School, by Pat Gourley

My formal education
stared in 1955 when I was a first grader at St. Peter Catholic School in La Porte
Indiana. My family lived on what was actually a real family farm of about 200
acres growing corn, soybeans, wheat and oats. We had a few milk cows, the
occasional pig, a few sheep and lots of chickens along with a dog or two and
several barnyard cats. The cats had escaped the fate of so many other barnyard felines
and not wound up in a gunnysack full of rocks at the bottom of a horse tank.
What can I say it was a different time and this cat population control was
usually done out of sight from us kids.
It was a short commute from
the farm to the town of La Porte that had three elementary Catholic schools. We
went to the one that served mostly Irish families.
My grandparents both
maternal and paternal were not far removed from Ireland and on my mother’s side
supposedly came from Roscommon County. I believe these grandparents were all
second-generation immigrants from the Emerald Isle, but unfortunately I do not
know this for sure. I should check this out though since if just one of your
grandparents was born in Ireland, even if neither parent was, you are eligible
for Irish citizenship.  This is something
that seems quite attractive these days.
The family had been in
northern Indiana for sometime but being Irish Catholics they had not always
been welcomed with open arms. Family lore included an oft repeated story of a
KKK cross burning at the end of the lane leading to my paternal grandparent’s
home in the early 1920’s. The Klan was very resurgent at that time and Indiana
was a hotbed of this activity. Along with African Americans the Jews and
Catholics were also on their list of undesirables.
By the mid-1950’s and
being quite cocooned in the environment of conservative Catholicism 24/7 we
were fairly sheltered from these blatant forms of racism and xenophobia. I mean
we were after all white living in the very white world of rural Indiana and the
KKK was on the wane by this time. The unrelenting religious brainwashing I was
subjected to in grades 1-8 was in hindsight a form of child abuse no matter how
righteous or well intentioned. Sadly generations had been drinking that religious
kool-aide. My parents, at significant financial cost for a lower middle class
family, felt the burden of parochial school for their kids was an act of love,
a duty even and therefore something necessary. It was after all a bunch of
Protestants who had burned that cross at the family farm several decades
before.
A little over half way
through my grade school years the rumblings of great social change were on the
horizon. For my family this was manifest in the fact that an Irish Catholic was
running for president and the ground truly began to shift when he was actually elected
president of the United States. It was a true miracle, JFK in the White House.
Even his assassination a few short years later could not slow the train of
change.
Again, thanks to
significant sacrifice on my parents’ part I was enrolled in a Catholic high
school in Michigan City Indiana in 1963 called St. Mary. This was a time when
my queer juices were really taking off though the environment of a Catholic
School in northern Indiana was not conducive to supporting this gay
flowering.  Then an amazing thing
happened late in my sophomore year and my family moved to a small farm outside
of Woodstock Illinois, a town best described as a suburban bedroom community
northwest of Chicago.
Thus began what in hindsight
I believe today to be my two most important school years.  Nothing like coming under the influence of a
very politically left-leaning, staunchly anti-war Holy Cross nun and seeking
guidance to deal with my ever emerging gayness from a school counselor several
decades older than myself who was to become my first sexual partner. These two
mentors did more to shape who I am today than all the many other teachers I
encountered over my long and often tortuous formal educational path.
I have written extensively
about these two individuals for this group and won’t reiterate those details
here. Suffice it to say though that my formal schooling continued for years to
come. Those academic adventures included 5 years at the University Of Illinois
at Champaign-Urbana, two years of nursing school at the University of Colorado
and another two years at Regis University here in Denver where I was awarded a
Masters Degree in Nursing Administration. That last one was truly a
masturbatory exercise in how to waste time and money for which I take total
responsibility, the faculty at Regis tried, and they really did.
So by my count that is at
least 21 years of formal education. There are really only two years of that
that mattered and those were 1966 and 1967 when I learned the joys of gay sex
and how to challenge the status quo. The knowledge of gay sex has served me
well, despite the little HIV issue. The importance of being a sexual adept though
seems to fade with each passing year but the ability to hit the streets and man
the barricades continues to be more salient than ever. As an often seen resistence
sign says these days “I can’t believe I
still have to protest this shit”
© 19 Aug 2017 
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.

School, by Ray S

     Stories like this have been told endlessly by endless numbers of people just like you and me. But my story is unique because it is my very own.
     I don’t know if the Riverside Central School still stands as I remember it. Then it seemed a monumental structure in the late 19th Century style known as Richardson Romanesque. A flight of wide stairs led up to what seemed like a huge semicircular arched doorway. The spaces within were dedicated to 4th and 5th grades and the auditorium where they held Friday all-school assemblies. 
     A later date addition housed the primary grades and the most wondrous fantasy world (depending on your age; I was 5) called “Kindergarten”. 
     We lived just up the block, but I imagine I was accompanied by my mother to get to school, for as many times to get my confidence established enough so that I could make the morning journeys on my own. Armed with my half pint of orange juice in a little canvas bag lovingly sewn by mother we walked. She even put my name in cross stitch embroidery on the tote bag. 
     Kindergarten was truly a marvelous adventure for everyone. There were two nice ladies there to help us find the right things to play/work with. I later learned that they had the titles of teacher. If there was any sort of rudimentary instruction going on, I cannot recall because I was having too much fun.
     The real learning experience was the process of what is now called “socialization”. Put 14 or 20 four to five year olds together and there’s got to be some kicking, screaming, and tears as well as happy laughter.
     Mid-morning was orange juice time and a short lie down quiet period.
     Then it was back to activities of one sort or another. When I discovered oversized wooden building blocks, I was well on the road to becoming an architect. This was so wonderful until the teacher introduced us to the make-believe grocery store. So much for an introduction to our capitalist consumer centered economy. (Get them started early!)
     There probably is a lot more to tell you about my kindergarten days, but honestly I’ve let you take a peek at the best part and I can’t remember any more anyway. Besides all of this transpired some 85 or 86 year ago and we have to allow as how foggy nostalgia can be given to time, source, and age of that tiny tot with his little canvas orange juice bag.

© 21 August 2017

About the Author

Exploring, by Phillip Hoyle

I was a Boy Scout but never an Explorer. Still I had
explorations I really enjoyed. They usually took place in the stacks at the
public library, at the piano when facing a new score, or at home or office when
fulfilling a project for school or work.
These explorations kept me busy and mostly out of trouble
for years, but things have changed so much that these days I most enjoy messing
around with words in an exploration of rhythm, contrast, and other aspects of
storytelling.
You might conclude as have I that my life-long explorations
are mostly projects of mind and imagination. That’s been quite enough for me
although I do like to go to the same places by differing routes, say take the
scenic lane, stop by and see something I’ve always missed, or approach a
similar project in a slightly different manner. So today I’m reading something
again related to my childhood and continuing fascination with Native American
cultures but this time in poetic form. My interest in a peyote fan at the
Denver Art Museum served as the starting point, but the verse tells of my
childhood imaginings.
© Denver, 2013
Magic Fan
By Phillip E. Hoyle
The clutch of feathers
worked magic, at least for the boy
Who slid them over the
back of his hand,
Between his fingers,
On the skin of his face
Transporting him to a
world of freedom
Where he was one of the Indians
he had read,
Who moved freely through
the life
Of prairie and forest,
Of hunt and survival,
Through the endless
tracks of his mind.
His room, his lodge
festooned with portraits
And costumes of leather
and feather
Faithful companions in
his world of flight,
This fullness of fancy
barely
Tethered by nearness of
family.
There in his lodge, he
worked his feathers
Formed into headdress,
bustle, and fan,
Costume for his great
dream
Of being an Indian
dressed up in style
That spoke of tribal
belonging.
The basement, the space
for a dance
Of adoption, the
footwork of fancy,
Steps made real by the
presence of
Feathers that moved air
and spirit
Through ceremonial smoke
of love and desire.
His dances were brief,
three minutes or less
—sad frontier of 78s—but
He practiced the joy
Shown in dip, turn, and
stomp;
The movement expressing
the life he could feel.
His fan led the way as
he pranced,
Swift feet moving in
moccasins that
Circled the room of
ceremony and smoke.
Bustles shimmering,
bells resounding
Sisters worrying, ‘He’s
at it again.’
In echoing basement his
beads bounced
His body the drum, the
people, the dream
Of roach and shirt,
breechclout and leggings.
Of such transportation:
The magic of feather and
fan.
© Denver,
2012 
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