngest human’s childhood.

Because he was invisible at will, her would patrol his territory visiting all of the young human girls and boys in their sleep. He would always see that they were loved and safe and developing all of the necessary physical and emotional attributes to grow into kind, loving, brave, questioning and joyful humans–because that is the way they were meant to be.

He carefully checked each innocent body to see that no harm or disorder occurred in the development of each child

That the little girls were all perfect in body and spirit so as to grow emotionally as well as physically beautiful women.

That the little boys were all perfect in body and spirit and that they too had all the necessary potential intelligence and body parts to insure the survival of generations to come.

While on a territory hunt for food, Bear came upon a pair of beautiful lady bears who were gathering berries in a nearby thicket. He noted how warmly they treated each other. How they would feed one another berries and speak softly to each other.

The startled lady bears looked up and invited Bear to have some berries too-if he wished. He thanked them and asked if he frequented this part of his territory often. They replied only when it is Magic Time in the woods. Bear was curious about what happens during Magic Time and they asked him, if he wasn’t lonely for the company of one of his kind?”

He wondered what that had to do with his inquiry until he looked away from the ladies at a blinding flash in the darkest part of the forest.

To Bear’s amazement there appeared a duplicate image of himself. They carefully approached each other. Hesitantly one reached out to the other, not in anger or aggression, but gradual recognition of a like being seeking friendship and maybe love.

With another blinding flash where the two lady bears had been reclining through the mist appeared two lovely nude maidens.

And then simultaneously Bear and his duplicate shed their bear skins and stood naked staring in wonder at each other.

The maidens were amused by the two young men and their wonderment. They chided the boys and said, “Watch us loving each other and then follow suit. That is why you found us in this part of the woods–to find a loved one.”

Now you have learned what Magic Time is all about and become wonderful Bare Humans, to live and to love as you were meant to do forever and ever.

About the Author

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Closet Case by Phillip Hoyle

Business was slow, so rather than just sit around wondering where my clients had gone, I got to work at home doing fall cleaning, that work where obsession facilitates doing a complete inventory of one’s possessions and an effective chasing of dirt from one place to another. It served to produce a lightening of the load and a freshening of my domestic environment. I ran the vacuum sweeper, dusted walls and woodwork, sorted randomly created stacks of papers, recycled all those things I had not got to or that no longer pertained, and carried out a ton of trash. I shook area rugs filling the autumn air with countless dust particles, knocked down cobwebs (after all, we didn’t need them for effect since Halloween was over), and even dusted the leaves of the fake fichus tree that so effectively fills one corner of the room. I washed the king-size linens, even the quilted spread, and added an insulated blanket to prepare the bed for the turning weather. With all that work completed, I had used up most of a day and so carried the electric sweeper to the basement.

The next morning I attacked that space making ready for the arrival of company for Thanksgiving. I loaded the CD player with some high energy music I rarely listen to and went to work all in a frenzy. Again there was laundry, sorting, carrying away recyclable materials, getting rid of cobwebs, washing windows, and the extra job of finding more out-of-the-way spaces for stowing my too-many framed pieces of art. The day passed quickly, too quickly, since as shadows lengthened I realized there was still too much work to do. I sat in a chair and stared at the closet door wondering what I’d find in there were I to open it.

Finally, as the room darkened with evening and my mood darkened, I wondered if I’d ever open that door. I felt sure I wouldn’t like everything I’d find there. “Oh, just do it,” I said to myself, rose from the chair, and threw open the accordion door to face the closet with its mementos, out-of-date equipment, and discarded values. I wasn’t surprised to find such things; after all aren’t closets meant to stow things out of sight? But I faced along with them a truckload of feelings, some of them that I had almost forgotten.

Immediately I saw the old LPs; the SONY reel-to-reel and a box of tapes; a stack of boxes of jigsaw puzzles solved last winter; fold up tables and chairs; table games for when company arrives; an old violin that had been in the family for generations and hasn’t been played for eons. I dusted these off, as I’d done annually for almost a decade. Then I turned my attention to unmarked boxes of uncertain content.
In one cardboard box I discovered my Diplomas; for years I’d gone to school, studied, was graduated from high school, college, and seminary. Years and careers ago.

In another box I discovered photos of my marriage, our growing family, and friends left behind in the several places I’d lived. One photograph shows me standing with my new wife by our black and white 56 Chevy one August afternoon at Lands End, a spot on Grand Mesa overlooking the desert that stretches off to the west. I wonder now what marriage even felt like.

Ooh, there are spider webs as well as dust. Do I really want to go any further?

On one shelf sat books, ones I had completely forgotten about since I hadn’t used any of their information for years. First were three large-print children’s dictionaries of the English Language, each one a specialized lexicon of appropriate usage: the first, language appropriate for school and church; the second, language appropriate for home; the third, language appropriate to use with my best buddies. I smiled, realizing that the habit of closeting one’s usage was a strategy of manners and survival practiced even by young children, especially ones of unusual proclivity.

Other books were there, volumes on sexuality, ethics, theology, and philosophy. They, too, hadn’t been opened in years, for when I had emerged from my closet I was no longer interested in their content. Well, not exactly, but my interest took a different turn, served a different purpose. I had considered their arguments, their insights, their potential. I had appropriated what I could and when I finally pushed myself out the door, left the books behind. Still their ideas inform my sense of self as I go about my weekly schedule and bolster my resolve to be ‘out’ when I meet new people and situations. But I quit buying updates of arguments on the same topics, content with my newer identity. Why I’ve kept these few I’m not sure. They represent the intensity of my inquiry into society and my life. I decided I was able to let them go and put them in the pile of things to give to Goodwill. Maybe they’ll help someone else.

Then there are the novels. I realize they, too, helped open me to my then future life as a gay man. I’d read them for decades trying to find myself among their characters. I’d especially searched for myself in gay novels and despaired that I must be so queer as not to appear. But I have kept a couple of them: Ambidextrous by Felice Picano and I Don’t Think Were In Kansas Anymore by Ethan Mordden, the two gay novels in which I did appear. I’ll keep hold of them for their encouragement and sentimental value. I realize that my experience of the closet, while costly, also helped make me what I am. I honor even the hidden part of my past. I also decided to keep the Masters and Johnson volume for its information on STDs—a wise reminder—and one book of feminist arguments about prenatal existence, a good thing to remember when one facilitates a group of LGBT storytellers.

And there was another book: The Craft of Acting. I’d studied this one over and over for while I felt at home with my profession in the church and comfortable with my duplicity/triplicity in matters sexual, I still knew I had to act. One tells a story but has to do so in a way that an audience can hear and perceive what is intended.

With this thought I look suspiciously at two old suit cases of costumes: Indian costumes for dancing at powwows, an African robe and mask for a children’s program I once organized, and a clerical robe with stoles. Even though I rarely dressed up for Halloween, I did have my costumes, my own drag costumes exotic and clerical. By wearing these costumes I defined my difference in socially acceptable ways. I guess I should just give them to my grandkids. Who knows what they may be experiencing, what costumes they may need!

So on that evening of the second day of fall housecleaning, I decided to discard and to keep varying items from my old closeted days. I discarded those things I had learned all too well and kept symbols of the victories of walking from that cramped space in a search for freedom. That seems to be the case with all closets. They bare cleaning and reorganizing from time to time, but may I never forget my past closeted life so I will never think to hide there again.

Denver, 2012

About the Author

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

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

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Coming Out Spiritually by Pat Gourley

“If you are too busy to sit in meditation
 for twenty minutes a day
 then you need to sit in meditation
 for an hour every day.”

Paraphrased Buddhist Wisdom

I am not sure that my spiritual coming out over the years has not really been more of a shedding of things rather than the cultivation of any particular tradition or significant growth and development on my part. If I try to put it on a life trajectory I guess maybe as my queer and political identities blossomed my religious/spiritual side seems to have waned significantly over the decades, with the exception perhaps of a resurgence in the last 20 years of my often helterskelter Buddhist practice and an ever evolving atheist ethos.

I am aware that it is trendy these days in certain circles to say, “No I am not religious but I am spiritual.” The spiritual part of that is often for many defined in very vague terms involving some sort of unity with the whole Universe. One person though who has thought through this “one with the Universe” thing is my current favorite atheist Lawrence M. Krauss:

“Every atom in your body came from a star that exploded. And, the atoms in your left hand probably came from a different star than your right hand. It really is the most poetic thing I know about physics: You are all stardust. You couldn’t be here if stars hadn’t exploded, because the elements – the carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, iron, all the things that matter for evolution and for life – weren’t created at the beginning of time. They were created in the nuclear furnaces of stars, and the only way to get them into your body is if those stars were kind enough to explode. So, forget Jesus. The stars died so that you could be here today.” Lawrence Krauss, A Universe from Nothing.

The root motivation for all religious or spiritual seeking seems to me to be very succinctly summed up in the following phrase, which I am quoting from Stephen Batchelor’s great work Buddhism Without Beliefs; “Since death alone is certain and the time of death uncertain, what should I do?”

The Catholic Church teaches that one reaches the age of reason at seven and then real sinning becomes possible, a rather rigid view of child development. My spiritual journey from this age of seven until about age seventeen was certainly laid out for me, no thought required, just a lot of something called Faith. The indoctrination in the Catholic religion though started in my Irish family much earlier than age seven of course. My adolescent discovery that sex with another man could be simply divine and that much of what the establishment had taught me about how the world worked in general needed to be seriously called into question. This was in large part thanks to a wonderful rogue Holy Cross nun and resulted in a rather rapid jettisoning of my early Catholic upbringing and beliefs.

Much of the 1970’s where spent in the proverbial lifestyle of sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll and then lots more sex with no particular spiritual bent. I did hook up with the local chapter of Dignity, a group of mostly Catholic gay men, who I think in hindsight were desperately trying to square being queer with being a good Catholic. Not sure that all worked out so well for most of them. I attended more to cruise than anything else really.

In the late 1970’s I entered my “pagan/earth mother” phase and this was fueled by contact with many feminists and the Radical Fairies many of whom also shared this spiritual worldview. I was influenced by the writings of a wonderful witch named Starhawk. One of my dearest possessions from those years is the first stained glass piece my loving companion David made for me, a beautiful and very colorful pentagram.

The eighties were probably my least ‘spiritual’ in any fashion with delusion setting in that Goddess worship may not have been all it was cracked up to be. The struggles with mortality were also coming home in a big way as many started dying from AIDS. Nothing like a lot of death around you to force the question “What should I do”? Chanting, however fervently, to the Goddess didn’t seem to help much.

In the early nineties and up to the present I guess my “spiritual trip” can best be defined as Buddhist. A ten-year stint with the Kwan Um School of Zen and work with great teachers cemented my practice or at least I learned how to better sit still and be quiet.

In pondering coming out spiritually I think it must be an ongoing process, as most coming out is, and I am drawn back to the Stephen Bachelor’s injunction I quoted earlier and that is “What should I do?” This question presented itself in rather stark fashion this past Friday on my walk back from the gym.

Around 11:00 in the morning walking down Logan Street heading south toward 13th I was approaching a favorite panhandling corner. I noticed a body lying on the sidewalk, unusual placement for those with signs and in pursuit of the very hard work that is surviving as homeless in our big cities today. I could already see a couple folks stepping over the prone figure or walking around and no detectable movement. On approaching I saw it was a man and he could have been any street fellow, way over dressed for the weather but layers are important when you are on the street 24/7, and desperately in need of a shower. He was strategically sprawled in the shade of the only tree on that corner. I quickly started trying to process what was going on and whether or not I needed to try and intervene here. I did not have my phone with me.

I stepped around him as several others had already done and I kept walking. I continued walking across the street and down the block looking back and thinking, “What should I have done”. That is a really totally bogus and useless question, and not what Batchelor asked, his question was “What should I do?” On my next look back I saw two guys with leaf blowers work their loud obnoxious machines right around him and this disturbingly seemed to elicit nothing from the prone body.

What I should do then became obvious and I walked back to where he was. I saw more clearly then that he had his arm curled under his head, a good sign, not a pose for someone in extremis. I then tapped the bottom of his foot with my shoe and said in a loud voice: “Hey man, are you alright?” To my great relief he immediately responded partially sitting up and trying to focus on who was disturbing what was obviously a nap in the shade, a break from being on a very hot, exposed corner asking passing motorists for change. His crumpled and very poorly lettered sign stating ‘anything helps’ and invoking God to bless whomever was serving as a makeshift pillow on the concrete. Our society has substituted the time honored Buddhist begging bowl with a begging sign.

I then said that he should think about moving before someone stepped on him. This seemed to register a bit and then he responded that he would as soon as he finished his hamburger. I then noticed, what quite frankly looked like garbage, on a small cardboard container with some sort of scraps, salvaged from the garbage perhaps and showing the wear and tear of being in the 90 degree heat. This had been strategically placed on the sidewalk right under where his chin had been on the pavement. Right wing conservative ranting’s aside I was sure he was not finishing up a serving of crab legs purchase with food stamps. And a lecture on food poisoning would have been way too middle class and certainly of little benefit.

Satisfied we were not in any sorts of 911-territory I said again “Don’t get stepped on,” and headed home, once more convinced the question should always be “What should I do?”

June 2013
Photo by author

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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Building Worldwide Community by Louis

We gay people have a choice. We can continue to be the eternal victims of religious fanatics or we can organize and become a world power. Let’s choose the empowerment option.

I recently sent an e-mail to Shari Wilkins, Program Director of the Center. I suggested the Denver Gay and Lesbian Center set up a foreign language club. I set up such a club at the Center on West 13 Street in Greenwich Village in New York City about 30 years ago. The announcement for the group was put into their monthly newsletter. 65 people showed up for the first meeting. There were so many people that the Center had to put us in the garden. I mainly listened to the suggestions of people who were interested. It was a very informative exchange. The main message was that an international style of education would give everyone a better understanding of gay liberation as a worldwide movement.

I kept the group going for about a year. A Lesbian couple from Switzerland showed up and shared their experiences. They said that in Switzerland, the laws were liberal because the Swiss culture believes in science, including more modern views on human sexuality.

One evening a good looking young man from the Catalan region of Spain showed up and explained the differences between Spanish, Portuguese and Catalan. Everyone was fascinated. At another meeting a small group of people from the Czech Republic showed up and tried to explain the basics of their language.

I kept the group going for about nine months until I got burn-out. It was kind of exhausting scheduling all the time. If groups like this could be set up on a permanent basis, it would be better.

Another group I set up was la petite Ecole française. I wanted to do grammar and such, but it just turned into a general French club where gay and Lesbian French people could gather in a safe environment. The first session of the group drew 35 people. I sort of let the group go where it wanted to go naturally. One evening a group of three gay ice hockey athletes from Quebec, Canada, showed up and told about their experiences as athletes at the Olympic Games that were taking place back then in Quebec or Montreal. Another participant, Gaston, kept us up to date on how gay liberation was going in Paris. He was in New York because he worked for IBM.

We also tried to keep up with ILGA, the International Lesbian and Gay Association. I believe they attempted to set up a permanent mission to the U. N.

I wonder how that is going. If ILGA could accomplish what they envision as their mission, our worldwide community could start registering human rights violations complaints with the U. N. about hostile legislation such as what is now happening in Africa and the Soviet Union. Then I saw a new group, International Gay & Lesbian Human Rights Commission. Is it for real? How does one obtain further information?

I think another important educational tool we need in the various Gay and Lesbian Centers is perhaps a retired lawyer who knows how to keep up with changing case law regarding our civil rights issues. He could make a monthly report to the community in the Community Center. Events like this were held at the Center in New York. Invariably, large numbers of people showed up to hear what is going on once the events were held.

Denver, 2013

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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Hospitality – A Gay Youth, Remembering Earlier Times by Jon Krey

Back when I was an early youth, somewhere around the age of 8, 9, or 10, I began to recognize a difference between my emotional and sexual needs and those of my peers. I had no concrete idea what it meant since I’d always thought there was nothing odd or strange about mine. I just wasn’t very “into the regular scene.” It was hard to associate with most kids, any kids, male or female. I became emotionally secluded. Sports weren’t of interest and my physical self wasn’t up to snuff anyway being a scrawny kid. My self isolation haunted me, forever being an outsider always looking in at those I longed to play with. As this continued over the years, and it did, the more it became true. There came a short time of inclusion during the late Junior High and Senior High years. I made contact with the neighborhood duck-tail squad, the greasers, those so omnipresent in the ‘50’s. My interest in motorcycles and cars had always been, and that’s why they accepted me.
Cars and motorcycles were the “the thing” with them. It changed my acceptability, obscured any oddities of mine at least for that brief moment in time. A too brief period of hospitality was handed me. Then it all began changing. Girls were becoming an object of interest and then an obsession for the guys but for not me.

Inside I wasn’t at all like the grease covered duck-tailed guys with their leather motorcycle jackets and tight Levi’s. I desperately wanted to own a jacket and Levi’s like theirs but mom wouldn’t permit it because they were “just plain nasty.” Finally the critical age of puberty with it’s attendant emotional change for everyone arrived accompanied by an avalanche of total upheaval. The guys were becoming men; taller than me, frequently muscular, hairy, crew-cuts, ducktails had begun disappearing in town, “T” shirts the rage. How they loved showing impressions of their new manhood, through their tight Levi’s. That made me sweat, a lot! I had interesting, moist, dreams at night.

Guys were obsessed with the possibility of finding and seducing girls, while I dreamt of the same but with one of them. I got to be close to these young studs only in school occasionally but nothing more. They looked good, smelled good and when I had a very limited chance to just touch one, they felt good…heavenly! Needless to say I embarrassed myself with an erection from time to time. Too soon I was classified a social outcast, known as a weirdo, an object of scorn. There were others who like me weren’t accepted, straight and not, but it still hurt. Any hospitality accomplished by me had been rescinded, permanently.

I came to understand what the words some used to call me in my earlier years meant. Their use became much more frequent. I was a homo, a fruit, a faggot, a queer, something to be avoided at all cost. Back then that was all there was. I was a monster, loathed by God and man. The church and bible told me so, again and again! Wanting these beautiful young men romantically and sexually was just wrong, sinful and evil…end of story!

There was no hospitality left for me. I was shoved out of the box.

OK, that was then. Many years of fear, self rejection and self hatred have passed. But over those years, now, a new dawn seems on the horizon. I’m far, far better at being me now.

The word “gay” always puzzled me! The acronym LGBT doesn’t, but that word “gay” still seems odd. It meant and still means “full of energy, happy, of glee, a sense of being carefree. In a world where we’re still tormented by too many it doesn’t make too much sense.

It’s now in the press, heard in the media around the world. The Gay Community. Gay Pride Month with parades and parties. Pride is displayed or at least attempted around the globe. But the word “gay” was and can still be mentioned with contempt. A “gay” is a “self avowed homosexual,” some still interpret it that way. Yes it’s true we are, but that one nasty-assed statement always made me cringe and shrivel as it still can.

It’s a new day now. Countless others are like me. The old scars still exist in me and won’t disappear completely but in this day and age us LGBTQ’ers are becoming ever more in the public venue what with Gay Marriage. There is an opportunity of hospitality for me in my quickly approaching old age! “Just forget the past and reach out “get over it already”. I hear it too often.

Inclusion! Now! Something I never thought possible in my lifetime is happening right under my nose! I accept myself today with much less trepidation. I’m part of a growing community of people who are learning to live without shame, without so much fear although there are monsters out there that can and do haunt our lives. Every single time I hear the hateful rhetoric of yesteryear in this day and age I shake inside.

Damn it to hell, all I ever wanted was a boyfriend, someone to be with, to call my own; to be his in the same way. Though three long term partnerships have come and gone I’ve never achieved that most primitive of goals from early childhood. I’m still very much that smallish eighteen to “twenty something” year old boy, still looking, at the exalted age of 73. Will I be lucky before I finally fall over? I wonder and still hope.

I also wonder if any of us have really found that one special man or woman. If some of us have we should thank the same God our loyal opposition uses to condemn us.

About the Author

“I’m just a guy from Tulsa (God forbid). So overlook my shortcomings, they’re an illusion.”

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Breaking into Gay Culture by Betsy

Not only was I unaware of how or where to break into the gay culture, I was oblivious of the fact that there was a unique culture belonging to the gay community. Moreover, I was unaware that this is something I needed to do for myself when I came out.

One of my very first experiences breaking into the lesbian community was actually at my place of employment. I was working at a non-profit agency at the time and having seen some of the local lesbian literature around I learned that there existed in Denver a Women’s Outdoor Club. I understood that this was a lesbian club and felt it was a group that would appeal to me and be appropriate for me to belong to. I understood that I belonged in such a group in spite of the fact that I was still married, living with my husband, still one child at home, and was definitely “feeling” my way forward into unfamiliar territory (hoping I was moving forward and not backward, but not sure at this point).
I recognized the name of one of the members of the Women’s Outdoor Club as one of agency’s volunteers. I had seen her many times in the office. She knew I was married at the time. The next time I saw her I said to her, “I think I would like to join the Women’s Outdoor Club.” In a hushed tone she replied, “It IS for lesbians.” I said, “Yes, I know, and I qualify.” “Oh,” she said. Come along on our next trip. We’re hiking up in Rocky Mountain National Park.”

The time came for the hike. My husband delivered me to the car pooling meeting place and after the event picked me up. I often think about that day. He knew what I was doing and with whom. There were no secrets. Everything was out in the open. I think he was hoping I would get a taste of the new culture and find that I didn’t fit or didn’t like it. His hopes did not come to fruition. I do not and at the time did not think of this experience as “breaking into” a culture or a group. The reality was that I was doing an activity (hiking) with a number of female nature-loving hikers. This was really nothing terribly new. The difference was there were no men in the group–husbands or otherwise, nor were we a group of women hiking together while chatting about our respective husbands or male companions.

Another introduction to the culture was a visit to the Three Sisters Bar. The place seemed rather “seedy” to me–dark and almost sinister. I had no idea who the women were who were there or what they looked like. It was far too dark to see anything. Seeing the women together was quite exciting actually. I cannot remember how I got there or with whom either. Just that it was the place to go at night.

During my coming out process I learned about a group for married women or women who had been married who were coming out or considering coming out, were gay, or bisexual or thought they were gay. The group was organized and facilitated by a woman in the community who had travelled the same route more or less; that is, she, too, had been married, raised a family, and came out later in life. Perfect, I thought. That’s for me. And it was just what I needed.

One of the meetings included a tour of the then existing women’s bars. We started with our usual support group discussion and following that left the meeting place to visit the bars. This was extremely helpful to me as I had no prior knowledge of any of these places except the Sisters. It turns out there were three or four bars and they were all quite enjoyable when one was comfortably entrenched in a group and not scared to death. I will always be grateful to my mentor and leader for her support group.

Prior to that experience and meeting many other women of my age group, I seriously thought I was unique in that I was married, had been married for a long time, and now, later in life was coming out, changing my life-style completely. But I found that to be untrue as there were many other women just like me.

In those days The Center sponsored a support group for women coming out. All extremely helpful and made the coming out process much less difficult.

I suspect the gay culture is more discernible, more definable, and takes on more importance for those individuals, gay men or lesbians, who are seeking partners, either consciously or unconsciously.

I have to say that after 30 years or so in the lesbian community and almost 30 years in a stable same-sex relationship, I do not feel that there is an identifiable lesbian culture per se. Maybe among some women there is, but to me it feels more like a women’s culture, free from the constraints, real or imagined, imposed by the presence of straight men. There are plenty of straight women who partake of activities for women alone–free of the influence, direction, or guidance of the straight men to whom they are attached. By the same token by sharing a common sexual identity most lesbians tend to relate to each other more comfortably than with straight women perhaps. In my view this does not reflect a lesbian culture, rather women’s culture. Some of my best friends are straight women. Our bonding is more around our common values and our womanhood. I believe this is true in the lesbian community as well.

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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Finding Myself by Phillip Hoyle

A search began when in my twenty-seventh year my friend Ted introduced me to the gay novel. That first book was Patricia Nell Warren’s The Front Runner (NY: William Morrow & Co., 1974), and Ted claimed it had just about everything in it. I took this to mean every gay theme. Reading it I discovered several topics and scenes of interest but was unable to find myself in the story. My own story included a life-long sexual response to men that lived peacefully alongside my commitment to a marriage and a largely conventional heterosexual life. The day I finished Warren’s book, I undertook a literary search for my gay self.
     
I read Robert Ferro, Edmund White, Paul Monnett, Richard Nava, Ethan Morddan, and many other authors of gay fiction over many years. Eventually I read Felice Picano’s book Ambidextrous and found myself. It wasn’t actually me, but the book described bisexual experiences and feelings similar to some I had as a child and teen and, thus, brought me relief that I wasn’t alone in the world. I was at least barely recognizable among gay males and no longer wondered if I was an outsider in this outsider existence. 
     
I was elated to find commonality with a writer who described the book as autobiographical fiction. I read more of his books including Men Who Loved Me and realized my sameness with Picano was limited. While I enjoyed his sense of spirituality and his vigorous personal searches for love, his stories included drugs—lots of them; mine was drug free. I continued to read Picano and other gay novelists who were being published in ever-increasing numbers looking for other glimmers of my life, hoping for a light to lead me into an unknown future.
     
My friend Bill told me he found himself in Paul Monnett’s Becoming a Man. He had been deeply moved by the book and felt it affirmed his experience. I read the book with interest for it allowed me a glimpse into the lives of the author and of my friend. I assumed that most details of Bill’s life differed from those in Monnett’s book, but I wasn’t sure. I didn’t connect with the book very deeply although the beautiful, effective writing seemed very important as a gay statement. It simply wasn’t my story. I kept reading but mostly felt like I was still an outsider in the gay world that so fascinated me.
     
Then my life changed radically. I separated from my wife and then left my profession that I had found growing too gay-unfriendly for my taste. I began to live as a gay man and to write on a regular basis. In both, I set out to explore my life experiences in order to understand more about who I had become. I made interesting and helpful connections of diverse themes that seemed to make sense of my experience. As I wrote, I kept reading but didn’t find myself in these books, that is, until thirty years after reading my first gay novel. 
     
I was stunned and pleased when a few weeks ago I read the chapter “East of Ashshur” in Aryeh Lev Stollman’s The Far Euphrates (NY: Riverhead Books, 1997). Stollman’s character Alexandre tells the story as son and only child of a Rabbi and his wife living in Windsor, Ontario. In this chapter, the protagonist stated for the second time that he was not shamed by his homosexuality. I had heard the statement loud and clear at its first occurrence rather early in the book. Then in this chapter the sixteen-year-old Alexandre entered a period of study structured by his religious tradition. He embraced the practice but not its traditional goals such as becoming holy or knowing God. He moved himself into a world related to the Hebrew calendar and sought self-knowledge in the light of the moon. Daily standing before the mirror, he combined physical self-examination with intense reading of anatomy and physiology. In these twin ways, physiological and philosophical, he sought self-understanding. The statement’s repetition occurred toward the end of his year-long intense self-examination that included much more than Alexandre’s sexual feelings and led him to the affirmation of his sexuality that he could see might pose difficulties. Still he felt unashamed. 
     
My experience also has left me unashamed. Early on I knew I liked boys (eventually men) and understood it as a part of my life that I might outgrow. I did not reject it in my teens, and some fifteen years later I didn’t feel shocked when I fell in love with a man. During those intervening and following years I made an intense inquiry into the nature of human sexuality with a focus on homosexuality. I wanted to understand. My attempt was not carried out in a formal retreat like Alexandre’s. In making my inquiry I realized other folk were not interested or at least not at ease over my quest, for instance, my wife fell asleep when I wanted to read her the most interesting things I thought might be helpful enrichments to our sex life and others seemed afraid of my interest. So I did retreat into the relative privacy of my office, late night reading, library research, and internal thought. My reading spanned social science, sexology, biology, social ethics, philosophy, theology, literary criticism, poetry, fiction, and journalism. Like the teenager Alexandre, I observed myself and read about things I thought, felt, and experienced. Like him, my thirst for knowledge was insatiable, and like him, I was unashamed. 
     
My inquiry had begun way back in childhood when I started reading about American Indian culture, life, and history not aware I was studying myself. Then I added theology, then sexuality (my overt self-examination), then music history, and always exhaustive reading of novels—international works in translation, gay novels, Native American novels, murder mysteries, and more. 
     
I continue my reading quest, but most important, now I write to know myself, somehow to be true to my own self. Through my personal accounts and fiction I am seeking to express what I have learned and know. I write my childhood sex and friendships. I write my teenage fascinations with girls and boys. I write my marriage, one in which I dearly loved my wife while I became more acutely attentive to my homosexual needs. I develop characters who speak of my sexual values, reflect on my thoughts and feelings, and by their own adaptations, lead me into new perspectives about myself. I develop characters who do things I have only dreamed or never dared to dream, and in the writing become more aware of my needs and desires. I write how my life affects my work. I write how my self-knowledge creates tensions in my family and vocation. Still though, I see myself riding bikes with my best childhood friend as in Ambidextrous. Still, I stand before the mirror of self-reflection unashamed as in The Far Euphrates. The searching and finding continue as they surely will for the rest of my life.

Denver, 2011

About the Author

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