At 10:30 a.m. today, after I dismounted my treadmill at the Scottsdale Community College fitness center, I turned left. This primitive, but meaningful, message scrawled on a nearby whiteboard captured my attention.
Yes, I am relieved and happy about the blue tsunami that made landfall in the United States last Tuesday. (If you squint, you can detect blue glimmers of it in the reflection of my photograph. Well, not really. Actually, those are the blue skies of Arizona bouncing through western-facing windows.)
The full effects of our political sea change–a true mandate from the American people cast across red, blue, and purple states–won’t become clear until January 2027. That’s when a newly elected, eager-and-diverse slate of Democrats take their seats in Washington, D.C., before a mountain of problems to solve.
But in this period of a landmark transition, we should Be Happy as individuals and as a nation. It feels like we finally may be stepping away from the precipice of our demise, like we have turned a treacherous corner, like we have come to our senses and rediscovered our best intentions before the stroke of midnight.
In this month of Thanksgiving, this seismic-and-hopeful political shift is something to celebrate and truly be thankful for.
That day has come. It is the eve of a frightful pivot point in American history. Will we salvage our democracy at the polls or hand over the last keys of liberty with a whimper? I hold my breath and hope for the former.
Like much of America, my husband and I cast our votes early. Now, amidst raging flood waters that swamped much of Arizona over our unusually soggy weekend, I pray for an early November blue wave. To stop the madness. To flip the script. To calm this exhausting social and economic quagmire. To welcome common sense and human decency back in the front door.
Meanwhile, I give thanks for the successful completion of my sixth memoir writing workshop at the Scottsdale Public Library. For three consecutive Fridays in October, I bonded with eleven diverse and talented writers–seven women; four men–around a rectangular table at Mustang Library.
They trusted me to help jumpstart or embellish their literary journeys. To open their hearts. To share their stories and give them voice. Along the way, we shared a few laughs and several cascades of cathartic tears as they collected constructive feedback and encouragement like hungry trick-or-treaters trolling for their favorite candies.
In a nutshell, together we fostered and nurtured an organic community of storytelling. One I imagine they will carry forward with passion and persistence.
As we parted last Friday, one member shepherded the creation of a email contact list, so that they can discuss ways to continue on this literary journey together.
Though I feel I need time to refill my creative tank, I know in my heart I have contributed to the well-being of eleven other lives … eleven who strive to share their pain, their light, their wisdom, their voices with a world desperate for truth and greater goodness.
As Dad, Mom, Diane and I approached my grandparents’ rambling farm in Huntersville, North Carolina, in 1968 in our four-door Chevy Biscayne, waves of kudzu vine blanketed the trees.
At some point during our July vacation there, I remember my stoic maternal grandfather telling me this invasive plant, this weed, was blocking the sunlight.
Bit by bit, the kudzu was smothering the native plants and large trees in the southeastern United States.
In a metaphorical sense, I feel like one of those older trees–perhaps an oak or pine–that has grown through the seasons and spread its branches only to discover that the censorship and hate of our nation’s government (said kudzu vine) has insidiously wrapped itself around my trunk.
This is not a new development. I have been feeling this way for years. Trying to remain positive in the face of ICE raids, misogynistic slurs, shuttered healthcare programs, disregard for our most vulnerable citizens, the environment, and our right to a free press. The list of losses is endless.
Recently, my husband and I have lived firsthand through the threat of censorship in our community. It is causing us both great pain. It is also prompting me to realize how far we have fallen as a nation and what I am willing to tolerate or accept.
At some point, I will have more to say about this. I don’t know when or how. Suffice it to say, this kudzu vine–the 2026 version of the McCarthy era in the United States–is out of control.
I do believe that, ultimately, historians will shine light on whatever it is we are living through. I hope I live long enough to see the return of truth and reason and the eradication of these smothering vines.
Uncertainty exists in every day, in every life. I try not to dwell on it, but on this day–the 250th anniversary of the United States adopting our Declaration of Independence–uncertainty is our next-door neighbor.
I certainly remember our 200th anniversary, our bi-centennial celebration, in 1976. I was a bright-eyed, long-haired, eighteen-year-old, idealistic American.
Living in suburban St. Louis, I recall seeing the tall ships grace New York Harbor on our console TV on July 4, 1976.
That summer I worked at Six Flags Over Mid-America near St. Louis. As a tribute to the bicentennial, the Screamin’ Eagle rollercoaster roared across the sky. It was the newest, tallest, fastest ride in the park. Teens rode it again and again just for the thrill of it.
Even though the corruption of Watergate and the devastation of the Vietnam War were still fresh in the American psyche, in 1976 it felt like all Americans lived under and abided by one set of rules. That we aspired to one vision.
That the United States of America–the collective red, white and blue–was one nation and indivisible. A beacon of hope and freedom. That we believed, honored, and protected the notion of life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness, and justice. For all.
Over the past several years, like a rollercoaster that has jumped the tracks, we have been derailed by a malicious force. I don’t need to–or want to–speak their names. They have fostered twenty-four-hour-a-day uncertainty and anxiety in this nation I still love.
What I choose to celebrate today are the American citizens who still hold fast to the principle our nation was founded under: freedom and justice for all Americans, no matter your skin color, ethnicity, religious beliefs, sexual orientation, gender, social or economic status.
That is the memory of the United States of America I am proud of.
That is the country my father and thousands of other true patriots have bravely fought for and defended.
That is the country I knew and lived in yesterday.
That is the country I still dream of and worry over.
That is the country I cling to and pray for on July 4, 2026.
That is the country I want to live in today and tomorrow.
On what would have been his ninety-sixth birthday, I want to remind the world that Harvey Milk’s spirit of compassion, authenticity, equality, and hope still lives within each of us in the LGBTQ community … nearly fifty years after his assassination in November 1978.
In 1977, Harvey Milk was the first openly gay man to be elected to public office in California as a member of the San Francisco Board of Supervisors. Despite his short political career, he quickly became an icon in San Francisco and a galvanizing force and inspiration for the LGBTQ community for his unbridled commitment to civil rights.
We will never know what Harvey Milk might have said if he had lived to see the dream of national marriage equality become a reality in the United States in 2015 and now–eleven years later on the other end of the spectrum–to witness the rapid, daily decay of American democracy, American institutions, and American civil liberties.
But I’m a hopeful person and so was Harvey.
He believed “hope is never silent.” He also believed in visibility, whether it means two men holding hands while roller-skating under the palms or standing in protest … raising our voices in solidarity … and living openly on days that aren’t nearly as sunny.
In these frightening times, the impulse for some might be to take a step or two back into the closet. But Harvey would have encouraged all of us–gay and straight–to do the opposite. To step forward with conviction.
Take a moment to read some of Harvey’s encouraging words.
Harvey’s hope and memory is a salve for all of us–gay and straight–who believe in truth and decency.
Though Harvey is long gone, his legacy of authenticity and hope still lives.
***
“I know you can’t live on hope alone; but without hope, life is not worth living. So you, and you and you: you got to give them hope; you got to give them hope.”Harvey Milk
“Every gay person must come out. As difficult as it is, you must tell your immediate family. You must tell your relatives. You must tell your friends if indeed they are your friends. You must tell the people you work with. You must tell the people in the stores you shop in. Once they realize that we are indeed their children, that we are indeed everywhere, every myth, every lie, every innuendo will be destroyed once and for all. And once you do, you will feel so much better.”Harvey Milk
This is not a story about some knock-off DNA test that will help you discover your ancestral roots.
Instead, it is a story with no definite answers. A story that will unfold with memories, ideas, thoughts, feelings, words, and sentences. All to be generated by fourteen writers–eleven women and three men–who have joined me (Writer in Residence in February and March) on a three-week memoir-writing odyssey at the Scottsdale Public Library.
Our journey together began February 20 in the SHC program room, in a wing of the Civic Center Libary devoted to Scottsdale history. Who knows, maybe some literary history is about to be made there.
We spent our first thirty minutes learning about each other. The youngest of our cohort is in her early twenties. The oldest beyond ninety. They and the other twelve (mostly in their fifties and sixties) told me in a few sentences why they were drawn to the workshop.
Some have been writing for years. They are fine-tuning their craft. Others are new and perhaps a little intimidated about the idea of sharing their writing with a group of strangers. But with time they will learn the benefit of bringing voice to the words they will assemble on a page.
From my previous workshops, I have learned that leading a memoir-writing session is deeply personal. So, in our first meeting, I worked to create a trusting, respectful space and asked that they also commit to that. It is essential, because when people tell their stories it is often raw and revealing.
After we settled in, we began writing. I gave the group this prompt: “My most vivid or meaningful February memory is …….”
After fifteen quiet minutes of pens scribbling across paper, eight of the fourteen offered to share what they wrote. I will honor our verbal confidentiality agreement and not share the content here but suffice it to say that an array of diverse stories came from that one prompt.
At the end of that exercise, I told them we had just illustrated that–like each of them–their memories, stories, voices are unique. What they have experienced in their lives is worthy of writing and sharing.
In fact, we–as writers–have a responsibility to do so. Especially now in a country brimming with external pressures designed to constrain a myriad of human thoughts, feelings, and ideas.
The group has an assignment this week: to write one-to-two manuscript pages that paint a picture of a setting–a place replete with vivid memories for them personally.
To help prime the creative pump, I read this passage to them from my third book, An Unobstructed View.
***
In June 1980, I left my parents’ home in the rolling suburbs of St. Louis, Missouri, to launch my career and create my own life in the relative flatness of northern Illinois. Jimmy Carter’s stay in the White House was winding down, but my hopes were high and trending up, and so would the volume of my days and nights in the Chicago area.
Unlike the state’s long and slender physical shape, I didn’t know my Illinois roots would ever extend far and wide. I couldn’t imagine I would live and work in the Chicago area for the next thirty-seven years–that I would occupy Illinois, and it would inhabit me for the most significant portion of my life.
Yet I would marry; divorce; raise two sons; change jobs multiple times; build a lucrative career; bury both of my parents; find my way out of the closet; live openly as a gay man; discover love again; marry a second time; retire from corporate life; begin a second career as an author; and say goodbye to my Cook County neighbors, family, and friends just a few days shy of my sixtieth birthday for a new adventure and warmer climes in the desert southwest.
All of it happened while I was living in the Land of Lincoln.
***
The room was quiet as I read. Compassion danced across their faces.
I can’t wait to listen to these fourteen writers tell their stories and help shape their literary journeys.
Treats come in all sizes and shapes. Chocolate is always welcome, but typically not as intimate or lasting as positive human interaction.
***
Yesterday I completed another memoir writing workshop at the Scottsdale Public Library. It was the fourth such workshop I’ve led over the past twelve months.
I love facilitating these sessions, because it’s a personal way for me to encourage other writers to nurture their creative ideas and momentum.
This one at Mustang Library included twelve writers–nine women and three men–who wrote and shared their extraordinary, humorous, heartful slice-of-life adventures across the table from one another.
During week one of the three-week workshop, I learned a little about each participant. We spent time building trust. As we began to get comfortable as a group, I assured them that the room we occupy is a safe space for sharing their personal experiences through their writing.
By weeks two and three, we developed an esprit de corps. They sent their stories to me in advance. I offered my encouragement and constructive feedback in person in the following session.
Inevitably, there were contemplative moments and a few tears were shed by one writer on Friday.
As she read her story aloud (a touching, nostalgic reminiscence of watching the joy on her mother’s face as she skated across the ice in the 1960s free of her typical parental responsibilities) the flood gates opened suddenly.
I and everyone in the room verbalized their support for this writer. I also offered her a tissue and a pat on the shoulder.
That was just one of a dozen or more seminal moments shared over a three-week period on Friday afternoons.
In a world otherwise ruled by chaos, we were a community of writers banding together, gliding freely above the fray across the ice of our literary pursuits.
***
This morning, I opened my email to discover this early Halloween treat from a creative husband-and-wife team, who participated in the workshop.
“We enjoyed your memoir class so much; due in large part to your enthusiasm, experience and energy! The content was high quality, and the tone you set of trust was palpable… there is no substitute for that among budding creatives. Thank you so much for your time and care; we’ll hope to cross paths in the new year!”
I don’t expect a ringing endorsement for volunteering my time. But I always appreciate feedback whenever it involves helping other writers find their voices inside the secure walls of a library.
It encourages me to keep giving and confirms my suspicion that I have found a meaningful way to make a true difference in the lives of others.
“Are you guys going to the protests this Saturday?” Nick wondered last Wednesday via a text.
“No. We aren’t planning to. It’s just too hot,” I responded to my son.
But as the week wore on, I began to regain my energy following three phenomenal concerts with my Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus pals.
On Friday, I reconsidered Nick’s question. I told him Tom and I would do it. A few of our chorus friends wanted to join us too at a No Kings protest in Scottsdale.
I should tell you that I don’t consider myself an activist, though I have marched for various causes on several occasions in my life. I prefer to share my voice and perspective through my writing.
But I also recognize the dire state of our democracy. I decided if my World War II veteran father (he defended democracy in Europe with the allied forces during the Battle of the Bulge in late 1944) could endure frozen feet in foxholes with his buddies and risk his life as an army sergeant, I could certainly endure the 90-plus desert temperatures in Arizona for two hours, wave my American flag and “We the People” sign, and join forces with family and friends to raise my voice. To make sure it was heard.
So, Saturday came, and we did it … Mark, Tom, Nick, Kim, Dougal, George and one to two thousand others represented democracy in Old Town Scottsdale. We were a dot in a map of some five million in the U.S. and abroad who took to the streets in big cities and small towns. All of us deeply concerned.
Locally, it was an inspiring and peaceful No Kings protest consisting of angry but well-behaved women and men. Young and old. A few children with parents and grandparents. Couples. Singles. Straight. Gay. Multi-cultural. Dogs, too. Dare I say diverse?
At one point, Tom and I chatted with a fifty-something mother from San Diego. She was visiting her daughter who lives in Scottsdale. They took turns chanting “No Kings” while cradling their adorable, slightly overwhelmed dachshund.
The dog’s benevolent eyes seemed to say, “what are we all doing here?” All I could do was shrug and smile. There is no explaining all we have endured in this country over the past six months. Not to mention the previous eight or nine years.
A short while later, I turned to discover a man holding a profoundly-funny-and-literary sign. A parody of American poet Robert Frost’s The Road Not Taken. I imagine Frost would have loved it, if he had been alive and standing beside me.
I asked the man if I could take his picture. I told him it spoke to my wordsmithing sensibilities. He surprised me by saying he was a math guy.
I’ll likely never cross paths with him again. He’ll never know that my book of poetry, A Path I Might Have Missed, was inspired by my love for Robert Frost’s verses. But on June 14, 2025, we stood on the same page … on the same street corner … on the same shared path.
Together–close friends, like-minded acquaintances, and distant strangers–we proclaimed our desire and hope to rescue American democracy from the clutches of fascism.
It’s late Friday afternoon in the desert. The mockingbird outside our backdoor is singing his or her heart out. It’s a tender, hopeful, pre-weekend serenade … a chirpy, lyrical refrain coming from the top of a telephone pole that connects our heavier world of technology and dissonant news and noise.
None of us knows what tomorrow will bring … ever. But especially now.
Case in point: early this afternoon as Tom and I devoured a few remaining slices of sausage and veggie pizza from the night before, a military jet zoomed overhead.
The sudden surge of decibels jarred our nerves. Though we live near a military base at Papago Park, we rarely hear that intense noise. Only an occasional squadron of helicopters arriving or departing.
We are a nation of divided people living on the edge of time, sound, and sensibility. Each day when we climb out of bed, we are aware of the dismantling of institutions we have come to know and respect.
Each day we are threatened by another batch of edicts tossed out the sidedoor by an authoritarian regime bringing shame and constant anxiety to those of us raised to believe in a country that once valued high ideals over low morals.
I don’t pretend to have the answers. But I know silence will kill us.
I won’t pretend to be someone I’m not. Or as I have said frequently to friends lately, “I’m not putting this genie back in a bottle.”
What do I mean? I spent too many years as a teenager and young adult (of the 1970s, 80s and early 90s) denying my true gay identity, subverting my whole self to try to fit into a predominantly straight, suburban culture.
That caused me (and others in my life at the time) tremendous personal pain. And, on a larger scale, denying the truth kept our society from advancing to a higher plain of equality, freedom, and human possibilities.
Yet now our federal (and some of our state and local government officials, too) are attempting to wipe away the contributions and accomplishments of our “diverse” people from websites and history books.
For instance, native code talkers who–by virtue of their distinct language–were instrumental in helping to bring an end to World War II.
Did you know that recently pages on the Arlington National Cemetery website–highlighting the graves of Black and female service members–have been removed?
These and other efforts are designed to erase the accomplishments of women and people of color.
How far will this attempt at whitewashing our history go? I don’t pretend to know. But I do know that the best attributes of our diverse culture exist in the past and present and people need to know about these contributions.
My husband Tom, an aficionado of films from the 1960s and 70s, has been leading a film series this winter and spring at the Scottsdale Public Library, titled “Movies That Matter: the 1970s.”
Each Monday afternoon, between 75 and 100 people attend this free series. The audience is mostly white people who love great films.
Last week, Tom screened “Dog Day Afternoon”. Directed by Sidney Lumet and starring Al Pacino, the film–based on a true story that occurred in Brooklyn, New York, in the 1970s–chronicles a botched bank robbery in the heat of the summer.
It’s an intense and sometimes funny film early on. Pacino plays Sonny. He’s desperate to get the money his partner needs for a sex change operation. But we don’t know that until more than half the movie has spooled through what once was a movie projector.
It’s a must-see flick. I won’t spoil the outcome if you haven’t seen it. But the most meaningful and important aspect of this story is that 93 people attended. They listened to Tom’s stage-setting intro for historical context. They watched the film, and then they talked about it. Together.
They talked about what it meant. They examined the techniques employed in the film to tell the story effectively. They existed in that space for three hours as a community of people in a shared experience.
I don’t pretend to know all of the political affiliations represented in that room. But I’m certain they left with a greater appreciation for film and how it can shed light on the differences and pressures–like them or not–that have existed in our American society for decades.
Tom delivers his opening remarks at a screening of Dog Day Afternoon at the Scottsdale Public Library on March 17, 2025. Photo by our friend and neighbor Diego.
