by Lindsey Goodrow
There is a quiet prevalence of muting the voices of the abused in our own community. It is whimsical to claim that LGBT people have escaped the abuse that’s prevalent in straight society and found a magical utopia free of partner abuse and violence. That utopia does not exist…
by Bob Angell
At the LGBT March on Washington on April 25, 1993, Ben and I walked with our friends south on Ninth Street to the National Mall. We spread out picnic blankets half-way between the U.S. Capital and the Washington Monument, joining what would become over one million protestors.
by Thomas Harrison
Television was a way to explore the wider world and possibilities of relationships that I could one day have, but not all television presentations of homosexuality were positive…
by Stephen Wall
I am ten years old, sleeping in a dormitory of a Catholic boys’ boarding school, where I was sent at the age of eight. I wake up suddenly to find one of my schoolmates with his hand under the blanket on my bed…
by Michele Kirichanskaya
For the asexual or ace community, one of the small ways of coding we have adapted is a black ring on the middle finger of the right hand. The history around the origins of the ace ring is a little murky; for me the black ring stands as a way for me to affirm my asexual identity…
by Susan Davis
Eleven years ago, my wife suffered a ruptured brain aneurysm. She had a less than one percent chance of living. After five arduous months, I finally was able to bring Karen home. That’s when the financial hardship began…
By David Masello
For those of us who live alone and are single, these months of not actually being with people, have resulted in a sense of isolation and alienation far more profound than I think we realize…
By Daniel Hendrick
“I’ve got some bad news,” the lieutenant commander began, pointing to a seat across from her desk. I sat down, trying not to look nervous despite the deepening pit in my stomach. It was the early morning of Tuesday, May 26, 1992. I was 21 years old.
By Tom McCarron
I entered the church and sat in a pew at the very back of the church. I listened to the sermon and the eulogy, and I looked around and saw groups of old men talking and looking at me. The service was over and it was time to go up to the coffin and pay one’s respects to the deceased and to her children. I stood up and thought, if those old hayseeds want a show, I feel prepared to give them one.
By Terry Boyle
My father, a very pious Catholic, never suspected that one of his five sons might be gay. The closest we came to having a discussion on the subject happened quite accidentally. We were driving downtown, when all of a sudden, he pointed at a man walking down the street and said, “See him? He’s a wee bit gay.” When I later told this story to my partner, he said: “You should have asked him, which bit of the man was gay?”
