My mentor

There have been many men I have learned from in my life. First, of course, my Dad. He taught me my core values and will always remain my primary teacher. Then there was Ricky who taught me that friendship is extraordinarily important, even though we were both elementary school kids at the time. Later there was Don who taught me about social behavior and honesty and then, later, was my first gay role model. There was Ron, who eased me through the process of coming out and Sandy, my first boyfriend, who modeled creative behavior, freeing me a bit from the straight-laced role I had assumed. He also took me to my first Verdi Requiem, opening the door to the fascinating richness of choral music and opera.

And there was Stephen (pronounced Stefen). Dr. Stephen Lenton was a professor at Virginia Commonwealth University (VCU) and led the section of Education of Self that was my introduction to the Awareness Series. It was a course unlike any I had ever taken, or ever heard of. We met in an art studio; the first ones to arrive had to clear a large open space by pushing all the easels and paraphernalia to the side . We would then lie down on the floor, close our eyes and try to shut out the world, opening ourselves to whatever was going to happen next.

And what happened was fascinating stuff. Stephen would lead us through activities, in groups both small and large, that were meant to make us contemplate who we were, how we felt and thought, how we expressed those thoughts and emotions and, more importantly, to "experience" all that. It was in fact experiential learning. "Getting in touch with our feelings" didn't then sound as trite it does today; it was new and exciting and scary and challenging -- especially, I think, for the men in the room.

There was a jargon that went along with the learning. I started prefacing half my sentences with "I'm aware…" (I'm aware that I'm hungry). I got past that and learned the the real truths had less to do with language -- though Stephen always maintained language was key -- and had more to do with owning my feelings and being responsible for what I say and do. We worked on power and trust and touch and silence and body language -- using an array of tools to change and grow.

Change and grow I did. Never more so than in a weekend workshop "On Being A Man," which dealt with  a variety of male issues, including men's often typical aversion to closeness and physical contact with other men. It was powerful stuff.

I think of those times, and of Stephen, fairly often. To quote a line from The Big Chill: "I was at my best when I was with you people." I think about Stephen when I say honestly what I am thinking, rather than hem and haw and beat around the bush. I think of him when I express what I want because he taught me that expecting to get it without asking for it is silly. I think of him when I use "I" instead of "you" ("when I walk into a room of strangers I feel" . . . instead of "you know how you feel when you walk into a room…") And in more important ways, I think of Stephen when I express my anger without attacking the person I'm talking to; or when I listen, really listen, rather than rehearse what I want to say next; or when I ask someone "how are you," and give them a chance to really tell me; or when I realize that "being right" is usually not as important as I think it is.

I'm not always good at this stuff, but if I am ever good at it, it is largely due to this wonderful man who became my mentor in the 1970s. I miss you Stephen.

(from Lesbian and Gay Richmond by Beth Marschak and Alex North, Arcadia Publishing, 2008).