Tag: LGBTQA

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The Choir, by Phillip hoyle

For most of my life, choirs were my life. They were the musical thrills of my childhood and much of my adulthood. They were the place I felt most at home. They were the groups I most enjoyed being with. They were the main medium of my musical life. They were the focus of my extra time. They were the preoccupation of my auditory mind. They were the organizations I most effectively led. They were my access to a sense of worship. They were the most fulfilling aspect of thirty years of my ministry in the church. Choirs made everything else tolerable. They were the artistic center of my life.

I got my first choir when I was eighteen years old, a small group of volunteer singers who rehearsed one hour on Sunday evenings in preparation for the very simple needs of the First Baptist Church, Wamego, Kansas. But my relationship with choirs reached back to my first weeks of life, for I am sure I was present at church the first Sunday after my birth. Surely mom sat with me cradled in her arms in the second pew on the west side of the sanctuary while Dad played the organ for the service and my two older sisters sang the hymns. I’m sure I heard the choir sing and wonder if the harmonies were fixed in my ear from that first weekend’s experience. I wouldn’t be surprised for I could hardly contain my excitement when I joined the junior choir at that same church some years later. Although I was a good all-around student, my favorite times in school related to music class. There I learned songs. There I sang. There I played rhythm instruments. There I learned my first solo and when I had finished singing it for the PTA members, turned around and conducted the rhythm band in a Saint Patrick’s Day repeat of “McNamara’s Band.” My first solo, my first effort at conducting; I was so pleased.

Choirs took me to more than PTA and church. They took me to music festivals, to competitions, on tours, and they introduced me to many people. Choirs gave me opportunities to sing a wide variety of music: age-old classics, modern jazz arrangements, long works with orchestra, anthems with organs, motets unaccompanied, folk song arrangements, and unusual hymns. They introduced me to the musicianship and leadership of many choral directors from around the United States.

Leading choirs balanced my work needs. In my ministerial career I always had many more responsibilities in addition to the music. I looked after hospitalized folk, planned educational activities for groups of all ages, organized Sunday schools, trained teachers and leaders, encouraged youth workers, met with the staff of several congregations, supported the work of Senior ministers, directed residential summer camps, developed curriculum plans and wrote the resources, listened to people’s problems, handed out food to the needy, on and on. As an associate minister, I often administrated programs that were more related to other people’s ideas and visions rather than my own. The choir gave me a mid-week balance, for during rehearsals I could tell people to sit up, stand up, sit down, turn to page two, start singing at measure 36, modify their vowels, make lots of noise, sing softly, or completely shut up. Whatever needs I had to do things my way got satisfied during those mid-week rehearsals. I worked with the singers’ pitch, rhythm, sense of meter, phrasing, and general understanding of the music we performed. I elicited musicianship and artistic satisfaction from people who often didn’t have that much to offer. I sought always to make my singers better musicians. I helped them understand the needs of liturgy in a non-liturgical church. And I had fun. We had fun as artists together. Working with musical ensembles—whether made up of children, youth, adult, or seniors, whether signers or bell ringers, or the musical cast of a drama, or duets, trios, or quartets—brought me deep joy.

They also became my personal monitor. I had enjoyed a long, joyous, creative ministry in churches but knew it was time to quit when I started not wanting to go to my choir rehearsals, when I was no longer satisfied with those two or three in-tune measures or phrases, when I was no longer thrilled at the stumbling attempts of my earnest singers, when I was worn out rather than wafted on the wings of a dove. I continued working hard for a few months more, making music up to the last minute, then left.

I didn’t know what my life would be when I quit just before my fifty-first birthday, but I moved away from church music. I still like the sounds. I still can feel some kind of inspiration when hearing choral music, organ voluntaries, and massed choruses with orchestras. I still float along well turned phrases and salivate over delicious mellismas. I have the feelings; I just don’t need the work. Choirs still move me though now I rarely hear them perform. It’s the result of a change in life, but one I don’t regret. The choral spirit still abides in me, so much so that if this reading were the end of yet another choir rehearsal, we’d stand, sing an Amen, and go home.

Denver © 2013

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

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Where Do We Go from Here? by Pat Gourley

“Nothing new will be said here, nor have I any skill at composition. Therefore I do not imagine that I can benefit others. I have done this to perfume my own mind.”


Santideva; Bodhicaryavatara 1.2

I should really begin all my writings with this quote from Santideva, the 8th century Indian Buddhist monk, as a small way of reigning in my ego before putting pen to paper. I do though enjoy perfuming my own mind.

My first task in tackling this topic was to decide whom “we” is referring to. I suspect there was some group in mind by the person who suggested this phrase. I am going to take a bit of a leap here and define “we” as the LBGTQI etc. community.

I know it makes some folks skin crawl to here the word ‘Queer’ and I want to acknowledge that sensitivity but when it comes to ‘perfuming’ my mind I am quite lazy. The reclaiming of the word Queer, I think in the late 1980’s, in part by a group of often-younger AIDS activists was never perceived by me to be particularly offensive. It was an easy way to inclusively describe the many-headed beast that the community had evolved into particularly over the latter part of the 20th century.

And in this age of assimilation with major energy expended on marriage and military service, I find a bit of solace in the use of such a loaded reclaimed word. You really need to be member of the club to use it and get away with it even if it stirs a bit of dust especially if there are straight folks within earshot.

A significant part of queer-awakening at least since the mid-1800’s has been to define who “we” are and to come up with a suitable name for ourselves. This has been challenging and at times painful. Remember when The Center was started in the mid-1970’s the name was The Gay Community Center with ‘lesbian’ added a few years later and the B’s and T’s followed. Rather than add any more letters officially I vote for changing the name to The Queer Community Center of Colorado. I am not holding my breath for this change however.

Despite what seems like the mad rush toward respectability in the form of marriage equality and unfettered access to military service I am holding out hope that our intrinsic “otherness” will win out in the long run. Even for those who have opted for the marriage route after a couple of tours of duty in one of America’s many war fronts I think their queerness will bring unique and perhaps even evolutionary aspects to these petrified institutions. Our innate differences as queer people will win out. I doubt that many constructionist-leaning Queer Theorists are reading this but if they are I am sure their heads are exploding or perhaps more likely they are just dismissing my essentialist views with a snarky sarcastic sneer.

Since I am all about “perfuming” my own mind here I am inclined to approach this topic as more “where do I go from here”, since at the end of the day it seems to be all about me anyway. I have and am spending significant cushion time to overcome this ego driven view but there is still much work to do.

I will now make a pathetic attempt to cut myself some slack around my egocentric approach to life. I am a week away from turning sixty-seven years old and I have most likely been HIV positive since 1981, over half my life. I am here writing this in no small part due to the four different HIV meds I am on and that I take three of these antivirals twice a day. And then there are four other meds addressing the effects of the HIV meds and the fact that I have indulged in the standard toxic American diet for much of my 67 years.

Even though I feel quite well and for most of my waking hours having HIV is never on my mind I am forced to look it in the face twice every day when I take my meds. I am struck often by the fact that I am absolutely tethered to these pills and if I quit them I will succumb to my HIV. But then many folks in our society today are on meds that are required to keep them going. Certainly in part the answer to ‘where am I going’ absolutely involves getting older. And that has inevitable consequences.

So in an attempt to stay off my own pity-pot I really try to focus on the following bit of advice that was recently posted on that endless source of pop-cultural wisdom , Facebook: “Don’t regret growing older. It is a privilege denied to many”. Author Unknown.

© January 2016

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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Bumper Stickers, by Gail Klock

“Nobody knows I’m a Lesbian.”

“Don’t judge me based on your ignorance.”
“Focus on your own damn family.”
I’ve never placed a bumper sticker on my car, probably because I’ve been afraid to. I am not a person that engages well in confrontation and the type of bumper stickers I would place on my car would be confrontational. I guess it’s about paranoia, but when I get involved in an accident while driving, I want to know it’s an accident. If I had a bumper sticker on my car I would have thought the idiot that rear ended me, pushing my car 100 feet across traffic, and then fled the scene might have done it intentionally due to my bumper sticker. I’m not sure I would have turned my car around and followed the guy until he pulled over if I had placed my “confrontational” bumper sticker on my car. I probably would have continued on my way and paid for the damage myself to avoid the possible road rage or hate crime that might take place.

I like bumper stickers that make me think, even if they enrage me at the time. For example when I read bumper stickers like, “Women for Mitt Romney,” I have engaging conversations with myself trying to figure out how this can even be possible.

Maybe members from SAGE should partner up with the youth in Rainbow Alley; we could use bumper stickers as philosophical guides. I would like to share with GLBT youth the wisdom I have gained from years of experience, more or less the advice I would like to have received when I was a budding Lesbian and felt so alone and out of sync with the world. The first guide I would share would be, “If you hold onto your dreams too tight you’ll crush their tiny little ribs.” In keeping with aspirations I would add, “If your dreams don’t scare you a little they’re not big enough.”

I think of these dreams in terms of personal relationships, not career goals. I would have loved receiving input on what a gay relationship could look like- what were the possible dreams. The ultimate relationship dream, in my opinion, is marriage, or the ideals that marriage implies; commitment, caring, loving, etc. Now that marriage is a legal possibility will it lend structure to gay relationships? I would suggest to young lesbians that the 2nd date rent a U-Haul strategy does not fit within the big dream concept. Perhaps the big dreams should lead to more dating and possibly engagements? Maybe it will lead to fewer mismatched relationships that are based more on fear and/or passion.

“Be yourself, imitation is suicide.” This speaks to me of coming out of the closet. It speaks of Gay Pride Parades and activities when GLBT individuals can begin to feel a sense of pride in who they are, yes to face our heterosexual friends and enemies and proudly think to ourselves, “I’m sorry you don’t get to be me, because it is a real privilege.” To imitate someone else, either through sexuality or other unique parts of your own being is suicide, it is a killing off of that which makes each person unique and special.

I recently saw the movie, “The Imitation Game.” I can’t begin to put into words how much this movie affected me, how much I related to it. It was so true to what I’ve witnessed in the world, the belittling of people who are different, tearing them down and making them feel worthless. I saw it in my teaching daily and in my home life with my oldest brother who was very intelligent, and not so socially savvy. I have contemplated several times since seeing this movie what Alan Turing endured as a youth, and what he contributed to the world. At the conclusion of the movie it speaks of how many lives he probably saved, which moved me to tears. Perhaps he did more than save the lives of millions; perhaps he changed the course of the world. What if Germany had won and Nazism had prevailed? I’m thankful Turing remained true to himself in spite of the torture he experienced and I’m sad beyond belief that it cost him his life.

“Speak your mind, even if your voice shakes.” I’ve always believed in this piece of wisdom, and often my voice shook as I spoke. I also carried it out in my teaching. I emphasized that all voices were of value, that the class would be more meaningful if we heard the ideas of all. I had a very shy young woman in a class I taught at Springfield College. She didn’t raise her hand to contribute until midway through the course. Upon conclusion of her shaky comment the entire class spontaneously applauded her efforts. It was one of the moments of my teaching career which made me happiest.

“Don’t die wondering.” As a coach I often preached against the “could haves”, “should haves”, and would haves”. The idea was to leave nothing on the court, to prepare and play each moment at your best. If this was accomplished you had succeeded. The score of the game didn’t matter as much as overcoming the fear of failure and playing your heart out. I don’t want to die wondering if I could have accomplished all I wanted to in life. I had a reoccurring dream many years ago which has stayed with me. These dreams always involved strategies of reuniting with my brother in heaven. I was in line at the pearly gates talking with strangers, begging, cajoling, and carrying out a number of acts unnatural and uncomfortable to me in order to get ahead in line, because I wanted to be with Karl again as soon as possible. A few years back I had another dream. I was in a rugged terrain with my brother and I had the opportunity to stay with him. But to accomplish this feat I had to jump over a deep and wide ravine. Karl took off with ease and bounded over the ravine. I was too afraid to try. The trauma of the dream woke me from a dead sleep. I knew when thinking about it, it represented my desire to let go of my past, to have faith in the future in order to accomplish what I want today in life. It is extremely hard to let go of the past with traumatic events, to move on from the strategies that provided stability to you as a child but no longer work as an adult, to those which are untried- to leap across the ravine. I’d rather die leaping than wondering!

© 12 November 2015

About the Author

I grew up in Pueblo, CO with my two brothers and parents. Upon completion of high school I attended Colorado State University majoring in Physical Education. My first teaching job was at a high school in Madison, Wisconsin. After three years of teaching I moved to North Carolina to attend graduate school at UNC-Greensboro. After obtaining my MSPE I coached basketball, volleyball, and softball at the college level starting with Wake Forest University and moving on to Springfield College, Brown University, and Colorado School of Mines.

While coaching at Mines my long term partner and I had two daughters through artificial insemination. Due to the time away from home required by coaching I resigned from this position and got my elementary education certification. I taught in the gifted/talented program in Jefferson County Schools for ten years. As a retiree I enjoy helping take care of my granddaughter, playing senior basketball, writing/listening to stories in the storytelling group, gardening, reading, and attending OLOC and other GLBT organizations.
As a retiree I enjoy helping take care of my granddaughter, playing senior basketball, writing/listening to stories in the storytelling group, gardening, reading, and attending OLOC and other GLBT organizations.

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I’ll Pretend, by Carlos

I’ll Pretend. Pretending is Safer Than Believing

A Response to “The Coddling of the American Mind” by Greg Lukianoff and Jonathan Haidt

September 2015 issue of The Atlantic

Words have always been a weapon that have cleaved into my soul. And although they embedded themselves securely within me like talons seeking out their prey, they have also resulted in cauterizing and defining.

Throughout my formative years, words sneered at me as they dropped like hot saliva from the lips of those who recognized in me what I did not yet recognize in myself. As a child, my uncle, lashing out at his own covert homosexuality or perhaps in a subconscious need to rescue me from the demons that fed upon him like maggots on carrion would refer me to as a maricón out of earshot of my parents. And, yes, I guess I was a maricón since I preferred practicing my violin, reading, and working the soil with my mother, to playing war games with neighborhood boys who smoked surreptitiously and smelled of stale urine. I guess I was a maricón since I enjoyed bathing with my mother’s heady, exotic soap and was more interested in learning words from the pages of my books than ripping them out to use as spit wads. In a burst of unrestrained anger one day, finding myself alone in the front garden, my uncle approached me, grabbed my testicles and with a pen knife he brandished, threatened to emasculated me, to castrate me, to shame me into manhood. Feeling violated, I lashed out angrily, and even though I was blinded by my tears, I managed to reach for rocks with which I drove him off, pelting him and yelling childish obscenities at him as he fled. We never spoke of it again, and he never touched me again, though the memory of his words and actions defined my childhood.

In high school, I was a natural target, studious, sensitive, and vulnerable. I was lonely, having no friends except for an occasion outsider like me. I preferred the company of men who visited weekly on our black-and-white Zenith, men such as the principled and compassionate Richard Chamberlain from Dr. Kildare, the brooding romantic-lead Joel Crothers from Dark Shadows, the masculine cigar-smoking John Astin from The Addams Family. Often, I would find safe niches at school simply to be alone or would slip away from the building during lunch and walk the streets free from judgmental eyes. At such times, I would soar away, always aware that soon enough the back-to-class bell would demand my return back to the realities that mocked at me with derision. I discovered that I did not like to company of other boys, for cruelties erupted more virulently at such gatherings. In my physical education classes, I was constantly subjected to words like joto and maricón and was always the last one chosen to participate in team activities but the first assaulted on the the field or taken down on the wresting mat by would-be assassins. Although I never missed a single day of high school, at 3:30 when classes were over, I ran toward home like a runner pursued by contempt. Needless to say, graduation became my reprieve, and I never looked back, never sought to reconnect with those years of imprisonment that further defined my childhood.

In college and in the U.S. Army during the Vietnam years, out of fear of discovery, I carefully hid my occulted secret, like a Hershey’s milk chocolate kiss hidden under a veneer of silvery foil. My grades suffered during my sophomore year at the University of Texas when I started to recognize that I might have homosexual longings. Although I spent many hours beseeching God to release me from the nightmares into which I was awakening, ironically I would walk home from the university, hoping that one day my knight-on-a white-charger would pull up and vanquish my fears, offering me the chalice containing a spirited distillation of self-love and acceptance. Unfortunately, my first tangible connection with a homosexual man was at a greasy spoon where I worked as a dishwasher when I was fifteen. Alone one night, the cook approached me with lust in his hand. Even though I longed to unravel the skein of curiosity, my fears compelled me instead to bolt out the door and never return. Nonetheless, I concluded erroneously, that the words directed against people like me by the cultural, political and religious pundits truly reflected a valid identity. I concluded homosexuals did, in fact, succumb to deviance, mental illness, and antisocial criminal tendencies. The words directed toward me became ingrained within me. They served to exclude me from mainstream society while simultaneously include me in the pathologies of negative stereotypes. Even in the army, I remained closeted in my self-hated. Being that I was company clerk, I once had to sit in an initial court martial investigation of two fellow soldiers who had been caught in a homosexual interlude. I sat at my desk dutifully taking in their testimony on my shorthand pad, which I was then expected to transcribe and submit as evidence of their crime. Although I maintained my military composure, I wanted to reach out to them and assure them they had a friend in the room, but words I heard thrust at them, homosexual, deviant, abnormal, aberration, sodomy ultimately made a coward out of me. No doubt, the transgressors, like me, feared the degradation of being classified as degenerates destined to trudge through life as neurotic, pitiable, psychologically damaged deviants of society. We recognized one word directed at us from the medical, psychiatric, and psychological field would result an an immediate and humiliating dishonorable discharge that would only serve to catapult us into further socially unacceptable isolation and self-recrimination. A few days later, I saw them dispiritedly walk away after their court martials, having been pilloried publicly by the stigmatizing actions of society. Once again, words defined my life.

I recognize that in spite of the power of words to burn like iodine on a raw wound, those words can also disinfect. Of course, the targeted victim can practice cognitive behavior therapy, thus minimizing distorted thinking and seeing the world more accurately. Of course, he can tell himself that The Buddha taught that our life is a creation of our mind. Of course, she can remind herself of Marcus Aurelius’ powerful words, “Life itself is but what you deem it.” However, it’s not that simple since even when a victim learns to practice mindfulness, the continued sting of envenomed words linger like burns inflicted by chemical terrorists. In my case, I was somewhat fortunate, but I suspect I was an anomaly. Throughout my life, words of derision have been directed at me whether because of my being gay or Latino or simply because I’m a ready target. When a large percent of ethnically diverse candidates, myself included, were hired to teach in Jefferson County Schools in 1980, only after the courts had recognized discriminatory hiring practices in the District and mandated changes, I frequently heard vitriolic words from my new teaching colleagues, as well as from students and their parents. Words like greaser, wetback, non-English qualified, spic, beaner, and the list goes on ad nauseam, vomited out and were quietly broomed into the closet. In 1986, I was recognized as one of the outstanding District teachers of the year. Of course, whispers swooped down like birds of prey that I had been nominated only because Jeffco sought to demonstrate political correctness. Although I agreed that I was meant to be a symbol of inclusiveness, I accepted the award, not only on my behalf, but on the behalf of the untold numbers of the past who had sacrificed for me. In addition, I recognized that in my own way, I offered a hand-hold to future generations. One facet that has consistently defined my struggles is that words have been the challenge that have nonetheless prompted me to action. Nevertheless, I allowed myself to believe, to pretend, that I could thrive within my carapace in spite of the tenderness of my lacerations. Unfortunately, words are harpoons that remain forever lodged in a fragile psyche. Although my wounds allowed me to become strong and resilient, I believe that if only my detractors had not directed misguided words at my still healing scars, I would not have been weighed down by fears of self-revelation. I might not have squandered so much energy attempting to prove myself, so much energy doubting my own abilities. As César Chávez said, “We draw our strength from the very despair in which we have been forced to live. We shall endure.” To that I add, but why should we have to endure such despair?

© January 2016 Denver

About the Author

Cervantes wrote, “I know who I am and who I may choose to be.” In spite of my constant quest to live up to this proposition, I often falter. I am a man who has been defined as sensitive, intuitive, and altruistic, but I have also been defined as being too shy, too retrospective, too pragmatic. Something I know to be true. I am a survivor, a contradictory balance of a realist and a dreamer, and on occasions, quite charming. Nevertheless, I often ask Spirit to keep His arms around my shoulder and His hand over my mouth. My heroes range from Henry David Thoreau to Sheldon Cooper, and I always have time to watch Big Bang Theory or Under the Tuscan Sun. I am a pragmatic romantic and a consummate lover of ideas and words, nature and time. My beloved husband and our three rambunctious cocker spaniels are the souls that populate my heart. I could spend the rest of my life restoring our Victorian home, planting tomatoes, and lying under coconut palms on tropical sands. I believe in Spirit, and have zero tolerance for irresponsibility, victim’s mentalities, political and religious orthodoxy, and intentional cruelty. I am always on the look-out for friends, people who find that life just doesn’t get any better than breaking bread together and finding humor in the world around us.

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Breaking into the Gay Culture, by Will Stanton

Breaking into the gay culture. I have no idea what that means. I suppose one first would have to define “gay culture.” I’m not sure what that is, either.

Does that mean living in San Francisco and being 99% nude in a parade? Does it mean hanging out in gay bars and trying to pick up tricks, perhaps even resignedly going home with a nameless body at 2:00 A.M.? Does it mean late-night roaming of Cheesman Park, or hanging out around men’s restrooms? Does it mean wearing rainbow colors, or lots of gay bling announcing to the world that my orientation may be different from yours? Is this that “gay culture,” especially as defined by uninformed or homophobic people?

On the other hand, could it mean that wealthy, cultured, and well educated gentleman who is bored by the bar scene and, instead, sits in the balcony of the Met Opera with a group of black-tie friends and then throws exclusive after-opera parties at his magnificent home? Or, does it refer to someone like billionaire, arms-industrialist Alfred Krupp enjoying the view of a dozen naked, young boys splashing in his swimming pool, flaunting the draconian anti-gay laws of early-20th-century Germany?

Or finally, can it mean a bizarrely inverted and destructive so-called “un-gay culture” populated by outwardly-straight army generals, fundamentalist preachers, homophobic Republican senators, or “pray-to-cure therapists,” anyone who fears or denies his own orientation that he does not understand or is willing to accept?

One obviously visible part of gay culture that I certainly respect is those persons who work for gay civil rights and to educate the otherwise ignorant public. Such work may expose them to ridicule or worse. Or at least, that dedication may dominate their lives and take up most of their time, possibly denying them the opportunity to pursue other, more personally rewarding directions.

For those gays, however, who may have realized their orientation but who have not found much of a of a life beyond it, I would hope that “gay culture” is not defined by unproductive pursuits for frequent sex partners, short-term relationships, beer-busts, and constant gay social events. Human lives should mean much more than that.

It seems to me that the natural, healthful approach for viewing one’s orientation is that it is simply one element of a person’s personality and thinking, that it does not have to dominate one’s mind. Consequently, choosing friends, joining clubs, selecting careers, interests, and hobbies does not have to be determined primarily upon whether they are considered to be gay or straight activities. After all, any psychologist or biologist worth his salt now knows that sexual orientation is not binary, not black or white; it is fluid, running the spectrum of thinking, feelings, and behavior. I could be mistaken, but perhaps some individuals think of Story Time more as a gay writers’ group. I chose to join because I prefer to view it simply as a means of telling our worthwhile, human stories. The human experience often contains universal elements not limited by gay or straight.

Denver, © 21 July 2012

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

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Coming Out Spiritually, by Phillip Hoyle

I started revealing my gay self in a religious context subtly when I suggested in a church course on sexuality that we might want to think of bi-sexuality as the conceptual norm for our inquiry. That would make good use of Dr. Kinsey’s scale arising from his 1950s research into American male sexuality and would give us as a group a more flexible way to read the books we were going to consider. I had structured the group on a seminar model providing a small library of books from which each participant could select to use as a source in our discussions. To me it seemed like I was opening the closet door just a crack. It made sense in the church where I worked, a broad church in that it gathered conservatives, moderates, and liberals together for worship, study, and service, a congregation that historically hired moderates and liberals for their ministerial staff. We talked together for those weeks trying to understand ourselves, our kids, our society. We kept the peace as we did so. My wife participated in the study.

A few years later I wrote for our church’s publisher an adult study piece that included varying spiritual perspectives. I made sure there was a gay presence in that manuscript as well as many other points of view and experience. In another congregation I wrote a discussion guide for an adult group studying the book Is the Homosexual My Neighbor? by Letha Dawson Scanzoni and Virginia Ramey Mollenkott (HarperCollins, 1994). While there I also edited a study paper on homosexuality prepared by a group in our regional church. Throughout my years of ministry I thankfully accepted homosexual musicians into our choir lofts and worked with several gay and lesbian organists. Thirty years into my career, when finally I attended the annual meeting of the Association of Disciples Musicians, my wife feared our marriage might be over. Whatever I believed I was doing, she seemed sure I was coming out.

Eventually our marriage did come apart, and soon after that sad experience and while in good standing in our denomination I left active ministry having dedicated many creative years to the work of our local churches. I was going to live an openly gay life and chose to do so as a lay person rather than clergy. I assumed I’d find a nice liberal congregation somewhere near my home on Capitol Hill in Denver and started attending services—church shopping as it were—something I’d observed many lay persons do. While searching for an apartment, I had walked the neighborhood and noted what churches were there. I decided to look away from the denomination rather than within it.

One Sunday I walked down to the First Baptist Church with its beautiful brick Georgian building featuring sturdy brown granite pillars on the façade and a very tall spire on top. I liked their location right across from the State Capitol building and near my home. There I found a worn out building in which gathered a nice group of worn out people who seemed to be tolerating their rather average rock band that asked them to sing songs they barely knew. I watched and listened to everything and decided not to return mainly because they were in an interim period between Senior Ministers. I’d suffered too many interim ministers during my career and couldn’t see how suffering theirs would promote my spirituality.

I went to St. John’s Episcopal Cathedral with its soaring rock towers and magnificent stained glass windows, a virtual symbol of a life of prayer. There I was rather thrilled with the organ and choir music but seriously put off by the sin and redemption language of the liturgy, ideas I had long ago set aside. Furthermore, in my move to Denver, I had got rid of most of my fancier clothes and realized I really did not want to fit into a dress-up social group. I knew it was not what I was looking for, besides I just didn’t have the kind of ritual liturgical need to which Episcopalians and many gay men respond in such churches.

The next Sunday I decided to visit the mostly-gay Metropolitan Community Church. I knew the history of that movement and realized that while it might be too conservative for me, it offered an open social environment. I was pleased with the organ music, entertained by the presence of a couple of drag queens in the choir, responsive to the tone and style of the sermon, and even received communion at the altar. I loved the enthusiastic singing of the congregation (couldn’t say the same for the choir even though I tried hard not to be a musical snob) and I especially liked being surrounded by gays, lesbians, transgendered persons and, I assumed, a bunch of bi-sexual folk. Knowing I was way over-loaded with needs and experiences related to my many recent changes, I decided to attend that nice group for a few weeks wondering if it might be for years. Week after week I smiled, laughed, felt sad, shed tears, and eventually found a kind of spiritual equilibrium that was helpful as I began living more deeply into my life as a gay man, a massage student, a friend of new gay and straight acquaintances, an artist, and a writer. When within a few months I quit crying in church and then began to be irked by the language of the little bit of liturgy they used there, I realized I had more things to deal with in my spiritual coming out. Long had I been displeased by the language of most churches and with doctrinal constructs that pervaded the worship, even that of the Disciples of Christ with whom I had worked. I hated the exclusionary aspects of words that were used, innocently and thoughtlessly too often. I realized my relationship with the church had now become more receiver than giver, and I didn’t like what I was receiving. Still the sermons sparkled, but the song texts, anthem lyrics, and weekly-repeated words of the communion service were becoming onerous to me. I had failed to become an official member of the congregation—it seemed somehow too soon—and realized I needed to look further into the church community to see what I could find.

I began attending the First Unitarian Church and found one of their preachers really communicated to me as she spoke from a liberal, open, Christian point of view and seemed herself to be working on the same kinds of spiritual and theological themes and experiences as was I. The rest of what was happening around me in that congregation I found neutral and uninspiring. Even in that most liberal atmosphere I stumbled over language, like when the choir sang an anthem of Anglican origin (one of my musical favorites) that ended with a very Trinitarian blessing, “Glory be to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Ghost.” Etc. The words had been rewritten but they were still Trinitarian in their form and actually in their meaning. I knew choir directors and singers were rarely theologians, but to hear barely de-Trinitized words in a Unitarian service? It seemed too corny to me. Since I couldn’t attend weekly due to a part-time job, I missed quite a few weeks in a row. When I returned on an Easter Sunday (of course, it was not really Easter at a Unitarian church) I found that their sparkling preacher had left and a nice but bland interim minister was now in place for several months. I didn’t relate to anything said in that service and chose not to return. Certainly I was not going to be spiritually nurtured there.

Now I know that others cannot make one spiritual. The ultimate responsibility for spirituality is located in the experience and imagination of the individual—you see ultimately I’m very Western, very American. I saw clearly that my own sense of spirituality, quality, and meaning was going to have a tough time being met within any church group. Of course, I was not un-used to that having been who and whatever I always have been. I thought about this a lot and within a year or so realized that my new spiritual congregation was made up of a group of friends with whom I drank coffee and occasionally went out and of my group of massage clients whose aches and pains—and often confessions—I dealt with as I rubbed into their skin oils, lotions, and love. The focus of my spirituality changed due to my participation in my new major community made up mostly of gay, lesbian, transgendered, and bisexual people.

© Denver, 2013

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

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Compulsion, by Gillian

At bottom, my personality is not one to encompass compulsion. I am essentially too laid back, too relaxed, and also too logical and pragmatic, to be driven to do something which is not logically in my best interest. Or, as one definition has it, against one’s conscious wishes. I don’t generally let myself go in that direction; and Lord help anyone who tries to push me.

Yeah, that sounds good. Like most such statements, it is not exactly the whole truth and nothing but. It needs a little qualification.

What do I know? What can I know? I who spent the first forty-odd years of life playing a part, pretending to myself and everyone else that I need not be, in fact was not, the person I was born to be. Simply acting a part, of course I was not prey to compulsion. I was not affected by really strong emotion of any kind. An actor pretends an emotion; plays at having it, but does not truly, deep down in the soul, feel it.

When eventually I came out to myself, I must honestly admit, it was completely compulsive. I have often described it as being swept up on the cow-catcher of a run-away train; going wherever it took me, without conscious choice – and that most certainly is acting compulsively.

I cared not a jot whether coming out to the world as quickly and loudly as I could was, in fact, in my best interest. Many of us, had we looked at our coming out in the clear light of logic, would probably have stayed firmly in the closet. On the whole. it was not a welcoming world awaiting us out there.

For some time after coming out, my behavior remained compulsive. For the first time in my life, I fell madly in love. And love, or at least it’s for-runner, infatuation, surely is pure compulsion: we are compelled to pursue that person, to be with her every minute of every day, to make it last forever. Fortunately, as we settle into a less dramatic true love which goes so very much deeper than infatuation, we are able to swim free of that rip-current of compulsion and return to a more rational frame of mind.

I say fortunately because, as I began by saying, my personality is not really a good fit for compulsion. I am uncomfortable with it. It scares me. On the other hand, I have just said that the two best things I have done in my entire life – coming out and loving Betsy – resulted from irresistible compulsion. And now I think more about it, I’m not sure that Betsy would agree that I am so free of compulsive behavior. Yes, I am a wee bit obsessed with photography. And screaming Stop!! Turn around! at Betsy in the center lane of 80 mile an hour freeway traffic because we’ve just passed a perfect photo op. just might be construed as not acting in one’s own best interest!

© September 2015

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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Once Upon a Time, by Gillian

Progressive Dinner parties were the in thing, at least with my social group, once upon a way back when. I guess they’re still around, but I haven’t been involved in one in decades. It must have been the 1970’s when I was, because I was still married to my husband and living in Jamestown in Boulder County. Did you ever get caught up in those things?

Between about ten and twenty people gather, say, at our house. We have a drink or two to kick off the evening. Cocktails were popular then, though beer was always my drug of choice; or becoming a wino held a certain appeal, but I never cared for mixed drinks. Most of us, of course, puffed cigarettes as we chugged our drinks in those carefree days. After all, you’re already wrecking your liver so what’s the point in worrying about your lungs? From Jamestown we convoy to, say, South Boulder. There we gather at another home for hors d’oevres and another drink. Then on to Longmont and another home for what I think we called, back then, the main course, or simply dinner, the term entree not coming along until later. And, needless to say, more drinks. And off to Lafayette, then still a small town out in the sticks, for desert and after-dinner drinks, then to one of those new things called condos for a night cap. Finally off home in different directions, not a designated driver in sight. By some miracle no-one ever had an accident amongst all this. Nobody even got a drunk driving ticket. But of course in those days, even if you were spotted weaving your way along the center line, it usually earned you little more than an urge to be more careful next time, which you knew you could translate freely as, be more careful not to get caught next time.

In the here and now, Betsy and I might go to East Denver in the morning, to take an old friend who can no longer drive, out for lunch. On the way home perhaps we’ll make a detour to deliver a favorite candy bar to another old friend in a nursing home. Not so very different from a Progressive Dinner, is it? OK, maybe, but at least we’re sober. There is nothing good about the headline, “Great-grandmother arrested for drunk driving.”

Once upon a time, my calendar was covered in scrawled names, places, and times. But only around the edges. Essentially everything was crammed into evening and weekends. The big black hole in the middle was all WORK, leaving little opportunity for personal life. The other little squares were crowded with ferrying kids to endless varieties of activities, and adult celebrations.The future was looking wide and bright on a limitless horizon, and we were ready! We celebrated friends’ new jobs, new cars, new babies, new homes, new marriages, new lovers, and new divorces: promotions, graduations, undreamed of vacations.

In the here and now, the calendar on the fridge looks very similar. Except that it’s reversed. All the crowded-in names and places and times are in the middle, in that space once occupied solely by WORK. The outer squares are largely empty. We, like many older people, really do not like to drive after dark unless absolutely necessary. So we, and our friends and those accommodating family members, plan most things so that we can get home before dark. Somewhat in the same way, if not to the same extent, we tend to schedule activities on weekdays. Weekends are all crowded out with those wild young working folks who have to be accommodated so that they can keep on paying our Social Security.

If we are among the really fortunate, our children’s calendars are now covered in times and places they are ferrying us. The very fact that we’re still here means we are still having birthdays.

We probably still go on great vacations, but although many of us continue our education in one form or another, we don’t bother much about promotions and graduations – our own, that is. Our celebrations have taken on a different view. They tend to be celebrations of the past rather than future.Our calendars have a few too many memorials scheduled on them, our friends number among them too many now living alone, and if someone is moving it is usually to somewhere smaller, and sometimes to a place where they really do not want to be.

So the once upon a way back whenever was a much better place than the here and now? I’d go back in an instant given the chance?

NO WAY!!

For one thing, there’s one mighty steep learning curve I had to struggle my way up between there and here. I never want to have to do that again. And anyway, I sincerely love life, here and now.

Yes, the calendar has a few too many memorials and hospital visits, but it still denotes many other wonderful things – like Monday afternoons. The dates I now keep with friends seem so much more meaningful somehow than the endless get-togethers of my youth. The people mean more to me. In reviewing the memories of those Progressive Dinners, I realized that, other than my ex-husband, I couldn’t recall who any of the people were. Back then, anything that happened was just another excuse for a party rather than a true celebration of the event, or even the people involved. A “Celebration of Life” as we like to call memorials these days, has a whole lot more sincerity about it, and in some ways more true joy, than all that meaningless round of long ago parties.

No, of course they were wonderful times. My life has been great, I have terrific memories. But, from my current viewpoint, I have to say it seems almost as ridiculous to wish I were in my twenties as it would for someone twenty-five to yearn to be seventy-five.

© May 2015

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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Handy, by Betsy

I love my family and am proud of my heritage. However, the truth is that I come from a long line of unhandy men and women. I have no recollection of my grandfather, my father, my brother, my husband, my son, uncle, any male cousins, and likewise no females in my family ever fixing anything. They could handle a bad situation and maybe make it better, but never was there a soul in my family who could physically fix an object that was physically broken. They could fix things that were in their realm of expertise such as a human body in the case of my doctor husband and son. My husband and son are MD’s, my father was a businessman and expert in forestry, my grandfather was a businessman. One grandfather, my father’s father, possibly was a man who could be handy around the house. He was an engineer. The problem was that he was always off in some other part of the world building tunnels and bridges, never around the house.

Isn’t there always supposed to be a man around the house who can fix the plumbing, the squeaky door, the stuck window, the lawn mower that doesn’t start, the car that doesn’t start.

It was late in life that I decided maybe I could take on the role of Ms. fix-it. After all, if I failed, I could just say it’s in the DNA. At least I tried. But it turns out that I have been able to fix quite a few things. The key is in having the right tools and knowing what tools should be used for a particular job. I have lots of tools out in my garage—screw drivers, hammer, power drill, chisels, pliers, cutting devices of all sorts, etc. but these are only a percentage of the total number of household tools that actually exist.

One way I have learned something about fixing things is to find a hardware store where they actually give service other than taking your money. Once in the store to ensure the successful completion of a do-it-yourself repair be sure you can describe the problem to the hardware clerk, have the right measurements and sizes, or take the fixture or whatever with you. Find someone knowledgeable who can tell you what tools and parts are needed and how to do it. Often these guys are retired plumbers, carpenters, handymen or such and they are only too happy to demonstrate their knowledge and skill.

When I retired I took up cycling. I soon found myself training for a cross country trip. I learned very quickly at that time that it is a must to be able to fix whatever, change a flat tire, or put a chain back on track, or apply oil when needed, make adjustments when problems arise and you are in a remote place like the middle of the Mojave Desert.

The truth is I really enjoy fixing things. I feel quite creative when I succeed. Many years ago I took up furniture refinishing. I found it a very satisfying activity. Buying old furniture and putting it back together I find to be much more satisfying than assembling a new piece of furniture—the kind you buy on line and have delivered to your door by Fed-ex. Once you open the box (and you do need a special tool for that) you look at the myriad of parts, screw, fixtures that hold them together, scratch your head and decide you will be forced to look at the instructions.

A year ago or so driving by a house in our area we saw an old table at the curb not able to stand on its own, parts lying on the ground, covered in some awful kind of old black varnish and what looked like brown paint. A Tattered hand drawn sign hung crookedly saying “free, take me home. I once was beautiful.” It looked like it could be just the table we needed for our entry way. But it was in terrible condition. I said to Gill, “I can glue that table back together, refinish it, and we’ll love it!” I knew I could glue it because I had the right clamps left over from the old days. The clamps, unused, had moved with me many times over the years. I could now justify holding on to them for 2 decades. We did gather up the table and I did glue it together and refinish it and it is beautiful again—and useful. Very satisfying indeed!

I recently fixed some non-working, ancient door handles when I visited my daughter in Atlanta.

She and her partner had been keeping one door closed with duct tape for weeks—knowing I would be coming there for a visit soon. “Mom can fix it.”

Perhaps the women should have been the fix-it handy persons I could have emulated—but didn’t— as I was growing up. I say could have because the women of past generations did not engage in such activities. Maybe in the kitchen, but certainly not in the shop or the garage. Women were not supposed to get their hands dirty—not even in the garden. In addition to that women were not considered to be sufficiently strong or adept at such things as hammering, drilling, screwing, or working out mechanical puzzles.

Fortunately gender roles have become more relaxed since the late 20th century. My own ex husband was not at all rigid about gender roles. He thought nothing of cooking dinner while I chopped the wood for the fire. I know he was an exception. But why not share roles especially if you enjoy it and are good at it.

I’m not sure how young hetero couples are these days when dealing with gender roles. For those secure in their sexuality, probably they are relaxed and comfortable with sharing.

As for us couples in the gay and lesbian community, most of us probably more naturally fall into the roles we want and play the best. Or we do whatever is most expedient on a given day.

As for the DNA and any genetic disposition toward being handy in my family I can only conclude this is not a dominant gene. My daughters always have things they want me to fix when I visit. They always ask politely and know just the things I like to do and the limits of my ability. Also in their favor when they ask, they always add, “That is ONLY if you want to, Mom.” But they know I’m a sucker for it.

© 30 June 2015

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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Culture Shock, by Ricky

“Culture” is a word that strikes fear into the world’s families of bacterium as if they know that shortly following the culturing will be an anti-biotic of the lethal type for all or specific families. A situation quite shocking from the point of view of the bacterium.

“Culture” is a word that creates feelings of loathing in the stereotype masses of the American populace. For some reason they feel that quality music in the form of opera, symphonies, and songs where one can actually hear and understand the lyrics is not of any worth. Thus, they vote to stop government support for these enterprises. As for TV entertainment, the masses do not seem to like a broadcast which does not contain lots of violence, sexual innuendo, or cheap humor.

These same masses will support government spending taxes for the things they prefer, for example baseball, football, and soccer stadiums. (If such things are good for business, shouldn’t business pay for it and not taxes?) But worse of all is their tendency to label those who do like quality music, songs, TV, screen play, or drama productions as elitists (at best) or snobs (at worse).

“Culture” is a word that creates feelings of joy or happiness in the stereotypical well-to-do (previously referred to as elitists or snobs). This group also tends to view the “less fortunate others” as undesirables for friendships and as a drain on the public treasury. Thus, they vote to cut social programs that support the poor, as the poor are viewed as lazy and uncouth leeches.

Of course these stereotypical views are not totally accurate and there are those of us who enjoy activities and recreations that fall into both camps. Sadly though, we are a minority.

“Culture Shock” commonly occurs when persons from one background encounter persons from another. An example is when “Johnny-Reb” moves into “Damn Yankee” territory or vice versa; or when a “New Yorker” moves to San Francisco; or when anyone from the east or west coasts moves into the mid-west or America’s “heartland” (the “fly-over” parts from which many gay men and women escape and move to either of the coasts).

One example occurred in my own home. My oldest daughter married a man from the Republic of Georgia. After he obtained citizenship here, he arranged to have his parents move to Lakewood and live with me and them. His parents grew up entirely under the authority of the old Soviet Union and its economic and social “values.” Maria grew up on a collective farm and so worked hard as she grew.

One day, my daughter took her mother-in-law to a discount store to buy her a new purse. While trying to decide which of many different styles to buy, Maria began to cry. When asked why by my daughter, she replied that there were too many choices and she could not make a decision. Maria was faced with “culture-of-plenty” shock.

Other “shocking” opportunities occur when military, police, gang, generational, and sexual orientation cultures have values that clash.

I have not experienced culture shock per-se. What I am experiencing is culture confusion. Being a closeted gay boy since my young teen years, I lived in the straight world most of my life. When I finally officially “came out,” at age 63, I was gently exposed to the gay “culture” of senior men. Then I learned a little of other sub-groups of gay culture; some of which apparently don’t “play-well” together, physically or politically.

So just as Maria experienced culture shock trying to adjust from a Soviet life of “little” to an American culture of abundance, So in my case, I am trying to understand all the subtleties of the elusive gay culture. Since I do not generally expose myself to the sub-groups of that culture, I am not likely to ever comprehend them well enough to form a cohesive or unifying understanding.

© 26 November 2012

About the Author

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

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

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

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com