Assumptions, by Louis

Phase out Football and Boxing 

About thirty-two years ago, I am in a sports bar, and the conversation of several beer-drinkers inevitably turns to football. The four or five other guys at the bar look at me, see a 40-year old man, and assume:

(a) I am obsessed with football games;

(b) I am knowledgeable about the biographies and careers of the top 20 most famous football players.

(c) And I have a fervent belief that these 20 most famous football players are excellent rôle models for American youth.

I said as little as possible during these conversations. What I really believe is:

(a) Excessive interest in football games is gradually turning into a mental illness, something like mass hysteria;

(b) I know next to nothing about the biographies of the 20 most famous football players, and I see no reason in particular to show any interest in their biographies;

(c) If you ask me, “successful” football players are not wholesome rôle models. Why is it admirable for a man to engage in a violent sport in which his bones will be broken and repetitive violent blows to his head will result in his suffering various types of dementia and motor impairment?

Pretty much the same can be said of boxing. Broken bones, dementia from brain concussions, paraplegia, quadriplegia and even death. Two guys punching each other in the face, I do not find admirable. In a word these two violent sports, football and boxing should be discontinued. Make love, not war.

The polls indicate that public interest in football is declining. Thank God. I think fervent promotion of football and boxing and other sports is part of a deliberate campaign or process of dumbing-down the public or, in a word, “a conspiracy.”

We should be led by intelligent people with a good sense of moral and ethical sensitivity. Like the authors of Telling Your Story. As opposed to punch drunk boxers, as likeable as Muhamed Ali was.

Years ago the hippies promoted the idea of non-violent, non-competitive sports. I think that idea should be developed further. The game should promote the idea of cooperation. Team A should not try to defeat Team B but join up with Team B and collectively say cure cancer.

In itself, football is a clever game. Make it into a parlor game like Monopoly or Parcheesi. Nothing wrong with that.

A lot of reasonable people agree with me, I know.

When I was 25 years old, a bosomy woman, looking for a boyfriend, intentionally pushed her bosoms on my back and side, assuming I would get excited or something. She was looking for a boyfriend in a direct sort of way. Nowadays most people have stopped assuming that a guy is necessarily heterosexual, and that one can guess what his deep personal motivations are. That’s progress.

© 3 March 2017

About the Author

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

Mistaken Identity by Will Stanton

“Look!  It’s George Clooney!”  I was startled and quickly checked to see where the speaker was looking.  There was no third person present.  He was looking at me!  A case of mistaken identity.  The very next week, a trio of ecstatic teenage girls screeched, “Justin Bieber!”  Again, I immediately looked right and then left, astonished that Justin Bieber would actually be in my presence without my having noticed.  He wasn’t there; the girls were looking at me.  Again, mistaken Identity!

No, of course that did not really happen.  No one ever has mistaken me for someone famous.  I don’t resemble any of them.  Instead, I probably look more like the fictional person Dave Letterman jokes about, the old curmudgeon who shouts at the kids, “Get off my lawn, and take that mangy dog with you…and that dump that it just left on my grass!”

Instead, let me tell you about a remarkable story of truly mistaken identity, one that has been made into an excellent quality film and subsequently released on DVD.  I have shown it to friends.  I’ll tell you just enough of the story’s background, but I’ll leave the best bits for you to see for yourselves.  It’s title is “AKA,” that is, an assumed name, an assumed identity.   This actually did happen in 1978, and it is an autobiographical tale by writer and director Duncan Roy.

The main character is named “Dean” rather than Duncan.  His advantages are that he is a very handsome seventeen-year-old with high intelligence, capable of being a fast study, and he possesses a quiet, pleasing personality.  His disadvantages, however, are several and profoundly debilitating.  He comes from a very poor and poorly educated home with an unseeing, ineffectual, dysfunctional mother and a father from hell who intimidates and abuses both mother and son but, also, who has had a history of frequently raping the boy even to the extent of occasionally allowing a buddy to engage in the abuse.  The sad and painful consequence is that Dean’s feelings and thinking become severely distorted to the extent that he cannot relate emotionally or sexually to either females or males.  If people express sexual interest in Dean, he equates that interest with rape, whether he allows them to proceed or not.  

Two other points influenced Dean’s personality and his future.  He had hoped to be somebody, to go to college and to make something of himself, although this was disdained and unsupported by the working-class father.  The other influence was that his mother’s employment was as a waitress at a trendy London restaurant frequented by Britain’s aristocratic élite.  His mother provided Dean with a daily run-down of which celebrities had appeared at the restaurant, and she would sit at the kitchen table with him, pouring over the gossip magazines, pointing out pictures of various aristocrats including a Lady Gryffoyn, who ran an art gallery as a hobby.  

To prevent the mother’s belated discovery of his sexual abuse, the father throws Dean out of the house without money or any place to go.  Dean wanders about Lady Gryffoyn’s up-scale neighborhood, hoping to find her and ask for a job. Instead, he is picked up by an aging ingénue who sees Dean as obviously quite young and very innocent.  Dean stays for dinner, meets other guests who turn out to be outrageous queens who adore him for his youth and good looks.  They make quite a fuss over him.  He consequently feels appreciated and accepted for the first time in his life.  This is the beginning of Dean’s transformation.

Dean tries for a menial job at the art gallery.  On one hand, Lady Gryffoyn is an arrogant bitch, not used to doing anyone favors; however on the other hand, she had a reputation for enjoying the company of very young men.  He lands a job, gradually is accepted more and more by Lady Gryffoyn to the point of being allowed to hang about the house and to meet her aristocratic friends, and even at times to wear her son’s clothes while there.  Dean acquires bank credit and a credit card, privileges that he has no experience or desire to handle responsibly.  In this pre-computer age, he is able quickly to run up a large debt, acquiring the clothes and accoutrements of a gentleman.

Eventually, Dean meets Alexander, Lady Gryffoyn’s son, who is the same age as Dean.  Alexander is even more arrogant and disdainful than Lady Gryffoyn and verbally abuses Dean.  Dean quickly learns that this gentrified class habitually identifies their own kind by expensive, tailor-cut apparel, posh accent, sophisticated demeanor, how much money they are willing to throw about without the least concern, what private schools the young have attended, and whether the lads will be attending Oxford or Cambridge, at least to receive an easy “gentleman’s degree.”  They cruelly disdain everyone else.  Dean is painfully ill-at-ease and unsure of himself, but he quietly watches and listens.  His ability as a quick study begins to pay off.  Briefly left alone in the house, he explores Alexander’s suits, photos, along with anything he encounters that deals with Alexander’s life.   He loses his identifying working-class accent and gradually learns to imitate the sophisticated accent of British élite. 

Not permitted to remain at the London house and having attracted the attention of the fraud squad, Dean takes the advice of a young American gigolo to go to Paris.  The major turning point of Dean’s story is when he attempts to gain a job at a Paris art gallery but has had little experience and does not speak French.  He is dismissed with the polite but not encouraging statement, “I’ll take your name.”  After some hesitation, Dean finally says, “Alexander Gryffoyn.”  The gallery owner immediately springs to his feet and, with a great smile, welcomes Dean with open arms.  The aristocratic name works magic and opens all doors.  

Step by step, with the right clothes, the appropriate accent, and occasional little white lies, Dean is introduced to the crème de la crème of Continental élite.  This cream of society, however, is repulsively curdled.  These people are the sort often referred to as “Euro-trash.”  Some of them are British tax expatriates, avoiding paying taxes on their fortunes.  Others are remnants of European nobility, people with money but with no purpose in life other than to feel important and to party endlessly.  Alcohol flows, and cocaine is consumed as a matter of course.  

What continues to happen in Dean’s life for more than a year becomes even more remarkable and fascinating.  Popular, adored, catered to, Dean loves being, as his embossed invitations read, “Lord Alexander Gryffoyn.”   To his sorrow, however, he never has been accepted and loved as Dean, his real self.  

He eventually goes back to Britain to face the music.  His identity theft makes the news, replete with many photos of himself posing as Alexander.  Despite his having lived for a while under an identity that was false and not his true self, Dean ironically concludes that, in contrast to that snobbish SOB Alexander, he, Dean, had been a far better “Lord Alexander Gryffoyn” than the real one ever could hope to be.

This is all the teaser that I am going to give to you.  For you to enjoy all the most remarkable bits of the story, as well as see the more intimate scenes, if that is your “cup of English tea,” watch the DVD.  It is an amazing story of mistaken identity, well worth seeing.  And frankly, Dean himself is worth seeing.  I wouldn’t mind being mistaken for him.

© 9 January 2013   

About the Author

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

Mistaken Identity by Ray S

On an October day some years ago a second son was born to Ethel and Homer. They say he was almost ten pounds which seems like quite a lot for the slight mother. She later used to tell the story about dancing at parties when she was in her 8 1/2 month and how observers wondered how such a little woman with such a huge belly could keep up the Charleston dance step. Seems as though everything came out alright, no pun intended.

The new member of the family thrived on the love and attention from Mom and Dad. The older brother adjusted to the baby’s intrusion on his one-time monopoly of fair-haired first born (seven years difference) Apple of Everyone’s Eye. The seed of sibling rivalry was beginning to germinate but then manifested into an attitude of seeming denial of the little brother’s existence. If necessary the obligatory special occasions would be observed; that is, birthdays, Christmas, and Easter, etc. This pattern persisted into old age.

Early childhood revealed the physical differences between him and the girl next door.

The father’s dutiful instruction on the care and hygiene of the foreskin. How to pee standing up to the toilet. All quite SOP for his age.

Then some matters developed interesting turns. For instance, no one, least of all the child, thought there was anything odd that he had his own Patsy-Ann doll with a doll-sized truck full of little dresses lovingly sewn and/or knitted by mother. An actual talent for painting and drawing came along with a fascination for paper dolls. As time past he couldn’t manage to catch a ball much less win at kick-the-can or sports in general. The end result being a lifelong disinterest in sports or anything competitive.

One day after an exploratory adventure with two neighbor brothers he discovered you could do lots more with certain body parts besides eliminate one’s waste. And it was good!

As he developed emotionally as well as physically way in the back of his mind he became aware of being different.

He, through self awareness, ridicule, bullying, and abuse from older peers questioned his proscribed identity, and this happened before he even knew the words describing one’s sexuality. Ultimately with a contraband copy of Dr. Kinsey’s Report the revelation of twenty some years of mistaken Identity came home to roost. And the struggle went on until the day that the door fell off the hinges of the closet where he and so many other aged fairies resided. The mistake was theirs.

About the Author

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.

Mistaken Identity by Lewis T

     For me, the term “mistaken identity” conjures up not so much images of gross embarrassment, endangerment, or fear as it does feelings of inadequacy and shame. I cannot disassociate the term from a long and deep-seated personal inadequacy of mine—my seeming inability to remember faces and names.

     I would go so far as to say that this tendency has morphed into an almost pathological neurosis for me. My persona is that of an introvert with extroverted tendencies and a desperately poor self-image. As a consequence, when meeting someone new, I tend to establish eye contact well enough but my mind is absorbed with thoughts of how well I am being perceived. Consequently, when their name is spoken, it goes in one ear and out the other—almost literally. I have heard about the many tricks that can be used to retain a person’s name but none of them have stuck with me. Perhaps there is a College of Life-Long Learning course that I could take, if only I don’t have to remember its name.

About the Author

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