Tag: LGBTQA

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Mistaken Identity by Michael King

     There are numerous times I have been mistaken for someone else which I will disclose at the end of this story. I will in the meantime discuss my experiences with my own identity.

     Looking back, I believe that much of the way we think of ourselves comes from the way we think others see us. Early childhood expectations from those around us, the labels given to us, the comparisons we draw from observing other people and the successes and failures relating to our attempts to live up to being how we think we should be.
When I was in my thirties I changed my name. I don’t remember ever liking the one I was given at birth.

     I loved my grandfather but being named after him wasn’t what I would have wanted. My middle name was from a dead great, great uncle, I think. Somehow I never felt comfortable being George Albert King.

     My father’s name was Francis Frederick King and I felt uncomfortable that my younger brother was given that name with a roman numeral II after it. I felt that rightfully that should have been my name even though I didn’t like it either.

     In college I had a friend whose name was Michael. I couldn’t have let myself even think about my feelings for him. He was so stunningly beautiful that people would make strange sounds when seeing him; the girls especially. Not only was he good looking, he was a wonderful person. I felt so honored to be his best friend. I can see now that I was in love with him and probably he was with me. Our wives were also the best of friends. I had wished that I had been named Michael but the idea of changing my name didn’t occur to me for another dozen years. I did however name my son Michael.

     When I was 33 I had a vision that changed my life. As a result I changed my name. Two years later I went to court and officially became Michael Jon King. Almost immediately after I started calling myself Michael I became aware that people acted very differently to me than they had when I was George. I felt different about myself and it seemed like I was finally being who I really was. I also had a better sense of how I wanted to become and by now have actually changed myself into the person I feel I really am. I owe a lot to this to the “Telling your story” group as so much of my baggage, the pains of the past, the delusions I had created have been recognized and in recognizing this has brought about a clarity of being the who that I am and has given me a freedom and a peace of mind that I had never known before. I have self-respect. I didn’t know what was missing previously but felt something was. I was too burdened with trying to be what I thought I should be and wasn’t being who I am.

I’m glad that I had a family. I glad I had the failures that taught me so much, and, I’m glad I had successes. I created a mistaken identity for myself in many ways.

     The mistaken identity that I mentioned at the beginning of this story has been because I have received many calls from collectors mistaking me for some deadbeats with the same name as mine who don’t pay their bills.

About the Author

I go by the drag name, Queen Anne Tique. My real name is Michael King. I am a gay activist who finally came out of the closet at age 70. I live with my lover, Merlyn, in downtown Denver, Colorado. I was married twice, have 3 daughters, 5 grandchildren and a great grandson. Besides volunteering at the GLBT Center and doing the SAGE activities,” Telling your Story”,” Men’s Coffee” and the “Open Art Studio”. I am active in Prime Timers and Front Rangers. I now get to do many of the activities that I had hoped to do when I retired; traveling, writing, painting, doing sculpture, cooking and drag.

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I Did It My Way by Phillip Hoyle

     The hit song from old Blue Eyes made a new impression on me the first time I heard it played at a gay bar. That night at the Bailey Street Where House the song caught my attention due to its stylistic contrast with several disco songs played, pieces by the Village People, Bee Gees, and Donna Sommers. In the context of a gay bar, the song seemed an anthem or hymn of those gathered. I duly noted its inclusion as one among many indications of community for the qualitative research project I was pursuing in a course “Community Contexts of Ministry.” In this way my theological education at Texas Christian University’s Brite Divinity School brought me closer to the gay world and to my eventual inclusion within that community. 

     I had chosen the gay bar setting from a suggestion list, noting at the time that one other person had indicated his intention to do the same, a guy I had recently met at a gathering sponsored by the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) in the Southwest. Four seminarians went that evening to observe and, of course, to drink a few beers. I got my hazel eyes full of interesting sights, signs of community as I interpreted them in my field observation report, and my ears full of other indicators that something fine and interesting was going on in this bar. I made several return trips that semester and learned things I wanted to know about gay life and, furthermore, came away with the impression that while my friend seemed defended against what the place represented, he also seemed comfortable and interested. I had no plan for his and my interests to converge at a personal level but was acutely aware of the attraction of gay community I observed there and my own comfort within the setting.

     That semester I also observed a community organizing project and reported it with the same fascination and detail as I did in my description of the gay bar. I didn’t feel like I had to cover myself. I already knew my interest in men, my feelings of sexual attraction to some men. I was fine with the feelings. My life was headed in a family and career direction that I was not going to forsake. But like a cat, I tend to be interested in what is going on around me. I’m curious and entertained by happenings in my peripheral vision, especially if they seem novel. Seeing lots of guys dancing together in a bar certainly was novel and having the luxury of a plausible excuse for watching the show let me feel its deep fascination. The date: fall 1978, before the AIDS crisis, a time of nearly unbridled passion that was easy to see revealed in that bar. I saw and liked it, but I saw more.

     I was watching the world in which my good gay friend Ted lived. He too, had a career in music and church but lived single. I knew he was sexually promiscuous. His attempts to marry had ended in disasters to both the intended relationships and his mental health. I filtered my observations through what I knew of his experience. I also had my own gay feelings in a couple of developing friendships, feelings I knew I wouldn’t pursue. Still I wanted to know these things for myself: the actuality of man-to-man love and sex; the possibility of men loving and living together; the acceptance of such persons in society; and the embracing of same-sex love within a religious community.

     At that point, some churches had declared homosexuals should be guaranteed equal civil rights related to the United States Constitution and to a general sense of morality. The arguments of the details were under scrutiny and becoming a dividing issue in most denominations and the larger community. I saw that churches were entering an era of anxiety when that question and others would be faced openly within congregations. Gays would expect inclusion in the local churches and would want leadership. Then there was the larger issue of relationships. Already marriage as an institution in America was showing severe weaknesses. Parental fears and warnings did little to prevent young couples in college from living together and having loads of sex without the convention and support of marriage. Free love had been a counter-cultural doctrine for over a decade. Eventually the issue of gay marriage would split the churches and become a problem for general society. 

     I felt I needed to know and understand. I had experienced sex with males. My closest adult male friend was gay. I was sitting in a gay bar enjoying myself. I was writing reports of my excursions. I was learning not to fear. I was hoping to learn to be an effective minister. I was evaluating myself at age thirty, in my tenth year of marriage to a loving woman. What would be ‘my way?’ I really wondered.

     By the end of the semester, I had seen a lot of city life and written a short book of field observations and reflections. I’d witnessed gay bar life. I’d sat in the county hospital emergency room late on Friday nights. I’d attended quite a few meetings of a community organizing effort. My professor returned the report congratulating me on my work, both observational and written. He also warned me about the problem of writing candidly and subjectively about my experiences. “One can lose control of a written document,” he warned. His sensitivity to my personal process led me eventually to destroy the manuscript, but I didn’t lose the impressions or self-realizations that arose from the experiences. I came away from the semester with a knowledge of gay bars, but also with the perception that gay folk had lives away from bars, that they often lived in fear of police, that they had great fun together, that they sometimes partied too much, that they helped out friends in crises, that they experienced life with the same grace and awkwardness as anyone else in society. I’d gained a glimpse of a life with traditions, institutions, and history; a community of importance and, for me, appeal.

     I had no idea I’d ever be meeting on a weekly basis with a group of gay storytellers in a gay community center, that I’d be going to happy hour every Friday night at local gay bars, that I’d regularly circulate with quite a few gay couples and their single friends, that I’d survive two gay lovers who died from AIDS-related causes, or that I’d live over nine years with the gay man I’m paired with now.

     But these days I tell my gay story and have to conclude, that even in embracing this new gay life: “I Did It My Way.” 

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.”

Read more at Phillip’s blog  artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

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Going Pink by Gillian

I used to blush very easily.
“Going pink” simply wouldn’t do it justice, though; rather “glowing crimson’’ or “flowing vermilion.”
I would feel this rising tide of burning glowing lava climbing up my neck and spreading voraciously across my cheeks to turn my ears into pulsating heat sinks.
Embarrassment engendered this rush of hot color, and so did anger, and in my younger days I’m not sure which came upon me more frequently.
I often found myself embarrassed, and often lost my temper, and it was often ugly.

Over the years I guess I got my emotions under better control.
I rarely lose my temper these days, having discovered better ways to channel my energy.
I rarely feel embarrassed, probably because I have become immune to it after making an ass of myself so many times in so many ways over so many years. Also, quite honestly, the older I get the less I care what others think of me and if sometimes there are some laughs at my expense, so what? Enjoy it as my gift, freely given.

But I’m left with a guilty secret, which I have shared with very few people.
I rarely blush visibly any more, yet sometimes I still feel that hot red flush, but confined on the invisible inside of me rather than on the visible outside.
So I’m the only one who knows that I have once more embarrassed myself.
Because I do care what I think of me, of my internal thought processes and reactions.
And the terrible thing about thoughts is that you absolutely cannot unthink them.
No matter how hard you try, no matter how loudly you say to your self, oh how could I have thought that, it doesn’t evaporate.

Less often, I’m proud to report, but still occasionally my gut reaction is completely mortifying to me. It may be racial, ageist, sexist, and yes, homophobic. How can that be? I consider myself a totally inclusive person completely free of all prejudice.
Sometimes my unbidden thoughts are superior, scornful, mocking, derisive. How can that be? I consider myself a totally inclusive person completely free of judgment.
When these unthinkable thoughts leap up in me, I feel an embarrassment before myself so much worse than any I ever felt before others and that invisible red-hot lava curls around my guts.

Where do these thoughts come from? It’s as if some prehistoric part of me remains deep inside my psyche, some part which did not evolve along with the rest of me, thinking things which not only would I never dream of saying now, but I’m sure I never in my life would have said.
I doubt I will ever understand why this happens, and I guess the fact that I find it repulsive and horrifying says a lot in my own defense.

But going pink, or glowing crimson, has a whole lot deeper, scarier meaning to me than frequently flushed pink cheeks.

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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Queer, Just How Queer? by Ricky


     I am not the pejorative “queer” in any way, shape, or form. I may be a bit eccentric or odd to some people, but “queer,” never!


     I believe in God, America, and mom’s apple pie, that’s not “queer.” I believe in freedom, the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and mom’s homemade ice cream, that’s not “queer.” I believe in the Scout Slogan, Scout Oath, and the Scout Law, that’s not “queer.” I believe in baseball, basketball, football, and John Wayne, that’s not “queer.” I believe in hamburgers, hotdogs, and yellow potato salad, that’s not “queer.” I believe in Cheerios, Wheaties, and Baseball Nut ice cream, that’s not “queer.” I believe that love conquers all, that good triumphs over evil, and that much harm is caused by people who do not understand and do not live their professed religion, that’s not “queer.”


     I believe that my children love me and that they know I love them, that’s not “queer.” I believe that God loves me in spite of my shortcomings, that Jesus Christ died for my sins (yes, I do have some), and that I might live to see His return, that’s not “queer.” I believe in the King James Version of the Bible (as far as it has been translated correctly) and The Book of Mormon, that’s not “queer,” that’s religion. I believe in the inherent goodness of men, women, and friends, that’s not “queer,” a bit naïve maybe but not “queer.” 


     I am physically 64, psychologically 12, and love “G” rated movies, that is odd, but not “queer.” I believe that in spite of my foibles and shortcomings, I am a good person, that’s not “queer,” that’s confidence. I believe in Classical Music, Santa Claus, and Peter Pan, that’s odd or even eccentric maybe, but not “queer.”


     I believe in Superman, Batman, and in “fighting” for freedom, justice, and equality under the Law for everyone. I believe the Constitution exists to protect The People from the Government and the minority from the tyranny of the majority. None of this is “queer,” but it is Americanism. I believe that all elected officials convicted of crimes should be permanently ineligible to hold public office and I believe all stockbrokers, CEO’s and board members of corporations that engage in fraudulent activities or that go bankrupt should be held financially accountable to pay back stockholder losses from their personal accounts and the corporations dissolved, that’s not “queer,” that’s justice. I believe in honoring, obeying, and sustaining the law, that’s not “queer,” that’s good citizenship.


     No. I am not the pejorative “queer” in any way, shape, or form. I may be a bit eccentric or odd to some people, but “queer,” never! 


     However, I do have a penis fetish.


© 21 June 2012

About the Author
Emerald Bay, Lake Tahoe, CA

Ricky was born in 1948 in downtown Los Angeles.  Just prior to turning 8 years old, he was sent to live with his grand-parents 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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Queer? Just How Queer? by Colin Dale

     This question is so obviously a scientific one, although it goes against my nature, it’s only fair I give it a scientific reply. I did a little checking, and I see there is a Queer Scale, or Queer Magnitude Scale, just like there’s the Richter Magnitude Scale for earthquakes and the Saffir-Simpson Hurricane Scale for hurricanes. And just like with these other two scales, there are numbers indicating severity. For example, with the Richter Magnitude Scale you can have a 4.Oh to 4.9 earthquake, which, according to the Richter Scale, means a light earthquake, with noticeable shaking of indoor items, rattling noises, but no significant damage. With the Saffir-Simpson Hurricane Scale, you can have a Category 2 hurricane, which means winds of 96 to 110 mph, winds strong enough to lift mobile homes and snap the anchorages of small craft; extensive to near-total power outages are likely. Similarly, with the Queer Magnitude Scale, or QMS, you can have a 4.Oh to 4.9 queer, which means a light queer, with noticeable shaking of indoor items, rattling noises, but no significant damage. Or a Category 2 queer, strong enough to lift mobile homes and snap anchorages, but people living in brick homes or well-built high risers are probably okay.

     Now I’m going to take a look at my life–to see if I can answer this question: Just how queer am I? And for simplicity’s sake, so we don’t keep having to go back and forth, let’s just put the QMS (remember, that’s the Queer Magnitude Scale) up against the Saffir-Simpson hurricane scale, Categories 1, 2, 3, 4 and 5–5 being the meanest, toughest, most destructive.

     I started out like most of us, at puberty or maybe a little before, as a Category 1 queer. Now if I’d been a hurricane, that would have meant, as a queer just starting out, there would not have been much structural damage. Maybe a few shingles blown off, a few crushes on boys that made no sense, but that’s about it. According to the QMS, life, as a Category 1 queer, is almost always survivable.

     When I was a teen growing up in The Bronx, I got my first job: Christmas part-time in a suburban Macy’s; men’s dress shirts. There was this guy, my age–let’s call him Nicky B.–working the same evening shift. One night going home in a lightly falling snow, me to the elevated subway, Nicky B. to his home, which was within walking distance, Nicky B. grabbed my hand and led me into an apartment building and into a deserted stairwell where we had a little fun. That was my first time. And even though it was my first time, I liked it enough to know that I was now a Category 2 queer. If you recall, a QMS Category 2: small craft snap their anchorages. My anchorage had been snapped, all credit to Nicky B.

     I remained a QMS Cat 2 queer all through high school, all through my undergrad years, but then came Army and graduation to Category 3. Between the stairwell and the Army there had been a couple of Category 2.2’s and 2.6’s, but I can’t boast making it all the way to a Cat 3 until the Army. And Mark C. The setting is South Korea. Winter. Christmas Eve. (I’ve made it a practice to always upgrade my QMS at around Christmastime.) The officers’ club: a jumbo Quonset hut overlain with snow. Night: late enough so that all of us junior officers are morosely shitfaced . . .

     Before I bring Mark C. into the picture: according to the Saffir-Simpson Scale, a Category 3 hurricane is described as a “major hurricane,” capable of inflicting significant damage to a building “lacking a solid foundation,” to include the “peeling off of gable-end roofs” and the “penetration of inner curtainwalls.” Damage, according to Saffir-Simpson, can be “irreparable . . . “

     Enter: First Lieutenant Mark C., Alpha Battery commander, gruff, tough, recruiting-poster good-looking. He sits down next to Second Lieutenant Ray K., battalion adjutant (adjutant? that’s what they do with guys with English Lit. B.A.’s)–Second Lieutenant Ray K., self-conscious, mild, rapidly balding. A few whiskeys and First Lieutenant C. invites Second Lieutenant K. back to his hooch (hooch: Army lingo for quarters; quarters: regular people lingo for bedroom) to admire his new Samsung Acoustics Subwoofer Speaker System. We spend a quarter-hour tasting Wild Turkey and looking at the subwoofers; then turned–to my woozy surprise–to peeling off gable-end roofs and penetrating inner curtainwalls–definitely Category 3 stuff.

     I left the Army after Korea, Missouri, and Vietnam (Missouri being the most terrifying of the three). Toss in a couple of Category 3-point-this & that’s before I got to my QMS Category 4 level. Those point-this & that’s all happened after I’d moved to Colorado and was going to grad school: Western State in Gunnison, and, after that, D.U. . . .

     In fact, it was in the D.U. Theatre Department where I met Jake. No last initial needed. Jake was one-of-a-kind. The singular love of my life: five years younger, red-headed, perpetually cheerful, a fine actor and a frighteningly good cartoonist. You could say, when I met Jake, right then and there I applied for promotion to Category 4. Saffir-Simpson warns: “Category 4 hurricanes tend to produce more extensive curtainwall failures . . . ” (un-huh) ” . . . with some complete structural failures: some homes are leveled. There may be extensive beach erosion, with terrain flooded far inland. Total and long-lasting electrical and water losses are to be expected.” (un-huh) Jake and I were a couple for a long, long time. We were definitely QMS Category 4 queers. Had we the chance back then, we would have become Category 4 married queers. But we didn’t have that chance. We’d become QMS Cat 4’s about three decades too soon. But we had a good life together, Jake and I: Denver, New York, Denver again, San Diego, Seattle, and San Diego for a second time: a good, happy life.

     But, just like with hurricanes, the one-of-a-kind loves of a guy’s life–even Category 4 loves–sometimes move inland, their fierceness dissipate, their strong winds subside. Jake now does motion-capture animation with a film studio in Tel Aviv. He’s alone, living singly, and I’m genuinely sorry that’s true.

     I’ll stop here. I’ve never been a QMS Category 5 queer. I’m not sure what that would feel like. I know Saffir-Simpson says: “Category 5 hurricanes are the highest category of hurricanes. Complete building failures are a certainty, with some buildings totally blown away. Only a few types of structures are capable of surviving intact.” To be honest, I’m not sure I’d ever want to be a Category 5 queer. Katrina was a Category 5 hurricane. I’m afraid if ever I had a chance to be a Category 5 queer, I’d find myself, years–after my Mother of All Loves had moved inland–I’d find myself still waiting for some relief from the damage done to me, inside and out, still living among the debris of a Cat 5 relationship that was too wild, too strong, too indiscriminate.

     And probably still living in a F.E.M.A. trailer.

About the Author

Colin Dale couldn’t be happier to be involved again at the Center. Nearly three decades ago, Colin was both a volunteer and board member with the old Gay and Lesbian Community Center. Then and since he has been an actor and director in Colorado regional theatre. Old enough to report his many stage roles as “countless,” Colin lists among his favorite Sir Bonington in The Doctor’s Dilemma at Germinal Stage, George in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and Colonel Kincaid in The Oldest Living Graduate, both at RiverTree Theatre, Ralph Nickleby in The Life and Adventures of Nicholas Nickleby with Compass Theatre, and most recently, Grandfather in Ragtime at the Arvada Center. For the past 17 years, Colin worked as an actor and administrator with Boulder’s Colorado Shakespeare Festival. Largely retired from acting, Colin has shifted his creative energies to writing–plays, travel, and memoir.

      

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Prisoner C.3.3 – A True Queer Irishman by Pat Gourley

“The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself.”

Oscar Wilde from The Picture of Dorian Gray – 1891

     March 17th is the day many celebrate all things Irish and it has often been said that everyone is Irish on that day. It certainly has evolved for many into an excuse to get royally pissed, often on green beer. Though the exact year of St. Patrick’s death is somewhat a matter of conjecture there seems to be some historical agreement that the actual day was March 17th sometime in the 5th century.

     Snakes and shamrocks are often closely associated with Patrick. He may have actually used the shamrock to teach the mystery of the Holy Trinity, i.e. three-in-one. The shamrock was certainly a pagan symbol and as with so much of Christianity was co-opted by the new religion probably to enhance recruitment.

     The snakes are a bit more of a shaky matter. Post-glacial Ireland never had any snakes but Patrick gets credit for driving them all out of Ireland. One account relates that he may actually have hallucinated being attacked by snakes after completing a 40-day fast and then defeated them. That sounds about right to me. After a good night sleep and some real food and water the snakes were all magically gone.

     One thing historians agree on was that a young Patrick, a Brit actually and not Irish himself, was captured by raiding Irish pagans and hauled off from Roman Britain to Ireland where he spent several years as a slave. Eventually he did return to Ireland as a missionary. I think we can give him at least some credit or blame for converting Ireland to Catholicism although even this is contested by some. He certainly has become the patron saint of Irish Catholics.

     As a young Irish Catholic lad my coming out as queer was in retrospect heavily influenced and directed by that peculiarly intense version of guilt inducing religiosity, Irish Roman Catholicism. St. Patrick then for me represents in some ways a stifling religion that has done more than its share of oppressing Queer people.

     Though certainly not unique to Ireland or the Irish the whole messy and very sad kettle of fish that is clergy sexual abuse has really come home to roost in recent years in Ireland. The far-reaching tentacles of this perversion are currently in the press in the form of Cardinal Keith O’Brien and his resignation for inappropriate sexual advances. Cardinal O’Brien is Irish and was born in Northern Ireland. He recently resigned as the religious head of the Catholic Church in Scotland because of “drunken fumblings” of a sexual nature towards several other much younger clergy and students.

     This was apparently not a case of serial pedophilia and perhaps could even have elicited some sympathy for a man only able to address his gay sexual nature when drunk. An unfortunate but not infrequent manifestation of internalized homophobia still today. However, this guy’s self-hatred manifested itself only just a year ago in a public diatribe condemning the “madness of same sex unions and the tyranny of tolerance.” Sorry, no sympathy here, only pity.

     So on this St. Patrick’s Day I prefer to celebrate a different Irishman. Not one of the O’Brien’s of the Church or an old and largely mythological saint of a religion that is rapidly imploding into irrelevance. Rather I prefer to honor the legacy of a much more honest and open queer Irish man, Oscar Wilde (1854-1900), dramatist, novelist and poet.

     I acknowledge that what got Oscar in so much trouble, ending in a severe two-year prison term at hard labor, was in part the result of “yielding to his temptations”. Oh yes and then taking very queenly umbrage at being implicated as a sodomite by the father of one his young lovers.

     He decided to sue this man for libel. Obviously Oscar was not openly embracing his inner queer here, but it was the 1890’s in Victorian England. At trial things didn’t go so well. Wilde eventually ended up being charged and convicted of “gross indecency” and the charge of libel against the father of his lover dropped. Sodomy in those days in England was a felony. In the English penal system Wilde was Prisoner C.3.3.

     I would like to end with a couple more delicious quotes from Prisoner C.3.3:

“ Consistency is the last refuge of the unimaginative.”

“We are all in the gutter but some of us are 
looking up at the stars.”
“Scandal is gossip made tedious by morality.”

     Happy St. Patrick’s Day everyone and don’t forget to lift a pint to Oscar! His life I think on balance was a positive way to yield to temptations in a manner that keeps one’s soul from growing sick.

For St. Patrick’s Day, March 17, 2013

Oscar Wilde’s grave in Paris, France
Photo by Pat Gourley

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 am currently on an extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California.

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I Can’t Change it, Can I? by Gillian

TV images double time on the screen.
Grainy monochrome figures rushing to trenches,
cheering and laughing and slaps on the back.
Scrambling now into no-man’s-land,
not laughing but screaming, hanging on wire.
Then hobbling home, shell-shocked and shaking,
the lucky ones.

Well I can’t change it can I?
It’s all time gone by.
Have some more chips and dip.

TV images now retouched and colored.
Tough young GIs run and fall on the beaches
screaming for medics and mother and home.
Gazing now in horror at Auschwitz
turning skeletons free to a horrified world.
We must never forget we say and we mean it.
How soon we forget.

Well I can’t change it can I?
It’s all time gone by.
Let’s have some more popcorn.

TV images now moving in real time.
Countless dead in Rwanda and raped in Darfur
screaming for help while the TV world watches.
Is this now, is it real? We’re not quite sure.
I send ten dollars to an 800 number
that lies on the screen in the blood and the gore.
I can do no more.

Well I can’t change it can I?
It’s too far away.
Let’s have some more pizza.

TV images now look quite ordinary.
Our leaders all lie and our bankers are crooks
our country is broke, all except for the rich.
Gazing now in horror at Congress,
they fill their deep pockets, care nothing for us.

All that they want to do is what’s best for them.
I just ignore it.

Well I can’t change it can I?
It’s all gone too far.
Let’s have one more beer.

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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Wisdom of GLBT Identity by Ray S

     There is something intoxicating and dangerous about the forbidden. That has always been my pervading attitude while spending a lifetime in the confines of my padded cell closet of denial. That is until the closet door would squeak open just enough to allow a taste of the forbidden fruit (no pun intended) of gay indulgence.

     As far as wisdom and identity go I am reminded of a recent opportunity I had to hear a presentation by noted author and gay sex counselor Dan Savage in response to a note card from the audience which stated quite candidly, “I don’t want to be gay.” There was a vocal gasp from those in the entire auditorium. It was truly amazing, but with great aplomb Savage proceeded to elaborate on how it is a long process to accept the gay identity, especially when a person young or older is struggling with the social and sexual conflicts of homosexuality in American society.

     Here is the knowledge; that is, knowledge offered. First study and read and talk about the subject. Then, learn that it is not a learned trait, but a natural phenomenon within the development of the fetus. If one can get this far he will slowly begin to accept the reality. As he said about a number of sexual processes–”take it slowly.”

     After this step of learning and wisdom comes experience, understanding who you are, and being comfortable with being “different” especially when you learn you are not alone. This process can be very lengthy and some of us have difficulty slamming that closet door shut.

     In our growing up years there is a natural emphasis on our developing sexuality–in both the straight and gay worlds. With experience most of us discover that there are great rewards in the knowledge that homosexual relationships are much more than physical lust and needs.

     The wonder and beauty of our deep and abiding love for our chosen special person is universal in both worlds. This reads very idealistic and not always easily attainable, but certainly a rewarding goal to be strived for.

     This to me is the wonderful revelation of LGBT identity.

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How Queer Is Queer: Just Being Me by Donny Kaye

“SOME DUDES MARRY DUDES.  GET OVER IT”
“I HAVE A PHD. Pretty huge dick”
“BEST LICK ON A STICK”
“I LIKE GIRLS THAT LIKE GIRLS”

     These were some of the t-shirt messages I enjoyed while interacting with participants in this past weekend’s PRIDE celebration.  And the t-shirts?  The t-shirts don’t hold a candle to some of the titillating visual experiences of viewing participants in various costumes throughout the weekend.

     So, just how queer is queer? Can you ever be too queer? Is there an option to be or not to be? How Shakespearian!

     Yes!

     I am! Queer that is!

     It’s Friday night of PRIDE weekend and I’m walking down Colfax headed into the action, as it were. My youngest daughter has just text me saying “it’s your first dad” referring to it being PRIDE weekend. Actually last year was, she just didn’t know it!  Then, that is. And yet when I came out she was the one of my three children who said “I’ve always known dad”. In that instance I must’ve been too queer.

     That warm sunny Sunday afternoon in April over a year ago when I had my “I can’t stand it any longer” conversation with my life partner, she said “I wondered when I first met you”.  There must have been something there, I mean, like over-the-top in too queer.

     When I had breakfast with my dearest friend Grett who I’ve known since she was two years of age, amidst the tears and in the sense of shame in revealing to her that I kept the secret for far too long, she said “I’ve always known”. 

     There seems to be a pattern; partner, daughter, best friend, all seemed to have known. In fact when I consider the many coming out conversations I had with my “then” circle of friends” not too many were surprised. It was the confirmation that sent them scrambling! 
I don’t know if that was about me, or them, but definitely it was too much!

     And so this Friday afternoon as I walk through the cloudy streets in Denver headed into Friday night PRIDE celebrations I wonder about too queer and it being too much! In the question of too queer it seems more about them than it does about me, after all, I’m just being me.

     Yes, I do have an eye for design and color. I’ve always searched for just the right things to put together, like in clothing-wise and decorating-wise and in every-other-way-wise!

     If not HGTV and the shows on design always (or most of the time) presented by recognizably gay men, I enjoyed the food channel. Could that possibly be a tip-off, in terms of being too gay?

     Yes, I’ve always been on the sensitive side as my mother used to say. Even when I announced to my mom that I was getting married her response was, “Why do you want to get married? There is so much of life for you to experience!” I have an ability to listen to people and to intervene on others behalf as they need me. I sit and cry with them. I’ve always been able to put my arms around someone consoling them in their upset, doubt or grief.

     So, there you have it; my attention to design, my interest in food, the emotional sensitivities and then you add the fact that I’ve never liked sports, and I happened to choose a profession where I worked with women all the time–what else could you expect. Even before I began my career in education when I worked in the factory, I was one of the only stockmen who could keep all of my dyke female machine operators happy!! 

     Certifiably queer! I am just me! 

     The questions and the discomfort around my possibly being too queer really do rest with everyone outside of me and not really with me.  As I exist in that realization, I wonder if the pushback is about their doubt about themselves and the possibility that they are too much, in one way or another. Possibly at some point in their lives they’ve considered a variant sexual experience too! One thing for sure, I’ve certainly gotten their attention, if gaining attention is what the t-shirt slogans and the unique dress (or undress) are all about.

     When considering the question of “too much,” the actual realization is that the quality of being too much exists in the eyes and mind of someone outside of myself and then gets projected back onto me, making me wonder if I am too much!  Those dirty rascals!

     And so I ask you my dearest of friends am I “too queer” or might I just be BEING ME?

About the Author

Donny Kaye-Is a native born Denverite. He has lived his life posing as a hetero-sexual male, while always knowing that his sexual orientation was that of a gay male. In recent years he has confronted the pressures of society that forced him into deep denial regarding his sexuality and an experience of living somewhat of a disintegrated life. “I never forgot for a minute that I was what my childhood friends mocked, what I thought my parents would reject and what my loving God supposedly condemned to limitless suffering.” StoryTime at The Center has been essential to assisting him with not only telling the stories of his childhood, adolescence and adulthood but also to merely recall the stories of his past that were covered with lies and repressed in to the deepest corners of his memory. Within the past two years he has “come out” not only to himself but to his wife of four decades, his three children, their partners and countless extended family and friends. Donny is divorced and yet remains closely connected with his family. He lives in the Capitol Hill Community of Denver, in integrity with himself and in a way that has resulted in an experience of more fully realizing integration within his life experiences. He participates in many functions of the GLBTQ community.

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Going Pink by Ricky

Going Pink
    This
is an interesting keyword topic for this week’s writing assignment.  It has provided me with hardly any memories
to get some “story traction” or points-of-departure from which to expand
upon.  I told three members of this group
that I would probably write something that would turn everyone’s ears pink when
I read it to them.  Of course, they
laughed because they “knew” me well enough that I would not do that, but then
they also know me well enough that I am spontaneously unpredictable when it
comes to humor and joking around.  So,
maybe there is enough doubt in their minds about whether or not I would really
do it.  Well, the answer is…Yes! 
I did write one that will turn any listener’s or reader’s ears pink;
even hot pink.  Therefore, with that forewarning and, my
apologies to the ladies present, here goes. 
Oh wait, I just can’t say these pink ear producing words out loud so,
I’ll just let you read the story for yourself, if you dare.
One Day in the Woods

     One day when I was 13, I was walking
in the woods when I came upon two #$%%xs who were
doing the most amazing things to each other using their  )(&@#+!   #$#((&
and  $#@$#@.  Some of their actions were funny like when
they *&^^),   ^x@#$@, and  (&(^*%#!@#.  Other things they did, like
–C E N S O R E D by SAGE–  were
just  @$%**#&%@+.   !#$@$,   @^^%*(&,   @!@%^%, and *&*%$#@ 
were highly sensual and  **&*%&^$#.  Eventually, they %#&**^@)
and invited me to join them next time I was in the woods. 
The ^%$$)&@!> End
     Growing up at South Lake Tahoe was a real treat.  My first summer, I was my step-father’s deck
hand on his 38 foot cabin cruiser which he used to conduct all-day tours around
the lake.  After that summer, it was just
nice to live in the clear mountain air, play in the woods with my peers, and
eventually to live in a house, which was surrounded by woods with our next
neighbor being several hundred yards distant. 
That location I usually describe as “like living in the middle of
Central Park in New York City.”  But for all that mountain splendiferous
environment, we led basically a lower middle-class existence.
     As a result, we could not afford ski
equipment for me so I never learned to snow ski and thus could not join the
high school ski team.  Our school’s dress
code prohibited many things, like facial hair on boys and pants or Levis on girls.  However, during winter season’s cold months,
girls were allowed to wear pants. 
Because South Tahoe is a winter skiing Mecca for the “flat-landers,” we were all
exposed to the ski clothing fashions of the day.  During those months, nearly everyone, both
boys and girls, would wear ski pants to school.
     I didn’t get to wear any until my
senior year.  I still remember how much I
wanted a couple of pair of the skin-tight, stretchy, but not too tight fitting,
pants.  Before I got my pair, I had to
content myself (as did the girls) in checking out the telltale bulges in the boys’
pants, which left no mistake as to which leg they hung in or their circumcision
status.  I don’t know if I wanted to
“show off” my stuff or if I just wanted to fit into the “fashion” scene, but I
really wanted those pants.  In any case,
as I said, I finally got one pair my senior year.
     Another winter skiing fashion
necessity was the footwear for when skiing was over and everyone was relaxing
in the lounges of the various resorts. 
Again nearly all the kids in school were wearing the very comfortable
“after-ski-boots” except me again, until my senior year.  Most of the styles were very similar in
design, made out of leather, and the color was almost exclusively black or
brown.  But my after-ski-boots were of
the same design, in my favorite color, and made of suede.  That’s right. 
At 17 years old, I wore my one and only pair of – blue suede shoes.  (Thank you Elvis!)
Similar to Mine but Not an Exact Match
     I really liked those shoes, but they
really turned out to be a bad purchase as the things were not waterproof and
the blue dye stained all my white socks with blue splotches.  I wore them anyway.
     Picture this – a boy wearing black,
snug fitting pants, and blue shoes. 
Still, no one called me a homo or queer even though no one else wore
blue shoes.  This was probably due to the
fact that besides the snug fitting ski pants and blue after-ski-boots, I
usually wore long-sleeved flannel shirts of various plaid color combinations.  Since the prevailing stereotype of a
gay man or boy at the time was the limp wrist and fashion conscious poster
child, and I was clearly not either,  I was probably viewed as either being
hopeless or a nerd.
     I really loved those blue boots.  I never went pink, but on so many levels I went
blue.
© 7 August 2012  

About the Author

     Ricky was born in June of 1948 in downtown Los Angeles. He lived first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach both suburbs of LA. Just 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 his parents obtained a divorce; unknown to him.
     When united with his mother and stepfather in 1958, he 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, he moved to Denver, Colorado where he lived with his wife and four children until her passing 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 therapeutic.”
     Ricky’s story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com.