Mes: julio 2022

If edgy and nourish crime is your thing, then the short and violent lives of Boston boxer Anthony «Tony» Veranis and his friends just might fill the bill. Veranis was a tough Dorchester, Massachusetts kid who was born in 1938 to first generation Italian immigrants from Sardinia. Tony was in and out of trouble for most of his short life, as he alternated between professional boxing and low-level crime. He had «Tony» tattooed on the fingers of one hand and «Luck» tattooed on the other, but he didn’t have much of the latter.

Labeled a «persistent delinquent,» Tony was incarcerated in 1950 at Lyman Correctional School for Boys in Westborough, 30 miles west of Boston. It was the first reform school in the United States and it was where he was anonymously involved in the Unraveling Juvenile Delinquency (UJD) study conducted by Harvard University professors in an effort to discover the causes of juvenile delinquency and assess the overall effectiveness of correctional treatment in controlling criminal careers. If the study led to any positive results, Tony clearly was not included in the academic largess.

While at Lyman, Tony joined the school’s boxing team, and after being spotted by the savvy and acclaimed Boston fight trainer Clem Crowley, he began fighting as an amateur. Tony’s amateur career culminated when he won the Massachusetts State Amateur Welterweight Title in 1956. That same year, at age 18, Veranis turned professional in Portland, Maine under the alias «Mickey White» and won his first pro bout with a fifth round TKO over one Al Pepin. Tony then launched an astounding run of victories, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

Tony often sparred with Joe «The Baron» Barboza, Eddie «Bulldog» Connors, Jimmy Connors (Eddie’s brother), Rocco «Rocky» DiSiglio, George Holden, and Americo «Rico» Sacramone. Southie’s Tommy Sullivan also found his way into this mix. The thing about these guys was that in addition to being well known Boston area boxers, each was brutally murdered between 1966 and 1976.

Joe Barboza (1932-1976)

«The Baron» was his boxing moniker and he ran up a modest record of 8-5 before taking on a far more lucrative and violent line of work. It was once rumored that a sparring mate had done a number on Joe, and The Baron responded by grabbing a gun out of his locker and chasing the pug out of the gym and down the street.

Joe would later assume other nicknames like «The Animal» and «The Wild Thing,» as he became one of the most feared and vicious hit men of his era. He dreamed of becoming the first Portuguese-American inducted into La Cosa Nostra, but never was because he was not of Italian extraction. Fact is, LCR members called him derogatory names-but always, of course, behind his back.

Employed by the Patriarca crime family of Providence, Rhode Island, Barboza, while operating out of East Boston, allegedly murdered between seven and 26 victims, depending on different sources, but given his methodologies and the amount of fear he generated it’s safe to err on the higher side.

Eventually, Barboza flipped and would become the «Joe Valachi» (aka snitch) of the New England Mafia. The circumstances leading up to that eventuality are grist for a lengthy and intriguing tale featuring, among other sordid elements, corruption, deception, triple-crosses, murder, false imprisonment, and the worse scandal in FBI history. Suffice it to say that his testimony helped change the criminal landscape in Boston. For his reward, there was nothing a grateful FBI would not do, so Joe became the first man in the Witness Protection Program and was sent to Santa Rosa, California, but he soon reverted to form and killed one Clay Wilson for which he served only five years. Upon his release and using the name Joe Donali, he was resettled to San Francisco, but the LCN rarely forgets or gives up, and Joe was soon murdered by four shotgun blasts in 1976. The hit was reputedly carried out by the bespectacled Mafia captain, Joseph «J.R.» Russo.

Joe Barboza was a complex individual whose violent life story begged for a book to be written-and it was by crime author Hank Messick. Titled Barboza, it is difficult, if not impossible to find, but is as compelling a true crime story as you could imagine-and if you are a boxing fan, all the better.

Tommy Sullivan (1922-1957)

Irish Tommy, as he was known in South Boston, may have been the best boxer of the bunch as he finished with a 21-2-0-1 mark. Tommy went undefeated in his first 17 pro outings until he lost to Al Priest (25-1) in 1946 and then again in 1947 when Priest was 33-2. Among Sullivan’s victims were Eddie Boden (18-0-1), Coley Welch (90-16-5) and «Mad Anthony» Jones (41-13-4) who Tommy stopped twice. Fighting before monster crowds of up to 13,000 customers, Sullivan engaged in a number of «»savage brawls» that are still talked about by Boston area aficionados. They include his brutal beatings of John Henry Eskew and George Kochan. Tommy had a knack of coming back after he had been dropped and snatching victory from apparent defeat with a «hurricane attack» in the style of later warriors Danny «Little Red» Lopez and Arturo Gatti. Boston fans loved him for the excitement he brought to the ring.

In January 1949, his relatively brief professional boxing career inexplicitly ended and he began working as a longshoreman at Boston Harbor. While at the docks, he struck up friendly relationships with fellow-longshoremen Thomas J. Ballou Jr. (barroom brawler extraordinaire) and the more infamous Barboza. According to author Howie Carr, Ballou had an unusual style of fighting. It seems he always carried a grappling hook and a $100 bill. If Ballou wanted to attack someone, he’d throw the $100 dollar bill on the ground. The unsuspecting and greedy adversary would bend over to grab it, and then Tommy would plunge the grappling hook into the guy’s back.

Tommy resented gang leader George McLaughlin of Charlestown who had attempted to extort money from one of Tommy’s close friends. For the record, the famous Boston Irish Gang War started in 1961 and lasted until 1967. It was fought between the McLaughlin Gang of Charlestown and the Winter Hill Gang of Somerville led by James «Buddy» McLean, but that’s another long and violent story for another day.

Sullivan made the strategic error of getting into a vicious barroom brawl with Edward «Punchy» McLaughlin and proceeded to give McLaughlin, also an ex-boxer, a vicious beating that could not possibly have been duplicated in Hollywood. Beginning in a bar and then moving outside into the street, the two went at each other on reasonably even terms until McLaughlin finally could take no more punishment and rolled under a parked car to escape. But Sullivan, the enraged Southie native, wanted more and he lifted up one end of the car and propped one of the wheels up on the curb allowing him to get at McLaughlin so that he could continue the beatdown. The throng of onlookers, including Barboza, was amazed at this feat of adrenalized strength that would have made a Hollywood stuntman blink.

Deadly payback was swift in coming. Two weeks later, Tommy was called to the side of a car that was idling in the street near his East Fifth Street home and he was promptly shot five times. Seven years later in1965, Sullivan’s brawling foe, McLaughlin, was shot nine times at a West Roxbury bus stop. Some suspected Barboza as the triggerman for this execution.

Although he was never put under serious scrutiny for criminal activity, many viewed Tommy within the context of where there is smoke, there likely must be fire

Rocco DiSiglio (1939-1966)

This former Newton welterweight with a modest record was found shot to death in 1966. Before he turned professional, he trained and/or spared with Veranis, Barboza, Eddie Connors, Sacramone, George Holden, Tom Sullivan, and the legendary Joe DeNucci. He was also a criminal associate of Barboza and Joe would later lead police to the site of Rocky’s corpse in Danvers. It was believed that Rocky was murdered by the mob for sticking up their dice and card games, most of which were overseen by Gennaro Angiulo, the feared gambling czar for the Patriarca crime family.

In retaliation for his brazen, maverick, and foolhardy action, DiSiglio was set up in a Machiavellian-like scheme and eventually shot to death in the driver’s seat of his Thunderbird by the same men with whom he had robbed the card games. He was hit three times at close range with one bullet reportedly tearing off part of his face and another going through his head and out an eye socket. His two killers were later murdered at different times as more loose ends were tied. The entire affair had about it the foul stench of the North End’s Angiulo, and further enraged Rocky’s friend, Joe Barboza, who soon would turn stool pigeon against the LCR.

Meanwhile, still another of Tony Veranis’s friends had died a violent death at a young age.

George Holden (1948-1973)

George, known as «Medford Irisher,» fought mostly out of Portland, Maine as a heavyweight and chalked up a less-than-glorious record of 14-26-3. He went 9-3-3 in his first 15, but then the losses came in bunches and he would lose nine of his last 10. In his last bout against Jimmy McDermott (51-15-3), Holden disgraced himself by showing up drunk for which he was indefinitely suspended. He never fought again.

Like DiSiglio, little is known about Holden’s personal life except that he was a low level operative in organized crime. Holden trained with the usual suspects and met a similar fate. On August 23, 1973, his body was found washed up along the mucky shoreline of the Mystic River in Charlestown, Mass. He had been executed gangland style with a gunshot to the head. George was 25 years old. His killers were never found. Holden’s murder was the 82nd homicide in the city of Boston in 1973.

Eddie Connors (1933-1975)

As a youth, Connors was a regular at the L Street Curley Gym and Bathhouse located in South Boston (i.e. Southie) where future gang leaders Stephen «The Rifleman» Flemmi, James «Whitey» Bulger, and Frank «Cadillac Frank» Salemme hung out.

Eddie, nicknamed «Bulldog,» was a respected heavy-handed middleweight who fought like a bulldog during the ’50s and ran up a slate of 22-7-1 with 18 KOs against tough opposition. His last three fights-all losses by decision-were against Willie Green (27-4), Joe DeNucci (20-2 coming in), and former world champion Tony DeMarco (55-11-1). He also held the very capable George Monroe (39-13-3) to a draw. His brother James Connors (not to be confused with Jimmy Connors who fought out of New Bedford from 1957 to 1963 and who was trained by Clem Crowley) fought between 1959 and 1961 and retired with a 13-0-1 record.

Eddie would later use his boxing experience to handle drunk and disorderly customers in his notorious Bulldog Tavern in the edgy Savin Hill area of Dorchester where he acted as both bartender and fearsome bouncer, and which he also used as his criminal headquarters for illegal gambling, drug dealing, loan sharking, and planned armed robberies with his associates.

Later, because Connors was bragging too much about a murder he had helped orchestrate (of one James «Spike» O’Toole), the Bulldog had become a dangerous loose end. As such, he was set up for an ambush in Dorchester. When Eddie arrived at a service station on Morrissey Blvd. on June 12, 1975, to make a pre-arranged phone call, a young Whitey Bulger, John «The Basin Street Butcher» Martorano, and Stephen Flemmi were waiting armed to the teeth. Connors was nearly cut in half in the phone booth by the hail of heavy artillery and the loose end was tied. Curiously, the deadly Martorano was the one who had machine gunned O’Toole in 1973.

Americo Sacramone (1937-1976)

When he finished his brief boxing career with a 5-1 record, Rico, from Everett, entered the rackets as member of Boston’s Winter Hill Gang. After being wounded in the hit on Buddy McLean in 1965, Rico went back to prison on a parole violation. In 1976, he was gunned down-this time for good by parties unknown.

During his boxing days, Sacramone would often spar with the great Joe DeNucci (54-15-4), who later became the longstanding State Auditor of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.

Tommy Tibbs (1934-1975)

While probably not a friend of Tony Veranis, Tommy (60-74-4) did fight George Monroe three times in 1953-and just about everyone else including Willie Pep whom he beat in 1958-and since Monroe fought to a draw against Eddie Connors in 1955, at least the possibility of a dotted line connection exists. Monroe was from Worcester and Tibbs made his residence in Boston. However, where Tommy warrants an honorable mention is the fact that he was shot and killed in a dispute in a Roxbury bar in 1975-one of the seminal years of living dangerously in Boston.

Back to Tony (1938-1966)

Meanwhile, after beating Al Pepin in his pro debut, Veranis continued his attention-grabbing run as a professional. He was described as «one tough SOB; a Wildman who was courageous in the ring.» Other said he was well-trained and «a great prospect and that his boxing style was one of a slugger.»

In 1957, Tony fought an astonishing 26 times (the majority at the Rollway Arena in Revere). Tony’s best win may have been on December 3, 1957, when he stopped-and retired-the talented Bobby Murphy (19-3-1). Bobby, a former USA New England welterweight titleholder, had impressive wins over Vic Cardell (65-25-7), Fitzie Pruden (50-21), Rocky Sullivan (66-43-12) and Jackie O’Brien (65-17-9), as well as a draw with top contender Chico Vejar (63-5-1). A win over Murphy meant something.

Tony’s last fight in 1957 was against rugged Barry Allison on December 17 against whom he fought to an admirable draw. Allison (40-19-2) was at the center of New England boxing during the 1950s but was never able to reach world championship level though many think he should have gotten the nod against Johnny Saxon in 1958. As for Tony, he slaughtered Silby Ford in a bloody encounter in February 1958, one that had blood-splattered ringsiders aghast as Silby’s teeth and mouthpiece were knocked out. This moved Tony’s record to 25-0-2 before dropping back-to-back fights to Allison in a rematch for Allison’s USA New England middleweight title and to undefeated Joe Devlin at the Boston Garden.

Tony’s loss to Allison was one in which he took a terrible beating and one that undoubtedly rendered him damaged goods going into the Devlin bout-not taking anything away from the Crafty Joe who himself retired undefeated. These two fights occurred within a 16-day span in March 1958. After his brutal knockout defeat to Devlin in which he was decked in every round, he was taken to Boston City Hospital in bad shape and remained in a coma before recovering some three month later. But his boxing days were over.

After boxing, Tony reportedly suffered from severe migraine headaches, nausea, temporary mood swings, and blackouts-maladies that apparently were not treated and pointed to brain damage. When combined with heavy drinking and depression, this lethal mix could only spell major trouble for an ex-boxer. Tony was arrested for an unidentified crime on December 23, 1963, and sent to prison in Norfolk, Massachusetts.

While incarcerated he supposedly became an altar boy to serve at prison mass, prompting the prison chaplain Father John Fitzgerald to say, «He wanted to get straightened out, and I think he did. He was a wonderful boy who’d run with a bad crowd. He frequently stopped in to see me… after he got out, and everything seemed to be all right. He took me to the fights, and he was with respectable fellows.» Some portrayed him as a friendly and quiet guy who was the victim of circumstances beyond his control, but other saw him as a small-time hoodlum and mean drinker with a bad personality change who was more brawn than brain. Street lore and my own in-depth research clearly support the later depiction.

Tony soon found himself in debt to South Boston loan sharks and being overdue to such types was hardly conducive to one’s well being since examples had to be made. Tommy DePrisco, a Barboza associate, attempted to collect from Tony in a South Boston bar but was embarrassed, maybe even punched, and forced to leave as this was Tony’s hangout. The following night, John «The Basin Street Butcher» Martorano was at Billy O’s tavern in Dorchester when Veranis braced him and reportedly slurred, «I’m Tony Veranis, you know who I am. I just had a beef with your friend [DePrisco]. I kicked him outta Southie with his tail between his legs, fuck him and fuck you, too.»

As Tony allegedly reached for his gun, the taller Butcher beat him to the punch and fired down into Tony’s skull twice-blowing what was left of his already damaged brains all over the place. His body was dumped in the Blue Hills wooded area off Route 28 near where Milton and Dedham meet. He had $2.83 in his pocket. This was the end result when two former altar boys met up at the wrong time in the wrong place. One was 27, the other 26. Tony may have been tougher with his fists, but the Butcher was faster with his gun.

John Martorano: Last Man Standing

Many claimed credit for the hit on Tony Veranis and a few even suggested that Barboza was involved, but the most reliable accounting is that Martorano (also known as «The Executioner» among other aliases) was responsible. Early on, Martorano, who also was an altar boy, a good athlete, and well-educated in private schools, showed a marked proclivity for conflict resolution. He eventually became the chief enforcer for the Whitey Bulger gang running up an astounding tally of 20 confirmed hits (all carried out in a cold, detached, so-called «professional» manner).

One of John’s familial Old World core values was that of loyalty, and when he later learned that Bulger and Flemmi were FBI informants who leaked useful information, some of it even accusatory against John, he became enraged. The fact is, he flipped out and then proceeded to flip on the flippers, becoming a key government witness and in the process exposing the links between the Bulger gang and the FBI’s Boston office. In return for his «cooperation» and confession to 20 murders, he served only 12 years and received $20,000 gate money upon his release. Said U.S. Attorney Donald Stern, «The only thing worse than this deal was not doing this deal.»

Of the murders, Martorano incredibly and calmly stated, «I always felt like I was doing the right thing. Even if it was wrong, I always tried to do the right thing.»

Today, while the mother of all rats, Whitey Bulger, spends the rest of his life in prison, John Martorano and Kevin Weeks (another deadly Bulger enforcer and righteous snitch who wrote the compelling «Brutal: The Untold Story of My Life Inside Whitey Bulger’s Irish Mob,» are free to walk the streets of Quincy, Dorchester, and South Boston having done their time and having made their deals. Unlike Joe Barboza, they don’t need any witness protection because there is no one left from whom to be protected.

Red Shea

There was another ex-boxer, but he chose another, more difficult path. His name was John «Red» Shea and he traded an exceptionally promising boxing career for a more lucrative life as an important operative and enforcer for the Bulger gang. But the thing about Red was that when he was finally caught, he didn’t flip, but held fast to the Irish code of silence. The 47-year-old Red served out his 12 years in prison without ratting out and is now considered a rare man of honor in the Boston area. He went on to write the hot selling Rat Bastards: The Life and Times of South Boston’s Most Honorable Irish Mobster. Red is now enjoying his freedom and the secrets of his life of crime most likely will be taken to the grave with him. His second book, A Kid from Southie has now been published amid solid reviews.

Joe DeNucci and Clem Crowley went on to live extremely honorable and even celebrated lives, as did Joe Devlin, New Bedford’s Jimmy Connors, and Barry Allison. However, Eddie Connors, Rocky DiSiglio, Rico Sacramone, Joe Barboza, George Holden, and Tommy Sullivan-all fighters in the Boston area who were connected to one another in one way or another-were each murdered at a young age.

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He estado hablando con mis amigos últimamente sobre el respeto. En particular, hemos estado hablando de enseñar a nuestros hijos a decir «señora y señor». Este es un tema muy delicado para los afroamericanos. Algunos de mis amigos más cercanos están horrorizados por los niños que no dicen «sí señor o no señora» a los adultos. Dicen que es una señal de respeto a los jóvenes decir «señora y señor». Y es una falta de respeto no hacerlo. Sin embargo, cuando se les presiona para que expliquen o exploren de dónde proviene esa creencia, se cierran rápidamente. A menudo descansando en la idea, «mis padres me enseñaron a respetar a mis mayores. Y eso es lo que le enseñaré a mis hijos». Como si estas simples palabras fueran un encantamiento que mágicamente genera respeto. Me gustaría explorar y desafiar nuestra idea de cómo nutrimos y desarrollamos el respeto entre nuestros niños en una sociedad moderna.

Tradicionalmente, los negros se han comprometido con los más altos estándares de respeto y decoro. Mis padres y abuelos exigían que les mostráramos el más alto grado de respeto. Fuimos instruidos en las prácticas que mostraban su reverencia a su posición de autoridad. Por ejemplo, la mayoría de los negros pueden recordar que estas frases se usan con frecuencia,

«Di siempre por favor y gracias».

«Siempre diga ‘sí señor y no señora'».

«No hables mientras hablan los adultos».

«Los niños son para ser vistos y no oídos».

«No respondas a los adultos».

«Haz lo que te digo que hagas».

«Soy tu padre. No soy tu amigo».

«No me preguntes ‘por qué’. Haz lo que te dije».

Todos estos mantras están diseñados para delinear la relación entre niño y adulto. En general, nunca se debe cruzar la línea entre padre e hijo. Cruzar esa línea en la comunidad negra a menudo resultó en una corrección rápida y aguda. He visto a niños probar la línea en supermercados, peluquerías, iglesias y escuelas. La respuesta solía ser una mirada severa o un golpe rápido con la mano. Cuestionar la decisión de los padres en el día de mi madre era inaudito. Mi abuela gobernó con mano de hierro y cinturón de cuero. Nunca quisiste «cruzar» a mi abuela. A los 80 años nos dio a mí ya mi hermano Drummond una de las peores palizas de la vida. Ni el consejo de mi hermano mayor, «solo diga sí señora a todas sus preguntas» nos salvaría de ese azote. Nunca más le hicimos otra falta de respeto a la abuela. Sin embargo, irónicamente perdí un poco de mi reverencia por ella. Durante muchos años, temí a mi abuela, pero no creo que realmente la respetara. Y esta idea es lo que más me inquieta. Yo creo que los negros entremezclan el miedo y el respeto.

Los negros en Estados Unidos tienen una tradición de dos caras en torno a cuestiones de respeto. Desde la época de la esclavitud, nos enseñaron a obedecer a nuestros dueños de esclavas blancas. Había dos herramientas principales que usaron para alcanzar este objetivo. Primero fue el miedo. El amo de los esclavos usó muchas herramientas para aterrorizar al esclavo y hacerle obedecer. La primera capa fue el lenguaje de la obediencia. Esta fue la práctica más duradera de la esclavitud. Después de que se disolvieron los azotes, linchamientos, violaciones y otras tácticas terroristas de la esclavitud, perduró la práctica de que los blancos llamaran a los negros «niño» y los negros llamaran a los blancos «señor». Sin embargo, incluso mientras pronunciábamos las palabras de respeto, nuestra rabia y resentimiento hervían por dentro. La segunda herramienta de condicionamiento fue su interpretación de la religión. Se nos dio una perspectiva religiosa que exigía humildad y obediencia como precursores de la promesa celestial. Literalmente, se nos dijo que teníamos que obedecer al maestro para llegar al cielo. Este condicional espiritual se ha convertido en parte del ADN religioso de la comunidad negra. Como resultado de estas dos prácticas duraderas, el lenguaje de la obediencia y el mandato espiritual de la obediencia, los negros han sido el subgrupo más complaciente de Estados Unidos.

Este podría ser el legado de metal negativo más destructivo de todos los tiempos de Slavery. Si bien hay muchas prácticas de esa atroz experiencia llamada esclavitud que han perdurado, nuestro compromiso de seguir las reglas puede ser muy improductivo para nosotros. Aceptar el statu quo ha resultado en que los negros sean el subgrupo peor pagado de Estados Unidos. También hemos tenido la menor influencia política debido a nuestra silenciosa conformidad con los políticos. Hemos tenido una mentalidad de «Sí jefe» sobre todo lo importante. Hemos estado diciendo «Sí, señor» cuando en realidad deberíamos estar diciendo «¡Diablos, no!» Deberíamos exigir salarios más altos. Deberíamos exigir escuelas mejor financiadas. Deberíamos exigir un sistema de justicia penal justo. Pero en cambio, mostramos nuestro respeto diciendo «sí, señor» a las políticas financieras, sociales y políticas que nos faltan el respeto por completo.

Los blancos no obligan a sus hijos a decir «señor y señora». Trabajé en una escuela que tenía la tradición de que los estudiantes se referían a sus maestros por su nombre de pila. Los padres blancos rara vez tenían problemas con eso. Esta práctica fue emblemática de nuestra pedagogía de la enseñanza. Enfatizamos la relación entre estudiante y maestro como la base para el aprendizaje. La idea es que el aula sea un lugar para el intercambio de ideas entre los alumnos. El maestro y el alumno son ambos aprendices. El rol del docente se define como facilitador y el rol del alumno es el de erudito (aquel que busca el conocimiento). Sin embargo, la mayoría de los padres negros estaban horrorizados por la idea de que su hijo se refiriera a un maestro por su nombre de pila. Muchos de los nuevos niños negros colocaron cortésmente un Sr. o una Sra. antes del nombre de pila de sus maestros. Esto generalmente duró un semestre antes de que se descartara el artículo.

Este debate sobre qué es un lenguaje respetuoso es realmente ridículo. Hoy en día, algunos de los niños más respetuosos de nuestro país son niños blancos que no dicen «señor y señora». Mientras que algunos de los niños más irrespetuosos son los negros que dicen «señor y señora» mientras tiran basura en su jardín o muestran más de unas pocas pulgadas de trasero mientras sus pantalones caen por debajo de la cintura. Si busca la palabra «señora», muchos diccionarios dicen que la palabra está casi extinta. La famosa senadora Barbara Boxer rechazó el uso de la palabra en su respuesta «No me llames señora». Sin embargo, nos aferramos a ella por tradición. Es más como una condición, que nos tiene aferrados a esta práctica.

A medida que la humanidad evoluciona, la verdad debería ser el objetivo más elevado de cualquier sociedad. Descubramos nuestra más alta verdad a través de la discusión. El verdadero respeto comienza con hacer el trabajo duro de hablar con los niños. Mi maestro de inglés de décimo grado, a quien llamo el Sr. Jenkins, dice que «la educación es una confrontación con la ignorancia». Esto significa que necesitamos tener un diálogo con los niños. No deberíamos ver su cuestionamiento como una falta de respeto. Los niños deben ser escuchados y vistos. Necesitamos discutir qué prácticas serán buenas para nuestros hijos en el futuro, no solo practicar ciegamente lo que nos han enseñado. John Milton dijo: «Deja que ella y la Falsedad se enfrenten; ¿quién supo que la Verdad se puso peor en un encuentro libre y abierto?» A través del intercambio de ideas, llegamos a nuestros acuerdos colectivos sobre cómo debemos interactuar entre nosotros. Sigamos teniendo el diálogo, «Por favor, señor».

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Para amantes y amigos, tendemos a sentirnos atraídos por aquellos cuyos aspectos de Venus son como los nuestros. Comparten un estilo de relacionarse, formas similares de expresar afecto o estima, un sentido del gusto y un consenso sobre lo que es socialmente aceptable y lo que no lo es. Observando a las personas y sus relaciones a través de la astrología, entonces, confirmamos el viejo dicho de que las aves del mismo plumaje vuelan juntas.

En el caso de los aspectos Venus-Urano, no es solo una pluma sino una boa de plumas entera. Y no se trata de una bandada de cualquier pájaro viejo, sino de pavos reales o loros de colores vivos. Estos aspectos también son familiares, por lo que entre los notables de Venus-Urano encontraremos a Julio Y Enrique Iglesias, la Princesa Diana y el Príncipe William, y Michael Jackson y su hijo, el Príncipe Michael Jackson. La amiga de mucho tiempo de Michael, Liz Taylor, también tiene la conjunción.

Urano es el planeta de la amistad, mientras que Venus se trata del amor, y los tipos Venus-Urano son capaces de tener relaciones intensas pero platónicas con todas las cualidades de las aventuras amorosas pero sin una implicación sexual abierta. Por ejemplo, las mujeres con este aspecto pueden tener conexiones cercanas y amorosas con hombres homosexuales. Un par de amigos inolvidables con aspectos de Venus-Urano fue la princesa Diana y la leyenda del rock Elton John. Tuvieron una amistad intermitente, un patrón no inaudito con los aspectos de Venus-Urano, en el sentido de que a veces eran los mejores amigos, a veces peleaban.

Al final, Elton escribió una canción conmovedora e inolvidable para interpretar en el funeral de Diana. Decía, en parte, «Tu vela se apagó mucho antes de que lo haga tu leyenda». Elton tiene a Venus en Acuario en trígono a Urano en Géminis, con Urano disponiéndose de Venus. La Venus de Diana en Tauro era parte de una cuadratura en T con Urano en Leo opuesto a su Luna en Acuario. Su Venus y su Luna estaban en estrecha conjunción. El hijo mayor de Diana, el príncipe William, ya es idolatrado por el público de la misma manera que su madre y también tiene un aspecto de Venus-Urano. Su Venus está a 25° Tauro, sólo un grado del propio Venus de Diana, en una oposición fuera de signo con Urano en Sagitario. Dodie al Fayed, el interés romántico de Diana que también murió en el accidente, tenía a Venus en trígono con Urano.

¿Qué pasa con la gente común con aspectos de Venus-Urano? Admito que tengo la conjunción. Es en el 11, así que no soy especialmente raro, entiendes, pero muchos de mis amigos lo son. Es posible que nunca tengamos una estrella en el Paseo de la Fama de Hollywood, pero somos una Presencia en nuestros propios círculos, notorios o simplemente tolerados por su valor impactante. La gente observa para ver qué vamos a hacer a continuación, denuncia nuestro comportamiento, luego espera hasta que se apague el calor y nos copia. Cuando envejecemos, la gente tiende a ver nuestras excentricidades con cariño y no con desaprobación, ya que ahora somos vistos como inofensivos.

«NUNCA CONOCIERON A UN EXTRAÑO:» Un efecto de esta combinación planetaria es la capacidad de parentesco instantáneo con personas de antecedentes diferentes a los suyos. Por lo general, sus amistades incluyen una mezcla fascinante de razas, culturas, intereses y tendencias sexuales. Reúnen a personas brillantes, sofisticadas, exóticas e incluso extravagantes que están a la vanguardia de las cosas pero que están demasiado ocupadas para reunirse con frecuencia. Tales amigos traen emoción y saltos repentinos en la conciencia al exponer al nativo a las ideas de vanguardia. (¡Un hallazgo sorprendente de la base de datos fue que hubo 14 instancias de avistamientos de ovnis entre las conjunciones, lo que llevó el contacto intercultural al máximo!)

Venus-Urano es un aspecto de la Hermandad Universal, porque al establecer lazos amorosos con personas de una variedad de antecedentes, aprendemos que los humanos somos iguales en aspectos vitales. Sin embargo, dispersos entre los ejemplos en AstroDataBank había personas que solo pueden describirse como traficantes de odio. El atleta de choque antifeminista, Rush Limbaugh tiene un quincunx cercano; Howard Stern tiene la oposición, el líder nazi, Adolph Eichmann tenía una plaza; y la cantante Anita Bryant, que libró una acalorada campaña contra los homosexuales, tiene la conjunción exacta al minuto. Parece ser un extremo o el otro con estas personas, ¡pero nunca son convencionales o políticamente correctos!

NOVIAS FUGITIVAS Y OTROS DISTANCIADORES: Muchas personas de Venus-Urano tienen una serie aparentemente interminable de asociaciones breves pero emocionantes. En la introducción a esta sección del libro, vimos el gráfico de Julia Roberts, quien tuvo el papel principal en la película Runaway Bride, y quien tiene a Venus en conjunción con Urano y Plutón. ¡La película podría haber sido escrita sobre ella!

Muchos con Urano en aspecto con Venus tienen dificultad para comprometerse y por eso pasan años persiguiendo los fuegos artificiales del cortejo temprano, dejando o creando rupturas cuando relacionarse con alguien se vuelve más rutinario. El patrón de relaciones rotas puede continuar hasta que asuman la responsabilidad de generar su propia excitación, ¡o conozcan a una pareja tan uraniana que la fascinación nunca se detenga! Muchos con este aspecto se engañan a sí mismos pensando que están anhelando compromiso, pero repetidamente se enamoran de personas que no están disponibles. Este comportamiento es «loco como un zorro», ya que la relación con los distanciadores les permite mantener su independencia y continuar con su propio desarrollo.

«RELACIONES NO CONVENCIONALES»: Una interpretación típica que dan los astrólogos de las personas con contactos Venus-Urano es que se inclinan por las «relaciones no convencionales». Lectores con este aspecto, lo más probable es que lo que el astrólogo esté tratando de preguntar con delicadeza es si eres gay. La belleza andrógina (músicos Michael Jackson y Prince) que puede acompañar a este aspecto alimenta la especulación. Ellen Degeneres, que tiene el aspecto, perdió su exitoso programa hace años después de decidir que ya no podía ocultar su verdadero yo del mundo. Después de varios años de limbo en su carrera, y un mayor grado de aceptación pública de que sus propias acciones jugaron un papel importante en la creación, una vez más tiene un espectáculo exitoso y es amada por su audiencia.

Los nativos de Venus-Urano son un grupo fascinante. Para diseccionar el aspecto con mayor profundidad y dar a estas personas únicas y fascinantes una mirada más profunda, se necesitaría un libro en sí mismo, ¡pero estaría lejos de ser aburrido! Si tienes el aspecto y la imagen no te queda bien, no te lo tomes a pecho. Puede que no encajes con todo, pero es probable que más de uno de tus amantes sí lo haga. Para obtener más información, pídale a un astrólogo profesional una interpretación detallada de su propio Venus y lo que dice sobre sus relaciones.

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Chapter One

I was ready to start the fourth grade, the year we moved to Izee. Prior to that time, the Miles family had lived in Bates, Oregon. Bates was a company owned, sawmill town, too. The biggest difference was that the houses in Bates were painted, on the outside.

My sister, Rita, had married her high school sweetheart, in June, and had moved to Eugene, Oregon. We would not be able to see her more than a couple of time a year – as it was ninety miles to the paved highway, and then over two hundred miles from there. My brother, Robert, would begin his high school in a few weeks. Robert would have to be boarded in Canyon City or John Day, Oregon. The Izee school had only first through eight grades available in its two rooms.

Mom had assured Dad and me, «Robert will be just fine. He will only be fifty-eight miles away. He can come home on the weekends and for spring vacation. We know how important it is to get a good education.»

Mother had never attended high school, herself. Born Mildred Heck, with eight siblings, she was working in a Baker City laundry by the time that she was twelve years old. As the dominant parent, Mother never expected too much of my father. Her kids were her life and she could handle everything.

Mom had never known her father, a Nez Perse Indian, who, like her mother’s other three husbands, had died young in Baker City, Oregon. All that she had known about her father was that he was a Catholic. She had made his religion her own. Her mother was a Nazarene. Back then, some people called them ‘Holly Rollers’ and Mom wanted no part of embarrassment.

Being poor, born nearly deaf, offered enough ridicule for any smart child, as my Mother had been. When she had gone to grade school, she sat in the back of her class, ashamed, in her hand-me-down clothes. When called upon by a teacher, she usually answered, «I don’t know,» rather than admit that she couldn’t hear the question. She had educated herself by reading books and was anything but stupid. She wanted babies. She would handle everything herself. Her own Mother had, she expected to, and she did.

«Oh Buddy, Rusty, look! There’s the school… It says IZEE School Dist. # 31, over the door. The town must be right around the corner…» Mom was excited.

I looked. It wasn’t as big as my old school, in Bates. There were just two swings and two teeter-totters. Two school rooms, and two outhouses. We waited, expectantly, for the Izee town to appear. It didn’t.

«Well, it has to be just up ahead… Here comes another lumber truck toward us, Bud… For heaven sakes, move over a little bit…»

«That’s sure a fine looking load of lumber, Mildred. They say they’ve got enough trees to run for the next twenty years. They’re running three crews of fallers, now. That’s a lot of hungry lumberjacks to feed!»

«We’ll do just fine, Bud. Now, you relax. We’ll meet the superintendent and he’ll offer us the job. I’ll be right here with you. We’ll be fine.»

«You just remember, Mildred, they found the last cook hanging by a noose above his cook-stove. They said his food was bad,» Dad declared. » He made good men eat beans, everyday,» My father continued, with genuine sympathy advocating for the collinearly abused laborers.

«Bud, you know, very well, that the poor man and his wife were having problems. They said that he committed suicide!»

«Well, he wouldn’t be the first cook that they’ve strung up in a logging camp!»

«Bud Miles, you stop thinking about such things» Mom demanded.

«Well, he won’t be the last one either, Mildred,» Dad persisted… before changing the subject. «Rusty, are you watching for this town, Son? Keep an eye open for a big buck! I saw some fresh tracks in the dust where he crossed the road, back there. It looks like a black bear, or something, has rubbed himself against that tree!»

I looked. There was some dark chocolate hair glistening on the broken branch of a green juniper. I could see some of the bark was missing from the tree trunk too. No one could spot game sign like my Dad.

I wanted to be the first to see the Izee. I was real thirsty. The dust stirred up by that last lumber truck was, still, hanging thick in our 1952 ford. I rolled the passenger window down to try to get some fresh air. Mom handed me another piece of Juicy Fruit gum.

«Throw the other one out, Rusty. This will make our mouth’s taste better. We’ll be there any minute and I’ll get you a cold glass of water, first thing.»

It seemed like we would never reach Izee. The ruts and bumps of the dirt road tossed our car and we helpless victims in every direction. Around each corner, lay dustier road and another corner that we couldn’t see beyond. The schoolhouse turned out to be twelve miles from the town. Dad was getting anxious.

«What time are we supposed to meet with this man, Mildred?»

«His name is Mr. Ellingson, Bud. He is expecting us at around 1:00 O’clock. It’s not even 12:30. We’re doing fine. Step on it, a little… You’re not even going thirty miles per hour… That last log truck – that passed us – was going twice as fast on this same road!»

The loud blast of the air horn behind us meant that another log truck driver agreed with Mom. Dad pulled to the right as far as he could, without leaving the road. The truck, loaded to the top with fresh cut pine trees, roared past us before I could roll up the window.

«I told you so, Bud. Now let’s go!»

«I’m not going to follow that crazy man, too close. Chains break on loads like that. You can’t stop by the time you see the logs through all the dust… So, you just calm down, Mildred. I want us all alive when we get to this mill.»

As the dust trail of the log truck settled in the distance, Dad increased the speed to thirty-five mph. Billowing from more bumps, a new layer of road powder inside the car, settled upon us. It was well over 100 degrees, inside the car and out. We continued on, in our hot pursuit of the elusive logging camp. I had, pretty much, given up hope on ever getting to Izee. At eight years old, you can keep the faith, while riding in a hot car, for just so long.

Mom saw it first. «Look, Rusty! A real ball park!»

The backstop appeared from out of nowhere. Except for a few wooden benches, it was the only thing there, situated in the gully between the creek and a hill. The hill had one small trailer, perched on the peak.

The next sights were less than encouraging. More single wide trailers and make-do-mobiles with clothes flapping on rusting lines. This was the «Upper camp,» where many of the less permanent workers with families lived.

«Keep on driving, Bud! These shanties are not the main town. It has real houses. They said we will see the mill when we get here.»

We continued on – around another two more corners – to the «Main camp.» Rounding the last curve, we saw the smoke from a sawdust burner drifting slowly over three rows of wooden structures, houses of the main camp. Steams and gasses could be seen bursting forth from the many operational buildings of the Ellingson Timber Company sawmill.

Arrogantly, on one side of the creek, the sawmill sprawled on the large, level side of the landscape. All but a few of the houses were close together on the other. Like bleachers in a stadium, rows of adiquate housing assended the mountainside due limited flatland on their side of the creek.

Actually, this creek was the «South Fork» of the John Day River. Our forner hometown, «Bates, Oregon,» lay eighty-eight miles to the North East, and was on the «Middle Fork.» There is, also, a «North Fork» of these tributaries. After the forks all join the «Main John Day,» it flows on to expand «The Columbia River.»

In those days, sawmills were built on creeks in remote areas where timber was in close proximity. A sawmill could be expected to operate for fifty to seventy five years. The towns were the necessary outgrowth of a place to house the laborers for the mill, loggers to cut the trees, log truck drivers -. to haul the fresh logs in – and lumber truckers – to transport the finished dry boards out.

The lumber companies that built the mills owned the towns. These were not «One horse towns.» There were no horses or cows or pigs or sheep. Just families who rented company owned houses, from the company, while the men held jobs at, or for, the mills. Permanent workers, at the mills, got first choice of the housing. The better the job, the better the house, made available from the cheaply constructed one-level structures. Most had only two bedrooms, no matter how many children were in the household. Most families had one or two dogs that roamed freely.

The mill workers were «Permanent.» So long as they could perform their work adequately, and their families did not disrupt anything, men had a job and a place to live. The companies made all of the rules. People with too many family problems were fired. There were, always, people who wanted a job. Many people worked their whole lives for these companies, raising families, perfectly content with their lots in life.

Then, like now, most problems developed when people felt too isolated or blamed each other for their own dissatisfaction. When a worker was injured on the job, the company took care of the medical. When the injury to a good worker was severe, the company might find him another job that he could do. Unmarried men, and those waiting for a house, «Batched» in bunkhouses. Women were not allowed to work in the mills. Once grown, single women were not even allowed to live in the towns.

Most sawmill towns had two sections, one where the «Permanent» workers lived and a second section, where the «Temporary» or seasonal workers, with families, resided. These might include the contract or «Gypo» loggers. People who worked at the mills usually didn’t get too close to the families of the people who might be gone in a few months or years when their jobs or contracts ran out. Izee was a «Logging-camp.» The company, that owned everything but the land it was built upon, made no pretense of this being – or ever becoming – a «Town.»

Our first stop in Izee was at the «Commissary.» That was the word used for the company owned store. It was the only store in the camp. Can goods, toilet paper, dog food, cleaning supplies, candy bars, and cigarettes, were the major items stocked. A gas pump was in front and the prices were «Sky-high.» Most people bought their groceries in John Day, when they went in to town to cash their paychecks. There was no bank in Izee. No alcoholic beverages were sold in the camp, either. The land lease agreement, allowing the mill with its necessary housing, clearly prohibited alcoholic sales of any kind. The mother of the rancher owning the land was a devout Catholic. When the mill shut down permanently, all evidence of it prior existence would have to be removed.

The wood floor of the commissary was raven black, having recently been oiled. Dad observed my hesitation to step on it. He assured me it was all right.

«They do this, Rusty, to cut down on wear and to make the floor easier to keep clean,» he said before asking the man where he could find Mr. Ellingson.

Mom found the ice-chest cooler and bought me a seven ounce 7-Up. Boy, did it taste good?

Johnson, the commissary clerk, who was also responsible for the separate mail section, pointed to the superintendent’s house. Dad and Mom were to apply for the job of running the «Cookhouse». It was an important position for the company that had enjoyed, too much, turnover in years past. It would not, anymore.

Dad was hardly inside the door when he told Mr. Ellingson, «A man can’t do an honest day’s work on an empty stomach. You’ve got to feed him, and you’ve got to feed him real good!»

The Superintendent gleefully agreed and set about selling my parents on taking the job.

The position required that the «Cookhouse, husband and wife operators,» work about sixteen hours a day – seven days a week. Of course, the job wasn’t represented that way but that is actually what would be required, to handle it successfully. Included, with the position, were the attached living quarters, and all meals for the operator’s own family. Although no restaurant – or other eating establishment – was allowed in Izee, residents that occupied houses, neighbors, or even friends were not allowed to eat at the Cookhouse. It didn’t matter how much people were willing to pay.

Dad was offered the position, as «Head Chef» and Mom would be the «Second». Her job would be to help Dad, bake all of the breads, make the deserts, and serve the tables. Together, they would prepare the meals for all of the forty five to eighty single men – mill workers and loggers – who lived in the bunkhouses.

By five O’clock A.M., the loggers and woods crews would sign in for breakfast. The mill workers came in at 6:00. By then, the woodsmen would have eaten, packed up their lunchboxes, and departed. All meals were deducted from worker’s paychecks. This was no free lunch.

Lunch for mill a worker was between when the lunch-time whistles blasted, at noon and at 1:00 P.M. A man might have to run to get there. Dinner was served from 5:30 until 7:30, seven days a week. The Superintendent spent more time selling them in taking the job than my folks spent trying to get it.

While Dad and Mom were going over details of what the position entailed, I asked if I could walk down to the swings that I had noticed when we had arrived. Mr. Ellingson thought it would be a great idea, a chance for me to meet some of the kids who were playing there. He was quite proud that the company, only recently, had the huge swings constructed for all of the children in the logging camp to use.

Mom walked me outside, with a stern reminder that I had my «New clothes on.»

«Don’t get into any fights,» she said. «I have heard that these Izee kids are the toughest and meanest on this earth… And, watch out for the rattlesnakes… If you see one, Rusty, promise me that you won’t go near it. Your father and I will pick you up in a few minutes. You see that big house across from the swings? That’s ‘The Cookhouse.’ It’s going to be our new home…»

Rattlesnakes! We don’t have rattlesnakes in Bates! I could feel my heart hammering against my stomach as I walked – what I believed to be – ‘The Rattlesnake Road.’ Maybe, I thought, if I kick that rock ahead of me, it will scare them away. But, I didn’t want too kick it too far. I might need it to kill a snake.

I could see two boys and two girls at the swings. They’re all watching me. The girls look friendly, but the boys – they want to fight. They’re both bigger than me. I remembered that my Dad had said, «The bigger they are, the harder they fall!» If they give me any trouble, I’ll show them that Bates kids are tough, too.

I wished that my brother, Robert, had come, this first time. Instead, he had gone camping with the Boy Scouts, that day. Robert can beat up anyone. Well, anyone but Okie Joe. He’s taught me to never back down from a fight. I ain’t never yet! Anyway, them boys are looking at me funny. I kicked the rock off the dirt road in the direction of the swings. The biggest boy stepped forward to challenge me.

«Whatta ya doin’ kickin that rock?»

«Lookin’ for rattlesnakes. What’s it to yea?»

«That’s my rock!»

«Oh, yea?»

«Yea!»

«Here, take it then!» I kicked the rock at him.

He had long legs and jumped out of the way. «Where da ya think yer goin’?»

» Those swings.»

» They’re mine, too…»

» Oh, yea?»

«Yea, my dad built ‘em!»

» Mr. Ellingson said they’s for everybody…»

» Yea, well, I’m next!»

«O.K.,»I said, willing to wait my turn. But, I could see that ‘Long-legs’ didn’t like it.

» That’s a funny looking shirt… you Roy Rogers?»

» No?»

» Sez Roy Rogers… whata ya doin wearin his shirt?»

» It’s mine. My mom bought it – for me – this morning … in John Day.»

» Oh, yea?»

» Yea! You want to make somethin’ of it?»

» If I do, you’ll be sorry…»

» Oh, yea?

Two buttons flew off when he grabbed me by the collar. But, my head moved faster than his fisted fingers! When I slugged him in the stomach, Long-legs doubled over. So, I punched his snorting nostrils. Blood squirted, everywhere. It spurted at my new shirt, too. Fear gripped me! Mom’s gonna be mad.

Our fight was over for that day. Long-legs left holding his nose and swearing that he’d «Get even, later!» His faithful friend – who even looked a little like Tonto – went with him. So did one of the girls who had been on the swings.

» Do you want to swing, » the other girl asked me?

«Okay,» I answered, trying to wipe some blood off my shirt.

» What’s your name?»

» Rusty Miles.»

» Are you going to live here?»

» Yeah, I guess so.»

» Which house? »

» That one – right there…» I said, pointing.

» Oh, good. I live right across the street. I’m Diana. We can be friends.»

We were flying high, in the swings, when our family Ford pulled up. Mom got out of the car.

«Rusty, did you fall down? Honey, are you all right? Look at your shirt! What, on earth,

happened to you?»

» He started it… Mom, I didn’t mean to…»

» Hush up! Get into this car, right now… before anyone sees you like this… Let’s go, Bud… They want us back here, and on the job, Monday morning.,» Mother urged.

[ End Chapter One ]

* * *

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Yo era un adolescente a mediados del siglo pasado. Esos eran los días antes de los grupos de apoyo. La sensibilidad hacia los problemas de otras personas no parecía ser lo más importante en la mente de las personas. Y los asuntos personales en su mayoría se mantuvieron ocultos. A medida que lea esta historia, encontrará muchos casos de insensibilidad que, afortunadamente, en su mayoría son desconocidos hoy en día.

Al iniciarse la década de 1960, el rol de la mujer en nuestro país comenzó a cambiar. El descubrimiento de la píldora anticonceptiva permitió a muchas mujeres posponer la maternidad para desarrollar una carrera. El sentimiento de empoderamiento sobre sus cuerpos impulsó a muchas de ellas a hacer oír su voz en una sociedad que cambia rápidamente.

A fines de 1963, el asesinato del presidente John F. Kennedy primero sorprendió y luego llenó de energía a hombres y mujeres de mi generación para lanzarse de lleno a cambiar el mundo. A medida que la Guerra de Vietnam se prolongó durante la década de 1960, hombres y mujeres protestaron lo suficientemente fuerte como para derrocar al presidente Lyndon Baines Johnson.

Con el nuevo empoderamiento de las mujeres, muchos rechazaron el matrimonio tradicional a favor del establecimiento de comunas donde hombres y mujeres pudieran vivir un estilo de vida de «amor libre». (¡Hace poco conocí a un hombre que nació en una comuna y no tenía idea de quién era su papá!)

Fue durante estos tiempos rápidamente cambiantes que yo, una estudiante de pregrado en Stern College for Women, ocupé mi lugar en el mundo como una joven mujer casada. ¡Tenía 19 años! Mi esposo, Hershie, de 22 años, era estudiante de posgrado en la Universidad Yeshiva. Vivíamos en el barrio de Manhattan llamado Washington Heights.

Nuestro mundo es el Mundo Judío Ortodoxo. En la década de 1960, ni la liberación de la mujer ni la construcción de una carrera importante estaban en mi agenda. Quería que se escuchara mi voz, pero quería hacerlo en el contexto de mi vida judía ortodoxa. ¡Tener hijos estaba en lo más alto de mi lista!

A los 21 años descubrí que tenía un problema de infertilidad. Hoy se llama PCOS. Los obstetras y ginecólogos regulares en los años 60 no estaban acostumbrados a lidiar con el nuevo campo de la «infertilidad», por lo que me sugirieron que viera al médico que había dado a luz a los bebés de Jackie Kennedy… ¡un médico para los ricos! ¡Llegué tímidamente a mi cita durante la cual estaba totalmente asombrado por la presencia del médico que había atendido a la Primera Dama!

El médico de Jackie sugirió que me sometiera a un procedimiento quirúrgico mayor llamado resección en cuña. Cortarían una cuña de quistes de ambos ovarios para crear una superficie limpia para que emergieran nuevos óvulos. ¡Estaba horrorizado! La idea de la cirugía me aterrorizaba.

Dejé de pensar en la cirugía cuando nos graduamos y regresamos a nuestra ciudad natal, Pittsburgh, Pensilvania. Comencé a enseñar en el jardín de infantes en la Academia Hillel y pasé mucho tiempo «doctorando».

Me sometí a todas las pruebas que estaban disponibles en esos días… las que recuerdo se llamaban Histerosalpingografía y Frioscopía. Las píldoras anticonceptivas comenzaron a usarse para pacientes con infertilidad, pero los investigadores no tenían experiencia en regular los niveles de estrógeno y progesterona en las píldoras, y me enfermé gravemente después de tomar solo una píldora.

Cada mes traía desilusión. La ovulación se midió diariamente tomando la temperatura corporal. El embarazo solo podía determinarse mediante análisis de sangre. No había pruebas rápidas de embarazo u ovulación en esos días. Esperar los resultados de esas pruebas fue insoportable y, en última instancia, devastador.

Ver mujeres embarazadas era una pesadilla. Y a veces las mujeres hacían comentarios insensibles acerca de que todavía no había tenido un hijo. Uno de mis médicos preguntó: «¿Por qué te molestas con todas estas pruebas, etc., nunca vas a tener un hijo?» Después de tales incidentes, corría a casa llorando. ¡Incluso hoy, 45 años después, ese comentario todavía duele!

Como sabía que Di-s tiene un plan para todos, nunca pregunté: «¿Por qué a mí?», pero, excepto por el tiempo que pasé enseñando, me sentí muy triste y vacío. Mis médicos tardaron 2 años más en mencionar la cirugía de resección en cuña. En ese momento yo tenía 24 años y estaba listo para la cirugía.

A decir verdad, esta cirugía me salvó la vida. Uno de mis ovarios estaba tan cargado de quistes que tuvieron que extirparlo por completo. El Dr. dijo que podría haberse torcido en cualquier dirección, en cualquier momento, por el peso de los quistes, ¡lo que podría haberme cortado la circulación! Pero para mí, un paciente de infertilidad, la peor noticia fue que el otro ovario también estaba tan poliquístico que el médico solo pudo salvar 1/5 de ese ovario. Me operé para poder tener hijos y salí con 1/5 de un ovario! Mi mamá escuchó la noticia primero y estaba en estado de shock, aunque el médico le aseguró que una mujer puede concebir incluso con solo una pequeña parte de un ovario.

Pasó otro año y no pasó nada. Empezaba a sentirme desesperada. Sin grupos de apoyo, no había ningún lugar donde buscar el consuelo de otras personas que estaban experimentando el mismo dolor. ¡Y yo estaba rodeada de bebés, bebés, bebés!

Al amanecer de 1966, sucedió algo asombroso. Un conocido médico especialista en fertilidad de Gales asumió un puesto en el Hospital Magee de Pittsburgh… el difunto Dr. David Charles. En ese momento, Magee, un hospital universitario, estaba comenzando a desarrollar un Departamento de Fertilidad de clase mundial. En el momento en que entré en su oficina, sentí su calidez y optimismo. Me animó especialmente cuando, después de examinarme, me dijo: «¡Señorita, TENDRÁS un bebé!».

¿Quién hubiera imaginado que el Dr. Charles era uno de los 12 médicos en los EE. UU. que estaban realizando ensayos clínicos con un fármaco recientemente descubierto llamado Clomefeno? (Hoy se llama Clomid… que, que yo sepa, ha hecho que las cirugías de resección en cuña se hayan extinguido). El Dr. Charles determinó que yo era una buena candidata para el éxito con Clomephene y preguntó si mi esposo y yo estaríamos de acuerdo con la oportunidad. de nacimientos múltiples. ¡Esa pregunta fue una obviedad!

¡En diciembre de 1966 quedé embarazada! Los primeros siete meses de mi embarazo transcurrieron felizmente sin incidentes. Durante mi semana 30, me levanté de la cama por la mañana, miré hacia abajo y vi sangre en el suelo. Mi mente apenas podía comprender lo que vi.

Cuando llegué al hospital, ¡ya estaba en trabajo de parto con sospecha de placenta previa! No había ecografías en esos días, así que me prepararon para una cesárea antes de que el Dr. Charles, frente a unos 25 estudiantes de medicina, me examinara para determinar con certeza si su sospecha era correcta.

Sí, era una placenta previa, pero el Dr. Charles determinó que había suficiente espacio para que pasara mi pequeño bebé. El siguiente paso fue tratar de detener el parto. Inmediatamente me conectaron al alcohol por vía intravenosa.

La espera comenzó. Como fui la primera placenta previa en los ensayos clínicos de Clomephene, ¡al instante me convertí en una estadística! Pero mi labor no se detendría. Mientras me llevaban en una silla de ruedas a la sala de partos (¡no había salas de parto en 1966!), un médico residente detuvo la camilla y anunció que quería tratar de determinar el tamaño de mi bebé. El residente procedió a pinchar y empujar mi abdomen. (¡Recuerde, no había sonogramas en esos días!) Declaró, insensiblemente, que por el tamaño que podía sentir, ¡mi bebé solo tenía una probabilidad de 50-50 de vivir!

¿En serio? ¿En serio? ¿Estás bromeando? ¿No estoy ya bajo suficiente estrés? ¡Si hubiera tenido la boca grande que tengo hoy, lo que le hubiera dicho sería imprimible!

Se acondicionó la sala de partos con incubadora y pediatra. El equipo estaba listo.

Poco tiempo después, mi pequeño hijo se deslizó (literalmente) al mundo. Pesaba 3 libras y 1 oz. Era el 20 de junio de 1967. Cuando el Dr. Charles lo sacó, cerré los ojos con fuerza. El Dr. Charles insistió en que mirara a mi bebé. Le dije que si, Dios no lo quiera, el bebé no sobrevive, no podría soportar pasar toda mi vida con una imagen de él en mi mente. El Dr. Charles insistió en que abriera los ojos… y como, una vez más, esto fue muchos años antes de que desarrollara mi gran boca, miré al bebé. Lo que vi fue aterrador. Era tan pequeño. ¿Cómo podría sobrevivir? Estaba traumatizado.

Al instante se llevaron al bebé en la incubadora a la UCIN y me llevaron en silla de ruedas a la sala de recuperación.

Lo siguiente que sucedió absolutamente NO sucedería hoy: en la sala de recuperación entró una enfermera, anunció que me estaba poniendo una inyección para asegurarse de que no produciría leche. Estaba demasiado conmocionado por los eventos del día para siquiera evaluar lo que estaba diciendo. A pesar de que en esa época se desaconsejaba amamantar y extraer leche y llevarla al hospital era totalmente inaudito, tenía la intención absoluta de amamantar a mi bebé. Con esa inyección, todas las esperanzas de amamantar se desvanecieron.

A fines de la década de 1960, a ningún miembro de la familia se le permitía tocar a su bebé prematuro en la incubadora. Día tras día, nos parábamos frente a la ventana de vidrio de la sala de recién nacidos prematuros viendo cómo alimentaban a nuestro pequeño bebé a través de un tubo de alimentación y lo conectaban a lo que parecían millones de tubos y cables. Lo creas o no, ¡tenía miedo de tomarle fotos en la incubadora porque tenía miedo de que el flash de la cámara afectara sus ojos!

Después de 2 largos y angustiosos meses, nuestro bebé inclinó la balanza a 5 libras, 8 onzas. Ese fue el peso de lanzamiento. El día antes de su liberación, me invitaron a la sala de recién nacidos para cargar y alimentar a mi bebé por primera vez. Fue surrealista. Mi bebe tenia 2 meses y este fue mi primer contacto fisico con el. Cuando lo pienso ahora, podría llorar.

Actualización de 2015: ¡Nuestro pequeño bebé prematuro tiene casi 47 años y tiene un doctorado en genética molecular! Es padre de dos adolescentes y le encanta bromear conmigo diciendo que cualquier problema emocional que tenga… ¡viene del hecho de que no lo tocaron hasta los 2 meses de edad! Entre risas, le agradezco el sentimiento de culpabilidad, pero todavía me siento mal mientras me pregunto qué podría haber estado pensando la comunidad médica en esos días. Mejor no insistir en ello.

¡Durante los siguientes diez años, Hershie y yo fuimos bendecidos con 3 hijos más y una hija! El niño #2 también era un bebé «Clomid». La broma después de eso fue que finalmente habíamos encontrado el botón de «encendido»… ¡sin la ayuda de medicamentos!

¡Hershie y yo agradecemos a Di-s todos los días por las increíbles bendiciones que nos ha dado!

¡Niños! ¡nietos! Durante la década de 1960, ¿podríamos haber imaginado tales bendiciones?

¡Oramos para que todos ustedes sean recipientes de estas mismas Bendiciones maravillosas!

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