Destiny by Default
A Memoir
by
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MY GRAVE ILLNESS I have never been able to forget September 19, 1932. Now that I look back, it was my first awakening to my spiritual need. It was a dismal, rainy day, raw, and windy, as I ran the couple of blocks from my house on Tyler Street to the Quincy School whereat the age of 8, I was a 4th grade student. I remember my feet had gotten soaking wet, even though I tried to jump over all the puddles along the way I had to stay in my wet socks and shoes until lunch break time, and I was feeling very sick. I ran home at lunchtime, but my mother was not home. She was at the Boston Dispensary in her role of interpreter with a friend. She always left a key under the right corner of the doormat, so I was able to get into the house, and I immediately went to bed. When my mother came home and saw me, I could read agony on her face. I could not move my body, especially my legs, had become stiff as boards, and I was literally and figuratively petrified. Since we had no telephone, mother lost no time in running to Mr. Henry Hudson, a kind gentleman in his early forties, who was then, the Executive Director of the Denison House. Mr. Hudson was instrumental in securing me a bed at the House of the Good Samaritan on Binney Street in Brookline. My parents had no health insurance, but that was no obstacle to securing the best medical attention for me. That hospital was exclusively for Rheumatic Fever patients. In 1932, there was an epidemic of Rheumatic Fever in Boston. Many children died. Today The House of the Good Samaritan is part of the Brigham and Women’s Hospital since there is no longer a need for that type of specialty hospital. The wonder drug Penicillin had been found to be extremely effective on the Streptococcus strain that causes Rheumatic Fever. Dr. Benedict Massell who was my physician at the House of the Good Samaritan, (and I remained his patient for the next 60 years). was one of the pioneers in Penicillin Therapy. After the wonder drug Penicillin was produced during World War II, Dr. Massell kept me on a therapeutic dosage until I reached the ripe old age of 65, which was some kind of miracle since the doctors told my mother that I would not live to see my ninth birthday. Back in 1932 when I first came down with Rheumatic Fever, my mother was still mourning the loss of much- loved sister Mary. Once I became aware that I had a Mitral Valve problem, I use to be afraid that I was going to die in the same way as my sister Mary, and I spent much unnecessary time and energy agonizing over that possibility. It was Dr. Massell who made me realize that I had to deal with death before I could begin to live. I learned to live each day as if it were to be my last, and I put myself in God’s hands; as my life became fuller, death lost its sting. Needless to say that both my mother and father were very upset with the news that the Rheumatic Fever had damaged my Mitral Valve. My father was so afraid that he was getting stuck with yet another daughter with a damaged heart. He just couldn’t take it, and in fact he decided not to take it. I had to remain at the House of the Good Samaritan for a full year. It was my first experience (that I could recall), in a hospital. I felt frightened, alienated and lonely, like a fish out of water. I never really had too much experience dealing with the American Culture even though I attended the Quincy School; most of my classmates were the children of immigrants from within my ethnic community, and we adhered to our ethnic customs and traditions. The few hours of schooling every day hadn’t made much of an impact on my assimilation into the American Society, I was very much engrossed in my ethnic culture. It was by no means unusual for a person’s entire life to be encompassed by the ethnic community, and for his social world to be defined by it; the circle of friends, the clubs to which one belonged, the church at which one worshipped, the stores we patronized were predominantly ethnic. The first week of the hospitalization was one of my worst experiences. Visiting days were only on Wednesday and Sundays from 2:00 to 4:00 p.m. Because mother worked in a dress factory, I knew that she would only be able to visit me on Sundays. On her first visit, the doctor told my mother that I wasn’t eating. When mother came into my room, I was crying and told her that I was hungry "Why aren’t you eating?", she asked me in Arabic. I then explained to her that I always ate my cereal in the morning. Because I could manipulate the spoon, but since Syrian food (which is all we ever ate at home) was eaten with Syrian bread held between our fingers, I never learned how to use a knife and fork. To this day, I am clumsy and self-conscious manipulating a knife and fork in a restaurant. Young siblings were not allowed to make hospital visits, but my sister Rose and her husband Al came often to visit me. Mother visited me continually, but my father said that he could not take the pain of seeing me, and after his initial visit, came on rare occasions. I now know that was a cop out, because my father could never face a problem. He always left the problems up to my mother to face and solve. My illness eventually worked to the advantage of the entire family. The doctors told my mother that they could not discharge me from the hospital to return to our home on Tyler Street, because the tenement houses did not have central heating, or running hot water and good bathroom facilities. They said that it was important that I be protected against catching colds. I was discharged from the hospital the last week in September 1933, one year after I had been admitted. The doctors admonished me not to try going up and down stairs, it would be too much for my heart, so someone had to carry me upstairs to bed every night. Brother George would carry me on his shoulders up to Broadway to watch the trains entering and leaving South Station; it was a highlight for me every Sunday morning. That Christmas was the last one we were to spend on Tyler Street, and the last time the family had Christmas dinner along with our friends in the community at the local Salvation Army facility. It was a Christmas that I still think about and remember with much love and appreciation. On Christmas Eve, as my father prepared to carry me upstairs to bed. I heard brother Bob and sister Lillian give a loud shout of joy. We were all thrilled to find a real live decorated Christmas tree in the outside front hall, and under the tree were a doll, and carriage a tricycle and other toys staring up at us. I actually believed that Santa Claus had paid us a visit. In reality, it was Henry Hudson and the staff of the Denison House, who had prepared the surprise for us. Just that afternoon we had been paid a visit from Post Santa, which was a program sponsored by the Boston Post newspaper. Today it is called Globe Santa since the Boston Globe newspaper now sponsors that program. Post Santa had brought us a package of games, coloring books Christmas Candy boxes as well as pencils, paper and playing cards. That Christmas, my brother George bought me a talking doll, which was one of my prized possessions for many years My father insisted that we could not afford to move out of the South Cove, and mother felt strongly that we couldn’t afford to stay. Ma continued to remind all of us that "God would provide". True to form, she found a 7-room apartment (all rooms on one floor so I wouldn’t have to go up and down stairs) in Allston for $28,00 per month.
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About the Book
In light of the September 11, 2001 tragedy in New York and Washington, D.C., I felt compelled to finish this book in order to shed some light on the lives of Arab-Americans, who are Christians. I am proud to be an American born of Arabic decent; I have the best of both worlds embodied in my heart. This book tells a story about my parents who emigrated from Damascus, Syria to Boston Massachusetts in 1906. It tells of their trials and tribulations, and sheds light on the reason for the great migration that occurred in the latter half of the 19th century and the early 20th century. My mother was a woman ahead of her time; it was through her tenacity that her eldest son, George, was able to attend college, and become the first Syrian lawyer, of immigrant parents, in Boston. She was also instrumental in securing help for her younger son Charles to become a doctor. Her struggles and achievements are well worth noting not only for her progeny, but women everywhere who are struggling to raise children in today’s society with or without supportive husbands and fathers. This book tells the story of how my mother faced each challenge as it presented itself with faith and courage, how she turned her tears into triumphs; and her despairs into desires and dreams; her aches into action, and finally achieved her goals not for herself, but primarily for her children. Wadia Shagoury left a legacy to all of society, and her story was long overdue As a student at Simmons College in Boston, it became obvious to me that if I wanted to achieve my goals, I must travel down the same road as my mother. Even if it meant I had to go it alone, because my husband adamantly opposed my going to college. With God’s guidance and support, I was able to earn two degrees. My one greatest regret is that my mother was no longer living to see me make it to the end of that road. My mother’s story is my story, and in my college years, I found out in one-way or another almost every woman’s story In the wake of September 11th and the publicity of Arab Americans being stereotyped as terrorist, I pray that readers will become enlightened, by reading this book, that Arab Americans are loving, friendly, hard working, and dream the same dreams as all other Americans.
About the Author
I am an American of Arabic extraction; both my parents were born in Syria. I do not apologize for my ethnicity, rather; I am proud of it, and spout my Arabic whenever I find a listening ear. I am seventy-seven years old. I came down with Rheumatic Fever when I was eight years old, and had to be hospitalized for a full year. The doctors told my mother I would not live to see my ninth birthday. Obviously, I did recover from the Rheumatic Fever; but I was left with a damaged Mitral valve, which plagued me for the rest of my years I am the sixth daughter, and the tenth child in a family of eleven children; I have a younger brother Bob, who is going to be seventy-six in February 2002. He is the youngest child in the family, the fifth son. I am the proud holder of two degrees a Bachelor’s degree in Business Management and Women’s Studies, which I earned at the age of fifty in 1983. My Master’s Degree is in Philosophy and Women’s Studies, which I earned at the age of sixty-two in 1986. Both Degrees were earned while I was working full time at Simmons College in Boston, and attending classes half time as a Staff Benefit. I also was involved in many of the groups in my ethnic community; I was a secretary of the American Arabic Benevolent Association for five years, during which time I also served as Clerk of The Executive Board of the Church of St. John of Damascus, which is my church. I was later elected as the First Woman President to hold that office in the church’s ninety-three-year history. I was elected as President of the N. G. Beram Veterans Auxiliary, and I also did volunteer work at The Arabic Television Program While working as Director of Student Financial Aid at the School of the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, I attended Classes at Harvard University College of Arts and Sciences 1992-1994 as a Special Student. My husband passed away in 1989, and I no longer could afford to attend college even on a part-time basis I was sixty-eight years olds therefore no longer eligible for a Student Loan. In 1996, I had to have valvular plasty on my Mitral valve, and the result was that I was disabled from a right hemisphere stroke. I decided to do some research on writing a memoir, and that summer, the American Arabic Anti-discrimination Committee in Washington, D.C. solicited stories on the Arabic speaking immigrants, and I submitted the story of my parents, and won the prize. That was the start of my Memoir.