You Know You Are From Denver When

Created in response to the racist actions of the Admins of the FB group "You Know You Are From Denver When..." 

You know you are from Denver when some White Supremacist pig posts a pro-Nazi event flyer in a popular group and the admins let that stand, but won't allow the counter-protest event to be posted.  

You know you are from Denver when you can't believe this is happening in your hometown, your home state.  You can't believe that the grandson of a KKK grand-wizard was allowed to run for governor on a "Let's forget about all that unpleasantness and continue blaming brown people for our problems" platform.  You can't believe this is the same town, the same state that used to boast of its broad and fair-mindedness, it's the live-and-let-live mentality.  

You know you are from Denver if you grew up with friends and family of all colors, all religions, all parts of the world, and you didn't think much of it.  If you had to sum it up as a creed or a philosophy, it's that there's really nothing high-minded about it, you just don't give a fuck.  Most people you know also don't give a fuck.  Unless someone is an asshole, and then we definitely give a fuck, and will give them free directions to the nearest highway.  

You know you are from the Mile-High city if you care more about musical tastes, craft beers and sports teams than anyone's so-called "race."  

You know you are from Denver when you know this used to be Mexico for a good 300 years before it was ever Amurrrica, and you know that not from what they taught in school, but from your friends, neighbors, and probably your mixed family who had to move up here from the San Luis Valley to get jobs.  You know to mind your fucking manners and to not purposely offend your Latinx friends and family because they were here first, so shut yer white gob and pass the tortillas. 

You know you are from Denver when some shady af pseudo-military organization calling themselves "ICE"  (as in... Vanilla?) tries to bust up your neighbor's party and you launch cans of skunky Coors Lite at them, which no one was drinking anyway.   

You know you are from Denver when your whole life has been nothing but change, but you can't remember a time like this.  

You know you are from Denver when you can't think of Thanksgiving without Daddy Bruce, or helping out at the Rescue Mission, or some other homeless shelter where your parents made you go and you hated them for it but now you're grateful.  Because you have memories of compassion.  And joy.  

You know you are from Denver if you are still shocked to see a homeless population that has only grown since the '80s.   You know that Denver has always been a crossroads, back to the tribes, but people were just passing through.  You know you are from Denver when you look at the monstrous new "Mile Hi Stadium" and then back at the homeless camps along the Platte and Cherry Creek, and you want to puke.  

You know you are from Denver when some punk-ass little bitches calling themselves "Proud Boys" 

who probably aren't even from here try to counter-protest your AntiFa rally and they get booed into silence by a bunch of grandmothers who could probably kick their asses.

You know you are from Denver if you feel guilty about letting this hateful behavior get this far, this quickly, in the name of being "friendly" and "cool."   You know the coolness ship has sailed and shit's about to get real.  

You know you are from Denver if you have friends and family on the Western Slope or the Eastern Plains who voted for Trump and then immediately lost their jobs, or their ranches, or all their money to lack of healthcare.   You don't mock them, you cry with them.   And you would invite them to stay with you but your 600 square foot apartment won't hold anymore.

You know you are from Denver when you had a house, but lost it in the foreclosure crisis of 2010 and watched as Eastern developers with cash turned it into luxury condominiums that only Eastern transplants could afford.   You know you are from Denver when you don't recognize your neighborhood anymore, and you get lost going home from work.  

You know you are from Denver when one by one, all your friends start moving away to cheaper places where they can actually raise their kids and not starve.  Places like Texas.   T.E.X.A.S.  

You know you are from Denver when you haven't been able to afford skiing in 15 years, even with your side- gig at a rental shop where you outfit hundreds of people from out of state every winter, all of whom want to move here.   You know we don't have many snowy winters left, so you'd better get up there while you can.  

You know you are from Denver when you don't even want to go to the mountains anymore because there are too many fucking people up there -and on a weekend?  Forget it!  Maybe on a Wednesday.  But you have to work, just to be able to scrape by in this beautiful place.

You know you are from Denver if you are completely ruined for living anywhere else.  Sure, you've traveled a bit, but you always come back.   This is basecamp and home, and by God, you're not leaving.  So you get another side-gig and start growing pot. 

You know you are from Denver When your hospitality is completely shot, and you gather your community, such as it is, and together you start to rise up against the carpetbaggers, the extractors, the developers, the bankers, the fascists, the corrupt politicians and together you say ENOUGH.  BASTA.   You've had enough sunshine and smoke blown up your ass to power several hot-air balloons and you are using that power to lift up the people, amplify their voices, and finally overthrow this greedy, corrupt, cancer that has grown over everything you love.  Like Aurora.  A.U.R.O.R.A.*

*I'm from Aurora, I can say that.  

  

We're so sorry, Matthew Shepard

True Story:  When I first heard of Matthew Shepard's death as a result of a vicious hate-motivated attack, I was like "Welp, that's too bad, he seemed like a sweet little gay boy - (I thought he was from Denver at the time) "but even I wouldn't fuck with people in Laramie."

I was a few years older than him and had just moved back to my hometown of Denver, Colorado, following 5 years in New Mexico.  It sounded like the kind of thing that happened in Albuquerque on a weekly basis.  The culture there- at the time at least- was very dangerous for LGBTQ folks, especially if you were Latinx and Catholic, or white and Protestant, or anything outside the straight, macho norm, really.  Having grown up in Denver, which is an unofficial LGBTQ refugee center for kids and adults from the South, the Midwest, Utah, Wyoming, and the East Coast - anywhere intolerance reigns- the attitudes in NM kind of shook me.  I myself identify as straight, but my best friends have always been outcasts, and more than once I've had to knock some bully's teeth out in their defense.  I assumed that all Westerners had this open-minded, live and let live attitude, especially about sexuality, because it's no one's gahdamn business.  I used to say, There's nothing really high-minded about it, we just don't give a fuck about your _________ (race, gender, sexuality, religion, class, academic achievements, family name, etc) 

Then I found out he was *from* Laramie.  Lived there all his life.  Hometown boy.  Then why did he go into that redneck bar alone?  I wondered aloud, as did many people in Denver, in Colorado, around the world.  I knew people who had known him because the Denver gay community was pretty tight back then.  They worked with him at the natural foods store, or hung out with him, or knew him from school.  Everyone said how sweet and kind he was- and that he knew enough NOT to go into some redneck, non-gay bar, wherever he was.

This is one of the many things that make women and gay men equal; we both know not to walk into bars alone unless we're meeting SEVERAL friends there.  If we do happen to do so, we definitely do NOT strike up conversations with strangers or anyone we don't implicitly trust.  We both know the world outside is not safe for us, and you have to take many precautions against assault and death- even if it's a Wednesday night and you just want a beer before heading home.  Shoot, for both of us, it's not even safe INSIDE our own homes- but that's a story for another time.

Then I found out that it was indeed abnormal behavior for him.  His own best friends were at a loss as to what he was thinking.  He had just moved back home after a stint of independence in Denver, where he found a community, he could be himself, and everyone liked him.  Maybe he was trying out his new found confidence in his own hometown.  Maybe he reckoned, I should be able to go into any bar I want to, anywhere I want to.  I'm twenty-one.  No law against it.   And he was right - if that's what he was thinking- I've been known to get cocky and pull stuff like that, but I've never paid for it with my life, obviously.  But he was right.  He should be able to get a drink anywhere, strike up a conversation and maybe make some new friends.  That shouldn't be a risky, potentially lethal thing to do.  And yet women and gay men are punished every day for being so foolish.  They are raped, beaten, and outright murdered.  Because, how dare we think even for a second that we're equal.

If his murderers meant to punish him for such audacity and send a message to all gay boys everywhere-  it backfired.  To put it mildly.

The world was, rightly, horrified.  The straight "community" allied with the gay community in outrage, and parents everywhere were forced to confront the bigotry in their hearts, decide that it was bullshit, and cast it out.  The question, "what if that was my child?" could be heard ringing around people's heads, not just in the media.

And then I found out that he wasn't one of those runaway kids that populate the streets of Denver, rejected from their close-minded, probably Christian, homes for being gay, or trans, or whatever.  Nope.  He was a well-loved and accepted child, with lovely, educated, open-minded parents.  He moved to Denver because he and his parents thought it would be good for him to get out of his hometown, and disenroll from the University of Wyoming for a while, to figure out what he really wanted to do.  They trusted him.  They checked on him.  He loved them.  They loved him.   Nothing to see here, move along.

A few years later, two different made-for-TV movies about his death came out- one of them filmed a few blocks from me at an abandoned hospital scheduled for demolition.  One day on my walk, I saw a young woman dressed in scrubs sitting on what was the old Emergency Room dock for ambulances.  She was sobbing and trying to smoke a cigarette at the same time.  The film crews had it all fenced off, but I hollered to her through it, "Are you alright?"  Thinking maybe someone did something horrible to her or tried to.  She nodded back, and stammered, "yeah... this scene... it's so hard.  Really hard."  I looked up at the fake made-for-TV sign put up over the old hospital sign, that read "Poudre Valley Hospital"  - the place in Fort Collins where Matthew was taken.  I nodded back at her.   "This scene," she said, "this is the scene where he dies.  We've been trying all day to get it right."   Now I was starting to tear up.   "Good luck.   Do your best."  And I moved off quickly from there, not wanting to completely collapse.  I took my dog to the park, took some deep breaths, and got over it eventually.

(By the way- I recommend the MFTV movie that stars Stockard Channing as his mother.  Because... Stockard Channing is just awesome, in everything, and rumour has it she did the work for free.  It's a well-rounded and sensitive portrayal of his whole life, not just the incident that ended it. )

Through the years, as anti-gay violence ebbed and flowed depending on the Presidential administration, I rewrote my initial assumptions many times over, even as I heard other people echoing them.
"Well ya know, you lay yourself down on the train tracks long enough, you're gonna get runn'd over! What do you expect?"
"Even his own parents agreed that he was acting stupid."
"Kid should have taken some martial arts lessons.  Ya got to know how to defend yourself."
"If it were me, I'da shoved a crowbar up their asses."

Nothing about how the murderers were some crazy, ignorant, insecure, hateful fucks.  Nothing about how you should be safe in your hometown, where people know you, and presumably look out for you.  Nope.  Mostly stuff about how you should expect that if you *choose* to be gay.

Fast forward many years to just two years ago, when I was *briefly* working at a King Soopers in Highlands Ranch, an upper-middle-class, mostly white, mostly moderate conservative suburb south of Denver.  Surprisingly, there were probably at least a dozen LGBTQ people on staff, and four of them were transgender.  Out of those four, both of the female-to-male transitioning people chose the name Matthew as their new names.  Since the store already had at least ten Matts or Matthews in every department - seriously, not exaggerating- I decided to tease my transitioning friend one day in the break room about their choice of name.  "I applaud your bravery," I jested, "but for the love of God, did you have to choose the name Matthew??"  I was cracking myself up.  They responded quietly, it's partially for Matthew Shepard, and partially because I just like it.

Oh.   This is not the first time I've found out what an ignorant douchebag I can be.  But it was the most poignant.  I had hurt my friend's feelings, unintentionally but still - and had completely forgotten about his legacy.  Shit.   I told my friend, "that's a beautiful tribute.  And an awesome name.  You wear it well."  Luckily they forgave me.

We are so sorry, Matthew Shepard.  So sorry for what happened to you, for allowing it to happen, and for forgetting even for a second what your name might mean to some very brave young people who are afraid to come out as gay, transgender, bi, queer, or asexual or whatever it is.  Your name does not mean hate, and fear, and death.  It means Gift from Yahweh.  And now it means, acceptance, forgiveness, and love.

A Day Late and Several Thousand Dollars Short. Tax Day in America

CW:  FUCKERY  

This is a Rant blog.  Just my little corner of fucked-up dystopian 'Murrica here, but ....  my scanty-ass, $325 tax refund, one-twelfth of what it was last year, just got sucked up by the Machine because I apparently I "owed" the Food Stamp program money.  Because they screwed up and gave me "too much"  money in EBT benefits in 2017 and 2018.   Serio-fuckingly?   Yes, Serio-fuckingly.

I am a single mom, making minimum wage and no benefits at the moment.  I'm one of the lucky ones, I get enough child support/ maintenance to cover my rent.  And that's it.  No food, no gas, no utilities, no luxuries like toilet paper.  When I was receiving about half of what I actually needed in food stamps, I was getting by.  Things were just barely ok.  And then I started helping my best friend with her cafe, and even 20 hours a week at minimum wage was too excessive for the paradigms of our ridiculous assistance programs.   Serio-fuckingly.

Like most of America, I wish I was making this up.  True, last year was an even year, meaning I don't get to claim my daughter as a dependant/ deduction.  (Per the divorce agreement with her dad who is, unfortunately, still alive) But in the 5 years since I've been separated/ divorced, my lowest refund was around $1700.   Highest, almost $5,000.  Not to brag.  I think that's average for any working stiff, especially when you have at least one kiddo.   

And like most of America, I was depending on that at-least-one-thousand-buckaroos.  I was going to pay off my used car, not that the guy I bought it from is pressuring me - but I wanted the title in hand.  And then with the rest- I was going to upgrade to the GOOD insurance, you know, the kind that promises not to bankrupt the next seven generations of your family if you get rear-ended.  Modest goals.  

I have never bought a powerboat with my refund monies.  Or any type of watercraft.  

Now, I might be enticed to do some good old-fashioned Puritanical self-flagellating, if it weren't for the fact that giant corporations like Amazon and Netflix and General Electric paid ZERO DOLLARS

in taxes.  Like, not just a low rate, not just a token amount to cover their asses, no-  ZERO.  FUCKING.  DOLLARS.  And the CEO's of those corporations are taxed at LESS than 30% of their income.   

And here I am, working my ass off, trying to recover from trauma and take care of my daughter at the same time, and I'm supposed to feel ashamed to admit that I was on food stamps in the first place?  Oh no, hunty.  I took Brene Brown's class, I know that Shame is merely projected from those in power onto us, those who struggle, to keep us quiet.  No other reason.  

My parents were both narcissists, one diagnosable and one just too proud and egotistical for his own good.  And then I was married to one for 15 years.   I know all about gas-lighting, projection, deflection, distraction and all the other tricks that narcissists use to basically spew their shit onto everyone else, rather than account for it.  And once that shit is showered upon you, it is very difficult indeed to sort out.   For years, you may think it is your own shit, especially if you're still around the Narc- they are expending all of their time and energy trying to convince you that it IS your shit, no question.  So yes, in the past, I've bowed my head and submitted to the abusive rhetoric of the 1% that is I who is lazy, ignorant, dependent, conniving, and every other synonym for shiftless and stupid.  

No more.  Viscerally and intellectually, I know now that our government has completed it's de-volution into a sociopathic entity.  Or rather, our government has finished the merging process with corporations, which are sociopathic entities.  Both.   

And baby, that shit ain't mine.  

This is just one snapshot, one story in the miasma of stories and anecdotes.   The voices who scream at us that we should be too ashamed to even talk about these things are getting more distant and hard to hear.  The voices of encouragement and validation for our stories are getting closer, and louder, but not in a shrill way.  And they are saying, No bitch, no.  No reason for you to feel ashamed.  And Yes bitch, yasssss, keep your chin up.  Time for you to out-create the narcissists. 

 Fortunately, this is not difficult, because all they know how to do is destroy.