Tag: Personal essay

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Communications, by Ricky

“What we’ve got here is …. failure to communicate” is a movie line from Cool Hand Luke spoken by Paul Newman that is perfectly delivered, humorously and sarcastically, in keeping with the character’s personality. Unfortunately for Luke, the senior guard was not amused, receptive, or tolerant of the mocking of the Captain’s phrase. Herein lies the difficulty with communicating with anyone; words.

The Captain and the Boss were communicating a message to Luke but their words were not precise enough for Luke to clearly understand. Thus, the Captain and the Boss were the ones who failed to communicate. They should have made it perfectly clear that if Luke tried to escape again, he would be shot dead; they didn’t and Luke died.

Words arrive containing varying numbers of syllables, shades of meaning, and ease of pronunciation. The definition of words can be modified from the original by common usage, which tends to happen because members of society do not learn enough vocabulary so they can pick the perfectly accurate but seldom used word. Some people use many long words and complex sentences to communicate simple ideas; a practice which often leads to misunderstandings. There are yet others who can communicate powerful ideas using simple and everyday words. An example is Abraham Lincoln’s statement, “You can fool some of the people all of the time, and all of the people some of the time, but you can not fool all of the people all of the time.” Do you suppose Lincoln was warning other politicians, warning the public, or giving politicians a tip on how to get elected?

Some communications take on a life of their own and are so common in usage as to become cliches. “Houston, we have a problem.” is one of those. The phrase originated following the Apollo 13 disaster. Unfortunately, no one ever said those words. Here is the actual conversation between the Houston command center and Apollo 13.

John Swigert: ‘Okay, Houston, we’ve had a problem here.’ Houston: ‘This is Houston. Say again please.’ James Lovell: ‘Houston, we’ve had a problem. We’ve had a main B bus undervolt.’

For dramatic effect, the movie of the events surrounding Apollo 13, altered the exact words. The incorrect phrase was picked up by the movie going public and now is commonly used to indicate any problem not just very serious ones.

Likewise,”Beam me up, Scotty” is a catchphrase that made its way into popular culture from the science fiction television series Star Trek. Though it has become irrevocably associated with the series and movies, the exact phrase was never actually spoken in any Star Trek television episode or film.

“Beam me up, Scotty” is similar to the phrase, “Just the facts ma’am”, attributed to Jack Webb’s character of Joe Friday on Dragnet; “It’s elementary, my dear Watson”, attributed to Sherlock Holmes; “Luke, I am your father”, attributed to Darth Vader; or “Play it again, Sam”, attributed to Humphrey Bogart’s character in Casablanca; and “We don’t need no stinkin’ badges!” attributed to Gold Hat in The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. All five lines are the best known quotations from these works for many viewers, but not one is an actual, direct quotation. Yet each of them conveys an idea, concept, and image that communicates very well because a large number of people have seen the source of the misquoted dialog and the erroneous version has become ubiquitous in our culture.

Communication also suffers when the sender and the receiver are not talking about the same concept or idea. Remember the dialogue between Tom Hanks and Elizabeth Perkins in the movie “Big”?

Susan: I’m not so sure we should do this. Josh: Do what? Susan: Well, I like you … and I want to spend the night with you. Josh: Do you mean sleep over? Susan: Well, yeah. Josh: OK … but I get to be on top.

One conversation between two different people, but on two incompatible topics. This particular conversation also illustrates the effect differences in age and experience (or lack thereof) can have upon the inferred meaning of the words heard.

Yet another problem with communication arises when one party doesn’t understand the clear and plain message he was given or does not take it seriously. While in the Air Force, one of my commanding officers was a colonel and a pilot. He related to me the following.

Before becoming a pilot he was a navigator on a military transport aircraft approaching his U.S. destination after crossing the Atlantic Ocean. The plane was understandably low on fuel. Their primary destination had bad weather to the point that they could not land and there was just enough fuel to make it to the alternate airport. The navigator called the traffic controller for permission to depart for the alternate destination. He was told to standby to which he replied that they needed to leave now or not have enough fuel to make it. Again he was told to standby. He repeated the situation yet again and was told to standby. At this point the pilot called on the intercom asking if they had permission to depart for the alternate airport. The navigator told him yes even though no permission was given. The person on the ground did not appreciate the gravity of the situation and let himself be bogged down with control issues.

Sometimes the person initiating the communication sends an accurate message composed of factual data but in reality doesn’t state the actual issue. For example, when I was young I once told my mother that my urine was runny (a fact), which did not impart any information to her. The real issue was I had diarrhea. Another example would be the numerous politicians who when asked a question answer with information not directly related to the question. I think they have a condition known as “Diarrhea of the Mouth”.

The moral of this essay: Be gay when the concept or idea or message goes through without resulting in chaos. The word gay is used correctly, but did it, the other words, and the sentence structure combine to confuse or clarify the message? This is yet another example of the potential for a message to get “lost in translation” when there is a poor choice of words and grammar by the sender.

The real moral of this essay: In your next life, pay attention in language class.

© 22 April 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

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Help, by Will Stanton

I could use some help – right now. Actually, I could have used some help most of my life. Maybe we mere mortals are not supposed to know how to make our way through this confusing world and deal with all the unexpected trials and tribulations that befall us poor souls. Maybe we are supposed to just muck along unless someone, somehow, has been endowed with special talent and/or has mentors to assist along the way. I never really did. I have found the world generally confusing. I could have used some help, probably a lot.

Ironically, people with a little more awareness and circumspection find dealing with the world more troublesome than apparently more blasé people who are generally concerned primarily with money, food, sex, and the next ballgame. Frankly, those who appear most mindless often seem to be the happiest and content. Not me. I was blessed, or cursed, with ample awareness and, consequently am perhaps too aware of what really is going on in the world, and too often, what is behind it. That can make a person feel depressed and impotent. I really could use some help.

Occasionally, friends have attempted to help me. I’m not sure this has been particularly successful. I have one friend, Kathy C., who has an I.Q. of 160, is constantly doing research through books and on-line, thinks at the speed of light, and, consequently, is exceptionally aware of the real world and what is behind what happens. She has tried for years, on many websites, to inform and straighten out the thinking of a lot of intellectual Neanderthals. The trouble is, of course, that the majority of readers and responders are dumber than a bag of hammers and choose merely to become angry with her. They even have criticized her for being too intelligent and too well informed. Despite hate-filled responses, she keeps trying. I admire her, but her efforts to try to improve rational thinking appear to me to be fruitless. I have concluded that nothing short of a miracle or magic could make significant progress.

Perhaps, Kathy has engaged in magical thinking regarding me, for she had a Harry Potter magic wand sent to me. That was a surprise. I have had no improvements in either health or situation. Perhaps, that’s because I haven’t even given it a wave. I suppose that I am too much of a “Doubting Thomas,” for I have yet to attempt using it to improve the world, or just my own situation, for that matter. And, if that were not enough, some recent, mysterious benefactor had a Professor Dumbledore magic wand sent to me. Apparently, someone else has reached the same conclusion about me as has Kathy. No, I haven’t waved that one around, either. It still sits in its wand-box. It would be nice if those two magic wands actually worked. I first, however, would have to be shown how to use them. I would need some help.

© 6 September 2016

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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The Solar System, by Pat Gourley

“If the Universe doesn’t care about us and if we’re an accident in a remote corner of the Universe, in some sense it makes us more precious. The meaning in our lives is provided by us; we provide our own meaning.” 

Lawrence M. Krauss

The last sentence of this quote, from the controversial physicist and atheist Lawrence Krauss, I think could be viewed as a synonymous description of the actualized queer person. We have had to, through our multitude of unique coming out paths, provide our own meaning. Many of us have started on our path of self-actualization feeling very isolated and alone wondering what is wrong with me. Most of us though eventually realize how precious we really are. We are the golden threads in the tapestry of humanity.

As modern astronomy has proven beyond a doubt our solar system is phenomenally insignificant in our own very insignificant galaxy. Best estimates from data provided by the Hubble Deep Space Telescope is that there are between 100 and 200 billion galaxies in the ever-expanding Universe. Our own galaxy the Milky Way is estimated to contain between 100 billion and 400 billion stars.

If there is a God, or sole initiator of this whole phenomenon, that entity surely must have a bit more on their mind than whom we, inhabiting the third rock from the sun in this miniscule solar system, are fucking. I mean really get a grip and begin to try and comprehend the mindboggling immensity of the Universe. It really implies an extremely exaggerated sense of our own importance to think the initiator of the Big Bang leading to the creation of 200 billion galaxies is preoccupied with our drama. If there were a hell this over the top human hubris alone should get us sent to hades for eternity.

I will admit that perhaps I have a very immature and un-evolved sense of the spiritual. I will concede there may exist an omnipotent source of direction running through the evolution of the Universe from the Big Bang to date, call it God if you want. Sorry but the comprehension of such an entity at this point in my life is way above my pay grade. It would require an amount of faith-based belief I find really unthinkable and quite frankly a lazy copout. Maybe I could be further along in actualizing the possible reality of this wonder and not having to rely on faith alone, if I spent more cushion-time but I don’t think that is going to happen either.

I actually am quite content thinking we really are the result of a bunch of lucky evolutionary “accidents” that have occurred since living things first appeared on the planet 3.8 billion years ago. When you look at all the countless evolutionary steps and cross roads traversed and we still made the cut it is really something. It is quite precious really.

I was at a very wonderful event recently when two dear male friends decided after 27 years of living together they should get married. Though the words marriage and God were spoken several times during the event it was actually billed on the program as a “Celebration of Love”. I think the institution of marriage was cooked up to control property and women and then their reproductive capacity. I do believe we queers are really bringing our own meaning to it all, to this age old and until recently heterosexual institution.

I was asked to participate by doing a reading or two lasting no more that a couple minutes. It did cross my mind that if there is anything to this God business my stepping into one of his churches might unleash a meteor strike ending the human race right then and there. That did not happen. I was able to read a poem by Walt Whitman and another by Rumi with no detectable dire consequences resulting.

So even if God doesn’t exist and the Universe doesn’t care a twit about us and we are just a happy evolutionary accident in an isolated solar system on the edge of an in significant galaxy it sure is still amazing. As gay people we also get to provide our own sense of meaning and that creative self-realization adds immensely to the human dance on this third rock from the sun.

© October 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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Scars, by Betsy

I can hear it now. “She will be scarred for life if she tries to live a lesbian life-style.” Had my mother not died as a young woman, had she been present when I came out, I believe this is what she might have said. Her mother, my grandmother well may have said this too. The two women had a great deal of influence on me as I was growing up. Neither knew I was homosexual as they both died well before I came out.

They may have been right in making that imaginary statement, however. We all have scars—physical and emotional or psychological. Growing up gay in a homophobic society will inevitably produce wounds. Even after wounds heal scars can be left as evidence of the damage.

I have some scars on my physical body as well as my psyche. Most people do. One I acquired early in life represents a wound caused when I lost control of my bicycle going about 20 MPH down a hill hitting a curb head on, and landing completely unconscious by a street lamp. I was rescued by my dentist who happened to be looking out his window when the accident happened. I had a bad cut on my face which had to be sown up by a surgeon. The scar is still visible, but barely.

I suppose analogous to that might be that I was born into a world which had no understanding, certainly no acceptance, of gays or lesbians—most certainly not of their lifestyles. One might say the accident was that I was born homosexual, but I don’t see that as an accident—just the way it is. There are most definitely scars left from being born into and living in this non-accepting environment. As I have written before I have a passion for the truth and a great respect for living honestly and with integrity. Yet I lived half my life in a life-style that was a lie.

It was not an unhappy time of life, but it was basically flawed. That flaw of the fraudulent lifestyle is the wound. The wound is now healed, but a scar reveals that there had been a wound—a wound caused by an accident?

While I’m making analogies, allow me one more. Another scar is in the middle of my lower back, about a 10 inch line right down my spine. The reason I have this scar is because I had pain brought on by spondylolisthesis. Because I had pain a surgeon cut into my back and treated the source of the pain. The corresponding scar in my psyche might be represented as the result of treating a deep emotional hurt. The pain in this case I see as the years of self denial and the fear of rejection brought about by my unwillingness to express my true self that resulted.

All in all I think it is safe to say some scars, probably most scars, are good. Why? Because they are the result of healing. They are what is left of a wound or an adverse condition which causes pain. A scar implies that a fix has been made. The wound cannot fester and the pain is just a memory.

It is said that one cannot remember pain. I translate that to: one cannot reproduce a former pain, however one can remember that a particular wound or experience was painful. In this case HOLD THAT THOUGHT. Living freely the life style of one’s choosing is a precious thing.

It can also be a precarious thing. Never to be taken for granted.

© 22 June 2015

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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My Happiest Day, by Will Stanton

I don’t know what my happiest day was, assuming that it was some time in my past. How can I remember every moment over seven decades? If I recall some happy moments, how do I compare or contrast them? Was a happy moment of true significance, or was it some minor experience that, even so, made me very happy? Life is complex and often difficult to qualify. Which brings me to my mantra, “You know, I just don’t know, you know.”

Many of my happy moments I already have written about, some extensively. Perhaps the most significant moments were with special people who were important in my life. I also have derived much happiness from fine music, beautiful voices, instrumental performances. I have bathed in the sounds and visions of nature, describing in detail my many treks through the wooded hills near my home, communing with Mother Nature. I have experienced many happy moments watching movies or reading books that strike a personal chord within me. A recent Story-Time topic was “Fond Memories.” I listed many happy moments in that piece, too, albeit none could be described at my “happiest day.”

So, in my case, I cannot think of just one very special day that I could call “my happiest day,” especially considering that my deepest hopes and dreams never have been fulfilled. In which case, I guess I will have to conclude that I hope that my happiest day has yet to come; and I hope it comes very soon.

© 09 October 2016

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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Greens, by Will Stanton

This topic “greens” leaves itself open to a variety of interpretations, although I’m not sure that it lends itself to extensive discussion of any single one. So, I will refer to a variety of greens.

The word “greens” immediately suggests to me the common question, “Are you eating your greens?” Well, of course; I regularly eat vegetables and salads as part of a healthful diet. Also green, I am very fond of Limeade, and if you never have tasted the rarely offered lime ice-cream, you don’t know what you are missing, especially during the summertime. I try to avoid green meat; I have a very sensitive stomach. I might be able to handle green chili if it is not too spicy. The same goes with tasty guacamole. I am, after all, just a gringo.

“Greens” next brings to mind green grass and leaves, especially in springtime, a delightful time of year I often have written about. Over my lifetime, I have become so enamored with nature that I can not imagine grass and leaves in any other color. If I were transported to some other planet where grass and leaves were red or purple, I would find it rather disturbing.
Mother Nature certainly has proliferated Earth with a wide variety of green birds ranging from the common pet parakeets (or, as the Brits call them, “Budgerigars” or “Budgies”) to large parrots and tiny humming birds. When I was a kid, my family had a green parakeet named “Tippy.” I felt rather sorry for it because it was alone, but it became very fond of me instead.
Speaking of nature, I am aware that there is the political Green Party that promotes environmentalism, nonviolence, social justice, participatory grassroots-democracy, gender equality, LGBT rights, and anti-racism. These goals seem admirable to me, although many people believe that, had the Green Party and Ralph Nader not participated in the 2000 Presidential election, the Republicans may not have been able to steal the election, even with their stealing the Florida vote.
Of course, we all have heard that people, feeling ill, supposedly can look “green.” I have seen some people looking awfully peaked, but I don’t recall anyone actually looking green. I do recall that Khruschev claimed that, after Stalin died and most of the remaining Soviet cabal were terrified that State Security Administrator Lavrentiy Beria would kill his two co-leaders and take over the government, Khruschev staged a coup, invited him late to a meeting, and announced to him upon his arrival that he was being arrested for “treason.” Khruschev swears that Beria’s face turned a sickly-green, If anyone was justified in turning sickly-green it was Beria. He was shot.
Then, there is the hackneyed phrase, “Green with envy.” Envy is not regarded as an enviable trait, and I know that has been consistent throughout history. For example, envy is a major theme in the highly successful Baroque opera “L’Olimpiade,” which, perhaps, is timely to mention because of this year’s international Olympics. The “L’Olimpiade” opera, of which more than sixty versions were composed and performed, is set during the ancient, Greek Olympics. Lycidas loves Aristaea, who is promised to be betrothed to however wins the race, although she loves Megacles, a great athlete. Lycidas envies Megacles and persuades the unknowing Megacles to win the race using Lycidas’ name. But, you already know all about this. The Furies, including the Fury of Envy, attack and harass Lycidas for his transgression. If you never have been attacked by Furies, you have no idea how terrifying that can be. I also found that an artist created a bronze Greek-like bust and tinted the face an appropriate green.
Finally, one very odd place where I have seen the color green is at the swimming pool. There is a child-size, older man who somewhat resembles a small chunk of dried-out beef-jerky. He is invariably upbeat and cheerful but also noticeably eccentric. He has the habit of shaving his whole head except for a round, three-inch patch on top which he dyes green and brushes straight up. I have no inclination to do that. Everyone to his own. 
© 20 June 2016


About the Author

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Choices by Ricky

So many choices there are. 

Where should I begin? 

Should I begin with my good choices? 
My poor choices? 
My bad choices?
My disastrous choices?
My clothing or fashion choices? 
My food choices? 
Or should I begin with my choice of automobiles? 
My choice of friends? 
My choice of spouse? 
My choice of homes? 
My choice of profession?

Too many choices there are. So I choose to write nothing.

© 11 Jul 2016

About the Author

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

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

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

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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Slippery Sexualities by Ray S

This could be a chapter heading in a seventh grade sex education textbook. You can take it from there.

While wondering what on God’s green earth the author of today’s title had in mind, the thought transferred to what all of this group will conjure up! Do you recall the biology class that introduced you to a slide with a single amoeba slipping about in some medium creating a duplicate self—sort of like Narcissus if he could have had his way with his reflected image?

The single word slippery brings to mind all sorts of accidents wherever there is water or ice concerned; or perhaps the perpetrator who slips away with his/her criminal act, whether heinous or simply stupid. I suppose you could recall some sexual acts too, but I don’t want to open Pandora’s Box (no pun intended). I assume someone of this august literary meeting will have attempted to address “sexuality” with the birds and the bees, while others will have dived headfirst into the more prurient aspects of this title. I plan to pay rapt attention to your offerings and surely take notes for future application.

As I reach to the bottom of this page, I am aware that I can stop all of this pointless rambling and simply stop searching my imagination for something intelligent or just amusing about “Slippery Sexuality.”

Oh, an afterthought, picture a large vinyl sheet, eight to ten garmentless gay and merry celebrants, an ample supply of baby oil or chocolate sauce or whipped cream. Now that would fill the bill for today’s assignment. Have fun; don’t slip!

© 11 April 2016

About the Author
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When I Get Old by Phillip Hoyle

I don’t know why people freak out over getting old. I suspect they may be worshipping at the Shrine of Madison Avenue, a power so great that in the span of a couple of hours of TV watching promises the worshipper a plan to get over the fear of running out of money in retirement, others for long life, clear skin, non-wrinkly skin, beauty, medicines to counter every ill, all for dedication to the eternal worship of youthfulness. This menu doesn’t make sense to me. I don’t believe a bit of it! Deceitful is the god that promises eternal youth. The TV shrine can never deliver its promise since Chronos keeps ticking away at the same rate for everyone: for young, middle aged, and elders, even those of great old age. Crisis over old age seems most likely if one doesn’t look into the promises and judge the reality of eternal youth. Talk about a religious scam. We hear, “Just buy our product.” That’s like, “Send us your money and we’ll pray for you,” the line of too many TV evangelists. Or was that “…and we’ll prey on you”?

I’m old. When I was turning 25 I realized I would be old someday. I also knew that 30 would not be the end of the world and my life, and so I decided then that at 50 would be old, the time I would enter the final third of my expected survival to age 75. I announced that on my 25th birthday to my surprised co-workers. We laughed together, but I was serious.

So when I get old… Oh, Chronos just reminded me; that happened 17 ½ years ago according to my standard.

And I wonder: what have I learned since that time? Here’s a partial list: 

I can live well on very little money. 
I can thrive in a very small space. 
I can feed myself—meaning shop for, cook, and still lift the spoon to my mouth. 
I learned I can retire, to cut back on my productivity (even though that productivity in my adulthood occurred in the service arena). 
I learned I can still lead a group, still write a story, still paint a picture, still love my friends, still support my family, still help out folk I don’t even know by contributing to their welfare, and still maintain my own vital life.

I’m going to have to say something here about “when I get old, old.” That will take imagination because if I last beyond 75, I’ll be getting closer that that categorization and will have to think out a plan!

I’ll do the things I’ve discussed above. Plus I’ll hope to find someone to listen to my stories of the good ol’ days. I’ll hope someone will accompany me to my favorite museums—you know push the wheelchair. I’ll hope not to become a terrible burden on my family or society. If I can’t walk, I’ll still hope to be able to think!

Of course, I don’t know. So right now I’m saying through my writing and painting what I want to say. I do it with a sense of purpose and hope for the world my kids, grand kids, and great grand kids will live in. I express my ideas in ways I hope others will find helpful—at least pleasing or entertaining. I think that’s enough; I sure do hope so. Life goes on even if it is not my life. Eventually may I be caught up in the great mystical one however it may be described or may actually occur.

Denver, © 9 February 2015

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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Away from Home by Gail Klock

Home to me is not a place so much as a state of being. It is a place deep within me, where I am loved unconditionally, where I’m accepted and understood. It is that place where my thoughts come to my defense when under attack, like a mother lion defending her cubs. It is that place where I am allowed to make mistakes, and take ownership for my actions and make amends to others if those actions cause them pain.

I am going to be okay no matter the circumstances, are the feelings which reside in that place called home. They are the indescribably good feelings deep within me, like the ones which come coursing through my body when listening to a beautiful piece of music, or when I laugh from the depth of my soul, or cry in empathy for another’s pain. It is the beauty, grace, and power of a hawk soaring through the sky, treating me to the joys of nature.

It has taken me a long time to find home… I was away from home most of my life. I found it difficult to find peace within myself, due at least in part to my homosexuality. It was, and on rare occasions still is, hard to find serenity within, especially when being viewed by others as a deviant person.

I was a pioneer in the gay movement back in the 80’s when I chose to have children through artificial insemination and to be out, knowing to not do so would place my daughters in the position of having shame about the family they came from. But as I was traversing this unknown world I carried abashment within me. My inner world was still not a place of self-acceptance and tranquility. I look back on those times now with admiration for my courage, but I would rather have realized my inner strength at the time. I was still away from home. I was looking at a young lesbian the other day and admiring her hair cut with one half of her head shaved and the other side cascading across her head like a waterfall. I would not have had the courage to wear my hair like that when I was young. But then I kind of chuckled inwardly as I realized I now sometimes wear my hair in an equally brazen fashion.

As long as I remind myself where home is, I can get there. It reminds me of the last time I parked at the Pikes Peak parking lot out at DIA. I dutifully told myself to remember I had parked in the F section. That was all good and fine until I exited the shuttle bus at FF after only 3 hours of sleep the night before. I reminded myself of this lack of sleep as I fought off the notion that someone had stolen my car, after all no one else had my keys. Wandering back and forth several times along rows EE, FF, and GG …dragging my luggage, I knew I had to develop a strategy to find it. I then thought okay, I’ll just go up to section A and walk up and down every lane until I’m successful. As I reached section YY it occurred to me I had parked in F, but I had been searching in FF. I found my car where I had parked it. Of course it was there all along just waiting to be found, which is true for my inner sense of home as well. My serenity was always available to be, I just had to find the correct strategy to get to it. I get there with less angst now, especially when I remember to delete the old tapes which play within my head about the perversion of being gay.

© 2 August 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.