Tag: Personal essay

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Choices, by Pat Gourley

A very dear friend has told me for years that my problem is I have too many choices. He is right, and I do realize that it is a privilege to not only have the freedom but the where-with-all to have more than one or even several options available when facing life’s many circumstances. Being a white middle class male in America in 2016 carries with it enough cache to often have more than one alternative when faced with life’s various challenges, and this has been the case for most of my life.

I suppose my queerness and later in the dance my HIV infection have somewhat limited my choices but to be honest when I look around at the rest of humanity I still have it pretty good. It is interesting that these two things, queerness and HIV infection, where not choices but apparently unavoidable realities. I realized at an early age that being attracted to men was not a choice on my part but something very ingrained out of the box.

I am quite certain I was infected with HIV in the early 1980’s before the causative agent had actually been identified. And I am not implying that folks getting infected today are choosing this but rather they assume that they are either not at risk or they are in the short-run choosing pleasure over possible consequences down the road, a very human response in many situations. I am frequently reminded of Jerry Garcia’s answer when asked why people do drugs and he replied, “Because they make them feel good.”

The challenge then becomes how do I best address my choices especially in a culture that worships “more is better.” I read this past week that Americans, in droves apparently, are resorting back to buying large gas guzzlers and fewer hybrid automobiles in the past couple years now that gasoline is cheap again. Depressing news for arctic sea ice and a whole lot more.

One way to tackle multiple choices for a particular problem or situation would be to ask what is “enough.” I stumbled on a parting wish shared by a mother to her daughter right before she boarded a plane and the words spoken were “May you have enough.” And as with more of my philosophical guidance than I care to readily admit to these days this came from a Facebook post. I was though taken with it enough to Google the phrase “May You Have Enough.”

So it turns out this may have originated as an Irish Blessing, author unknown. This seems to fit nicely with one definition of “enough “ and that is “as much or as many as required”. For me personally and my life choices these days I can ask is a bicycle enough for transportation or do I need a car. Are beans enough or is eating chicken or fish really necessary for adequate protein intake. Is Natural Grocers enough or do I need to cop to the much shorter walk and shop at Whole Foods? When I need a break is a short mountain trip enough or do I need to get on a plane to go somewhere. Is my air conditioning set at 75 degrees enough or do I need it cooled to 70? And on and on.

There is though a second definition of “enough” that struck me as very appropriate especially this past week and that would be to indicate that one is unwilling to tolerate any more of something undesirable.

I see a fundamental message of the Black Lives Matter movement being simply “enough.” Enough is enough and no more will be tolerated.

The essence of this is so difficult it seems for many of us white folks to grasp. In part I suppose we can be left off the hook because of the blatantly revisionist history, dating back before the revolution of 1776, that we have been spoon-fed. The root motivators for the American Revolution are much more complex than issues around a tax on tea. The historian Gerald Horne has written extensively on this topic and a 2014 interview with him on Democracy Now is a vital listen for all trying to grapple with the roots of racism and racial tensions in America today. Here is a link to that interview: http://www.democracynow.org/2014/6/27/counter_revolution_of_1776_was_us

What the revolution of 1776 was significantly about was protecting the institution of slavery. The Second Amendment was actually about ensuring the preservation of the Slave Patrol Militias, which were early forerunners of out police departments. The term well-regulated militia being actually a shortened sanitized phrasing.

Here is a link to an analysis piece on the connection between the Second Amendment and the need to protect the institution of slavery: http://www.thehypertexts.com/Slavery and the Second Amendment Slave Patrol Militias.htm

If this suggestion seems a bit far-fetched consider the very muted response from the NRA about the recent killings of two black men who were supposedly carry legal firearms. Their panties would certainly be in a wad if this had been “white patriots.”

I am not meaning to put too simplistic a spin on it but slavery is a profound way of limiting the choices a human being has. The ingrained legacy of slavery in America, still to this day, severely limits the number of choices needed for a quality and fulfilling life for many African Americans. Everyone should have the option of too many choices.

© July 2106

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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The Rise of Dr. Jill Stein by Louis

Since I did not know what today’s topic was supposed to be, I would just like to give my impressions of and my reactions to the presidential election.

My favorite candidate by far until recently was Bernie Sanders. When he endorsed Hillary Clinton so as to defeat Donald Trump, suddenly Jill Stein of the Green Party became much, much more important. Though I understand why Bernie did what he did, I do not agree with him that it is paramount to defeat Donald Trump. After Jill Stein, Donald Trump is my second choice.

In other words, Jill not Hill, Jill not Hill.

I voted for Barack Obama twice, but ultimately he failed; supporting TPP with such zeal demonstrates his first loyalty is to Wall Street not to the American public. Also his EPA did nothing to call out the governor of Michigan over the issue of the poisoned water in Flint, Michigan. Also he prolonged the pointless war in Afghanistan, and, ten years from now, the American public will still derive no benefit from this war, and the public will still be against it.

I’m disillusioned with Women’s Lib. Many women have risen to the heights of power: Margaret Thatcher in Great Britain, Condoleezza Rice, Secretary of State in the George W. Bush administration, Kelly Ayotte, Senator from New Hampshire, Dick Cheney’s heterosexual daughter, Liz Cheney. Women libbers should not be particularly proud of these “successful” women. The nicest women politicians I remember from the old days were Bela Abzug from New York. Now of course there is Dr. Jill Stein and Jane Sanders. These three are a little more likeable.

Colin Powell tried hard to sound more reasonable during the years of the W administration. Then, when General Powell got enthused about invading Iraq, his credibility instantly collapsed. More disillusion.

One of Bernie Sander’s team called Hillary Clinton “a whore of Wall Street.” I do not like the word “whore.” Let us just call her a puppet of Wall Street.

The main trend we should be following is the continued rise in the percentage of non-voters. It is now about 80%. In November, I estimate it will probably increase to 85%. In other words, we live in a nation with no leaders.

© 20 August 2016

About the Author

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

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Magic, by Lewis

Do you believe in magic? 

Yeah. 
Believe in the magic in a young girl’s soul 
Believe in the magic of rock ‘n’ roll 
Believe in the magic that can set you free 
Ohhhh, talkin’ bout magic….

So goes the lyric by the smooth and silky Lovin’ Spoonful. According to Webster’s, “magic” is “the use of means (such as charms and spells) believed to have supernatural power over natural forces” or “an extraordinary power or influence seemingly from a supernatural source” or “the art of producing illusions by sleight of hand”.

To answer Lovin’ Spoonfuls’ question, yes, I do believe there is power in music to set one’s soul free, so to speak, and it isn’t limited to rock ‘n’ roll or the soul of a young girl, for that matter. What Lovin’ Spoonful is singing about is the magic that is part of ordinary, everyday lives, not the magic of Webster’s dictionary. And, when push comes to shove, isn’t that the only kind that really matters?

I would like to tell you a story of how magic has affected my life. It begins shortly after my ex-wife, Jan, and I were married in 1972–six weeks after, to be precise. It was the Sunday after Thanksgiving. I was working in the front yard of our home in Detroit. It was a warm day for late November. Jan came out of the house, obviously upset. She was bleeding rather heavily from her vagina. She had talked to her gynecologist, who recommended taking her to Brent, a private hospital, immediately.

What happened thereafter must be weighed in consideration of the fact that it was two months before the U.S. Supreme Court’s decision in Roe v. Wade. It was less than a mile to Brent but for Jan it was as if she had stepped through a portal to hell. I did not witness any of the events I am about to describe. I only learned of them from Jan.

Within an hour of my leaving her off at the hospital, the orderlies were transferring her from the gurney to the examination table and dropped her on the floor. To add insult to injury, their main concern was for the well-being of the fetus; Jan was first-runner-up.

By this time, she had passed tissue as well as blood and was convinced that the fetus was not healthy. Nevertheless, she was instructed to lie perfectly still in the hospital bed. The doctor prescribed a sedative to calm her down but she only pretended to swallow the pill. When the nursing staff had left her room, she got out of bed and did pushups on the floor, hoping to abort, which, eventually, she did. The staff was none the wiser.

About a year later, Jan was pregnant again. As before, at about six weeks gestation, she began to bleed. That pregnancy also resulted in a miscarriage. Tests disclosed that Jan had a bifurcated uterus–a membrane separated it into two parts. That didn’t leave enough space for the fetus to develop normally. The doctor’s recommendation was surgery to remove the membrane. The odds of success were 50/50. We decided to go ahead with the procedure. Two weeks before the surgery was to happen, we learned that Jan was pregnant again, despite her being on the pill. We decided to take a wait-and-see approach to the fetus’ development.

This is where the magic began. Not only did the fetus go to term but developed into a 9-pound, 5-ounce baby girl, Laura. The delivery was not exactly “normal”, however. Yes, we had taken the “natural childbirth” and Lamaze classes but there is no way to plan or prepare for an umbilical cord that is wrapped around the baby’s neck. The obstetrician decided to induce birth early and use forceps. We had chosen a hospital, Hutzel Women’s Hospital in Detroit, that allowed the father to be present for the birth. I had planned for it but had not a clue as to the role I was about to play.

The birthing table, upon which Jan lay, was massive. I think it was made of marble or something equally heavy. The doctor was at one end, his forceps clamped on the baby’s head, a nurse was lying across Jan’s abdomen and I was holding onto the other end of the table. Nevertheless, the doctor was dragging the table with its cargo of three human adults across the delivery room floor by our daughter’s neck while Jan pushed as hard as she could. (Incidentally, my wife was about 5’8″ and 160 pounds.) I was afraid that our baby was going to be born in installments. But, no, she came out in one piece, her head a little flattened on the sides, slightly jaundiced, hoppin’ mad, and gorgeous to both her parents.

On my first visit to mother and daughter in the hospital, I donned the required gown. You know the type–they cover the front of you completely and tie in the back. Laura had been in an incubator for her jaundice. The nurse brought her in and handed her to Jan in the bed for feeding. After Laura had nursed for a while, Jan asked if I would like to hold her. I said “yes”, even though I had little-to-no experience with holding a live baby, especially one so small. After holding Laura to my shoulder for a few minutes, I handed her back to Jan.

As I was leaving, I removed the gown. There, near the shoulder of the dress shirt I wore to work, was a pea-sized spot of meconium, a baby’s first bowel movement. True, it’s sterile and has no particular smell, but I knew that I had been branded. My daughter had found an “outlet” for her anger at having to undergo such a rigorous birth and I knew she would have the upper hand for as long as we both lived.

On the night of Laura’s birth, as I drove home at about 5:00 AM, I turned on the car’s radio to WDET-FM, the public and classical radio station at the time. The streets were empty and as I merged onto I-75 for the 10-minute ride home, the interior of the car was filled with the sounds of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, Fourth Movement. In the last section of that movement, the massive choir of over a hundred mixed voices rises to sing “Ode to Joy” in concert with the musicians. You have only to hear it once to know that MAGIC is happening. Only a genius who could not hear the sound of his own voice could have composed such glorious sounds. My heart, already swollen with pride, nearly burst.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. But even better than Santa Claus, there is magic all around us all the time. It speaks to us only if we open our hearts to it and believe–believe that there is always light at the end of the tunnel, that we are given love in proportion to that which we give to others and that, above all, we must never lose faith either in ourselves or the blessed and precious world we have been given.

[P.S. Just a brief afterthought about the “magic” of childbirth–

I see nothing particularly remarkable about the male role in this process. The job of the sperm is two-fold: a) engage in the singularly manly pursuit of trying to outrace the other 100-200 million sperm to the egg and b) equally as manly, be the first to penetrate the hard outer layer of the egg, thus reaching its nucleus where the sperm’s genetic content merges with that of the egg. The life of the sperm thus reminds me of nothing more than of the leeches who attached themselves to the main character’s nether regions in the movie, Stand by Me–neither ennobling nor romantic.

What transpires within the uterus of the woman, however, is simply one magic trick after another. Nine months is longer than most men remain faithful. It’s uncomfortable enough that most men wouldn’t endure it unless they were being paid tens of thousands of dollars per month and on network television. Many of them are nowhere to be found when the nine months are up. Yet, they think they are entitled to make the rules as to whether the fetus must be allowed to go full-term. It’s as if the leech had a nine-month, no-breech lease on your groin. All of a sudden, the “magic” is gone.]

© 26 August 2013

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 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.

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True Colors, by Gillian

Tricky things, true colors.  

Betsy and I often see colors slightly differently. Oh, we both agree on what ‘s red and what’s black, but when we come to more subtle hues, we differ. She might describe something as a brownish mauve, while I see it as beige. She may say a color is definitely blue while I see it as a bluish green. 
So what are true colors? 
Years ago we took a watercolor class together. It fascinated both of us to observe the very different mix of colors we would each use to match the roof of the barn or the rocky outcrop on the hill. Needless to say, our paintings of the exact same scene came out very different from each other: not only resulting from our low-grade artistic skills but also because we simply see colors differently.
These days we have made working with colors much more complex than it used to be. Once upon a time our house walls were whitewashed, if they were colored at all. Now, if you decide you want white walls in the bedroom, you are faced with a huge array of choices. Do we want Pearl or Eggshell, or Linen or Ivory or Cloud or Decorator White or Simply White? etc. etc. etc. To determine your answer, you hold a two-inch square of each shade up against your wall and imagine that color covering the entire wall. Yeah, right!
This begs a question. Why do automobile manufacturers appear to be unable to access this embarrassment of riches? We have a Toyota Corolla. It’s color, according to the factory paperwork, is Mushroom. It’s a low-key inoffensive color and I have no objection to it. My only question is, why have I never seen a Toyota Corolla of any other color? Our other car is a Toyota Rav4. Other than the ridiculous name, it’s fine. It is a kind of silver or steel color, again low-key and inoffensive. There are Rav4’s of a different color. I have seen several red and a few blue. But the vast majority of them are, yes, the same color as ours. So, Toyota being a pretty popular brand around here, we have two cars equally impossible to find in King Soopers’ parking lot because they look look exactly like half of the cars parked there. 
And speaking of strange color choices, what is with the military – maybe just the army, though I’m not sure – and those camouflage uniforms? I somehow missed the switch from the accustomed olive drab, so, at DIA shortly after 9/ll, I was amazed to find the airport awash with heavily armed soldiers in unfamiliar, vaguely leafy, patterned uniforms. What did they think? That we couldn’t see them? Or we’d mistake them for plants? Against the angular marble and glass of the airport they stood out like the pyramids rising from the desert. Perhaps, I pondered, that was the idea. After all they were meant to be a Presence, to instill is us, depending on our intentions, either fear or a sense of safety and protection. To me, they emitted more a slight sense of the ridiculous. I wanted to giggle; and I was sorry for that. I respect those who join the Armed Services, and don’t want to make them into a figure of fun, even only inside my own head. 
Having learned from the Web that the change of uniform took place in the 1980’s, I see how I missed it completely. There is not, and was not at that time, a significant military presence around the Denver Metro Area. Men and women in uniform are not a particularly common sight.
And by the 1980’s I no longer had step-sons in the Service. 
But what were they thinking, those powers that be who made the decision? Of course camouflage has always been as important for survival in the military as it is in nature, but in the past it has not been worn, as far as I know, as the everyday uniform. Those men and women would have done well, in their vaguely floral green and brown, crawling through the jungle; but why dress like that at DIA? The other thing that strikes me as odd, is to have camouflage of those colors and curving shapes. Most of those currently making up the group that we chose to call, euphemistically, boots on the ground (as if they were just footwear, not real live people) seem, when I see them on TV, to be either on bare open rocky desert or in mean urban streets, neither of which environment sports a blade of grass never mind a tree. Maybe we just have a huge surplus of leafy camouflage left over from Viet Nam? 
Anyway, who am I to criticize camouflage? I relied strongly upon it for the first forty-something years of my life, ensuring that no-one, most especially I, should catch a glimpse of my own True Colors. If occasionally I did , out of the corner of an eye, then I simply clutched my camouflage more tightly around me and snuffed out the light. Now I pride myself on a full peacock display of my True Colors, standing tall and proud, having burned my camouflage as in the ‘sixties they burned their bras. Some of the men and women in what I cannot help but find faintly laughable uniforms, may be wearing physical camouflage but, since we now have marriage equality in the U.S. military, can now be out of their metaphorical hiding places standing tall and proud in their True Colors. In comparison to the significance of that, what on earth does it matter what they wear? Or what color cars are? Or if my gray is Betsy’s blue? Displaying our True Colors, whatever they may be and whoever we are, to the world, with pride and dignity; that’s what it’s all about.

© February 2016

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 been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty years. We have been married since 2013.

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Eavesdropping by Betsy

To eavesdrop means to deliberately listen in on words not meant for you to hear and to do it secretly. I cannot recall a time when this actually happened to me or a time when it was carried out by me. Plenty of times I have overheard things accidentally, things not necessarily meant for my ears, but things making no difference whether I heard them or not.

Plenty of times I’m sure people have accidentally overheard something I said, but words that did not affect them. Or likewise, I have overheard others’ conversations. For example, I recently heard a discussion coming from the next room. The follow-up was that I chose not to join that conversation. It was not interesting to me, or I simply was too tired to join in, or perhaps I was more interested in what I was doing at the time.
So I don’t have much to say about eavesdropping really. Eavesdropping follow-up is a different matter. To my way of thinking “eavesdropping follow-up” means gossip—pure and simple. What fascinates me about gossip is what drives people to do it.
It seems to me that people like to tell secretive things about other people’s private lives because it makes them feel superior to the people to whom they are gossiping. “I know something about so and so that no one else knows. That makes me better informed and smarter and more powerful than all y’all.” In my opinion that is what drives people to gossip.
This all may be sour grapes on my part because I am always and have always been “out of the loop” so to speak—the last one to know the latest gossip. Why is that, I ask? I guess it’s just because I’m not listening, not interested, or maybe I just have bad hearing. Anyway I seem to be hearing impaired when it comes to gossip. Often it’s about people I don’t even know, so who cares? If the gossip is about someone I know and care about, I usually already have the information.
As for eavesdropping, I honestly can’t imagine where I would be if I were secretly listening in on a conversation I was not supposed to hear. I would be too afraid I would get caught. I don’t think I’m very good at spying really. If I had a reason for getting information I ostensibly wasn’t supposed to have, I would ask for it and ask why I wan’t supposed to have it. But I know that would not ever happen because I would not be aware the information even existed.
I like to think that I can mind my own business and just “keep my nose clean” as they say.


© 17 July 16


About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver Women’s Chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change), and the GLBT Community Center. She has been retired from the human services field for 20 years. Since her retirement, her major activities have included tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with the National Sports Center for the Disabled, reading, writing, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 30 years, Gillian Edwards.
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Changing Images, by Gillian

Reputation is an idle and most false imposition; oft got without merit, and lost without deserving.

                                           William Shakespeare

As most often, I completely agree with you, Will.

A reputation is a dangerous thing; good or bad, yours or someone else’s.

I guess the essence of their threat lies in the fact that we all tend to become sucked in by them, rather than by the reality of a person’s character. And, again, this is as true of our own as of others’. Being fooled by another person’s reputation, or image, is dangerous. Being led astray from your real self by your own, can be disastrous.

Reputations, and the images they create of us, can stay pretty stable throughout a lifetime, but for many of us they are fluid, changing as we grow. Who doesn’t know that wild child with the dreadful reputation in high school, who grew up to be a boringly conventional pillar of the community? Nevertheless that past reputation can hang around. Who has completely forgotten Chappaquiddick? It followed Ted Kennedy to his grave and beyond into the history books. The same for Monica Lewinsky, who will forever haunt Clinton’s reputation.

I’m not sure whether reputations have become more insidious in our modern word, or less.

In the days when most of us lived in small communities where everyone knew everyone else, it was hard for anyone to escape their established reputation and build a new one. You aren’t going to employ Bob to put in your new windows. He got caught shop-lifting at the dime store when he was ten. Probably rips off all his glass from some place. And as for letting Mary baby-sit. Remember how she knocked her baby sister off the chair that time? Well, yes, probably was an accident but still ……

These days, we tend not to know that the woman selling us insurance used to beat her children, or that the man fixing our car is a longtime alcoholic. On the other hand, anything you do or say can swoop around the world in a nanosecond, and if whatever it is goes viral, God help you!

I believe a lot of what Facebook is about is changing reputations, your own and others’, which is surely much easier to do these days than back in the small town where you were the town drunk for life no matter that you had been on the wagon for half of your life.

Winston Churchill was a perfect example of changing reputations. Come to that, he still is.

His youthful military escapades were a mixed bag, but, never lacking in ego, by the age of 26 he had published five books about them. His reputation was mixed, but he was made Lord of the Admiralty at at the ridiculously young age of 37. Sadly for him, and alas much sadder for the 250,000 casualties, his poorly-conceived Siege of the Dardanelles during WW1 was a total disaster and he was forced to resign, with his reputation in tatters. He immediately redeemed much of it by consigning himself to trench warfare, where he reportedly fought with vigor and valor.

Between the wars, his constant warnings of impending and inevitable war with Germany again diminished his reputation. No-one wanted to hear it. The Boer War was not so long over, and the British were not up for another. But when Germany broke its promises and invaded Poland, Churchill was proven right and his reputation soared. Almost instantaneously he was made Prime Minister and, with his reputation as that British Bulldog thundering around him, proclaimed by most as Britain’s savior. His very reputation, along with endless stirring speeches, did much to keep spirits high under desperate conditions, and to keep most Britons determined to go on fighting.

But that reputation, as a supreme fighter who would never give up, lost all appeal the moment the war ended. Churchill’s hawkish reputation coupled with his endless warnings over the new threat from the Soviets, were too scary for peace-time. Two months later Winston Churchill was defeated soundly at the polls.

His ego, however, remained undaunted. He had no fear for his reputation.

“History,” he pronounced, “Will be kind to me for I intend to write it.”

Which he did. Over his lifetime he wrote 43 books in 72 volumes.

But still he was unable completely to preserve a positive reputation.

Although for many years it was considered akin to blasphemy to criticize such a great hero, that is no longer the case. There is much discussion these days as to whether Churchill was, to quote Dr. Andrew Roberts, “Brilliant Statesman or Brutal Demagogue.” Just from his own quotations, he was clearly misogynistic and racist, but in his day that was not condemned as it is today. So reputations change not only as a person changes, and events change, but as attitudes change.

And so we re-write history.

It’s hard to be sure what one’s own reputation is. Probably, in many cases, not exactly what we think it is or would like it to be. I do know that when I was married the first time, to a man, we were considered a really strong, stable couple. I know that because our friends were so utterly shocked when we split up. And, in so many ways, that reputation was valid. Except for one teensy weensy detail which no-one knew. In one way our reputation as a married couple was true. In another, it was as far off as it could be. But I was the only one who knew that; and I played my part so well.

When I came out, I became a bit confused. I wasn’t at all sure what the archetypal lesbian would be; but whatever it was, that’s what I would become. I observed carefully in this new world, and acted accordingly to create a new reputation, a new version of myself. Thankfully, this stage did not last long.

You’re doing it again! I said to myself. Your entire life you have created a false reputation for yourself, and now you’re finally free, you’re doing it again! STOP!

So I did.

And for over 30 years now, I have simply been me. I don’t know what kind of reputation I have.

I don’t care. A reputation is simply others’ visions, versions, of me. It may or may not be anywhere near the truth. It simply doesn’t matter.

Free at last!

© October 2014

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 been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty years. We have been married since 2013.

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Security by Gillian

Security, like living happily ever after, belongs in the never-never-land of children’s tales. It rarely exists; certainly not in modern reality, and in fact I doubt that it ever was thick on the ground. In those long ago days of our childhood, perhaps we locked the doors at night and counted ourselves pretty secure. But we had other terrors much worse than a midnight thief. Prior to Salk’s invention of a vaccine in the early 1950’s, we, or certainly our parents on our behalf, lived in constant terror of polio attacking our young limbs. Childhood diseases raged through schools and communities: measles and mumps, chickenpox and whooping cough, diptheria and meningitis. Today we are protected from most of those diseases but still left with little security as to health. We have to worry about old sicknesses returning in a new resistant form, or new ones – at least to us – suddenly appearing in the news, such as bird flu and sars, West Nile and Zika. Added to that, we have the fears of not being able to pay for the health care we need, just as our forebears feared it for themselves.

But at least our forefathers did not suffer from our insecurities of lack of privacy. Perhaps we have a physical privacy they lacked, but we live in constant trepidation of just how much personal information, down to the minutest detail, is available to anyone who cares to pluck it from the ether. Just this weekend I began filling out on-line applications for car and home insurance. I was amazed and appalled by the amount of data that was entered for me automatically the moment I put in my name and the first digits of my street address. It knew the answers to it’s own questions about me: it knew Betsy was my spouse, it knew every detail about her. It informed me that we are both retired and have no dependents. It filled in the year and model of our cars. Yes, I know none of this should surprise me, and at some level it did not. But there was something very unsettling about seeing it in action. A form meant for me to fill out was completed almost entirely, and accurately, by some unknown and invisible entity in cyberspace. I was a minimal presence in the whole process.

Not that here is much security in insurance, anyway. As our beleaguered climate swings from one extreme to another, natural disasters abound, and insurance rates soar. Before long I fear that all but the absolute minimal coverage will be unaffordable to many. Even if you can afford it, it is frequently unavailable. Live near the coast? Live in a floodplain? Well, gee, it just might flood there, so you can’t have insurance because you might need it. And these so-called floodplains are seriously iffy anyway, identified by computers in the garbage in/garbage out mode. I used to live in Lyons in a little house on top of a 100-foot cliff above the river, but the house location was identified as high risk of flooding and I could not buy flood insurance; not that I would have, anyway. In the terrible floods of 2013, most of the town of Lyons was washed away. But my old house stood firm and dry.

Our use of computers and all they offer can destroy our illusions of security in countless ways.

I have always, I believe, been a faithful friend. I value friendship highly, chose friends carefully, and feel safe and secure in those relationships. One of my longtime friends was a man I had worked with at IBM for thirty years. He had been supportive at the time of my coming out; he and his wife invited Betsy and me to their home and they visited ours. After he and I both retired we sent e-mails back and forth – jokes and cartoons and such – in the way most of us do.

We had a distribution list of old colleagues and scattered this silliness around. Suddenly, one day, I opened up one of these messages from my friend to find, to my disbelief and horror, pages of gay-bashing rantings. This was not tasteless homophobic humor, which I might, just possibly, have forgiven. This was pure vitriol. Hate-mongering gleaned and forwarded from all around the web. Tears poured down as I re-read it, fancying the first reading to be some kind of delusion. No. The hateful words remained. I just could not believe that he had kept such feelings from me for so many years, or that he had sent this garbage to me. I could only suppose, and still think, that he simply lost track of who exactly was on that particular distribution list. They can be dangerous things if you don’t pay attention. Whatever the reason, his true colors were clear to us all. After a night of sleeping on it, or, to be accurate, tossing awake on it, I replied. I acknowledged my heartbreak over such an ending to what I had always believed to be a firm and sincere friendship. I searched hopefully through my messages the following days, and then weeks, honestly expecting a reply; some kind of apology, some kind of explanation. None came.

I never heard from him again.

I never quite recovered from that incident. It robbed me of an innocence over friendship which I doubt I can regain. But I have tried to deal with it rationally and without allowing it to drag me down into complete cynicism and destroy other friendships, or my desire to make new ones. I have learned to say, with almost complete sincerity, that another person’s homophobia is their problem not mine. The same could be said, I suppose, of duplicity, but I find that so much harder to bear. It is not my friend’s homophobia that hurts so much, but the pretense, the subterfuge, the deceit.

Now, securely at home as a member of this storytelling group, I feel something very like my old innocence return. Perhaps lost innocence can be regained, after all. I feel safe and secure here.

I don’t fear that you are going to exhibit any duplicity; any pretense. I don’t believe that you are saying mean-spirited things about me behind my back. Oh sure, a little gossip and tattle-tale, but not real hard-core back-biting derision.

Security like that is hard to find. Reviewing it reminds me of the honor which has been bestowed on me and the pride I feel in being a member of this group.

© March 2016

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 been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty years. We have been married since 2013.

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A Defining Word, by Will Stanton

OK, so I know that two words are a term, not a word; but that is what I have chosen to write about, a term: “sexual preference.” I have chosen those two words because, over the years, they have been used so much, yet they certainly are not defining words.

Yes, I know what people usually mean when they employ that term when asking, “What is your sexual preference?” Most likely, they mean “straight or gay.” I usually answer, “I’m not sure. It’s hard for me to choose between blond or brunette. One day, I lean toward blond; yet, on other days, I’m drawn to dark-brown hair, maybe even black.”
A person’s preference may have little to do with sexual identity. For one example, I can conceive of a person born homosexual whose preference would be to be heterosexual. And of course, someone’s preference might be to a person of the opposite gender.
In addition, a person’s preference may be a partner who is young, or old, same race or different race, very good-looking or, instead, a very good person, looks being of less importance. Many gay guys seem to be preoccupied with the size of male genitalia. Other people could not care less, placing far more importance on someone’s other attributes.
In order to avoid confusion or misinterpretation, I prefer communication to be as precise as possible. Therefore, because genetics and brain structure are major determinants of each person’s drives and attractions, I suggest that the more logical term should be “sexual orientation;” and this is what I use if the subject comes up in conversation. Even then, that term is not completely defining, for people are complex and of varied natures.
And, as long as we are talking about commonly used terms, a little bell goes off each time I hear the frequently used term “bisexual.” My having involved myself for several decades in human behavioral treatment, the term “bisexual” always connotes for me a possible biological influence in someone’s nature or physical structure. After all, human sexuality is not binary, that is, either heterosexual or homosexual. Someone’s nature or orientation lies somewhere on a linear graph. For those individuals who may engage in sexual relations with people of both heterosexual and homosexual orientation, perhaps a more accurate term would be “ambisexual,” rather like in baseball, a “switch-hitter.” Or, if you would enjoy something more humorous, you might use the term “heteroflexible.”
Finally, generally I avoid popular, overused labels when describing people. People are far too varied and complex. Labeling people hinders the process of getting to know and truly understand someone. Besides, for those persons fortunate enough to have become self-actualized and broad in their interests, sexual orientation is only one part of a human, complex personality.
© 02 February 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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Belief, by Will Stanton

So many people, far too many people, are convinced that belief is truth; belief is the same thing as fact. Nothing could be further from the truth. For centuries, most people believed that the earth was flat; the sun circled the earth. I am saddened by the fact that many people’s hard-held beliefs defy fact and reality, and too often with dire consequences.

To the horrific discredit of humankind, many Nazis believed that all Jews should be eliminated. Pastor Anderson in Tempe, Arizona, believes that all homosexuals should be executed, supposedly because the Bible says so. Some beliefs can be shocking and deadly.

Very often, people thoughtlessly quote the hackneyed expression, “Everyone is entitled to their own beliefs.” In addition to that quotation being bad grammar, I logically disagree with the statement. If a belief is false and can cause harm to others, I feel then that one is not entitled to harbor that belief.

Yet, we daily hear evidence that so many people hold false beliefs; and, in doing so, they cause among the populace suspicion, fear, distrust, disdain, hate. For example, “President Obama is not American; his birth certificate is forged; he hates America; all the generals and admirals are quitting because they are refusing Obama’s orders to bomb our own cities.” I view such beliefs as nothing less than insanity. For the life of me, I can not understand the depth and pervasiveness of such insanity. Yet, exist is does, and in abundance.

The idea of belief in religion also raises questions in my own mind, albeit anyone questioning religion at all is an anathema to many people. I have heard Christians say that the world is a better place with religion and point to, what they refer to as, “good works” as an immediate benefit of religion, let alone supposedly having an “afterlife.” A rational person, of course, will point out that good works can be performed without the adjunct of religion, regardless of the fact that many people, such a Bill O’Reilly, claim that such humanitarian works “do not count” unless the good Samaritan is a “person of faith.” Far worse, we all are aware that, throughout history, some religious beliefs have resulted in millions of deaths from war, Inquisitions, and terror.

My whole life, I have pondered the human mind. On one hand, I am amazed by the great, creative works some notable people have contributed to the world. Yet at the same time, I remain puzzled and saddened by the pervasiveness of distorted thinking and beliefs that are so common among the populace. Without being too technical, I am aware that researches have found that some people’s brains are more prone to clutching onto beliefs for a sense of certainty and safety, rather than rationally exploring all the facts available to them. Then of course, much depends upon what one has learned and how it was learned. I frequently have witnessed religiosity-minded people becoming defensive and hostile when confronted with facts that call into question their hard-held beliefs.

All of us, to one degree or another, have beliefs that we wish to maintain. I, for one, believe that the world would be a far better place if every person cherished life, always treated each other with empathy and respect, learned to love each other. Yet, I actually have been confronted with people who have stated to me that they do not share such beliefs.

I also believe in the benefit of moral behavior. For example, I believe that American politics would be far more constructive and tolerable if all concerned acted in a moral fashion without misrepresentation, lying, denigration, character-assassination, and even theft of elections or actual assassination. Yet, I have had conversations with several religiosity-minded people who literally do not comprehend the concept that I am proposing. They believe that only winning is important and that whatever machinations are required to do so are perfectly OK. My belief in morality is not shared by them.

On a lighter note, I can think of a belief that I have held that turned out to be true even without my initially having all the facts. For some time, I held a belief, based upon experience and some research, that not all music is of equal quality, that some music is healthful and, what I call, “pro-human,” whereas some aural experiences, called “music,” are toxic to humans and animals. Some people, aware of my belief, dismissed it with disdain, claiming that my belief had no factual basis. They claimed that all music is of equal quality and that what one listens to simply is a matter of taste and preference. Then to my surprise and, I admit, my satisfaction, recent scientific research with both humans and animals has supported my early belief, and definitively so.

So, sometimes beliefs can be accurate, even without all the supporting evidence that we would prefer to have. I should hasten to say, however, this may be true, but within reason. I still feel that I reasonably can dismiss the belief that President Obama ordered our generals to bomb our cities. So, when we talk about believing something, we really should be rational and accurately know what we are talking about. Do I believe that all humans eventually will think and behave in this manner? Not really. But as for myself, I make an effort.

© 7 January 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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A Defining Word, by Gillian

We need some new words; new defining words.

But we’re creating them daily, probably hourly, I can hear you thinking. And that’s fair enough. Just how recently did I adopt, or adapt to, words like server and processor, not to mention bits and bytes and firewalls and apps. But those are all techie terms. I’m talking about sociological terminology which seems to be mired in the mud of decades.

I find it very strange, for instance, that in the English language there is no word for a parent who has lost a child. We dignify the situation of one who has lost both parents with the noun orphan. You lose your spouse, you’re a widow or widower.

But surely the loss of a child is one of the worst things that can happen to a person, and yet our language offers no linguistic easy way out. A wife who has lost her husband can simply say, I’m a widow, and leave it at that if she wants. But a parent must stumble through some agonizing sentence, even if one as clipped as, I lost my only son.

The author Karla Holloway, in an essay on NPR back in 2006, addressed this topic.* She expressed it as needing to ‘name the pain’ in order to assist in healing. I saw what the loss of two children, before I was born, did to my parents in the long-term. I wonder, had there been a single word to express what had happened to them, if they might have found a way to tell me, instead of leaving it to my aunt eventually to clarify for me the presence of that huge elephant never absent from our home.

There is considerable on-line chat (surprise, surprise!) on this topic, and from it I discovered that few languages have such a word. The exceptions are, apparently, the semitic languages. German has an expression I find very touching, it translates literally as ‘orphaned parent’ but still it is not incorporated into a single word. Why is a single word that sums up this horrific situation so rare?

A few ideas are offered on line. Some suggest that it is only recently that infant mortality has dropped sufficiently to make it an unusual situation for a child to pre-decease his/her parents. That does offer a certain uncomfortable logic I suppose, but I don’t see how it translates into the absence of a word. Someone else offered the explanation that, with it having been such a common situation until recent times, and still being sadly frequent in much of the world, having a word for it would be redundant, like, this person, obviously a MAN, says ‘having a word for a man with a penis.’ The insensitivity of this analogy angers me, but then if I am going to be so precious I need to stay away from posts on the internet.

Another, herself a bereaved mother, suggests that it is something too terrible to be put into words. I sympathize with the idea, but we have words for so many still worse things, just take infanticide and genocide for instance, that I can’t go along with that explanation either.

Others believe the absence of the word is due to the broader social insignificance of the event. Becoming an orphan, widow, or widower, changes a person’s status in society, whereas losing a child does not. I find that incredibly hard and cold, and don’t want to believe it. Are we, the majority of the world’s population, so calculating that we only see sorrowful events which change people’s lives in the light of how they might affect us? Now we might have to support that child, give that widow a pension, or marry that widower. But we are not affected by the death of a friend’s child so consider it unimportant? Even at my most cynical, I truly don’t believe that most of us are so uncaring; so unaffected by the sorrows of our friends and neighbors, or even complete strangers.

So I remain simply baffled by the lack of this, what I consider very important, word. Someone on line suggests adopting the word ‘shadow’ because anyone who has lost a child becomes a shadow of his or her former self. Personally, I like it. It certainly describes my own parents. I have so often wished there were some way that I could know what they were like before they lost two children. But I can only extrapolate from the parents I knew, and from old photographs in which they looked so much happier than I ever saw them in my lifetime.

But I don’t expect this or any other word to appear in general use any time soon. Only technology will continue to toss new words at us faster than we can grasp them, and I shall go on struggling with Dvi/Hdmi adapters and why my Thunderbolt port doesn’t work and does it matter? Or maybe I have a vga port and does that matter?

And are these all defining words? Only my computer knows for sure.

* http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=5511147

A postscript from Gillian –

After I read this to our group, Ray S. suggested using a new adjective rather than a noun.

Just as we say ‘childless’ of a person or couple without children, we could say ‘childloss’ of those who have suffered that terrible bereavment.

Thank you, Ray, I find that moving and beautiful in it’s simplicity.

© February 2016

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 been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty years. We have been married since 2013.