The LGBTQ+ Elders Who Paved the Way — Are We Forgetting Them? Conversation with Mark Maple

Some people leave an impression because of what they have achieved.

Others leave an impression because of who they have become.

When I think about my conversation with Mark, I remember very little of the chronology. I don't remember the order of the stories, the years, or even the milestones. Instead, what remains is the unmistakable feeling of having met someone whose life has been quietly devoted to helping other people feel a little more alive.

There are people who move through the world collecting experiences.

Then there are people who move through the world collecting people.

Mark belongs to the second group.

At first glance, his life appears extraordinary. He grew up openly gay in rural America during the 1960s. He survived hatred, violence, addiction, the HIV/AIDS epidemic, and now Parkinson's disease. He has worked as a hairdresser, an artist, a bartender, and a minister's partner, and today he lives in a nursing home in Colorado.

Those are remarkable stories.

But they are not who he is.

If I had to describe Mark in a single sentence, I would say this:

He is a man who has spent his entire life trying to make other people's lives a little brighter.

Once I noticed that thread, I began seeing it everywhere.

When he spoke about cutting hair, it wasn't really about hair. It was about helping someone feel good about themselves.

When he painted portraits of people's homes, it wasn't simply because he enjoyed painting. He understood that home is where memory lives. He was preserving something people loved.

When he worked in one of the largest gay nightclubs in the Midwest, he wasn't talking about parties or nightlife. He remembered the people.

When he talked about ministry, he wasn't interested in theology. He spoke about helping people find hope.

Even today, living in a nursing home, he leads a morning prayer group.

His circumstances have changed.

His purpose has not.

Perhaps that is why I found his conversation so moving.

So often we define ourselves by what we can no longer do.

Mark quietly reminded me that who we are is far deeper than what our bodies allow us to accomplish.

Parkinson's has changed the way he walks.

It has not changed the way he loves.

One of the moments that stayed with me was when he described learning to walk again.

His occupational therapist kept reminding him to make decisions.

At first, I thought he was talking about rehabilitation.

Later, I realised he was talking about life itself.

Mark does not pretend he made perfect decisions.

He speaks openly about alcoholism.

He speaks honestly about failed relationships.

He speaks without hiding the mistakes he made.

Yet there is remarkably little bitterness in him.

Instead, there is gratitude.

Not because life has been easy.

But because he has come to see that even painful chapters became part of the road that led him here.

That is a rare kind of wisdom.

It is the wisdom that comes when someone stops asking, "Why did this happen to me?" and begins asking, "What has this allowed me to become?"

Perhaps that explains why loneliness appears in our conversation so differently.

Mark admits he feels lonely.

He misses the gay community.

He misses being around people.

Yet there is no self-pity.

Instead, there is concern for others.

He looks around the nursing home and notices the residents who never receive visitors.

Even while carrying his own loneliness, he is still looking outward.

That tells me almost everything I need to know about his character.

Then came the moment that unexpectedly changed his world.

A simple Instagram post by Huck Smith.

Nothing elaborate.

Just one person choosing kindness.

Within days, messages arrived from every corner of the world.

Old friends resurfaced.

Complete strangers reached out.

People travelled long distances simply to spend time with him.

Mark described it beautifully.

Throw a small pebble into a large pond, and you create ripples.

I don't think he realised something while he was saying those words.

He has been throwing pebbles his entire life.

Every haircut.

Every painting.

Every prayer.

Every conversation.

Every joke.

Every person he encouraged.

Every stranger he made felt welcome.

The kindness that returned to him was not an accident.

It was a lifetime of ripples finding their way back to where they began.

Near the end of our conversation, Mark shared a message that has stayed with me.

"Don't forget us."

At first, I thought he was speaking about LGBTQ+ elders.

And he was.

But I think he was also speaking about something much larger.

Every generation eventually reaches a point where it risks becoming invisible.

We celebrate youth because it points towards possibility.

Yet age carries something youth never can.

Perspective.

History.

Hard-earned wisdom.

People like Mark are living archives.

They carry memories that books cannot preserve.

Not simply facts.

Human experience.

The cost of freedom.

The price of acceptance.

The quiet courage required simply to keep going.

Perhaps that is why Authenticity Studio exists.

Not simply to record stories.

But to preserve humanity.

Because every time someone like Mark shares their life, we inherit something we did not have before.

We inherit perspective.

We inherit compassion.

We inherit memory.

Most of all, we inherit hope.

When I finished our conversation, I didn't leave thinking about Parkinson's.

Or HIV.

Or nursing homes.

Or even Pride.

I left thinking about a man whose instinct, despite everything life had placed before him, has always been the same.

To make someone else's day a little better.

Perhaps that is how we should remember Mark.

Not as someone who endured an extraordinary life.

But as someone who quietly spent an ordinary lifetime giving life away to everyone he met.

Full Podcast: The LGBTQ+ Elders Who Paved the Way — Are We Forgetting Them? Conversation with Mark Maple